Dead Birmingham (15 page)

“Thank you, Dan Ganato.”

“Go get some rest, Francis. You look a fright.”

Francis rose, grinned, and backed out slowly. “Yes, thank you again, Don G. I'll do that.”

After Francis left, Don Armand Ganato went back to the window, sipped his tea, and stared out into the night.

* * *&

Across town, in a room above a bar, a tall thin man with light blond hair stared out his own window. His eyes were the most striking thing about him. One was a warm green, the other an icy blue. He also suffered from slight astigmatism, so that one eye was always centered on the subject of his attention, while the other roamed in other spheres.

His voice was a low growl, and still had a faint Irish brogue, though he had left that land some twenty years before, at the age of thirteen. Now, he was talking to a man who stood at his side.

“Any word from Johnny?”

“The word from downtown is, the cops might have picked him up.”

Lonny took this news in for a second. “Then he'll spill it.”

“That'll bring the cops down on us.”

“So what.” Lonny shrugged. “We'll dodge and bullshit them. They got nothing on me. I know Johnny. He is a pretty good guy, but he ain't strong enough to stand up to the cops. They'll squeeze it out of him. But's it's no big deal.”

“You think not, Lonny?”

“Ganato is probably across the river praying his rosary that this is the end of me. But the big picture works out in my favor.”

The gunsel at his side looked confused. “How's that?”

“I earned a favor from a big outfit up north. I put them through to the guy they were looking for, some contact for some hard to find contractor. They owe me. More important, they know who to come to when they want something done is this neighborhood, and it ain't their Dago cousin, Ganato.”

“So, is that it? Is it worth it?”

“One thing at a time.” Lonny rolled his crazy blue eye while the green eye drilled into the man. “This will open up dealings for us with other rackets. When they grow to trust us, to rely on us, they'll help us get rid of the competition. And when that day comes, I'll finally kill that Italian bastard.”

 

Chapter 29

 

The children had placed traps in his path: stacks of cans painted black in the hallways, and piles of furniture and other hazards barring the way of the unwary. He had tripped on one of these in the dark upon his entry. At first this caused a spark of admiration, but now he was very angry with himself. He had made a great deal of noise, and crashed to the floor in a most ungraceful manner. Still, he had stoically refused to use his flashlight for fear of announcing his presence. Now, it mattered little. He had stumbled, once again, over something in the dark of the eleventh floor landing, and had heard the crash of something that sounded like crockery, and the jangle of aluminum cans strung out as an alarm. He cursed himself silently.

He should have known that they would have prepared such measures; the girl's behavior should have led him to conclude that. Now he had announced his presence to them, and lost the element of surprise.

He was light on his feet, but twelve flights of stairs had been quite a climb. Halfway there. He paused on the last landing, as he had paused on every one, to catch his breath, and to listen. He had heard it then, furtive sounds, movement on the floor above his head. And there he had been stopped. He had tried the door; the landing was well blocked. Something was barring the double doors, and he was quite sure that whatever it was weighed well over a thousand pounds. More than likely, heavy furniture, and other odds and ends piled against the other side. He made his way back down to the eleventh floor and over to the east wing, and the other flight of stairs. He tried the other doors, with the same results.

So, there was no way that those doors had been barred in such a fashion since the girl had come up here. Therefore, there was another way up. They had let him know this without realizing it. He would find it, or if he could not, he would settle in and wait them out. After all, they would have to come out some time. And he was a very patient man.

* * *

His name was Scott LaRue and he was a thief. He had been one ever since he could remember. He had not grown up poor or in any way underprivileged. He was simply adept at stealing. He always had been. He had figured out how to pick the pockets of his classmates at a very young age. He had met with a few failures early on, and thus began his long history of trouble with his parents. He was an only child, and so every time he got into trouble, another layer of guilt and retribution was added to his increasingly sour relationship with his mother and father.

At last his parents had separated, and he knew his chosen path had contributed to their failure, but he felt no remorse. Scott LaRue felt very little remorse over anything that he had ever done—that is, until of late, because he carried with him now the knowledge that he had caused the deaths of two friends. No, more than friends, they were like brothers, and they had agreed with his code and followed that troubled path with him, that had cost so much already, to so many.

Not much farther.

He had passed out of the downtown district, and was winding his way south, toward the nightclubs and restaurants of the Southside. He had spent the last two days bumming around, panhandling, napping in the shadows when he could, but staying wary. So far, people had paid him scant attention.

At last, Five Points drew into view. Kids played guitars or panhandled next to the fountain, with its statue of the Storyteller, a figure with a goat head. Since the sculpture was vaguely Satanic, and presided over a junction shaped like a pentagram, the area drew its share of odd people. The area was always crowded, but this was good; he blended in with the crowd and continued on his way.

He crossed the busy and dangerous intersection at 20th Street, and continued on to the base of Vulcan Terrace, where there squatted a low line of shops. Finally he saw what he was looking for. The old man's antique shop, where all of this trouble had begun. He stopped, slid his backpack off his shoulders, and took out a piece of paper. He read over what he had written.

Sir:

I am the person who stole from you, and what I took is in a very safe place. Too many have been hurt already by my selfish act, and I just want to say that I am extremely sorry. Please stop your people from killing my friends. They had nothing to do with what I did. I broke faith with them. They are innocent of any wrong-doing in this matter, and have no knowledge of my act. I accept full responsibility.

I wish to return the item to you, and I will do so personally, at the time and place of your choosing. I wish this matter to be resolved, and no more people to be hurt by what I have done. I will return in three days, in the morning, and I will obey any instructions that you give me at that time.

Scott LaRue

He took the note in hand and started walking slowly toward the little antique shop. He felt himself trembling as he walked.

* * *

“It's got to be in here somewhere. A manifest, a list of some kind. An inventory,” I griped, as we dug through the filing cabinets in Malvagio's office.

“Well, look at all of this junk, Roland. You think the guy actually wrote all of this stuff down somewhere? Toy rocking horses from Spain, maracas from Morocco, Jade figurines from China. Why inventory junk?” Broom shrugged.

“I don't know, but my bead on him was that he was the type who would be rather meticulous. Something about the way he dressed and acted. Very correct.”

Mack grunted. “Sometimes I feel like we're chasing air. Just about all that I've done on this case is shuffle papers. Just once I'd like to be where the action is.”

“Well, today looks like your lucky day, Mack,” Broom said in a hushed voice. Mack and I both turned in the direction that Broom was looking. Through the front glass of Malvagio's Antiques, we all could see Scott LaRue, note in hand, crossing the street. His gaze was fixed upon the front door, and he looked like a man who was walking to his doom.

I ducked out the back, leaving Mack and Broom inside. They would try to surprise Scott at the door. I rounded the building and walked up the alley to the corner of the building. I peeked around, saw that the kid's back was to me, and strolled along the front of the building, averting me eyes. He'd never seen me before, so maybe I could get the drop on him, I reasoned.

Just a few steps. Don't rush it. Just a few steps more.

* * *

Scott cursed. He thought there had been a mail slot. It didn't matter.
Just slide it under the door. The old man will see it. Wait the three days. Then . . . then Angel and the others will be safe and you'll have to pay for this mess you've made.
He slid the note under the door, straightened, and wiped his eyes. Then a lot of things happened at once.

Broom came through the door, flinging it wide, so that it crashed against the wall outside. The glass shattered, tiny chunks of glittering glass coming down in slow motion, Mack ran past Broom and made a grab for Scott, but got his backpack instead. Scott lowered his elbows and let it slide off his back, then turned and ran full tilt back toward the crowd that milled around the fountain. He heard someone else behind him, too, and this was someone who could run, and he was very, very close.

* * *

I had not been quite close enough to grab Scott when he had slid the note under the door. Broom had obviously been trying to knock the kid down, which would have allowed me to grab him, but the kid was too quick on his feet. I was a good sprinter, but every step reminded me of the fifteen years that separated me from the kid I pursued. Scott dodged easily in and out of the crowd, while I bumped into people, sending a couple careening into a building. I yelled out my apologies.
 

Behind me, I heard Broom roar, “Police!” I knew that Mack and Broom were running close behind us now, and that was a good thing, but damn this kid could run!

Scott LaRue may have been willing to walk to his death, but arrest was a completely different matter. He took a wide turn down an alley at full speed, and I poured on whatever energy I had left to try to close the space between us.

I skidded to a halt. The kid wasn't there. The alley opened in either direction, and I ran to the end, looking either way. Where had he gone? But it was no use. I knew that we had lost him.

 

Chapter 30

 

“Scott LaRue. Kid's a writer.” Mack held up the thick manuscript that they had recovered from Scott's backpack, and thumbed though it. “Get this: “
Shoplifting in the 21st Century. Boosting for Fun and Profit
. Amazing. Maybe they should make this required reading at the Birmingham Police Academy.”

“I'm more interested in this bit of writing.” Broom held up the letter that LaRue had shoved beneath the door. “According to this letter, the object that all the rumpus is about is in ‘a safe place.' LaRue intended to go retrieve this item and bring it here, which tells us he didn't know Malvagio had met his end. Also, after the reception we just gave him, I guess he won't be coming back to check again.”

“Don't worry, Les. I think we might just have a lead on his whereabouts.” I walked toward Mack, who still stood thumbing through the handwritten pages of LaRue's manuscript. He looked up from the pages. “You think it's in here somewhere?”

I put my finger under the manuscript and lifted it up. A binder held the pages together. On the outside of the binder was printed a large, sweeping golden C. All three of us stood and looked at that for a second. Mack turned the binder over. Printed in small letters on the back:
Compliments of the Management, The Cabana Hotel.

I scooped some pens out of the backpack. They bore a similar inscription. Broom whistled.

“Well I'll be. Looks like we know where they're flopping.”

Mack took the manuscript and shoved it into the backpack. “Okay, then. At last. Let's go.”

* * *

Scott had hopped onto the fender of a passing bus near 25th Street, allowing him to evade the big black guy. Who were those guys? They looked more like police than mobsters. Cops or killers, though; it didn't matter. The whole thing was over, now. They had his backpack. It had several things in it that would link him to the Cabana. He felt the loss of his manuscript acutely. He'd probably never see that again, except maybe in court. Exhibit A, he thought ruefully. But, that mattered little, now. Scott suspected that his days of boosting were drawing rapidly to a close, one way or the other.

He had to get to the Cabana and warn the others. Maybe they could escape before the cops—or the killer—found them.
 

He got off the bus after a couple of blocks, when it slowed to take a turn, then immediately boarded another, this time in the more conventional manner, and headed uptown. It would take him to within five blocks of the Cabana. Close enough. There was still time.

 

Chapter 31

 

The Foreigner had come to the elevator shaft, thinking that maybe they utilized that to climb up, but it was tightly sealed and he could not force open the doors. Which left one other possibility. There was a service entrance somewhere on this floor, or a hole that the children had cut, in order to gain access to the upper levels. The first possibility he could easily investigate. However, the second required time. He would have to search through each suite until he found their clandestine opening. Being young and foolish, they had surely camouflaged the entrance. Such a game, after all.