Once a Crooked Man (6 page)

“Thank you.”

Rocco pulled out the torn page from the paperback and dialed the numbers. A young voice answered. “Yes?”

“This is a bit embarrassing,” said Rocco quietly. “I need to make sure I'm talking to the right person.”

“That's okay. What is this about?” He sounded Cockney, cautious but friendly.

“I'm over here from Chicago and I'm looking for some … some … well, some companionship this evening. A friend of mine gave me this phone number but didn't give me a name. He said he was very satisfied with the … service provided when he was here.”

“What did your friend tell you about me?”

“He said you were about five eight, one hundred forty pounds. You have streaky blond hair.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Rocco smiled. “You have a great ass.”

The boy chuckled. “That's me all right.”

“Would you be free this evening?” Rocco closed his eyes and waited.

There was a slight pause. “Yes” came the reply.

Rocco opened them. “How much?” he asked.

“Five hundred quid. Or seven hundred fifty dollars or seven hundred euros. Cash. Any of those is okay with me.”

Rocco paused for a moment. “I take it that much is for all night.”

“Absolutely. Or until your prick falls off. Whichever comes first.” The boy laughed crudely at his own witticism.

“Great,” said Rocco. “I look forward to meeting you. My name is Herbie Smith. I'm at the Dorchester. Come around eight and we'll have some dinner.”

“The Dorchester?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I'll be there.”

At 6:30
P.M.
Rocco was behind the same convenient oak tree across the road from the basement flat. A pair of surgical gloves covered his hands and the leather gloves hid these. Everything else he had bought was in the bag by his side.

The boy appeared at just after seven and headed up the hill in the direction of the station. Wearing a Windbreaker over a white shirt and khaki pants, he whistled as he walked. Rocco remained where he was for five minutes before he crossed the road. Once he was down the steps, the window catch flicked back easily and he climbed in.

He now worked with swift precision. Taking the screwdriver, he removed the lock from the door, loosened the restraining screws and rotated the cylinder until it dropped out. He placed this one into the plastic bag and took out the cylinder from the new lock. Once this was installed, he replaced the whole mechanism on the door. The new key turned smoothly. Pulling it back out, he put this key in the left pocket of his coat. In the right he stuffed one of the stockings.

He straightened the bed, tidied up the books and closed the bathroom and closet doors. Satisfied that the room looked normal, he placed the envelope in the center of the bed with Percy's name uppermost and pushed the bag out of sight under the bed. Letting himself out, he ran up the stairs and over to the subway station.

Santiago was already there waiting. A short man with a thick head of dark hair who always wore flashy suits and sported a flower in his buttonhole. A tie was optional but the gold chains and bracelets were not. Unlike the Bruschettis, he had adopted a highly ostentatious lifestyle. His photograph appeared frequently in the newspapers at horse races or on his yacht or at antique car rallies. His art collection was famous. He gave the overall impression that he was a man who had once been poor but through entrepreneurial skill had managed to become wildly rich and now was determined to enjoy it to the fullest.

Not all his wealth, however, was legally derived. Percy Santiago was a scrupulously careful and successful owner of several car dealerships that collected and delivered new and stolen cars all over the continent of Europe. Colonel Villiers had met him while buying his classic Jaguar. The two had become close friends and it wasn't long before the Colonel was able to make use of Santiago's network to sequester large sums of cash until the propitious moment arose to deliver it to Julian in the Channel Islands.

The moment Santiago saw Rocco he gave him a hug and kissed him on both cheeks.

“The messenger boy from New York! What a pleasant surprise! Good to see you my friend. How long have you been over here? My God! You are looking so very fit. Are you still running all those miles around the streets of New York? Which way do we go? Up or down? Should we take a taxi?”

“Up,” said Rocco. “We're just going around the corner. It's not far.”

Santiago spoke loudly and gesticulated with his hands. “I want you to know that I appreciate what you do for me,” he said with feeling. “You and Max, the Colonel too, and so if there is anything I can do for any of you, be sure to let me know. Anything you want.”

“Thanks,” said Rocco. “You're not making this easy for me.”

“Try me,” said Santiago with a smile. “I won't bite.”

“Why don't we wait until we're inside the flat?”

“Why? Who's going to hear you besides me?”

Rocco gave a nod and said abruptly, “Max has a health problem.”

Santiago stopped in his tracks. “You're not serious. No, I didn't know.”

Rocco continued walking. “The brothers got together and decided it was time for a few changes. They felt it was time to take the pressure off.”

“And?” Santiago had to run slightly to catch up.

“They're gonna get out of the business.”

Santiago went silent. The two men turned onto Pond Street.

“Does the Colonel know about all this?”

“I'm meeting with him later,” continued Rocco as they neared the basement flat. “But I'd like you to keep this conversation to yourself until he calls you. Max has a plan to offer you guys severance with an additional payment later. He gave me a list to give you of all the changes we're making.”

“What kind of health problem?”

“A heart attack in his shower at home. He was lucky, though. Nino was with him when it happened. He got him to the hospital real quick.”

“You got to be kidding. Where's this list?”

“In my room.” He unlatched the gate. “Just down here.”

He led the way down the steps to the boy's basement flat, reached into his left pocket, pulled out the new key and unlocked the door. As he did, his fingers curled around the stocking in his right. Santiago walked past him and into the room. Rocco followed and switched on the light. This illuminated the envelope on the bedcover. Santiago saw his name, assumed it was the list and reached over to get it. As he leaned over, Rocco slammed him down, placed his right knee firmly in the small of his back and slipped the stocking around his neck. With both hands he pulled it just tight enough to cut off the air supply but not enough to cause bruising or internal damage.

Santiago was completely immobilized in the soft bedding so he couldn't struggle. With his windpipe cut off he couldn't cry out. His body became tense, then rigid. For a moment it spasmed. One by one, his muscles jerked and then relaxed. Rocco waited a full three minutes and then slowly eased off the pressure.

All life in Santiago was gone.

Rocco switched off the light, turned on the flashlight and propped it on the floor. He pulled out the bag from under the bed, set it carefully on the coverlet and picked out the screwdriver and old cylinder. In less than two minutes he had the original lock back in place. With the door closed he turned on the overhead light.

Opening the closet door, he scooped up all the clothes from the floor and threw them against the back wall. He lifted a white metal chair from the bathroom into the closet. With the cutters he fixed loops of wire to each of the front legs and another at the top of the backrest.

For the next five minutes he undid all the buttons and zippers on Santiago's suit and shirt and eased them off, carefully folding each piece of clothing and laying it neatly at the foot of the bed. Santiago's Jockey shorts were soiled with body fluids. Rocco used them to wipe Santiago as clean as he could and then stuffed them into the bag.

With some difficulty he slid the garter belt under the waist and connected the two hooks and eyes. He then grabbed an ankle and lifted up one of Santiago's legs. Rolling up the other stocking, he attached it to the suspenders. A little pink bow on the panties showed him which way round they went on.

Pulling the body up into a sitting position, he bent down and let the inert mass fall over his shoulder. Using a fireman's lift, he carried Santiago to the closet and set him down on the chair. One of the prepared wire loops went around his neck and the others were soon fastened to his ankles.

Santiago's head lolled back. Rocco fetched the lipstick and mascara from the bed and painted the man's mouth, being careful not to touch the drool that trickled down Santiago's chin. He applied mascara to both the upper and lower lashes and pressed a finger and thumb of the dead man's hands onto the tubes of makeup before taking them into the bathroom and placing them by the washbasin.

As Rocco turned to leave he noticed a crumpled and wet Kleenex in the wastebasket. He retrieved it, carried it to the closet and swiped it over the dead man's inner thighs. Then he replaced it where he had found it.

The lock parts, screwdriver, cutters and wire went back into the bag. To make it appear as if there had been strenuous coupling, he crumpled up the bedding.

Taking a satisfied look at the grotesque figure on the metal chair, he shut the closet door.

He was just about to go out the front door when he remembered the envelope. A quick search revealed it lodged under the pillow. Rocco put it in the bag and left the flat.

Running up the steps from the basement two at a time he felt that he had created the perfect setup. He was sorry that he couldn't wait to see the expression on the young man's face when he came back home from his uneventful and no doubt frustrating Dorchester trip and opened the closet door.

It was a pleasant evening and perfect for a walk across town to his Paddington hotel. There was no hurry now. Max was on his way out of the country and Enzo never liked being called unless it was a dire emergency. The call could wait.

As he crossed a small bridge over the Camden canal he leaned over and dropped the screwdriver and cutters into the murky water beneath. These were followed by the lock parts and wire wrapped in Santiago's shorts. Rocco watched as they sank out of sight.

A bum lay sleeping outside Madame Tussauds. Rocco left the leather gloves at the old man's side.

The fresh air made him suddenly feel very hungry. In a pizza café on Edgware Road he chose a slice with sausage and onion. The cooks behind the counter wore plastic gloves and periodically discarded them in a metal bin at the end of the counter. As he waited, Rocco took off his surgical gloves and flipped them among the others.

 

15

Max drove into the city early the next morning and took a moment to gaze up at the chipped and uneven redbrick facade of Mazaras. The old building had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. He would be sad if it ever left the family. His father Aldo had bought the original building when Max was ten years old. For a long time it was just a spaghetti joint where friends and occasional enemies met, but after Aldo died, Max had redesigned the dining room and changed the menu to encourage a more affluent crowd.

Later on he turned the two middle floors into a select social club for his close associates. A nice place for them to play a little poker with their friends and relieve any tension with his personally selected girls. The top floor was set aside for him to use as an office and a place to crash whenever he was in town.

At first the patrons of the restaurant and the men visiting the girls had shared the same entrance. Then Max bought the garage complex that backed up against his building and knocked a hole through the second-floor wall. This provided Mazaras with a discreet rear entrance and more than enough parking for the restaurant.

He opened the street door with his key and locked it behind him. The place was silent but for the hum of the iceboxes back in the kitchen. None of the staff had yet arrived but the white cloths on the tables were fresh and neatly laid. No matter how late they closed, Max made it a rule that everything be set up for the following evening.

He went up the stairs. As he reached the top landing he stopped. A strange man and a woman were talking inside his office. He moved noiselessly across the hall and leaned his back against the wall. Then he recognized the voices, relaxed and opened the door.

In the far corner of the room a woman lay full length on the big leather sofa. Her black sleeveless gown had fallen open to reveal long silken legs. Two sling-backs lay on the floor. She was lit by the flickering television screen where the complaining Lucy and her voluble Cuban husband were nose to nose in black and white. Max crossed to the window, drew back the heavy curtains and flooded the room with light.

Max had met the sleeping figure on a working trip to Las Vegas when he had ordered up dinner and a hooker. She had spent the next two days on his arm, the nights in his bed. It was at a time when Max sought someone to look after the girls at Mazaras. He offered her the job on the condition she change her name. He couldn't deal with “Penelope Wainwright.” Over the ensuing years Cora Hunt had become his loyal friend and trusted advisor.

“Hey,” said Max close to her ear. “Wake up!”

Cora gave a slight start. Her head rose stiffly off the cushion and she brushed back a tangle of dark red hair. The bright daylight made her blink. “Jesus, Max. It's you.” Her voice was husky. “You frightened me! What time is it?” She looked around and asked blearily, “What are you doing here early?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“I asked first.”

“I had a meeting with the boys yesterday at the Dragon and we made some decisions,” he answered.