by Mike Faricy
Chapter 47
Hub worked to a stopping point just before noon. He didn’t want to do anything to alter his routine today, and he hadn’t, except for looking out the window at his truck sitting in the driveway every thirty seconds. He happened to be painting the dining room in a judge’s home today. His pickup sat in the judge’s driveway with two large trash bags full of more cash than he had ever imagined. Both bags were tucked discreetly under an old paint tarp. He cleaned up as best he could, all the while keeping an eye on his pickup. He calmly walked out the door, climbed into the pickup, and drove over to Gulf Breeze Court and Jimmy & Deanna’s trailer.
Jimmy was out, and Hub talked to Deanna, or at least tried to over the barking dogs. He came prepared, dropping off a case of beer and a box of chocolate donuts just to romance his visit.
“Deanna, I got some paint and tools in my truck. Would you mind if I stored them in your old shed, back there? I need the room in my truck for a project I’m on tomorrow. Jimmy said it’d be okay, but I wanted to check with you, too.”
“Hub, just go ahead and help yourself, honey. Don’t you worry about a thing. Drive on back there and do as you damn well please,” she said, all the while holding the white bakery box lovingly in her arms.
That’s just what he did, drove on back to the shed. Once inside the shed, he grabbed a shovel, dug a nice, neat hole, and buried both trash bags along with his jewelry nest egg. He stacked five-gallon plastic paint containers over the filled-in hole. Before leaving, he raked the area, erasing all signs of what he had done.
He stopped in for a donut with Deanna, thinking Jimmy had better get home quickly before she ate the full dozen on her own. After clearing off a pile of clothes from the kitchen chair, he sat and they talked about things back in Minnesota for thirty minutes. He left, promising he would come over for pork chops some night soon.
Chapter 48
Willy had figured yesterday was the day. It wasn’t so much that he was running out of time, although he was. It was more a case of having finally worked up the nerve. Once he had worked up enough nerve, he thought a nice gin and tonic might be just the thing to settle him down and keep him cool. That was yesterday, just a little after ten in the morning. He had placed the pressing need to send a message to Macey further and further on the back burner as he worked his way through the better part of a fifth of gin. When he finally woke up, it was dark, and he had lost the entire day.
Now, sometime after midnight, he felt like he had been run over by a freight train then dragged along the tracks for added effect. A fifth of gin and passing out in a chair had never done much to improve his physical condition, and tonight was no exception. He gingerly poured himself into bed, promising he wouldn’t touch a drop in the morning.
He slept until 11:00 the following morning, showered, grabbed a couple of cheeseburgers and a coffee for breakfast, and drove over to Hub’s. He drove through the lot, on the off-chance Hub’s black pickup would be there. Fortunately, it wasn’t. He parked across from the far end of the building and slowly climbed the corner staircase up to the second floor. He walked the length of the building toward Hub’s apartment.
He was focused on the apartment door, anxious to get inside and out of sight before he was spotted. He grasped the picking prods in his hand, reviewed in his mind the feel of the tumblers in the Citadel lock. It wouldn’t take him more than a few seconds, and he could quickly slip inside and out of sight.
He knocked on the door but didn’t wait for an answer. He dropped to his knees and slid the probes into the keyhole. He worked the prods from that angle, failing three separate times. One more time, subtle, soft, gentle, and… Click. The door was unlocked. He stood and slowly turned the doorknob, opening the door and stepping into the apartment. Once in, he slammed the door closed, glad to be in the air-conditioned comfort.
“Hey, did you just see something there. Was that him?” Todd asked Cyril, having just snored himself awake again. “Did you hear that?”
Cyril was trying to shake his head awake. Todd was staring at the apartment window, wondering if maybe he saw the curtains move.
“Oh, look!” Cyril exclaimed. “How did he get there without us seeing him?”
They caught the briefest glimpse of a moving window curtain. “Weren’t you paying attention?” Todd asked. “If I hadn’t had to wake you, I could have seen him, been sure it was him.”
“Well, just who do you think it would be?” groaned Cyril, still crabby from being awakened. “Who do you think is going into his apartment? It had to be him. We better give J.W. a call. He’ll want to know.”
Todd thought for a moment before he said, “What difference does it make? Even if we watched him drive in and go up the stairs, it’s not like we were going to tackle him or anything. I’ll just tell J.W. he’s here.”
“What?” J.W. answered, obviously driving from the sound of it. Poor reception broke up his response.
“He’s back here, J.W. He just came in,” Todd said. “What do you want us to do? Go up and grab him?”
“You boys just stay put, hear? If I want you to grab him, I’ll let you know. If he goes anywhere, give me a call. Follow him. If he doesn’t go anywhere, you call me every hour. Understand?”
“Yeah, got it,” Todd answered and hung up.
Cyril looked disgusted and said, “Honest to God, Todd. You sound like you’re working on a chain gang for that man.”
“We’re just gonna sit here and see what we see,” Todd said.
Chapter 49
Bobby Falconi arrived in Tampa at 9:30 the following morning. A small carry-on was the only luggage he had. He called his mother, Gina, still at her sister Rosa’s and told her to stay put. He had one stop to make, and then he’d see her.
Twenty minutes later, he was parked in front of Landucci’s, a small neighborhood market that had been on the same corner for years, over-charging on everything from sliced meats to shaving cream. Bobby was there to see Tino Landucci. Given airline security, not to mention the feds watching every time Bobby blew his nose, he would need some local assistance. In Tampa, Tino Landucci was the man to see for assistance. After visiting Tino for fifteen minutes, Bobby made his way to his mother.
Gina was glad to see him. He looked so much like his father. May God rest his soul. The elder was gunned down in front of the family home in Nutley, in 1984, about a month before Bobby had been born.
He was always Robert to his mother. He grew up with a parade of men coming through the house, none of them on the right side of the law. He was very bright, misguided, and starved for attention. He was running numbers at fifteen. By eighteen, he had made his first contract hit for $500, a refuse hauler uninterested in paying certain fees. From there, he climbed his way to the big time and infamy.
He was able to move his mother to Florida for the winter, end the revolving door of worthless men in her life, and set her up financially. Gina, for her part, came from a time and place where women didn’t ask a lot of questions. When her son drove down last spring with twelve million in shrink-wrapped cash, it wasn’t that she thought nothing of it. She just didn’t need to know where it came from or how. She did think, ‘Robert is very successful. I wish his father were alive to see him.’
Now Bobby was asking her questions, trying to find out what happened, where she had been last night, who she had been with.
Gina sat across the kitchen table, pouring her son another cup of coffee and serving him a second cannoli. She answered Bobby’s questions, occasionally picking up her cigarette, holding it between slim fingers, and waving it in the air.
Listening to her, Bobby quickly came to a couple of conclusions. If his mother was telling the truth, and she knew better than to lie, she had never mentioned him, his father, or any family connections from back in Jersey. She had been out with two other women last night. They’d stopped for coffee on the way home. They had been dancing. Not at a bar but at a dancing school. They went there to dance regularly on Tuesday
and Thursday nights. They had even taken a few lessons.
She swore she hadn’t seen or dated any guys down here. The way she described the trays on the floor and some silver stacked on the table, Bobby thought this wasn’t organized, at least not professionally. It sounded more and more like a random sort of thing where some dumb shit stumbled across the cash. That had its good and bad points. On the one hand, it meant the cash was most likely still in town, some fool just staring at it if he hadn’t done something really stupid like burying it in a hole somewhere. But that also meant a two-bit operator could be a lot harder to find.
“Did you lock the door, Ma?”
“Robert, the door locks automatically. You know that. And yes, I checked to make sure it was locked. I always do.”
“No open window, no door jimmied, nothing like that?”
“Robert, you’re making me sound like a fool. Of course, there was nothing like that. It’s almost as if whoever broke in had a key and knew where to find what they were looking for.”
“No guests, workmen, cleaners, anything like that?”
“Robert, I can’t keep my own home clean?” she sniffled. “What are you thinking?”
“Ma, how’d you find this dance joint?”
“Robert, it’s not a joint. It’s not some awful bar. It’s a very nice school, playing music you can hum, not that awful noise young people listen to today. I’ve been taking lessons there for over two months. Let me get my purse. I think I have their brochure.”
“And you go there every Tuesday and Thursday?”
“Yes, Robert, Tuesday, and Thursday, without fail. You know, this nice couple I dance with, the Schmidt’s, their home was robbed about six weeks ago. My God, doesn’t it make you wonder? I mean, what’s happening to Tampa?”
“Really? Maybe I’ll stop over at this dance joint. Why don’t you make a few calls, see if any of your other friends have had this kind of trouble,” he said as he looked over the Moonlight Dance Academy brochure.
“Robert, I’ve told you, it’s not a joint.”
Chapter 50
J.W. had followed Val from his home to a greasy spoon, where he apparently ordered a takeout. From there, he followed Val behind the Moonlight Dance Academy and watched him load his Ram Charger with boxes. He followed Val to a storage facility. Twenty minutes later, Val departed without the boxes in the back of his truck.
Once he returned to the Moonlight, J.W. parked down the block and across the street. He phoned Todd and Cyril, interrupting their failed efforts to fight off sleep in the front seat of the Coupe de Ville. J.W. gave Todd as little information as possible, telling him, “Just grab that ole boy, suggest to him it would be a very good idea if he joined all of us over here at the Moonlight Dance Academy. Put him in the trunk and drive him over. Any questions?”
“I got it,” said Todd. “Don’t you worry about a thing.” He wrote the address on the back of a paper bag. “We’re supposed to bring him to J.W. at this Midnight place.”
“So do we just ask him nicely? What if he isn’t in the mood right now?” Cyril asked.
“Oh, he’ll be in the mood. Once I persuade him,” Todd said. “That don’t work, I got a little present for our friend up there,” he said and pulled the chrome .45 out from beneath his seat.
Cyril’s eyes popped out of his head. “Put that damn thing away before it hurts someone. Todd, it’s dangerous!”
“Oh God, I should be so lucky. I’d like nothing better than to hurt a certain someone right now,” he said and climbed out of the car.
Cyril watched him for a moment before he hurried out and ran to catch up. “Wait, Todd, let’s think this through, not just rush in there.” He ran past Todd. “Todd, we’ve got to have a plan. Calm down here for a minute. I’m sure J.W. would prefer we not make this into some kind of scene.”
At the mention of J.W., Todd stopped and looked down at Cyril for a brief moment, as if he had another thought. “Naw, let’s just go grab him,” he said and left Cyril standing in the parking lot.
Cyril ran ahead of Todd again. “Look, Todd. Don’t do this. It’s crazy. It’s insane.”
“And that’s exactly why it’ll work,” Todd growled as he approached Hub’s door.
Cyril was backing toward the door, pleading, his hands out in front of him, motioning Todd to slow down. “Todd, Todd, you’re going about this the wrong way, just calm down, calm down.”
Willy had spent the past three or four hours in Hub’s apartment, jumping at every slamming car door, running to peek out the window every time he thought he heard something outside. He’d gone through Hub’s refrigerator, drank five or six beers, but he wanted to remain sharp and stopped with the beer, at least for a while. He had to use the bathroom but didn’t want to go into the rear of the apartment in case the guy suddenly showed up. The longer he waited, the worse he had to go and the more likely he felt this guy would appear any second.
He had planned what he was going to do, just wait behind the door as it opened. He’d grab Macey’s soon-to-be-dead stud by the back of the neck and force him down to his knees. Of course, he’d say something clever like, “Remember me?” before shooting him in the back of his head, blow his damn brains out and send the message, bullet express, to Macey.
He had thought about playing with him, setting him on fire, or maybe cutting him up. He decided to keep it simple, finish it like the big-time boys did, and then quietly get the hell out of there.
That was exactly what was in Todd’s mind. Get all three of them out of there and over to J.W. waiting at that Moonlight Dance Academy place.
“Cyril, try the door, see if the damn thing’s open,” he whispered, and pulled the .45 out from under his T-shirt.
To Cyril, the .45 looked like a cannon. It was all he could see, just shining in Todd’s hand. He thought about running and knew instinctively Todd would never let him get away. Besides, where could he go? First, Todd would have a piece of him, and then J.W. would chew up whatever might be left. His only real hope just now was that the apartment was empty.
When Willy had practiced all those long hours on the Citadel, model 155 lock, he had become very adept at unlocking the door. Unfortunately, he never locked the door once inside.
Cyril tried the doorknob, slowly felt it turn all the way, until he actually opened the door, no more than half an inch. He glanced back at Todd, nodding to indicate the door was open. Cyril didn’t want to know anything else about Todd’s plan.
Cyril’s plan was to enter quickly, immediately scurry behind the open door, and pray no one was home. He’d let Todd handle any rough stuff. Maybe he could run back outside the apartment, wait down below, next to their car. Just in case things up here didn’t go the way they hoped.
Willy couldn’t wait a minute longer and ran down the hall toward the bathroom. He was unzipping his fly, deeply exhaling, ready to relax, when he thought he heard voices. He ran back down the hallway and peeked out the window.
He scanned the lot but didn’t see a thing. He certainly didn’t see the black pickup truck anywhere. Then in an instant, he caught the slight movement of the door, just a fraction of an inch. As he saw it move, he jumped across the doorway, his back against the wall, hoping the opening door would shield him, gun in hand.
Once he began to open the door, Cyril couldn’t move fast enough. He followed the door around, almost leaping to hide behind it, only to be greeted by a very angry, surprised, face. A hand reached up and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet, half-throwing Cyril across the room and against the couch.
“Ahh-hhh,” screamed Cyril. “Todd! Toddy! Ahhh!”
Willy screamed at the figure on the floor in front of him, “Remember me?” Thinking as he screamed that something wasn’t quite right. In one swift movement, he grabbed Cyril, quickly spun him around, and jammed his pistol against Cyril’s forehead, all the while thinking, ‘Don’t do it, man, there’s something wrong here,’ just as he pulled the trigger. He jumped back shouti
ng, “Remember me, Lover Boy?” but it still wasn’t adding up.
Willy never saw Todd shaking in the doorway, six feet behind him. Frightened Todd had both arms extended, holding that chrome .45 straight out in front of him. When he fired, the force of the round literally lifted Willy off the floor. He landed face down, head and shoulders first, his feet making a noticeable thud on the hallway floor a second later.
The report of the .45 seemed to echo around the tiny living room. The sound bounced back and forth off the walls before escaping out the open door. Todd dropped the pistol, vaguely aware of the heavy gun bouncing off the floor as he turned and fled. He stumbled down the outside staircase, across the parking lot to the safety of the Coupe de Ville.
Chapter 51
As soon as he heard it, Luis Morales recognized the dull report as a pistol shot. He glanced up from the naked redhead he’d been leering at on his computer screen. The second noise sound louder, heavier, and was definitely a gunshot. A very close gunshot. He got up out of his chair, took off his reading glasses, and moved cautiously to his front window. He didn’t see anything at first, but he heard the heavy pounding of someone running down the concrete staircase.
Heavy quick steps echoed off the second-floor ceiling. Luis opened his front door just a crack, waiting cautiously for a few seconds, in no hurry to step outside. A muscular white man with a partially shaved head and a black ponytail ran across the parking lot below. Luis slowly stepped out into the corridor and glanced over at two of his neighbors. They had heard the same sounds. In this neighborhood, there was no mistaking the sound of a gunshot.
He yelled down to the parking lot, calling in Spanish to two teenagers just getting out of their car, telling them to get the license number of the large red car racing out of the space across the street. They ran across the lot as Todd hastily screeched out of his parking place. He bounced across the curb and sped away down the street.