“Who’s looking for him?” Carlos asked.
Tony smiled. “Shane.”
“You think this kid could have set it up?”
“Not by himself,” Tony said. “Hector’s not that smart.”
The Old Man pushed himself farther into the cushioned back of his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It was almost a full minute before he said anything. When he did, his voice was low. “You know what matters to me the most? I mean above everything else?”
Unless it was a retirement home in Florida, Tony really didn’t give a shit, but he knew enough to know he couldn’t say that. “No, sir.”
“Loyalty,” Carlos Messina said. “Because without that we got nothing. We’re no better than those fucking animals out in the street, just a bunch of niggers with guns. That one thing, loyalty, that’s what separates us from them.”
“Shane’s got no loyalty except to himself.”
Carlos looked at him. “Why do you say that?”
Everything Tony knew about old-style mobsters he had learned from watching The Godfather. He didn’t know anything about Sicily. He had never been there. He didn’t have any idea from what part of the Island his own family had come from. For all he knew, he might not be Sicilian. His family might be from mainland Italy. But what he did know, thanks to Marlon Brando, was that all of the old-timers cared a lot about their heritage. So he played that card, the heritage card.
“Shane’s not one of us,” Tony said, “and I don’t think we should have some stupid Mick handling our business. We should be taking care of it ourselves.”
Carlos got a far-off look in his eyes, like in his mind he saw himself forty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter, traipsing through the rugged hill country of Sicily, a cloth cap perched on his head and a single-barreled lupara resting on one shoulder. “Maybe you got a point,” Carlos finally said. “Something like this, it should be handled by members of the family.” He glanced at the telephone. “I’m gonna tell Vinnie he better get off his ass and-”
Tony raised his hand, almost like a kid in school interrupting the teacher. Time to drop the other shoe, but carefully. “Mr. Messina, your brother is… under a lot of stress, even before this happened. He was taking care of Pete…” For effect, Tony crossed himself. “God rest his soul. He was trying to deal with his money problems…”
Carlos’s head snapped forward. “What money problems?”
Shrugging, Tony said, “Mainly Pete’s school and a couple other things. Me and Vinnie, we’re at the House every day, and I guess sometimes he needs somebody to talk to. The other day he tells me that Pete’s school just went up on the tuition. It was already forty grand a year.”
The Old Man’s black eyes bored into Tony. “What else?”
“Sir?”
“You said Pete’s school and a couple other things.”
Tony shrugged. “Just personal stuff, you know, like everyone has.”
“His wife?”
“Just something he mentioned in passing. Apparently, she’s been spending a lot of money redecorating their apartment. She bought a new car.”
Carlos Messina looked up at the ceiling again, only this time he didn’t have that faraway nostalgic look. This time his teeth were clamped so tight his jaw muscles bulged under his flabby jowls. When he looked back at Tony, he said, “You’re on the inside over there. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
Tony nodded. Everything was falling into place.
Carlos laid his big hands on his desk. “So besides the Spanish kid, you think these mutts had somebody else on the inside?”
“They had to.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” Tony said, wanting Carlos to drag it out of him.
“Guess,” Carlos ordered.
“Somebody who knew a lot more about what was going on at the club than the doorman.”
“Give me a name.”
“If I had to guess, Shane would be the obvious choice.”
“What about a not-so-obvious choice?”
Tony swallowed hard, exaggerating the motion of his Adam’s apple. “I’d rather not say, sir.”
The Old Man leaned over his desk. His voice was ice-cold. “Say it.”
Tony hesitated… just long enough. “I guess your brother is one possibility.”
Carlos Messina let out a deep sigh. “We’ve got big money tied up over there. I don’t want anything screwing that up, and that includes my fucking idiot brother.”
The Old Man picked up the phone. Then he looked at Tony. “You understand what I’m telling you?”
Realizing the meeting was over, Tony stood up. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He reached out to shake hands, but Carlos was already dialing a number. After a few seconds with his hand hanging over the desk, and the Old Man ignoring him, Tony turned and walked out of the office. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.
CHAPTER NINE
Ray turned the corner in his Mustang and glided down Mandeville Street. It was a quiet residential street with modest single-family houses set right up against the sidewalks and nothing but on-street parking.
He found 1224 Mandeville in the middle of the block, a single-story, white clapboard house with a small covered porch. With the late-afternoon sun shining directly on the house, Ray couldn’t tell if there were any lights on inside.
He would have to watch the house.
After cruising past the house, he drove into the next block, turned around, and parked next to the curb on the opposite side of the street from the house. It was a long shot, but it was the best lead he had.
The Mandeville Street house was the last known address of Cleo Harris, aka Winky. If the cops had Harris right, and he had killed someone with the same Smith amp; Wesson. 40 caliber that the asshole in the skull mask had used to try to put a bullet in the back of Ray’s head, Ray wanted to know what Harris had done with that pistol.
Three hours and nine cigarettes later, Ray’s bladder couldn’t take it anymore. He drove around the corner and took a leak at a Shell gas station on Elysian Fields Avenue. When he got back, there was a black Dodge four-door parked across the street from 1224 that hadn’t been there when he left.
It was just past 7:00 PM, and completely dark now. A couple of lights were on inside the house, but Ray wasn’t sure if they had come on since he had left for the gas station or had been on already. If this was Harris’s house, he probably didn’t have a job or keep regular hours, but if it wasn’t Harris’s house, whoever’s house it was had probably just come home for the night.
Ray had not liked surveillance before. Now he hated it. Too much sneaking around. He preferred the direct approach. The problem was, he wasn’t a cop anymore, and he didn’t have a gun. If this guy Winky was inside, and if he was the shooter the cops thought he was, he would have a gun.
Ray eased his Mustang down the street and parked two houses away from 1224. He slipped out and walked down the sidewalk, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. At the edge of the yard he looked around to see if anyone was watching. Then he stepped onto the porch and stood at the front door.
Pressing his right ear against the door, Ray heard television voices just on the other side, as well as the sound of a baby crying deeper in the house. Now what the hell do I do? Nothing else came to mind, so he knocked on the door. Shuffling sounds from inside, people whispering, then a female voice said, “Who’s there?”
Ray didn’t say anything. Curiosity might make her open the door. The same voice spoke again, this time louder and more insistent. “I said, who’s there?”
