The Scorpion's Tale (14 page)

Billy grunted. “Actually, I thought you’d be
more impressive, bigger and stronger, and certainly less
effeminate.”

The Scorpion laughed politely. “Ah, William,
sticks and stones and all that rubbish. Let us get back to Mr.
Capresi, shall we?”

“Sure,” Billy replied, “what else can I tell
you? I did my job. I sent him to Munoz.”

The Scorpion stroked his chin with his left
hand while steadfastly gripping the gun with his right. Billy
watched every movement, wondering if there might come an opportune
moment to jump him without getting his head blown off. Billy
changed the subject. “Did you meet my three lovely friends on the
other end of the summit?”

“Are you referring to those three sotted
lasses drinking the fruit of Bacchus?”

“The very same,” Billy said, hoping against
hope that “sotted” meant they were still alive.

“Yes, they were lovely. I think they are in
repose. Actually, how shall I put it in words that you will easily
comprehend? Ah, yes, they’re sleeping with the scorpions.”

Billy looked away.

“William, do you really think Mr. Capresi
stands a chance to kill me?” he quipped.

Billy shrugged his shoulders and laughed
uneasily. He knew mere words would not keep him alive, but maybe he
could get the Scorpion angry enough to make a mistake. “Well, he
sure has the motivation. Yeah, I think he’s got a chance against a
faggot like you!”

“Hmmmm, I am sure you would like to see that
William.”

Billy weighed the question carefully, and
decided that he had nothing to lose. “Damn straight, I’d like to
see that happen. I just wish I could be there when he executes you,
Mr. Tough Guy who kills little children! Do you like to play with
little boys, too? Are you also a perverted pedophile, you sick
bastard? Not enough attention from mommy and daddy?”

The Scorpion calmly regarded Billy, unmoved
by his outburst.

Billy scowled at him. He was throwing out his
best stuff but the Scorpion wasn’t biting. He tried a little
harder. “You want something sporting you British bastard? I’ll give
you a chance to be a real man. Put down the gun and fight me,
mano-a-mano. You won’t, because you don’t have the guts! You’re a
spineless coward whose mother probably dressed you like a
girl!”

“Stop these childish antics, William!” the
Scorpion said, raising his voice as he put a bullet through Billy’s
right kneecap.

Billy howled in pain as he gripped his leg
and rolled back and forth on the ground screaming.

His assailant stood over Billy with a somber
expression on his face. “William, you have never been the sharpest
tool in the shed. I warned you many years ago and you failed to
take heed. I punish you for the past. You were once useful, but now
it is Judgment Day.”

“Fuck you, you worthless baby-killing psycho!
I hope they hang you by your fingernails and cut off your………”

The Scorpion didn’t wait for Billy to
complete his sentence. “You are boring me, William,” he said, as he
shot him five times in the face, four more than necessary. The
Scorpion realized that Billy’s words had gotten to him after all.
He put on a pair of gloves and gathered all of Billy’s possessions
and put them in his backpack. He dragged the body to the side of
the cliff and hoisted it over the edge, watching it tumble down the
mountainside. He did the same with the bodies of the three
women.

He reached the trailhead, walked to the
parking lot, and got into a used car he had purchased earlier that
day for a thousand dollars in cash. When he was comfortably out of
sight, he removed his false facial hair and clothing, leaving on a
tee shirt and a pair of shorts. He combed his hair and parted it
neatly on the side. The rugged-looking trail guide transformed
himself into a clean-shaven tourist, who quietly disappeared into
the desert. The discarded garments were bagged and thrown into a
dumpster on the way to Reno, and the gloves were eventually burned
in the desert.

---------------

Steven returned to his hotel and took a long,
cool shower. Afterwards, he popped four Advil into his mouth and
chased them down with a glass of scotch. Prior to running a hot
bath, he made reservations to Roatan, traveling through Miami. Then
he gingerly immersed his body in the tub. Every muscle in his body
was screaming in pain. He grimaced as he did a damage assessment of
his lower extremities. The blisters on his feet and ankles were
particularly raw. He lay sprawled out in the bathtub, head back,
arms stretched out comfortably at his sides, with his feet resting
on the edge, strategically elevated above the hot water. He closed
his eyes and recounted the events of the day. Billy had been a
likeable guy, and Steven believed he had shared everything he knew
about the Scorpion. For the first time since leaving New York,
Steven thought about the surviving members of his family. He hadn’t
spoken with his mother or sister, or anyone from Amanda’s family.
He was suddenly homesick.

Steven reached for his new cell phone, and
dialed Marco’s cell. The phone rang twice before Marco
answered.

“It’s me, Steven.”

“Are you all right?”

“So far, so good.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in a hotel in Vegas. I’ll be leaving for
Miami in the morning.”

“Miami?” Marco exclaimed. “You’re not coming
home?”

“Not yet.”

“Anything I can do to help you?”

Steven thought about the question. He sighed
loudly to convey to Marco that he was in a state of conflict. Marco
wanted to spare Steven any additional agony.

“Don’t worry, Steven,” Marco said, “I don’t
need to know any details. I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Marco. I don’t know if I’m quite
ready to bring you into my world. It’s pretty crazy. All I can tell
you is that I’ll be passing through Miami to another destination.
Hang in there with me for a little while longer, alright
brother?”

Marco smiled. It comforted him to be called
“brother.” Marco felt the same about Steven. “I’m hanging,” Marco
said.

“How is everybody doing? Is anyone asking
about me?”

Marco laughed. “Twenty-four, seven, baby! The
real question is who
isn’t
asking about you? ”

“How’s your father?”

“Not well. Come back soon so you can say
goodbye. I don’t think he has much time left.

Steven physically ached thinking about his
family’s pain. There was so much suffering everywhere he turned.
What a waste, he thought, as anger grew inside him. So many lives
have been destroyed. “Okay Marco, I’ll call you real soon.”

“Oh, by the way,” Marco added, “that
detective has been calling me. He’s really pissed off that you’ve
disappeared. He’s been asking a lot of questions about you and
about your relationship with my sister. I think he suspects you,
Steven. I almost punched him out!”

“It’s fine, Marco. I know I’m on his short
list. Right now, that doesn’t matter.”

“He knows I’m lying when I tell him I have no
idea where you are! You might want to call him.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll call him when I
get a chance. Take care, and give my love to everyone.”

“Be safe and be smart, Steven. If you need
me, I’m only a phone call away.”

Marco hung up and Steven slid back into the
bath. There was no reason to remain in Las Vegas.

Detective Johnston was annoyed. As he sat in
an undersized seat at the back of a plane, sandwiched between the
window and a very ample woman crocheting a bulky blanket, he
remembered just how much he hated confined spaces. He was doing his
best to be pleasant, but being gracious became increasingly
difficult with each poke of her elbow into his ribs. After so many
pokes, the woman had simply stopped apologizing and continued
crocheting as if jabbing him was part of the stitch pattern.

It had been almost impossible to convince his
boss to approve the necessary expenses to follow Capresi to Vegas.
After much debate with his superiors, Detective Johnston prevailed
by using the “cover your ass” angle. They couldn’t refute that
Capresi was under the ostensible protection of the Suffolk County
Police Department during the investigation and was also a suspect.
If Steven killed someone or was killed, it would create a public
relations nightmare for the department.

It was apparent Steven had no intention of
returning the detective’s calls. Detective Johnston had researched
Steven’s background, both socially and financially, for some sort
of patent motive such as a large insurance policy, but had found no
economic incentive for murder. Still, Steven’s family could not
explain Steven’s recent cross-country travel to Chicago or Vegas,
and the detective was wary about Steven’s sudden interest in
traveling.

Thanks to Marty Watts, Johnston confirmed
Capresi had stayed at the Venetian. Upon landing, the detective
took a cab and checked into the Golden Nugget, an older hotel that
cost an affordable $63 per night. He then took a cab to the plush
end of the Strip where he learned that Steven had already checked
out. Undaunted, he began the tedious inquiry process through the
hotel’s chain of command about Capresi’s stay. He was ultimately
directed to a reluctant assistant manager named Dillon.

Dillon was boyish-looking, with a round,
ruddy-complexioned face, and dull eyes. He had thin, oily hair and
couldn’t have been older than thirty. The detective stood eight
inches taller, which intimidated Dillon. Detective Johnston had
been a defensive end in college and made sure to always put his
size to good use.

Forewarned of the detective’s presence,
Dillon momentarily and foolishly took the offensive. “Look,
detective,” he said with a cracking voice, his eyes darting
nervously. “I really don’t have time to sit with you. Please come
back tomorrow morning and we can talk.”

The detective pressed closer toward the
office’s threshold, displaying a menacing grin and prepared to
steamroll over this little man. “Dillon, this will only take a
minute. It may be a matter of life and death, so let’s sit
down.”

As their eyes met, Dillon looked away and
reluctantly retreated into his office. “Detective, your man has
left. I don’t know what you expect.”

“I’d like to interview the chambermaid
assigned to his room. I also want his phone records.”

Dillon shifted uncomfortably. He had
developed an aversion to law enforcement since his teenage years,
when he and his buddies would get drunk and drag race on The Strip.
The sheriff elected to mete out justice the old fashioned way.
Dillon and his friends were taken into the desert and beaten. It
had the desired effect; Dillon promptly retired from drag
racing.

“We have different people working shifts each
day of the week. There wasn’t any particular employee assigned to
Mr. Capresi’s suite.”

Detective Johnston looked down at him. He now
had an unexplainable piece of information.
Why would a grieving
father be in a suite?
“Then let’s start with yesterday. Tell me
who cleaned his room in the morning and the evening.”

The assistant manager frowned. His jaw tensed
as he tried to muster some courage. “Detective, you can’t just
barge in here and expect to interview our employees. Our hotel has
very strict privacy policies. Our corporate attorney is in San
Francisco and should be back in a few days. Your interview is going
to have to wait until he returns.”

Johnston grabbed a photograph, set in an
ornate silver and gold frame. “Is this your wife and daughter?”

The assistant manager gave him a suspicious
look. “Yes. Why?”

The detective stared keenly at him for a few
moments, sensing his distress. “Well, Dillon, you remind me of Mr.
Capresi. Your family is beautiful. Steven used to have a beautiful
wife and a pretty little daughter. In fact, his wife was nine
months pregnant when his family was savagely murdered. If more
people are killed because you won’t allow me to have a simple
conversation with a maid, that won’t be good for you. Your
employers will be displeased with your decision to delay my simple
request. I will personally tip off the press. This can’t wait a few
days; not even five minutes. I will speak with the maids now!” he
commanded.

Again, Dillon’s eyes met the detective’s, but
this time there was no hint of a smile from Detective Johnston. The
officer meant business. “I’ll get the names. But on one
condition.”

“What?” the detective asked, quickly
regaining his affable demeanor.

“I’m present at your questioning.”

The detective smirked. “You drive a hard
bargain, Dillon, but you win.”

Dillon sat down at his desk and began pecking
on his computer’s keyboard. “Okay, detective, it looks like Sheila
is the one to talk to.”

“I’m right behind you,” Johnston said,
following Dillon out of the office.

-----------------

JTS Imports, located in a warehouse in
Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, had originally been set up as an
overseas fencing front for stolen goods from truck hijackings. Tony
Olivera was in charge, while Sal and Joey had the menial duty of
transporting the items from the warehouse to the docks. They were
not employed for their intelligence, for they had none, but because
Tony’s mother made her son hire his first cousins.

Other than rent, Tony’s main expense was the
10% commission he paid Alberto Manzione through Alberto’s nephew
and captain, Nick, on the monies he grossed as tribute to La
Famiglia. The fencing operation was lucrative since Tony had, over
the years, developed many worldwide contacts. However, simple
fencing did not supply the coin necessary to live in the Hamptons.
Since the 10% tribute supplied family protection, it was Nick’s job
to find out for Alberto who ordered the unsanctioned hit. Even
though Nick had planned to break into JTS before he met Gia, he
took this opportunity to pretend it was all for her.