The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Rusty was slow to comply and Cruz fired one shot that whistled by his head. Rusty’s tricked-out abalone-gripped Colt clattered to the floor.

  “Frankie, we’re going to need your gun,” Jack said. Frankie looked relieved by this turn of events. He wheezed as he bent down and placed his 9mm on a clean spot of concrete. Jack gathered the weapons and ordered, “Everybody down, hands behind your backs.”

  “Bullshit, Jack,” Rusty sputtered. “You’re a dead man.”

  Jack cocked his head as if there must have been a misunderstanding, raised Rusty’s Colt, and fired.

  Rusty screamed and fell to the floor, a clean through-and-through thigh shot.

  Mickey’s men dropped to the ground and assumed the position next to Rusty, who was howling. Frankie made eye contact with Jack before lowering his 350 pounds to the cold floor. Jack read his contrition but wasn’t in the mood to give absolution.

  Mateo passed Jack his shotgun and bound the men’s hands and ankles as if he were calf-roping.

  Jack nodded a thank you to Cruz who stood as tall as his five-nine frame would allow. He looked like a giant to Jack.

  One of Mickey’s gunmen tried to negotiate: “You might want to give this a second—” Mateo slapped a piece of tape over his mouth and around his head before he could finish his thought.

  Jack leaned toward Frankie and whispered, “Keys?”

  “Back pocket,” he answered sotto voce.

  Jack grabbed his car keys out of Frankie’s slacks, and Mateo taped his mouth.

  With his torturers silenced, Jack pocketed Frankie’s 9mm, dropped the rest of the weapons into a fifty-gallon drum of viscous waste oil, and led his team out of the dank body shop into the daylight.

  * * *

  Jack felt light-headed and steadied himself on the side of Mateo’s BMW. He turned to his team and was at a loss for words. Every possible response felt trite. “Thank you” was all he could muster. “Cruz, head back to the boat and get your camera set up. There’s going to be a lot of action the next few hours. I’ll call when the dust settles.”

  “You’ve got to get to a doctor, Jack.”

  “One stop to make first.”

  Cruz slid into his Mini, powered up, and headed south.

  Mateo opened the car door for Jack and waited until he eased his broken body in. “Where to, boss?”

  “The Bella Fortuna. Time to face the lion.”

  Mateo peeled away from the curb.

  * * *

  Mateo pulled in to the Bella Fortuna’s lot and Jack was out of the car before it stopped moving. He was in obvious pain as he strode unevenly up the gangplank and passed Caroline in the main salon. She couldn’t hide her horror at the bloodstains on the back of his shirt and the state he was in.

  Jack sucked in a breath and glanced toward the bridge and she mouthed “Yes.” He pulled Frankie’s gun, took the stairs two at a time, and kicked the carved wood door open.

  Cardona and Mickey turned on the intrusion and, confronted with a 9mm pointed at their heads, responded with their best studied dead eyes.

  “What’re you doing here, Jack?” Mickey asked.

  “I’m supposed to be dead?”

  “We had questions. We have a lot at stake, and you weren’t forthcoming,” Mickey stated as if it were business as usual.

  Jack lowered his pistol, clear on who had ordered the beating. The information didn’t let Cardona off the hook, and Jack decided to turn the knife some. “Your top-notch crew threw a bag over my head but didn’t plug my ears. Rusty bragged that he always knew Luke was a rat, and said as much, but the bosses were too dim to listen.”

  That elicited the first twitch of emotion from the men.

  “That’s the first I heard about Luke being on the cops’ payroll.” Jack used cops instead of feds to cement the lie. “It still means nothing to me. I’m not interested in Luke’s affiliations. I’m looking for his murderer. The rest isn’t my concern.”

  “What do you want?” Mickey said without animus. As if talking to his gardener or pool man or the kid he paid to wash his Cadillac, not the man he’d ordered hung and beaten.

  “Protection. I wouldn’t talk to you, and your men couldn’t beat it out of me. I won’t spill to the cops. I think I’m on to something bigger than your gambling enterprise. I need some time, the run of the boat, until I get my answers. I’ve got enough information to shut down the Bella Fortuna, the Chop House, and you. Your business is safe with me as long as I stay alive and my men remain unharmed.”

  Jack gave them a moment to meditate on that. He knew the Mob didn’t respond well to threats, but time was short and life was precious.

  “I gave you my word, Cardona. You gave me yours. I came out on the short end.”

  Cardona bobbed his head like he was having a personal conversation with himself. He knew if Jack had made one phone call, the cops would’ve been all over the Bella Fortuna and his entire crew would be sitting in jail cells. It took some sand, he thought, comin’ here like this. Cardona turned to the boss, who had the unblinking eyes of a great white. Mickey flicked three fingers and his eyebrows in a whatever gesture, and it was proclaimed.

  Jack got to the door and turned back to the mobsters. “My guess is your boys are still at the body shop or I never would have made it onto the yacht.” To Cardona he said, “You better call Peter and send him over, or Rusty’s gonna bleed out.”

  Jack slid Frankie’s 9mm into his belt and left the door swinging wide.

  * * *

  Jack found Mateo standing just inside the door of the salon cabin with his gun held at his thigh, on the ready. The two men exited and approached Caroline as they headed for the gangplank. She turned away from the security camera and whispered, “I didn’t know, Jack. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Jack knew she was speaking more to Mateo than to him.

  “They told me to invite you for lunch and a sit-down. I wasn’t privy to anything else.”

  Jack had a feeling she would’ve made the call if she’d been in or out of the loop. For Caroline, business was business; you went along to get along in this world. He’d let Mateo sort out his own relationship with her. He trusted the man with his life.

  Jack walked down the gangplank and headed for Saint John’s Health Center and the verbal abuse he was in for when Dr. Stein saw his back.

  Twenty-five

  Vincent Cardona watched his daughter exit the Lee Strasberg Institute in West Hollywood and jaywalk across Santa Monica Boulevard. “She’s still a fuckin’ New Yorker,” he said to Frankie-the-Man as she ducked into the diner where they had agreed to meet. She’d sounded suspicious of the last-minute call, but that was to be expected. Trust never came easily in their relationship. She was a heartbreaker, he thought as he stepped out of the back of his limo and walked the half-block into the diner. This conversation would not help the cause.

  She was seated and smiled when Cardona walked in. He bussed her cheek and slid heavily into the cracked Naugahyde booth.

  “The cheeseburgers are worth eating, and the coffee is generally fresh,” she said. “My scene-study class starts in a half hour, so we’ve got to chop-chop.”

  “Gimme both,” Vincent said.

  “Ronny, could we have two medium cheeseburgers and two cups of coffee, black, please. So, what’s the occasion?”

  “I just needed to talk. Some things came up, and well, so here I am.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  She wasn’t going to make this easy, Cardona thought. Right down to it and all. “Okay, then.”

  That was as far as he got before Ronny, who worked the counter, dropped off two scalding mugs of coffee.

  “Thanks, Ronny, I’m in a bit of a rush, so whatever you can do to help will be appreciated.”

  “Two burgers, make that cheeseburgers, on the quick!” he shouted into the kitchen as if auditioning for a part.

  Cardona burned his lip on the coffee as he waited for some privacy. “Okay,” he started ag
ain, and tried for a smile that came off tight. He chose his words carefully. “You’re gonna hear some things that I had no control over. I hope you’re old enough to understand, my business being what it is and all, that I stood up for him. After the fact, but I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

  The life and color drained from Angelica’s face and hit Cardona like a two-by-four to the solar plexus.

  “Are you talking about Jack?” she said with a cautious edge, her gaze shredding him. “Is Jack okay?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  Angelica winced at the implication. “He’ll be fine from what? What did you do to him?”

  Cardona looked over the counter and saw Ronny fake-reading the newspaper. “We’ve got to keep our voices down. This is personal family business.”

  “What did you do to him?” Staccato.

  “You know all about Luke Donato and his disappearance. Reason Jack’s on the job.” He waited for a response that didn’t come. “Well, as it turns out, Luke was a rat. The guys in Boston who verified his résumé were working for the feds. We needed to find out if Jack was, you know, fronting for the feds. Because if he was, it could be very bad for business. Very detrimental for me personally. We could lose everything, and my life would be in mortal danger. So, we asked him, very polite and all, and he wasn’t forthcoming.”

  “I’m going to ask you one more time, and I want a straight answer. What did you do to Jack?”

  Cardona took another sip of coffee and welcomed the burn this time. He deserved it for what he was doing to his daughter. “A couple of my guys and a couple of Mickey’s guys pulled him in to get some answers. They roughed him up a bit. And maybe Rusty got a little carried away.”

  Angelica’s face remained frozen, but her eyes welled.

  “I saw him after, and he’s okay. He’s all right. He’s better than Rusty; Rusty took a slug to the thigh. We won’t hold it against him.”

  A bell dinged, and Ronny appeared at the table and set the two plates of food down. “Your wish is my command.” He looked at Angelica’s face and rushed back behind the counter.

  Angelica’s gaze shifted from the cheeseburger and fries to her father. His face, blurred by her tears, appeared to melt. She looked a harsh question at him, stood, and walked out of the diner. The door jingled behind.

  * * *

  Jack wasn’t surprised to see Angelica sitting in front of his door. Gossip spread at the speed of light. She had a basket on her lap. It contained a bottle of cabernet, a bottle of olive oil, and a dry aged salami. She stood as he approached, and he could read her pain and confusion.

  He looked into her eyes and said, “This isn’t on you. You must understand that. There are forces at work beyond your reach. You share no blame.” He kissed her lightly, took the basket from her hand, keyed the door, and let her in.

  “I couldn’t make up my mind,” she said, referring to the basket. “I didn’t know what hospital you were in. I called all over town. I was so worried, I wanted to do something, and I just couldn’t make up my mind.”

  “Thank you, I’m fine. I’m in pain, and the doctor read me the riot act, but I’m in one piece. Thank you for the care package.” Jack opened the wine and poured two glasses. He swallowed a Vicodin with his; Angelica took a careful sip of hers.

  “Let me see what they did to you.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Jack. I have to see.”

  Jack turned and carefully unbuttoned his shirt. Angelica pulled the shirttail up, exposing his brutal beating. His lower back was black and purpled. The dressing on his shoulder burns had been changed, but the bloodstains seeping through the bandages on his left side told a violent tale. Angelica lowered his shirt.

  “What can I do for you, what can I do to help?”

  “Don’t slap me on the back, that’d be number one,” Jack said, trying for humor, “and two, I have to sit down before I fall,” he said, heading for his black leather chair. He gazed around the loft at his art and his few special possessions, thought about Mateo and Cruz, who had risked their lives to save him; his son, Chris; and then back at Angelica, who sat tentatively on the couch, fragile and beautiful. He did a quick accounting of what was important and meaningful in his life and decided he was grateful as hell to be alive.

  “Is my father going down?” she asked.

  “It won’t be from my hand. We had an agreement in place. I stuck to my end of the bargain.”

  “And he turned on you.”

  Jack didn’t deny it. “I can tell you this much. I know how these things play out. If Luke was working for the cops or the feds, and he was killed because of his affiliation . . .”

  Angelica completed his thought. “My father is the first person they’ll come after.”

  Jack nodded and took a sip of wine. His throat was dry from screaming this afternoon, and he tamped down the anger that the memory conjured in order to spare Angelica.

  “He’s also on a slippery slope with the New York family. Luke came in on Frankie’s coattails. The Galanti brothers, out of Boston, vouched for him and already paid the price. But it was your father who elevated Luke to a position of trust. Meaning he cost the family money and reputation.”

  “He’s been a good earner, always.”

  Jack didn’t take offense at her familial concern. He knew she was trying to process the information. “It may not be enough. It depends how savvy he is and how he plays his hand moving forward.”

  “Do you think my father had Luke killed?”

  “No, I don’t. The cops might not see it that way. But when the money disappeared, it put your father in jeopardy. The info about the Galanti brothers just surfaced.”

  “Unless he discovered Luke’s identity and set the brothers up.”

  The fragility had been replaced by strength and intellect.

  “That move would have been sanctioned by the five families. A no-brainer. And the money wouldn’t be in play.”

  “Then why is he on the hot seat?”

  “Like I said, the cops probably won’t see it my way. And if the feds dig in their heels, your father will spend more time in a courtroom than his restaurant. Even if the charge is tax evasion. The pencil pushers and accountants will find a way to take him down or make his life a misery. And the New York family might worry he’ll cut a deal.”

  Angelica took a sip of wine. Struggling with her emotions. “Why do I feel bad? Scared. Why do I care? You were brutalized today. My father and my fucking uncle were responsible for beating the man I love.”

  That was a first in their relationship. Jack sat a bit straighter and set off a wave of pain that nauseated him. He gripped the arms of the chair until it passed. “He’s blood. You don’t have to like him, or the life he leads, or what he’s responsible for, but he’s your father. And that complicates the picture.”

  Angelica walked over to the chair and gently put her hand on his cheek. It was warm and reassuring. “You shot Rusty?”

  “I did.”

  “Good.”

  Jack didn’t disagree. Some men deserved to get shot. Some men deserved to die.

  “Let’s jump on a plane, Jack. Disappear for a few years.”

  “Tempting. But I’m in too deep.”

  “And that, Jack Bertolino, is why I love you. Don’t get all worried that I used the L word. You stay the course. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be alive. And if my father had killed you . . . I believe in my heart of hearts, I would have shot him myself.”

  “Not a comforting thought any way you play it. But thank you, I think.”

  Angelica’s laugh was as soft and musical as rain, and it dislodged something in Jack’s chest. As he tried to make sense of the feeling, the meds kicked in, and Jack fell into a deep sleep, but his dream state held no answers.

  Twenty-six

  Day Fifteen

  “Don’t ever hang me up like that again, Jack,” Agent Hunter shouted, angry as a thunderclap. “We’re partnered on this. I didn’t sl
eep last night. What happened? Where were you? Are you in one piece? What the hell?”

  “Things got messy. And I’m lucky to be breathing, but here’s the thing. We continue as if nothing happened. Time’s running out, and if we don’t get an answer soon, we never will. I want to keep pushing forward.”

  “You sound like hell.”

  “Been there and back.”

  “I want to see you.”

  It didn’t sound like purely business to Jack, but he chalked it up to being groggy and suffering more than his normal pain quotient. “You already set the parameters, and things have escalated. If anyone makes us, your career is dead in the water, and Mateo and Cruz are as good as dead. The men saved my life yesterday. I’ll keep you in the loop and run things by you as they turn up.”

  “I’m trusting you, Jack.”

  “Make sure your boss doesn’t do an end run. If the feds come sniffing anywhere near the Bella Fortuna or the Chop House, it’s over. And we’ll never find out who killed your brother.”

  “Jack?”

  “Christ! I’m not thinking straight. I’m sorry, Liz. That was—that was unacceptable.”

  All of Agent Hunter’s anger dissipated upon hearing that one reality. “We’re on the same page, Jack. You find my brother’s killer, I’ll run interference with Flannery. Whatever it takes.”

  “Okay, Liz.”

  “And Jack . . .” The hardened FBI agent kicked into gear. “Don’t disappear on me again. I brought you into this game, and I can’t lose anyone else on my watch.”

  Jack didn’t know what was worse: the pain that was knifing down his spine from the burns on his shoulders, or the painful admission that he’d thoughtlessly shared.

  * * *

  “There’s nobody from Cardona’s gang on board,” Cruz reported as Jack stepped into the cabin of his boat. “There was a constant flow yesterday, but all’s quiet today except for the occasional vendor and the yacht’s skeleton crew.”