The Lucifer Messiah (13 page)

Pier 33 was deserted. A deathly still hung over it, as usual. The morning hours were waning, and the almost-midday sun had just begun to throw its warm, yellow light on the city.

Sam Calabrese, Indian Joe, and a trio of their closest associates navigated their way through alleyways of rusted iron. They were looking for one building in particular, and they had quickly found that most of the dilapidated structures on the site looked identical.

The network of scrap metal shacks and time-weathered warehouses ranged from the east end of the property, along the edges of the West Side Highway, to the unused dry dock on the west end. There the pier had been largely blocked off from the Hudson by a newly erected shipyard a few hundred yards north. It was part of the reason why no one had used the dockside spot for almost twenty years, despite its otherwise prime locale.

Indian Joe kicked at a junkie, curled up in a ball in their path. He didn't move, and the party stepped over him like a piece of trash. That was the other reason no one ever came to this part of town. No one respectable, anyway.

They finally made their way before what Mr. Preston's notes indicated was the largest of the warehouses. The corrugated metal on the outer walls was washed over in gritty shades of red and brown, and the glass panes of the windows had been shattered. A drainpipe oozed black filth out onto the pavement, which looked to have been broken, repaved, and re-broken numerous times. Each patch-up job made the place look worse, rather than better.

Inside, Calabrese threw a switch that seemed more suited to a mad scientist's lab than a dockside storage unit. It crackled like an old-time transformer, and then a scattering
of the several dozen-odd lamps that lined the length of the chamber lit up. It was a long, wide place, with a high ceiling and a dusty concrete floor.

Even after decades of neglect, some of the facilities still worked. The lights buzzed an institutional, electrical sound. While only about a fifth of the total number had sprung to life, it was enough to satisfy Sam.

“Very well,” he began, turning to get full a view of the empty, lonely place. “Lycaon, you may start moving our people here immediately. This place is rather spare, but we will make a home of it.”

Indian Joe nodded, but his expression was not one of satisfaction.

“The trucks are all loaded at the club, master. We can begin setting up here within hours. I'm afraid we have come across one other obstacle, however,” he said.

“Obstacle? Whatever it is, I'm sure you can handle it. You have my full confidence, as always. Do whatever you need to do,” Calabrese said, distracted by the enormity of the desolate structure.

“I have done all that I am able to, trapped for the time being in this form, at least. This difficulty, I fear, will require your attention.”

He turned from his contemplation then, and sighed.

“What is it?”

“The provisions. We have received all but the final shipment of our various narcotics from Mr. Huang's couriers. He now reports that the last haul cost him more than he was expecting. He is refusing to turn it over unless we
pay an additional, undisclosed fee.”

“I understand,” Calabrese said. “Very well. Oversee the arrangements here; I will pay a final visit to Mr. Huang.”

T
HOUGH HE HAD NEVER BEEN TO
S
UNNYBROOK
G
ARDENS,
Vince was familiar with the place by reputation. It was way out in the rural hinterlands of northern New Jersey. In Sussex County, he thought, but he couldn't be sure since the scenery all looked pretty much the same once you got past Hackensack.

It was a hell of a drive, especially in his sputtering '37 Dodge, which wasn't in the best of shape anyway. The old girl was just about to overheat when he found the secluded hospice, guarded by a veritable forest all its own at the end of a winding country road.

There was no sign, just a double gate of black-glazed iron, connected to a fence of the same sort, which seemed to ring the entire estate. A guard in a faded gray uniform was sipping his coffee when Vince pulled up. He looked as though he welcomed the interruption.

“No, I ain't family,” Vince told him, in answer to his first question.

“I ain't a friend of one of your
guests
neither,” he continued

And no, he hadn't called ahead. He was there to see Francesco Pentone. Little Frankie, as most called him.

“Nobody by that name here,” the guy said quickly.

“You didn't even check the register,” Vince snapped back.

“No need, nobody by that name here sir,” he answered.

Frustrated, Vince retrieved the paper from his coat pocket. Atop the address were a few words, a name in fact, scribbled hastily in pencil. He had ignored it previously.

“How about a Mr. Hoover? Mr. J. Edgar Hoover? Is he here?” the ex-cop asked.

The guard unlocked the gate without another word, not even an acknowledgement of the joke. Vince let it go. With the obstacle cleared he depressed the clutch and cranked the stick into second gear. Then he motored the rest of the way up toward the imposing old Victorian mansion, slowly so that he could take in a decent view of the stately gables and the sandstone exterior.

It was getting late. The sun was starting to paint the western sky in mournful shades of red and orange. A wash of clouds had rolled in from the west during his trip. That probably meant rain. It was cold, his breath condensed when he exhaled. Still just a bit too warm for snow, though.

He didn't mention the name Little Frankie again, and he didn't have to. The nurses were waiting for him when he arrived at the main entrance.

A sour-faced blonde who looked like she wanted to
be anywhere but where she was directed him through the sterile, ammonia-smelling wards. The interior felt even more ancient than it looked from the outside. Despite the oppressive sting of bleach in the air, it wasn't maintained particularly well. The windows were crusted with a yellowish film, and he felt a gentle tug on his feet as his soles clung to the invisible stickiness that coated the floor tiles.

Having passed through a series of winding beige hallways that seemed identical except for the different moans and wails that livened each corridor, the nurse led him to a courtyard. A few clearly misplaced Romanesque statues guarded the dying foliage, themselves hopelessly ensnared by honeysuckle vines and grass that hadn't been trimmed since the summer. The small porch where he stood opened onto a larger set of gardens behind the main house.

“There he is. Visiting hours end in twenty minutes. You have until then,” the nurse said, leaving him for the cold bleakness of the interior. About forty feet away, standing motionless and regarding a maple tree with a little too much fascination, was a tall man.

Vince hardly recognized him. What had been a set of full, lively cheeks had turned gaunt, and his limbs had withered from their former heft. The always-fastidious dresser was unkempt, hiding under a cheap hospital gown and flannel pajamas. Several weeks' worth of scruff hung off his chin. His hair had turned scraggly and longish, unwashed, greasy and fading to gray at the temples.

His eyes were sunken, and staring outward in silence. They didn't look like the eyes of a killer anymore.

“Frank. Little Frankie,” Vince began.

It produced no response.

Even looking as haggard as he did, Frankie Pentone was still an imposing figure. His diminutive moniker had nothing to do with his size. That would have been obvious even if Vince hadn't known the story behind it.

His father had been named Frank also, which would have made him Frank Jr., if his grandfather hadn't shared the name too. “Juniors” and “the thirds” weren't so odd, at least among private-school WASPs. But it wasn't so common an arrangement among old-country Italians. First-born sons usually took their grandfather's name.

Hence the double diminutive. His father had been known as Frankie to keep things straight between the first two Pentones to share the name. By the time he'd come along, the only thing left had been to attach a secondary diminutive to him. And so had the boy who would eventually grow into a six-foot-four, 237-pound frame, a boy who would kill a man with his bare hands at age sixteen, become tagged with the name Little Frankie.

“Eh, paesano, tuo amico Paolo e morto.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me, Pentone? Your crew is dead. Don't you want to know why?”

Still nothing.

“Ah,
vaffanculo cost,
you
testa-dura.
I'm wasting my time,” he sneered with a dismissive, obscene gesture from his crotch.

But as Vince turned to leave, the man finally moved. A
hint of remembrance flickered in those empty, sickly eyes.

“Up my ass?
Nobody talks to me that way,” he said, straining to see if he recalled the man in the trench coat and fedora.

“Do I know you? From the neighborhood?” he asked.

Vince smiled, which was hard to do under Frank Pen-tone's eye.

“Yeah, Vinny Sicario, from over on Tenth Street, used to run with Paulie Tonsils.”

“Thought you were a cop.” His memory seemed to be coming back, if it had ever really been gone to start with.

“I was.”

“Well, you found me, whoever you are. So they sent an ex-cop to do it huh? Get it over with then, paisan. I ain't gonna give you no trouble.”

“I'm not here for that. I want to talk. That's all.”

Frankie didn't seem convinced. He returned his gaze to the bare branches of the maple tree.

“Talk? Right. About what?” he said, speaking to the wind.

“Sam Calabrese. The new crew at the Sunset.” The man nicknamed “Little,” who was anything but, nodded.

“Got a smoke?” he asked.

Vince reached into his coat pocket. Frankie's eyes drifted off toward the tall bushes at the far edge of the gardens. Vince handed him a cigarette and lit it, cupping his hands around the end to keep the flame from dying in the wind.

Frankie savored the first drag. It seemed to bring him
back. Even though they weren't anywhere near another human being, the fugitive gangster checked around to make sure they were truly alone before saying another word.

Vince had to wonder if the old wiseguy really had lost his mind.

Frankie started talking as the smoke was leaving his mouth.

“You sure you wanna hear about this shit?” he asked.

“No, but I need to,” Vince answered.

Frankie took a second long drag and shrugged his shoulders. He looked like he had more questions, but he didn't ask anything else.

“It all started about three months ago. Everything was fine. Business as usual, you know?” he began, still a little more hushed than he really needed to be, given their seclusion. “Then one day this set of legs shows up in the place, dressed to the nines. Coulda been a hooker, the big guy had his share since the wife left, but this dame didn't look like that. Too classy. Real put together, you know? But, I'll tell you, a little scary too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she was real tall, and pretty thin. Her skin was white, and I mean real white, we're talkin' like snow here. And she had this hair. Pure black, and real long. Wearing a silk suit, all red. Really had to see it. Bride of Dracula kinda shit, you know?”

Vince nodded. He didn't quite understand.

“Anyway, that's not worth dwelling on,” Frankie continued. “So like I said, this chick comes in and tells Paulie
she wants to see the boss. Won't take no for an answer. That's when I got involved.

“I come over and tell her how it is. You don't just waltz in and see Sam Calabrese, legs or no legs. You got business, you go through me. So she looks me up and down, like she's sizin' me up for a fuck or somethin' and she asks me who I am.”

“And what did you tell her Frankie?”

“Who the fuck am I? She asks me that in my place? So I tell her. I tell her exactly who the fuck I am. I'm the guy who's gonna mess up her pretty little suit if she don't show some respect. So she leaves. End of story right? Nope.”

“Not much so far.”

“Just wait, Vin, there's more. About a week later, I come into the Sunset. It was a Friday, I remember that. Late afternoon. I ask Freddie if the boss is in. He gives me this weird look, like I'm nuts for askin'. Tells me I must be goin' soft, since I just asked that question ten minutes ago. Only I couldn't have, because I'd just got back from Brooklyn. Friday's I always made a pick-up at a bookie of ours in Canarsie. And I tell Freddie that. He says he could have sworn that he saw me go upstairs to see Sam ten minutes ago.

“So now I'm worried, and I go upstairs to check on the big guy. I knock, and I hear Sam's voice tell me to go away, he's busy. But I know somethin's up, so I go in anyway.”

“And?”

“I gotta tell you Vince, I never thought I'd see anything like this in my life. Never.”