Death Wish (12 page)

Willie swizzled the fruit in his old-fashioned with a sober face. He said, “Bama, I've been thinking for some time about giving the sucker life a whirl. I'll dump the policy, the craps joint, and the war with the dagos as soon as I make my point. That point is that I'm not a coward shit-heel like the other bankers the Mafia holds in such contempt.”

Bama grunted. “And how soon is that, Willie? I hope the point you have to make don't refine down to a decimal point on a burial contract.”

Willie leaned forward on the red suede-covered couch toward Bama behind the bar dropping ice cubes into his Cuba libre. He said, “Bama, you know the toughest thing to get from Willie Poe is a promise, and that Willie Poe always keeps his promises.”

Bama nodded. Willie went and stood at the bar. He clinked his glass against Bama's. “Bama, I promise that when you get back from the Apple, I'll step up or down, as it will turn out to be with the square life. We can get Sis and Darrel to help us locate and plan decor, name, and things like that for our cabaret.”

Bama smiled and clinked his glass against Willie's. “It's a promise I'll be very happy to hold you to, pal.”

Willie went to his bedroom and was sitting on the side of the bed when Bama came to the doorway. He said, “You need a small insurance policy on that suitcase full of scratch Taylor's going to be driving around. Well, at least until you dump the policy wheel. Not that we really need it in his case. Remember, I touted the kid to you when he showed. But maybe . . . He's playing the con for us. And I don't have to remind you, nobody's immune to the right con.”

Willie said, “You mean . . . ?”

Bama said, “Yes, I mean test out his purity of heart with a little lie-detecting psychodrama!”

Willie frowned and said, “I don't like it. He's green and sensitive. If he's on the level, and I'm sure he is, he would chill on us and blow.”

Bama said, “Jesus Christ, you're rusty, Willie.”

Willie waved his glass. “Hold on, Bama, it's not rust; it's pure preoccupation with the wheel . . . and the motherfucking dagos.”

“Sure, Willie, I understand,” Bama said. “Now, as I was about to say, we don't squeeze him ourselves. Gold Dust is playing in town. He can blueprint a take-off of the suitcase that would turn Willie Sutton bright green. It will be easy for Dust to cut into Taylor and lay the plan out for him and volunteer his help in execution for a reasonable percentage of the scratch.”

Willie washed several powerful sleeping pills down to guarantee at least five hours' rest. Bama went to a window and peered into the twelve-foot-walled backyard at the prowling pack of giant German shepherds.

Willlie looked thoughtful. “Bama, let's make sure the kid don't wake up we didn't trust him. Okay?”

Bama said, “Sure, Willie. Gold Dust is almost as sweet as you are when you're together. Let down and sleep well, pal.”

•  •  •

It was the second morning of T.'s employment at fifty a week and room and board at Willie's house. T. was sitting at the unopened bar. He idly looked out the window. The street was alive with its crawl of sleepy-eyed derelicts. They blinked and gasped in the morning sunlight like iguanas.

Willie was in the rear booth going through some papers. A panel truck with “Snack Goodies” stenciled on its sides pulled to the curb in front of the bar.

Without taking his eyes off the swarthy driver who unlocked the rear door of the truck, T. said casually, “Uncle Willie, you expecting a snack truck this morning?”

Willie, without looking up, said, “Yeah, Jessie, but watch that he don't dump his crushed pickups from the grocery next door on us.”

T. watched the driver haul out, from the truck's rear door, an
aluminum, two-wheeled dolly-type cart. It was loaded with racks of cellophane-wrapped packages.

T., for an instant, shifted his eyes from the driver to the leggy barmaid. She had paused to shuck and jive on the sidewalk with a grocery clerk.

He shifted his eyes back to the truck. There was something about the way the driver's eyes flicked across the barroom window that brought T. to his feet. He snatched up the double-barreled shotgun, ball bearing loaded.

The driver half-turned his back. He reached into the truck. His hands blurred for an instant. He brought them out and started pushing the dull aluminum cart across the sidewalk. In that instant, T.'s eyes trapped a reflected laser of metallic blue light and wondered why.

T. shot a look at Willie, still deeply concentrated on his paperwork. T. crouched in the shadows at the side of the unlocked front door with shotgun in hand. The driver went past his grocery stop and wheeled to the bar's front door. He peered through the glass at Willie before easing the door open. He wheeled through it and the cart wheels rolled silently across the carpet.

Willie glanced up, and his eyes became enormous in the glow of a goosenecked lamp. He froze for a mini-instant before leaping to the floor. The assassin spat a Sicilian oath, then quickly jerked a submachine gun off a hook at the back of the cart. He humped low and started around the circular bar toward the booth.

As T. sprinted from the shadows to within three feet of the assassin, a peanut shell popped beneath his foot. The assassin's face was strangely childish, eyes large and innocent appearing as he turned back toward the sound. He swung the machine gun around. T. lunged and stuck the exploding double barrels against the assassin's forehead.

The spastic trigger finger tightened on the machine gun and chattered a spew of slugs into the ceiling. The fiery blasts of ball bearings
exploded the assassin's face and head asunder like a pricked balloon. A confetti of brain and gore splattered the back bar mirror.

The headless assassin flopped and knocked his feet against the bar for a moment. Then he lay still. T. stood staring down at the gore and shook. Willie dashed around the bar and snatched the shotgun.

T. turned dazedly and mumbled, “Uncle Willie, I feel funny . . . sick, couldn't help wasting him . . . he was . . .”

Willie quickly prodded and shoved him down into a distant booth, then he leaned over and whispered into T.'s ear, “One target is enough for the fucking wops. I blew that sonuvabitch's head off. Understand?”

T. nodded his head dumbly.

When the barmaid entered the door she screamed. She collapsed into the arms of one of the curious people attracted by the boom of the shotgun.

•  •  •

That night in Willie's house, the threesome sat in the den playing dirty hearts cards. T. played a card, and Bama slammed down the queen of spades, black Meg herself.

T. said, “I played the wrong card again, and looks like ain't no way tonight I'm gonna keep my thinking on cards.”

Bama and Willie looked into each other's eyes for an instant.

T. caught the exchange and said, “I ain't tenderhearted or nothing 'cause I drawed gallons of blood on the Westside, and even maybe killed one or two enemy at a long range in a big ruckus. But close-up pulling the trigger this morning smack-dab up in his face, I know I ain't never gonna forget him and his bloody stump neck.”

Willie patted T.'s shoulder. “Jessie, don't worry about him. You didn't murder him . . .” Willie said quietly. “You killed him in self-defense. Everything is nailed down neatly. The district police commander guarantees there is no reason to worry about anything—official, he means.”

Bama said, “Look, Jessie, this morning's shooting was the first
time you were sure you killed another human being. You actually saw yourself blow his head away. Nobody except a foamy maniac could forget it just like that. I've got a hunch, son, that he will fade to a painless shadow in your mind sooner than you think.”

T. said, “Hold on, Uncle Bama! I ain't feeling sorry and no pain for him, but for me that he was so crazy rushing in the bar to go, and it's me that give him his ticket. I just . . . Well, hope the fool ain't got one of them mamas that's gonna be grieving herself into no nuthouse, and even the grave.”

Bama said, “Jessie, it's only midnight. Play one more hand with us. Staying up a little longer may take the rocks out of your bed!”

T. grinned, “I don't wanta see old black Meg's mug enty more tonight. I'm gonna ‘doss' like a baby soon as I check the dogs and work out on Bama's big bag after I run some.”

T. turned and left the room.

A
cross town, top boss Louis Bellini sat in the living room of the Bellini mansion on Chicago's posh Gold Coast. The gold lame sleeve of his robe glittered in the moon-bathed room as he unconsciously combed long powerful fingers through his straight black hair littered with silver sproutings at the temples.

Bellini's deep-set black eyes stared out across the moon-bathed expanse of the estate's front yard. He focused his attention on the road and on the guard in his cubicle at the front gate.

Suddenly headlights flared on the road. A dark sedan turned into the driveway leading to the gate. Bellini rose from his chair. He reached the intercom phone near the front door on the first ring from the cubicle.

Bellini lifted the receiver and passed his underboss, Joe Tonelli, and chauffeur, through the gate. He opened the front door and filled his chest with fresh summer air. Then he left the door ajar. Now he felt less weighted with tension when he sat down on the sofa.

He watched the chauffeur leap out to open the car door for Tonelli and saw a flash of peach-colored pajamas beneath Tonelli's light topcoat and smiled thinly. Tonelli came into the living room and sat down beside Bellini. He had a harassed expression on his face.

Bellini let him stew for a long moment before he said, “Joe, I don't have to tell you why I wanted to speak with you at this late hour.”

Tonelli looked down at his burgundy bedroom slippers and said, “Mr. Bellini, it has to be about the death of Salvatore at the hands of Willie Poe this morning.”

Bellini's soft voice had a slight edge of exasperation as he said in Sicilian, “No, I am not at this moment that much concerned with the death of Salvatore, except that it represents more failure. I am gravely concerned about the life of Willie Poe that still goes on to plague and threaten our business interests with the coloreds citywide.”

Tonelli's Adam's apple jiggled in his throat. He raised his eyes to Bellini's face, wearing its perpetual little half smile. He said, “Mr. Bellini, excuse me, but you know we . . . I have done everything possible to solve the problem except the one thing you overruled last month.”

Bellini's stern eyes muscled Tonelli's eyes back to another inspection of his bedroom slippers.

Bellini patted Tonelli's shoulder affectionately and said sweetly in Sicilian. “My friend, what's wrong inside your head? You got maybe big personal problems or secret troubles screwing up your head and our urgent business?”

Tonelli wiped his hand across his dewy brow. He shook his head.

Bellini smiled and went on. “Giuseppe, you've got me asking myself if I need a right arm who can't figure out why we can't offer fifty grand to coloreds to solve our problem.” He stood and stared down at Tonelli. “Giuseppe, Poe's luck and guts, and your sloppy planning, have let this guy parlay himself into some kind of folk hero.”

Bellini leaned his face down into Tonelli's upturned oval of chalk. Bellini intoned, “He must go, Giuseppe, and we must send him before he becomes a living legend that our colored business partners will imitate. A lasting lesson of their bad Willie's folly will be taught the coloreds when he is dead with his mouth stuffed with his sex works and his black ass sliced off to the bone.
Capisce?
”

Tonelli winced beneath Bellini's long and intense staring. Bellini knelt on the carpet before Tonelli and seized his face between his palms. He said slowly, “My friend, I must have Willie Poe removed from my life. Two weeks, Giuseppe . . . two weeks . . . No more time, Giuseppe . . . You have much to lose.
Capisce?
”

Bellini followed Tonelli to the door and said, “Who will you use?” Tonelli smiled and said, “Frank Cocio has asked for Poe. He will take care of Poe assisted by my son-in-law, Jimmy Collucci.”

Bellini bounced a gigantic hand off Tonelli's shoulder and nodded knowingly. “Ah! With the team of Collucci and Cocio, you will not further disappoint me.” He paused thoughtfully and said, “I will not be unhappy if they hide a big salute inside his transportation as another way . . .”

Tonelli beamed and said, “Never again, Mr. Bellini, will a nigger be permitted to become a Willie Poe.”

T.
remembered the day before Bama went East to play con with Bulldog Slim, and a week before Rachel's release from the narc treatment center in Lexington. Bulldog, Bama, and T. drove past a mixed couple going into a plush apartment building. Bama frantically blew the car horn.

The couple put suitcases down to wave. The thin, sharp-faced white man, in faded denim, was in stark contrast to his flashily dressed Amazonian companion.

Bulldog said, “Bama, that lady is some pretty, too pretty for a silk stud that's raggity as Yakima.”

Bama chuckled and said, “That lady is Willie's sister, Reva, back from vacation. He's her husband. His skin is white, but he's as much nigger, in his heart, as we are. He wiped his ass with the social register. He split the white world with more money than Hollywood's got cocksuckers.”

T. shook his head. “How did he get rich?”

Bama said, “Building better bridges and digging better
tunnels all over the world. He's Darrel ‘the Mole' Miller the Third.”

At a stoplight, Bulldog said, “Lemme out here! Dig you on this corner later.” He leaped to the street and pumped his pipe-stem legs toward a sexy whore on the corner, grinning at him, as she ducked into a corner bar.