Murder by Candlelight (10 page)

Sure.

In spite (because?) of the perfect
balance of the room's colors, shapes, and textures, the place had a
mummified look; that of being done to no one's taste -- but the
decorator's.

John was wearing a dark brown smoking
jacket with leather elbow patches, fitted loosely over a blue silk
shirt. Had on vanilla-colored slacks. And handmade
shoes.

The whole place -- yard, house, Johnny
-- reeked of money ... if not class.

"Saw you sweating your ass off across
the street," John said with a "gotcha" grin. "Must of been twenty
minutes. If I'd had a dog, I'd of sent a keg of brandy out to
revive you."

"Someone might be
watching."

"And you figured, could be a gunsel
not liking me associating with a cop? Even of the private
variety?"

"Something like that."

"Good old Z. Thinking of his friends.
Don't any man have enough friends. Except for the kind who're
thinking only of themselves.

But we've been together through a lot
of years, Z-man. Since grade school. Been through a lot you and me,
me supportin' you when I could, you supportin' me when you
could."

"Yeah."

Johnny looked ... good. Not pasty,
like in his big car at the reunion. Of course, being sober improved
anybody's looks.

More than good, John looked ...
relaxed, the smoking jacket hiding some of the fat, the light low
enough to give John healthier-looking skin and shadow-enhanced
hair.

"Get you a drink?" Z shook his head.
John grinned again. "You got a problem. I got some news. Makes me
no never-mind what we do first."

"Murder."

"That
could
be a problem, especially if
it's
you
that's
murdered." John laughed. Leaned back. Crossed his chunky legs as
best he could.

"Howard Kunkle."

"
That
? Been three -- four days -- old
news."

"I need to know if he was
connected."

"Connected? You mean to our
organization?" John laughed -- seemed to be enjoying himself. "Hell
no, Z. What you think? We've fallen on such hard times we've got to
hire a two-bit hustler?"

Z was relieved. Hoped he didn't show
it. "You knew him?"

"Knew
of
him, if you know what I mean.
Gambler. Penny ante stuff. Good to have his kind around, though.
Chasing small fry gives the cops something to do. Convinces the
taxpayers they're getting value for their dollar."

"Pimp?"

"You think a woman would work for a
piece of shit like that?"

Z had the answers he'd come
for.

Just one more question, pretty far
out, but .... "Know a hooker named Carrara Marble?"

"Now you're talkin'. That one's a
triple-crown winner. How'd you get mixed up with expensive goods
like that? She's out'a your league, my man. Three hundred an hour,
easy."

Z shook his head.

"If
you're
not diddling her, how'd you
run into her?"

"Friend of mine asked."

"You're friend is having himself a
hell of a good time, is all I can say."

"She belong to you?"

"I wish she did. But no. She's an
independent. Don't know just how she manages that. Probably by
servicing big-time clients. Judges, politicians."

It didn't seem that Carrara Marble had
a Kunkle connection. Z hadn't thought so, but ....

"Funny thing about the Marble broad is
she's a dyke. But then, a lot of whores are, low class to high.
Makes them more reliable. Not likely to take off with a rich
john."

The steam let out of the Carrara
Marble topic, they sat in silence for awhile.

"Looking good," Z finally said,
feeling he should say something.

"Yeah. You noticed? That's because
I've got me a little secret. Well, not a secret to the in-crowd,
but you haven't heard it yet." John grinned, like in the old days.
"I'm retired."

"What?"

"You heard me right. I'm retired. As
of three days ago." Z gave John a hard stare. "Now don't look like
that. The trouble is, you don't know the business. All anybody
knows is what they get from the movies. In the movies it's
Godfather this and Godfather that. But that was in the big, bad
olden days. It's not like that anymore. The days of the mustache
Petes are gone. Today, we got investments. Legit investments.
Stocks and bonds. Movies. Buildings. Farms, even. Got health
insurance. Major medical. For years, I've had me a Keogh
plan.

"So I got out. With what I've skimmed,
I'll do good. Going to retire to someplace where the sun burns the
cold out of my goddamn bones in the wintertime. Florida. The
Bahamas. Live the good life. Hell, why not?"

"Retire?"

"I know what you're thinking. You're
thinking that the organization don't let its members retire. But
you're wrong. Not so many years ago, you'd have been right. But all
that's changed." John grinned again; white teeth flashing. "Yeah.
Going to retire to the sunny south. Me and my wife."

"Wife?" John Dosso was full of
surprises.

"May be a little problem there," John
admitted. "But I'm working on it. She's still an attractive woman.
And, I'll tell you something you probably already know. A man don't
need so many cuties after he gets past a certain age. A man gets
tired of explaining every little thing to some
twenty-year-old-bimbo who thinks the world started the day she was
born. You want to talk about a movie you saw, and since it was in
the 70's, it's before her time. Makes a man feel old."

John turned to the side to reach the
end table; took a cigar out of an embossed-silver box. Havana, no
doubt. Chewing on the tip to make a hole, he produced a kitchen
match from the same box, struck the match on his pants, and took
his time lighting the stogie, after it was lit to his satisfaction,
puffing a blue contrail toward the ceiling.

With the same care, he finished the
routine by blowing out the nearly burned up match and depositing it
in a crystal ashtray.

"For awhile there," he said, settling
back, watching the smoke rise, "it looked like my wife might be
interested in .... But that's over. Nothing to it
anyway."

"Well ...," Z said, trying to think of
a way to say he had to go.

"Before you rush off to whatever
pissant business you're chasin' these days, you got to have a drink
with me. 'Cause somebody should. To celebrate my retirement. My
wife don't drink. And I know you don't either. But, to honor my
retirement ...?"

"Sure."

"Got this bottle special, from the man
who's moving up to my spot in the organization. Marco Minghetti. A
high and mighty prick if there ever was one, but what do I care? He
hosted the retirement party for me. Everybody of importance was
there. Presented me with this bottle of expensive booze as a
parting gift."

"Ashtraying" the smoking Havana,
hoisting his bulk off the love seat, John went to the sideboard, a
fancy-looking, labeled bottle on top the workspace, still with a
blue party ribbon around the bottle's neck. Holding up the dark
container, John looked at the sticker.

"Malvasia Solera: 1863." Beats the
shit out of me what that is, except for it being
Madeira."

Getting a silver extractor from a
drawer, twisting in the corkscrew, John pulled the cork with a
hollow pop. "Don't like newfangled gadgets like these most of the
time," John said, getting a couple of small snifters from the
sideboard shelf, "but it's better than having the cork break off in
the stem, old as this bottle is."

Splashing a little of the liquor in
each glass, John set down the bottle and brought the brandy glasses
over to Z, giving Z one of them, John returning to sit on the
sofa.

Z lifted the glass of dark brown
liquid. Smelled ... hazelnuts, orange rind, prunes, figs .... And
... something he didn't like.

"Don't," Z said as John raised his
glass.

John looked over at him,
puzzled.

"Don't like the way it
smells."

John took a whiff. Shook his head. Set
the glass down near the ashtray on the end table beside his chair.
"You suppose it's gone bad?"

Z shrugged.

John laughed again -- this
time
without
enthusiasm. "Just to be on the safe side, I know somebody
who's got a testing lab. I can find out."

"Good." Z stood.

"I'll see you out," John
said.

So ended the evening. Except that, as
Z was walking down John's immaculate walk, past the perfectly
trimmed bushes and the domesticated trees, he wondered, again, even
in these modern times, if a mob man had the option to
retire.

* * * * *

Chapter 6

Because Susan's bastard of an
insurance company had plans to work her all day Saturday and
halfway through the night, they graciously decided to let her have
a long lunch.

Trying to make the best of it, Z had a
suggestion about how they could use the time for something more
interesting that eating, Susan vetoing that idea. Said she'd be too
tired to go back to work.

Instead, they'd made a phone date to
have lunch at Rembrandt's, one of the classier places to eat
North-of-the-river.

Since it would save time, Susan drove
her own car to the eating establishment, arriving just as Z nosed
the Cavalier into the parking area nearest the front.

Meeting in the lot, they walked up the
brick path, past carefully manicured flower beds, turning right to
step onto the porch.

Built out in the country,
only a whisper of traffic on Barry Road serving as a reminder that
this wasn't the nineteenth century, Rembrandt's was a funny kind of
place. Constructed solely as a restaurant, it was designed to look
like an old house converted
into
a restaurant. Go figure.

Inside the lobby -- featuring dark
woodwork and spindle-backed chairs -- they waited for the pretty
young woman behind the counter to get off the reservation phone and
seat them.

To the right, sweeping up, then
cutting back to a bannistered balcony, was the grand stairway, the
second floor used for private parties. On the wall, slanting up the
steps, were oil reproductions of -- what else? -- Rembrandts. "The
Man in the Gold Helmet" was the only one of the fakes Z recognized
by name.

Finished making the reservation, the
white gowned hostess led them through the arch to the left and into
the place's main dining room, the lady escorting them past other
luncheoneers??, seating Susan and Z in a cozy nook, framed prints
of Rembrandt engravings to either side.

The table's centerpiece was a vase of
artificial flowers, that decorative touch enough to add a dollar to
the bill. Linen tablecloth -- another buck. The tableware -- Z
looked -- was genuine Roger's silver plate -- an additional 25
cents.

A jacketed waiter brought the
over-sized, leatherette menu, complete with wine list -- another 50
cents, at least.

Not that Z didn't like to
eat at Rembrandt's. It was just that he objected to paying for what
he
couldn't
eat.
(Women, on the other hand, liked classy places. Having as good a
meal, with twice the food at half the price -- but served at
Mom's Eats
-- turned
women off.)

Susan ordered a Coke and a
salad. Z asked for iced tea and the pork chop (in a delicate
mustard sauce,) hoping when it said pork chop it meant
two
pork chops. He knew
better, but ....

After the waiter's
deferential withdrawal, Susan began to babble, not normally her
style. "... and so
I
said, if someone files a claim, the letter should first go to
correspondence ..."

This morning's paper had nothing new
to add about the Kunkle death. Nothing to say about it at all, in
fact. And that was that. The poor little man's memory would,
forever, languish in the "open case" file -- Z thinking that was as
good a fate as that of a rich man buried in the family
vault.

Susan continued to jabber.
A sure indication that something she
wasn't
talking about was bothering
her.

The service was slow, Rembrandt's
boast about fresh food meaning that, even now, someone in back was
chasing the pig intended to provide Z's pork chop. Maybe, if Z had
ordered a more easily catchable chicken ....

"... trouble is that, with women of
talent able to have exciting careers today, the leftover jobs like
secretary get the dregs. It used to be that a hotshot secretary
could out think -- to say nothing of out type and out spell -- her
boss. Now, we've got nothing but sweet young things who can't spell
CAT, to say nothing of being able to find it in a dictionary. If
they don't ...."