Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

I drove Elizabeth to her home and stood guard as she changed into dry clothing and packed a suitcase. We were in and out in under five minutes and got right back on the road and heading to Gertrude Miller’s house.

I called Erin on my cell to let her know we were coming. Elizabeth slept most of the way. As I drove, I wondered how the meeting would go between her and Erin.

We arrived at Mrs. Miller’s West Virginia home an hour later. I honked the horn to alert Mrs. Miller and Erin that I was outside and not a threat of any kind. Before I got out of the truck, the front door opened and Erin walked outside.

“Is everything OK?” she said.

I told her what had just happened to Elizabeth.

“Oh, my God.” said Erin, rushing to the passenger side of the truck to tend to Elizabeth.

We opened the door. Elizabeth was still sleeping. I gently tapped her shoulder and she woke.

“Are we there?”

I nodded.

Erin approached Elizabeth.

“Sean told me what happened to you,” she said. “You need to get a hot shower. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“Please, I don’t want to trouble anyone.”

“You’re not troubling anyone,” said Erin. “While you shower, I’m going to make you something to drink. What would you like?”

“A cup of tea might be nice,” said Elizabeth.

“Something to eat?”

“Just some tea, thank you.”

“Come inside,” said Erin, helping Elizabeth out of the truck and enter the front door.

Erin and I helped her walk inside, as I carried her suitcase.

Gertrude Miller was sitting in her rocking chair adjacent to a roaring fire. The house was toasty.

“Bring Elizabeth over here,” she said to Erin, smiling.

Elizabeth walked up to Gertrude, tentative.

“It’s my honor to meet you after all these years, Mrs. Miller,” she said.

“The honor is mine,” said Gertrude. “I wish we had met long ago.”

Gertrude got out of her rocker and gave Elizabeth a big hug. Erin hugged both of them. Soon, all three were laughing and hugging.

The meeting went way better than I thought it would.

“Ladies,” I said, “you have my cell number. You’ll be safer here than anywhere but you call me immediately if you need anything.”

They were so enamored with each other, they were soon recounting stories about John.

After Elizabeth was situated, I got in my truck and headed back to the pub.

When I got back to the pub, Morton and Wilson were waiting for me in the ally.

“Something is up and we came here to warn you,” said Morton.

“Go on,” I said.

“Mr. Wilson and I have been taking turns keeping an eye on Hall’s buildings,” said Morton. “Today, I saw a group of young men talking in the parking lot. They looked to be fit and well trained. They were loading a white van with equipment that looked like us to be some kind of SWAT gear — guns, ammo and assault gear.”

“Morton came and got me and we went back,” said Wilson. “We watched them for several hours when a black Crown Vic drove into the parking lot. Tony and Terry appeared to be giving the men instructions. Four of them got into the van. Tony and Terry got back into the Crown Vic and drove off with the van following them. We followed them onto the highway. Once we concluded they are likely coming here, we sped ahead to come and warn you. They’ll be arriving soon.”

I had Morton and Wilson park their car and wait inside the garage, then alerted Mick and Maureen to join us. Mick and Maureen had set up the security system and welded latches on the pub’s door to hold the steel bar in place. The laptop was plugged in and ready to monitor a dozen strategically placed cameras. Mick had even premade a half dozen ham and Swiss sandwiches and set up a coffee maker in the garage. It didn’t take three minutes for us to get situated and ready to catch some bad guys.

At about 2:00 a.m. — about 30 minutes after Morton and Wilson arrived — we saw, on the computer screen, a black Crown Vic driving slowly down the alleyway and a white van behind it.

The vehicles stopped a half block away. The Crown Vic pulled to the side. Tony got out of the car and walked to the driver’s side of the van. He appeared to be giving instructions, then got back in the car. The white van began to crawl toward the back of the pub.

“Here they come,” I said, feeling the adrenaline surge.

Mick and Maureen got up and pumped their shotguns. I did likewise. Morton and Wilson stayed put.

We watched the computer screen.

The van parked near the rear door. Four men jumped out, assault style, and stormed the back door. It was locked but we designed it so that they could break in easy enough. A muzzle to the handle did the trick. The four rushed inside, the spring-loaded steel door closing behind them.

“Cover me,” I said to Mick and Maureen.

We slipped out of the garage, Mick and Maureen on either side of me. I picked up a steel bar I’d laid near the door and set it into the two latches we’d had welded to the door jamb — trapping four bad guys in our stair well.

I looked down the alley. The Crown Vic spun its wheels as it cut down a side street away from the pub. We heard the car roaring down Carson Street for a few blocks before the sound became muffled.

We heard pounding on the steel door as Hall’s mercenaries tried to get out. We went back in the garage and watched them on the laptop.

We all laughed as we watched them argue with each other and pound on all three steel doors trying to get out.

“I guess the plan worked,” said Morton.

The police arrived and the four bad guys were arrested without any issues — that left Tony, Terry and two mercenaries.

Our luck was beginning to turn.

I got right back to shadowing Victoria Hall the following evening.

I sat in my truck up on the hill from her house. I had some of the coffee and sandwiches Mick had made, but after four or five hours, the sandwiches were long gone and my Thermos ran out.

It was getting near 9:00 p.m. I was about to head back to the pub to refill the Thermos when a black BMW 7-series sedan pulled into Hall’s driveway.

Two men got out.

One man I did not recognize. He was small and skinny and wore his baseball cap backwards.

The other was Guido Mosconi, comedy club owner and son of erstwhile mobster Salvatore Mosconi.

Well, now.

They went inside Hall’s front door and stayed inside about 90 minutes.

The front door opened and Guido and the other fellow walked to the BMW. Guido got into the driver’s side and the other man the passenger’s side and left.

I followed them.

Guido descended from Mount Washington down to the Liberty Bridge. I kept him far enough ahead to see him without tipping him off that somebody was following him — at that hour we were the only two cars on the road.

He drove straight through the light onto a road that fed down into the South Side. He drove through some back roads until he hit 12
th
Street, then made a right and drove all the way to the narrow street's end.

He parked the car in front of an old row house. Its façade was comprised of white aluminum siding, dented and warped in many spots. Every window in the house was brightly lit — the lights appeared to be on in every room.

The other man got out of the car and waved to Guido. 

He opened the screen door — an old aluminum door with an upper and lower window, the screens still in — then opened the front door. Just as he did an older woman, mid 60's if I had to guess, presented herself. She was short and wearing a fuzzy, blue robe. She hugged him and pressed her head against his shoulder.

I couldn't make out exactly what she said, but it was along the lines of “Where have you been? Why are you out so late? I was worried.”

They went inside the living room and closed the door.

I noted the address, 107 12
th
street.

Guido pulled away and I followed him.

He drove through the Liberty Tunnels and got onto Rt. 51, heading south. I suspected he was heading to the old industrial campus that housed Victoria Hall’s heroin operation.

He arrived about 45 minutes later. The garage door opened and he drove inside. About 10 minutes later he pulled out. I continued to follow him.

This time, he jumped onto Rt. 837 and headed north. About an hour later, he got onto the Parkway and headed East — to the Gutbuster Comedy Club.

He parked near the club’s entrance and retrieved a cardboard box from his trunk. It was getting late now and the comedy shows were done for the night. But there were several cars in the parking lot still.

Guido went inside. A few minutes later I did, too.

Forty or fifty people were waiting in a line that led into the club’s office. The line was comprised of people from all walks of life — a variety of ages, garments, and ethnicities. Some were skinny and sickly, some were dressed to the hilt, and some were too old to be out that late at night.

But it made perfect sense. Heroin addiction has gone mainstream. Rich, poor, old, young. It filled me with sadness to see the desperation in the eyes of those standing there. It filled me with anger that Guido was profiting from their addiction — and that Hall was feeding off the heroin epidemic to enrich herself.

It took an hour before the last person in line made her purchase. When she walked out of Guido’s office, I walked in.

Guido had a strap around his arm and was about to inject himself with a needle. I sat across from him. His face went pale.

“What do you want, flat foot?”

“Don’t you think you should lock the door before doing that?” I said. “With all that money here you ought to be more careful.”

Guido opened his draw, pulled out a gun and pointed it at me.

“You got 30 seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t’t whack you right here and now.”

“You’re almost dumb enough to pull that trigger,” I said. “But you won’t. You won’t because, unlike your father, you don’t know the first thing about getting away with murder. Besides, I’m here to help you.”

“Help me what?”

“Victoria Hall is going to kill you,” I said.

“What are you talking about? She knows I’m connected. She respects me.”

“Respects you?” I said. “She’s tying up loose ends. A heroin addict who knows about her operation is a loose end.”

“That’s crap,” said Guido. “She knows who my dad is. She knows I’m a badass.”

“Here’s how I can help you,” I said. “First, I know a doctor who can help you get you clean.”

Guido stared at me in disbelief.

“Second,” I said, “I can protect you. I can get you out of here and keep you safe. Hall will never have a chance to take you out.”

His eyes darted left and right. This conversation was moving too fast for him.

“I figure you learned from friends of yours that a big heroin operation was running out of Maryanne,” I said. “When you found out it was running in the buildings you sold to Hall, you pressured her to give you a piece of the action. You threatened to go to your sister and have her terminate the five-year owner-finance contract you cut — because Hall’s illegal activities breached the contract. Hall didn’t want her operation disrupted so she cuts you in. She gives you free product so you can run your own small-time distribution operation.” 

“I ain’t small time,” said Guido. “I made 30 grand last month.”

“Does your father know you’re in the drug business?” I said. “Your sister?”

“I’m my own man,” said Guido. “I made my own bones. You got no idea who you’re messing with, flatfoot. The real question is, who’s going to help you?”

“Who were you with tonight?” I said. “Who was the little fellow that you were with when you visited Hall?”

“I wasn’t with nobody.”

“I’m going to find out anyhow,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me. How is he involved?”

Guido said nothing.

“You need to think,” I said. “I know that can’t be easy, you being an addict and all, but Hall is going to take you out. She’s going to send Tony and Terry to do it. They will make it look like an overdose. And they will get away with it.”

“I think you better get out of her before I put a bullet between your eyes.”

“Have it your way,” I said, standing.

I pulled a card out of my wallet and set it on his desk.

“I really do want to help you,” I said, “and when it occurs to you how much trouble you’re in, contact me immediately.”

I walked out of the comedy club. I got into my truck and drove down the Parkway toward the pub — worried that Guido was not long for this world.