Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  When they came to the food area, Troy suggested a refreshment break. Bryce and Marge opted for coffee, while the others chose something cold.

  Betty Lou looked across at Marge and shook her head. “You’d drink coffee on the hottest day of the summer, wouldn’t you, girl? That’d burn me up.”

  “A good cup of coffee relaxes you on a hot day,” Bryce said with a shrug.

  “That’s what I’ve tried to tell her.” Marge spread her hands. “She thinks ice tea’s the only thing you can drink when the weather’s warm.”

  Betty Lou fanned herself with a napkin. “That’s what sensible people do. Sometimes I wonder about you, Marge.”

  “Better watch your words,” Marge said. “Now you’re insulting Bryce, too.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t insult easily. I’m usually guilty as charged.”

  Noting a pay telephone on the wall nearby, he glanced at his watch. The afternoon was already getting late. “While you folks are finishing,” he said, “I think I’ll make a quick phone call. I have a friend I promised to get in touch with while I’m here. I only have his office number, though, so I need to call before closing time.”

  Bryce hurried over to the telephone, pulling a yellowed snippet of paper from his billfold. He had memorized the number years ago but didn’t fully trust his memory any longer.

  As he punched in the digits, he felt a twinge of uneasiness. Would there be anyone to answer the phone in New York at this hour? What if the number had been changed? Then he heard the ringing sound and began to relax.

  “Burger,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Matthew Kravitz, please,” Bryce said. The FBI agent had given him the phone number back at the time he entered the witness protection program. He was to call the number for help in case of an emergency. He couldn’t imagine any worse scenario than what he faced with Locasio Locasio and friends. But he was confident Agent Kravitz would know how to take care of the situation. Obviously there would be plenty of FBI agents in New Orleans.

  “Kravitz?” said the man. “He retired over a year ago. This is Agent Burger. Anything I can do for you?”

  Bryce put a hand to his forehead. He had never even considered things like retirement. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “I certainly hope so. My name is Pat Pagano. I helped Kravitz in a case against the Vicario–”

  “I know all about Pagano. What’s your racket, buddy?”

  “Racket? What do you mean, racket?”

  “Pagano’s body washed up on the Oregon coast west of Portland six months ago. He had been playing dinner host to a bunch of hungry sharks. Probably did something stupid that tipped off the mob to where he was hiding.”

  Bryce was shocked into a momentary silence. “That can’t be,” he said when he got his voice back. “I am Pat Pagano. They changed my name to William Holder when I was sent to Portland.”

  “Well, William Holder’s friends identified the body as his. They said he apparently fell out of a boat. More likely he was pushed.”

  This was crazy, Bryce thought with a sudden feeling of helplessness. Obviously they had the wrong William Holder. He recalled having seen another one listed in the Portland phone book. He had even gotten some of the man’s mail once by mistake. How could the FBI have been so easily fooled?

  Then the obvious question hit him. “Didn’t you check his fingerprints?”

  “Ha!” Burger’s voice was sharp, mirthless. “The sharks didn’t leave fingers, much less prints. But there’s no doubt it was Holder, meaning Pagano. I don’t know what your game is, buddy. Maybe you think you can scam some money out of us. Well, think again.”

  With that, the line suddenly went dead. As dead as Bryce Reynolds’ ace in the hole.

  26

  Slowly, he replaced the phone, his head swimming. He remembered the first time he met Kravitz, not long after his sons’ funeral. Pat Pagano was invited to lunch at a plush private club by an investment banker he had known casually. The bodyguard Tony Vicario had provided since the bombing that killed his sons was not allowed to accompany him into the club, leaving Pat alone when he met the banker in the expensively appointed dining room that overlooked the concrete and steel canyons of Manhattan. He discovered his host was not alone, however. Seated beside him at the table was a man who appeared to be in his late fifties, conservative blue suit, probing gray eyes.

  The banker gave a typically ingratiating smile as he rose to greet Pat. “Sorry I won’t be able to stay, but I have another meeting that’s a must to attend. At any rate, the real reason for inviting you, Mr. Pagano, was to have you meet Mr. Kravitz.” He nodded toward the other man, who appeared slightly shorter and considerably more stocky as he stood. “I have instructed the waiter to get whatever you gentlemen want. The bill is taken care of. Have a nice lunch.”

  And with that, the banker disappeared into an adjacent room.

  “Nice to meet you, Pagano,” said Kravitz with a look that held no trace of pleasure. He thrust out his hand and shook Pat’s. “Have a seat. I don’t know about you, but I’m not accustomed to this kind of treatment for lunch. I plan to make the most of it.”

  Kravitz signaled the waiter as they took their seats. He ordered the prime rib au jus. “According to this, it’s the house specialty,” he said.

  Not all that hungry, Pat ordered a club sandwich. When the waiter had left, he looked across at Kravitz. “Should I know you?”

  There was an intensity about the man that gave the impression he preferred action to idle conversation. His gray eyes betrayed no emotion as he spoke. “I think not, but here are my credentials.”

  He handed across a small folder that contained his photo on an ID card and a badge that was engraved with “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” It identified him as Matthew Kravitz, Special Agent.

  Pat frowned. “Does this have something to do with the bombing?”

  “It has everything to do with the bombing, and with your job in the Vicario family. I’m part of a task force targeted on old Tony and his mob. I presume you know why you were hit.”

  Pat did not like the man’s implications. “I have no idea who did it or why. And I do not work for the Vicario family, as you call it. I am employed as an investment advisor for the Alcamo Corporation.”

  Kravitz tapped his fingers on the table. “Yeah, I know what you do. We have no evidence that you’re involved in mob activities, but you’re in a good place to know what’s going on. As for the bombing, it was a rival family’s way of sending a signal. They are damned unhappy with Uncle Tony’s move into their territory in Vegas. They picked you for several reasons. One, you aren’t Sicilian. You’re not a ‘made’ member of the Cosa Nostra. But you come from Vegas, and they know you’re a key money-maker for the mob.”

  Kravitz’ abrasive manner was enough to turn Pat against him, but he was also aggravating the wound that had caused Pat so much grief. He had pointedly cited the involvement that left Pat with bloody hands where the deaths of his sons were concerned.

  “How do you know all that?” Pat said. His voice dripped with skepticism.

  “Simple, Pagano. I belong to an organized crime unit that has been digging into Tony Vicario for years. We listen to his phone calls. We read his mail. Oh, he’s sharp all right. He doesn’t give us enough to hang him, but we have a pretty good picture of what’s going on.”

  “Well, I don’t. And for all I know, Mr. Vicario is a legitimate businessman.”

  Kravitz gave a twisted laugh. “And I suppose you’ve never heard that he is a Mafia don, or that your immediate boss, Frank Salerno, is his consigliere?”

  “I can read. I know what they say in the newspapers." Resenting a reminder of how he had allowed himself to be lured into an impossible situation, Pat matched the agent's scoffing tone. "I don’t put a lot of stock in what those reporters write. They revel in painting everybody with horns. If they wanted to get on her case, they could make the late Mother Teresa sound like Ma Barker.”

  Kravitz grunted. “
Well, nobody’s going to confuse Tony Vicario with Mother Teresa, I promise you. But obviously you don’t know what a precarious position you’re in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whoever had that contract on you didn’t complete his mission. Next time you won’t be so lucky. They’ll get both you and your wife.”

  Pat recalled what Vicario had said. “I’ve been told I’m not in any more danger.”

  “Oh? Then why did they give you a bodyguard? Or did you think those guys were Boy Scouts working on a merit badge?”

  Pat knew the agent was being deliberately goading, and it was getting to him. “They were assigned just to make certain there would be no more problems. I shouldn’t think they would be around for long.”

  “You shouldn’t think. There’s a neat turn of phrase. Well, let me give you something to think about, Mr. Advisor. Tony Vicario is looking out for you right now, because that suits his purposes. But if the situation should change, and you suddenly became a liability, he would eliminate you in the bat of an eye.”

  Pat had already told his wife, Ellen, that he speculated as much. But he was not encouraged by having his suspicions confirmed by another source, particularly an FBI agent. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because we can help you, and you can help us.”

  “How?”

  “Cooperate and we’ll get you in the witness protection program. Provide you a new identity, move you to a new location, help set you up in a new business.”

  “What kind of cooperation?”

  “These people have their own peculiar kind of morality. Since you’ve been made a target, they may feel a bit closer kinship with you. If you’re not lying about being so ignorant, some of them may open up a bit. Not Tony Vicario, for sure, but maybe someone like Salerno. Keep your eyes and ears open. Do a little probing of your own. Find some incriminating material, testify in court and we’ll take care of you.”

  The prospect was quite intriguing. But would it be worth the risk, for Ellen’s sake? He felt those cold gray eyes fixed on him as he pondered the thought. And in the end he decided too much risk was involved, plus he wasn’t ready to trust his and Ellen’s fate to this stranger. “I very much doubt I would ever have the opportunity to find what you’re looking for,” he said.

  Agent Kravitz handed him a card with his name and phone number. “You may be surprised. If you do, give me a call.”

  The others were just moving through a doorway onto a balcony overlooking the Mississippi river when Bryce walked up, still in a state of shock from the phone call. Up to this point, he had managed to dampen much of the impact of his pursuit by the Mafia hit squad by assuming that Kravitz and company were standing in the wings. Now he knew better. There would be no white knights in blue FBI jackets, no automatic weapons at the ready, no rescuers of any sort. He was strictly on his own.

  Gut check time. For the moment, he could see no alternative but to go on as though nothing had changed. But obviously everything had. He was vulnerable and virtually defenseless. As one of three men Locasio had in his sights, he figured trying to run would do little good. Anyway, he had no intention of running.

  As he followed the others through the doorway, he realized there was a good deal of comfort to be had in just mingling with friends, something he had been deprived of for so long now. He hoped he was not creating a potential hazard for them.

  A stiff breeze that seemed one part fish oil and two parts petroleum residue met them on the balcony. The wind tugged at the ladies’ hair and rumpled Bryce’s own gray mane, forcing a squint that erased whatever consternation might have remained on his face. No matter, all eyes were fixed on the vast panorama of choppy water that spread out before them. Large tows with multiple rows of barges floated along, moving at such a leisurely pace they seemed to be drifting with the current. At this point, the broad Mississippi looked like a lake. A sea-going freighter moved past, gliding slowly upstream. Cranes that resembled the folded arms of a giant praying mantis sprouted from its deck.

  “Wonder where that ship came from?” Troy asked of no one in particular.

  Fred glanced up at the darkening sky to the west. “I don’t know, but it looks like he may be headed for some bad weather. Check out those clouds.”

  Marge frowned. “I hope it doesn’t rain on us. We’ve got another full day of sightseeing tomorrow, and the dinner cruise tomorrow night.”

  Standing beside her at the railing, Bryce tried to muster a hopeful look, as much for his own benefit as for hers. “Maybe we’ll be lucky,” he said. But as Hurricane Nora came to mind, he began to wonder if these clouds might be a foretaste of something really nasty. The way his luck had been running, that was a distinct possibility.

  Gazing out at the waterfront, however, proved cathartic. The scene was a study in slow motion, a generous slice of tranquility. Movements appeared almost dreamlike. He found his mind wandering beyond the narrow confines of the present.

  The view appeared to have done the same for Marge.

  “When I was a teenager,” she said, a dreamy look in her eyes, “there was a paddle-wheel boat called the Idlewild that used to come up the Cumberland River to Nashville every year or so. Our high school always had an outing on it one afternoon during its stay. We’d ride up and down the river for a couple of hours, acting as excited as if it was the Queen Sarah.”

  Bryce thought back to his own boyhood in Las Vegas. “They didn’t have big boats where I grew up,” he said. “We had a railroad, though. I was always fascinated by trains. When I’d hear that lonesome whistle blowing, especially in the dead of night, I’d conjure up all sorts of images of exotic places where it might be headed.”

  “I don’t guess I was that imaginative.”

  He laughed. “If anything, I was overly imaginative. Thought of places like London and Paris and Rome. Places you could hardly get to by train. When I did make it over there during the war, though, I found things a lot different than I had imagined. Of course, I saw more countryside than big cities. Saw a lot of devastation, too.”

  “Have you been back since then?”

  “Several times. On business. I got to see some of the more colorful areas of Europe, too, like the Rhine River and the mountains of Switzerland.” He didn’t mention the business that took him to places like Zurich, where he arranged or checked on secret numbered bank accounts.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Europe. Keith talked about going back to see some of the places he’d been during the war, but there never seemed to be enough time. He kept saying wait until I retire.” She turned back toward the river, a look of sadness on her face. “Of course, he never made it.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Look,” she said, pointing.

  Bryce followed her gaze toward the sky and saw where the clouds had formed what appeared to be an elevated horizon, a dark, undulating mass that resembled mountains, set off by the reddish glow of the soon-to-be-setting sun.

  “It looks like fire on the mountains,” she said. The hush of awe tempered her voice.

  And as the sun gradually sank lower, the flames appeared to spread across the sky.

  “That’s quite a spectacle.” Bryce looked around. “Did you ever see mountains on fire?”

  “No, thank God. I love the mountains, the Smokies especially. Keith and I used to have a small place outside Gatlinburg, on the edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It sometimes looked like fire this time of year, when the sun hit all that beautiful foliage. The colors were magnificent.”

  Ellen had also been a lover of mountains, Bryce recalled. She had shown an almost childlike exuberance on one trip to Switzerland, when they had taken a chair lift and tram up the side of 7,000-foot Mt. Pilatus, near Lucerne.

  “I went to see the Smokies last fall,” he said. “Unfortunately, I picked the wrong time. I just missed the peak of the colors.”

  “You ought to plan to go next week. You’d probably hit it just right this ti
me.”

  Plan to go, he thought? That implied a future, something of which he had serious doubts at the moment. “I haven’t had too much luck with plans lately.”

  Marge looked back at him with a sympathetic smile. “I read recently where somebody said every time humans make plans, God laughs.”

  “I’m glad to hear he still has a sense of humor. Maybe there’s a chance for me yet.”

  “You have a problem with the man upstairs?” That was not what she had meant to say, but probably came out, she thought, as a subconscious reaction to Troy’s revelation about the big check Bryce had given Dr. Trent. The implication wasn’t fair and she regretted it the moment the words came out, particularly after seeing the pain in his eyes.

  “I rather think it’s the other way around,” he said. He turned to look out at a small boat that appeared totally insignificant in the vastness of the river. “I’m the problem, not him.”

  When Fred suddenly called from the doorway, Bryce realized they had been left standing alone on the balcony.

  “Hey, you two. Betty Lou says we’d better get started back toward the restaurant. Don’t want to be late for supper.”

  They had told Tillie Ellis they were going shopping and would meet the others in the French Quarter at Le Dauphin.

  Marge headed for the door. “Tillie wouldn’t be very happy if we’re late,” she said.

  Bryce nodded as he followed her into the mall. This little interlude with Marge had made him forget for a short time that distressing phone call to New York. But he knew the whole landscape was changed now. What would the next siting of the blue Cadillac or its occupants bring?

  27

  “It appears that Mexico will escape another assault from Hurricane Nora, which blasted the Yucatan Peninsula late yesterday.” The network news anchor spoke in dramatic tones as Locasio watched the TV in his hotel room. “The National Hurricane Center reports the storm has begun a turn to the north, away from the Mexican coastline. It is currently located two hundred and eighty miles southeast of Brownsville, Texas. Forecasters are unsure where it will head next, but they have issued hurricane watches for the Texas coast from Corpus Christi to Port Arthur. Nora has strengthened in the past few hours, with sustained winds near the eye now hitting one hundred and twenty miles per hour, placing it in Category Three on the Saffir-Simpson Scale. It has also picked up speed to fifteen miles per hour. The Weather Service reports that Nora has become a very large and dangerous storm, with hurricane-force winds reaching out nearly a hundred and fifty miles from the eye.”