High Stakes (8 page)

Chapter Nineteen

One of the names that would never be given to Rexroth was that of W.D. Wiems of Lawrence, Kansas, a graduate student in computer science at the state university where he had met the well-known campus figure Marco Scaravilli the Third, the youngest son of Kansas City Outfit boss Marco Scaravilli, Jr. Young Scaravilli was in his first year of graduate school in business. A gun nut from boyhood when he would join his cousins to blast away at targets on the back acreage of his grandfather's secluded rural estate, Marco Three, as he was known to his relatives, maintained that interest at Cartridge Central Shooting Range on the southwest edge of his university city. He did it for pleasure, not vocational preparation. Like most fourth- or fifth-generation descendants of this country's Mafia pioneers, he had been guided from youth to be far away from the family business and into the legitimate side of American commerce. Marco Three was on track for an MBA and eventual management of his father's extremely private hedge fund. His only brother, Dario, had been steered by his shrewd, demanding parent into the study of law, not breaking it. Several other professional people were leaves on the now nearly legitimatized Scaravilli family tree.

One late Friday night, Benny LaPier, owner of Cartridge Central Range, accepted Marco Three's Remington .44 and state-of-the-art stereo earmuffs, for placement in the building's locker section. “Hey, Marco,” he said. “Take a look at that skinny redheaded kid at the end station on the right. He can shoot the lights, and everything else, out.” They watched a ten-minute display of gold medal quality shooting from this unlikely looking marksman. With his tall, slim frame, long pale face, head of unkempt bright, orange-red hair, he looked completely out of place in this locale. As the bull's-eyed targets were returned on the wire to the shooter, LaPier said, “Damn! How about that kind of shooting!”

Marco Three said, “Fucking amazing. And he's left-handed.”

“So what? So was Billy the Kid.”

The redhead approached the counter with his weapon and gear. Marco Three stepped toward him, saying, “Hey, some fantastic shooting, dude.” He extended his hand. “My name is Marco. Can I buy you a beer across the street at Shorty and Lammy's? I'd like to learn who taught you to shoot like that.”

Awkward silence before the redhead muttered, “W.D. Wiems.” He quickly looked Marco Three up and down, glanced at the range owner, then shrugged and said, “See you over there.”

Marco Three had never considered himself a talent scout, per se. But he knew that his father's reduced, though still potent, organization had for several years been without what for many previous decades was a farm system of eager brutes. There was a late night when Marco Three and his father had shared
grappas
in the mansion's kitchen, Marco Jr. as serious as his favorite son had ever seen him. Marco Jr. leaned forward, his hairy, bowling pin-sized forearms on the oak table, pensive look on his lined face. “See, it's a problem we'd never thought we'd see. Guys my age, guys who came up like me, Feef in Chicago, Bruno in Jersey, other top guys, we all steered our sons away from Our Thing. Then, one day, we look around and we got nobody coming up we can trust to do things. Our made guys,
merde,
they're about down to handfuls. Old, fat, and lazy. Pass the biscotti.”

Marco Three said, “Papa, how many of these, like, experts, lethal-wise, do you need?”

His father emptied his glass of
grappa
and re-filled it. “Not that many. It's all changed. The hitters we used to need, we don't need that many anymore. Some muscle still for bookmaker clients, loan sharking, although that's way down what with all those fucking Cash Caller Quickest Money or whatever they call them shylock stores, not so much anymore. But, every now and then, you need somebody who can take care of business in the old way of taking care of business.” He stopped to dip an almond biscotti into his glass of
grappa
. “My problem is the, you know, what do you call it?”

“Scarcity,” Marco Third said. “Lack of talent.”

***

Marco Three had that conversation in mind as he bought W.D. Wiems his second Miller Lite, himself another Crown Royal rocks to nurse. He'd tried to talk a little sports with Wiems. Asked him about school, how he liked being a KU grad. Was he getting “any pussy here in Lawrencetown?” Wiems showed no interest in any of these subjects. Then Marco said, “Hey, dude, I never saw anybody shoot like you did over there tonight. Where'd you learn how to do that?”

Wiems slowly shifted his eyes from the TV screen with its Ultimate Fighting Championship match that was entrancing most of the bar patrons. “My step-father taught me. He was a Marine sniper in 'Nam, he said. I believed him. Saw him shoot like a laser beam on our farm property. That's when he wasn't falling down drunk, or taking swipes at me and my Mama, who kept putting up with it. And him.”

Wiems took a swig of beer. He turned away from the television screen to look directly at Marco Three, eyes bright behind his tinted, nerdy, black-framed glasses. “I had to finally get around to stopping that shit, you know? Both of them died ‘accidental deaths.' They had to if I was going to get my life going. So, I inherited some money. Step-daddy's life insurance policy was a good one. The old bastard aimed it down at Mama, that stupid bitch, then down to their only child. Me.” A hint of what Marco Three thought might be a rare visible expression flickered across Wiems' narrow, normally impassive face. Wiems smiled before adding, “Dude,” and turning to look back up at the television screen.

Marco Three winced as he processed that matter-of-fact statement. He distractedly waved away the bartender's offer of “Another round for you fellas?”

“Guy runs the range told me you're majoring in what, computer science?”

Silence. Marco Three took a deep breath, tried again. “You from around here?” he said, lightly touching Wiems' arm for an answer. Mistake.

Wiems pivoted to shake off Marco Three's hand. Eyes a cold blue, color of an Arctic sea, unwavering. boring into his inquisitor. The answer was so quietly said it might have been “Topeka” or “Tupelo.”

Marco Three said, “Hey, I was only asking. You know?”

He backed off as they both listened to calls coming from a newly arrived set of customers now seated down the bar, loud drunken demands for a television switch to an NHL hockey retrospective of the Stanley Cup Finals. The bartender obliged, ignoring protests from the now out-ranked UFC faction, figuring more spending would be coming from this freshly arrived and thirsty-looking group. He summoned a waitress to help him fill the newcomers' loud orders. The hockey contest was halted by a mid-ice scrum involving a half-dozen enthusiastic combatants all of whom had wisely removed their upper dental plates before the game's start.

Wiems ignored this. Started to slide off his stool. Marco Three quickly got up, saying, “I have to go. I'll walk out with you. Let me pay.” He made sure Wiems saw him lay a fifty-dollar bill down on the damp bar.

In the drizzling rain of that Kansas night, he paused, buying a little time as he lit a Marlboro. Offered the package to Wiems, who shook his head. “I need to ask you something, Wiems. I heard what you said tonight. But I got to know, just between you and me, and just to get this straight, does the idea of killing bother you? People, that is.”

Wiems moved slowly toward his big, all black Harley-Davidson Harley Iron 883, parked five yards away, Marco Three trailing him, thinking
maybe I pushed this too far. Shit
. Wiems rested his skinny backside on the side of the bike, preparing to put on his helmet. “Between you and me,” Wiems said, accurately imitating Marco Three's voice, “I've done some of that. Some for fun. Last few years, some for money. I don't need to do any for fun anymore.” He paused. “And
, dude,
” he said mockingly, “I know who you are.”

Wiems threw his right leg over the Harley and sat, helmet still in hand. “Mr. Marco. Three, Two, Four, whatever. And your family. Tell you the truth, I wouldn't mind doing some off-the-books business for you folks.” A pause, Wiems looking off into the night, Marco Three struggling not to look surprised or impatient with this obviously psychotic, malicious, but very prime prospect.

Wiems said, “That means I deal only with you, none of your
groombuds
or whatever you call them.”

Marco Three refrained from uttering a correctional
goombahs.
“Only with me? No problem. That can happen.” He paused to wipe moisture from his forehead. Rain drizzle? Nervous sweat? Didn't know or care. “What about money? Pricing?”

Wiems turned on the ignition and the big cycle coughed briefly before smoothing. “All depends on the assignment. I change cell phones regularly. Don't give me your e-mail,” he said, hint of a smile along with the words. “I'll find it. That's another thing I'm good at. You come up with some work for me, leave a message to yourself on your e-mail about where and when you want to see TK. And we'll meet.” Wiems straightened the cycle front wheel and got ready to leave.

Marco Three, excited now, thought,
Topeka Kid? Tupelo Killer?
Holy shit, who
cares? This could be our guy.
He took two quick steps toward the Harley.

“
Wait
. Wait.” He grabbed Wiems' left arm. “I've got a question, W.D.” After a deep breath, and a look around the parking lot, Marco said, “What's your range? Like, how far would you go, for one of these, uh, assignments? Well paid assignments,” he quickly added.

Wiems tugged his tinted, visor helmet onto his head, booted the kick stand into place.

“The known world,” Marco Three heard Wiems say. Then the big Harley jumped forward, spraying gravel behind it, some of it across Marco Three's ankles and feet. He watched Wiems roar off into the night. Smiled as he looked ahead to reporting these promising findings to his father.

Chapter Twenty

Shortly after one o'clock the next afternoon, Marco Jr. looked up from the desk in his backroom office at Primo Pizza, one of seven such Scaravilli family food outlets scattered about the Kansas City area, to see Marco Three coming through the doorway. With his father busy on the phone, Marco Three reached into the little office refrigerator and extracted a Mountain Dew. He flopped down on the worn, brown, leather couch and waited while Marco Jr. continued his phone call. Marco Three realized the conversation did not involve any other of his family's numerous business enterprises, the two floral shops, a large construction company, five car washes, the limousine rental service, all located here or in other Midwest cities. What his father was dealing with here had to do with more traditional Scaravilli concerns.

“Bruno, you got a real problem with Mr. No Name over there. You tell me he again won't pay what he owes. That he's getting nuts, threatening to go to the cops. Well, here is my advice to you. Here is what I recommend.
Trunk
the fucker. Let me know how it goes.” He slammed the phone down.

Marco Three sat forward. He was about to say, “I never heard trunk used as a verb before” in a piece of advice involving murder, but he decided not to when he saw the dour look on his father's face. The older man said harshly, “What the hell happened to you? You look like you got run over by a booze truck. You weren't due to come down from school until next weekend. What's going on?”

His son, pale, shaky, but grinning, leaned forward—“Pop, I had a terrific night. Celebrating. Probably too much. And I didn't get much sleep before I drove down here. Covered the thirty-three miles in about twenty minutes. My new MG drives like a dream. But, Pop, I had to hurry here and tell you in person. What I've got lined up is…”

His father held up a hand to interrupt. Clicked on the intercom. Ordered “two espressos, a slice of pepperoni and cheese, and a big glass of milk, Angela.” Marco Jr. had for years recommended pizza and milk as a hangover antidote to be followed by strong coffee. “What celebrating?”

“Celebrating a big find I made. Pop, remember when we were discussing the, uh, shortage of guys to carry out, uh, certain kinds of business?”

“Yeah. So what?”

Marco Three said, “Have I got a guy for you. Hungry. Terrific with guns. Low-profile, high-quality in the brains department.”

His father nodded appreciatively. “Interesting. Very interesting. I'd like to look this guy over before we talk any business.” He waited until waitress Angela had entered with the tray and placed it on the couch next to Marco Three, who nodded this thanks as she left the room.

“Tell you what. Bring him to me. Make it next Sunday, here, after I get back from eight o'clock Mass.” He made a mental note to also update Aldo Caveretta on the progress of this talent search the imprisoned attorney had put in motion.

Chapter Twenty-one

Carlos Hidalgo carefully pulled into the VIP parking area in front of Event, the ultra-popular nightclub on Chicago's near north side. He waited as an attendant rushed forward to open the right rear door of the white stretch limousine for Wendell Pilling, who grunted as he slid his jumbo-sized body outward. Emerging right behind him was diminutive Donny Bruno, the lone vice-president of the revolutionary Internet company Pilling had devised, developed, and sold for a half-billion dollars.

Hidalgo waved at the attendant, who motioned him to turn into the nearby alley where he could wait, as usual. Hidalgo nodded a thank you.

Engine off, his seat back now, Hidalgo lowered his chauffeur's cap over his eyes. Also as usual, he had no idea how long he would be on duty this night. Pilling, now Hidalgo's sole employer, had proven very unpredictable during the six months Hidalgo had worked for him. These had included some trying times, especially at the start. What Pilling considered good-natured bandinage, Hidalgo not surprisingly recognized as abuse. Pilling frequently addressed his driver saying, “Hey, beaner.” And “you slick spick.” And Pilling's favorite: “WB” for wetback.

Carlos Hidalgo, fifty-two years old and an undocumented immigrant with a family of five, quietly suffered these indignities because his wealthy employer had him on a retainer for five times the normal rate in the city of Chicago.

***

Once ushered past the lengthy line of people waiting to be admitted to Event, Pilling folded a fifty-dollar bill into the hand of the obsequious shift manager who said, “The usual, Mister P?” An affirmative nod was the answer. Donny Bruno, as usual close at the side of his friend and employer, commented, “Looks like a cool collection here tonight.”

Pilling ignored him and went up the carpeted stairs to the club's Premier Suite, a large room with five black leather couches, a lengthy glass coffee table in front of each, on which had been placed silver buckets containing magnums of Dom Perignon. Pilling walked to the wide glass window overlooking the huge, packed, dance floor with its dozens of denizens gyrating to a DJ-produced beat that was audible even up here. Strobe lights bounced off the silver chandeliers and the dancers—couples, racially-mixed couples, singles concentrating on their moves—formed what Bruno said, “Looks like another real wave of humanity, right, Wendell?”

Pilling didn't answer. Bruno was used to such treatment from the hulking genius beside him. Ever since they had shared a dorm room at Cal-Tech twelve years earlier, the diminutive, talkative Bruno had stayed paired with the student referred to as “Weird Wendell” by classmates who, years later, deeply regretted such denigration of the man who would become one of the richest of America's under-thirty moguls.

The opportunistic Donny Bruno had a good eye for the main chance. Bruno attached himself to his brilliant roommate to such a degree that caused other students to call him “The Human Barnacle.” That university association developed into a bonanza for Bruno, who rode the coattails of Pilling's extraordinary success in the Internet world. They were a genuine odd couple in many ways, yet brothers under the skin in other ways. Bachelors, neither physically attractive, but as Bruno happily put it, “Smart as hell and rich as Croesus. Especially my man Wendell.”

To Pilling it looked like another boring as hell night in Chicago, his hometown. He moved away from the window that overlooked the frenzied dance floor. Shrugging off his size fifty, two thousand-dollar beige cashmere sport coat, he sat down heavily on the nearest couch. A nod, and Bruno quickly reached for the nearest bottle and poured champagne into an out-sized goblet before handing it to his boss.

Bruno poured a half-portion for himself. He said, “Wendell, why so glum? Looks like a lively scene here. I'll bet things will pick up once word spreads that you're here.”

“I doubt that,” Pilling said. But then his face brightened. “Those girls we had up here last week—did you spot any of them downstairs?”

“No.”

A waitress in an outfit skimpy enough to make a Hooters girl look overdressed opened the suite door to ask, “Mr. Pilling? Anything you need? As always,” she added with an inviting smile. He ignored her.

Bruno said, “We saw her last time here. That's Destinee. Knockout-looking broad. Am I right?”

Pilling drained his goblet and motioned for a refill before saying, “Yes, I remember Destinee. That night she was wearing a short skirt slit to her clit. So what? I don't like over-advertised pussy.”

“Jesus,” Bruno muttered to himself. “Another long night of dissatisfaction from Wendell.” Bruno had a hard time fathoming Pilling's discontent. Social misfit that he was, Pilling ironically had made his fortune in the world of social media. He sold his company at the peak of an Internet boom. But scooping up his millions had not satisfied this brilliant eccentric. Pilling had rushed to purchase expensive homes in three cities, several overpriced artworks, and a half-dozen valuable antique autos. None held much interest for him. As for romance, Pilling's chances were compromised by the fact that he looked like an adult version of the Gerber baby with slightly more hair. Bruno was no George Clooney either, but he had little trouble connecting with women, especially those he made sure knew of his economic worth and connection to Pilling.

The double doors of the suite banged open, startling both men. In strode a party of seven, led by a man Pilling and Bruno immediately recognized—the famous TV chef Robby Maye. Two men and four gorgeous women trailed after Maye, who was talking excitedly.

Donny Bruno jumped up to protest this noisy intrusion. But he was stopped in his tracks by Robby Maye's outstretched hand and huge smile. “Hey, sorry, if we're kind of loud. Won a big race out at Heartland Downs this afternoon with a horse I own.” He gestured to the group behind him. “The winner's circle celebration continues.”

Maye clapped his hands and turned to face his group. “Everybody who made money today betting on my winner give me a kiss.”

At first appalled by this noisy group, Pilling watched intently as they settled in on the several nearby couches to share the champagne that Desiree hurried to pour. Even Bruno kept quiet and looked on.

Ten minutes later, waiters came in bearing platters of jumbo shrimp, expensive cheeses, and two lavish vegetable trays. Robby Maye tasted one of the shrimp, then nodded his approval to the lead waiter before pressing a bill into his hand. “Good work, my man,” Maye said. “Have a Benjamin on me.”

Maye turned and said, “Hey, Pilling. The manager downstairs said you were up here. I've heard a lot about you. You and Shorty there want to join our party? We're having a bigger-than-big night.”

To the insulted Bruno's amazement, Pilling agreed. Bruno watched his boss amble over to sit down next to the florid-faced celebrity chef. The two talked earnestly, ignoring the rest of the party. Leaning forward, Bruno heard Maye say, “Wendell, no matter all the success I've had—a top cable show, chain of restaurants, best-selling books, all great stuff—I've never had the kind of kick like I did when my horse Here's Cookin at U won this afternoon. You just can't beat that, man. Sure, plenty can go wrong owning racehorses. But the highs, man, let me tell you they are
very
high.”

A few minutes later the conversations in the suite decreased when Maye grabbed a remote control and turned up the sound coming from one of the fifty-two-inch color television sets on the back wall. “Check this out, gang,” he shouted.

There on the giant screen was a shot of the winner's circle scene from that afternoon. Maye, standing a bit uneasily near his colt, was being interviewed by a nationally known sportscaster whose network had that afternoon televised the big race. Here's Cookin' at U pranced about before the smiling jockey dismounted and a groom led him away. Maye and his group high-fived each other, the trainer, and the jockey.

The sportscaster finally managed to interrupt the jubilant hooting and hollering and collar the famous chef once more. Pilling leaned forward, peering at the screen. He listened as the hyped-up Maye said his colt would, “Now be aimed at the Heartland Downs Futurity. We're gonna kick ass again that day!”

***

The parking attendant knocked gently on Carlos Hidalgo's driver's side limo window. Carlos grunted, shook himself fully awake, and slowly motored from the alley to the front of Event. He waited as his employer and his employer's often irritating companion were settled in the backseat.

Leaving Rush Street and heading toward the Outer Drive and Pilling's penthouse residence, Carlos was surprised to hear the usually morose Pilling's enthusiastic cascade of talk. “I've got to get a great horse, Danny! Shit, I've got all this money and nobody knows about me but the other one-percenters in this country. You saw how much fun Robby Maye is having? His face on national television? Why not me?”

They rode the elevator to the fourth floor where Bruno got off. He lived in an expensive but comparatively modest condo purchased with the windfall from his association with Pilling.

On the ninety-fourth floor of this premium downtown Chicago condominium building, Pilling entered his penthouse and walked directly to his office. His prized mastiff he called Big Boy struggled to his feet, accepted a pat on his huge head, and wagged his tail before lying back down to again sleep. Pilling sat down in front of one of the six computers on the large table in mid-room. He logged on to begin a search for information.

Three hours later, the dark sky over nearby Lake Michigan now creased with the start of dawn, Pilling sat back in his chair, tired but satisfied. He had zipped through a thorough search of the thoroughbred horse business, a task that pre-Internet would have involved weeks if not months.

He had no interest in breeding racehorses, or in waiting for one of the major sales at which to bid on one. He wanted action now. A ready-made runner of ability and promise, locally based, available for him to buy
right
away.

Wendell Pilling sat back in his twenty-four hundred-dollar black leather desk chair and smiled as the printer spewed forth the information he was after. He had been in need of a new challenge, and here one was. If Robby Maye, that “former fry cook” as Pilling thought of him, could achieve national renown beyond his original field with horses, then so goddamned well could Wendell Pilling.