HE DUSTY CHEVY SQUEAKED to a stop and Mitch stepped to the curb. “Thanks, Joseph. I wasn’t looking forward to the walk.” “It was good to see you, Mitch. Ray never stops talking about you when I see him. When you find him, you tell him I’ll feed his dogs until he’s back on his feet. And good luck with those twins.” The old Indian pulled away.
Mitch entered the convention center and made his way through the crowded Home Expo and Garden Show. Finding a bank of phones at one end of the hall, he located the number to the hospital in the phone book and punched it in.
“Hello. Do you have a patient named Raymond Wilson? . . .”After feeding the slot a pocketful of change, the call finally was put through to the right room. The ensuing conversation was short and to the point.
“You okay?” Mitch asked.
“Fine.”
“What can I do?”
“You take care of business. I’ll be outta here in a day or two.” “Joseph said he’d feed the dogs.”
“Good. . . . Couple a’ government boys came by. Your package is
A flicker of a smile had crossed Mitch’s face before he was able to extinguish it. “One of his thugs got to Stef. She’s a little beat up, but seems okay.”
“Hell’s bells! He’s got no sense of a fair fight, does he?” “None. But I think we’ve about brought him to his knees.” “Good. You don’t go worryin’ none about me, ya’ hear? The old
ticker still has a good fight or two left in it. Now get off the phone and stop botherin’ me. I got some nurse tellin’ me I can’t even get outta bed t’ hit the john.”“I love you.”
“You too, boy. Be careful.”
Mitch hung up the line and, flipping impatiently through the phone
book, dialed a new number.
“Three Queens,” a pleasant voice answered.
“Mr. Domenico,” Mitch said.
“I’m sorry, Mr Domenico’s not available.”
“Is he in the building?”
“I don’t know, sir, this is a temporary answering service.” “A temporary service? Why?”
“I think the hotel is having some trouble with their phones.” Mitch smiled. Maybe the power outage caused more damage than
just a few lights out. “Will you leave Mr. Domenico a message?” “Yes, sir.”
“Tell him . . .” Mitch hesitated.
“Sir?”
“Tell him Mitch called. I didn’t find the package he promised, but I’ll
deliver his car, washed and waxed, by the end of the week.” “Is there a number where you can be reached?”
“Tell Mr. Domenico I have his number, and it’s almost up.” “Yes, sir.”
“Would you make sure to underline the word his?”
“Um . . . okay.”
Watching his back, Mitch snaked back through the crowds and down
the street toward the Las Vegas Hilton. Across the fountains and lawns, past the residential roof tops, his gaze fell on the apartment building where his friends were harbored. Poor Smitty will be in a panic by now, he thought as he jogged past row upon row of cars.
She was like a shadow, constantly following two steps behind. She wasn’t rude, intrusive, or overly talkative, just always there. It was a cop’s job, and Agent Sutton did it well. Keeping her vigil in Maggie’s living room, she checked the doors on a regular basis and made radio contact nearly every hour. She shared with Stephanie her experience with being a sentry. The danger of them being attacked had dropped considerably since the potato bomb and subsequent arrest of Frankie Domenico the night before–a fact that made Stephanie feel both better and worse, all at the same time.
The women packed their suitcases. After visiting the hospital, their next stop would be a safe-house for a few days.
The threesome squeezed into the elevator and ascended the five floors to the cardiac unit. From well outside the room where the crotchety old junkyard dog was being kenneled, Stephanie could hear his fearsome barks. Upon entering the room, they found his bed empty. The sound of Grandpa’s voice could be heard snarling through the bathroom door, which stood slightly ajar. “I’ve stood on my own two feet to urinate for more than 70 years,” it resonated. “So I don’t need some pretty face tellin’ me to sit down, then standin’ there watchin’ me while I do it.”
“Alright, Mr. Wilson. Sit down . . . that’s it. . . . I’ll be right outside the door. Just let me know when you’re finished.”
“I’ll finish when I damn well please! Now get out–I can piss on my own.”
A nurse in her mid-thirties stepped through the doorway and drew the door partway closed. Noticing the sheepish gazes on the faces of the visitors in the room, she shrugged her shoulders in a chagrined apology and went about her work.
“I’ll be in the hall,” stammered Agent Sutton. Then she made an about face and marched out the door to seek refuge in a nearby waiting area.
Maggie shifted nervously on her feet, as if she too wanted to bolt. “Do you think I should wait out there?” she asked in a docile whisper.
“Oh, no,” laughed Stephanie, only slightly mortified by the old man’s gruffness. “He’s all bark and no bite. Come and sit down. I want you to meet him.”
Maggie took a seat as far away from the bathroom as possible. After a minute had passed, the toilet flushed. “Alright,” he barked curtly, “come on in and help me with this ridiculous mess of gadgets.”
The RN eased open the door and disappeared through the opening. Another minute went by before Grandpa emerged, hunched over, toting a pole loaded down with tubes and bags. The white hair at the back of his head was matted down; elsewhere it stood every which way. He hobbled along, old and frail-looking, his white, bony legs poking out like toothpicks from under the skimpy hospital robe.
At once upon seeing Stephanie, the old man stood erect and his face shone with joy. “My land, girl, it’s good t’ see ya’. I just felt the old ticker fire up inside.” He reached out to greet her.
The nurse followed behind, a portable monitor in tow. “It sure did,” she protested, looking down at the wavy lines. “And if you don’t settle down we’ll make her leave.”
The old man brushed aside the threat. “Don’t pay no attention to Sarah, here. She’s been tryin’to tell me what to do all morning.” Stephanie gave him a gentle hug. “Stars, girl, your arms broken? Ya’haven’t given me a pat like that since the second time I met ya’.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” She meted out a second, more fervent embrace.
“Ain’t no hurt in that, just pure love,” he chided, one bushy arm wrapped around Stephanie, the other grasping onto the metal tube at his side. “Just what I need t’ get out of this place, some beauty t’ warm me up. Now, let me have a look at ya’.”
Stephanie took a step back, trying to hide her bruised cheek. “Look at you,” she cajoled, rotating her face to the side. “Ornery as that pack of dogs you keep around. Now you stop barking at the nurses. They’re just trying to help you.”
Grandpa reached over and gently drew the girl’s cheek back towards him. “One a’ them boys hurt my girl,” he muttered under his breath. “He told me they did.”
“You’ve talked to . . .”
“Shh,” he stifled her words. Then he looked over at Maggie, who sat meekly in the corner of the room.
“Oh, Grandpa, this is my good friend Maggie Champion. Don’t worry, she knows everything I know. I’d trust her with my life.”
Maggie nodded and waited for Grandpa to finish. “He called me an hour ago,” he said quietly. “He’s fine. Just got a score to settle so the two of you can be safe. Told me everything a few nights ago when you came by. Didn’t want to worry you with it, is all. He’s a smart boy, but he did a dumb thing, and I can guarantee it’ll be the last secret he’ll ever keep from you. When he gets a chance, he’ll clear the whole thing up.”
The nurse interrupted. “You’d better lay back down, Mr. Wilson.”
“See, there she goes again, bossin’ me around like Norma used t’ do. . . .”
His arms pinned to his sides by Smitty’s vicelike bear hug, Mitch assured his exuberant friend that everything was just fine. “I just ran out of gas, is all. I’m sorry you had to worry.” Smitty was bent over with his head resting on Mitch’s chest, both gangly arms still wrapped around his hero. “Where is everyone?” Mitch continued, slightly flustered by all the attention.
Smitty rocked back and slowly loosened his grip. By interpreting his array of hand signals, Mitch was made aware that Sunny had gone off with Nurse to get her a new set of teeth, then to the eye doctor, and finally to stop at the hospital to see how Eddie was feeling; Cap’n was off grocery shopping; Ritter was still who knows where; and Sound was out rounding up a used television set and VCR. Nurse and Greg had given explicit instructions that if Mitch returned, he was supposed to take a crack at Bino– see if he’d had enough of Mr. Vinnie and would lend them a hand.
The entire guess-that-word ordeal took nearly 20 minutes, and by then Mitch was dog-tired. “I’ve got to get some shut-eye, Smitty,” he said when the lopsided conversation ended. “Will you keep an eye out?”
Smitty, punster to the end, nodded and sent one eye bulging from its socket, scrunching up his cheek in a smile.
Mitch laughed. “Smitty, you’re one of a kind. When we get finished with all this I’m going to have Grandpa teach you how to paint. You’re a good guy to have around.” Slapping the man’s gangly shoulder, he added, “And you need to teach me how to crack a lock.” With that, Mitch was off for a quick shower, a shave, and a lengthy snooze.
Someone was calling his name. The puffy-eyed old fighter lay in his hospital bed, blinking away the too-bright overhead lights and struggling to focus on the face that went with the voice. Both were vaguely familiar, the voice more so than the face. The room was empty except for another patient, eyes shut, in the adjacent bunk. “Eddie, Eddie, you sleepin’?”
“Nurse?”
“It’s me, but for now I goes by Mrs. Lambert.”
“Nurse?” Eddie blinked again.
“Shh–you expectin’ th’ queen a’ England?”
“Nurse . . . what in the–the blind stars happened to you? You look
like you won the odds on a three round bout.”
“Shh, I’m goin’ incognito,” she grinned. “Can’t no one know I was
here.”
“Incognito? What in the name a’ Pete you doin’?”
“Someone’s got t’put Mr. Vinnie outta business. May as well be me. He
th’ one that hurt ya’?”
Eddie rolled his head to the side and squinted over at his dormant roommate. “I ain’t told nobody about nothin’ yet. Still can’t remember a thing.”
He winked one eye.
“I seen that.”
“What?”
“You winkin’, you ol’ codger.”
Eddie forced open his eye and squinted past the makeup, hairdo
and new dress. What’d you do to your eyes, old woman?” “Had ‘em fixed. Feel like a yard a’ sand been dumped right out a’
‘em. An’ you look just like I ‘member, ‘cept now you’re older ‘an
ever.”
Eddie stared up at his old friend. “And you look ten years younger.
What in the tar you up to, an’ where’d you get the money?” “Compliments a’Mr. Vinnie. Don’t ask–it’s a long story.” “You on his train, too?”
“Eddie, you knows me better ‘an ‘at.”
“So how’d you get ahold a’ his money?” Eddie let out a soft moan
as he rolled up onto his elbow and raised his head.
“Some sort a’ bet involvin’ a young feller you ain’t never met. He’s
part a’ th’ family for a bit.” Nurse gave an annoyed little grunt. “Now
shut your trap an’ listen a season so’s I can tell ya’ what I got t’ say.” Eddie lay his head back onto the pillow and kept blinking his eyes.
He was glad to be back among the living.
“This here plan just might help get your Clint off Mr. Vinnie’s train,
if’n he didn’t do nothin’ real dumb. Think he might be willin’ t’ help?” Eddie’s reply came out in a series of disjointed sentences. “His
mother asked him to . . . to come home and try to work things out with
. . . his old man. By the look in his eye, I’d say yes, he’ll help, even
though his lips might say no. My money says he’s been knocked a
blow or two by Vinnie.” The old man lowered his voice. “That’s how I
fell. Vinnie found my book–told Clint they were going to help me take
a final fall. Clint agreed, at first, but I been doin’ a lot of thinkin’. He
might’ve been tryin’ to keep me out of Vinnie’s way. But I still ain’t
sure–just ain’t sure.”
“Well, we just got to make sure, now, don’t we?” declared Nurse. “Th’
boy still might have some time comin’from the law.”
Eddie shrugged. “Might do him some good. Who knows, maybe his
daddy’ll come here and defend his son for a change.”
Nurse began to explain the plan’s every detail. Eddie listened intently,
grunting and groaning with each labored movement. Finally the nurse on the
new shift entered and said, “How are you feeling tonight, Mr. Alders?” “I’d be lots better if I had a roommate that didn’t snore. Can’t get a wink
a’ sleep.”
Nurse picked up her handbag. “Time I’ll be goin’ now. You do like
I tol’ ya’, hear?” She pulled out a small photo and laid it on the bed,
next to Eddie.
“Thank you for stopping by, Mrs. Lambert,” said Eddie in his most
priggish voice. “It was nice visiting with you again.” Nurse smiled a
toothless sneer, hitched up her slip and flounced from the room.
Mitch awoke from his long nap to find himself alongside three stooges, all staring at a used video player/TV set showing the classic film “My Fair Lady.” Smitty sat cross-legged, elbows resting on his knees, his large chin in his hands. Cap’n slouched up against the wall like he was half asleep. While Sound, exercising perfect posture, sat closest to the flickering screen, legs crossed and hands resting on his thighs. All three sat mesmerized, fascinated by the colorful characters and amusing plot. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain . . .”
“You guys enjoying the show?” Mitch asked. Not a one of them turned to look his way. It was as if none of them had ever seen a video in their lives. “Excuse me . . . I’m headed out.”
Sound glanced up for only a second, then riveted his eyes back on the screen. “Okay, be careful,” is all he said. He raised one hand in a listless goodbye, his eyes refusing to stray again from the tube.
Mitch started off to catch the bus. Transportation never seemed a problem for the Alley Team. Nurse had instructed the new members on the fine art of free bus rides, the best way to get around, seeing as how they lived so close to the convention center. Mitch strode through the bus-drop entrance and examined the route map. The closest stop to his destination would be the Econo Lodge on Charleston. From there he’d catch a city bus to Rancho, ride past the Husky, and exit at Coran. If Bino’s marine-cut, tattooed, boxer-dog-walking, cigar-smoking, busy-body of a neighbor wasn’t on trailer park patrol, Mitch would be sitting in Bino’s easy chair when he came home from work.
The travel plan went off without a hitch. As the bus roared by the rundown service station, Mitch caught a glimpse of Bino’s car, parked in back next to the fuel tanks. Mitch checked the time: 7:00 p.m. Thirteen minutes later he was scaling Bino’s squeaky steps and forcing a credit card behind the latch of the sloppy-fitting door.
The hour wait seemed more like a day. Mitch sat in the dark, stale room, his mind wandering to and fro, at times coming to roost on some of the most brutal memories, then fluttering on to other, equally powerful images of such incredible love and kindness. The scenes flashed mindlessly on the insides of his eyelids: Brutality, marriage, deceit, sonograms, new life, certain death, hope, despair, exhaustion, love.
He closed his eyes, visualizing the early days of his and Stephanie’s relationship. At first it was only a far-fetched dream. The convicted-felon boy from the junkyard marrying the daughter of a wealthy, influential political figure. He’d never allow it–and they both knew it. So their dates were kept casual, low-key. She’d creep from the house–or sometimes outright lie to her parents about where she’d be. But the lies and the creeping around only made things worse. After a few months her outraged parents had forbidden her to see him.
When Stephanie turned 18, the gloves had come off. With no more legal power over their daughter, her parents began to take away the material benefits of living in a wealthy home. The effect had actually catalyzed the opposite reaction. Stephanie desperately needed love and understanding, and Mitch knew how to give both.
Soon they’d become more than close friends. Stephanie would tell him everything. He happily listened, all the while dreaming of spending the rest of his life with his angelic bride-to-be. It had taken her a full three weeks to get up the nerve to tell her parents she was engaged; even then it was by accident, when one day she forgot to take off the diamond ring Mitch had given her.
The pop-popping of not-to-distant gunfire jolted Mitch back to reality, and the smelly, oppressively muggy surroundings of the confined trailer, which had baked all day in the hot desert sun. Mitch got up to pace. Each time he ambled past the kitchen window the trailer would rock. Each step sent a shiver down the flimsy floorboards. He paused by the water-spotted glass, peering down the narrow drive. Bino didn’t really pose any threat. The poor man had been hiding behind booze and cigarettes and a wild lifestyle so long, perhaps he was more afraid of living than of dying. The same could be said of his other deep-seated fears, the fears of commitment, love, friendship. Perhaps Bino’s hollow existence provided a comfortable shelter from having to deal with the reality of standing for something worthwhile.
Mitch sunk back into the lumpy easy chair and pondered the circumstances that had brought him to his own such identity crisis. It had started with a wrong decision and just a little deception–nothing a few hours with the police probably couldn’t have cleared up. But, no, he was too proud for that, too pig-headed. Thought he could solve his own problems. And before long one stupid little mistake was compounded by another bigger one. . . .
Outside, a car’s honking mingled with the mindless laughter of teens, amplifying the black stillness and caged quality of the trailer. Tires squealed on warm asphalt, followed by the mechanical sound of hydraulics. As the car outside was launched skyward, its lights cast pale shadows across the wall opposite the windows, reminding Mitch of the reason he was there. He harkened back to his last visit with Bino. Seeking a simple loan, his petition had been denied. Then just hours later commenced the nightmare of death and destruction. Vinnie had spread it thick, a generous layer of suffocating grease along his slippery path. And now, after a series of wrong decisions and bad luck mixed with a trace of good, he’d been hurled into a deadly game of roulette.
The distinctive sound of Bino’s Audi pulling up the gravel drive made Mitch sit up. He crossed his legs and slumped back in the chair. The porch boards groaned out on the landing; keys jangled. The door sprang inward and Bino’s bent figure skulked through the opening. The Audi’s keys landed on a stack of stereo boxes nearest the door, then the dim light flickered on. Bino turned and groped with his oxygen hose, detaching it from the portable bottle he carried around.
“Mike’s dead,” murmured Mitch from the shadows.Bino wrenched around and gasped for a breath. Fumbling to switch the hose to the larger compressor, he sucked in a shallow breath of wind and said, “You’ve come . . . to the wrong place.”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s over, Mitch.”
“What’s over?”
“It’s not just me . . . anymore. He’ll hurt . . . my daughter, too.” “What does he have on you?” Mitch suddenly began to feel sorry for the
washed-up gambler, still disoriented and panting for air. In the same instant he hated him, hated the blatant indecision and cowardice and corruption that he represented. Mitch pulled himself up out of the recliner and patted its cushion. “Here,” he insisted.
Bino straightway embraced the comfort it offered. The single chair was again dragged from the kitchen.
“What’s he got over you?” Mitch repeated.
Bino took several rapid breaths and measured his words. “Jimmy was a friend . . . of mine,” he began. “He got . . . a nice job from . . . the new landlord that . . . bought . . . Carson’s Auto Body. . . . Sort of ran the place. . . . I had a few . . . gambling debts I couldn’t . . . seem to shake. That’s when . . . Jimmy introduced me . . . to the man.”
“Vinnie?”
Bino nodded. After another smattering of quick breaths, he continued. “My debts were gone . . . but my bondage . . . had just begun. I didn’t . . . own my life anymore. . . . I worked for Vinnie . . . instead.” Bino paused.
“I figured.”
“Like I said . . . Jimmy and I were friends. . . . I was ticked . . . that he sucked me in. . . . We argued about it . . . a few times. He was . . . jammed up, just like . . . me, with his own bag . . . of skeletons. So I made a call . . . to a friend in Utah.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, Mike. . . . We went to . . . the academy together.”
“You were a cop?”
“Los Angeles. Took the fast-track . . . to a promotion and . . . went back home to Vegas . . . with the rest of the . . . police family. One problem. . . . Fast-track promotions . . . came with . . . a price. You worked the ghettos . . . of L.A., you . . . played the gamble. Mine . . . was courage. My . . . partner’s brains . . . got sprayed across . . . my new blue . . . uniform.” Bino sputtered for air. “A . . . few months at a desk . . . and the word . . . from the shrink came . . . that I was unstable. . . . They put me . . . on the flat-foot . . . parking violation patrol. . . . No gun, no honor . . . and no disability for . . . my job-related . . . mental injuries. Nothing.”
“I had no idea.”
“Nobody does. . . . I tried a few . . . security jobs, some odds . . . and ends; married . . . about twelve years ago . . . had a daughter. . . . Then came the . . . meltdown. . . . Couldn’t take the heat . . . of the responsible life.” The skinny man faltered again, ambushed by a series of wheezes. When they tapered off, he went on. “Mike did make the . . . fast-track. Ended up in . . . Provo, where his . . . family was from. Landed a sweet . . . FBI job . . . doing cushy work–white-collar . . . stuff. Made his way . . . up the ladder, and then . . . one day I called him . . . out of the blue. . . . His old man had owned . . . a body shop. I gave . . . him enough info on . . . Vinnie that he . . . convinced his boss to . . . let him come down here . . . and help the locals . . . take a crack at Vinnie. . . . Not a big priority. . . . Stolen cars from . . . one state to another. But . . . a connection to the . . . mob in Jersey, that’s . . . what got the ball rolling.”
“Vinnie does have real connections?”
“Can’t get . . . any bigger. His uncle’s been trying . . . to clean up his own . . . gangster image. Owns . . . the whole block . . . that Three Queens sits on . . . and another 40- . . . or 50 million dollars worth . . . of property around . . . the city. The Husky’s . . . just a drop in the bucket. . . . The real Mr. Domenico . . . has been selling off . . . his assets in Jersey . . . with the idea of creating . . . for himself a new life . . . in Vegas. . . . He sent Vinnie here . . . to get the block ready . . . for a new hotel. . . . But Vinnie . . . thinks he can cash in–wants . . . to skim a little off . . . the top first.”
“Why aren’t the Feds squeezing you like a wet sponge?”
“They’ve been by . . . to see me. Mike wouldn’t . . . divulge his source. . . . He promised to keep me . . . out of it.”
“So what exactly does Vinnie have on you?”
“The bullet holes . . . in the Ferrari? They were . . . put there by me. . . . The first time I’d shot . . . a gun in twenty years. . . . Vinnie had to hold . . . a gun to my head to . . . get me to do it. . . . To him . . . it was just a game. . . .”
“Big deal–you’re afraid to shoot guns.”
“Problem is . . . the same gun killed . . . Jimmy. . . . Has my prints on it . . . and the Feds . . . have a perfect match. . . . All they need now . . . is the gun Vinnie keeps . . . tucked away for a . . . rainy day. Mike was . . . trying to figure out . . . how to get me out . . . from under it. He . . . always was a hot-shot. . . . I guess it’s what . . . got him . . . killed.”
“And it’s what put me in the same boat as you.”
“Damn, kid, I’m . . . sorry.”
“The gun I took from the drunk that night. . . . I left it in the Camaro. Your car thief took it and gave it to Vinnie. He shot Mike point blank with that gun, then he knelt and shot him again. . . .” Mitch, still sorting it all out in his mind, stole his own breath of air. “In order to implicate me, he dumped Mike’s body in the trunk of Stef’s car.”
Bino’s hands shook as he wrested a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I’m sure sorry,” he said again. He slapped the pack against his hand and peeled the wrapper from its top. “Once Vinnie owns you . . . the only way out . . . is a bullet. That’s what . . . Jimmy wanted to do. . . . Just get out.”
Mitch grimaced. “Vinnie thinks the whole thing’s a game, doesn’t he?”
“He’s got his own . . . problems to worry about. . . . His uncle shipped him . . . out here to keep him . . . out of trouble . . . back home. . . . Vinnie’s like a son . . . to him. Ever since his . . . old man got . . . whacked, Mr. Domenico’s . . . taken Vinnie . . . under his skirts. . . . Frankie keeps Vinnie . . . in line–in a funny . . . sort of way.” Bino paused to light up.
“Vinnie told me he killed his old man himself.”
Bino gave a shrug. “Wouldn’t surprise me. . . . His old man . . . was the mob’s . . . main hit man.” Smoke spewed from Bino’s nose and mouth. “See, if Vinnie . . . gets caught gambling again . . . his uncle will . . . whack him. Vinnie’s got . . . a habit as bad . . . as mine. . . . If the old man . . . told him to, Frankie . . . would whack . . . Vinnie in a heartbeat. . . . But the guy’s too dumb . . . to cover his tracks.”
Mitch sat in feverish thought, the wheels of gangster justice already in motion. “I’ve got a way to take him down.”
“Ain’t been done . . . in forty years of . . . the family’s rule. . . . But my bet is . . . if anyone can do it . . . you can. What can . . . I do to help?”
“Why should I trust you?”
Bino took a long drag on his smoke. Letting it out in choppy puffs, he said, “You can’t. . . . With my daughter’s life . . . at stake now . . . there’s no telling . . . what I’ll do. . . . I can tell you . . . though . . . where I think . . . your car is.”