The Scorpion's Tale (9 page)

Charlie pondered Steven’s answer. “Isn’t
there another way? You’re young, with the rest of your life ahead
of you. You will be able to rebuild your life. Trust me, I
know.”

Steven swallowed hard, fighting back his
emotions. “No, I can’t, and no, I won’t. She was my life.”

Charlie looked down at the table. “Is there
anything I can do to dissuade you from this Herculean
endeavor?”

“No. Just help me on my way. It shouldn’t
weigh on your conscience.”

“What about your mother?” Charlie asked.

“What about my mother?” Steven asked,
defensively. “Are you going to tell me you know her, too?”

“I don’t know your mother. Is she still
alive?”

“Yes,” Steven replied.

“Do you have sisters or brothers?”

“Yes.”

“Your family and friends don’t need to see
you dead. You need to think of others before yourself. That’s what
ruined my life. I thought only of myself. I fulfilled my immediate
needs and I threw away everything. Go home and be a son, a brother,
and a friend even if you can’t be a husband or father.”

Both men sat in silence until the waiter
brought the check, which Steven grabbed and insisted on paying.

“Thank you for dinner, Steven, but
you
were supposed to be
my
guest.”

“No. Thank you,” Steven said, as he counted
out the bills to cover the tip. “Thanks for the advice. I
appreciate it. I know it was heartfelt.”

Charlie looked at Steven sadly. “I must
confess that I’ve been straddling the fence. I hadn’t decided
whether I was going to help you. Most of what I have told you is
not going to help. You’re going to have to see Billy Veeksburn, a
retired casino manager and part-time investigator living in a
trailer park on the outskirts of Vegas. Billy was an errand boy for
some of the families. He made a ton of money skimming from the
casinos and running drugs, and like me, lost everything. He’s a
total screw-up. But he’s important to you because he also worked
with the Scorpion. It was a hit on a politician who was trying to
make a name for himself by putting pressure on casinos and
investigating a few of their managers.”

“And,” Steven said, motioning with his hand
to hasten Charlie towards the relevant point.

“Billy delivered $250,000 in cash to a hotel
locker, no questions asked,” Charlie continued. “This politician, a
self-proclaimed religious family man with three young children,
also had a penchant for a certain prostitute at a local brothel.
Her name was Stella Blue, after that Grateful Dead song, because
she had the most gorgeous ice-blue eyes.” Charlie smiled, a
far-away look in his eyes, as if he could reach out and touch the
memory. He blinked his eyes and refocused on Steven. “Anyway, the
hit was quick and clean. They were found in bed together. Each had
been shot once in the head. Some of the victim’s colleagues,
including the police chief, thought it best if the real
circumstances surrounding the murders weren’t publicized. The chief
made arrangements for a local pimp to be arrested. The pimp was
eventually tried and acquitted, then simply disappeared. I believe
he found a permanent home in one of the many holes dug in the
desert. Afterwards, it was business as usual in the casinos.”

“Is this some fish tale passed down about Mr.
Veeksburn, or do you know this firsthand?”

“I was there Steven,” Charlie replied. “I was
involved in the damage control and I saw the carnage. What I didn’t
know was that the killer was the same guy I was going to hire for
my first brokered transaction.”

“Tell me about Billy.”

“A few years later, one of the families in
Vegas was having problems with a lieutenant in the police
department. He was the Vegas version of ‘Serpico’. Billy was
anxious to impress the local big shots and facilitated the hiring
of the Scorpion. Billy delivered $500,000 in cash and coordinated
all of the Scorpion’s arrangements. The only requirement, as
always, was that nobody was to see him. Curiosity got the better of
Billy. Instead of leaving as instructed after he had made a getaway
car available, Billy waited in the shadows for a look at the
assassin, which he got.”

Steven was practically on the edge of his
seat. “Go on Charlie, what happened?”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and let out a
long sigh. “Sorry Steven, that’s all I know. You’re going to have
to ask Billy. I’ll tell him you’re coming. ”

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

Steven was awakened by the telephone,
momentarily forgetting he was in bed at a hotel. He glanced at his
watch. It was three thirty. “Hello,” he said, yawning as he
spoke.

“Hello Steven, it’s Charlie. Sorry to wake
you.”

“What’s up?”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about
the Scorpion. The Scorpion is a perfectionist, a master of disguise
...”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Steven interrupted, “and I’m
crazy to be doing this! I have no chance. It’s suicide. This guy
can’t be found, let alone killed!”

“I think you can find him,” Charlie said. “He
has a character flaw and an actual weakness.”

Steven’s heart raced. It was the first
glimmer of hope in his quest to find this killer.

“His weakness is his loneliness and his need
for human discourse.”

“Could you repeat that in English?”

“I had many conversations with him that
needn’t have taken place. As we worked together more often, the
conversations became longer and he revealed more of himself. He
told me that he liked me and thought I was intelligent. I’m no
psychiatrist, but I believe he is a deeply conflicted man.”

“Why in God’s name is this important?”

“He’s a loner by profession, but doesn’t like
solitude. He seeks intelligent conversation. He looks for people
who will listen to him, maybe even understand him. While he
painstakingly endeavors to protect his physical identity, he is
equally careless in his conversations. He lets down his guard while
speaking. This is a serious flaw which may lead you to him.”

“I’m confused.”

“He can be identified, Steven. Maybe not by
his physical appearance, but by his voice and the words he uses.
Your eyes may deceive you, but you can rely on your ears to find
him.”

Steven breathed deeply into the telephone.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Steven, his voice has never changed. It’s a
distinctively deep baritone. He’s articulate, with an impressive
vocabulary. You need to listen to people’s voices. You need to rely
on your hearing.”

Steven digested the information for a few
seconds. “Thank you, Charlie, but that’s very general. It’s not
going to help.”

“He uses phrases that are total anachronisms
like “jolly old fellow,” “let bygones be bygones,” “days of
yore”–nobody talks like that anymore. Not even the Brits. Just
listen and pay attention to what’s going on around you.”

“Thanks, Charlie, I appreciate the
advice.”

“One more thing, Steven. He’s a man with a
great intelligence network. He makes it his business to know
everything that is going on around him. I wish you luck.”

“Charlie, why are you telling me this? Aren’t
you afraid of him?”

“Yes, Steven, I’m petrified of him.”

Steven hung up the phone frightened, but not
of death, for he would gladly accept death’s embrace if he could
take the Scorpion with him. He feared failure. He thought about his
wife and children and imagined his reunion with them. He closed his
eyes and dreamed of an unidentifiable face swirling in the mist.
Each time he got close enough to reach out and touch it, it changed
into a featureless image. Finally, it disappeared.

Nick Manzione was in a foul mood as he
battled commuters on the Belt Parkway. He weaved through traffic,
trying to make up for lost time on his way to Kennedy Airport.
Nick hated airports, especially Kennedy. It was too congested,
flights were always late, and there were entirely too many cops. To
make matters worse, he had to meet an international flight from
Italy, so he might encounter a customs agent. Nick was a celebrity
in the United States Customs database.

Nick leaned on the horn as he verbally
assaulted a cabbie who had cut him off exiting the parkway. The
driver quickly saluted him with his middle finger, further fueling
Nick’s rage. He would have tailed the taxi and chased him through a
few neighborhoods, but Alberto had admonished him to be punctual
for his special visitor.

Nick got lucky and found a parking space near
the terminal. He jockeyed through the crowds and made it to the
Alitalia counter only ten minutes late. A young lady smiled at him
from behind the counter.

“May I help you, sir?”

“You certainly may,” he replied, smiling back
at her. “I’m checking on the status of flight 4717 from Milan.”

The young woman typed on her keyboard. “Hmmm,
I see it was delayed out of London, but it’s in the air and
scheduled to arrive in an hour.”

Nick nodded in appreciation and made his way
toward the Admiral’s Club. Who the heck is this prima donna from
San Remo who simply had to make her first pilgrimage to New York,
now, at the worst possible time? He knew nothing about her except
that she was a distant relative of someone in the family, and he
had the good fortune of being her personal tour guide for the
duration of her stay. Thanks to this bitch, he was missing an
incredible weekend with his buddies at the Trump Taj Mahal in
Atlantic City. They were going to be joined by some very special
ladies flying in from Costa Rica. Yes, Nick Manzione was indeed in
a foul mood.

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

Detective Johnston sat at his desk polishing
off the last of two hot dogs piled high with mustard and
sauerkraut. He licked the spicy brown mustard from the fingertips
on his left hand while rummaging through papers with his right. He
had been unsuccessfully trying to reach Steven for the last
twenty-four hours and decided to check the airports. Sure enough,
he found Steven’s flight to Chicago. Steven had used his own name.
He reached for his Rolodex for the phone number of his oldest
friend, Marty Watts, a lieutenant from the south side of Chicago.
He dialed the number.

A deep voice gruffly answered, “Watts
here.”

“What’s here? I give up, but while we’re at
it, who’s on first?” Detective Johnston joked.

“Ah, geez, Mike, you really need new
material. How the hell are you?”

“I’m good. How are Dolores and the boys?”

“Can’t complain. The boys are eating me out
of house and home and all they want is to borrow the car and cruise
for girls. I tell you Mike, these girls have got my boys’ heads all
screwed up! Right now, I’m just hoping they make it through their
senior year.”

“Don’t sweat it Marty. They’re great kids.
Let them enjoy their last year. You remember how it was for us? We
had the same problem!”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. So what’s up? I
know you didn’t call just to say hello!”

The detective smiled to himself. He loved the
brutal honesty shared among his fellow officers. No hurt feelings
and no bruised egos. No need to beg forgiveness when you haven’t
called in ages. Just get to the point.

“I need a favor Marty. Did you read about the
multiple homicides in the Hamptons?”

“It was all over the national news!”

“Steven Capresi, the guy whose wife and kids
were killed, skipped town and took a flight to the Windy City. I
was wondering if you could see where he’s staying.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“He’s either the most tragic figure I’ve ever
met or he’s a cold-blooded killer and Oscar-eligible liar.”

“Sounds like a very talented guy,” Marty
joked.

Detective Johnston laughed. “Yeah, I know I
sound like an idiot. I haven’t got a handle on him. I like the guy,
but I’ve also got a weird feeling.”

“You think he killed his own family?”

“I’m certain he didn’t pull the trigger. I’m
more concerned whether he set it up.”

“You think he’s a total psycho?”

“I don’t think so. He seems normal.”

“So did Ted Bundy!” Marty retorted.

“I think he might do something stupid. He’s a
typical hot-headed Italian. You know the type.”

“Not like us level-headed Irishmen,” Marty
joked.

“I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt. If
he wasn’t involved, I suspect he’s looking for whoever actually
was. That’s why I want to dog him.”

“Fair enough. I’ll check into it and call you
back.”

Detective Johnston hung up satisfied. By
evening he’d have a bead on Capresi, and then he would chew
Steven’s ass for not checking in.

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

Nick watched the planes taxi to and from the
gates, bored senseless. Nick had just finished his second margarita
when he heard the announcement for the arrival of “the princess’s”
flight. He glanced at his watch. Damn, he thought, ninety minutes
late!

Nick paid the bill and hurried across the
terminal to the customs waiting area. It was crammed with people
awaiting arriving flights. Nick scanned the crowd, making sure
there wasn’t anyone around he needed to avoid. He smirked as he
perused the sea of limousine drivers in shabby black suits and
caps. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a plain
white paper, which he slowly unfolded. In large capital letters,
handwritten in black magic marker was the name “Giovanna.” As
passengers made their way into the terminal, Nick rolled his eyes
and grudgingly held up the sign as far away from his body as
possible, casually looking in the opposite direction.

One by one, the limousine drivers disappeared
with their passengers. Nick looked around at the handful of people
still waiting and glanced at his watch. The crowd was rapidly
thinning. He had the unpleasant feeling he often got when waiting
for his luggage as the carousel became empty. He approached a young
man walking past.