Authors: Thom August
Nine Fingers (31 page)
On Lake Geneva
Monday, January 27
We are gathered at the house on the lake. The isolation feels like it’s worth the distance.
The Accountant and the Cleaner, if that’s what they call them, are sitting in two chairs back-to-back, handcuffed to each
other. Amelia and Landreau are off in her room, the door locked. Laura and Akiko are in another room, that door locked, too.
Amatucci is on the deck, checking the perimeter. I am watching our hostages.
The slider opens and Amatucci comes in from the deck. He hands me the phone.
I think: this could work. This could stop all the whispers. This could put me at the top, back where I used to be.
I punch in the eight-hundred number, then the access code. A dial tone comes on.
I walk over to the Accountant. “OK,” I say. “Time to call the guy who calls the guy who calls the guy. Tell me the number.”
He speaks it out. I punch it in. Hold the phone up to his ear.
The Accountant jumps. “Hello?” he says. “It’s me calling in? From the field? From Collections? I’m with our other friend,
who joined me at that function we had arranged? Out on South Cicero?” He waits, blinking his eyes.
“No. He’s tied up right now,” he says. “Listen? I need to speak to Mr. C.?” Another pause. “Mr. C. Senior?”
A long pause.
“Yes, yes, I know it’s highly unusual, but trust me, he’ll want to speak with me.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Landreau and Amelia enter the room, with Laura and Akiko behind them. The Accountant is
listening carefully. He opens his mouth, jumps in.
“I have met you before, haven’t I? Tall guy, greasy hair, one big eyebrow? You’re the weight lifter, the one who stands around
with his mouth open, aren’t you? With the brain the size of a walnut? Your name would be Rocco, isn’t that correct? I hate
to use names over the phone. It can get one in such trouble with the authorities, whomever might be listening, don’t you think?
But Rocco? You hold up this call for one more minute, and you’re not going to have to worry about anyone listening. If the
person I am seeking discovers that you obstructed this call, he is going to cut your puny little heart out of your muscle-bound
chest and feed it to you for your last high-protein meal. Oh, and while you’re bleeding to death, he’s going to cut your tiny
little dick off and bring it home so his cat can lick it with its sharp sandpaper tongue. In other words, he would be seriously
displeased if you waited one more second. Are you following this, or would you like me to repeat it so you can take notes?”
There is a short pause. Then his eyebrows jerk up.
“Thank you, Rocco, I understand this may take some time. You
can
transfer the call from there, can’t you?” His tone changes from menacing to mincing in a heartbeat.
His eyes turn back to the phone. “Sir?” he says. “Yes, that’s right, sir, it’s me, and I hate to bother you and would not
presume to do so, but we—”
I take the phone away from him.
“It’s about your daughter,” I say. “And her girlfriend.”
There is a pause on the other end, then, “Who is this?”
“And it’s about your wife, and your courier here, with his bag full of Franklins, and someone he calls the Cleaner.”
“Who the fuck
is
this?”
“I’m, uh, I’m with the band. And people are dead and it’s time for all of this to stop.”
“Who are you to presume to tell me about my business, my
family
business? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“The girl is a friend of mine. She—”
“Stop,” he says. “What do you propose?”
“A deal,” I say. “A swap.”
“Of course. A swap. What else?” He sounds weary, tired.
“Let me talk to my friend. Not the one with the money, the other one.”
I pause.
“He can talk to you, but you can’t talk to him,” I say. I walk over to the Cleaner, hold the phone in front of him.
“Zep,” he says. “Do not do this. It’s the Riddler, he’s—”
I take the phone away. Hold it to my ear.
“All right,” he says. “We’ll meet. Where? When?”
“There’s a club down in Calumet City called the Nickelodeon,” I say. “Midnight. Tonight. You can bring one other person, no
more.”
There is a pause at the other end; then he hangs up.
I turn off the phone, flop down in the big leather chair. I realize that everyone is there.
The Cleaner speaks.
“This is gonna be a repeat. Last time? It did not turn out too good for you.”
As if it’s the only thing that ever happened in my life. It doesn’t follow me around anymore, it has
become
me. I’m ‘the cop who…’
“No,” I say. “Your source is bad.”
“My source is me. I was there. Standing right behind you. When you got yourself shot.”
Amatucci jumps out of his chair.
“Shot? You got shot?”
“It was a long time ago. And he wasn’t there.”
There
was
someone standing behind me. Was it him? I was too drunk to know.
He turns to the Accountant. “He’s Kenny Ridlin, you remember? ‘The Riddler,’ the cop who got shot by his own people?”
They talk like they’re two old ballplayers remembering a long-ago play-off game. One they had won.
“Lower Wacker Drive, east of Michigan. Late at night. Me and Zep, Ridlin and his boss, some other guys. We’re supposed to
be negotiating.”
“I think I remember hearing about this,” the Accountant chimes in.
“And Ridlin here starts to rag Mr. C. Drunk, of course, always drunk, those days. Foam is coming out of his mouth. All of
a sudden, he makes a lunge at Mr. C., and there’s a shot from behind him. He turns, looks at his lieutenant—what was his name?
Jefferson? Washington?—and he drops to the ground.”
“Where did the projectile enter?” the Accountant asks.
“In the back, right side, middle. It nicks his spine and takes out half his liver.” He cranes his neck my way. “That right,
Ridlin?”
“You weren’t there. It was somebody else,” I say, and the words hit my own ears and I realize I do not know what I’m saying.
“Standing right behind you. See, my job? What I’m there for? You take one more step and I’m the one blows you up. Your boss
just gets there first.”
He turns the other way, talks to the Accountant, “You know how it works. Evidence gets lost, people lose their memories. The
lieutenant? He’s a captain now. Our friend here? Long road back, way I hear it. Ridlin sticks it out. Works his way back into
the Dicks. Robbery. Narcotics. Then Homicide. Where he starts. And his first case? Getting ready to stare Mr. C. in the face.
With me standing behind him. All over again.”
“Ken?” Amatucci asks.
“The report said the evidence was contradictory and inconclusive,” I say.
The Cleaner clears his throat.
“And I know him, too,” he says. “The piano player.”
Amatucci stands up. “
I
know
you.
You’re the traffic cop who pulled me out of the 1812 Club, and walked me into the arms of the two whack jobs who fucked up
my hand.”
“I’m talking about the other piano player. Him I know, too.”
We turn to Landreau. He is standing next to Amelia. They have joined us while we are talking.
“Isn’t that right, piano player?” the Cleaner asks.
Landreau looks up. The toe of his left foot is tapping some weird kind of rhythm. I look over at the Cleaner. His right foot
is tapping the same rhythm.
We all look at the floor, as if there is some answer there. The weight of the past becoming present hangs over the room until
Amatucci stands up, says, “I need some air,” and the rest of them follow him out onto the deck, single file.
It is just the Accountant, the Cleaner, and me.
I sit in the big chair facing them. Slowly, the two of them fall asleep where they sit. My own eyes start to get heavy. The
coffee has turned to sludge in my veins. Images start to peck at my brain. I see the carousel at the Nickelodeon, all the
mechanical instruments on the walls. I hear the slaps of imaginary gunfire, and each one makes my body twitch. I hear shouting
but cannot understand the words. My head is pounding but my limbs are numb. A ragged sleep begins to overtake me. My last
image is of the bandstand at the Nickelodeon spinning faster and faster until it throws us all over the side.
At the Nickelodeon Club
Monday, January 27
At around five o’clock, we roused ourselves, used the bathrooms, and shrugged into our coats. As Akiko and Laura stepped through
the doorway, they were framed by a split sky: the sun was setting in the west over Akiko’s shoulder and a thick bank of black
clouds was backing in from the east toward Laura.
Ridlin had handcuffed our two captives’ inside wrists together, and then handcuffed their outside wrists to the grab handles
above the doors of his car. Just like that, they were secure.
As we were loading up, Amelia strode out of the house with Jack half-hidden behind her and turned toward Ridlin. We clustered
around and looked up at them.
“I can’t see the purpose in us coming, Detective. If Giuseppe is actually going to be there, my presence can only stir him
up. And having Franco there…We’re no good to you,
worse
than no good to you. If you still need me as a bargaining chip, I’m right here,” she said.
To me, it was instantly obvious. She was right; they would be a provocation, separately or together. Having them was one thing.
Bringing them was another.
I looked at Jack, Franco, whoever. He was looking out across the lake.
Then he turned, dropped Amelia’s hand, walked around her and said, “No, I’m going.”
Amelia held her hand to her chest.
He looked at her. “I can’t hide anymore. It’s time to stop running…”
She stared straight at him with a look I couldn’t read. Then she shivered once, turned around, and walked into the house.
The door closed behind her. There was nothing more to say. We piled into the cars, backed out of the cut, and headed out,
with me in the lead.
After a couple of days of warming, the temperature was dropping, and the Hawk was coming in off the lake. I had my coat buttoned
up to my neck and the heat jacked up to full blast, but I still felt cold to the point of shivering.
Laura and Akiko were in the backseat, but they weren’t talking. Akiko was huddled against the door on the right, watching
the sun go down. Laura was sitting straight up on the left, watching the storm roll in. I was looking straight ahead and glancing
in the rearview mirror.
By the time we reached the highway, the sky was full of clouds, roiling higher as the warmer air off the lake was sucked into
the colder cumulous sky. I switched on my lights and tested the wipers with a flick.
It was going to start snowing again, soon, and snowing hard.
The miles flew past, and we cruised down the Tri-State and bent east on the Kennedy and wove south on the Ryan, and soon we
were back in Indiana, winding through the maze of streets toward the club. When we pulled into the parking lot, there was
only one car there, an old beat-up Buick the color of diarrhea. Ridlin got out of his car, motioned to us to wait, walked
up the steps and knocked on the door. It opened and he went in. Less than a minute later, the owner, the beefy guy with the
ZZ Top beard, rambled out and headed to his car, flipping through a roll of bills. I couldn’t tell from where I sat if he
had it in a Chicago roll or an L.A. roll. He wedged himself into the Buick, then started it up and sliced through the crease
in the tall grass. Ridlin came out, walked to his car, uncuffed the Accountant and the Cleaner, and walked them inside. The
rest of us got out and followed.
Ridlin walked them onto the bandstand, found two folding chairs, and sat them facing each other around the pole in the center
of the carousel. He cuffed their free hands together, so they sat right hand to left hand, left hand to right, like maids
around a maypole.
Laura and Akiko sat facing away from each other, on the edge of the bandstand. Jack walked along the wall, inspecting the
player instruments, his face close up against them, his hands behind his back. It was only nine o’clock; we had three hours
to kill. I looked for a thermostat, found it, and cranked the heat up to seventy-four. I was still shivering.
Ridlin split us up for sentry duty. He put his foot up on a chair, rolled up his left cuff, and unstrapped a small revolver,
which he handed to Landreau. “You watch those two,” he said. “Don’t shoot them unless you have to.”
I had assumed that Laura and Akiko and I were all going to be on sentry duty, but Ridlin told Laura to stay inside. I grabbed
my hat and coat and headed out the door.
I gave the place a perimeter of about thirty yards and went around clockwise, keeping my eyes open, letting my ears get tuned
in. After three laps I veered off my path to go to the trunk of my car, unzip the gym bag, take out the gun, and slide it
inside my cast. It wasn’t comfortable, but comfort wasn’t my priority. Ten minutes into my shift, fat snowflakes began to
fall, lazily at first, then harder. By the time my thirty minutes were up, the snow was coming down sideways. There was no
sound except the whistling of the wind and it gave the place an eerie stillness.
Akiko came through the door, surprised by the snow, and pulled up her collar. She wasn’t wearing a hat; I don’t think she
even owned one. I went inside and slid behind the bar to put some coffee on. I busied myself finding the grounds and pouring
the water, letting my fingers thaw. The Accountant and the Cleaner had moved their chairs closer together so they could rest
their hands on their knees. The Cleaner looked pale. Ridlin was checking for back doors.
When the coffee was ready, I offered some all around. Ridlin took his black. Landreau and the Cleaner both passed. The Accountant
wanted lots of cream and lots of sugar. As I mixed it for him he kept saying, “Just a touch more, Vincent, if you please.”
I had mine black, with sugar. It was basic American coffee, but just then it tasted great.
I was finishing my first cup when Ridlin pointed at his watch. It was ten o’clock. I got my hat and coat and headed out the
door. As I passed Akiko on the porch, I muttered, “Fresh coffee, behind the bar,” and she nodded. She wasn’t much of a coffee
drinker, but on a night like this she’d pour a cup just for the warmth of it.
At the next changeover, Ridlin called us. “They may be early, so stay alert. They may come in with their lights out, so keep
your eyes and ears open.” We nodded and went back to it.
The hours passed, with no sign of anyone. When I looked at my watch, it was twenty minutes past midnight. “They’re late,”
I said. “It must be the storm. The roads are probably all fucked up.”
He nodded, and returned his gaze to the window. “Either that,” he said, “or they’re letting us stew, waiting for us to get
edgy.”
“If that’s what they’re doing,” I said, “it’s working.”
I poured some more coffee, took a sip, and immediately went off to find the men’s room. I stood by the urinal, leaning my
cast on the wall in front of me, and pissed for what felt like an eternity. It was the coffee, it was the nerves; I was like
a sponge being squeezed in a vise.
At twelve-thirty I grabbed my hat and coat and headed to the door. Akiko saw me right away and hustled inside. The snow had
piled up, and was now three or four inches deep, with drifts against the side of the club more than a foot deep. By this point,
we had worn a groove around the building, and I just followed it. I kept my eyes on the perimeter, peering into the storm.
There was nothing, there was no one, just a stream of white streaks riding the wind.
One o’clock came and Akiko spelled me, then one-thirty, and I was back outside. At one fifty-five I saw a shaft of light through
the tall grass, and jogged toward the club sideways as I kept my eyes on it. When I got to the porch Akiko was already there—she
must have seen the lights—and she grabbed my arm, the good one, and held me tight. We backed up the stairs and crossed the
porch. The lights were closer, and Ridlin was standing behind us in the doorway. We stood there and watched as the lights
and the car they were attached to fishtailed into the parking lot and groaned to a stop.
It was black, a Lincoln Town Car. It sat there, revving, the wipers fighting the snow. Ridlin tapped us on the shoulder and
said, “Inside. Let’s go.”
We backed through the door, closing it after us.
Laura was sitting in a booth near the bandstand and Akiko walked over and sat down next to her and took her hand. Maybe it
was symbolism of a sort, or maybe it was just comfort.
Ten seconds later the front door opened and two men walked in.
The first was Giuseppe Della Chiesa, the Boss of all Bosses, the Big Guy.
He wasn’t actually all that big, maybe five-foot-seven or so. But he was barrel-chested, not fat but wide, and was impeccably
dressed, in a dark charcoal two-button suit, black cashmere overcoat, white shirt with a straight collar, burgundy shoes and
belt, and a maroon silk tie. He wore a white silk scarf under the topcoat, a thin pair of what looked like black calfskin
driving gloves on his hands, and a black fedora pulled down over his steel-gray hair. He could have been a banker or a lawyer
or a captain of industry: the suit was conservative, but perfectly tailored. Armani, or Zegna. Bespoke, not off the rack.
His nephew, Johnny Chase, was also well-dressed, but in the more modern style, with gray flat-front slacks, a black three-button
blazer, and a black silk mock turtleneck beneath it. He had black half boots on his feet, and what looked like the same black
driving gloves as his uncle. No scarf for him, no coat, no hat. His wavy black hair was frosted with snow.
The Don immediately walked over to the Cleaner, put his hand on his shoulder, and leaned down. “Relax, my friend. This is
no fault of yours. We will have you out of this shortly.” The Cleaner just dipped his head. The Accountant, looking expectant,
looked up at the Don, who gave him back a withering glance of contempt, which forced his eyes back to the floor.
The Don looked around, saw Laura and Akiko in the booth, Jack at a rickety table, me on the bandstand, and panned his gaze
over to Ridlin.
Ridlin looked him in the eye and said, “Let’s talk.”
The Don nodded, and pulled up a chair at a table next to the bandstand. He opened his topcoat and carefully placed his hat
on the table before him. Ridlin sat down across from him, his hand in his coat pocket.
“Talk is cheap,” the Don echoed. His voice was all weary resignation. “Let’s take care of business.”
“But that’s what we wanted to talk about. This has nothing to do with business,” Ridlin said. “That’s the thing—”
“In the business I’m in,” he said, “
everything
has to do with business. People need to know that I keep my word. That’s all I have.”
Akiko turned to him. “Like, OK, I get the principle, keeping your word and shit. That’s, like, a good thing. But what’s it
got to do with her and me?”
He turned to her, stared at her appraisingly, and nodded in Laura’s direction. “She made me a promise, she broke that promise,”
he said. “There have to be consequences. I told her that, right at the start.”
Akiko turned to Laura.
“What?” she asked her. “What promise?”
Laura looked away. Akiko turned to her.
“He asked you to stop seeing me, and you promised you would?” she asked. “And then you kept seeing me, even after you knew
he was going to try to kill me?”
Laura looked down. “It wasn’t like that, baby. If I had thought anything was really going to happen…”
Akiko leaned back.
“Akiko,” I started.
“No, Vince. Like, I don’t know what to think, you know? I mean, was she so self-centered she didn’t even think about me? Or
was she so in love with me she couldn’t stay away? I don’t know whether to feel violated or, like, adored.”
Ridlin roused himself. He was staring intently at the Don.
“OK,” he said. “Contracts and consequences. Basic rule of civilized society. But, because she’s sleeping with your daughter,
you have to kill her? Isn’t that a little extreme? You know, ‘let the punishment fit the crime’? ”
Chase cut in. “Hey, mistakes were made. Some of our intelligence may have been inaccurate. There are areas of execution that
got a little fucked up and are currently under review, and you can be sure any changes that need to be made will be fucking
implemented and—”
Akiko let out a laugh, a single mad cackle, then put her hand over her mouth. It stopped him.
Ridlin leaned over the table, his brow wrinkled. “Listen, I think you might agree with me, this thing maybe requires consequences,
but maybe not death—”
The Don looked at him. “Ahh,” he sighed. “I see that the talking is over and the negotiating has begun. What have you got
for me?”
Ridlin looked up at him. “You get the Accountant and the money, you leave the ladies alone, and I get the assassin.”
The Don looked at him calmly.
“You think this is fair?”
Ridlin nodded.
“You think it’s so fair, flip it. You keep the courier and the money, and I’ll keep my friend, hmmm?”
Ridlin shook his head.
“Then where’s the value for me? It’s all on your side.”
“He’s of no use to you anymore. We’ve all seen him, there are others who can identify him, at headquarters. You can’t use
him. He’s done.”
The Don glared. “Do you think that if he didn’t want you to recognize him, that you would? There have been times
I
didn’t recognize him, and he’s my oldest friend in the world. Besides, say you’re right, say he can’t work. I
still
want him with me.”
Ridlin shook his head.
Della Chiesa stared at him. “What can you do to sweeten the deal?”
“Sweeten the deal…?”
“There’s not enough in it for me. Like, maybe you could throw in the piano player.”
I looked at Ridlin. He shook his head “No.”
Della Chiesa saw this, and said, “No, not
that
piano player. The other one,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Ridlin said.
“Give him to me. Maybe there’s something I could do with him.”
Ridlin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You see?” the Don said. “We’ve been negotiating less than two minutes and we’ve already hit a stalemate. I won’t give you
my friend, and you won’t give me the piano player, and neither one of us really cares about the money. So what the hell kind
of a deal is this?”