Night and Day (Book 3): Bandit's Moon (13 page)

So I changed into one of the suits
Bain had given me and waited. It was a summer-weight suit, but thermal
underwear and a heavy topcoat would keep me warm enough. I didn’t think
No-Neck Al would be conducting business outside.

A couple of minutes before six,
there was a knock at the door. When I opened it, Angelo smiled. I saw
Eddie’s Cadillac pulling away from the curb over his shoulder, Vic behind
the wheel. “Are you ready?” he asked.

“Lemme grab a coat,” I said. “Come
on in, you’re letting the heat out.”

Angelo stepped inside and closed
the door. He was wearing a long black coat over his usual suit and tie. A
gray suit for the night’s visit to Werkle.

In the face, Angelo reminded me of
pictures I’d seen of Dean Martin when he was in his late 30s and early 40s.
Same curly black hair, same nose, same mouth. But old Deano had never been
a weightlifter, and Angelo had a weightlifter’s body. Big shoulders and
chest, narrow waist and hips, big legs.

When I turned from the closet,
slipping the topcoat over my suit, I saw him studying my apartment. “This
isn’t so bad,” he said. “The way Ed talked, I would have thought you had a
mattress on a bare floor.”

“That’s Eddie’s dream of how I
live,” I said with a laugh. “Makes him feel better about
himself.”

Angelo shot me a sharp look.
Interesting. No kidding about the boss around Angelo.

“Okay, let’s get going,” I
said.

“You know the east side?” he asked
as I pulled the Jeep away from the curb.

“Just about every square foot of
it,” I said. “I worked Robbery-Homicide there for almost six years before
the war.”

“Mr. Werkle lives on Sutherland,”
he said. “935 Sutherland.”

“Nice,” I said. Sutherland Drive
was in a small neighborhood on the south end of eastside called Lakeside
Glen. A gated community, with a little artificial lake in the middle of it.
Very expensive, very exclusive.

A regular subject of conversation
in the 83
^rd
Street Robbery-Homicide squadroom was why anybody
would want to live in Lakeside Glen. It was nice inside the walls of the
community. Big houses, nice lawns. A tiny kingdom on the edge of a criminal
abyss. But if you had the money to live there, you could live anywhere in
the city. So why live there?

In the end, we always went back to
the one thing that set Lakeside Glen apart from other neighborhoods. If you
wanted to live in a house rather than an apartment, and you didn’t want to
live in one of the suburban communities outside the city limits, Lakeside
Glen was your only real choice. There were small neighborhoods with houses
in uptown and downtown. Nice enough homes, but nothing like the mansions in
Lakeside Glen.

“How do you know Werkle?” I asked
as I turned onto Second.

“I worked for his predecessor on
the east side before the war,” Angelo said.

“Frankie Lavino?”

“That’s right,” he replied. “I was
with him for about four years before the bloodsuckers showed
up.”

I hesitated, then said, “It was
Lavino who...”

“Yes,” he said. “Lavino’s men
crushed Ed’s feet. That was before I got there.”

I was kind of surprised. Eddie Gee
didn’t seem like a guy who’d hire somebody who'd worked for the man who
gave him a lifetime of hurt.

“So how did you hook up with
Eddie?”

“It was in the camp,” he said.
“Because of his physical disability and size, Ed was bullied and treated
poorly. I didn’t think that was right. So I put a stop to it.”

The way he said ‘stop’ made it
clear that he hadn’t just used harsh language.

“After that, I looked out for him,
helped him get around, watched his back. When we were released, he offered
me a job.”

He turned to me. “Ed Gabriel is a
good man, Mr. Welles. You may not like his business, but he’s honorable and
true to his friends. You could do a lot worse than Ed Gabriel as a
friend.”

“Eddie and I are more acquaintances
than friends,” I said.

“I understand that,” Angelo said.
“He is my friend.”

“Then I guess you’re a lucky man,”
I said. “What’s the connection between Eddie and Werkle?”

“Ed did a favor for Mr. Werkle. Mr.
Werkle owes him a large debt.”

We drove in silence for five or ten
minutes, and finally I had to ask. “What was the favor? If you can tell me,
of course.”

We were coming into midtown. Angelo
stared out the window at the Christmas lights and decorations, the
illuminated posters and banners with the face of the mysterious Colonel
Wright. “After we were released from the camps, Frankie Lavino returned to
the east side. Mr. Barozie wanted the east side. He wanted Mr. Werkle to
plant his flag there.”

He paused. “But Mr. Werkle had been
a candy brain before the war, and though he was no longer using cocaine,
Mr. Barozie insisted that he prove himself and take the east side on his
own. Mr. Werkle knew that I had worked for Lavino and asked Ed for
help.”

“I guess Eddie gave him the help he
needed.”

Angelo nodded. “Yes. He had me kill
Frankie Lavino. Because of our previous association, I was able to get
close to Lavino. I killed him and two of his bodyguards, then cut off his
finger and delivered it to Mr. Werkle. Lavino had a very distinctive ring
on the finger, a golden eagle ring.. The proof was sufficient.”

Just another true story of life in
the mob. I turned onto Fowler and headed toward the east
side.

It took us another half an hour to
get to Lakeside Glen. The steel gates were closed, and the uniformed man
who stepped out of the guardhouse carried a submachine gun. And Uzi or
Mac-10, a little one.

I lowered the window. “We’re here
to see Mr. Werkle,” Angelo said. “He’s expecting us.”

The guy studied us for a moment,
then went back into the guardhouse.

“Pretty solid security,” I said.
“When I was working this area, they had a rent-a-cop with a .38 on his
hip.”

“Mr. Werkle coordinates security
for Lakeside Glen,” Angelo said. “He was unsatisfied with the previous
security service. His neighbors feel much safer now.”

The steel gates in front of us
opened. I eased the Jeep through them and bore to the right on Sutherland
Drive. If I remembered the addresses in Lakeside Glen correctly, Werkle’s
house would be around the curve, on the left side of the road. Overlooking
the lake.

“I’ll handle the initial
discussion,” Angelo said. “You can say something respectful when you’re
introduced to him, but remain silent until he specifically addresses you
about your request.”

“I know how to behave, Angelo” I
said.

“No offense meant, Mr. Welles. Ed
asked that I pass that along. He said you had a talent for rude
behavior.”

I laughed.

The driveway at 935 Sutherland was
long and winding, lined with little statues of child angels on pedestals.
They might have some meaning to Werkle, but I found them grotesque. We
pulled up under the portico of a palatial two-story house and a teenager
darted out, opened my door, went around the car, opened Angelo’s door, then
came back and climbed into the driver’s seat after I got out. My Jeep
disappeared into the night. All without a word.

A small, deeply tanned older guy
appeared at the door, wearing a black suit with a black shirt and a white
tie. “He’s waiting for you in the study,” he said in a soft, rasping
voice.

“Thank you, Mario,” Angelo
said.

As Mario turned away, the collar of
his shirt shifted and I saw the thin white scar that went across the front
of his throat. Sometime in the distant past, Mario had encountered
something narrow, sharp and wielded with malice. My money was on a straight
razor.
 

Angelo followed Mario through the
door, and I followed Angelo.

Mario pointed to a coat rack near
the door. As I took off my coat, I checked out the house.

The foyer of Werkle’s home was a
nightmare. There’s no other word for it. Bullfighters on velvet and
paintings of dogs playing poker wouldn’t have been out of place. Bright,
flowered wallpaper, thick shag carpeting, little tables with lace doilies
and more statues of child angels. A grand stairway to the right, going up
to the second floor.

As we moved through the house, it
didn’t get any better. Of course, it didn’t get any worse either. It
couldn’t.

Finally we reached a paneled
hallway with small portraits of people I didn’t recognize lining the walls.
They had the flat look that was the hallmark of a marginally-talented
painter working from a photograph.

At the end of the hall stood an
ornately carved wood door. That was Mario’s destination and apparently ours
as well. As I got closer, I saw that the carvings revolved around more
child angels, cavorting from cloud to cloud. It was clearly a theme of
Werkle or his decorator. Or both.

Mario rapped sharply on the door
twice, then opened it. We followed him through.

I’ve been in a fair number of
lawyer’s offices, and that’s what Werkle’s study reminded me of. From the
ceiling to floor bookcases that lined every wall but the one with a leather
coach against it to the large antique wooden desk and the heavy velvet
drapes behind it. Only one child angel here, a little porcelain statue on
the corner of the desk.

There was a young man sitting in an
armchair to the left of the desk and Mario slipped into an identical chair
to the right. Two empty armchairs in front of the desk. Behind it, No-Neck
Al Werkle.

Mob nicknames are usually a given
to those who’ve been in that business for a while. Some are plays on the
person’s name, like Bobby Acorns or Cheese Gorgonio. Some are based on
their role in the organization. Billy Books. Jimmy the Iceman. Some
differentiate between a father and son. Big Paulie and Little
Paulie.

And many are based on some
characteristic of the person with the nickname. Eddie Gabriel had once been
known as Frenchy Gabriel, before he lost the French-Canadian accent. Johnny
Three-Legs. Fat Tony. Jimmy Scars. And No-Neck Al Werkle.

Werkle was a big man, not as big as
Eddie Gee, but big enough. Curly gray hair and a thick white mustache that
framed his mouth and went down almost to his chin, like the horns of a
bull. And a head that looked like it was sitting directly on his
shoulders.

As I got closer, I realized that he
did actually have a neck, but the shortness and thickness of it made it
seem like an extension of his head. The couple of extra chins didn’t
help.

He nodded to us as we came in.
Behind me, I heard the door close. There was probably someone else in the
room behind us, maybe muscle.

Angelo stopped in front of the
desk and did a little half-bow. “Don Alfredo,” he said.

“Hello, Angelo,” Werkle said. His
voice was a low growl.

“Mr. Gabriel send his regards and
good wishes to you,” Angelo continued. “He hopes that you and yours enjoy
good health and prosperity, now and in the years to come.”

“I appreciate the sentiments of my
good friend Eddie Gabriel,” Werkle replied. “He is well?”

“Very well, sir. This has been a
very good year for him, personally and in his business.”

“The surgery,” Werkle said. He was
probably talking about Eddie’s gastric surgery. “No unfortunate
side-effects or problems?”

“None,” Angelo said. “Mr. Gabriel
is like a stallion.”

It took a lot to keep a straight
face while I listened to this Godfather-inspired bullshit that a lot of mob
guys liked to use because it made them feel like they were the real deal.
And Angelo’s ‘stallion’ comment was almost too much. But I controlled
myself.

“I am very happy to hear that,”
Werkle said. “When you see my good friend Eddie, please extend to him my
thoughts and wishes for good health and prosperity in the years to
come.”

“He will be most pleased to hear
that he’s in the thoughts of his good friend, Don Alfredo.”

Then Werkle looked from Angelo to
me. Hopefully that meant that the politeness dance was winding down to its
last steps, and we could start talking business.

“And who is this gentleman?” he
asked.

“I would like to present Mr.
Charlie Welles,” Angelo said. “Mr. Welles is a good friend of Mr.
Gabriel.”

“Hello, Mr. Welles,” Werkle said
with a nod.

I nodded back. “A pleasure to meet
you, Mr. Werkle.” I would have called him Don Alfredo, but it would have
been out of place. I wasn’t a member of their little club.

“And you, Mr. Welles,” he replied.
“A good friend of Eddie Gabriel is a good friend of mine.”

He turned back to Angelo. “Please,
sit,” he said. “Would you like some coffee, perhaps a bit of
grappa?”

“Coffee will be fine, Don
Alfredo.”

Werkle looked past us and nodded.
The door opened and closed.