For Nothing (24 page)

El iot saw that he was not going to win this battle. Backing down, he crunched his lips together,

“At least bring Hi-Def with you. Besides, how are you gonna get there?”

El iot tossed the keys to Hi-Def. “Keep an eye on our cowboy here.”

Hi-Def walked out the door Alex was holding open for him. As he strode past, Alex heard him mutter, “More like he is gonna keep an eye on me.” Alex let a smal smile creep out and pul ed his tattered leather jacket in tight around him. His smile crept out and the cold crept in.

Hambone’s voice echoed back to him as the door shut behind “
you got Angels sitting in your
shoulder
.”

Maybe he did. Alex decided to let the Angels guide him. He let a puff of heated air escape into the dark night. He had some detective work to do.

Rafael Rontego sat in a leather chair, his foot resting on his opposite knee in the spacious living room of Christian ‘The Pope’ Biela. This condo was the lap of luxury. A window lined the outer curve of the floor and created a one hundred and eighty degree arch of glass that provided a spectacular view of the city.

The night lights danced up the fifteen stories and reflected inward, casting a pale light across the polished dark tiles. Mahogany furniture fil ed in the voluminous dwel ing and a large glass bar resided a dozen feet from the grandiose entryway.

The assassin took the liberty of pouring himself a scotch and was sipping it. His pistol rested on the arm of his chair, within easy reach. Oddly, the kil er was relaxed and enjoying the moment of solitude. A strange calm overtook Rafael Rontego since he decided on a specific course of action. The hardest part of doing something was the indecision that often preceded it.

A few moments passed, and his thoughts were so focused inward that the assassin almost didn’t hear the rattle of the lock as a key lifted the deadbolt. His eyes, already wel adjusted to the gloom, noticed that The Pope arrived, though that infernal cough would have announced it even if Rafael wore a blindfold.

The Pope glided into the room. He was wearing his wel -pressed suit, blue with thin pinstripes, which was a little ruffled from a long day of work. His briefcase was in one hand and with his free hand he searched the wal looking for a light switch.

Having found it, he flipped the switch inside the entryway expecting il umination. The bulb was out. The assassin maximized his advantage of darkness by unscrewing the bulb from the socket, just enough to prevent a connection.

Chris Biela walked toward the bar and pul ed a cord on a tiny lamp. Stil facing the bar, with his back to the assassin, the consigliore placed the briefcase atop the bar and began to pour a drink. As he poured the tonic, he flicked his briefcase open, stil oblivious to the assassin waiting behind. He stirred his tonic with one hand and rummaged through his briefcase with the other. After a few moments, the consigliore spun around with a tiny derringer in one hand and smooth vodka in the other.

Rafael Rontego didn’t flinch. He just took another sip of his scotch, his pistol pointed at The Pope and resting on the arm of the leather chair.

“I guess I won’t need this,” The Pope remarked with an annoyed smirk. He lowered his miniature pistol.

“What makes you so certain,” Rontego asked. He took another sip of the scotch. It was a fine drink.

“You and I both know that if you wanted to kil me I would have never known you were here.” The Pope looked the assassin in the eye and took a sip of his tonic. “So that begs the question, what does bring you here?”

“Two things,” Rafael said as he took his hand off his pistol and went into his jacket pocket. He pul ed a matchbook out and flicked it toward Don Ciancetta’s right hand man. The Pope snagged it out of the air and flipped it over. “Muro is dead,” the assassin stated. Christian Biela walked into the living room and sat in another chair across from Rontego.

“That explains much.” The Pope seemed to be lost in thought for a moment but then he continued, “We received an offer a couple of days ago, for a sit down tomorrow with our friends Joe Falzone and Aldo Marano.” He let out a low wheeze that grew into a steady cough. He brought his sleeve up and caught a bit of spittle before it flew out into the stratosphere of the room.

“It shouldn’t be related.” Rontego kept a straight face trying to hide how disgusted he was with the man’s physical imperfection. “I kil ed him just a few hours ago.”

“But it is.” The Pope took another sip on his drink and looked again at Rontego. “If they kil ed you last night, or me tonight, or the Don’s son Joey, or Don Ciancetta himself, they would hold al the cards come tomorrow evening.”

“But they just came after me,” Rontego said, hoping to learn more from The Pope.

“This means, more than likely, we are al open targets. Or we were until Muro was kil ed.” The Pope retreated within himself again.

“Wel , the good news is you simply have to

“Wel , the good news is you simply have to stay alive for another eighteen hours then,” Rontego remarked. “But let me caution you in the words of Magaddino, may he rest in peace, ‘Beware the dinner invitation from a hungry wolf’.” The Pope took in the advice and nodded his head. Then shifting gears, he shook his head and coughed. “So, two things brought you here, I assume one is to get paid for the Muro thing. Fair enough.

But what now can I do for you regarding the other?” Rontego downed the last bit of scotch in one gulp and declared, “I’m retiring. I want out.” Christian Biela almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat as he looked at the assassin and realized he was serious. The piercing glare coming from the assassin made the consigliore shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“But why?” he asked.

“Why not?” The assassin asked. “There is bound to be a lot of heat coming down on me after al the work I have been putting in. Also, you and I both know that the Don gets a little bit squirrel y in a crisis. I don’t need him second guessing my tenure.

What I want from you is a guarantee that no one comes looking for me. I put in my dues. Who knows, maybe this is just a laying low period for me. But as far as anyone is concerned, I am cal ing it a retirement.”

“I see,” The Pope said. He turned inward again. After a few moments, he smiled and said, “It’s not good business to go after you, Raf.” The assassin stood up and walked towards the door. He holstered his pistol and placed his fedora atop his head. “Good. Just make sure the Don sees things your way.”

The Pope got up and fol owed him towards the door. “But where wil you go? What wil you do?”

“I think I have a friend to stay with, in Canada.” Rafael stepped out into the hal way and turned around. “He has a little cabin by the water. I think I might do a little fishing.” The assassin smiled.

“Ah, I think our friend is mutual. I know of a friend of ours who recently made that trip. Tel him Chris says ‘Hel o.’ What of your payment for Muro?”

“Keep it. Keep it as a down payment on your promise.” The assassin twirled around and walked past the bewildered guard in the hal way.

“You have my word, Rafael. No wiseguy wil look for you,” The Pope cal ed out after the assassin, spurring a tiny hiccup of a cough. The Pope shot a glance at the useless guard in the hal way as Rafael rounded the corner of the building. “Next time, do your fucking job.”

*

A slight rain began to slip from the mournful and overcast sky that seemed to be perpetual y bound to the city of Buffalo, New York. The snow banks absorbed the hint of moisture in a way that created a glistening effect off of the street lamps in the quiet Hamburg neighborhood, a suburb just outside of the city. The soggy lumps of white seemed to get even more amorphous as the rain drops melted the freshest layers of ice and snow.

To make matters worse, Hi-Def’s ride didn’t have heat. Alex Vaughn and Hi-Def wrapped their jackets tighter around them and rubbed their hands together as they sat outside of Jack’s residence and worked up the courage to make a run for the doorway. They parked several doors down so as to not draw attention to a parked car in a dead man’s driveway.

Alex always liked coming to Jack’s place.

The two-story home was built on a brick foundation while the second story was protected by side paneling. It felt like a second home, even if Charlotte hesitated to accept invitations here. Vaughn couldn’t blame her though; it was set less than a hundred yards from a large cemetery. They would be putting Jack in the ground, within sight of his home, sometime in the next few days. Alex shook his head and clapped his hands together in an attempt to get circulation moving in his frozen digits.

“Ready then,” he declared more than asked.

Hi-Def, uncomfortable, mumbled something in reply, but Alex wasn’t listening.

He opened the car door and took off in a jog.

In a few moments, he was under the overhang in the doorway and his fingers were feeling along the top of the outer doorframe. He felt some debris which he imagined were the remnants of bugs or bits of dirt until his fingertips slid across the smooth surface of something metal.

Hi-Def came running up behind him and as he exited the rain he asked, “A key?” he exited the rain he asked, “A key?” Alex brought his hand down and showed the trophy of his find before inserting it into the lock.

The second Alex stepped in the home, a flood of memories wafted over him. Christmas parties, sharing a beer, playing cards, watching footbal ; they al assailed him and for a moment, he felt the loss as poignantly as when it first occurred.

He pushed the memories aside and his reflexive instincts of detection kicked in. Alex searched the house, room by room. The place had been combed over as articles were moved from their original location.

In the living room, just off of the entryway, al of the furniture was moved; the indentations in the carpeting were not in line with the legs of the furniture. That was not unusual, as forensics most likely went over the area looking for hair fibers, blood, anything which could yield a DNA sample.

In the office, the drawers were pried open and the filing cabinets were rifled through. Again, it al seemed normal enough. Detectives on scene would have wanted to know what cases Jack worked on from home. They would have searched his records for any indication as to who was motivated enough to murder a cop.

Through it al , Hi-Def fol owed Alex like a lapdog. When they were done with the main level, Vaughn had enough of the computer geek and sent him upstairs while he moved onto the basement. At first, Hi-Def thought to protest, but with a death glare from Vaughn, he scurried up the staircase.

As Hi-Def went up, Alex went down. The basement was where Alex and Jack spent most of their time. It was a pure hangout room, built for a man. The leather chairs and wood paneling made the place feel comfortable yet like a camping lodge.

Alex was stil envious of the sixty inch flat screen mounted on the wal and the complete bar that lined one side of the room. He slid behind the bar and a quiet chuckle escaped his lips as he rested his hands on the wooden rail.

He could hear Jack admonish him, “Now now, just the owner gets behind this bar!” Alex took a shot glass and grabbed a bottle of rum. He poured a shot of Jack’s favorite and set the bottle back down. How many times his friend stood in this very same spot and listened to Alex gripe about his situation at home with Charlotte?

“She just doesn’t get me,” Alex would complain.

And always Jack would give him that knowing look. That look that said, “I get it, but don’t screw it up buddy.”

On one such occasion, soon after Charlotte threw him out, he sat on a bar stool across from this very spot as Jack poured him a shot. Alex went on about the righteousness of the job and how important catching the bad guys was.

He declared, “If she can’t see how important this work is, then maybe she doesn’t deserve to have me around anyway!”

Jack, looked into a glass as he rubbed it dry with a towel, looking the part of a bar keep. “Alex, I am going to tel you something. Don’t go getting al blustery when I say it, because believe me, I know how important this job is. But why do you want to go on working so hard when it is hurting your marriage so bad? Alex, there wil always be more bad guys to catch. It doesn’t matter how many you lock up.

Tomorrow, there wil be another one. Sometimes that’s the one thing I am certain about. While that’s great for job security, it ain't so great on a marriage.” Jack put the glass down and grabbed up the rag as he walked around the bar behind him.

Alex was listening with half his heart lingering in the shot glass resting between his thumb and forefinger.

Jack continued as he walked toward the stairs leading upward.

“Tomorrow, next week, there wil be some asshole that needs cuffs. But I can promise you one thing, there is one Charlotte. Enjoy the rum. Then go back home, to your wife.”

Jack threw the towel across the room as he turned and walked up the stairs.

Alex, of course, did not go back home.

Vaughn looked at the ful shot glass sitting in front of him. He poured the glass out on the floor between his feet.