by A. W. Gray
Adriani raised the .380 to ear level, reached with his free hand to turn the handle, and shoved the door quickly open. In he went, one long step, down in a crouch, the pistol tight in his hand, his left hand clamped onto his wrist. He fired three times, snake-hiss volleys. The bullets punctured the rose-patterned curtain in a right-to-left pattern. The curtain billowed inward, then puffed back out under the relentless beating of the nozzle spray. Adriani stepped forward and slid the curtain aside with a rasp of hangers. Water splashed on green-tiled walls. Three of the tiles were missing dollar-size chunks, the bullets rolling harmlessly at the bottom of the tub. Adriani turned off the water. The faucet dripped monotonously. At the front of the house a door opened.
Adriani moved rapidly, no need for silence now, went back into the hall and toward the front of the house. He felt rather than saw the corridor widen into the living room, sensed the sofa three paces in front of him, the kitchen six strides to his left. The air-conditioning sprang to life as warm outside air blew on his cheeks. He squinted. Visible through the open front doorway, the three-quarter moon illuminated the ragged lawn. From far away a starter chugged and an engine sprang to life.
Adriani muttered, “Fuck me.” Around the sofa he charged, his footsteps pounding on carpeted hardwood. He banged the screen door open and thundered onto the porch. In the driveway on his left, headlamps beamed. The red Mustang squealed backward into the street. Adriani snapped off one wild shot as the Mustang reversed its direction and sped away. Now he was sprinting across the lawn, gasping for breath, each step jarring him. The white Lincoln Town Car still was parked by the curb, and Adriani skirted the Lincoln’s nose as he crossed the street to his own rented Ford and dived in behind the wheel. He dropped his gun on the seat and turned the key; the engine caught at once and raced. Adriani floored the accelerator, the Ford fishtailing and burning rubber. He held the steering wheel in a death grip as the Mustang’s taillights brightened, and then dimmed as the little car bounced through an intersection.
Suddenly the Mustang screeched to a halt and stood stock-still in the middle of the street. Adriani slammed on his own brakes, frowning as he stopped with his front bumper just feet from the Mustang’s rear end. He couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on, the broad running off like that and then suddenly stopping. It’s a trap, Adriani thought, it’s got to be, the white-haired bozo hiding in the Lincoln as Adriani had run by, now coming in pursuit, the broad in front, the Lincoln in back, and Mancil Adriani as the meat in the sandwich. He snatched up the Beretta as he swiveled his head to look behind him.
And recoiled in pain and shock as something heavy smashed into the side of his head, the white-haired bozo right there in the Fairlane’s backseat, scant inches away, his breath blowing on Adriani’s face. The scent of aftershave wafted up his nostrils as he tried to raise the pistol, his fingers suddenly numb as the club now slammed into his forehead, the gun dropping from his grasp as he collapsed against the door. His forehead throbbed and blood ran down his face. His vision blurred. Maybe go to sleep, Adriani thought, catch a little sack time.
As he watched in a daze, the white-haired bozo scooped up the Beretta and pointed the muzzle at Adriani’s nose. He’s going to shoot me if he’s got any sense, Adriani thought. Dumb as he is, though, he might not kill me. Adriani waited patiently for the bozo to make his move.
The guy grinned at him, white teeth flashing in the moonlight, holding the pistol close, reaching out his free hand to display the club. Adriani blinked. Christ, a statue, a broad in a Farmer’s Daughter dress, holding a lumpy pumpkin over her head.
“It’s the Sweet Potato Queen,” the bozo said. “Maybe you ought to be a candidate, you figure? Put a dress on you, asshole, you might even win.”
25
BINO LIKED THE OUTFIT, ESPECIALLY THE LAVENDER COTTON polo with the button-down collar, and wondered where the guy had his laundry done. The clothes were pressed to perfection, the creases to die for. When Bino had herded him inside at gunpoint, the stocky man had asked for a rag or something to keep blood from dripping on his shirt and pants. Carla had furnished one of her throwaways, a pink fuzzy beach towel which was tattered around the edges. Since his initial request, the guy hadn’t spoken a word.
Bino now said to Hardy Cole, “Mancil here’s got a lot he could tell you, if you could get him to talk.”
Mancil Adriani’s heavy-lidded eyes twitched slightly. It was the fourth time Bino had called him by name, having first referred to the card he’d gotten from Dante Tirelli, the tightening of the guy’s expression saying that, yeah, he was the man. “It’d be nice,” Hardy Cole said, “if we could get him to tell us whether or not he wants a lawyer. Or a doctor. Or a hamburger. I’m wondering if maybe he’s deaf and dumb.” The county detective was lean and angular and, Bino had always suspected, just about as tough as he looked. Cole was seated on the couch beside Adriani, and the two were handcuffed together, right wrist to left. Hardy wore tan rumpled cotton pants, grimy white socks, and black lace-up shoes. Carla had used a neighbor’s phone to call Cole while Bino kept the prisoner company. According to her, Cole had been pretty rude at first, getting a call in the middle of the night, but once she’d filled him in Hardy had hotfooted it on over. Carla was curled up in an easy chair. Bino sat in the other padded chair with his ankle propped up on his knee, his shin pointing off at a right angle. It was a couple of minutes after five. Visible through the window, the blue-black sky faded slowly to gray.
“I doubt he’ll give you any trouble,” Bino said. “Old Mancil knows the ropes, if anybody does.” This time Adriani stayed deadpan, apparently accustomed to Bino’s use of his name and not interested in acknowledging his identity or copping out to blowing his nose. Bino fished out his lone pack of filtered Camels, only three smokes remaining in the crumpled package. “You want a cigarette?”
Adriani scowled. “Don’t smoke. And if you’re going to light up, go outside, huh?” He carefully laid the towel across his lap. The blood smears had dried to reddish brown, the gashes on his forehead clotting and scabbing over.
“He can talk,” Cole said. “Wonders ain’t ceased.”
“He broke in,” Bino said, “while I was interviewing the young lady on behalf of a client.”
Cole glanced at Carla, his look more of a leer actually, taking in the snug pants and the bolero top with puffed sleeves. Carla suppressed a yawn and laid her cheek back against the cushioned chair. “Hope you were getting the right answers,” Cole said.
“He’s good for Rhonda Benson’s murder,” Bino said, poking the cigarettes into his breast pocket. “A whole bunch more, too. Our friend here’s a federal protected witness.”
Cole snorted. “Protected from what? Look, Bino, it’s nice that you know all this about the guy. You got any proof? All I do is read the paper, but I thought Rhonda Benson’s husband was the murder suspect. Plus, unless I’m forgetting something, this all happened down in Houston. Not one of my favorite locations, plus I got no more authority in Harris County than you got in Bumfuck, Egypt.” He glanced once more at Carla. “Excuse the language, miss.” Carla gently closed her eyes.
“The murder happened in Dallas,” Bino said. “That much she”—pointing at Carla—can give you. We’re going to have proof of some other things before long. Aren’t we, Mancil?” Adriani watched the far corner of the room, where the ceiling and walls joined, and didn’t say anything. “For now, Hardy,” Bino said, “what we need is for you to keep him isolated.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cole said. “You ever hear of jail crowding? You want a reservation, call a year in advance like Disney World.”
“It’s why I wanted you instead of some beat cop,” Bino said. “You got influence.”
“With the D.A., maybe, even the police department. With the jail captain, nobody’s got influence. It’s first come, first served down there.”
“Tell them he needs to be in protective custody,�
� Bino said. “Tell them he’s gay, that usually works. Say there’s a big bull after his ass for fooling with one of the queens.”
Adriani sneered.
“I might could do something for a night or two,” Cole said. “Beyond that, I doubt it.”
“I think tonight’s all I need, Hardy,” Bino said.
“You know what I got to charge him with as it is?” Cole said. “Burglary. Aggravated, yeah, ’cause he had a gun, but so what?”
The corners of Adriani’s mouth turned up.
“He knows that,” Bino said. “I’ll bet old Mancil here knows the law better than I do. All these ex-con assholes do. Don’t they, Mancil?”
Adriani’s mouth relaxed.
“Here’s what I’m wanting,” Bino said. “Keep him in isolation, call Mac Strange as soon as it gets late enough he won’t blow a gasket over you waking him up.”
“Mac don’t work on Sunday,” Cole said.
“He’s a county prosecutor, isn’t he? Through rain and snow and all that? You don’t work on Sunday, either, Hardy, but I notice you’re sitting there. This is something Mac’s going to want as bad as you do.”
“I’ll call him,” Hardy said. “What do I say, other than that I’ve got this guy?”
“Tell him I’ll meet you and him down at the jail as soon as I’ve had time to get a couple of hours’ sleep and shower and whatnot. Say eleven o’clock. I’ve got some ideas kicking around in connection with Mr. Adriani here.”
“I’ll do that much,” Cole said, standing. “Come on, Droopy.” He undid the cuff from his wrist and motioned for the prisoner to get up. There was a holstered service revolver clipped to Cole’s belt.
“Mancil,” Bino said. “His name’s Mancil.”
“Whatever,” Cole said. He pointed a finger down and drew a circle in the air. Adriani turned his back and extended his wrists so that Cole could cuff his hands behind him. “Going to jail don’t seem to bother him much,” Cole said.
“Walk in the park for this boy,” Bino said. “Come on, I’ll follow you out to your car.”
Carla caught up with Bino as he stepped down from the porch, Cole ten yards ahead escorting the prisoner across the lawn with a hand on the inside of his forearm. Carla said, “I need to talk to you.”
Bino turned and lifted his eyebrows.
She folded her arms and looked down. “Look, I’ll admit I’m not exactly Braveheart Bertha. After this, I don’t want to stay here alone.”
Bino looked down at her, the upturned oval face, the slanted eyes showing real concern. “Don’t take this wrong, Carla,” Bino finally said, “but I’m beat, and I’ve got a couple of things to do. So if you’re scared, call one of your neighbors. Personally, I’m sure you’re okay with this guy locked up. At least for now. So try to relax. Spend some time polishing your trophy, there’s probably a few dents in the sweet potato. Better yet, if you need company, call Goldman. Maybe old Marv would let you stay at his place, you think?”
Bino studied the list of phone numbers he’d made on a sheet of notebook paper, handed a Xerox of the page over to Mac Strange. “This list should go down as ‘Who’s Who,’ ” Bino said.
There were times when Mac Strange was a pretty funny guy, having a few pops at Joe Miller’s Bar with Bino and some of the other lawyers, but this wasn’t one of the times. His face was drawn and tired-looking. He wore a baggy nylon jogging suit, navy blue with yellow stripes down the legs, and the paunch sticking out against the fabric said that the garb was strictly for show. Mac was soft and round, had receding gray hair and a double chin. He was seated on a conference table, and now gestured toward the one-way mirror. “If I call these guys,” Strange said, “are they going to tell me something about our friend in there? He’s sure not going to tell us anything.”
Bino looked through the glass as well, at Mancil Adriani sitting inside the interview room with his arms folded. He wore a tan jumpsuit with Dallas county jail stenciled between his shoulder blades. The jumpsuit was rumpled to beat hell, and Bino suspected that the guy’s glum expression had more to do with the wrinkled clothes than the charges against him. Right now Adriani was looking at eight to ten months for burglary and damn well knew it. Bino said, “I don’t think anybody on this list would give you the time of day, Mac.”
“That’s sure nice to know. We’ve kept a man in isolation for five hours and stiffed him for a phone call. We’ve told him the jail phones are out of order, which is bullshit a defense lawyer will get his cookies over. Not only do I think we’ve blown the burglary case, Mr. Adriani in there can sue the shit out of us and probably collect. How ’bout it, Hardy? You get anything out of him?”
Cole was rocked back on the hind legs of a folding chair, still dressed in cotton pants and black shoes. The detective had a heavy five o’clock shadow. “I got out of him that he don’t like our jail laundry much. The only thing he’s asked for is an iron to press his jumpsuit. Don’t even act like he wants a lawyer.”
“Oh, he’ll want one,” Bino said. “Only it’ll be a certain lawyer, likely a guy from Houston. Protected witnesses got a list of lawyers the FBI furnishes ’em.” He was freshly shaved and wore ragged running shorts along with an American bar association—national convention ‘89 T-shirt. His rump was propped against the edge of the table on which Mac Strange sat.
“I’ll tell you something,” Cole said, jerking a thumb toward the one-way glass. “That’s one tough son of a bitch in there. Almost every one of ’em, they want some kind of deal, but not this guy. Acts like he doesn’t care what we do.”
“I doubt he does,” Bino said. “A little time every once in a while, that’s just a cost of doing business. I think these phone numbers might change his mind.”
Strange studied the numbers. “How so?”
“I’ll demonstrate,” Bino said, “while the three of us and Mr. Adriani have a little talk.”
One corner of Strange’s mouth tugged to the side. “That’s out of line, having a civilian question the prisoner.”
“No more than you’re already out of line with this guy,” Bino said. “Come on.”
Cole and Strange exchanged glances. “He’s got a point,” Cole finally said.
The three men walked around to a metal door with a deadbolt lock. Cole jingled a ring of keys at his hip, undid the bolt, held the door, and stood aside. Bino followed Strange into the interview room, Adriani’s thick brows moving closer together as he eyed the two, Bino catching his own reflection on the inner side of the one-way mirror. Strange sat across a low table from the prisoner. Bino parked his rump on the table and leaned in. “Mancil,” Bino said, “how you doing?”
Adriani tugged at the sleeve of his jumpsuit. “Guy’s got no pride in here. Gimme a month in the laundry I’ll have the whole population looking good.”
“You iron your own clothes?” Bino said.
“Yeah, don’t trust nobody else to.”
“They look good, those chinos and that polo shirt. You mind if I wear the shirt while you’re away?”
Adriani propped a knee against the edge of the table. “I ain’t going to be gone long enough you’d get much use out of it.”
Cole moved up beside the table and leaned against the wall. “He’s got it figured out, don’t he?”
Adriani looked away, watching his reflection in the mirror.
“Yeah, too smart for you guys,” Bino said. “Thing is, Man-cil, I don’t think you’re going anyplace at all. What I was wondering, maybe you could leave me the pants and shirt in your will.”
“I plan on living a long time, bro.”
“I’m not your bro, Mancil,” Bino said. “But I am good news for you. We talked it over this morning, the young lady and me, and I’m not sure you’re the guy that broke in last night.”
Now it was Mac Strange’s turn to scowl. “What’re you talking? You captured the guy.”
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“I captured a guy, Mac. I’m not sure it’s this one.”
“God amighty, you get me down here … ” Strange halted in midsentence as Hardy Cole nudged his arm. Cole winked at Strange. Strange relaxed and watched Bino.
Bino favored Adriani with a big wide grin. “See how easy it is? If we can’t identify you you’re home free. Be out walking the street this afternoon. I felt so bad about falsely accusing you, Mancil, I even made a list of friends that’ll be interested to hear you’re okay.” He slid a second Xerox of his list over in front of the prisoner. Bino hoped his scribbling was legible. Dante Tirelli had talked a mile a minute on the phone while Bino wrote like mad.
Adriani snatched up the page and read. His mouth slacked. He dropped the sheet on the table and said, “Fuck you.”
“Now is that any way to talk to a guy that’s trying to help you?” Bino said. “All those Philadelphia people on the list, every single one wanted to know where you’d been. Said you hadn’t been around the neighborhood lately. Let’s see, I got your Houston phone number, and you’re living in a place rented as Charles Dorrell.”
Adriani pointed a finger. “You son of a bitch.”
“A lot of folks think that. But I get concerned for people. In fact, this one guy, let’s see … ” Bino bent near the table and pointed to a name on the list. “That guy, Jimmy Ditulio. Told me you’d know him as Jimmy Dit. Old friend of yours, right?”
Adriani blinked. “You told Jimmy Dit where I was?”
Bino slapped Adriani on the back in gleeful good cheer. “Sure did. And you know what? He was so excited about you getting out soon, he wanted me to let him know exactly when you’d be leaving the jail. Said he’d put somebody on a plane. Must be a welcoming committee, huh?”
Adriani rubbed his back where Bino had slapped him. He gritted his teeth.
Bino’s eyes widened. “I say something wrong? Gee, I didn’t mean to.” Mac Strange grinned at Hardy Cole, who scratched his nose and grinned at Adriani. “Well, you’ll feel better once you’re out,” Bino said. “Come on, Mac, you got to get the processing started on this man’s release.” He got up and headed for the exit.