WENTY-TWO MILES NORTH of Las Vegas the Jaguar exited I-15 and headed north on Highway 93. The glare of the western sun burned hot through the driver’s window. Vinnie was confident he hadn’t been followed. Aside from Ritter’s bugged belt, the Feds had no other means of tracking him. Ritter was still proclaiming his innocence–loudly– but all that would shortly change. Up to this point the scheme had seemed to unravel at every turn, and the mobster’s mind reeled in ragged desperation. Outright elimination of the adversary–or at least taking out as many of the foe along the way–seemed a most appropriate and diabolical remedy. “Look, mate,” groveled the Englishman, “they can’t tail us without the belt. I don’t have no reason to lie to ya’. The government ain’t no gravytrain, and I didn’t much care for their terms anyways. But I could make a future joinin’up wit’a smart man like you. You got connections.”
Vinnie hadn’t uttered a word since the belt episode. Tight-lipped, he stared out onto the highway, where ripples of hotfooted air scuttled up from the insufferably blistering asphalt and distant fronds of sagebrush tossed their heads in the feeble breeze. Ritter’s voice took on a more fervent tone. “I could even go back out t’ the streets. Be your informant. Thirty bucks a day–that’d be peanuts for a guy like you. . . .”
Vinnie’s mood instantly mutated from sullen to seething. Fishing in the pocket of his silk-lined jacket, he withdrew a small revolver, wrapped in a plastic bag. Hot rubber tires chafed against the jagged, volcanic-pebble blacktop as the Jag swerved to the shoulder and skidded to a stop. “Shut up!” he howled. Then the trash-talking began in earnest. Ritter was the most sorry person on earth–no, he didn’t deserve the high honor of even being called a person. He was the stool, the scat, the dung squeezed from the lowest organism. And now the sewage had run its suicidal course. By siding with the Feds, Ritter had committed the most fatal of mistakes. The gangster’s cold barrel pressed against the side of Ritter’s head.
“I’ve heard enough a’ your miserable whinin’,” ranted the tough guy. “You made your bed–now you’re gonna sleep in it. . . . Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Adull whimper surfaced from Ritter’s closed, quivering lips. But when the trigger didn’t squeeze, apparently eclipsed by his opponent’s better judgement, Ritter took confidence–and launched a different, more bold tack. “Whatcha mean ‘haven’t I figured it out yet?’” Turning his head, he stared down the gun’s barrel, a straight-line smile spreading over his thick lips. “Just did, chump. Just did.”
Vinnie cocked his head. “Did what?”Vinnie immediately drew back the gun barrel and slashed his passenger up-side the head. Blood gushed from Ritter’s temple, smearing onto the leather upholstery and soaking into the dark beige flooring. “You’re a dead man,” Vinnie hissed.
Ritter’s head sagged onto the headrest. “And you’re going t’have t’ do a lot better than that if ya’ want t’ scare me, you bloody-stupid bully,” he sputtered. “I been playin’ ya’ like a violin, just like Mitch and the mute that stole your car; just like the old woman that set ya’ up, the one that lives in your alley. You’re a bloomin’ coward, hidin’ behind your guns and your uncle’s apron. You wouldn’t know a good fight if it stepped up an bit ya’, and if ya’ did, you’d throw a low blow–just like you’ve always done.”
The hothead’s volatile nature bumped up yet another notch. The venom flowed freely from his mouth. He heaved himself from the car and circled it like a tiger, demanding Ritter climb out. Ritter refused to budge–just kept flinging muddy, sharp-tongued insults. “You already spilt me blood in your car,” he goaded. “Gonna have t’burn it like I did your garage. Shame you’ll lose two expensive rides in the same day. All your silk suits and fancy gold jewelry, and you still ain’t as smart as the bloody homeless bums that beg at your kitchen.”
Reckless gunfire split the desert air, squelching Ritter’s tirade. He clenched his teeth and bent over in pain, his kneecap shattered by the searing bullet. A burst of screams was followed by a breathless groan, whereupon he lashed out again. “Been waitin’ for a mistake like that, ya’ stupid bloke,” Ritter raved on through gritted teeth. “Now ya’ got a bigger problem. Me guess is, ya’ got two shots left.” His voice broke. Vinnie again brought the gun up to the patsy’s head, his hand trembling with anger. Then Ritter resumed his goading. “See, if that’s th’ gun that killed Mike, you can’t use it t’frame Mitch no more. He’s in lockup, an’the cops know I was in one piece when I climbed in your car. If you ain’t got your piece t’ hide behind no more, you got to kill me wit’ one bullet so you can keep the other to be brave. Without your gun you’re nothin’, you . . .”
Another shot rang out and Ritter slumped over. His body twitched, then lay still. Vinnie reached out and grabbed him by the shirt collar, hauling him from the car. Dragging the body behind a clump of sagebrush at the side of the road, he smoothed the marks in the sand made by Ritter’s shoes. Then he scrambled back in the Jaguar and fish-tailed it in the direction he’d come. The car cruised along in silence, his ears still chiming from the gunshots. Suddenly another ring came from within Vinnie’s jacket. Bringing the phone up to his ear, a deafening voice on the other line cried out, “Vincento, my boy! I thought I’d surprise you by coming to town. Wanted to see how my favorite nephew is doing.”
Bumbling for words, Vinnie croaked a simple, “Uncle Antonio . . .” “That’s right. Just came from the airport. Why don’t you come pick me and the boys up in your new car. Frankie told me you were havin’trouble with the old one.” Antonio’s voice was drum-like; the Jersey side of his accent beat a cadence alongside the rhythmic Sicilian sing-song.
Vinnie stammered. “The new one . . . it’s givin’ me, uh, some trouble, Antonio. I was about to call a wrecker and . . .”
“No problemo, Vincento. The boys and me will rent a car and come pick you up. Where are you?”
“I’m almost to the off-ramp at Craig,” he lied.
“Great. We’ll meet you there.” Vinnie ended the call and jammed the pedal to the floor. In truth, he was at least 15 minutes away from the off-ramp.
Antonio shut off his phone. “You know how to get to Craig?” he asked Frankie, who sat contentedly at his side.
“Sure, dad. I been learnin’ the streets real good.” Frankie steered the rented limo from under the Three Queens canopy and out onto the street.
Before dropping by to see Three Queens, the boss and his boys had parked in front of New York, New York. There they watched as Nurse was arrested–shoved into a car and swept away. It hadn’t been mere fanfare to impress the boys from Jersey; it was a real bust with managers being questioned and guests standing around gawking. Antonio had then made a pass around his own block to check out the incinerated body shop and the casino’s empty parking lot. Frankie had given him the rundown: all about the elevators breaking down, the power being shut off, and the pack of lawyers lining up for the kill.
Acknowledging it or not, Antonio was shaken by Vinnie’s indiscretions. The family honor was at stake–and the sacrificial goat already on the skewer. Frankie was the only one who wasn’t quite sure what was coming down. “Frankie,” Antonio said with a touch of pathos, “you are my only son. This business will belong to you one day. I hope you can be trusted to take it over.” Frankie smiled and leaned back in his seat, his father at his side, the two gorillas up front.
“You can trust me, Pops. I been learnin’ lots from Vinnie, just like you said.”
“Good boy. I need to know I can count on you, no matter what.”
“Sure, Pops, whatever you say.”
“Good, Frankie, good. This is a family problem. We’ll deal with it as a family.”
The hospital reported that he’d been discharged just before noon, along with a male nurse to help him settle in. The nurse answered the phone when they’d called. He’d said that grandpa was resting, but that he hadn’t stopped talking about his grandson and his young wife all afternoon. Sure, the old man would be happy to see them–so long as they didn’t ask him to dance.
Levina MacArthur pulled off the freeway near Logandale and drove her Lexus under the makeshift overpass. She and Stephanie had spent the hour-long drive reminiscing and catching up on news–everything from Maggie-the-good-and-noble and tarantula-eyes to Al-the-pervertKostecki and his no-good son Andy. Other lively topics ranged from Mitch’s mechanic abilities to savory junkyard dog stew and the real, teeth-bearing junkyard dogs, gave rise to a blend of amusement and distress.
Stephanie fretted, “I’ve never had to get out of the car without Mitch being around,” referring to the tire-biting dogs.
“Don’t look at me,” her mother cringed, panic written all over her face. “I’m just as scared of dogs as you.”
The two women made the turn down the gravel road, their eyes scouring the yard. When the fancy car rolled to a stop, Stephanie craned her neck, scanning the auto cemetery. “They usually come sprinting out from everywhere. As soon as Mitch opens the door and calls their names, they turn from vicious attack dogs into frisky pets.” The women cowered in their seats, but the dogs didn’t appear.
“Maybe we should honk or something.”
Stephanie gave two short blasts on the horn. After ten or fifteen seconds, a smiling man in his early 20s stepped from the trailer. “Are you Stephanie?” he called out from the porch.
Stephanie nodded from the half-masted window.
“Your Grandpa says the dogs haven’t been around since noon.”
Stephanie was first to climb from the car; Levina followed, noticeably more cautious. “Come on, Mother. It doesn’t look like they’re here at all.” Both women scrambled across the 20 feet of gravel towards the porch, one in patent-leather heels, the other swaying side to side due to a distended tummy. Safely on the wooden steps, they paused to catch their breath, and again scanned the driveway and out yard, laughing outloud at their unwarrantedfears.
Grandpa had climbed from his easy chair to greet them. Dressed in a tattered robe, thin pajamas and a pair of suede slippers, worn and shiny at the toes, he plainly beamed with joy. In the few minutes it had taken for the women to get inside the trailer, he’d taken time to comb his straggly head of snow-white hair. Weathered old arms, bruised from where dozens of needles had been inserted, reached out to wrap Stephanie in a warm embrace.
The low sun cast columns of mellow rays through the hand-stitched curtains, hung many years before. The soft fabric seemed to speak of the last woman who for so many years had brought warmth both to the house and to the old man’s heart–a heart fast on the mend. “My girl,” he cackled. For a whole minute they held each other. Then Grandpa looked her in the eye and asked, “How’re you doin’?”
“I’m fine, Grandpa. I spent a half-hour with Mitch this afternoon.”
The old man leaned into his granddaughter-in-law, using her as a sort of fulcrum to keep his balance. His gaze flitted back and forth between Stephanie and the attractive woman standing nervously at the door. She, in turn, was curiously surveying the small trailer. “How’s the boy doin’?”
“We’re going to make it through this.”
“Don’t doubt that for a second . . . . Just wonderin’ if his spirits are good.”
“I don’t think he’s ever felt better.”
Grandpa finally released his hold, leaving his hand on Stephanie’s shoulder, just in case. “Now, this beautiful woman,” he cajoled, turning to Levina, “must be your mother.”
Levina smiled. “Grandpa Wilson,” said Stephanie, “this is Levina MacArthur.”
Mrs. MacArthur came over in front of Grandpa and offered her hand. “I can see the resemblance,” he said as he sandwiched her manicured fingers between his gnarled mitts. “No doubt where Stephanie got her beauty, Mrs. MacArthur.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson. You’re too kind. And please call me Levina.”
“Only if you call me Ray.”
The room suddenly went quiet, like everyone was wondering where to go from there. “Where are the dogs, Grandpa?” Stephanie finally said, breaking the awkward silence.
“Strangest thing. They was here when we came home today, but they chased some fella outta the trailer and ain’t been back since. Skinny guy– looked like he was havin’ the time of his life. . . .”
Stephanie’s face registered alarm. “Oh, dear!” she said. “That was a friend of Mitch’s. He dropped him off here when he stopped to pick up the car.”
Grandpa called into the tiny kitchen, where the young aid was making a pot of coffee. “See? Don’t pay to call the cops, ‘less you know all the facts.” Still, the old man seemed troubled. He turned back to the women. “Hope them dogs didn’t hurt him. Only thing missin’ was half a pot of junkyard dog stew. Stuff was so old I’m surprised it weren’t growin’. The fella must a’ been starvin’.”
Seeing his patient was preoccupied with his visitors, the young man brought in the coffee and asked if it would be okay for him to go out for a few hours. Grandpa was more than accommodating; of course it was okay. When the door had closed and the car had rattled off down the drive, Grandpa said, “Don’t mean to be coarse, but that boy asks more questions than all them doctors put together. Been careful ‘bout what I tell him, though. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was a cop.” The old man motioned over to the kitchen table. “Oh, please sit down. I’m not used to havin’ guests. Didn’t mean to be unsociable.”
It didn’t take long for all three to warm to the friendship and even better conversation. Levina asked about the recipe for the tasty dish she’d heard so much about–and within minutes the two women were in the kitchen peeling potatoes, the old man grunting instructions from the other room.
Barnes had been receiving plenty of instructions of his own. Field and Wilding were less than pleased that two of their key players had disappeared: Ritter, their chief informant, and Vinnie, their number one tyrant, out driving a new Jaguar. The old woman hadn’t provided any help at all. In fact–and as expected–she’d been downright belligerent.
Reverend Keller, along with Bino and his new attorney friend, Congressman Dalton MacArthur were back in the Federal Building. Each remained tight-lipped concerning their latest conversations, as they were waiting to speak to ‘the man.’
When Wilding entered the room, Keller stood up, arms folded across his chest, defiant as a rebellious teen. “You should have told me you were making a deal with one of my flock.” He held out Ritter’s papers and let them parachute down onto the table.
Wilding raised an eyebrow and took his seat. Having had little sleep, he was likewise a bit brusque. “What? Now you’re his attorney, too?”
“No, but I’m sure you know Congressman MacArthur; he’ll be representing my flock. And as for Mr. Ritter–just so you’re aware–he’s suffering from a brain tumor, still in its early stages. He didn’t even tell his friends. With the tumor putting pressure on the brain, half the time he can’t think straight, he’s short-tempered and looking for a fight wherever he goes. His life’s a mess right now. His kid brother’s a junky–something he feels responsible for. I haven’t even seen him in a week. He’s out wanting to rob a bank or who knows what, so he can send his brother home to Yorkshire to be with his dying mother. Like I said, Ritter’s whacked out most of the time, but the one thing he knows is where your agent’s body used to be–in that meat locker. My bet is whoever he gave that misinformation to, killed him.” The ex-plumber’s teeth were clenched and the veins throbbed out on his forehead like little pipes about to burst from the pressure.
The bombshell had inflicted its damage. G-man and citizen alike were left speechless, giving the simmering preacher the chance to preach on. “Your contract is so full of wiggle room it won’t hold daylight, let alone pay this man what you promised. If you want my help, you’d better tool up or I’ll march out of here and tell the press what an ignorant, bumbling bunch of idiots you are.” Keller seized the doorknob. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find a quiet place to ask God to forgive me for what I’m feeling right now.”
The slamming door jarred the lights in the room. Bino shifted in his seat, desperately needing a smoke to calm his frayed nerves. A cough rose from his blackened lungs, then he softly rasped, “If you do like he . . . tells you, my daughter . . . will come out of this . . . alive. I’ll testify . . . against Vinnie and his boys . . . and tell you whatever . . . you need to know.”
The turn of events had kindled real hope within Congressman MacArthur. Bino’s willingness to testify would greatly simplify the case, not to mention expedite its march through the judicial jungle. If the congressman sat in on the trial, for once the tide of political press would work for–rather than against–him, and hopefully help restore his good name. More importantly, it would provide him an opportunity to see his daughter and make a fresh start with her.
Up until that time, the congressman had done little–in fact, nothing, if you discount sitting and listening. Now he was about to begin to throw his weight around. He stood to leave. “I’m inclined to think these street-rats have you by the short hairs, gentleman,” he said, nodding at Field in particular. “I think I need to meet with the reverend to discuss my fee. In the meantime, I suggest you take a moment to talk about how far you’re willing to let this thing go.”
The tribe of agents and attorneys also left the room, converging for a pow wow behind Field’s office door. Field spoke first. “This preacher knows everything that’s going on out on the street. How can we compete with that?”
“What’s the price for his help?” asked Wilding.
The prosecuting attorney spoke up. “We have a hundred or more charges against half-a-dozen people. He wants everything dropped.”
“They’re mostly minor,” Barnes added.
The attorney’s head wagged violently. He wasn’t about to let it go. “Murder’s not a minor offense. Mr. Wilson can be charged for his participation, whether it’s committing the act or as an accessory.”
Wilding agreed. “We make the deal conditional. We drop everything except the murder charge.”
The attorney again shook his head. “That’s a viable alternative for all current charges,” he said, “but what about possible future charges? There’s missing money still out there, restitution needs to be paid to credit card companies, there are past criminal activities to consider. How’s all that going to trickle down? Keller wants immunity for his people, but . . .” The
ensuing 20-minute discussion became rather heated at times, but at last the
meeting adjourned and the men scattered, seeing to their various duties. Up two levels, sitting at a bench near the elevators, Congressman
MacArthur and Reverend Keller had reunited. “You’re an incredible
man, Reverend,” remarked the politician. “You can love and rail in the
same breath.”
Keller, his face planted in his hands, murmured, “I lost my temper.
It’s a weak man who can’t control his temper. . . .”
Those few, short words pierced the congressman’s heart to the core.
“I’ll take the case,” he said quietly. “We can keep it from the press–it won’t
even be necessary to tell my daughter. I have some repenting of my own to
do.”
The toxic heat radiated from the blue car, flames starting to lick up from its undercarriage. Dozens of cars were backed up against the exit, and passing rubberneckers had slowed traffic to a snail’s pace.
The wailing, horn-honking fire truck crossed against traffic under the overpass at Craig and jockeyed for position near the blaze. Vinnie stood with his hands shoved in his pocket, still clasping a warm cigarette lighter in one hand, the other still clutching an even hotter pistol, no longer sheathed in plastic. The distant voice was all too familiar. “Vincento . . .” it said. “Vincento, shame on you.” Vinnie spun around. His uncle’s cold, lifeless eyes met his own, equally callous glare. “This ain’t the old neighborhood no more,” Antonio whispered with a trace of melancholy. “The automobiles–they ain’t so cheap these days. Times are changin’, and so is the way we gotta do business.”
Frankie stood next to his father, beaming with confidence, poised to begin his reign. Vinnie’s brain swirled and swayed, scrolling through a thousand lies, seeking protection from the pending storm, grasping for some faint hope his own flesh and blood would understand. “Antonio . . .” Vinnie reached for his uncle’s hand. A pleading kiss to the family ring might bring him back into grace.
“Don’t say nothin’.” The big boss pressed his finger to his lips. “I trusted you like a son, Vincento. Come–we have business that must be settled.”
Frankie reached over and seized Vinnie’s arm in a crushing grip. He had the muscle, and now his father needed him for a change. Instinctively, as if a fire had been lit under him, Vinnie plucked the pistol from his jacket and stabbed it up against Frankie’s chest. The blast was barely audible over the traffic and sirens and splashing water. Frankie’s grip slackened. Baffled by the sudden turn of events, he looked longingly at his father, a dual plea for his blessing and forgiveness. His knees began to buckle as he watched Vinnie transfer the gun to Antonio’s ribs and quietly stripped him of his weapon.
“My old man was slow–just like you,” Vinnie chided. “You’re right, Uncle. Times are changin’, and old men have no business bein’in business when they can’t take care of their own business.”
By now a line of police cars and highway patrol vehicles were making their way up the shoulders of the freeway, approaching the burning vehicle. Several times they had to drive down onto the incline to pass vehicles looking to escape the tie-up. Vinnie ushered his uncle over to the limo and instructed the two burly goons to move to the curb. Antonio gave a slight nod. The curious onlookers, their eyes pinned to the burning Jaguar, didn’t notice the gangster at the side of the road raise the pistol and bring it down, nor did they see the crime boss wobble like a top and crumple into the limo’s front seat.
Commandeering the posh rental, Vinnie drove back up the southbound ramp. Calls were already out via radio about the big man lying on the freeway, blood pouring from his chest. Amid a whirlwind of cars and confusion, Vinnie made his mad dash to freedom. Oncoming highway patrolmen waved him out of the way. He gladly complied by pulling down onto the grassy embankment and letting them pass.
Back at the overpass, Domenico’s two huge men wrenched open a car door and jerked a woman up out of her seat in an attempt to follow the black limousine. The dozens of police cars arriving on the scene, however, blocked their way.
Unleashed from the snarl of traffic, the limo chewed up the miles. “Vincento, you will not live another day,” Antonio said sternly.
“And you,” spat Vinnie, his gun still trained on his hunched-over uncle, “you’ll never have any respect again.”
“Where’d you get this false sense of honor, Vincento? Sometimes you must bend with the wind.”
“Is that what my old man did for you?”
“Your father chose his role in the family. Much like you have chosen yours.”
“No, you was always bad-mouthin’ him. He was nothin’ but your stooge, sent to clean up your garbage.”
Antonio grimaced in pain, a goose egg forming on his skull. “No, Vincento. He was my brother. He chose to stand by my side.”
“You’re a liar!” screamed Vinnie. “He was your dog! You sometimes tossed him a bone, but then you left him behind. You always treated him like dirt!”
“You’re wrong. . . . Vincento, he couldn’t read. That was a fact. He chose his role because he couldn’t read. He couldn’t take care of the business, so he took care of business, if you know what I mean.”
“And now I’m gonna take care of some business of my own!” Vinnie raged, his voice turning cruel and demanding. “Open your door!”
“Vincento, think about what you’re doing.”
Vinnie glanced in his rearview mirror. Out on the horizon, he could still see the thick cloud of black smoke rising in the air. Further beyond, a pale sun was being swallowed by the mountains, radiant shafts of light casting their brilliant-colored handiwork on the low-slung banks of clouds that hovered in the lazy western sky. Vinnie squeezed the trigger and the passenger window exploded and again he hissed, “Open your door!”
Antonio reached down and pulled the handle. As soon as the door popped open, Vinnie slammed on the brakes with his left foot and raised the other. With a mighty kick, he catapulted Antonio from the vehicle onto the unforgiving pavement. Once more gunning the engine, he fled on up the roadway, bearing down on Logandale.
Wilding, having hurriedly finished up the paperwork, slid a single sheet in front of Reverend Keller. “You sign right here.” He pointed to a blank line at the bottom of the document. “And, Mr. Daniels, you sign here.” His finger swept over to the right-hand side of the page.
The attorney, Congressman MacArthur, a man unaccustomed to flying by the seat of his pants, took a few seconds to peruse the draft one last time. It was way too simple–no fancy words, no double-talk, right to the point. A list of eight names–most homeless eyewitnesses to criminal activity–was followed by the passage: Except for the charge of murder, all charges will be dropped and no future charges will be pressed. This line was followed by a list of dropped charges, including credit card fraud, kidnapping, falsifying documents, improper disposal of a corpse, and so on. In return, evidence against Vincent Domenico, Clint Thurston and others would be submitted.
The document further stated that money from at least 40 casinos would be returned, except the amount spent at each casino. Totals would be gathered when the last witnesses came forward. In addition–and perhaps most importantly–a shoe box filled with computer disks would be turned over to authorities, providing the hundreds of names of those who had been wrongly defrauded.
The reverend paused and asked the congressman to step out in the hall with him for a moment. “If they find a gun and a body, will Ritter’s contract hold up?” he asked.
MacArthur smiled. “If I were them, I’d make sure it was honored. I’m not sure they’d want to have to deal with your wrath again.”
The last of the contracts signed, each defendant met the Alley Team’s new attorney, one by one, with the reverend standing at his side. When it came Mitch’s turn to speak with his father-in-law, Keller started for the door. “I’ll leave you two alone,” he said. “And Mitch, don’t forget what we talked about earlier. God can look so far forward and backward that we can’t begin to comprehend it all.” The reverend glanced back as the congressman turned to face Mitch. It was one of the rewards of the ministry: seeing families reunited. Extending his hand to Mitch, the two in-laws embarked on a conversation long overdue.