Beneath the Cracks

By LS Sygnet

Copyright 2012 LS Sygnet 

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.  No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission
except in the case of brief quotations.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names,
characters, places and incidents are fictional or used
fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales or
persons, living or dead, is coincidental.  All rights
reserved.  No part of this publication can be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print,
without written permission from LS Sygnet.

Daddy’s Little Killer

Beneath the Cracks

Chapter 1

Preacher scratched the stringy beard that
stretched down and covered his neck.  Dusk had fallen over
Darkwater Bay, along with it, the heavy shroud of evening
fog.  He shivered and tugged the edges of tattered flannel
closer to his chest.  Hooded eyes scanned the
neighborhood.  The long row of Harley Davidson motorcycles
lined a filthy, rundown street.  The door to Uncle Nooky's
banged and shuddered on its hinges when another leather and
chain-clad patron entered.

He'd give his eyeteeth to somehow shed this
skin he'd slid into, exchange it for one that granted him access to
the inner circle.  If only he'd had a better picture of the
circumstances in this forgotten corner of Downey, the neglected
neighborhood that prided itself on seedy establishments and faces
that remained invisible to the upstanding folks hell bent on making
the rest of Downey respectable again.

No, this part of town belonged in Darkwater
proper.  A few months ago, it would've fit right in next door
to Central Division.  But that was before Helen Eriksson blew
into town and exposed Jerry Lowe for the corrupt bastard that he
was.  Now…well, maybe the rest of Darkwater Bay had a fighting
chance to become something more than the sum of its parts.

But not if things didn't change here – in
Downey, on Northeastern and Third where something still
festered.  Something uglier than anybody imagined.  Gut
instinct led him to Uncle Nooky's Bar and Grill.  Oddly, this
seemed to be the respectable business.  The shelter? Something
about the place was more than a little off. But what was it?

Preacher's shoulders folded inward against
the chill of the damp October night air as he bent into the wind
blowing swirls of fog through the streets.  It would be seven
soon, and if the slow moving headlights coming up Northeastern were
any clue, his ride would be at the shelter about the same time he
rounded the corner.  This was his chance.  Life didn't
offer many golden opportunities to really make a difference in the
world.

The van was at the curb when he rounded the
corner on Sixth.  As he approached, Preacher shielded his eyes
from the glare of high beam lights.  A side door slid
open.  A cloying sweet scent rolled from inside the van and
blasted Preacher's nostrils.  Incense?  It was like
nothing he'd smelled before.

"You comin' this time or not, Preacher?"

He scratched at a beard that quite possibly
housed lice.  "Yeah," he nodded.  "I'm in for a week," he
said.  If nothing else, he might make inroads with someone who
actually understood what was happening, how his fellow patrons of
the shelter were ending up in dumpsters with alarming
frequency.

Preacher climbed inside and hit a wall of
another kind. A chill ran down his spine.  There wasn't a face
in the van that he recognized, and none of them looked particularly
disappointed at his arrival.  At the same time, the menacing
glares were far less than happy to see him.

Too late to hesitate, he was already inside
the blandly nondescript van.  Preacher raised two fingers and
started muttering scripture. 

One of the men in the van snorted
softly.  "Let's head out.  We got all we need for this
week."

The van rounded the corner onto Northeastern
and headed down the block back toward the row of parked
Harleys.  Preacher saw them out of the corner of his eye and
again experienced a wistful pang that events hadn't gone in a
different direction.  Yet the end result would've been the
same.  Nooky's patrons were the ones who made tonight seem
like a good idea after all.  No way were they tolerant of a
homeless man, no matter how harmless he was.

Then again, they only thought Preacher was
harmless…

The throwaway cell phone that arrived at his
secret place in Newark was a mystery.  Franchetta carried it
for three days with curiosity itching through every fiber of his
body.  It had nothing to do with the note accompanying it, or
the cryptic hint at the identity of who planned to call
him. 

You’re following in your father’s footsteps,
Eddie.

Only one man would ever have the stones to
say such a thing to Franchetta.  Problem was, there could be
no swift retribution for the insult, since the man in question was
behind bars.  Yeah, he knew the Franchetta family history, so
the dig about Eddie’s father could’ve only come from one man – the
guy who arrested his father.

This wasn’t Marcos playing games, not that
it was ever his style anyway.  If Sully wanted Eddie
Franchetta, there were other ways of ferreting him out.  So
when the left pocket of his tattered jacket vibrated, the
unforgotten device was yanked into a greedy palm.  The motion
startled the breath from his lungs.  Was the cryptic message
true?  Had the old man somehow tracked him down?  The
burning question was why.  Why would he give a damn about
Franchetta after so many years in prison?

"Yeah."

"Were you followed by anyone to Newark?"

An indignant puff of air rasped across the
long distance connection.  The fact that he didn’t recognize
the voice was confirmation enough of the caller’s identity as far
as Franchetta was concerned.  "I'm not some rank amateur," he
growled.  "And I don't appreciate the insult, not from the
likes of
you
."

The deep voice chuckled.  "Let's not
get too outraged, Eddie.  I could've called that bastard who
owns you and enlightened him to my theory, rather than contacting
you.  We both know where you'd be right about now if I'd taken
a different course of action."

"Listen old man, I don't know who the fuck
you think you are anymore, but I'm beyond your reach.  You got
that?"

"Do you really believe that, Mr.
Franchetta?  Or do you honestly think that I don't have more
than a modicum of respect in my current living situation?  It
is rather atypical for me to make phone calls without someone
paying attention to
where
my fingers have gone
walking.  I’ll not tax you with details such as how I managed
to make sure you’d answer the phone you received."

Franchetta snarled softly.  "You made
your point.  What do you want?"

"Information, at the moment."

"I owe you nothing."

"Then maybe Sully would appreciate my
knowledge of where his money landed – or more importantly,
who
embezzled it.  You and I know damn well that it
wasn't Rick Hamilton."

Franchetta's breath stilted half way between
his trachea and freedom. 

"Have I got your cooperation yet?"

"Fuck you," Franchetta rasped.  "You
couldn't possibly know jack –"

"An account in the Caymans, I believe. 
Would you like the account number?"

The sound of metal grinding against flint
floated across the phone line followed swiftly by Franchetta's deep
inhalation.  "You've been out of the loop for a long
time.  I think you're bluffing."

"Account number 124096380, from Grand Cayman
International, if my source is correct.  Do I have your
attention yet, Eddie?"

The pause stretched between blasts of smoke
from Franchetta's nostrils.  His teeth ground through the
filter of his Camel.  "I'm listening."

"Good.  Now I’d suggest you listen to
what I want very carefully.  I'm not asking you to betray
Sully, after all.  At least not any more than you've already
done."

The chuckle prickled the skin on the back of
Franchetta's neck, drew the fine hairs taut as they stood on
end.

"What do you want?"

"Information, nothing more."

"About?"

"Take a wild guess, Eddie."

The bitch.  It had to be about the
bitch.  What else could this bastard want to know?
 "You're going to have to be more specific."

"I want to know how Hamilton died."

Cagey, not to ask about her outright. 
"Somebody put a pistol behind his right ear and pulled the
trigger."

"Witnesses?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Franchetta's audible
smirk accompanied the admission.

"Dammit."

"You of all people disapprove?  Jesus,
what did you expect?  Not all of us were duped into believing
her act."

"The weapon?"

"Gone."

"You have it?" he rasped softly.

"Hell, don't I wish," Franchetta
chuckled.  "I could solve a multitude of problems if I
did."

"Who has it?  Surely she didn't keep
it."

"Unless someone wants to drag twenty miles
of the Potomac to find the pieces, nobody's gonna have that
particular gun."

"This witness, he didn't feel compelled to
stop the gun's disposal?"

"Why make things easy for the feds or for
Sully?  Everybody knows who pulled the trigger.  It's the
doubt – reasonable or through lack of evidence – that makes all of
this interesting.  Everybody, and I do mean
every
body,
is satisfied with the status quo."

"Even Sully?"

Franchetta cursed softly.  "Everybody
minus one."

"I'd wager the bureau isn't particularly
thrilled that their would-be songbird was so permanently silenced
either."

"Fuck the FBI," Franchetta spat.  He
flicked the cigarette butt into the shadows in the dank alley when
the cherry burned the fleshy insides of his fingers.  "Since
when do you care what the cops want?"

"You might be surprised by that answer,
Eddie.  Let's not forget the other important player in this
story who is certain to be seething with rage but for far different
reasons."

Franchetta laughed.  "You think Marcos
gives a shit what Danny Datello thinks?  Let me assure you, he
does not.  Danny boy severed those ties long ago."

"Yes, but he still was the one who brought
the launderer into the fold."  He clicked his tongue softly
against his teeth.  "Or is Uncle Sully of the mind that
Hamilton absconded with cash at Danny's behest?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Then you haven't received any orders
to…uh…prune an errant branch from the family tree?"

Franchetta laughed softly.  "Oh, hell
no.  Sully doesn't have to do anything about that situation,
not with the bitch stalking Danny.  He'll meet an untimely end
free of charge, much like poor old Rick did."

This time, the stilted breath didn't come
from Eddie Franchetta.  "What exactly are you
saying?" 

Franchetta needed the confirmation, if there
was any hope in hell of maintaining the status quo.  Was
Datello
the reason she relocated?  If it was, the whole
ballgame changed.   Hell, he could really pin the whole thing
on Helen Eriksson.

"I'm saying that you might have excellent
sources in Grand Cayman, old man, but you've missed the boat to the
west coast.  She's there, and you can be damned sure that the
Pacific will be a hell of a lot harder to drag for gun parts than
the Potomac."

The mysterious voice chuckled.  "Now
what makes you think my source for Darkwater Bay has failed me,
Eddie?  You've told me everything I needed to know.  And
I thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"You son of a –"

"Ah-ah," he warned mildly.  "You may
think you're beyond my reach, Franchetta, but you'll do exactly as
I direct you to do – if you want what I know about the Caymans to
remain between the two of us.  I expect you to respond
promptly if I need to speak to you again.  If that’s not the
case…"

"Your next call is to Marcos," he
muttered.

"Always knew you were cleverer than your
father, Eddie.  You know how to contact me if you hear of
anything that I should know, yes?"

"The post office box in that little note you
sent."

"Indeed it is."

"And our phrase so he remains unaware of
your guilt?"

The old man laughed again.  "You have
word regarding how Helen fares.  He'll get the message to me,
and I'll know it's you."