The Snow Angel (30 page)

Van Horn had yet to get his hands dirty in a real Mob investigation. But the smug little bastard believed OCI officers had to be pristine. He assumed you made cases against mobsters with evidence that somehow fell from the sky. He didn't understand how a cop like Kane could be on a friendly basis with a criminal—for whatever reason.

Predictably, Van Horn reacted strongly. He ordered Kane take along a partner, so there could be no questions later on about his motives. Kane refused.

Then Van Horn demanded that Kane wear a wire, to fend off possible allegations that might come later. Again Kane refused.

With that, the enraged Van Horn all but accused Kane of corruption: “So what kind of
relationship
do you have with this man?” he demanded. “This is totally against department policy! Are you on his pad or something?”

“Lieutenant,” Kane snarled, “you say something like that again, you'll be swallowing your teeth.”

“Are you threatening me, Detective?”

“Yes, I'm threatening you! Take
that
to your pals in IA! It's your word against mine—unless you're wearing a wire right now.”

“They'll put
you
on the polygraph,” Van Horn said.

“Fuck the polygraph and fuck you!” Kane said. He turned and walked out of the building. Van Horn just stood there, fuming.

Now, heading north to Vitale's place, Kane reviewed the conversation with perverse satisfaction. Van Horn, of course, hadn't a clue that Ralph Kane planned to celebrate Christmas by blowing his brains out.

Then Kane reflected on the other major asshole currently in his life, Isaiah Bell. For a while yesterday, he had almost found himself liking the guy. Then Bell came on with all this holy-roller ex-drunk bullshit, mocking him for his hangover.

Kane recalled a crusty old gunnery sergeant in Vietnam who had despised religion. He had his own prayer, which he would quote over beers: “God, protect me from your followers.”

That's for goddamned sure.

B
ell sat alone in the back of the Red Bird Pool Hall, waiting for Willis Henry to arrive. Only two other people were in the joint at this hour, a solitary young hustler sharpening his game and the grey-haired proprietor, Dizzy Dean Jackson.

Jackson was born in St. Louis of racially-mixed parents during the 1934 World Series. He bought this place in the sixties, when he was still a young man and this was still a safe neighborhood. If you gave Dizzy Dean an ear, he would lament endlessly the passing of both his youth and his safety. Bell, who knew him well, did not intend to give him an ear.

Jackson walked back to Bell with a glass coffee pot and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He poured Bell some fresh coffee. “Who you waitin' for, Deacon?” he asked.

“Po-lice business,” Bell replied. He made a show of waving the smoke away.

But Diz was undeterred. “Want some company?”

“Thanks, but I've got something I'm trying to figure out.”

“I can dig it.” Diz scowled. “Whatdya think of that little boy gettin' kidnapped and killed?”

“I'm glad it's not my case,” Bell said.

“I hope they put the motherfuckers in the electric chair.”

“This state doesn't have an electric chair.”

“Well, they oughta buy one.” Diz brightened. “That's it! I'll start a fund-raiser, buy the state an electric chair! Lethal injection is a pussy way to die. How much you figure a good electric chair costs?”

“I haven't the slightest idea.”

“Probably could buy a good used one from Florida or Texas, one a them places.”

Bell pulled a notebook from his pocket and pretended to read it. Jackson took the hint and went back to his cash register.

Bell waved away the remnants of Jackson's smoke and looked up at the clock. Willis Henry was late, the way dirtbags always are. Laziness, that was the primary characteristic of street thugs.
Laziness and cluelessness.
Bell felt his mood turn sour again.

His mind drifted to thoughts of Ralph Kane. He had discovered
an utterly baffling feeling: he found himself worried about the little motherfucker. There was something about that look on his face a couple of hours ago…

Bell's detective instincts took over, as if Kane were a criminal he was hunting. He began reviewing the clues to the man's emotional state. He recalled Kane's reaction yesterday, when Bell revealed the secret about his own near-suicide. Then he reviewed Kane's words:

“Everyone's days are short…”, ‘Did you really thinkyou were a coward…?”, “Once this case is over, I'm bulletproof. There won't be a goddamned thing anyone can do to me.”

Bell was alarmed by the picture he was getting. He recalled those cops he had known who “ate their guns.” Brannigan, in the Eighteenth Precinct. Smith, in the Twenty-Ninth. Roskoff, in Holdup. Bishop, in Auto Theft. Graham, in Special Investigations. And almost all of them had been drinking when they did it.

Suddenly Bell realized that his palms were sweating.
I came on too strong. I shouldn't have laughed at him. I remember how dark it was, near the end.

He found himself profoundly surprised by this thought. Where did this come from? He resolved to make things right with Kane as soon as he could. It had nothing to do with goodness. He wouldn't be able to live with the guilt if Kane did something drastic.

Willis Henry finally strolled casually into the Red Bird, wearing sunglasses and an expensive leather jacket. He stopped at the door like a cop, scanning the room, a study in cool.
Another asshole who's seen too many movies.
Bell beckoned to him. The shotcaller sauntered over, looking around to see who might be watching. Bell did not rise. “Mornin',” he said, sipping his coffee nonchalantly.

“Bell-man.” Chewing a toothpick, Henry turned a chair around backwards and straddled it. “You got something for me?”

Bell reached under his jacket for a manila envelope. He removed a dozen of the mug shots. “Thomas Blackstone and Frederick Whitman,” Bell said. “AKA ‘Blackie and White Man.' White Man is black, Blackie is white.”

“They the killers?”

“Looks like it.” Bell replaced the pictures in the envelope and handed it to Big Gun. “There's some confidential stuff here—street monickers, tats, scars, names of friends, shit like that. You never got it from me.”

“Sure thing, brother.”

”So how's your mama, Willis? She staying sober?”

“She havin' problems, but she tryin'.” Henry nodded. “Thanks for askin'.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I'll let you know.” The gangbanger pointed to the envelope. “These motherfuckers—We run across them, what you want us to do?”

“What do you think? I want you to call me.”

“Before or after we kill them?”

“Instead
of killing them.”

Henry laughed. “Man, you takin' all the fun out of it.”

“I have rules to play by.”

“Too bad,” Henry said. He brightened. “Crime still goin' down?”

“Why you asking?”

“Well, it's like I told you, we got this little alliance with the Bloods. Just for this thang about the little boy, you follow me?”

“I follow you.”

“That's the reason crimes be down. Not the bullshit your phony-assed Uncle Tom chief is puttin' out.” Henry laughed. “Crimes be down ‘cuz
we-allain't doin' them!
Sort of a Christmas present to the city.”

Bell also laughed. “I don't suppose there's any way to keep it going…”

“ Hell,
no.” Henry said. “Once this shit be over, it's business as usual.”

“A man can always hope.”

“True enough, Bell-man. What's life without hope?”

Bell stood up and clasped hands with the gangbanger. “Obliged, Willis.”

“Sure thang, officer.” Willis Henry turned on his heel and sauntered out of the pool hall, king of his universe.

Kane cruised Vitale's tree-lined neighborhood for a few minutes, killing time until the appointed hour. Then, promptly at ten, he pulled into the driveway of the mansion. He rang the buzzer and was admitted by a Vitale bodyguard. He removed his galoshes before entering. Once again, the servant girl led him down the long hallway to Vitale's study.

This time the old
capo
was wearing a jogging suit. “I'm getting ready
for the treadmill,” Vitale said. He poured Kane a cup of coffee. “The doctor tells me to get in shape. My heart is going to explode unless I take care of it.” He smiled. “It proves I have one, Ralph. That'll surprise your buddies down at the cop shop.”

“I don't have any buddies down at the cop shop.”

“So I hear.”

Kane was startled by the comment. “I guess you do have wires everywhere.”

“That's why you came to me, is it not? My network of friends? Too bad you don't have friends of your own. It must be lonely.”

“I get by.”

The mafioso shrugged. “It's your life. You got the pictures?”

Kane handed over the envelope. “There's a note with names, descriptions, associates, that sort of thing. We'll appreciate anything you can do.”

Vitale examined the mugshots. “Sure. I'm putting these pricks on the internet. Their maggoty faces will go out all over the world. They won't find a safe place on this planet.”

Kane actually smiled. “You people have your own web site?”

“Certain of our associates, yes, they're ‘on line.' Everyone is, these days.” The old hoodlum pointed to a desk globe. “We're everywhere now, Ralph. You should know that, a man in your line of work. We're with the cartels in Cali, the Russians in Moscow, the yakuza in Tokyo, the Chinks in Hong Kong—the world's shrinking. We're now a huge, transnational business.”

“An idea whose time has come.”

“A man needs to keep up with the times he lives in. A man who won't change with the times is in trouble.”

Kane shrugged indifferently. “Not me.”

Vitale shook his head. “You're a very strange fellow, my friend. You really should get some love in your life—while you can.”

“I'll take it under advisement.”
What the hell is this, Fix Ralph Kane Week?

“Christmas,” Vitale mused. “A time for an old man to reflect on his life, where he's been, what he's done, what he hasn't done. Sometimes he doesn't like what he sees.”

“I suppose not,” Kane said, itching to get out the door.

“I was an orphan. When I was ten, my parents' car was hit by a train.”

”I've read your file.”

“I'll tell you what's not in that file: I used to pray my old man would die. Especially when he was beating my mother. I prayed that one of his
goombahs
would put a .22 round in the back of his neck.”

Kane smiled bitterly. “Sounds like we had the same father.”

Vitale snapped his fingers. “That's it! I figured there was something about you, and that's what it is! You understand!” He pointed his thumb at his heart. “In here.”

“I have a rough idea.”

“When the accident happened, you know, with the train? I figured it was God answering my prayers. But he took my mother, too. So I felt I was responsible for killing
her,
by praying like that.”

“Heavy shit for a ten-year-old,” Kane said. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I don't know. I guess because it
is
Christmas, and I don't have much time left.”

“What do you mean?” Kane asked.

“Like I said, I ain't in the best of health.”

“I'm sorry,” Kane said. To his surprise, he realized the statement was true.

“Just getting a few things off my chest,” said the old racketeer. “Ain't no big deal. We're all gonna leave at some point. It's just the where and the when that's the mystery.”

“Sounds like something for your priest, Vito.”

“Maybe you
are
my priest.” He laughed. “Believe it or not, Ralph, I like you. I like you because you're a square shooter. You may be fucked up, but you're honorable. I figure I can talk to you, as a man who understands.”

Vitale poured Kane another cup of coffee. “Not much of that left any more—honor. The do-gooders, they get up in their pulpits, yell about sin and vice, go before Congress and give lectures about us, how bad we are, how we fuck over people. We're the scumbags.”

Vitale began pacing around his office, talking expansively with his hands. “But look who's running the country, my friend. Corporations. Banks. Advertising agencies. Liars, all liars! And no fucking heart! You ever heard of a corporation with a heart?

“You want to talk organized crime? We give money to a politician, it's bribery. A corporation gives money, it's a campaign contribution.
Who fucks over the little guy more than the corporations? Hell, at least we come from the people.”