Blues in the Night (17 page)

When members of the Christian Democratic Party began being accused of having Mafia connections, Paulie, suspecting that the scandal might eventually trickle down to his politician pals near the base in Pisa and Livorno, took his discharge before it turned dishonorable.

Four months later, as soon as his enlistment was up, Mace mustered out. Intrigued by Paulie's tales of Hollywoodland, he eagerly accepted his service buddy's offer of a place to crash in Manhattan Beach. His timing couldn't have been better. Or worse, as it turned out. By then Lacotta had used family ties to secure a position as an executive with Mount Olympus Industries, a company that had been created primarily as a money laundering facility for the family back East.

Its president and Paulie's uncle, Salvatore Montdrago, who'd graduated near the top of his class at the Stanford Business School, had not been satisfied with merely legalizing hot cash. He'd sought out ways of using it to turn a healthy profit and transformed the company into a nearly above-board major player in the California real estate boom. Then, using the company's increasing wealth he expanded its goals and its assets by investing in various enterprises, from fast-food chains to mall construction.

He had immediately displayed a fondness for Paulie, whom he thought of not as a nephew but a younger brother, and Paulie had wisely played that part to the hilt, going to ‘Sal' for advice on clothes and women and making sure the boss's every request, business or personal, was met one hundred percent. With the company experiencing a growth spurt, Montdrago had promoted him from the junior executive ranks to a place at his right hand.

The promotion had not gone over well with the other two junior execs who'd been with Montdrago from the start. One, Rudy Bertoni, quit and began working for a record company, where he was eventually shot to death by a rapper in a contract dispute. The other, Tiny Daniels, decided to stay on for as long as it would take for him to be in a position to start his own operation modeled on everything he'd learned from Montdrago.

When Paulie convinced his uncle to hire Mace to replace Bertoni, Tiny had shown no animosity toward the new boy. He had become, in fact, a frequent guest at the elaborate parties Mace and Paulie had thrown at their Manhattan Beach place and, later, at the beach house they'd shared in Santa Monica.

Those had been heady days and nights. Beautiful women. Booze. Recreational drugs. The best of LA. The work had not been demanding. It had been, as Paulie noted, ‘a blast'.

And then Mace was arrested.

The original warrant had stemmed from his involvement in a dispute at a mixer bar-restaurant in Marina del Rey that Mount Olympus had just acquired. When Paulie pink-slipped the employees of the Tail Fin Inn, a laid-off doorman-bouncer went after him with a bar stool. Mace had stepped in and handled the situation, breaking the man's jaw and leaving him in a concussed state.

The bouncer later claimed it had been an unprovoked attack and several other fired employees sided with him. Mace's arrest for assault and battery caught the attention of a US Attorney named Fonseca who'd been trying to build a case against Mount Olympus and Montdrago. He threw in a few other crimes, the most notable being insider trading, something in which Mace had participated, though not nearly to the extent of either Paulie or his uncle. Fonseca used the crimes to build a racketeering case against Mace, one that carried a life imprisonment tag.

Fonseca had explained that he could, of course, go for a much lesser charge if Mace would assist in his investigation of Mount Olympus Industries.

That was when Tiny Daniels had shown his true colors. He pressed Montdrago to have Mace silenced. But Paulie still had his uncle's ear and convinced him that his friend would not turn state's evidence. Montdrago's lawyer had no trouble getting the insider trading case dismissed, along with most of the other charges.

Fonseca's racketeering case dissolved. But the assault charge made by the fired club bouncer suddenly was raised to attempted murder. Witnesses lied under oath. The judge admitted evidence concerning the earlier fight that had caused Mace's expulsion from LSU. And he was on his way to Pelican Bay Prison for a term not to exceed ten years.

He was out in six because of good behavior. Even though he'd killed a man during his first week of incarceration. The man, a member in good standing of the Aryan Brotherhood, had been annoyed by Mace's rejection of his philosophic and physical advances and had tried to rape him in the shower stalls.

Mace had banged the guy's head against the tile until six other inmates were able to drag him away. By then the would-be rapist's skull was cracked and his neck broken.

Mace thought the guards knew who'd killed the man, but they did nothing about it. Either they felt he was justified or Montdrago had paid them to ignore the whole thing. He knew definitely that Paulie's uncle had arranged for his safety behind bars. Shortly after the death, when the deceased's fellow brother–hood thugs confronted him, a half-dozen hard cases he didn't know stepped in to inform the Brothers that Mace was ‘protected'.

For the next six years, no one bothered him. He kept to himself, eventually being assigned to the library, where he established a system of self-education that he thought, probably erroneously, to be the equivalent of earning a college degree. In any case, it, and the hours he spent in the weight room, kept him reasonably sane.

Upon his release, he went home to Louisiana and an ailing father.

Paulie had provided care for the old man, as he'd promised. Mace took over that responsibility until his father's death. By then he'd sold off most of his family's holdings along the bayou – primarily a cannery that had been built by his great-grandfather. Though the proceeds had not added up to a fortune, he'd had enough return on his investments to live in a modest sort of early retirement. Eventually, he'd grown tired of doing nothing, so he went to work a few days each week with his cousins, crabbing and fishing in the bayous.

That's when Paulie called.

Paulie was standing in the doorway of the guest bedroom, watching Mace as he finished unpacking. ‘You chewing gum?' he asked.

‘Isn't that allowed here?'

‘Sure. I just . . . I don't remember you ever . . .'

‘I found a pack in Wylie's car,' Mace said. ‘Thought it might help me cut down on the smokes. Tastes pretty good.'

‘Got any more?'

‘Yeah.' Mace put his now empty bag in a closet and closed the door. He handed the black gum pack to Paulie as he exited the room.

They headed into the living room where two welterweight boxers were going at it on the big screen. The high definition caught the scars and scrapes and droplets of sweat and blood in almost three-dimensional clarity.

‘This does taste good,' Paulie said, handing the gum pack back to Mace. ‘Not as good as a smoke, as I remember, but good.'

He saw Mace looking at the big screen, nestled in its huge cabinet. ‘Fifty-three inches,' he said proudly.

Mace walked to the cabinet, reached up and grabbed the top of the screen. ‘Thin, too,' he said. ‘I may have to get one of these for my place at Bayou Royal.'

‘Remind me,' Paulie said. ‘I got a guy who'll deliver it at fifty off. Swear to God, a full fifty.'

‘Good to have friends,' Mace said.

‘Tell you what,' Paulie said, ‘let's go have dinner at Chow's. Like an anniversary.'

‘Have to make it tomorrow,' Mace said. ‘I've got something on tonight.'

‘Yeah? Do I know her?'

‘I'm working here, Paulie. Remember?'

‘Right. What's your plan?'

‘As soon as I have one,' Mace said, ‘I'll let you know.'

THIRTY

I
had been a slight untruth.

Mace did have a vague plan, which was why he was driving down Sunset that night at a little before eleven. He could probably have had dinner at Mr Chow's with Paulie, but there would have been drinks and more drinks. Better that Paulie had made other arrangements, while he had settled for a couple of chili dogs at Pink's.

He turned off Sunset and drove past the old brick building that housed the gun shop and Honeymoon Drugs. There was a light on inside the drug store even though a sign in its window said that it was closed.

Mace circled the block until he found the alley behind the drug store. The white panel truck was parked near the rear door. He stopped the Camry and turned off its headlights. The car beeped when he opened the door, so he killed the engine.

The beeping stopped.

He got out and walked to the barred window of the drug store's rear door. He stared in at the surfer boy who was busily filling his suitcase with pills and powders. Interesting. Mace had decided that the truck would be his ticket to the party. He'd hoped to find it parked near the drug store where he could jack it and drive it into the Monte compound, pretending to have a delivery for the party.

This was even better. He'd actually have a delivery.

He moved the Camry to the street, nearly half a block away, in a slot where meter use ended at six p.m. Then he doubled back to the alley where he waited for the surfer boy.

It was a short wait. Maybe fifteen minutes.

The boy let himself out the back way. He bent to pick up the suitcase and Mace rabbit-punched him once behind the ear. He caught the boy before he crashed and dragged him back inside the store where he lowered him to the tile floor.

He picked up the suitcase. It was as heavy as it had looked.

The party had been going for a while and a second phase of invited guests was arriving, causing a traffic jam along Cabrillo Canyon Road that was enough to piss off even the non-millionaires. Polished and gleaming vehicles – Mercedes, Range Rovers, Jeeps, Alfas, Jags – were lined up, bumper to bumper, for nearly a quarter of a mile, inching their way toward the main entry to the Jerry Monte estate.

There, the funseekers, who seemed to be very casually dressed, deserted their cars to be met by security guards, some with guest lists, others with metal detectors that they wielded with practiced, non-threatening dexterity.

The vehicles, meanwhile, were placed in the care of The Parkettes, a cadre of young woman in starched white shirts and black trousers, many of them starlet-wannabees, who drove them way up the canyon where roadside parking was still available.

A Parkette with a headset, stationed at the entrance to Cabrillo Canyon on Sunset, was instructing arriving guests to stay to the left of the road, allowing all other vehicles a small sliver of space to come and go. Mace drove the white-panel truck up that sliver. He had to pause only once to accommodate a descending car by partially entering an estate to the right of the road.

When he reached the main gate, he had to deal with Parkettes who were driving vehicles up the canyon to his left, aggressively refusing to let him turn into the estate's service entrance. Finally, he matched their aggression and made his turn, causing a Parkette to test the on-a-dime braking facility of a new Porsche Carrera.

Mace sat with the truck's front bumper about a foot from the closed gate and tried not to look at the tiny camera that he was sure was trained on his window.

‘Where Chas?' an electronic voice asked.

‘He had to go home,' Mace said. ‘Threw his shoulder out lifting the suitcase.'

There was a quick chuckle, then, ‘What they call you?'

‘Leander.' The name had popped into his head, no doubt a reference to the despised racist political boss of the Delta, Leander Perez. ‘Well, Lee Ander. Come on in.'

The gate swung open and Mace entered the brightly lit flagstone path to the garage, which was now closed. The two cars that had been there earlier in the day were both missing. He hoped the Mustang was in the garage.

He got out of the truck and removed the suitcase.

As he carried it to the castle, he was aware of the thump-thump-thump sounds of synthesized rock-rap. Guests seemed to be enjoying themselves, wandering in and out of the tent, splashing in the lagoon. He had no idea what passed for fashion on the coast, but these people were wearing clothes that looked suspiciously like outfits designed for the bedroom, not a party. The men were in pajamas and robes, the women in frilly peignoirs or less. They were young, mainly. Glitter people. Tattooed, pierced. Stoned. Poor Wylie would have loved the place.

Even before Mace pressed the buzzer beside the back door it was opened by the same black bodybuilder, only now dressed in baggy tiger-striped pajamas. ‘Took yo' time, Lee Ander,' he said. ‘Got folks in here in need.' He took the suitcase from Mace. ‘Be right back,' he said, and closed the door.

Mace realized that, at a party where bedroom dress was in vogue, his sport shirt and slacks stood out like, well, an uninvited guest. He walked quickly to the one place where he thought he could find some camouflage – the lagoon where nudity seemed to be encouraged.

There was enough mist rising from the water to indicate that a heavy-duty heating system was keeping the naked bodies splashing around in it safe from the goose bumps of a typical chilly Southern California midnight. Exotic birds in golden cages chirped their alarms as Mace moved swiftly through the cabana, trying not to disturb the fornicating couples as he searched for nightwear that would fit his frame.

He settled on a pair of black silk pajamas that smelled of some musky cologne, which he hoped would dissipate as the night wore on. He removed his pants and shirt, folded them and placed them beneath a pile of colorful cushions on the straw mat floor. He wore the borrowed pajamas over his boxers and did not bother to replace his shoes and socks. He emerged from the lagoon area feeling foolish and oddly vulnerable but less noticeable.

The first thing he saw was the black man in tiger striped pajamas searching the crowd.

Mace ducked back into the lagoon area and watched as the big man stormed toward the tent. Less than a minute later, he emerged and, running now, headed for the castle.