Complete Corruption (Corruption #1-3) (38 page)

“American ones know the system well enough.” I rolled up my sleeves. This was not particularly messy work, but I still needed to be cautious, and I couldn’t avoid the work altogether. If I demurred, I’d lose the advantage of my lineage and culture.

“I won’t lower my standards.” She handed me the club. It was blacker on the business end and slicked brown and smooth on the grip side. “Americans are weak and mouthy. They don’t show respect, and they die with secrets on the way out of their mouths.”

She held the rabbit out over the wire-mesh table.

“They love life too much, Donna.” I tapped the back of the rabbit’s head, getting my aim right, favoring accuracy over strength. It was the only humane method, and if I hesitated for one breath, she’d notice. This, like everything, was a test.

“And you,” she said. “Do you like running your crew more than sitting by my side?”

“I do.” I brought the club to the back of the rabbit’s head, where the ears met the neck. The death was soundless, with only a hollow thud to alert the universe that it had happened.

“You were doing fine at it, too.” She held out the rabbit and let it bleed out of its nose and mouth onto the black gravel. “Until a couple of weeks ago.” She shook it a little, letting the last of the blood fall away.

“I had it under control.” I took the dead rabbit from her and held it over the grass by its heels as she twisted a valve on the side of the house and picked up a hose. “I admit I failed with Paulie. I didn’t expect him to turn on me.”

“That’s very grown-up of you. And that’s why you made a good
consigliere
. You know when you fuck up.” She hosed down the rabbit until its fur was matted and flat, and there was no blood on the surface. I turned it so she could get the back, letting the fouled water drip onto the gravel until it flowed clean. She shut off the hose, and I put the rabbit on the grate.

Back home, small animals peeked out of the ruined mountains to peck at the garbage and city families were so poor that a piece of meat didn’t get away just because it ran fast. Despite my father’s position, my mother had run the house as a single parent, and rabbit and raccoon were frequently on the menu.

“So,” she said, opening a small knife. “You came early for the rabbit cacciatore, yeah?”

“I came here for an indulgence.”

“Ask.” She passed me the knife by the handle side. She wanted me to do the honors. That was her way of saying I was favored because of my background, and to refuse would be to throw her favor back in her face.

“I have a woman.” I cut the skin inside the rabbit’s thigh and up to the gut.

“I’ve heard.” She smiled and took out a beedie, a short, black cigar with a smell that reminded me of the garbage piled on the side of a Neapolitan highway.

“She’s a good woman.”

“She was in bed with that
sbirro
.”

I slashed inside the rabbit’s other thigh, right through the animal’s penis. “That’s over. She’s loyal to me.” I held the rabbit’s hind legs and yanked the skin off it then looked at my boss with the inside-out animal in my hands. “Once this thing with Paulie is done, I don’t want her looked at or questioned. She’s with me.”

“You say this is a small thing.”

“It is,” I protested.

“In America, yes. You can have your personal life. You marry for love. But that’s not where you’re from. Not with the job you have. You don’t own your life.”

I cleanly slashed the rabbit’s center muscles from gut to neck. Green-grey organs spilled out onto the mesh. I realized I was wound tight from fingers to core. I switched the knife hand and flexed my fingers.

She was a skinny thing, the donna, but she was formidable, ruthless, and protected. Too many men had made the mistake of underestimating her. Even though I knew my fingers could break her neck, those fingers would be attached to a dead man before they even touched her.

“You,
consigliere
, are part of something bigger than yourself.” She picked up the hose. “You are a man of traditions. And you are not just any man in this tradition. You are a prince. Do you think a prince can just marry anyone he wants? He has his king to consider. His country. The blood of his children. His own future.” She sprayed the rabbit carcass down, and the grey entrails fell onto the mesh. “You want some sweet pussy, you keep it. But you don’t marry it. Everyone knows this. You don’t contaminate your family or your business.”

“Let me worry about my business. You worry about yours.”

“I am.” She took the carcass from me. “You’ve heard about my granddaughter and Patalano?”

“Suspected.”

“Well, I wanted to be the one to tell you anyway. Paulie Patalano is taking Irene. He’s going to be a powerful man. You ready for that?”

“I can handle it.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Otto.

“Good. Come inside,” she said.

“
Un momento.”

She went and left me. I picked up. “Otto.”

“I’m sorry, boss. I lost her.”

I closed my eyes. Jesus Christ. Where could she be going? Why would she sneak away? I cursed everything: my vulnerability, my love, my powerlessness. The only thing that kept me from leaving to sniff her out was the knowledge that Paulie wouldn’t do anything while we were supposed to be negotiating a truce.

“Find her. Just find her.”

theresa

he Downtown Gate Club was in the middle of the city, down a turn to the left on Venice Boulevard and a right on Ludwig Street, where the streets took on a little curve, and the trees shading the rare brick row houses stood farther from the curb. A couple of blocks of oddball houses in the last sweet corner of downtown made the perfect enclave for those daring enough to make that neighborhood their home.

A person from the north might pass it by without noticing it. But old-money Angelinos who found Bel-Air tacky, those born into a level of privilege it might take decades to wean from, knew better. They knew to turn down the driveway of a brick building with stonecarved window treatments that sat ten feet from its neighbor. The building had been one of a row of businesses as early as the eighteen-fifties, complete with basements and stone foundations.

“Miss Drazen,” the guard said as he pulled out his clipboard. “You here for the LA Democratic Summit?”

I was, and I wasn’t, but I needed to get past the gate, and if he looked at the clipboard and found I wasn’t there, he’d let me in but not check me into the Heritage Room. “I’m here for Daniel Brower.”

“I just saw him.” He opened the gate.

The DGC was visible on satellite, but from the street, it was surrounded by enough houses and foliage that passersby wouldn’t notice an eighteen-hole golf course. Transplants didn’t know it existed. LA natives knew it was there, but few had been inside. The club didn’t try to go stealth; it simply wasn’t glamorous or flashy. It wasn’t a desirable place to be, outside of certain circles, and the board did everything in its power to stay under the radar.

I left my little blue BMW with the valet. He eyed the dent on the passenger side and said something polite before coasting away. A tall man in a uniform opened the glass and brass door for me.

The Heritage Room was as old as the club, somewhere in the order of one hundred and fifty years old. The walls and floor were stone, and the ceiling crisscrossed with beams the thickness of a ship’s mast. The "Heritage" in question was the heritage of success, which tended to follow all its members. Glass cases held trophies, medals, photos, certificates, and plaques from elite tournaments. When my father had brought me there at the tender age of eight, I’d been impressed by the shiny artifacts, the high ceiling, and the marble. I’d stared at the pictures of my father and grandfather, trying to discern the real men through the oil paint and how their own moods and words came through the canvas. But not much came through. The men were painted to erase their Irish heritage. They looked like mouse-haired WASPs. I hadn’t thought about the dulling of the fire in their hair since I was an adolescent, and seeing it again irritated me anew.

“Theresa!” Gerry came out in a light-grey suit and dress shoes, smiling at the dozen straitlaced politicians dotting the room. Gerry was Daniel’s political strategist. I’d spilled my guts to him one night, when he picked me up from set, and I’d been wondering about the state of my sanity.

“Hi, Ger.”

He kissed my cheek and gently led me to the doors that opened out to the golf course, where we couldn’t be heard. “To what do we owe this surprise visit?”

“Wanted to talk to Dan.”

“He’s in the conference room.” I stepped toward it, and Gerry put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Let me get him.”

“It’s fine. I know about Clarice. It’s not going to be a scene.”

He twisted his face into a half smile that meant he was going to say something difficult. “I know you’d never make a scene. Neither would he. And Clarice isn’t here yet. But it’s not that.”

I crossed my arms. “Describe it, then.” A fake laugh echoed through the room. I recognized the ex-mayor Rubin right away.

Gerry took a deep breath, calculated to let me know the conversation was hard for him. “Who you’re seeing is going to get out. Eventually.”

“Oh, you’re kidding—”

“You can’t pretend it won’t have a negative effect on his candidacy. And I’d hate to say this thing is in the bag so soon, but if—no,
when—
he wins, it’s going to be a pressure point, even if you don’t keep showing up.”

“Theresa?” Daniel had found me. He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Hi, Dan.”

He kissed me on the cheek, and Gerry cleared his throat, looking around to check if anyone had seen.

“Take it easy, Gerry,” Daniel said, his hand still on my bicep.

Gerry smiled and folded his hands in front of him. “This is lovely. So happy we’re all getting along. Now”—he opened a wooden door with a window set into it and dropped his voice—“get the fuck out of sight.”

He pushed Daniel past the door but did it gently, by the hip, so it didn’t look like he was being pushed. Then he closed the door.

The office belonged to the Heritage president, and some of the oldest medals in the club’s possession were shelved there.

I wanted to break all of them. As soon as the door clicked, I turned on Daniel, keeping my voice at a low growl. “Do not ever, ever send your team of pit bulls after my friends. If you want to know something, you come to
me
.”

“This is about the director?”

“Don’t play games,” I said.

He sat down on the leather couch as if I’d said nothing at all. He’d learned something from me, apparently. I was the one who got calm during a fight, and he was the one who flew off the handle. Well, that was about to change, because I suddenly understood what it meant to deal with a passive aggressive.

“You went to Katrina about Antonio. That is not acceptable.”

“You should sit down.” He sat back with his arms in front of him. But I knew all about his strategies and body language: the position of his arms and what it transmitted, how he could speak without speaking, and how he could say two things at once. Adopting a pose was a big part of what Daniel and I did together, and hands in front was meant to project a simple honesty, even when it was a lie. “My office is following leads on a money-laundering scam through a restaurant in San Pedro. It’s public knowledge.”

I remained standing. “I don’t want you harassing my friends.”

“I don’t want you fucking a known criminal while I’m running for office, but we don’t always get what we want.”

I didn’t know what I’d expected. The visit was impulsive. I hadn’t prepared Daniel, and I hadn’t prepared myself.

“You’re turning your professional bailiwick into a personal vendetta.”

“Give me a break. You want a personal vendetta? I’ve got your sister Margie on wiretapping. Your brother has a few shady real-estate deals in his portfolio. Another sister’s got two potentially illegal adoptions. And the other one, fuck. What the fuck happened at Westonwood sixteen years ago? And as for your father, don’t even get me started on his disgusting personal tastes, which everyone knows and no one talks about. I’ve had a personal vendetta to protect you and your family, and let me tell you, it’s wearing thin. I could take your entire family down faster than I could take Antonio Spinelli down. But I don’t because of what we had. Because I respect it. So don’t come in here and tell me how to do my job.”

I threw my bag down next to him and stepped forward until my knees were in front of his. “Daniel, let’s talk about respect. What it means.”

I leaned over, putting one hand on the arm of the couch and one on the back, bending until my lips were at his ear.

“Tink, please.” He tried to push me away, but the effort was halfhearted.

“Respect isn’t treating me like I’m made of sugar. Because I’m not. I’m made of cum and saliva. I’m made of salty sweat, and I taste like fucking. I sound like an orgasm that’s so hard you can’t even scream, and I fuck like a closed fist.”

He turned to me until his breath was on my cheek. I heard him swallow.

“Do you want me?” I knew the answer. “I can feel your fingers twitching. You want to stick them in me. You want to see if I’m wet. You’re confused because I don’t usually make you this hard. Because you
respect
me. Women you respect don’t make your balls ache.”