GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (6 page)

“You’re a cop. You can withhold evidence if divulging it would compromise an ongoing investigation. It happens all the time. I did it myself when I was a cop.”

“You still do it.”

“That’s what Vernon Maples said. Suggested I could use that fact on my business card.”

“Smart guy. Who is he?”

“In a minute. What I’m saying is that I can’t go to the cops with what I know, but I want one cop, that’s you, to know what I’m doing, in case I get my tit in a wringer.”

He took a large swig of his beer.

“You’re afraid we’ll fuck it up before you get a chance to fuck it up. That about it?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

Mac and I went back a long way. He’s always felt indebted to me ever since I testified that the child molester and baby killer who fell from a high-rise balcony had been trying to escape from the both of us. I didn’t know what happened in the apartment, since I arrived moments later, and only heard the pervert scream on the way down. Plus the thud on the pavement, of course. More recently, we were also both parties to a cover up that saved the reputation of Mike Sullivan’s wife when she died. Both Mac and Mike have shown their gratitude in a number of ways, despite my best efforts to tell them they didn’t owe me anything. When you abuse people’s trust, you don’t have any. So I tried not to. And Mac knew it.

“OK. I’m listening.”

“Vernon Maples.”

“That name again.”

“He was in my house last night.”

“And?”

“He copped to killing John Panetta.”

Our cheeseburgers arrived. For the first time since I’d known him, Cormac Levine ignored his food.

CHAPTER 8 - UNION RULES

“I can’t sit on this forever, even for you, bubula.”

Mac had recovered sufficiently to finish his burger, and half of mine. But having heard my story, he wasn’t happy.

“I know. And I don’t want you to sit on it, personally. I need you to find out everything you can about Panetta from your end. But keep it under the radar. Then we can compare notes. He obviously did something to warrant a $20,000 contract on his life. I bet the cops who caught the case concentrated more on trying to find the killer than on Panetta’s background. To them it was a random act of violence. They didn’t have to dig up anything on an old war hero. But now we know it wasn’t random.”

“You think someone local ordered the hit?”

“I don’t know. Maples is from out of town, although that doesn’t prove anything. Panetta only moved here recently. He traveled a lot. Maybe someone tracked him down. But my gut tells me there was a reason he decided to move here.”

“Maybe he got in too deep with the shylocks.”

“You know any shylocks who will lay out 20 grand to hire an out-of-town hit man? Maples is no off-the-shelf gunny. He’s a pro’s pro. Whoever ordered the hit wanted the very best. And there’s something else. He was specifically told to make it look like a robbery gone bad. Nobody was looking to make a point or an example out of Panetta. They just wanted him dead. And they would have gotten away with it, except they used the wrong assassin.”

“Well, let’s say it is local, which at least gives us a working hypothesis.”

“Working hypothesis? You been talking to Alice?”

“Nah. Had to attend a seminar at One Police Plaza. Some crap the Commissioner set up. Anyway, if it’s local, we have to ask ourselves what’s so big that it justifies spending 20 grand to kill someone.”

I thought about that for a moment. Mac didn’t mind the pause. He nodded at my mostly untouched fries. I slid them across.

“The obvious thing is this big project in St. George,” I said. “We’re talking billions. But it’s hard to see how Panetta would be a threat to that. Everybody seems to be in favor of it. It has bipartisan support. The mayor and City Council wants it. Blovardi wants it. Both Yorke and the guy he’s running against, Mauriello, support it. Business and the unions are salivating about it, though a big sticking point is how much work will go to union labor. But they’ll work something out. Too many jobs are at stake.”

Mac pointed a French fry at me.

“Even the crazy liberal city councilwoman and her tree-hugger friends are for the plan,” he said. “Hell, the developers are throwing around so much money they don’t have to kill anyone. They could just buy them. I’ll sniff around, but it has to be something else. Maybe something in Panetta’s past.”

The waitress came back and we ordered coffee. Mac wanted to try the apple pie. It seemed like a good idea. I held up two fingers.

“You know I have to make my own run at Maples,” he said. “I can call in some favors with the Bureau. Maybe they can get a line on him.”

“Sure. I’ll even give you a description. But you’ll be spinning your wheels. Even if by some miracle you located him, it would be my word against his. I bet we couldn’t even prove he was ever on Staten Island, either for the murder or to eat my pizza.”

“Do you want to see the case file on the murder?”

I considered that.

“Is there anything in it that hasn’t been in the papers, or contradicts anything I just told you?”

“No.”

“Then what would be the point? Basically, we’re starting our own investigation, from scratch. With only one lead. The victim. Panetta. I’m going to talk to his neighbors and friends, if I can find any. He must have some old Army buddies. Find out where he lived before he came here. If you do the same, and sniff locally for anyone who might have wanted him dead, we may be able to shake something loose. How long do we have before you have to do your civic duty and report what Maples told me.”

“A week. Maybe two.”

“I appreciate this, Mac. I know you’re sticking your neck out.”

“Not the first time we’ve done it. In fact, it’s become a habit, for both of us. But let me ask you. Why do you want to be involved, Alt? I know it’s not for the money. You didn’t even want it.”

I thought about that long and hard before answering.

“Because one of my men asked me to.”

“Maples is a stone killer.”

“Probably always was, even when he was killing for me in the war. But he’s not as bad as the people who had him kill a Medal of Honor winner. And he wanted me to know that.”    

***

After Mac went back to the D.A.’s office, I made a call and then drove to Silicone Valley, the local name for a two-block stretch in South Beach where most of Staten Island’s lap dance lounges are located and where natural breasts are rarer than parking spots on Saturday night. But it was a bit early for the groin-grinding crowd, so I was able to pull up right in front of Deep Gulag, the “gentleman’s club” owned and operated by the Rahm crime family. Say what you will for the Rahms, they have a sense of humor.

I nodded at the bouncer inside the vestibule.

“How’s it going Tony? Arman is expecting me.”

“Couldn’t be better, Mr. Rhode. Kind of quiet. Mr. Rahm is waiting for you in the back.”

Tony was 250 pounds of prime Italian-American beef. Formerly employed by the now-almost-defunct Carlucci family, he had found a home with the Russian mob, which has always been broad minded when it came to hiring good help. When business picked up later that night, there would be a couple of other Tonys or Ivans working the door.

I walked past the large oval bar where one bartender served about a dozen men who were drinking and occasionally glancing at three knockout women in high heels wearing purple G-strings dancing topless around poles. The girls were all young and fresh-faced. Arman Rahm told me that half of his pole and lap dancers were college students, or young professionals moonlighting. The Rahms let their girls keep more of their tips than the other tittie joints on Staten Island.

“Tuition is a killer, nowadays,” he said. “Besides, I get the best dancers that way.”

Of the six breasts currently on display, two looked natural. One of the surgically enhanced girls came down off the stage and started walking along the line of drinkers at the bar. Most of them casually pushed bills down her G-string. One man, however, held up his bill and the girl leaned forward and pressed her breasts together with her hands, capturing it. The man took the opportunity to lean in and bite one of her nipples.

“Ow!”

“Hey, no touching the dancers,” a bartender said. “If you want something more you have to pay for a lap dance in the lounge.”

“Who says?”

“I say.”

“Cut me a fucking break,” the guy said, obviously drunk. “Whaddya mean, no touching? They let us put bills down their snatch.”

Two men on either side of him laughed. There was only one pile of money on the bar in front of them so I figured they were together.

I was right behind the jerk when he lipped the bartender. He started to sit back down on his stool and I hooked a foot under it and slid it away. He fell on his ass, hard, and started cursing.

“What the fuck you do that for?” he said as his buddies helped him to his feet.

“Don’t touch the girls,” I said. It could have gone either way, so I added, “Don’t make a mistake here, boys.”

“Who the fuck are you,” one of the others said.

“Shop Steward of the Mammary Workers Union. Local 69. You want to touch, go to the lounge. That’s controlled by the Groin Grinders Union. They have a different set of workplace rules.”

They were all plastered and sat down.

“Sorry,” the third man mumbled. “We didn’t know.”

I motioned the bartender to meet me at the end of the bar. As I walked away I heard one of the men say, “Goddamn unions.”

“What will you have?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m here to meet Rahm.” I pulled out some cash and handed it to him. “Take a ten and split the rest with the girls.”

“Groin Grinders Union. I love it.”

Arman was in his office talking to a woman who was wearing all her clothes. I stood at the open door until he saw me. He waved me in.

“Alton, how nice to see you. This is Veronica.”

No last names. The blond woman who looked up at me with icy detachment was very beautiful. She reminded me a bit of Cameron Diaz. Her hand was cool when I shook it, her eyes cold.

“We can pick this up later, Ronnie,” Arman said. “But I think we are in agreement.”

She stood without a word and left. The room suddenly felt warmer.

“Jesus,” I said, taking a seat.

“Yes. She’s something, isn’t she?”

“An ice princess.”

“Alton, I’m told that she has the sexual appetite of a lioness in heat.”

“You’re told?”

Rahm laughed.

“I try not to mix business with pleasure. She works for me. That’s all. But enough about Veronica, what can I do for you? You sounded so mysterious over the phone.”

“That’s how everyone who calls you has to sound. You probably have more taps than a German brauhaus.” I looked around his office. “I presume it’s safe to talk in here.”

He gave me a condescending look.

“Swept daily.’

Arman’s father, Marat, the titular head of the family, had once been a top agent in the KGB before moving to the United States. What the Rahms didn’t know about surveillance hadn’t been discovered yet. Arman’s cell phone rang. Or, rather, it started playing “Lara’s Theme” from
Doctor Zhivago
. He picked it up and began speaking in Russian. I could tell from his body language and deferential tone who the caller was. I got up to leave, but he waved me back down to my seat. Arman mentioned my name, listened and then laughed.

“How is he?” I asked when he completed the call.

Marat was battling prostate cancer and had ceded much of the power and operational responsibilities of the family to Arman shortly after the murder of his eldest son, Stefan.

“He is tough,” Arman said affectionately. “He sends his regards. He wanted to know what kind of trouble you were in now.”

Maks Kalugin came into the office, threw his pea coat on a nearby couch and sat down next to me. The Rahm’s family assassin, a Russian Luca Brasi, he was built like a small refrigerator, with a mashed nose, cauliflower ears and the weathered visage of a Cossack. We had come a long way since our first meeting. The fact that he now sat and didn’t hover to the side staring at me like I was road kill was a testament to our grudging respect for each other. In fact, Maks had saved my life a couple of times, even taking a bullet for me and, in an action that embarrassed us both, gave me mouth-to-mouth. Alice thought he was adorable, and he was like putty in her hands.

“It’s all taken care of,” Maks said. “But we need a new maintenance man.”

Rahm looked at me.

“We had a little problem at one of our nursing homes,” he explained. “The previous owner let things go. A disgrace. Now this.”

The Rahms had recently branched into various medical enterprises, partly because in one of my prior cases I strong-armed them into taking care of the occupant of a nursing home who had no one else looking out for her. Since they basically were the reason she had no one, and since they owed me big-time, they did the right thing. Then they found out there was legitimate money to be made in nursing homes and medical clinics, so everyone was happy.

“What happened?”

“I kept on the maintenance guy who convinced me he was never given enough money to keep the place up. There were leaks everywhere. I did a walk-through of the entire building. The floor in the lobby is rotted out. You can hear it creak when you walk across it. Place was inspected and always passed. Someone was on the take. And they call me a crook! I told the maintenance man to spend what he needed to fix the place up. Next thing I know one of the nurses finds the pervert masturbating at the foot of some 90-year-old woman’s bed!”

“Jesus. Did you call the cops?”

Arman stared at me.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I called Maks.”

“Hard jerking off with no fingers,” Kalugin said.

“So,” Arman said, “enough of that. What do you need, Alton?”

I decided to level with the both of them. I knew the Rahms didn’t have anything to do with Panetta’s death. They never brought in outside help. When you have a Maks Kalugin, there is no need to farm out assassinations. And they don’t use misdirection. When they kill someone, it’s to make a statement. But they might have heard something. I told them about Maples and what Cormac Levine and I were doing. When I finished, Rahm looked at Kalugin.

“What do you think?”

“I’ve heard nothing,” Maks said. “But I, too, think it is local. And big. That’s why they brought in someone from the outside. I will ask around. I personally would like to find out who did it.”

I looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but I could tell he was angry. He had been a soldier much of his life. He didn’t like what happened to Panetta.