The Scorpion's Tale (8 page)

Gia’s Pride Imports–where had he heard that
name? Steven wondered. “No. Who the hell is Gia?”

“I have no idea. Some guy named Roberto
Milani ran the business. Some of the Italian detectives in
Manhattan have contacts in Italy who made inquiries. You want to
know the most amazing part?”

Steven moved forward in his chair and
polished off the rest of the beer. “Tell me,” he said, interested
in the connection with Tony’s business.

“Roberto Milani was murdered in his sleep
along with his mother and father. This happened two days after the
Westhampton murders. We’re working with San Remo Police for
ballistic comparisons. I have a strong suspicion it’s the same
guy.”

Steven flinched. “Are you telling me the
killer went to Italy and murdered Milani’s family after killing
mine because Milani was involved with Tony?”

Detective Johnson knew he finally had
Steven’s attention. “Exactly, although it’s possible that he may
have had help. We’re still figuring it out. We’ve got forensic
accountants pouring over Tony’s business records.”

“Now you’re talking,” Steven said. “That’s
great work.”

“By the way, I spoke with Teresa. She vouched
for your alibi and confirmed you were with her until 1:30 a.m.”

Steven’s felt nauseated. He hadn’t thought
about Teresa. A surge of guilt came over him.

“I want you to stay in touch with me. I don’t
want you going anywhere without checking with me first,” the
detective said. “Do you understand?”

“Where the hell do you think I’m going?” he
said, fingering his e-ticket.

“I’m here if there’s anything you need.
Everything is going to work out, you’ll see.”

“I have to believe that. Good night,
detective.” Steven hung up the telephone. He saw Detective Johnston
as a good man who cared about doing the right thing. It didn’t feel
right to lie to him, but confiding in the detective was not an
option. Steven had already purchased another cell phone with a new
number, given only to Marco and Nick. He knew that Johnston could
only reach the voice mail on his old phone. Steven double-checked
the items in his suitcase and carry-on bag. He needed to get a few
hours of sleep since he did not know when he would next have an
opportunity for that luxury.

Steven caught a cab at O’Hare and headed
downtown. Who was “Charlie P.”? According to Nick, Charlie was once
a high-flying, street-savvy criminal defense attorney for Chicago’s
most prestigious law firm. He had been the firm’s torrential
rainmaker, bringing untold millions into its coffers. Charlie was
the embodiment of the American Dream, rising to the top echelon of
Chicago society from his family’s humble beginnings as Italian
immigrants. He shared a mansion in Glencoe with his beauty-queen
wife and two stunning daughters. They spent summer vacations in
Europe and winter holidays at his house in Aspen.

However, Charlie had a serious personality
flaw. He was an incurable thrill seeker, never content with his
life, constantly seeking new challenges. Charlie enjoyed mingling
with celebrated personalities, the wealthy, and the powerful. He
eventually crossed the line by taking several organized crime
figures as his preferred clientele and alienating his corporate
clients. Like a heroin addict, Charlie got a rush from these
businessmen of the night and the crimes they “allegedly” committed.
He found himself spending most of his time traveling to New York
and Las Vegas, leaving little time or energy to maintain his
prestigious society relationships. He began frequenting gambling
tables and Vegas strip-clubs, and started to drink intemperately.
His transformation was rapid, culminating in his firm firing him.
Although his partners loved the money he brought to the firm, they
couldn’t stomach the negative publicity that Charlie had been
generating. They could no longer tolerate the unwanted attention he
garnered from federal and state authorities. Furthermore, his
corporate clients, who viewed themselves as cleaner criminals, did
not want their attorney putting them on hold to take a call from
men with names like Sammy “the Widow-Maker” Scarlatti.

Five minutes after checking in, Steven sat at
the Hilton’s bar, sipping a Bloody Mary. The concierge came over
holding an envelope.

“Mr. Capresi?”

“Yes,” Steven answered, looking up from his
newspaper.

“A gentleman delivered this letter a few
minutes ago. You weren’t in your room, so I took the liberty of
bringing it to you.”

Steven pulled two dollars from his shirt
pocket. “Thank you.” He read the note:

Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Capresi. I’ve made an
8:00 dinner reservation at Gibson’s Steakhouse on the corner of
State and Rush. Give the maitre’d your name and he will escort you
to my table. See you then. Charlie P.

Steven folded the paper and glanced at his
watch. As he walked away he threw the crumpled note in a lobby
receptacle.

-------------------

At a few minutes to eight, Steven entered
Gibson’s Steakhouse and was directed to a booth in the corner of
the main dining room where Charlie P. was sitting. Two martini
glasses, one empty, one full, were sitting on the table in front of
him. Across the table was a glass containing a dark, amber-colored
liquid with several ice cubes.

“Have a seat Steven. It’s very nice to meet
you. I took the liberty of ordering your drink–Johnnie Walker Red,
on the rocks– as well as dinner. I hope you don’t mind.”

Steven smiled appreciatively and nodded
toward his drink. “I see you’ve already got some intel.”

Charlie P. was exactly what Nick had
described, except more impressive. His hair, buzz-cut short, gave
his head a platinum sheen. He was impeccably dressed in an elegant
black suit and a crisp white shirt, with a gray and silver striped
tie, and a matching silk handkerchief peeking out from his upper
suit pocket.

“May I call you Charlie or do you prefer
Charlie P.?”

“My friends call me Charlie.”

“I’m honored,” Steven replied.

“I’ve been a lifelong friend of Alberto and
Pierro, may he rest in peace. I’ve had people drop me like a bad
habit, but Alberto and Pierro never faltered; they were there in
good times and in bad.” Charlie paused and scratched his eyebrow.
“I’ve known politicians, athletes, celebrities; and yet, Alberto
and Pierro, infamously categorized as “mobsters,” are two of the
most honorable men I have ever met.”

“They have always been true to their
friends.”

Charlie smiled. “That’s why I am here.
Alberto loves you. You would never remember me, but I met you when
you were young and hanging around with Nick. You were a likeable
kid.”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted
as a woman stumbled into their table. Steven’s eyes met her
unusual, silver-blue eyes and he stood to help her. He immediately
thought of Amanda’s angelic eyes, a color he had never seen before
until now. After an awkward apology Steven sat and watched the
woman proceed to her table.

“As I said,” Charlie continued, “I don’t
expect you to remember me. There were a lot of people coming and
going through your neighborhood in those days. I knew your father.
You remind me a lot of him.”

Steven turned pale.

“What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen
a ghost.”

“How could you have known my father? He was
in the food business.”

Charlie shrugged. “He was just one of the
guys in the neighborhood. Summer nights were unpleasantly warm.
Everyone used to hang out in the street where it was cooler. It was
a good opportunity to meet the neighbors.” Charlie pulled out a
vial from his jacket and spilled a few pills onto the table.
“Medication for my heart,” he said, swallowing the pills and
chasing them down with his martini.

“Do you know what happened to my father?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, that’s not important. I didn’t come
here to discuss my father. Let’s talk about why I’ve traveled to
Chicago.”

“Alberto isn’t happy about this meeting.”
Charlie said. “But he asked me to tell you everything I know.”

“Thank you,” Steven said, studying Charlie’s
face. Nick had told Steven that Charlie had been a high-stakes
poker player, and Steven realized he wasn’t going to get anything
from Charlie that Charlie wasn’t willing to divulge.

Charlie leaned back in the booth and locked
his hands behind his head, stretching his neck from side to side.
“I guess it’s time we discussed the illustrious Scorpion. I’m sure
Alberto has told you I never met the Scorpion. That doesn’t mean I
haven’t had interesting
conversations
with him. I’ve spoken
with him many times.”

Steven slid back in the booth with heightened
interest. “Tell me.”

Charlie placed his hands on the table, sat
erect, and moved slightly forward as if delivering an opening
statement to a jury. “After I was disbarred, I hit the lowest point
in my life. My wife divorced me and took my kids, and I lost all my
money. I was having a hard time. Some friends took pity and got me
involved in their business deals. One deal involved a heroin
shipment for two Jamaicans trying to make a name for themselves.
The Jamaicans decided they weren’t going to pay. My client told me
to resolve the problem. I brokered my first hit. One of my
colleagues recommended the Scorpion. I had my contact make the
arrangements; the only hitch was that nobody had ever seen this
guy. This was one of his conditions–complete anonymity. My first
contact with him was at a payphone where he called me. I spoke with
him five or six times during that first contract.”

“What happened to the Jamaicans?” Steven
asked.

“They were found floating in the Hudson
River.”

“How much did you pay him?”

“A quarter of a million dollars, but that was
a long time ago. His price is now much higher. Rumor has it he got
two million for his latest job.”

“You mean the job that killed my family?”

Charlie didn’t attempt an answer and Steven
wasn’t waiting for one. “When was the last time you worked with
him?”

“About ten months ago.”

“Another hit?”

“Yes,” Charlie answered, trying not to say
anything more than necessary.

“How many hits have you brokered for him?”
Steven asked, an accusatory tone in his voice.

Charlie didn’t like Steven’s tone. “I don’t
pull the trigger. I merely facilitate the inevitable. The targets
were destined for elimination.”

“That’s right,” Steven shot back. “Just like
my family. Some guy like you ‘brokers’ the hit. He can sleep at
night because someone else pulled the trigger!”

Charlie lowered his eyes and sank a little
deeper into the sofa, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “Don’t indict
me. I bring people together. I make telephone calls. That’s all I
do.”

“Yeah, Charlie, you just set the wheels in
motion and people get killed.” Steven’s anger slowly abated. He
realized it was stupid to belabor the point, especially with
someone who was helping him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. Just tell me
about the Scorpion.”

“He’s got a distinct, soothing, baritone
voice with a subtle English accent. He is very intelligent and
charming.”

Steven frowned. “I don’t believe I’m going to
be charmed by the prick.”

Charlie nodded in agreement. “No, I wouldn’t
expect you would.”

“How is he intelligent?”

Charlie scratched his chin reflectively
before replying. “He is well-versed in academia. His vocabulary is
extensive. As a lawyer, I can appreciate mastery of the English
language. He believed he was imperfectly perfect.”

“What do you mean?”

“He loved obscure philosophical quotes such
as Schopenhauer–‘After your death you will be what you were before
your birth.’ Or from Kant–‘Such crooked wood as that which man is
made of, nothing straight can be fashioned.’ He was also a very
accomplished hunter. He told me about several hunting expeditions.
He was incredibly intrigued with the concept of man versus man in a
survival of the fittest setting.”

“Sounds like a sick puppy to me.”

“Maybe so, but he was also philosophical
about the concept and constantly stressed the importance of
patience. He told me, and I quote: ‘Patience is a virtue, but more
importantly, a blueprint for survival. A predator must relentlessly
study its prey. By doing so, it will know its movements, its
motivation and needs, its habits, strengths, and weaknesses’. He
thinks hunting is a gloriously noble pursuit and the essence of
life! He believes he is the perfect hunter at the same time he is
aware man is imperfect.”

Steven felt goose bumps rising on his arms.
“Why in the world would he tell you about himself? Why wasn’t it
strictly business?”

“He is lonely. It was never my idea to have
these conversations. He’d always go off on tangents. It sounds
bizarre, but he wanted me to know he was more than a professional
assassin. He spoke about God. He quoted Nietzsche: ‘God too has his
hell: that is his love for man’.’”

Steven frowned.

“He feels no remorse,” Charlie continued. “He
views himself as a shepherd tending a flock or a farmer cultivating
his crops. ‘Sometimes you pull weeds, sometimes you ferret out the
weak and the sick,’ he told me. He sees himself as a necessary link
in the chain of life, a vulture that scavenges the remains of a
carcass. He eliminates those who must die.”

The salads came and the men ate in silence.
The main course quickly followed and little else was said during
the meal. Steven began to feel tired. He ordered a double espresso
to give him a jolt.

“May I ask you a question?” Charlie asked, as
he sipped his coffee.

“Fire away.”

“Why are you pursuing him?”

“Because I have nothing left and nothing to
lose.”