Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Three

A brisk wind slapped her as she moved outside onto a terrace. All roads converged on City Hall topped by the thirty-seven foot high bronze statue of the City’s founder, Quaker William Penn. The massive, hundred year old stone, marble and granite eight story building covered a full square block. A courtyard centered City Hall. Amid the skyscrapers to the east and west, City Hall looked out of place. It was as if time had stood still and had let history overtake it and doom it to a living obsolescence.

To the left of City Hall, the dark brownstone and greenish dome of the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul commanded the east side of Eighteenth Street on the traffic circle that was the terminus of the Ben Franklin Parkway. She’d seen the Pope there on his tour of the country. Thousands cried in awe and rapture as the venerable old man saluted them. Alice never understood the Catholics when it came to the principal of Papal infallibility. How could any man be without sin or error?

The Philadelphia Art Museum, built as a replica of three Greek Temples, book ended the Parkway with the Cathedral. The pagan Museum and Catholic Church served as boundaries for the City’s courts and libraries and a Child Detention Center and the Franklin Institute and the outdoor Rodin Museum all sandwiched between the two opposing worlds.

She stirred her drink with her fingertip, sucked on the end of her finger and cried “Ah” at the sudden realization that if one connected the dots starting at City Hall then the Cathedral and then the Art Museum, the lines formed a triangle of the powerful religious and social forces that drove the city’s political structure for a hundred years. If Spaventa was right, a new force had reared its head to oust the old Triangle and replace it with a secular force that lived for its own ends. What god did Camorra pray to? Baal? It is my city and Dorian’s city and we will not let it be harmed. Shivering, she headed toward the bar where she’d left Dorian.

Seven crystal chandeliers blanketed the ballroom full of people so loud that not even the eight-piece rock band could drown out the clamor. The familiar faces looked alien, fuzzy. It was not the scotch she thought. It was the sudden realization that she really knew so little about so many of them. She nearly slipped on the hardwood parquet floor but a bulky black woman caught her arm.

“Are you okay?” asked the woman.

Embarrassed but protective, Dorian steadied her. “She is fine. Thanks for asking,” said Dorian as he took Alice by the arm. He steered her to the bar. She leaned her head against his shoulder. She exhaled in exasperation, “God give me strength.”

She eased away from Dorian’s arms.

“Another scotch?” he asked.

She frowned in her best “I am pissed” look. “A double and no lectures,” she said.

The band pounded out “Hail to the Chief” as Lincoln Miles, resplendent in a white tuxedo, his wife Estelle on his arm, framed the door of the banquet room. His shaven head glistened as brightly as Estelle’s shoulder length, platinum blonde hair. Lincoln filled out his shaped tuxedo as well as a male model twenty years his junior. A black Adonis, Lincoln exuded charisma and power. Yet, there was a playful, street kid quality in him. He took himself seriously but annoyed powerful people by not taking them too seriously. He always said that the streets make you understand that life is short, precious and as flimsy as a hooker’s blouse.

“Estelle looks great,” said Alice. “Uh oh! Here comes Grace and Marian and our new Police Commissioner Morton Lloyd McLain and Nate Stern, our grumpy new Managing Director.”

“The four horsemen,” said Dorian.

“Do you mean the four horsemen of your favorite school, Notre Dame?” asked Alice.

Dorian winced. “Leave the Catholic football players out of your line of fire. You know I mean the four horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said Dorian.

He tilted his glass toward the entourage. “Look you upon death, famine, war and pestilence.”

Alice liked the analogy. “Who is what?”

Dorian shrugged. “It is hard to tell but Nate is wealthy so he may put the rest of us in famine. I have been at war with ML for a decade so Grace or Marian are death and pestilence.”

“Hey, Marian is my boss! She may be a good guy!”

Dorian stroked her head. “Don’t lay odds on it.”

Trim and petite, Grace strode back straight and shoulders square like a toy soldier. Her wire-rimmed glasses matched her jet-black hair smartly swept straight back. She’d won the Ivy League gymnastics medal on the high bars while at Penn. She and Estelle and Marian shared a dorm room. They’d gone on to Law school together too. Alice heard tales of the three witches of Penn. She was five years behind them in Law School but the sorority sisters still bragged about the “feminist witches” that brewed trouble on the campus. Marian was the militant voice, Grace the silent behind the scenes leader and Estelle the upfront photo op that got a lot of visual attention from the television coverage of their pro-choice demonstrations.

Accompanied by her elderly husband Joseph Goodway, Marian lumbered under a long sleeve gown that hid her heavy arms and legs. Marian held her chin high and smiled though Alice knew from Marian’s campaign rhetoric that she liked Lincoln as much as she wanted to gain more weight. Joseph walked two steps behind Marian. Joseph weighed a hundred pounds less than his wife but stood four inches taller. His gangly arms hung from rounded, sloping shoulders. His long, salt and pepper hair reminded Dorian of a picture of a young Albert Einstein. He was a quirky man who wore shaded glasses at all times due to a chronic eye disease. No one really knew what he did for a living. Dorian called him “Gumby”. Taciturn but full of dry humor, Gumby had a way with words. He rarely mixed in politics and shunned the spotlight. Alice always said, “Marian had the balls and the brains in the family.” Dorian had learned long ago that true strength is the property of quiet men.

Morton L McLain stood one inch taller than Lincoln. His thick shoulders strained under the bulky tuxedo he’d no doubt rented as cheaply as possible. Dorian had once worked in the same precinct as McLain and suspected that ML was on the take. ML’s shock of orange red hair was parted in the middle. His craggy jowls look like the West Ireland cliffs of Mohr. Alice feared no man except ML. The Chief put more than one hoodlum in the hospital. The Street rumor was that ML would rather kill you than arrest you.

A perpetual scowl cut across Nate Stern’s face like a battle scar. Israeli born, Nate was a cunning businessman who built a one man insurance agency into a financial empire. He could buy and sell her and Dorian a hundred times over.

Lincoln had surrounded himself with wealthy, able people, none of whom Alice trusted. Dorian was right to keep quiet for now though she ran a serious risk of breach of professional code of conduct if anything happened to Miles and she had not alerted the police.

“Here is your drink,” said Dorian. “You are only half way through the bottle. Pick it up!”

Alice scowled as a man standing next to Dorian chuckled. She poked Dorian’s chest. “Fuck off! I am not married to you.”

Dorian flared red. “Thanks for reminding me that you refused me twice.”

Alice glared daggers at the man behind Dorian who was eavesdropping. She tapped Dorian on the tip of his nose. “Keep nagging me. It makes it so much easier to say no.”

Dorian sighed like a fighter ready to throw in the towel. “We have work to do. I’ll talk to McLain and Nate. You take Grace and Marian and her hubby Joseph. Light some sparks and try not to fall down,” he said and moved toward Morton McLain followed by a very audible, “Fuck you!” from Alice.

She bit her lip as she spoke wishing she’d just ignored him. Alice dropped her eyes to the floor for a split second. No one was going to see her sweat.

Il Segreto stood just behind Lincoln Miles singing “He’s a jolly good fellow,” amid a crowd of people clapping wildly and smiling broadly for the cameras. But Il Segreto’s eyes never left Dorian and Alice. Long ago, Talarico’s father once said that the assassin is the ultimate answer to all problems. But if you corrupt a man, you can use him forever. The old man was right. Dorian and Alice could both be useful or dangerous.

Lincoln Miles moved to the stage. He scaled the three steps in one leap. Miles waved the microphone around his head. The crowd roared for, “Lincoln! Lincoln! Lincoln! Lincoln!”

Linc spread his hands wide and waved his arms for the crowd to quiet. They obeyed except for a couple so drunk the wall held them.

“Thank you all. I love you Philadelphia!”

“Philly loves Linc,” yelled a man from the floor.

Lincoln pointed to the replier. “You are the best. Now listen up. We are going to rebuild this great city. The little people will rise and the powerful people will serve the little people. The fat cats are on their way out. They were on the gravy train but you just gave them a transfer to the next train out of Philly. My team and I, backed by my beautiful wife Estelle, will lead. Will you march through the next four years with us?”

The crowd erupted in a chorus of “Linc! Linc! Linc!”

Lincoln wheeled three hundred and sixty degrees as though he wanted to soak in the enthusiasm and the approval. “I knew I could count on you. Let the word go out to the special interest groups that the only group special in Philadelphia is the people. Spell it out with me. P E O P L E. People!”

The room shook as hundreds of people stomped their feet on the hardwood floors like a college pep rally.

Lincoln blew a dozen kisses. “Great! Now, It is that magic time. You know, the midnight hour. Ready Mister Bandleader. Give us a drum roll. Count down with me. Ten seconds to midnight.”

The room exploded in unison. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one!”

The band ripped into. Wilson Pickett’s song “I’m gonna wait til the midnight hour!”

Linc swooped up Estelle on to the stage and danced furiously. He whirled her around in a blur of black and blonde while the whole dance floor clapped in unison. He held her high over his head. She threw her head back and collapsed in his arms.

“God almighty!” said Lincoln.

Il Segreto’s blood boiled inside a stiff body masked by a beaming smile. “The midnight hour is closing on him faster than he thinks.”
ML moved away from the stage after Lincoln’s dance and rested his back against the wall in a far corner of the room. Dorian sidled next to ML who puffed on his meerschaum pipe despite the hotel’s ban on smoking. ML’s ham hock hands enveloped the pipe bowl. His knuckles strained like pointy rocks under his skin. Dorian had witnessed how those knuckles could smash a man’s skin or splatter his teeth across a room with one blow. He’d made his bones as a brawling, tough cop who’d never lost a fight. As a Sergeant, he’d been lucky to kill the murderer of Nate’s son, Jerry. The notoriety brought ML attention, promotion and the eternal gratitude of Nate Stern. It was ironic that a Jew boosted a Christian to the top of his profession.

ML snorted. “Hello, Little man!”

Dorian nodded. “Nice pipe. It is very befitting a man of your stature. You are chief of the clan. Where’s your kilt and bagpipes?”

Ml grunted, “Fuck off ye poof.”

Dorian relished talking to ML as much as he liked drowning in acid. “You never did get over my resignation or the fact that I make more money than you. Jealousy becomes you. Let me check. Yes, under that orange hair and red face, you are still a green eyed monster.”

ML’s nostrils flared while his steel grey eyes flashed with contempt.“Ye dinna come to have a chat with your old boss. So what brings you to talk to me?”

Dorian took ML’s huge hand “Want to dance?”

ML squeezed Dorian’s hand in a vise then yanked free. “Mind your tongue or I’ll have me lads over there sweep the floor with you.”

Two tall, red headed policemen, their nightsticks hanging in their belts, glowered. Dorian recognized Andrew “Pocky” Miller. He’d had his face “pock marked” by pellets from a shotgun blast. The other cop, Eddie “Pugface” Howell, had a pushed in mug, similar to a fighter who’d run into too many left jabs. ML’s Special Forces team worked at his pleasure with no accountability, much like the Royal Guard for a king.

Dorian always wanted a piece of ML one on one. “Try it yourself some time.”

ML jabbed the end of his pipe into Dorian’s chest. “Yer a punk not worthy of bruising my knuckles on.”

ML grinned and pointed his pipe toward Alice. “I may have a go at your friend Alice. Ay, she’d put up a fine battle.”

Dorian turned as red as ML’s hair. “Leave her out of it. I actually stopped by to tell you that Georgio Spaventa was murdered yesterday.”

ML squinted behind his pipe and relit it. “Who is Spaghetti?”

Dorian’s fists instinctively clenched. “Spaventa. He was with the Italian police. He specialized in organized crime.”

ML’s lip dipped a centimeter, just enough to tell Dorian that the news hit ML in a sensitive spot.

“So what has that tidbit to do with me and my city?”

Dorian whispered slowly. “He mentioned you in a file he sent to me. He says you are as crooked as East River Drive. I thought you’d like to smoke on that tidbit.”

ML’s hot, scotched soaked spittle sputtered as he got nose to nose with Dorian. “I suggest that you leave what happens in Italy in Italy. You never know what trouble one can suffer for not minding your own business.”

Pocky and Pugface surrounded Dorian who decided to exit stage left before he ruined the Ball. “Nice seeing you, ML. Did you train these pit bulls? The animals should be outlawed.”

Their collective anger could have fired up a train engine.

Pocky’s upper lip curled to show his fangs. “See you around Wilde.”

Dorian pointed to Pugface. “Do you have a license and a leash for that mutt?”

Pugface started for Dorian but ML’s paws held him back. “Steady. We’ll have a proper time and place to teach him manners.”

Pugface let loose with enough four-letter words to pollute the ozone.

Dorian ignored their four letter insults and looked for Nate Stern. At least Nate was not rabid.

“Nate. Please wait. I need to talk to you.”

Nate tilted his head to one side. “Outside before the noise makes me michugena.”

Dorian smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

The corridor was empty except for a guard who nodded as they walked by.

“The gods have treated you well. You look like a billion.”

Nate looked at him over the top of his Ben Franklin glasses. “So do you. What can I do for you?”

Dorian knew better than to be too circumspect with Stern. Billionaires lack patience.

“I got a message from Italy from an old friend. There is some kind of big deal going down in the City. There is a lot of loot to be made. I want to know if you’ll let me in as a favor.”

Nate studied Dorian for a long moment before his thin lips twisted into a scowl.

“What deal? What friend?”

Dorian looked from side to side before he whispered. “I hear that some international conglomerate based in Naples called Camorra has a plan to make a killing in Philly. No real estate deal goes down without Nate Stern’s knowledge. My contact’s name is Spaventa. Ever hear of him?”

Nate scrunched up his lower lip over his top lip, a sure sign his world-class brain was spinning at the speed of light. He nodded. “You’re a schmarter as they used to say in the old days. But a schmarter should always know when he’s in a poker game with players who can afford higher stakes. This deal you speak of, if there is such a deal, may be one you would be smart to forget about.”

Dorian took Stern by the arm. “Let’s walk. I am a street kid. I like a fight. It’s like when the Israeli won against a bigger enemy in six days. So think of me as a junior partner. I need a Rabbi like you to guide me up the food chain.”

Nate pulled his arm away. “If it is money you want, get a new client.”

Dorian folded his arms. “I have one. Spaventa’s widow.”

Nate tried to look puzzled. “Are you drunk?”

“No more than people who drink in too much power.”

Nate pointed a finger. “Do not play games with Nathan Stern!”

Dorian shook his head from side to side. “Don’t think for a moment I don’t take you as a serious man. I respect you. But I always give my client their money’s worth. Mrs. Spaventa will get her due.”

Nate‘s lips drooped into a frown. “So invest with the widow. I won’t stop you. Good night, small timer.”

He turned on his heel and left Dorian confident that nothing important happened in the city without the knowledge of Nathan Stern.

“Congratulations you two. What a great night for our City.”

Marian’s grip could crush walnuts. “Thank you Alice! It will be fun to see how a Democratic Mayor and a Republican District Attorney work together. I am glad you are on our staff. How is Dorian?”

Alice shook her head and tried to force a tear but only managed a dour drop of the lips. “Dorian got some bad news. An old friend from the Italian Police department in Naples was murdered today.”

“How tragic,” said Marian. “How did it happen?”

Alice sipped her scotch. “He was walking home. Apparently some thugs knifed him. Dorian thinks it was a hit by some gang called La Camorra.”

Marian smiled in surprise. “Who is this Camorra?” asked Marian.

Alice noticed that Goodway’s back stiffened. The man always wore dark glasses yet she felt he undressed her through the ultraviolet lenses. “They are some Italian gang operating out of Naples. Personally, I have never heard of them but Dorian looked into it via his computers. They are for real and scary as hell. I guess it is a branch of the Mafia. But this is a night that we should be celebrating not talking shop.”

Marian laughed weakly. Her heavy jowls set beneath a stern look. “A crime committed five thousand miles away is clearly out of our jurisdiction so we are not talking shop are we?”

Alice stirred her drink with her fingertip. “Well, Dorian thinks there is a Philadelphia connection. In fact, he suspects that La Camorra is operating here right under our very proper noses. What do you think Joseph?”

Joseph Goodway edged closer to her than she liked. His smirk could unnerve a striptease dancer. He cleared his throat. “I know nothing of such matters but I am sure that if there is any mafia activity going on, old ML will sniff it out. He’s a man of action. He’ll track down any gang threatening our City.”

Alice took a step back to avoid his breath. “I must admit that I am not the biggest fan of the new Chief of Police,” said Alice.

Marian waved across the room to the Mayor Elect. “I must talk to Linc. Give my regards to Dorian and my condolences for his loss.”

“Mine too,” said Joseph. He clasped Alice’s hand and held it in a caress for a moment as though he wanted to leap into her dress. She exhaled a lung full of relief as the “odd couple” walked away. “One down and one to go!”

She found Grace Lord sitting at a round table drinking her usual white wine spritzer. Grace’s sharp fingernails tapped on an invisible piano. Her mannish suit fit her implacable and eternal deadpan countenance. Alice had never seen her smile.

“Hello Grace. Nice to see you! I am dog-tired. Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Grace rolled her eyes as if she was granting a peon a scrap of bread. “A moment is fine. I will be leaving soon.”

Alice plopped beside her. The woman could freeze hot pizza.

“So it looks like the new administration is off to a party hearty start.”

Grace avoided Alice’s eyes. The President of City Council does not socialize with the lower ranking workers. Still, Alice did not feel put out. The woman’s profile showed a dignity, a sense of strength and purpose Alice admired.

Grace sneered through tight lips. “The Democrats are the party of partying while the Republicans are the party of party pooping phonies. That’s why I run as an Independent. How are you getting along with your new boss?”

The question seemed genuine which surprised Alice. “She is one tough cookie. But so was her predecessor. She’ll have her hands full with old ML I bet.”

Grace sipped the wine and pursed her lips as though she’d just daubed lipstick on them. “ML is no picnic on civil rights issues or a friend of the ACLU but he’ll get the job done. The Officers respect him and the gangsters and hoods shit in their pants when he and his storm troopers show up at a crime scene.”

Alice nodded and forced a nervous laugh. “I wish he and Dorian got along better. They could do so much more as allies than as enemies. I guess old wounds do not heal.”

Grace tapped the tabletop, turned away to stare at the far wall and seemed bored. “It is merely a matter of the male species letting its mind be ruled by testosterone.”

Alice leaned closer to Grace and whispered, “Quite! You know, Dorian thinks there may be a new type of Mafia unit called La Camorra operating in our City. Did you ever hear of it?”

Grace stopped tapping. She turned her head slowly towards Alice. “No. Why should I care?”

Alice looked around and continued to whisper. “Well it seems that a policeman from Italy emailed Dorian that there really is such a group. Now the policeman has been murdered and Dorian thinks he was assassinated by this Camorra gang.”

Grace’s jaw set. She looked directly into Alice’s brain. “Why tell me?”

Alice pawed at her pearl necklace as if the gift from Dorian could give her assurance. “Well, I thought that if you mentioned it to ML, he would take it better than if the warning came from Dorian. It is for the good of the City, after all.”

Grace reddened as though Alice had called her a name. “I am not a messenger girl. Nor do I pass on unproven rumors. Is that clear?”

Alice leveled her eyes to Grace’s. “All too clear. Well, my moment is up so I will trundle my way back to the party.”

Grace pointed, “The bar is that way. Sorry, as usual you’ve already found it.”

Alice stifled a “fuck off” and headed to the bar, feeling Grace’s ice pick eyes stabbing her in the back.

Alice ordered another scotch just as a soft hand tugged on her wrist. “Estelle! Oh I am so happy for you. How does it feel to be Philadelphia’s First Lady?”

Estelle’s hair hung in loose strands from fast dancing with Linc. She’d lived her own version of Samantha from Sex and the City until she married Linc six years ago. The society pages hailed the relationship as a marriage of the gods. Alice saw the union more as a Desdemona and Othello twosome. Neither was known for fidelity. So why did they marry?

“First Trophy is more like it. I need to talk. Can you and I have lunch?”

Alice liked Estelle and the fact that she needed a friend may be useful. “Sure. How about we meet at noon tomorrow at Devin’s?”

Estelle twirled a strand of loose hair. She looked nervously at Pocky and Pugface leering at them from five feet away. “Take a gander at those two cretins. The creeps are in charge of security. The bastards drool like schoolboys. They spend hours each day undressing me in public and get paid for it. Devin’s is too public and far too many curious eyes and ears are around. Meet me on the steps behind the Art Museum. We’ll grab a couple of hot dogs and stroll along the river bank.”

The policeman grinned and sized up Alice from stem to stern. Alice mouthed a silent but clear, “Fuck you!”

She hugged Estelle. “Okay. I will be there for you.”

Estelle bit her lip and wiped at her eyes. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the light from the chandelier overhead. “Well there they are,” said Linc with Dorian at his side. “Dorian and I ran into each other a second ago and came looking for you two before you ran off with the waiters or waitresses.”

“That is a pleasant thought!” said Alice.

Estelle burned like a newly lit match.

Dorian shot a “thumbs up” sign and held his arm out like a waiter. “I am at your service, Miss Rowe.”

Lincoln laughed. “That’s a good one Dorian. What are you up to these days?”

Dorian smiled although ML bit his pipe ten feet away. Dorian kept smiling “I have a new case I’d like to discuss with you.”

Lincoln playfully punched Dorian’s arm. “Me? I’m not top cop. See ML for that criminal stuff. I am a lover and peacemaker.”

Dorian caught ML staring at them. “My old boss and I walk on different sides of the street.”

Linc glanced at ML and nodded. “Hell, this is a party and I feel like dancing. Come on Estelle,” he said and dragged her away.

Alice nestled close to him. “Let’s leave this shindig. We need to talk,” said Alice. ”There is something rotten in Denmark and Philadelphia.”

Dorian took her arm. “Most certainly! I caught him by surprise but ML is aware of Camorra.”

Alice dropped her head on his chest as if it were a pillow. “So are Marian and Joseph. They knew what I was talking about.”

Dorian pointed to the tall man in sunglasses. “Hmm. Yon Joseph has a lean and hungry look. I think Lincoln Miles has a bull’s eye on his tuxedo. We need to discuss how to warn him. He deserves that much.”

Alice squeezed his forearm. “He needs you and the City needs you.”

Dorian took her hand. “Let’s talk in the morning. Tonight we’ll make up.”

Alice took his arm in hers. “Yes, my love,” she said with a heavy heart.

The truth can wait one more day.
Antonio Talarico landed in Newark airport at two AM Eastern time. He cleared Customs, retrieved his luggage and found his hired limo waiting for him under his assumed name, David Evans. He closed the privacy window and called Il Segreto who answered the call on the second ring.

“Hello, my friend.” said Il Segreto.

“I am in America. I shall be in Philly tomorrow.”

“Good. We have work to do, special work.”

To Talarico, America was a bank that needed to be robbed. “Lucrative, I trust.”

“Always. One who works with no mulct to show for his labors is a fool or a slave. You are staying at the Warwick hotel under the name John Melanson. The room is paid for. The night clerk has his instructions. Stay inside and catch up on the jet lag. I will call you tomorrow.”

Antonio filed the information in his memory. “I understand. Is there a woman in the room?”

Il Segreto paused and his voice lost its chummy tone. “We have work to do. Then you can have all the bella donni you can handle.”

Talarico knew he’d over-stepped his bounds. “Sounds like earth first and then heaven.”

“It is just a job in Philadelphia. Get some sleep and be ready when I call you.”

“Ciao!” said Talarico to the dead phone line.

The hum of the limo tearing down the New Jersey Turnpike whistled in his ears. The road was empty and there was little scenery to admire except for the tall buildings of the New York skyline fading in the rear window. The limo cruised past the eighteen-wheelers in the right lane. America offered so much and he wanted so little. Il Segreto would provide for him.

He knew he should try to rest but he could not sleep while the scent of the kill teased his nostrils and the vision of a beautiful woman danced in his head. Money and women and wine should soon fill his chalice of dreams.

“Dio benediro America!”