Blood Dues

The nightmare was familiar, worn around the edges like an ancient snapshot that is taken out and handled frequently. It never varied.

There was water, dark and silky smooth, a flat obsidian plane beneath the cuticle of moon. The boat was sleek and fast despite its load of canvas-covered crates. The pilot handled her expertly, threading in and out among the Keys, running without lights for fear of Prohibition agents.

And the dreamer rode up front, as always, Thompson submachine gun tucked beneath his arm. He tasted the salty spray and smelled the marshy soil of the surrounding hummocks.

They were almost there. Another hundred yards would see them to the drop, then they could ditch the cargo. Rum and whiskey, loaded on the Cuban docks, would bring tremendous profits in the gin mills of Miami. Cut and bottled under phony labels, twenty dollars' worth of rum could easily return a grand to the investor. All you had to do was make the drop on time, avoiding any interference.

Hence the Thompson.

He had used it once, not far from here, when the reception crew had sprouted sidearms, moving in to commandeer the load. And nothing could erase the memory of strobe-light muzzle-flashes in the darkness, heavy bullets slicing through the hollow men and toppling them like stalks of grain.

It had been terrifying — and exhilarating.

He was waiting, hoping for another chance to try his hand.

A flashlight winking in the gloom, and now the pilot had his heading, throttling back and easing in against the battered pier. A Packard and the usual covered truck were parked at shoreside.

Handlers, taking in the line and scrambling awkwardly aboard, were already moving toward the cargo. One of them hung back, a trifle slower than the rest. There was something....

As he turned an errant ray of moonlight fell on his face. The cold, familiar features still damp from the submersion, with the ragged, bloodless bullet scar across one cheek. The handler opened his mouth to speak, and seawater dribbled from between rubbery, lifeless lips.

The dreamer tried to lift his Thompson, found it leaden in his lifeless arms. He squeezed the trigger, but the frozen firing mechanism mocked him and the creature had him now. Its clammy fingers locked around his biceps, lifting him and shaking, shaking...

Someone was shaking him awake and into hazy semi-consciousness. He twisted, recoiling violently from the hand upon his shoulder, biting off a startled scream as he recognized the houseman, Solly Cusamano.

Philip Sacco sat up in the king-size bed and brushed the hand away.

'I'm sorry boss. I hate to wake you.' Solly's voice was tight, anxious.

'What the hell time is it?'

'Quarter to four.'

'In the morning? This better be good, Solly.'

The housecock shuffled back a pace as Sacco scrambled out of bed and found his robe.

'I didn't want to wake you,' Solly said again, 'but I couldn't take the chance. You never know about these guys.'

'What guys?' The mobster felt his irritation mounting, and he let it show.

'You got a visitor downstairs. He's waiting in the library. Says his name's Omega.'

Sacco felt a prickling of the scalp, as if his hairs were slowly standing up on end.

'What kind of name is that, for chrissakes?'

'Well, he gave me this.'

A card materialized in Solly's hand and he was offering it to Sacco, holding it between his thumb and index finger as if fearing further contact might contaminate him.

Sacco stared at it, recognizing it for what it was, reluctantly accepting it from Cusamano. It was fashioned like a playing card, but smaller, and the symbol printed on its face was staring back at Sacco like a solitary, disembodied eye.

It was an ace of spades.

The death card.

Symbol of the Mafia's own elite gestapo.

In the old days when the Talifero brothers, Pat and Mike, were alive and operating from the New York headshed, the black aces were a law unto themselves within the closed fraternity of Mafia. They answered only to the brothers, and the brothers answered only to La Commissione.

It had been said that Pat and Mike, or any of their lethal emissaries, had the power to ice a capo on their own initiative, providing they could justify it later to the mob's commissioners. And they had used that sweeping power once, to Sacco's knowledge, right there in the open city of Miami.

That had been while Mack The Bastard Bolan was in town and kicking holy shit out of the brotherhood. A lot had changed since then, and little of it for the better, but the aces had been hardest hit of all. They were in flux, their status vague and ill-defined. Almost certainly, their sweeping powers had been radically curtailed. And yet....

You never know about these guys.

Damn right.

'He give you any idea what he wants?''

The houseman shook his head.

'Just said he needs to see you. Right away.'

'Let's go see him, then. I wouldn't want to keep him waiting.'

Solly trailed him out along the landing, down the curving staircase to the first-floor library and den. A sentry was on station at the door. He nodded curtly at a sign from Cusamano, stood aside to let them enter.

Sacco's uninvited visitor was standing with his back toward the door, examining a shelf of first editions. He did not turn immediately, although he must have heard them enter, and the capo took the opportunity to look him over.

He was tall, broad shouldered, with dark hair and an athlete's body. He was wearing an expensive suit, the tailored jacket cut to give him room for undercover hardware.

'What's this all about?'

The stranger turned to face them. Despite the hour, he was wearing sunglasses, his eyes invisible behind the lenses. The face was ageless, etched in stone.

A gravestone, right.

'It's all about your life, Phil. Want to save it?'

Phil? The bastard had an overdose of nerve.

'We know each other?'

'I know you,' the stranger said. 'I know you've got a major problem on your hands.'

'That so? I musta missed it.'

'Heard from Tommy Drake tonight?'

The capo frowned. That goddammed prickling of the scalp again.

'I haven't heard from anyone tonight,' he answered. 'Everyone I know's asleep right now.'

'I'll give you odds that Tommy won't be waking up.'

The mafioso stiffened as an icy finger traced his spine. His fists were tightly clenched inside the pockets of his robe. He turned to Solly Cusamano.

'Get Tommy on the phone.'

The houseman hesitated, glancing back and forth from Sacco to the ace.

'Hey, boss...'

'Go on,' he snapped. 'I'm covered here.'

'Okay.'

When they were alone, the mafioso moved to pour himself a drink, sipping it and deliberately ignoring the intruder, waiting for the liquid warmth to drive away his inner chill.

'You're wasting time,' Omega told him. 'And you haven't got a lot to spare.'