Anthony DePaul Copyright  2005 by Anthony DePaul

Chapter Nineteen

The Lodge was a converted brick home. The brick front and solid, block glass windows sealed the interior of the Club from the public. The door required a key so Dorian rapped hard on the metal storm door. Pocky answered wearing a frown from his forehead to his chin. “Come in Wilde. Mind your manners and your tongue. There are men here who suspect you had something to do with ML’s murder. Give me your gun.”

Dorian spread his arms wide. “I’m clean.”

Pocky patted him down. “Okay but keep your mouth respectful of the dead.”

“Sure!” said Dorian.

The flag of Scotland hung high over the bar next to the eight point cross emblem of the Lodge. There were no empty stools at the bar. A bronze footrest ran the length of the oak bar. Ceiling fans sucked up the cigar and cigarette some. The windows were covered by drawn shades. The thirty or so men glared as one at him. A husky man brandished a pool stick. “Are you a Christian?”

“I am.”

“He’s a liar,” said another man throwing darts.

No one laughed.

Dorian slapped a hundred dollar bill on the bar. “I wore the same uniform as many of you. I worked with ML McLain until we crossed swords on a case. I respect the man and I swear on your holy cross I had nothing to do with his death. Please allow me to buy you all a drink in his honor.”

No one stirred except for the dart thrower. Dorian kept one eye on him fearful that a stray dart may find his face.

“We’ll buy our own drinks,” said Pocky.

Dorian looked for a fire exit but Pocky shoved him toward a flight of wooden stairs. “Up you go,” said Pocky.

A grumbling murmur followed him up the steps. The click of glasses hinted that the men accepted his offer or maybe they were happy to see him go upstairs with a man who’d break his neck as soon as spit at him.

Usually Dorian is not superstitious but the final stair was cut in two to make the climb thirteen steps. Pugface sat at a poker table playing solitaire. The walls were bare except for a 2005 calendar of scenes from Scotland and a Latin Phrase written in calligraphy and attributed to William Wallace. Drab green metal filing cabinets lined the far wall of the windowless office. A locked closet no doubt housed the liquor inventory. To Dorian’s surprise, a Dell server and PC garnered a desk beyond the poker table. A bottle of twelve-year-old Glenlivet, three glasses an ice bucket and two cut glass cigar smoker ashtrays lay on top of the poker table. The room reeked of stale smoke despite the fan whirring from the top of the filing cabinets.

“Sit,” said Pocky so Dorian slid onto a metal folding chair.

“This is cozy,” said Dorian.

Pugface put a red ten on a black jack. “It’s our home. State your piece over a drink. I’ll trust you more if you do.”

Pugface was as burly as a muscle bound fireplug. His forearms looked like bowling pins while his head met his back thanks to a neck thicker than a bowling ball.

I’d hate to fight the guys that beat him.

Dorian poured himself a drink over ice. “Chin chin,” he said.

Pocky grunted while Pugface merely nodded. “What is on your mind?” asked Pocky.

Dorian poured a second drink for all three. Pugface cheated by turning the cards one at a time. His lip drooped in a permanent sneer. He didn’t lose the scowl when he downed the scotch in one gulp.

“I will come to the point. You are in trouble. The Mayor is appointing Ernest Downs as Commissioner. Downs is coming after you as the prime suspect in the murder of Lincoln Miles. Estelle’s memory is rapidly recovering. Details flash across her mind and she is creating a list of each flash back. You boys are going down for Miles’ murder. Then they’ll try to connect you with ML’s murder. What do you think the lads downstairs will do if they think you betrayed them and killed their leader?”

Pugface played out the hand. “I win,” he said.

“You cheated,” said Pocky.

“So! I still won,” said Pugface.

Dorian rapped the table with the edge of his glass. “Did I speak clearly enough? I am giving you fair warning that you are in a hell of a mess and about to get railroaded. Don’t you fucking care?”

Pocky curled his hand into a ham hock of a fist and tapped Dorian’s nose. “Why would the likes of you warn us? We didn’t buy that speech you gave down stairs. We don’t buy anything you sell. ML knew you for the conniving bastard that you are. It was Pug and I that threw your ass onto the courtyard. We laughed when your lights went out. Have you anything more to say?”

Dorian was tempted to get up and leave but he had to play his cards like “all in” at a game of Texas hold ‘em.

“Nate Stern killed ML McLain. He shot him to avenge the murder of his son Jerry. Nate wants to pin it on you. He wants to cut the Knights out of the cash flow. It was he that recommended Ernest Downs to replace ML. Downs will fry you and then retire to work for Nate. Check it out.”

Pocky lowered his fist. He and Pugface exchanged glances. “How do you know all this and what is in it for telling us?”

Dorian breathed easy. He’d half expected them to throw him down the steps headfirst. He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a tiny tape recorder with an edited tape. “ML visited Nate‘s office the day before the killing. Here is a tape of the discussion. You will recognize the voices. Nate pulled a twenty-two on ML. I stopped him from killing ML. He must have shot him later that night. Listen.”

The two men turned scarlet as they heard Nate’s threats and Dorian’s intervention that sounded like a life-saving move.

Pocky rose and slammed his fist into a metal filing cabinet. “Damn!”

Pugface eyed Dorian with abject suspicion. “Is this tape real?”

“Of course it’s real,” said Pocky. “I know the old man’s voice like I know my own. Damn, damn, damn!”

Pugface belched loudly. His stale breath repulsed Dorian.. “Tapes can be doctored. I still want to know what Wilde wants for sharing the tape with us. We ain’t exactly kissin’ cousins,” said Pugface.

Dorian slid the tape across the table. “From a legal standpoint, the tape is worthless so I can’t blackmail the Jew. I want a pound of flesh. You boys sic the police on him. You shake him down and tell him you got this through a legal wiretap from a friend at the FBI. He’ll buckle like a tired mule and cough up half his share of mulct. We split his share three ways. We’ll all get rich.”

Pugface folded the cards into a neat pile. “If you are lying to us, we will pay you a visit.”

Pocky slipped the tape into his pants. “By God and Country, I will personally cut off your balls and stuff them down your treacherous throat.”

Dorian sipped the Glenlivet. “Nice taste. I‘ll be around. You call me and let me know if we have a deal. I have more copies of the tape. One is in the hands of my Lawyer along with a note that I shared it with you so killing me would not be a smart idea. I must be going. Besides, you boys will need some time to talk things over and sort things out.”

Dorian started to the stairs but Pugface reached and grabbed his balls. “I should yank these off now.”

Dorian grabbed the table to keep from falling. “Let go!”

Pugface squeezed tighter then let go.

Dorian limped down the stairs. At the bottom, he faced the silent room full of angry men. His hundred-dollar bill lay untouched on the bar. Some of these men could not be bought cheaply. He’d need the honest ones to help him turn on the dishonest leaders upstairs.

“Good night to all. Please use the bill as you see fit.”

The bartender tore the bill into pieces, squished them into an ashtray, and lit them. The bill dissolved in seconds.

Dorian revved the Jag, glad to be out of danger for the moment. He had fifteen minutes to keep his appointment with Nate Stern.

Dorian handed the valet the keys. Already five minutes late, Dorian did not want to walk to his car or waste time looking for a parking spot. The aroma of excellent veal blended with the soft voice of a young woman singing Vissi d’arte from Tosca. Out of respect, Dorian waited until she finished with a flourish. In the opera, Flora Tosca killed Scarpia, the chief of Police to protect her lover Mario. Had Alice done the same for him?

Amid the applause, he shuffled past the cramped tables. He thought he recognized a black haired man sitting alone to his left but the singer partially blocked his view. He joined Nate in the rear alcove. The alcove held two tables but Dorian had reserved both. White cloths covered the aging tables. Nate never drank so the half empty carafe of red wine and Nate’s reddish pallor suggested that Nate Stern was a changed man.

“Thanks for meeting me,” said Dorian. “How was the funeral?”

Nate shrugged and pursed his lips in a sardonic smirk. “The usual liars told their tales and spouted false praise. The women dabbed their eyes and the gospel singers called on God to forgive us all. But all the nice words and hymns don’t raise the dead, do they? Miles is cold and in a place where their bullshit cannot be heard. I’m getting philosophical. That’s bad for an old soldier.”

Dorian poured himself a half glass from the carafe. “You were a father, too. And don’t tell me that listening to all the elegies didn’t bring back memories of Jerry.”

Nate wrinkled his nose and pushed away the dipping bowl of garlic and olive oil. “The wine helps. Any other dumb thoughts?”

Dorian opened his jacket. “No and before you ask, I am not wearing a wire.”

Nate glowered, his face red from wine and a smoldering anger. “Big of you! You bugged my office and don’t deny it. Treated me like a schmuck! You are not a trustworthy man.”

Nate pointed to the carafe and a half loaf of Italian bread next to a dipping bowl of olive oil and garlic. “That’s my dinner. Order for yourself,” said Nate.

Dorian ordered pasta in forno and a second carafe of Chianti.

“We have a few things to talk about,” said Dorian. “Salud!”

Nate clicked his glass. “Here’s to the wonderful human being who shot ML. Cheers!”

Dorian locked on Nate’s eyres hoping for a tell tale sign. “Cheers. Here I thought you did it,” said Dorian.

Nate looked like he had not slept in days. The usually impeccable ensemble was reduced by a tie pulled askew, an unbuttoned collar and rumpled suit. The part in his hair was mussed.

“An eye for an eye. No I did not do it but I am jealous and thankful for whoever did it. Now what did you want to talk about?” asked Nate. He’d given no hint if he was telling the truth or not.

Dorian turned to check the crowd. The tables were far enough from the alcove that a whisper would be safe.

“You may be set up as the murderer or at least part of the plot to whack ML. Pocky Miller was released. My sources tell me that Pocky put out a story among the brethren in blue that you did it. You named Ernest Downs as Police Commissioner today after the funeral. Actually, I think ML’s own men may have killed him. The word on the street is that ML was keeping too much of the pie to himself. The lads were drinking the cheap scotch from his trough. They prefer Macallans.”

Nate sat back. His belly bulged slightly but his jaw muscles locked into a sneer. “The stupid bastards! All they’re good for is busting heads. I made them rich. They owe me. If they think I killed ML and they want an eye for an eye, they know where to find me. The Jews don’t run from a fight anymore.”

Dorian reached for Nate’s arm but Nate slapped away his hand. “Just be careful. I may not like you but I detest them. They beat me half to death in public. They are a disgrace to their traditions.”

Nate threw back his head and laughed. “You hypocritical bastard! You should have been a politician. You no more care about tradition than a Nazi loves a Jew. What do you really want?”

Dorian accepted the pasta plate with a “it’s hot” warning from the waiter.

The waiter asked, “I sing next. Is there anything special I can perform you?”

“Pagliacci!” said Nate. “Sing Pagliacci!”

“Of course!”

Nate put a finger to his lips. “No more talk for now. You eat. I’ll listen.”

Talarico always enjoyed the food and the touch of Napoli at Victor’s. The pasta was cooked al dente while the veal simmered Napoli style and la musica evoked visions of his city. He yearned to return and dine with a beautiful woman at Vesuvio’s trattoria overlooking the bay. Lights from Sorrento, Capri and, on a clear night, Ischia would cast a soft glow across the bay. But the entrance of Dorian Wilde shattered the momentary reverie. As Dorian stood and listened to the aria from Tosca, Talarico seethed. The cut of Dorian’s rich leather jacket and cashmere turtleneck reeked of the smugness of the passa novente. He’d seen Nate Stern enter earlier. Il Segreto would be grateful on learning that the enemy dined with the ally. Treachery!

Several men and women wept as they applauded the young man’s performance.

Dorian replaced his chair. Nate beat him to the last glass of the first carafe. Nate dunked the end of bread in the oil. The song wiped away Nate’s frown. He ran a comb through his hair, straightened his tie and re-buttoned his shirt. His eyes cleared. “I appreciate your heads up. What financial reward do you want?” said Nate.

The transformation amazed Dorian. Soldier first and father second.

Dorian shoved the pasta aside. He leaned close to Nate across the table. “I want two things. I want ML’s piece of the action and I want ten minutes alone with the man who abused Alice. I’ll take care of my cover after I kill him.”

Nate waggled a finger. “He may kill you.”

Dorian pointed the table knife. “I’ll take my chances. You got your revenge. I want mine.”

Nate swirled the wine glass in a slow circle. “I understand your feelings. Why do you think I’ll help you?”

Dorian set the knife down and whispered, “One good turn deserves another.”

Nate turned white. “You shot ML? I don’t believe you.”

Dorian sat back. “Conclude what you want. I’ve done you an unspecified service and I want mulct. You’ve got my terms. Think it over and call me.”

“So you want a pound of flesh, do you? I’ll call you. You pay the check.”

Dorian offered a hand but Nate waved him off. “If your warning is true, I’ll consider your offer. If not, then go fuck yourself. Oh, and watch your back. Maybe the hunter has you in his sights. You are vulnerable. That’s my message to you. We’re even for now.”

Dorian ordered an espresso and a Sambuca. He sweetened the bitter coffee with half of the Sambuca. The liquored coffee soothed him. The waiter and the waitress did a duo from Madame Butterfly. Alice loved Italian opera and because he loved her he went to a dozen Friday night performances at the Met in New York. They’d have dinner at Carmines on the Upper East Side and walk arm in arm to the opera. After the show, they’d spend the night at the Hilton and make love. In the morning, they’d take a cab to the Village to eat bagels or cannolis.

He called the waiter over. “Here’s a hundred. Pay the cashier and ask the valet to bring my car around. Keep the change.”

“Yes sir. Hey, did you like my singing?”

Dorian tilted his wine glass. “Bella cantata, Signore!”

“Grazie.”

Dorian called Alice.

“Hello Dorian.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Tonight?”

“Now. It’s important,” he said.

“You can not stay the night.”

“Ten minutes and I will be gone.”

“I just had a bath. I need you to dry me off for at least an hour.”

Dorian kissed the phone. “I am on my way.”
Dressed in a see-through black nightgown, she greeted him at the door with a violent kiss and an embrace that cracked his ribs. She pulled him to the sofa and flung him down. She key locked the door and dead bolted it.

“Don’t say a word,” she said.

She dropped the nightgown and straddled him on the sofa. She pried off his shirt and pants. In the background, the Dave Brubeck quartet pounded out Blue Rondo Ala Turk. Dorian clasped her to him in a hungry kiss under the soft candlelights. She thrust herself on him just as she done the first time they made love.

Later, they sat half dressed on the sofa. Her hair spread along her alabaster skin. “I wanted you so badly,” she said.

Dorian fingered the flowing hair, so soft, so smooth. “How are you?”

Alice nestled under his arm. “I am well. I wanted a moment together unharmed by the past few days. I guess I needed to remind myself that the world has not gone completely mad and that you and I still love each other. Hold me.”

They lay silent. The candle on the end table flickered then cast a glow over them. Dorian stirred as a shadow flashed past the front window. He eased his grasp on her. He’d left his gun in the car. “Listen! Where is your twenty-two?”

Her body stiffened. Her heart beat against his chest. “Oh my god. I tossed it. It’s at the bottom of the Delaware river.”

He nudged her aside, grabbed a poker from the fireplace and charged the window. A man dressed in black wielding a knife leered at him, smiled and ran off laughing.

Talarico.

“Was it him?” Alice asked.

Dorian replaced the poker. She’d pulled up her nightgown to cover her breasts. Her lip quivered like a child watching a horror movie.

“Yes! I will stay the night,” said Dorian.

She pulled her knees to her chest. And rocked her head and shoulders.

She sobbed through clenched teeth. “I will kill him if he comes back.”

Dorian pulled her to him and held her in silence. The missing twenty-two convinced him that to protect herself and her world she could kill a man.

Sweat caked his body. The wine and the walk and the vision of Alice in the throes of love making raised his blood, quickened his heart and steeled his resolve to finish off Dorian Wilde.

In his room, he dialed Il Segreto.

“Ciao!” said Il Segreto.

“Guess who I saw at Victor’s having dinner tonight? Stern and Wilde. Curious is it not?”

“Damn! The fools are playing each other. I must think. I will call you in the morning. Rest! There is much to do and so little time to do it!”

Talarico drew the curtains wide. The mast of a tall ship anchored in the river sprouted above the trees lining the waterfront. Millions of immigrants came to America in such ships. Their families were now established in comfortable homes surrounded by wealth and a limitless future. They had more to look forward to than wine, old peasant songs and dangerous nights in the Old City. Maybe he should forget Naples. Maybe he deserved a role greater than that of an assassin. Maybe, he should become a one-man cell of La Camorra. Maybe he should taste the sweet pastry of mulct.

He stripped naked and pulled the warm sheet to his chest. The full moon smiled like a cougeno welcoming him to his home.

Il Segreto cannot live forever so we must plan for a successor. The sooner the better.