Red Jacket (14 page)

37

Bumbletown Hill

MONDAY, JULY 7, 1913

Bapcat had not been back to the hill since his time with Jaquelle Frei, and as he trudged toward home this time, he veered north into the forest and circled to the high grass hill by the outcrop. Down below he found the impression that marked the rear entrance hole, pulled dirt aside, and slid into the opening, no idea why he was taking this route. He and Gipp had left several torches near the rear opening and he found them, lit one, and headed toward the opening under the house.

He paused when he saw dim light ahead.

“It is I, Zakov,” a familiar voice sang out. “I, Zakov, living like Job's turkey, gone to ground like a rat with the other rats. If you stayed away any longer, my four-legged companions might have declared war. Rats and man both must eat; this is a law of your so-called God, and nature's imperative.”

“Why are you down here?”

“Some of your Italian associates attempted to exsanguinate yours truly, but I know a modicum of that fine language, and managed to get down the ladder before the barrage commenced.”

Barrage? Exsanguinate?
The Russian's crazy!
“When was all this?”

“When is now? The thread of time eludes me.”

“Monday the seventh.”

“On Friday, the day you revolutionists celebrate independence from your British masters.”

“You've been down here for three days?”

“They came late, after dark, and I took refuge down here. I have climbed up briefly each day to avail myself of the larder, which I must report, desperately begs resupply.”

“There was a barrage?”

“At least twenty rounds in or through the structure, no doubt intended for you. My presence was incidental, which made me expendable—a reality I resent.”

“Could you identify anybody?”

“Too dark, and I was scrambling to get below.”

“They've not been back since?”

“I feel certain they are satisfied with the results of their initial effort, but it is possible they have left watchers. To my knowledge no one has breached the structure.”

Bapcat climbed the ladder, found holes everywhere, shafts of late light cutting the interior devil's smiles. “Twenty shots?” he said into the hole.
Bad shots taken in a hurry
.

“We are not in the mood or mode of pedestrian accounting,” Zakov said below. “This number is in the way of a very coarse estimate.”

Off by at least half
. The truck was untouched, and parked where he had left it.

“Looks like they left the Ford alone,” Bapcat called down to Zakov.

“Perhaps they worship technology over human life.”

Bapcat surveyed the house damage.
They didn't know if I was here, meaning the attack was probably spur-of-the-moment.
“No visitors since?”

“The silence has been truly tomb-like, an apt metaphor given the circumstances. Where is young Gipp?”

“He no longer works for us.”

“How will we get about?”

“You will start walking to build leg strength.”

“This has to do with the little bird killers,
da?
”

“
Da,
” Bapcat said.

“Who will transport us?” Zakov asked.

“We will. You will drive. You don't need both feet for that. And I will turn the crank of the starter.”

“I am not some mindless aristocrat's chauffeur,” Zakov complained.

“And I'm no aristocrat.”
Whatever that is.

“No, you are purely proletarian,” Zakov said somberly.

“Is that a good thing?”

“Such a conclusion remains to be seen,” the Russian said. “Zakov is hoping for hot food. He will even willingly assist in preparation.”

“Better if you stay out of the way,” Bapcat said.

“I have been practicing this skill,” Zakov said. “I intend to arm myself for all future forays into the hostile environment beyond our sanctuary.”

“It will cost a lot of time and money to fix this place,” he told the Russian.

Zakov held up his hands. “Do these look like the claws of a mere peasant?”

“Pissant?”

“Peasant, uneducated one. Perhaps you should employ me to educate you. You have a disturbingly narrow mind, Deputy.”

“I'm a peace officer, not a philosopher.”

“As is painfully evident,” Zakov said.

38

Red Jacket

TUESDAY, JULY 8, 1913

It was clear that Zakov relished his new role as driver. His initial pose of being offended had something to do with his sense of control, the sort of mind-thing Bapcat had no interest in unraveling. People were people. It was hard enough to track their doings, much less their reasons, real and imagined.

They parked outside the
Società Italiana di Mutua Benificenza
building, where Dominick Vairo's saloon sat on the first floor, next to the corner stairway that led to the inner workings of the Italian Hall above. The Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company sat adjacent to the saloon on the first floor, and filled a larger space.

Zakov began to dismount the Ford, but Bapcat waved for him to wait, this earning a frown from the Russian.

Vairo wasn't in the saloon. His partner Frank Rousseau looked at Bapcat, and jerked a thumb toward the back of the building and Vairo's family apartment.

Bapcat went outside and around the building to the back door. Vairo's wife looked out at him, said something to her husband in Italian, and Dominick stepped outside onto the back stoop.

“Georgie-boy come by,” Vairo said. “He likes drive the taxi, lots of time to play ball.”

“Have you seen Geronissi around?”

“He don't come by no more, I think.”

“Some of his friends showed up at our place and shot it up. The Russian got to cover safely. I wasn't there.”

Vairo cringed. “
E'un uomo difficile,
a difficult man,
si?
His boys,
lo fanno cose folli, che grappolo
,” Vairo said, touching his temple and making a snapping motion with his fingers. “Bruno is smart guy, but sometimes not all his boys. Boss lets them take risks.”

Bapcat had already guessed as much. “What's the point? He kills me, the heat goes up for him because of people a lot more powerful and vengeful than me.”

“You t'ink with logic mind, Lute. Geronissi, he t'inka wit' his nuts, okay?” Vairo cupped the front of his pants. “What you gonna do?”

“Not sure yet. The name Cornelio Mangione mean anything to you?”

Vairo was visibly shaken. “
Lue, e il diavolo deporee le uove
, the devil's spawn, yes. Don't go near this man, Lute, don't
dire il name del mostro ad alta voce
. This man
e peggio di una male dizione—
worse than a curse, okay?” Vairo looked to be near tears.

Overreaction
? “What're you saying, Dominick?”

“
Persone vicine asparire lui
.” Vairo made a sound,
Pfft,
and snapped his fingers. “Like-a that, here, then gone.
Pfft.
”

“Dominick?”

Vairo leaned close, whispered, “
Lui e un assassino professionista, hai caputo
? Kills for money.” Vairo vigorously rubbed his fingers together.

“Who does he work for?”

“Himself and anybody got . . .” The saloonkeeper made the money sign again. “Why you want to know this
animale?
”

“Heard the name, wondered. He work only for Italians with money?”

“He don't care, that one.”

“Any names come to mind?”

“I never think about those things, Lute.
Never
.”

“Just one?”

Vairo stepped back against the door. “I guess.”

“Tristan Shunk,” Bapcat said.

The blood seemed to immediately drain from Vairo's face. “
Capitano
Shunk?”

“
Si
, topside captain at the Kearsarge.”

“Listen,” Vairo said emphatically, “I don't know nothing this man.”

“If people don't talk, things don't change,” Bapcat told his friend.

“I gotta t'ink about family, capisce
?
I am dead, what happens to wife,
bambino?
You not married, Lute. Me. I got
familia
.”

Vairo had a point.

“One more thing,” Bapcat said. “Shunk and Mangione, people say they do business together?”

Vairo leaned against the house wall. “I don't wanna hear this kinda t'ing. The unspeakable one, he is from south, okay,
Napolitano,
involved in societies—you understand what I tell?”

Black Hand.

Vairo said, “Yes, he and Geronissi, these two names I hear together. They
hate
each other.”

“I know where Geronissi lives, but where does he hang out?” asked Bapcat.

“Roma Saloon, in Lisa Block, Sixth Street, corner of bar, his place of business, okay?”

Bapcat thanked his friend, who said, “You talk to boss Italians, call them
dottore
, okay, Lute. Sign of respect. Very important.”

“Even if they're not doctors?”

“Please, you just do like your friend Dominick ask, okay? For your own good.”

How much do Geronissi and Mangione hate each other?
he wondered as he walked back to the Ford.

“Where to next, Your Excellency?” Zakov wanted to know.

“Your sarcasm is wasted.”

“Zakov is surprised His Excellency understands the concept.”

“I also understand the concept of good manners.”

“There is no need to berate your unpaid personal serf.”

•••

It was midafternoon, the Roma almost empty of patrons, but Bapcat saw Geronissi at a table along a dark wall and approached him, taking the back of a chair in his hand.

“I got your message,
Dottore.
Thought we should talk.”
If they wanted to kill, they would have rushed the house and killed Zakov. The bullets were a message
. “Now a good time?”

Geronissi motioned for him to sit. The Italian said, “
Stai cer cando di suscitore una guerra?
You trying to stir up a war?”

“I could ask you the same,
Dottore
. It's not so smart to shoot up a lawman's house.”

“You ain't no real lawman, Deputy, just a game warden, and I don't know nothing about shooting no house.”

“Cornelio Mangione says differently.”

Geronissi blinked hard. “Everybody got opinions in this country.”

Bapcat started to stand. “Not being a real lawman, I guess I don't have to act like one and follow the law—is that what you're telling me,
Dottore?
Maybe one night you head for home and there's an accident.” He knew he had Geronissi's attention now.

“So what's this Mangione say about me?” the Italian asked.

“I never said he mentioned you. Why do you assume that?”

“What is it you want, Deputy? I'm in no mood for word games.”

“Word is going 'round that you and Mangione don't see eye to eye.”

“The man's a pig,” Geronissi said, adding, “We all got opinions,
si?
America! Opinion is in the air here.”

“Most people don't fear pigs,” Bapcat said.

“Who says Bruno afraid?” Geronissi asked, thrusting his chin forward.

“Not you. I'm referring to a general statement of how things are around here. But things never stay the same, Bruno. One day maybe someone sees to Mangione's downfall, puts him in jail for a long time.”

“Why they do this?”

Bapcat shrugged. “You know the man and I don't. You
do
know him, right?”

“I know who he is, but he's not my friend.”

“Of course he's not. You two are in different businesses.”

“What's that mean?”

“You're the birdman,
Dottore.
Mangione's got deer.”

“I don't know about no deer.”

“ 'Course you don't, because it's
his
business. You get nice profit from birds, but deer, the profit there's gotta be huge. Big animals, big money, right?”

“What you want, game warden?”

“Me,
Dottore
? Just thinking out loud.”

“Talking about things not your damn business, and you know nothing about.”

“Maybe there are things you don't know about either,
Dottore
. No disrespect, but Mangione pays hunters to kill deer so strikers can't feed their families.”

“There ain't no strike!” the man insisted.

“They're voting right now.”

Geronissi's face became passive. “How much this man pay these hunters?”

“Three dollars a head is what I heard—a miner's wage underground for a day.”

Bapcat could see Geronissi trying to process the information, making calculations.

“Bullshit. That don't make no sense.”

“Crime's never logical,” Bapcat countered.

“You can't kill all the deer,” Geronissi said. “Too damn many.”

“You don't have to kill all of them; just enough to make the meat scarce and hard to obtain.”

“Who pays this Mangione, Mr. Big Shot
Ingles
McNaught”

“Mangione isn't saying.”

“Big Shot got his hand in everything around here. What I'm supposed to do with this information?”

“Do? Whatever you want. I just thought you should know,
Dottore
, on the off chance you didn't.”

Geronissi said, “Maybe I know a lot, mebbe not. Why you tell me?”

“A trade. No more visits to my place.”

“What's in it for me?”

“You stay alive,
Dottore
, maybe inherit a new business or something.”

Geronissi smiled slyly. “Okay, Deputy, we got a deal—my word.”

“Get in touch if there's ever anything you think I ought to know,” Bapcat said.

“You want
gnocchi, vino
?” the man asked, pointing at a bowl.

“No,
grazie
, I've got to move on.”

“How you know about strike vote?” Geronissi asked.

“You got your sources, I've got mine,” Bapcat said.

“
Ciao
, Deputy. Nice talking to you.”

Zakov was snoring in the Ford and startled awake when Bapcat returned. “
What!
”

“Home, sleepyhead.”

“I was meditating, not sleeping. What have we been doing today?”

“Setting traps with poison.”

“Which one?”

“Greed.”

After this Geronissi would be sniffing out what Mangione was up to. More importantly, the
dottore
would take the gun sights off him and Zakov—at least for now.