Whiskey River (17 page)

“Francis Xavier Oro. Born Messina, Sicily, nineteen-oh-two. His parents took him with them to New York when he was eleven months old. In nineteen-eighteen he did a jot in the Elmira reformatory for setting fire to a coal wagon. In nineteen twenty-two he was convicted of violation of the Volstead Act and possession of an unlicensed firearm and served six months in Sing Sing. Three arrests for assault, in nineteen twenty-four, twenty-five, and twenty-seven, no convictions. In nineteen twenty-eight he stood trial for the murder of a man named Vincenzo ‘Vinnie Cool’ Cugglio. The jury was hung and the state elected not to try him again. He appears to have behaved himself these two years, although he was a known associate—I take that to mean bodyguard—of Lucky Luciano’s before coming here. You know Luciano?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Nor I. Apparently the thieving dagos set some store by him. How Orr came to be with Sal Borneo I can’t guess. Perhaps it’s like an exchange program. If so, I wonder who this Luciano got. In any case, Mr. Orr now resides at the Griswold House. Suite six-oh-one.”

“Anything else?”

“Only this. Orr is a cold customer. Eyewitnesses to the murder of Vinnie Cool, whose memories failed them when the case came to trial, said in their statements to the police that Frankie tracked Vinnie through three crowded cars on the Third Avenue elevated railway and garroted him standing up in full view of a dozen passengers. Then he stood in front of the door until the train reached its next stop and stepped off. He passed two transit policemen coming in and never broke into a run.”

I finished writing. “That’s a lot of information in a few minutes.”

“My source keeps records on all the new faces in town.”

The White Mountain bottle remained on the desk. Significantly, he heeled the cork back in and sat back. It was my turn.

I said, “I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“I know I won’t be disappointed. Who wanted me dead?”

“Mike Freak.”

“Ah.” The exclamation meant nothing. I went on.

“They jumped the gun. So to speak. They weren’t supposed to come out of that doorway until Mike’s cab left with him in it.”

His gaze slid involuntarily toward the crucifix in its lonely place on the bare wall. “Jesus, Son of Mary. The Slavic son of a bitch.”

“I knew you’d be disappointed,” I said.

T
HAT NIGHT
I
CALLED HATTIE
. “I can’t make it tonight,” I said. “I’m working on something.”

“I didn’t know we had a date tonight,” she said.

“Well, you gave me a week. It’s a week today.”

“You can say all I have to hear over the phone.”

I was sitting by the window of my place on Park. I hadn’t turned on a light. The window was open and the brimstone smell of rain on asphalt drifted in with the mist. I watched the last bus heading toward Woodward, its pistons drumrolling as it accelerated away from the stop. “Come on,” I said. “How about lunch tomorrow?”

There was a pause. Then, “I’m with Joey tomorrow. We’re going to talk about the new place.”

“I thought you hadn’t decided you were going to reopen.”

“I just did. I’ll see you, Connie.” The connection broke.

I was still holding the receiver when the operator came on and asked me what number I wanted.

I became alert. “The Griswold House, please.”

“Griswold House.”

This was a male voice with a Franklin Pangborn accent. Its owner would have a pencil moustache.

“Let me speak to Frankie Orr,” I said.

“We have no one registered by that name.”

“Mr. Oro, then.”

“There is no Mr. Oro here either.”

“Have it your way. Tell him Connie Minor wants to talk to him about Mr. Buckley.”

I left my number and hung up. Five seconds later the telephone rang.

“That was fast,” I said, answering.

“Minor?”

I recognized the phlegmy baritone. It wasn’t Orr’s.

“Yes, Mr. Machine.”

“I tried to get you at the paper. They gave me this number. I need to get in touch with your friend Dance.”

“He’s not a friend. Anyway, I think he’s listed.”

“I want you to do it. He won’t trust it coming from me. This thing, this war thing between us, it’s shit for the birds. We got to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Last spring Sal said something about a trade. Ten of my joints on the East Side for twenty percent of Dance’s brewery. I didn’t like it then. I’m losing good men now and I like that less. Tell the Jew if he’s interested, we’ll talk turkey.”

The plan was a simple one. The two men would meet in the middle of the Belle Isle Bridge. Two cars, no weapons. Each could have one companion. The meeting would take place on a weekday when they weren’t likely to be interrupted. Joey would be standing alone in the middle of the bridge with his car parked on the island end; he would be visible from East Jefferson. Jack would leave his car and companion on the Jefferson end and meet Joey on foot in the middle. If Jack liked, he could send Lon Camarillo over in the aeroplane first to make sure everything was jake.

I wrote it all down. “I’ll tell him.”

“Think he’ll go for it?”

“I don’t second-guess people like Jack, Mr. Machine. Who else gets the story?”

“Just you.”

“Last time peace came up Jack’s brother got it.”

“That was Sal’s idea. The greasy fuck’s got nothing to do with this one.”

“I’ll talk to Jack.”

“Call me. I’m at the garage.”

I spoke to the German cook first, who put Vivian on. “He’s not here,” she said.

“Is there a telephone in the brewery?”

“What brewery?”

Less than three months married and she was already acting like a moll. “Okay, have him call me at my apartment. He’s got the number. It’s important.”

The telephone rang while I was listening to a ballgame. I turned off the radio and unhooked the receiver. “Jack?”

“This is Frankie Orr. Let me talk to Minor.”

It was the first time I’d heard him speak. His voice was a sliding whisper. Whatever it owed to Little Italy had been repaid. I switched on a lamp. “This is Minor.”

“I read your column. I think I see you at Jack Dance’s wedding. What do you have to tell me about Buckley besides he died?”

“I heard you killed him.”

“Who said?”

“What’s your answer?”

He laughed softly. “Did you eat?”

“Not since noon.”

“You’ll like the dining room at the Griswold. I’ll send a car.”

“I can drive. What time?”

“Whenever you can come.”

“I’m expecting a call,” I said.

“I’ll wait.”

I didn’t turn the game back on; baseball had lost its suspense.

Jack called ten minutes later. I told him Joey’s plan.

“Tell him he can hang his fat guinea ass off the Ambassador Bridge for all I care,” Jack said. “He cost me a house and a fine.”

“He sounds on the level. I don’t know what kind of trap he can lay that Lon couldn’t see from the air. You’ve got family to look after. Vivian lost one husband. Besides, it’s a good deal.”

“What’s he paying you?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Afterward I regretted hanging up on him. Talking to Jack, it was easy to forget what he was. I thought about Jerry the Lobo, buried somewhere in an empty lot probably, and Lewis Welker on the steel table in the Coroner’s Court Building with his lips sewed shut and a brass cartridge in his mouth. When the bell rang again I snatched up the earpiece.

“You got such a hard-on to see me talk to Joey, you can come along,” Jack said.

“Sure you don’t want Andy or Bass?” The soles of my feet had gone dead already. If anyone violated the truce, I was convinced it would be Jack. Life in the crossfire was bright but short.

“You’re better company. If you ain’t there, I won’t be.”

I stamped my feet. “When do you want to do it?”

“Monday morning.” I could hear him grinning when he said it. “It’s his busiest time. He likes to stay in and count the policy receipts from the weekend. Friday’s the day the suckers get their wages.”

I called Joey.

“The kike bastard,” he said. “Tell him eleven o’clock.”

I passed the message on to Vivian and left the apartment.

The Griswold House was a little over a block and light years away from Joey Machine’s Acme Garage. Its dining room catered to the sporting and theater crowd, where among the silver forks and white linen one might glimpse Sophie Tucker relaxing while on tour or wave to Barney Oldfield. I left my new Oldsmobile Viking V-8 at the curb and entered a large low-lit room where a string quartet was playing. A tall old maitre d’ with a head of flowing white hair bowed slightly and took me past empty tables to a private room in back. There three men were seated at a long table draped in white with candles at both ends. The flames shook when the sliding doors were drawn shut.

“Good you could make it, Minor.” Frankie Orr rose and grasped my hand. “We booked the place. Did you get your call?”

I said I had. He was in evening dress with a stiff collar, a dark slender young Latin with blue-black hair smoothed back and sleepy lids and a shadow of beard showing under his olive skin. His grip was strong. It would have to be to strangle a full-grown man in broad daylight on a train crowded with commuters.

The others were a man in his fifties, also in evening dress, with dark hair thinning on top and going iron-gray at the temples, a mealy complexion, and a prow of a nose that dipped down over a drooping moustache; and a man about my age who was running to fat and needed a haircut. He had on a blue business suit. It seemed a long table for just those three.

“You’ve met Salvatore Borneo?” asked Frankie.

I started. “No, I haven’t. I’m pleased, sir.”

The older man lifted himself an inch from his seat, took my hand in a moist palm, and released it quickly. I had never seen him except in rare photographs, none a good likeness of the Unione Siciliana president, who could have passed for a Sioux chief without the moustache. He said nothing.

“And this is Mr. Norman.”

The fattish man made eye contact with me for an instant, then looked away. He didn’t speak or shake hands.

“Since we’re running late, I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Frankie told me. “I hope you like London broil.”

I said London broil would be fine. Frankie gestured toward the chair facing his and I sat down. I noticed then that only three places were set. There was no tableware in front of Borneo.

He rose and shook Frankie’s hand. He was short for his reputation and stocky. “I’ll let you get to business.” His English was heavily accented.

“See you tomorrow, Sal.” Frankie put a hand on his back and saw him to the door.

He took his seat. “Hell of an old man. You know his father fought with Garibaldi?”

“All their fathers fought with Garibaldi,” I said, “to hear them tell it.”

“Him I believe.” He regarded me from under his lids. “I liked that piece you did about the Roman emperors when Bowles was recalled. I’m interested in the subject.”

“My editor thought it went over readers’ heads.”

“Most of them, probably. I’ve got a room full of books on ancient Rome. Caesar’s
Conquests
changed my life. Ah.”

The doors opened and a waiter brought in our meals. Frankie had a rare filet, Mr. Norman a rack of lamb. My London broil was sliced paper-thin, swimming in champagne sauce, and garnished with fresh broccoli. The waiter poured purple wine into our glasses. When he turned to leave, Frankie got up, slipped the gold clip off a thick fold of paper currency, and laid several bills on his tray. “Divide that among the others and tell them to go home. I’ll lock up.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Frankie slid the doors together behind the waiter and shot the brass bolt. Then he sat back down and raised his glass.
“Salute.”

I waited until he drank, then took a sip. I didn’t think poison suited him. I was just careful about those things ever since Justice of the Peace Turner. Mr. Norman gulped down half of his. So far he hadn’t said boo.

“Sal’s an old customer here,” Frankie explained. “I’ve got a thing about the serving staff eavesdropping and gossiping in the kitchen. We can talk in front of Mr. Norman. He collects the receipts for Sal in the Black Bottom. They’ve been off lately, haven’t they, Mr. Norman?” He started cutting his meat with a knife with a serrated edge.

The fattish man forked in a mouthful of lamb. “Money’s tight. President says we’re in a depression. These niggers, they believe everything they hear on the radio.”

“I never listen. Those announcers all sound like long-distance operators. Buckley, for instance.”

I ate some beef. I had a hunch I wouldn’t get the chance to clean my plate.

Frankie said, “I didn’t like Buckley, so Minor thinks I killed him. What do you think of that, Mr. Norman?”

Mr. Norman chewed rapidly and took another gulp of wine. He still didn’t look at me.

“I didn’t say that,” I said. “It’s something I heard.”

“Rumor’s a dangerous thing. Look what it did to the stock market. Did you have anything invested, Minor?”

“I owned some Locomobile stock once. I guess I still do.”

“It’s just gambling. We do the same thing and they call us crooks. What about you, Mr. Norman? What do you do with your money?”

“I got a mortgage.”

“You see, Minor? We’re just people. I’ve never even seen a tommy gun close up.”

I drank some wine. It had a smoky taste I didn’t much care for. It’s funny what you remember. “Just for the sake of argument, Mr. Orr, where were you the night Buckley was killed?”

“Same place I am every night at that time. In bed, asleep. I keep early hours.”

“Was anyone with you?”

He touched his lips with his napkin and smiled. He had bad teeth, his only visible flaw.

“We’re all gentlemen here. If I had to I could produce someone. So far I haven’t heard why I’d have to. Maybe if you told me what you heard.”

“I have a witness who claims he saw you leaving the LaSalle Hotel with two other men about the time Buckley hit the floor. You were putting away a gun.”