Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Seven

Nate had kept him waiting a full twenty minutes. Normally Dorian would have thumbed his nose at the obvious discourtesy but he needed to talk to the man behind the solid oak door and to deposit a microchip.

Nate’s secretary, a thin fifty something woman who buried her fishhook nose in the computer screen on her desktop ignored him. The walls were bare except for a photo of Israeli General Moshe Dayan, hero of the Six Day War against Egypt and a young Nate Stern dressed in full uniform. Dayan smiled beneath his famous eye patch while Nate sat as stone faced as the Sphinx. A blue and white Israeli flag hung over the leather sofa against the far wall. Dorian thought it odd that the new Managing Director chose to meet here rather than in City Hall. But City Hall had been bugged by the Feds for years.

A buzzer rang and the oak door swung open. “Come ahead, Wilde,” said Nate.

He remained seated at his desk, shiny and clear of all paper work. A PC, its screen dark, stood silent on the round table beside his desk. Dorian quickly scanned the walls for a picture or a painting that hinted at the nature of the iron jawed man sitting at his desk, his back to the blistering sunlight. The gold framed picture of a young man wearing a yarmulke and dressed in a graduation gown jogged Dorian’s memory. Jerry Stern, Nate’s son, had been murdered while withdrawing cash from an ATM in Society Hill near Dorian’s condo. Another random murder? Dorian searched the room for a place he could plant a microchip.

Dorian stood at Nate’s desk, waiting to be invited to sit in the mahogany chair. “Hello, Nate. How is business for the Maccabees these days?”

Nate’s lips twitched at the edges. His nostrils flared as though he was ready to sneeze. “You are a troublemaker. You need to learn to mind your own business. The Maccabees are a legitimate organization. We have two thousand years of history behind us. We protect our people and our traditions with no help from the powers that be. And they owe no accounting of their affairs to a low rent schmuck like you.”

Nate sat back in his chair. The grey, pinstriped suit fitted his wiry frame like his old uniform. The starched white buttoned down collar shirt circled his neck like a cleric’s collar.

“If you came here to piss me off or to scare me, then don’t waste your time or mine. I killed better men than you in Gaza forty years ago.”

Dorian slowly walked around the room. “Nice digs! The rent must run enough to buy a townhouse. But Nate Stern owns lots of property. My investigators count over four hundred. Do you share the rents with your partner?”

“I have no partner. Partners are bad for business.”

Dorian stopped walking, his back to Nate. “Really!”

He wheeled, “I thought that you and Joseph Goodway were in bed together.”

Nate’s eyes blazed like lasers. “I have no partners!”

Dorian nodded. “Well I know you guys share political interests and Joseph is the agent of record on a lot of insured properties in this town. So I just figured that you were blood brothers. Did Joseph fight in Gaza too?”

Nate’s fists curled so hard his knuckles strained against his skin. Those hands could crush a man’s throat.

Dorian tapped on the glass over Jerry’s picture. “Too bad about your boy. He was shot three blocks from my house. I guess we’ve both felt the sting and helplessness of losing someone so close to us to a worthless punk. How old was Jerry when he died?”

Nate suddenly rose turned and stood at the window. “Come here and tell me what you see,” he said.

Dorian slipped a chip on the back of the picture frame. He wanted to walk out just to spite the old man but held off his showing pride despite the man’s condescending tone.

Dorian edged next to Nate, careful not to touch him. “I see the City.”

Nate gently tapped the window. “What is a city but a boiling pot of live crabs. Every crab that tries to get out is dragged back in by the doomed crabs too lazy or scared to escape death. That is what happened to my son. He died because some hopped up punk needed a fix. ML shot the bastard. What happened to Jerry is what will happen to you too if you keep chasing Spaventa’s ghost. Think about it.”

Nate stepped aside. “There is the door,” he said with a quick jerk of his thumb. “It’s heavy so don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

Dorian skirted past Nate but stopped as the buzzer opened the door. “Neat security. Who are you afraid of?”

Nate squared his shoulders. “Nate Stern fears no one.”

Dorian smirked and pointed to Jerry’s picture. “Maybe you should. If you had, Jerry might still be alive.”

The veins in Nate’s neck popped under his starched collar. “Out! Get out before I kill you!”

Dorian slammed the door. Dorian paused at the secretary’s desk just long enough to see the red light of Nate’s telephone system light up. Hope the chip is catching this call. He checked his watch. Time to see Goodway and then drop in on Grace Lord. Quite a trifecta!
Talarico tied the blonde, twenty year old hooker’s wrists to the bedposts with a silk band. She was naked, her genital area shaved. Her silky hair draped over her shoulder. Her long eyelashes flickered like a child watching a cartoon.

“Hey, don’t tie me too tight,” she said.

Talarico squeezed the band tighter. “I am the boss. You are at my command, my pretty slut.”

The girl’s eyes widened in fear. “Look, I agreed to do bondage but you don’t have to hurt me.”

Talarico had positioned a mirror on the bedside table so he could admire his lovemaking.

The girl breathed heavily, exuding fear and a kind of anticipation. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered.

Her hard breasts heaved under his rough hands.

“Ripe pears ready for my lips.”

The girl squirmed but the bonds were tight and unforgiving. “Ease up! You’re hurting me!”

Her cracked voice excited him. Aroused, he spread her legs wide and slid a pillow under her. “I will take you now and again and again in all ways possible.”

His cell phone blared insistently. He reached for it. “Do not say a word,” he said to her.

“Ciao!” he said.

”Are you alone?” asked Il Segreto.

Talarico put a finger to his lips and shook a fist at the hooker. “Of course. I am reading a novel I bought at a bookstore in the lobby.”

“Listen carefully. Our moment is at hand. Stay in your room until you hear from me. Wilde is becoming an imminent problem that we need to solve. I may want you to move on Alice Rowe this very night.”

The thought of Alice tied to his bedpost made him stroke his penis. “I am at your disposal.”

“As you should be. Stay ready.”

Talarico smiled. “I am ready,” he said still stroking himself.

Il Segreto hung up.

“Were you having phone sex?” asked the hooker.

Talarico pinched her thighs.

The girl recoiled. “Ow! I said don’t hurt me!”

Though younger and rounder in the jowls, the girl bore a slight resemblance to Alice around her pale green eyes. “I own you, Bella.”

He caressed her body in plying, circular strokes. “I own you,” he said and penetrated her, his eyes glued to the mirror, his mind playing tricks that the fearful woman in the glass was Alice Rowe.

The steep stairs stretched up a narrow hallway to a small-enclosed foyer. The paneled walls were bare except for a telephone and a plaque that read “Office of J. Goodway. Dial # for entrance.”

Dorian was about to dial when the door opened to Joseph Goodway dressed in a turtle neck sweater hung loosely over his gangly arms and faded jeans. His customary sunglasses seemed especially forbidding like a wall that protected his soul from the eyes of the world. He offered Dorian a large, hairy hand. “Welcome,” he said.

Dorian entered the office outfitted with two desks bare except for a telephone with a chair each. Steel grey filing cabinets ran across the far wall. A picture of Joseph and Marian dressed in Hawaiian shirts with yellow leis dangling around their necks adorned the wall behind his desk. Marian actually smiled in the picture. Dorian avoided visualization of the two of them wrapped in lovemaking.

The rest of the office was sanitized just like Stern’s office.

Goodway extended his arm toward the sofa. “Sit please. There is a water cooler and paper cups if you are thirsty. There is no coffee or tea. I do not handle caffeine well.”

Dorian stood at the desk opposite Joseph. Behind Joseph an oak door identical to the door in Nate’s office sealed off his office.

“Did you give your staff the day off?” asked Dorian.

Goodway put up his palms like a gracious man offering alms to the poor. “My assistant is out sick today. I am a sole practitioner so I do not need a staff. Most days, I work alone. I like solitude and privacy.”

Dorian approached the water cooler and siphoned a paper cup from the metal sleeve.

“May I pour you one?” asked Dorian. The sleeve was connected to the cooler by a metal clasp. Dorian shielded the cooler as he planted a microdot to the back of the clasp. “Ah, I needed that. We drinkers need hydrogenation.”

“Very smart! Now what is it you want to tell me.”

Dorian rested both hands on the back of the chair. He wanted to whip off the sunglasses and stare dead into Joseph’s eyes so he could read him. It struck Dorian how little he knew about the man. “I’ll get to that in a minute. I made a bet with Alice that I could guess your heritage. I say you are French. She says you are Italian. Who’s right?”

Joseph looked down his aquiline nose and tilted his head to one side as though he was weighing his answer carefully. “Neither of you are correct. I am a child of providence. I have no past and no parents that I remember. In that respect, we are very much alike aren’t we?”

Dorian nodded. “Yes. You and I and Grace Lord are children of a random god. I understand that you won a scholarship from the Maccabees to Penn. How did a homeless goyim manage that?”

Joseph slowly rubbed his thumbs and index fingers together. “Dumb luck. Nate Stern’s father liked me. He thought that I may be Jewish. He knew I’d be grateful.”

“That is interesting. Did he also sponsor Grace’s education or did you?”

Goodway squirmed to one side. “Ask Grace.”

“I am asking you. Hey, why do you always wear those blinders?”

Joseph stopped rubbing his fingers. He sat still for a full minute. Dorian matched his stillness as though they were playing a “who blinks first loses” game.

Dorian smiled, reticent to start a fight just yet. “Sorry if I asked a personal question. The street kid in me gets antsy when I confront an unusual person. And you are unique. How did you and Marian meet?”

Joseph remained quiet. Dorian was getting impatient with the silent treatment. It is a mind game, a battle of nerves over wits. If I want the answer bad enough, I’ll wait for it.

Dorian settled back in his chair. He closed his eyes and slumped into a napping position.

After another full minute, Joseph leaned forward. “Very good, Wilde. You got the point. I only answer what I want to answer when I want to speak. I am as content with silence as a monk loves his meditation.”

Dorian did not like people with more self-control than him but he certainly admired Joseph’s discipline.

“A man who talks too much often says too little,” said Dorian.

Joseph laughed. “You are smarter than I thought. Now tell me why you came here.”

Dorian slapped his hands on his thighs. “Simple! I came to tell you that I am going into the insurance business with you and Stern.”

Joseph forced a smile but his lower lip dropped a tell tale centimeter. “What are you talking about?”

“The Maccabees. You see. My investigation into the death of Spaventa led me to discover that there is a lot of moolah or mulct as they say in Naples in this fair city. I want a cut.”

Joseph wagged a finger in Dorian’s face. “A man with too much balls is a danger to himself. You are a reckless man.”

Dorian leaned back in his chair and patted his belly as though he’d just eaten Thanksgiving dinner. “I am a little crazy as are most successful people. The risk takers make the world go around. We feed off the little fools who scrape the bottom of the bowl for the dregs. When I see an opportunity, I grab it.”

“So you would have us believe that your investigation of Spaventa’s death is a ruse and that you are seizing the moment to make money. I wonder.”

The word “us” set off bells in Dorian’s mind.

Dorian shrugged. “Believe what you will. I can get real serious about Spaventa’s memo or file it. Either way, life will be interesting.”

Joseph matched Dorian’s shrug and added a deep sigh. “Interesting. I will think about it although my immediate inclination is a resounding no deal. You see I have an idea that before too long you my need my services.”

“Oh? I am in good health and have insurance to the rafters.”

Joseph paused and rubbed his hands together as if he was praying. “And your loved ones? Are they safe and well?”

The well-aimed shot at Alice caught Dorian off guard. He bolted forward, his anger flush across his face. “My friends and lovers are fine. They better stay that way.”

“God’s will,” said Joseph. “Now we are done. Come see me again.”

Dorian slammed the desktop. ”Don’t fuck with me!”

Joseph smirked and leaned nose to nose with Dorian. The man’s breath reeked of wine. “Don’t fuck with me either. I am not a trifler. Besides, I have friends in high places.”

Dorian held his ground despite the urge to smash Joseph in his dark glasses. “Is Lincoln Miles a friend?”

Joseph lifted his profile in a commanding pose. “Yes he is. And so are Chief McLain and his men. The Chief has a motto. Forget nothing. Forgive no one. He is a serious man. How would you like me to send him to visit you or someone close to you?”

Dorian pulled out his nine shot berreta and stuck the barrel on Joseph’s chin. “Tell him to come in heavy.”

Joseph eased the gun away. “Some partner you’d make. Partners are reasonable men who settle differences with thought and compromise and intelligence. Get out you thug!”

Dorian holstered the gun. “I am on to you and your friends. Cut me in or I’ll cut you up!”

Joseph cracked an “I’ve got you smile”.

“Wasn’t your Italian policeman friend cut up?”

Dorian folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “Yes but tell me how come you know how he was murdered?”

Joseph opened his hands and held them palms up. “Simple. ML told me. He checked out your story. Now get out!”

Dorian backed out. He took the stairs in short leaps. He landed on the sidewalk so quickly he nearly bowled over the very same woman he’d escorted across the street earlier. “Sorry.”

He dialed Alice. No answer. Frantic, he raced to his car. He revved the engine. Suddenly a hard rapping shook his window.

A huge shadow blocked the window. A policeman whacked a billy club across the front fender. Dorian placed his hand over the holstered gun.

Pocky grinned. “Top of the day, Mister Wilde. Please stay out of the Fourteenth Precinct or I may have to run you in for trespassing.”

Pugface rapped the opposite fender with a nightstick. His pushed in nose wrinkled into a crumpled sneer. They backed off as he turned the wheel.

“What’s wrong Officer?” said one of the women he’d escorted.

“Nothing to concern you, Ma’am,” said Pocky.

Saved by angels.

Dorian flashed a mock salute. “See you around the campus.”

Dorian pulled away slowly, his heart racing five hundred RPMs faster than the Jag’s engine.

Heading down Lincoln Drive toward his meeting with Grace, Dorian tried to call Alice once more. She did not answer. He called her office and the secretary said Alice was in a meeting. He breathed relief and hung up.

What have I gotten her into?
Grace Lord’s office had been newly renovated by Linc’s predecessor at a cost of one million taxpayer dollars. An American flag stood on a six-foot high pole in the far corner. Portraits of Ben Franklin, the late Mayor Rizzo and JFK lined the mahogany paneled wall to her right. Her University of Pennsylvania Law degree and Undergraduate diploma framed in gold leaf hung opposite the portraits. The bay window behind her cluttered desk overlooked City Hall courtyard.

Neatly decked out in a charcoal grey business suit and white, fluffy blouse accentuated by a black string bow tie, she looked like she fell out of a fashion magazine. Alice often remarked that in college, she was a frumpy, jeans clad woman who wore sweatshirts for a week at a time. She rarely smiled and earned the nickname, “Little General” for her militant air.

Grace took off her glasses and laid them on a pile of manila folders. A yellow lined pad guarded a pen and pencil set centered by a miniature gavel Estelle and Lincoln had given her at her public swearing in ceremony. Thanks to her smooth skin and sharply etched jaw line, Grace looked much younger than her fifty plus years.

The body of a gymnast and the mind of an attorney.

“How are things with you?” she asked.

Dorian responded quickly as if they were old acquaintances. “I am well.”

“And how is Alice?”

“Very well. She works too hard trying to clean up our City.”

Grace nodded and squeezed a smile through her thin lips. “Well I must say that she wins a lot of cases for the good guys. Are you two ever going to make your relationship permanent?”

Dorian flinched but eked out a smile. “Hopefully.”

Grace shifted to one side and crossed her arms and legs into a battler’s pose.

“Your Secretary said you had important information for me regarding a secret Federal investigation of my office. What’s up?”

Dorian leaned his elbows along the table, staking out a claim to her space. “Before I get to that, I am obliged to say that Joseph Goodway sends you his regards. He is a weird duck. Why does he wear those sunglasses all the time?”

Grace held her pose like a hold ‘em poker player with a pat hand. “I suggest that you ask him.”

Dorian put up his as if to surrender. “Sorry if I am out of line. I just thought that since you were his protégé, he confided in you.”

Grace slid her glasses half way down the bridge of her nose. “What do you mean his protégé?”

Dorian tried to look innocent. “Hey, don’t give me the drop dead stare. I heard that he got you your scholarship to Penn. In turn, you later introduced him to Marian like some kind of an ancient barter system. I think the Neapolitans called it mulct.”

Grace took off her glasses and wiped them with a tissue. She resonated with seething anger. “Dorian, I am very busy. Tell me what you came to tell me and then leave.”

Dorian shook his head back and forth. He looked around the room. “Any bugs?”

“I’ve had the office exterminated by ML’s finest surveillance police.”

Dorian put a finger to his lips. He reached for the yellow lined pad, lifted the pen from the desk set and wrote in large print, “There is no Federal probe but I think Lincoln Miles is after you. He is afraid that you want him dead so you can succeed him. That is the rumor that he’s spreading.”

Grace snatched the note and fed it to the shredder beside her desk.

“Preposterous! Have you lost your mind?” she said.

Dorian again held his finger to his lips. “Shhh!”

Grace smacked her desk with the flat of her hand. “Stop this charade. I am very busy and have no time to suffer a fool. No wonder Alice hasn’t married you! My advice to you is to get professional help.”

Dorian wrote out, “You better listen to me. Be wary of ML too! He’s Lincoln’s man.”

Grace tore the sheet off the pad and as she turned to shred the page in the desk side shredder, Dorian slipped the microdot under the metal arm that held the gavel. He put the pen back in place.

“I’m sorry that you think I’m an idiot. If anything happens to Lincoln, the Feds may check into your motive.”

Grace jumped out of her chair. “God fucking damn it! Take your lunatic ass out of here before I call security.”

Dorian spread-eagled his arms. “Go ahead and crucify me for warning you. But I am the best friend you have in this City.”

Grace buzzed the door open. “Out!”

Dorian walked to the window. “It’s raining out. You know, the courtyard reminds me of a square I saw once in Naples. Isn’t Philadelphia a sister city to Naples?”

Grace pointed to the door. “I’ve had enough of your babble for one day.”

Dorian grazed knuckle across the bay window. “Yes I am sure the square was called Piazza Camorra. Have you heard of it?” He looked outside.

“No. Dorian, I’ve twice asked you to leave. Do it before I call security.”

Dorian sat on the window ledge. Thunder clapped behind him as lightning flashed across the courtyard. People scurried for cover like so many squirrels running from a flock of eagles.

“It is amazing how we all fear the elements. We should fear each other more than we fear an act of God.”

Dorian offered his hand but Grace brushed it away. “You are playing a dangerous game. You cannot win this game. Go home to Alice and your condo in the sky. Stay off the streets. The air quality is very unhealthy.”

Dorian towered over her but she stood her ground. There was no fear in her taut body. Calmly, she took Dorian by the arm. She gripped his forearm like forceps and led him to the outer office.

“Best wishes to Alice. Stop by again,” she said loudly.

Dorian clasped her hand and shook it. “Good night, Grace. Take it easy.”

He strode through the office and down the darkened corridor to the exit stairs. He reached the courtyard but held back in a nook as the storm gathered. Oddly, the square was empty. A trio of policemen huddled in the alcove directly across from his spot. The dampness chilled his ribs through his sports coat. The downpour drenched the square and painted the granite and sand stone building an angry gray. A whiff of familiar pipe smoke raised the hackles on his neck.

“Hello, Laddie,” said ML. “Yer making a pain in the ass of your self.”

Dorian turned slowly just as ML’s crushing right fist cracked him on the tip of his chin. His head spun around until he landed on the cold concrete. He rolled to one side but a kick to the kneecap zipped a sharp pain up his leg to his spine. His head reeled and his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. Images of Alice and Spaventa whirled through his consciousness. The aroma of tobacco nauseated him. He had not lost a street fight in a decade.

“Yer a punk, little man.”

Rough hands lifted him and launched him face first onto the concrete pavement of the empty, rain soaked courtyard. The stinging rain splattered against his swollen, pain racked head and body. Laughter echoed from the narrow alley behind him. A fierce kick to the side of his head ignited a starry explosion like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the statue of William Penn atop City Hall, his back turned to the East, away from the City, as though he wanted no part of his legacy.