16 Hitman (20 page)

"That was when he was alive and kicking. Now he's dead, he's
more important.You say he worked for Tony Fusilli."

"So?"

"And Frankie Delgado?"

"Same thing."

"Just what is Tony Fusilli involved in that would require the
services of a hitman? More to the point, what is Tony Fusilli
involved in that might shorten the life of a Manhattan schoolteacher?"

"Sounds simple, doesn't it?"

"Simple and obvious. I don't know why you haven't already
done it."

"Well, for one thing, it's not my case. But if it were, what could
I do? Investigating Tony Fusilli is no walk in the park."

"The cops are scared of him? You ask him questions, wind
up dead?"

"That's not the point. You don't just walk up to Tony Fusilli.
Tony Fusilli has lawyers, and layers and layers of protection. You
wanna find out something about Tony Fusilli, you do it discreetly
on the sly."

MacAullif took out a cigar, drummed it on his desk. "That's for
starters. Then you factor in the diversity of the man's holdings.
Tony Fusilli has real estate. Tony Fusilli has trucking. Tony Fusilli
has import/export of everything from olive oil to automobiles.
And that's his legitimate business. Then there's all the fucking stuff
he shouldn't be doing. Do you know how many people are lining
up to talk about that?"

"You don't have to dig into all that. You just have to find a
logical connection to Martin Kessler."

MacAullif stuck the cigar in his mouth as if he were going to
smoke it. He wasn't, of course. His doctor had made him quit. But
he waggled it at a jaunty angle.

"Be my guest"

TONY FusILLI LIVED IN A fortress. A thirty-three-story building
on Tenth Avenue in the garment district. Tony owned the whole
thing. His penthouse triplex was rumored to be nice. Not that
anyone had ever seen it. The majority of Tony's work force never
made it past the thirtieth floor.

I didn't even make it past the lobby.

"Who?" demanded a uniformed security guard/doorman who
looked like he could have played tackle for the New York Giants.
At one time he probably did.

"I want to see Tony Fusilli."

"Is he expecting you?"

That was one of those questions you answer it wrong, you're
out on your ear. It was a close call, but I figured the wrong answer
was yes. He'd check, discover the lie, and tie me into a few perfect sailor's knots. "No" didn't seem promising either, but it had
the advantage of being the truth.

I gave it a try.

"Then he won't see you," the guard said promptly.

"But he wants to see me," I said. "At least he will when he
knows I'm here. How would I tell him I'm here?"

"You would call him on the phone."

"That phone?" I said, pointing to the one on the security desk.

"Sure"

I picked up the phone, said, "What's the number?"

"You don't have the number?"

No.

"How you gonna call if you don't have the number?"

"I'll buzz upstairs. How do you buzz upstairs?"

"I punch in the number."

"What number?"

"Mr. Fusilli's number.You don't have it?"

"No.

"Too bad."

I hung up the phone, said, "Who can I talk to?"

Me.

I took a breath. "No disrespect meant, but we're kind of talked
out. Who else could I talk to?"

"You want to talk to someone else?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"One of Tony Fusilli's officers"

"Which one?"

"The one you have the number for"

"I have all their numbers."

"Okay. I want to talk to whoever has Tony Fusilli's ear."

He shook his head. "Sorry. I have to have a name."

"I haven't got a name."

"Or a number."

"Extension 23."

He nodded approvingly. "Nice try. I'm sure some phone systems work that way."

The guy was a son of a bitch. It occurred to nie if this were
a book, I'd come back in a later chapter and give him his comeuppance. In real life, I'd probably never see him again.

While we were arguing, Tony Fusilli came in. I'd never seen
Tony Fusilli, but I knew it was him because he was wearing a
pinstripe suit that cost more than your average three-bedroom
condominium, and more jewelry than a fortune-teller, rap star,
and sultan combined. I also knew because he came with an
entourage of henchmen whose total IQ probably didn't pass a
hundred, but who obviously were heavily armed, plus two
geniuses by comparison-a tall man in a three-piece suit and a
pudgy, curly-haired man in a rumpled jacket and tie-most likely
his lawyer and his accountant.

I also deduced it from the fact the security guard snapped to
attention and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Fusilli."

The bejeweled Donald Trump wannabe turned a cold eye on
me and said, "Who's this?"

I couldn't ask for a better cue. "Mr. Fusilli, I need to see you.
It's rather urgent"

Cold eyes burned into me. "Was I talking to you?" To the
security guard he repeated, "Who's he?"

"He wanted to see Mr. Fusilli, but he says you're not
expecting him"

"Then why is he still here?"

That wiped the smile off the security guard's face. I grinned
at his discomfort.

"I was just getting his story before sending him along."

Fusilli smirked. "Oh, big shot. As if you could actually do that.
Instead of just impressing hint with how important you are." He
jerked a finger at the tall lawyer-looking type in the three-piece
suit. "Joey, stay down here, find out what the guy wants."

Joey nodded, started for me.

The pudgy, curly-haired man in the rumpled jacket put out
his hand and stopped him. "Joey, I need you upstairs with me.
Louie, you do it."

The rude, aggressive son of a bitch I'd taken for the big boss
said, "Yes, Mr. Fusilli," and the hierarchy fell into place. The
pudgy, curly-haired man in the rumpled suit was Tony Fusilli. I
had pegged everyone wrong. It was almost reassuring.

Tony and the entourage went upstairs, which left me with
faux-Fusilli and the security guard.

"Tony doesn't have his own elevator?" I observed.

"He does," the security guard said. "But it goes straight to the
thirtieth floor."

"Motor-mouth!" Louie said. He took me by the shoulders, led
me out of earshot. "What do you want with Mr. Fusilli?"

"I want to save him some trouble."

He scowled. "Get specific, douchebag, and I do mean now."

"Martin Kessler."

He was poker-faced. I'd have thought the name meant
nothing. If I didn't know better.

"What about him?" he demanded.

"You know who he is?"

"No.

"That's strange. How about Victor Marsden?"

I think his eyes flicked on that one. Though I couldn't swear
to it.

"Who's that?" he said.

I shook my head. "Not good. Kessler you say, `What about
hint?' then deny you know him. Marsden you say, `Who's he?' to
head off the question of whether you know him."

"You talk funny. Are you a cop?"

"No"

"I didn't think so. Let's see some III"

I took out my investigator's license. "I'm Stanley Hastings. I
want to talk to Tony Fusilli."

He looked at my ID and laughed. "Oh. Private.You must think
you're hot shit."

I said nothing, flipped my II) closed, slipped it back in my
pocket.

He scowled. "What's your business with Fusilli?"

"The cops can tie him to a couple of murders. I thought he'd
like to know."

"Oh, sure. If the cops could tie him to a murder, they'd be
here. You know it, they know it, I know it. Anything else is bullshit. Like what you're bringing me."

"You don't wanna know what I know?"

"You don't know dick. You're on a fishing expedition. You're
in here pretending you know something, hoping to get someone
to talk."

For a moron, he was right on the button. I was on a fishing
expedition, which was hard to deny since I didn't know dick.

"I know Marsden worked for Fusilli. I know Frankie Delgado
did, too. The cops know it, but they're chicken-shit to act. I
thought Tony might like to know how I know"

The "Tony" was pushing it. We didn't really have a personal
relationship, and this goon knew it. Still, when you're bluffing
with nothing, you might as well go all in.

He wasn't buying it. "You aren't seeing Mr. Fusilli. Anything
you want to say, you say to me."

"Martin Kessler is under police guard. You can't get to him.
Whatever he knows he's gonna tell. You can keep trying to take
him out if you like, but, frankly, you're just wasting button men."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I think you do. And I think Tony Fusilli's gonna be real upset
when he finds out you didn't let me warn him. I would imagine
he is not a good man to have angry at you."

If Louie was scared, he didn't show it. Except by acting even
more belligerent, which could have been a sign of nervousness.
Or could have been a sign of belligerence.

"Get the fuck out of here!" he snarled.

I did.

I PICKED UP A CRANBERRY currant scone and an iced latte from
the Silver Moon Bakery and went home for lunch.

My wife was crouching. Crouching wife, hidden agenda.

"I've been thinking about the schoolteacher," Alice said, nibbling on my scone.

That caught nie up short. I was two dead hitmen, one funeral,
and a meeting with a mobster removed from thinking about
Martin Kessler. Not to mention, when Alice said schoolteacher, my
first thought was Miss Perky Breasts. In light of which, I was perfectly happy to talk about Martin Kessler.

"What about the schoolteacher?" I said, covering beautifully.

"If the hitman was supposed to be following him-"

"Which hitman?"

"Your hitman. Hitman Number 1. Victor Marsden. He was
supposed to be following the schoolteacher, right?"

"Right."

"Did you see him?"

"Who?"

"The schoolteacher. Martin Kessler. When you followed
Hitman Number 1, did you see him tailing the schoolteacher?"

"No. I saw him tailing Hitman Number 2. What's-his-name.
Frankie Delgado. The guy who killed him."

"Allegedly."

"I don't think we have to protect his reputation. The guy is dead."

"But you saw your client tailing him?"

"That's what I thought I saw. Now it appears what I actually
spotted was Hitman Number 2 tailing him."

"Did you see him after they dropped you at your office?"

"Who?"

"Hitman Number 2."

I shook my head. "Not till he showed up at Marsden's apartment. But then I wouldn't have"

"Why not?"

"I was tailing Marsden."

"You were always tailing Marsden."

"Yeah, but he didn't know it. I mean then. Before, Marsden
knew I was tailing him. It was part of the job. After he left me at
the office, I figured I was done, he didn't want me anymore. So I
was tailing him without his knowledge."

Alice snorted. "As if."

"Okay, okay. The point is, I didn't spot Hitman Number 2
because I was keeping far enough in the background so
Marsden wouldn't spot me." I raised my finger. "And, Hitman
Number 2 didn't spot me."

"How do you know?"

"If he had, he would have told Marsden."

"What if he did?"

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe that's why Marsden came down and shooed you away. Because Hitman Number 2 told him you were there. So he would
have come down and chased you away even without the brilliant
phone call."

"Yeah, but . .

"But what?"

"Hitman Number #2 doesn't know me. How can he spot me?
I'm just any other guy."

"Who'd been following Marsden all day. He spots you following him from your office. He spots you following him back to
your office. He spots you after you're presumably left at your office.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out, wow, this guy's everywhere."

I bit my lip.

Alice took a sip of iced latte."What I can't understand is how you
spot this hitman and you can't spot the schoolteacher. If Marsden
was following the schoolteacher, you should have seen him."

"I didn't know him."

"Did you know Hitman Number 2?"

"No. But I started seeing him in different places."

"Ah! What a coincidence. The same way Hitman Number 2
spotted you."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, why didn't you spot the schoolteacher? The same way you
spotted the hitman? Why didn't you see him in a few places? If
Marsden's following him? You may not have known what he
looked like, but you know what he looks like now, and you don't
recall seeing him, do you?"

"No"

"So why would you miss the amateur and spot the pro?"

"I spotted the pro because Marsden wasn't following him"

Alice frowned. "What?"

"Marsden was trying to keep me from spotting the guy he was
following. Being a pro himself, he doesn't have much trouble
doing that. On the other hand, Hitman Number 2 is following Marsden, and has no idea Marsden is being followed by anyone
else. Hitman Number 2 probably spots the guy Marsden is following. He knows perfectly well who it is. He's following
Marsden because Marsden hasn't killed him. Hitman Number 2
is keeping Marsden in sight, keeping the target in sight, and
keeping the two of them from seeing him. What he's not looking
for is someone else picking up his back trail."

"All right, all right," Alice said. "Maybe that's why you spot the
pro. But why don't you spot the schoolteacher?"

"I have no idea. Unless Marsden wasn't following the
schoolteacher."

Alice spread her arms. "There you are.

I blinked. "Alice. It was your idea that he was following the
schoolteacher."

"No, it wasn't."

"With the bus, and the fish, and the Metrocard transfer.
Remember?"