City of Fear

by Larry Enmon

  Alma rested an elbow on the bar and sipped the wine. “May I ask a personal question?”

  “Go ahead,” he said. She had a curious expression. Something between intrigue and doubt.

  “Do all detectives live in half-million-dollar lofts uptown?” Her green eyes showed a feline quality. The corners of her mouth cracked a smile.

  He sat his glass down. “Only the ones whose grandparents left them a large trust.” Frank gazed in all directions and held his hands up. “I blew the whole thing on a nice home.”

  She didn’t exactly smile. Her expression still confused him. He couldn’t tell if she believed him or not. That expression could be read in a dozen different ways.

  Alma held out her glass and he refilled it. She studied him a moment as one might study a complex math problem. “You’re not like other cops, are you?”

  A blush raced to Frank’s cheeks. “No, I guess I’m not.”

  After dinner they sat on the sofa and shared another glass of red. Frank had been with dozens of women. Each had a special appeal. Something about their expressions, or words they chose, or sense of humor let Frank know when they were interested in a closer relationship. He didn’t get any of these tells from Alma.

  She kept a cool professionalism during dinner, but sitting with him on the sofa, she appeared more relaxed. He’d tried convincing himself that she had no involvement in the case, but the vision of her—or someone who looked like her—entering Ricardo’s house stayed in the back of his mind. It was time to get down to business. He’d soon know if she was involved.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the gang leader’s death?” Frank asked.

  She tilted her head to the side. “Yes, read about it—terrible. Do you investigate that sort of thing?”

  “Not ordinarily. We have another unit that handles that. But my unit is looking into it because this dead guy had a Voodoo-like doll lying beside him. Hoping you might give us some insight into profiling who could be responsible.”

  That sounded innocent enough. Always start with a leading open-ended question. Let the person fill in the details, then ask it another way and check for inaccuracies.

  Alma raked the red hair over her shoulder. “A photo of the thing would be helpful.”

  “Thought you might say that.”

  He’d been waiting for this all evening. Frank pulled the picture from his pocket and handed it to her. If she was involved, something would register in her expression. The twitch of an eye, nose wrinkling, something.…

  She casually studied it a moment before passing it back. Frank got nothing—no reaction at all. Weird.

  She took a short sip of wine and relaxed back in the soft cushion. “There are many types of Voodoo. Almost every continent has some version of the backwoods practice. They may call it other things, but the basic principle is the same. The three main ones we hear about in the U.S. are West African, Haitian, and Louisianan. While they have a lot in common, they all have peculiarities that separate them.”

  Alma reached for the photo again and pointed. “For instance, I’d say the stitching and overall construction of this doll is more characteristic of Louisiana.” She stared at the photo a moment longer and shook her head. “But it’s unusual, being found near a dead person and in Dallas.”

  She took another sip of wine and handed the photo back to Frank. Probably her professor’s stare—waiting for the question that begged an answer.

  Okay, he’d bite. “Why is it unusual?”

  She shrugged. “The original purpose of Voodoo dolls is to focus spiritual energy in a positive way to help a person. Not harm them.”

  Frank never heard that before. Everyone knew Voodoo dolls were meant to harm someone—not help them. “I didn’t know that.”

  Alma’s glistening white teeth showed through the parted full lips. “It’s true. For people who believe in that sort of thing, Voodoo has a strong spiritual pull. The doll is just a tool for focusing meditation, prayers, and magic spells. There are instances where it’s used for harm, but most of that is Hollywood stuff—not real. Voodoo’s a religion.”

  This wasn’t working the way Frank had hoped. He eyed the photo. “So that doesn’t help me narrow down who we’re looking for.” Frank allowed disappointment to lace his words. “From your description it sounds like it’s a firm ‘maybe’ or ‘maybe not.’ ”

  She laughed.

  He liked her laugh.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t be of more help. Afraid you wasted a great dinner on me.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say wasted.”

  “I’d like to ask you a question,” she said.

  Frank knew that look—mischievous. When a woman had that look and asked a question, better be ready for anything.

  “Okay.”

  She leaned closer. A whiff of floral perfume drifted his way. “What made you so sure I’d accept your dinner invitation?”

  Frank hesitated. Was this a come-on? Never met a woman so hard to read. Better play it safe. “Well … you looked hungry.”

  She sat upright and smirked. “Now that could be taken in a number of ways, Detective Pierce.”

  “No one calls me Detective Pierce. I’m Frank.”

  She grinned. “And I’m Alma.” She glanced down and said, “Oh, you’re bleeding.”

  Frank followed her gaze. He’d laid his arm on his Dockers and a small red spot had appeared. “Crap.”

  “Here, let me have a look,” she said.

  “It’s just a scratch from work.”

  She pealed the Band-Aid off. “You might need a stitch. Have any peroxide?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get it and another Band-Aid and I’ll fix you up.”

  “That’s all right. I—”

  “Shush. Do what I said. Doctor’s orders.”

  He found the peroxide and Band-Aid box in the medicine cabinet. She waited at the kitchen sink.

  “Hold your arm here.”

  He held his arm over the drain and she poured a little peroxide over it, dabbing around the edges with a clean paper towel. She unscrewed the cap from a small brown bottle and held it over his wrist.

  “What’s that?” Frank asked.

  “I carry a little in my purse all the time. Best thing in the world.” She poured a few drops of the syrupy, yellowish liquid over the wound and applied the new Band-Aid. “There you go. Don’t remove it until tomorrow.”

  He examined her work. “You are a doctor.”

  “Ph. D., not M.D.,” she reminded him. Alma looked at her watch. “It’s late. I have an early class tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk you down.” Frank helped her with her coat and they headed to the elevator. The rain had stopped and a heavy mist enveloped the parking area. Reminded Frank of the final scene in Casablanca. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  She opened her car door and turned around to face him. “Thank you for dinner. Hope it wasn’t a disappointment. Sorry I wasn’t much help.”

  Frank wanted to kiss her, but he wasn’t getting any of the signs or signals he figured he should. She did have a glint in her eyes that probably meant something, but darn if he could decode it. “No disappointment on my part,” he said, “I had a great time. Perhaps we could do it again.”

  She cocked her head and showed a half grin. “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  Driving through the foggy night, Frank stayed on Alma’s mind all the way home. Something about him excited a passion, an old hunger she hadn’t felt in years. She didn’t understand it and couldn’t explain it, but it was there.

  She parked in her back driveway and gazed across the street at the lake. The thick swirling fog gave it a magical, surreal look. The high clouds broke just enough for the moon to cast an eerie yellow glow across the water. Turning up her collar, Alma paced to the back door. Something moved in the darkness and she jumped. She snapped her head around and heard it again.

  “Okay, you guys. Come on out.”

  Slowly they eased i
nto the dim glow of the back porch light—little apparitions who always greeted her when returning home. Two raccoons, a squirrel, and a rabbit. She bent down and scratched each behind the ears. Alma knew what they wanted.

  “Sorry I’m so late getting home, guys.” She unlocked the back door and reached inside on the kitchen counter, grabbing a handful of raw peanuts from the bowl. She tossed them on the ground and the animals scurried to get their share.

  “Now, no fighting. There’s plenty for everyone.” She flipped on the kitchen light as she closed and locked the door. Alma peeked through the curtains. Beemer and Goff, the two raccoons, were getting the lion’s share, as usual.

  She dropped her keys on the counter and stared at the silent kitchen. Her home had a loneliness, an emptiness since Clare died. Alma hadn’t dated anyone in almost a year. Was this her attraction to Frank? Loneliness? She strolled to her bedroom, dropping her coat on the chair. I could start over. She didn’t need another man in her life—not now—perhaps not ever, but another child …

  Alma undressed and readied herself for bed. Frank could be the one, but he might not call. Probably had lots of other lovers. But before she made a final decision, she wanted to know him better. The next move should be hers. She’d put her plan in motion tomorrow.

  She opened her purse and removed the bloody Band-Aid from Frank’s wrist. She’d stashed it in a tissue after sending him for the peroxide. Unfolding it on top of her dresser, she left it to dry.

  13

  Joseph Gambizi always loved a good cigar after dinner. He lounged back in the recliner and drew in the smoke. A full-bodied maduro was probably good for digestion. His doctors disagreed, but what did they know? He’d already outlived a dozen of them. Probably outlive the current ones.

  The shadow of one of his guards passed the large window, bundled up against the Adirondack’s night chill. The crackling of the fireplace and smell of birch logs burning took the Don back to happier times—times when there was more hope, when his future was ahead of him.

  “I thought your doctor told you to give those up?” Tony Palazzo said.

  Palazzo didn’t smoke, so he didn’t understand what a good Dominican meant. Gambizi rolled off some ash into the tray. “I’m self-medicating,” he said, and took another long draw. “Ever get any word from Dallas?”

  “Yeah, I got word.”

  Gambizi waited for the bad news by taking another pull and slowly releasing the smoke.

  “Got a call earlier. Rumor is a local punk, a darkie, ordered the hit on Ricardo.”

  Gambizi nodded. “Why?”

  “Looks like he wanted a bigger slice of the pie … Ricardo’s slice.”

  “Does this darkie have a name?”

  “Antoine Levern.”

  Gambizi considered the answer. “Never heard of him. Must be small time.” This might just be the excuse he’d been waiting for. Good time to make the pitch to his underboss. He leaned forward. “Tony, do you trust me?”

  Palazzo frowned and shrugged. “What kind of question is that? Of course I trust you, Godfather.”

  Gambizi eased back into the chair. “I know my time’s short. I can’t continue leading this family forever. I’ve groomed you to take over, but you haven’t proven yourself to the other families yet. They don’t respect you.” Gambizi eyed the younger man. “There’s a fine line between respect and fear. I’d always prefer respect, but if I can’t get that, I’ll settle for fear. If they ever stop fearing you—you’re done.”

  Palazzo lowered his head without answering.

  “You’re my right-hand guy, Tony. My choice to succeed me, but you have to show some strength—some back bone. I’ve not allowed you to do that in the past. That’s on me, but we need to fix that right now. This is the perfect opportunity for you to gain respect. To show strength.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Palazzo said.

  “I want you to let the word leak out that you’re in charge of settling the Ricardo score. I want the darkie’s organization taken down—everyone—scorched earth. When this gets out, the other families won’t screw with you when I’m gone. You’ll have their respect.”

  Gambizi understood this went against Palazzo’s nature. Tony liked to keep things quiet, settle scores behind the scenes.

  Palazzo grimaced. “You sure that’s the kind of message we want to send? Taking down a whole organization seems a bit much. Besides, that Levern guy is a supplier for Chicago. Take his organization down and we mess with their business. Could be trouble.”

  Gambizi pointed the cigar at him. “Mark my words: if we don’t do it, if we don’t send a hard message, how long do you think you’re going to last before one of the other families makes a move on you after I’m gone? Huh? I’ll tell you. You’ll go to my funeral one day and your own in less than a week. Is that what you want?” Gambizi pulled in more smoke, letting Palazzo think about that awhile.

  Palazzo lowered his eyes. “I defer to you. I’ll get the boys working on it.

  “I don’t want our people involved.”

  “Why?”

  “You instill fear because of the unknown,” Gambizi said. “If we use our people, everyone knows how we operate, so they take precautions. They lay on more protection. No, we need someone who they can’t protect against.”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  Gambizi rolled the tip of the cigar in the ash tray again and looked up. “Jesse.”

  “Jesse doesn’t work cheap.”

  “I don’t want cheap. I want the best. Consider it an investment for the future.”

  14

  Antoine Levern had always operated on the theory that being too obvious and drawing unwanted attention wasn’t smart. Keeping a low profile was good insurance against fed involvement. Oh, he knew they’d like to nail his hide to their wall, but there were just too many other fish that were easier to catch. Levern kept his core organization small. Only the most trusted were allowed full access.

  Several of his old New Orleans cronies had found their way to Dallas and ran crews in North Texas. He trusted them up to a point, but most were small-minded crooks who would drop a dime on him in a minute if the feds squeezed hard enough.

  Levern pushed away from the table and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He’d not eaten half his breakfast. Meetings like the one he was going to left him with little appetite.

  Tabor strolled up rolling a toothpick between his lips. “Car’s ready.”

  Levern didn’t have to do much he didn’t want to. But occasionally issues popped up and he’d have to smooth them over. Beating issues back into submission took up more time each year. This morning his problem was Phil, a representative of the Chicago Outfit, who received the majority of Levern’s cargo thefts.

  A good truck driver could cover the eight hundred miles from Dallas to Chicago in fourteen hours. Pharmaceuticals were what the Outfit wanted, and Levern had a connection that guaranteed a steady supply. Within twenty-four hours of stealing the truck, he could have the money in his account and forget about it. The sweetest and safest enterprise he ran.

  Levern slid the .45 off the table and fitted it into his waistband. He pulled the sweater down and Tabor helped him with his black leather jacket.

  “Let’s go,” Levern said.

  Phil liked to stay at the Omni in downtown Dallas. Always got a suite with a view. Fifteen minutes later, Levern sat with him as Phil poured coffee for them.

  “Antoine, you’re looking well.”

  Phil glanced at the new tattoo of the bull’s eye on the back of Levern’s right hand.

  “Very nice. Something new?”

  Phil always started with a compliment before letting you have it. He’d been a wise guy in the old days—still one of DiFrinzo’s right-hand men—a capo. They called him Phil “The Actor” because of his good looks. Tall, urbane, with distinguished gray hair combed straight back. He always smelled like he just left the barber’s chair—some hundred dollar a bottle cologne. Yeah, he prob
ably could have been an actor.

  Phil wasn’t wearing a jacket. The starched pin-striped shirt and red silk tie signaled his status. He played with his gold cuff links and offered his best smile. All straight, white teeth.

  “Everyone’s very pleased with the last shipments,” Phil said. “Your product line is impressive.”

  Levern grinned. Damn right it was impressive. He was one of the best money makers Chicago had. But Levern knew where this compliment shit was going. The guy always dug a little deeper with each visit—find out a little more about his contacts. He’d love to cut Levern out. No middle man meant a higher profit margin. Time to screw with his mind a little.

  “Yeah, well things are looking a little shaky with my main supplier,” Levern said. “Don’t know if I can continue to fill the orders if he drops out. Might have to try and find someone to take up the slack.”

  A frown crossed Phil’s chicken lips. “Shaky?”

  “Yeah, shaky.”

  “That’s unfortunate. We were looking to increase our orders.”

  “What do you need?”

  “More hydrocodone, oxycodone, and meperidine. Any of the opioids. We also could use additional antibiotics. Demand is skyrocketing.” Phil lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and tossed it back on the table.

  Levern nodded and showed what he hoped might be a very circumspective look. “I’m working on a couple of deals. Let you know if anything pans out.” Keeping Phil and Chicago a little off balance wasn’t a bad thing. Just a little more insurance against being replaced or whacked.

  Phil shifted and eyed him with a fatherly expression. “There is another matter.”

  Levern never liked it when Phil started a sentence with those words. Nothing good ever came after that.

  “Some are a little worried about your discretion.”

  “Say what?”

  “They feel that whacking Ricardo was unnecessary and dangerous. Raises your profile too much.”

  Levern threw up both hands and his voice rose. “Whoa! Hold on right there. I didn’t have shit to do with that. Ricardo got hit, but it wasn’t me.”