Kiss Her Goodbye (25 page)

So I wound up camping out on the damn couch, where I finally dropped off, and it was ten
A.M.
before I woke up. I went over to Bing's for a workout, took a swim at the hotel pool, then skipped breakfast and went straight for lunch. I had a steak sandwich at the Commodore's café, passing on the salad and barely touching the fries. I needed some protein but didn't care to haul anything heavy along.

Because I was going to drop in on an old friend—the kind of old friend capable of the brand of warm welcome that made a bulletproof vest and three extra .45 clips in my sport-jacket pocket the minimal precautions.

When I had closed the
MEMBERS ONLY
door behind me, I planted myself over the threshold and waited. Lots of young faces at pool tables and at booths turned my way—narrow, bony faces; round, acned faces, lots more hair than you used to see on this type of punk, including muttonchops like those sported by my late intruder last night.

This floor hadn't been Frankie Cerone's likely hangout, though—at his age, and with his standing, Frankie had probably been eligible for the second floor with the curved bar and the Rat Pack music.

So the pale-faced punks peeking at me from booths and glowering at me over pool cues were not necessarily pals of Cerone. They'd probably heard that one of their own bought the farm last night, six feet of acreage straight down with grass for a crop and I don't mean marijuana. They'd probably even heard it was thanks to a guy name of Hammer.

But I was just a tough-looking older dude they didn't recognize, who might be a cop. Nobody stepped forward to question my presence. This was a clubhouse without a leader. No Leo Gorcey, just a bunch of homicidal Huntz Halls.

Any thought that I'd be patted down and have to justify carrying the .45 in the sling into their den of budding thieves didn't even come up. I just walked along between the two pool tables and the row of vending machines and such, the boys in the booths on the other side of the room eyeballing me like monkeys in cages frustrated that the zoo patrons weren't getting close enough to hurl feces at.

I just kept nodding and smiling at the curious dopes, my hands in my pockets, very unthreatening, loping along like I belonged nowhere else but here and knew exactly what I was doing, no big deal, fellas, no big deal.

I got all the way to the second-floor landing without a hitch. Somebody had called from downstairs, though, because from the fancy club room, a big guy stepped out into the bland little reception area to meet me. He was about thirty-five with short, dark, military-cut hair and dark, no-nonsense eyes, and wore the black suit with matching bow tie of those who attended the members. He would have a revolver on his hip. Probably a cross-draw affair like lots of cops were wearing these days.

"I know you," he said. Nothing intimidating about it. Matter of fact. Then: "Mr. Hammer, you've been here before. But surely you know this is a private club."

"Yeah. I was hoping Mr. Bonetti might see me."

"If you had an appointment, I'd know."

"I don't have an appointment. A guy named Frankie Cerone, who may be familiar to you, tried to kill me in my hotel room last night, also without an appointment. I'm here to talk to Mr. Bonetti about that. On his turf. I'm here on peaceful terms, requesting a sit-down."

That was a lot to absorb, but he got it right away.

"I need to check with Mr. Bonetti," he said.

Good—the old boy was in.

"But, Mr. Hammer, before I do that, you'll have to stand for a frisk."

"No need." I opened my jacket and let him see the .45 in the sling.

His frown was like a father's to an untrained child. "You expect to wear that in to see Mr. Bonetti?"

"You can tell him I'm armed. I saw fifteen guys downstairs. You probably have another twelve members, anyway, in that fancy club room. And I'll bet there are guards in the hall upstairs, outside the suites."

The big guy said nothing.

"I keep the gun," I said, "or Mr. Bonetti can come to see me on my turf, on my terms.
He
can bring a gun. Because I sure as hell will."

He was thinking.

"Another option is you can try to take it away," I said.

That he didn't think about at all, just nodded, said, "Take a seat," and slipped back in the club room.

I did not take a seat, though a couch and several comfortable chairs were available. The paintings out here weren't of the pinup variety—they were landscapes. Probably Sicilian landscapes, but who the hell knew? Trees are trees.

The big guy returned and said, "Mr. Bonetti will see you. He is unconcerned that you are armed. He understands that you are vastly outnumbered and outgunned."

"Yeah, that was my point."

"We'll take the elevator."

"It's just a flight up. I don't get winded that easy."

He shook his head. "The elevator is private. It opens up inside Mr. Bonetti's suite."

"Ah. Okay."

I followed him over, he used a key on a metal panel, and we stepped inside the elevator, which was about the size of a refrigerator carton. I had my coat unbuttoned and my hands casually on my hips. It looked natural enough but the point was, if the elevator opened up on a bunch of guns, I would have easy access to mine.

But it didn't open on anything except another little receiving area. My escort stayed inside the elevator, and the doors shut him in as tiny slapping slippered footsteps from the nearby hallway announced my host.

Alberto Bonetti, in a pale green sweater, yellow button-down shirt, and the kind of tan slacks old people garden in, came trotting up and offered his hand for me to shake.

I did. It was a soft handshake, but my hunch was it was soft on purpose.

In the equally soft face—where under the slicked-back gray hair sharp young eyes hid out in the seventy-year-old oval of flesh—a smile blossomed, friendly but with the faintest hint of shark. Old shark, but shark.

"You walk an interesting line, Mr. Hammer."

"What line is that, Mr. Bonetti?"

"The line between hero and fool, between brave and reckless." He gestured vaguely back toward his suite. "There's coffee. We'll sit in the kitchen."

I followed him, but I already knew the way from my previous visit. Off the hallway on the left was his small office, a cluttered desk, file cabinets, photos hanging crookedly depicting him with political and show biz figures. Soon the hall opened out and a living room yawned off to the left, with a small, warm kitchen—modern but with wooden cabinets—at right.

The place had surprisingly little personality. It was a nicely appointed modern condo, like many older people retired to, but with none of the Renaissance bric-a-brac some old dons affected. The only distinctive aspect was the lack of windows. Even prison cells had windows, but old Alberto had once been shot at through the living room window of a summer home down in Florida, and ever since he'd had an aversion to anybody outside blowing him a kiss.

So we sat in the kitchen of this bunker at a nice round wooden table drinking coffee that he served me himself. He also had a little plate of hard white biscuits sprinkled with sugar. There was cream for my coffee and Sweet'n Low. He was a good host. On the counter behind him were shiny new appliances, including a big glass-fronted microwave.

Alberto sipped his coffee, which was black, and said, "I suppose this is about Frank Cerone."

"Yeah."

"My people tell me you cut him open and handed him his entrails."

"I cut him open. I didn't have to hand him anything—he caught what he could of them, before he went down. He didn't suffer much, but he didn't go out on a happy note."

This seemed to amuse him. He set his coffee down on a paper place mat. He'd provided me one, too. "I have the feeling you would have liked to make him suffer, given the opportunity."

"Oh, I had the opportunity. I'm just getting soft in my middle age."

"Wait till you're
my
age ... if you get there." He nibbled a cookie. So did I. "We both know I sent him. Do you understand
why
I sent him, Mr. Hammer?"

I told him my theory—that he'd been given undue credit for Doolan's faked suicide, and for the failed hit-and-run attempt on me, and that he'd seen an opportunity to raise his standing among his fellows by
really
having me whacked.

He sipped more coffee. "Astutely reasoned. You are right, of course. But I failed. And I'm going to suggest that you coming here today in good faith—and me receiving you the same way—indicates that this temporary truce can be maintained. Can become a
permanent
one, so much as anything is permanent in this life."

"Yeah, it can slip through your fingers." I grinned at him. "Just ask Frankie Cerone."

He chuckled silently, then shook his head. "I never know whether you're grandstanding with such remarks, Mr. Hammer, or if you really, truly have that sick a sense of humor."

"Beats me. Why would you want us to strike a truce, Alberto?"

He smiled more with his eyes than his mouth; the bland softness of his face was only lightly creased with old age. "I might ask you the same thing ... Mike."

I had another cookie. "I don't see that I have any argument with you. Or anyway I didn't until last night. I settled my score with Sal and his crew a long time ago. You knew damn well that your boy was a twisted piece of work, and in a weird way I figure I did you a favor, ridding the world of him. Ridding you of him."

Alberto said nothing, but his eyes seemed to confirm my assertion. He sipped more coffee, glancing at his watch.

"After I took Sal out," I said, "you must have decided, at some point, that killing me to save face just wasn't worth it. With Sal and half a dozen of his best boys dead on that dock, the cops waded in and put the squeeze on your family, and you were lucky not to do hard time. You retired, or pretended to, and had to just sit back and watch while somebody else stepped in and took over the drug trade in this town. In this country."

"
Somebody,
" he said, and sneered a little. "Do you know who that somebody is?"

"Yeah. It's Little Tony Tret. He's sold this Club 52 bill of goods to the public and the politicians, where doing coke is just acceptable behavior for the beautiful people. And the cops and maybe even the feds can't imagine Anthony would be bold enough to take advantage of all the slack he's being cut to use the place as a front for major trafficking."

The dark eyes flared. "But he did. He has. He is."

"And more than that, he's opening Club 52 spots all around the country—a conduit for coke and every other controlled substance, getting a free ride from starstruck local politicians. Plus payoffs when necessary. The kind of money he's generating, that's just the price of doing business."

Alberto brushed cookie crumbs off his sweater. "Then you must know, Mike, that I am the last person on earth who would ever have arranged for your friend Bill Doolan to die. Doolan was investigating Club 52 and hoping to bring Little Tony down, an effort I can only applaud."

"You weren't actively helping Doolan...?"

"No! No, that hard-ass old copper would have been too proud, not to say suspicious, to accept the benefit of my counsel, much less help. I may have fed certain information to him through contacts, but that's all."

I frowned. "Why sic Cerone on me right when I'm closing in on Little Tony?"

The don shrugged. "It seemed the right card to play. You know nothing personal was intended. But I believe I have lost my moment. Even the police are knowledgeable enough to connect the late Mr. Cerone to me and my affairs, and that will require ... pulling in my head and playing turtle again."

"But you're not a turtle. You're a different animal altogether."

Half a smile dug a groove in a smooth if gently lined cheek. "I'm aware that Assistant District Attorney Marshall also has her shrewd eye on Anthony Tretriano. And I hear interesting whispers that the D.E.A. and the I.R.S. are about to look into his activities as well. No, Mr. Hammer, I felt I could afford taking you out of the game to enhance my standing. But, as I say ... I failed." He glanced at his watch again. "Can we agree to move on?"

I grunted a laugh. "It's just business, right? Even when your own kid dies, you do all the calculations and decide whether or not to go after the guy responsible. Christ, Alberto—I killed your
son. That's
the reason to take me out. Not fucking business."

He shrugged. "That's why you are a small businessman, Mike ... and I am, shall we say, a captain of industry. More coffee?"

"No thanks. You up for answering a couple more questions, Alberto?"

"Ask and we'll see."

"What do you know about gems being used for payoff purposes?"

He frowned. Blinked. "Why, nothing."

Was he that good an actor?

"Did you have anything to do with the murder of a seaman named Joseph Fidello?"

He shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"Fidello had his throat cut. A kill with a knife, the same goddamn day that your boy Cerone comes calling on me with a blade."

Leaning on an elbow, he cupped his chin and got a thoughtful look. Something gently mocking danced in his voice. "I wonder how many knifings there are in New York on any given date?"

"Yeah, okay. But what about Ginnie Mathes?"

"What about who?"

I shifted in the chair. "You really aren't part of this, Alberto? There have been four murders—Doolan, the Mathes girl, a hooker named Dulcie Thorpe, and now Joseph Fidello. And none of them are names that mean anything to you?"

His shrug was elaborate. "Only Doolan. The others, no. If you want to know where I stand in this—or rather where I
sit
—it's on the sidelines, watching Anthony Tretriano's world crumble. His father was a minor player, not a nobody, but a very small somebody. Big Tony owed his loyalty to me. Which means his son owed me the same." His eyes flashed, an edge came to his voice. "But instead, Little Tony became a big shot, went to great lengths to rehabilitate his reputation while behind the scenes he sought to usurp what is rightfully mine."