Reed Coleman - Little Easter

The main house was nothing to write home about. It was larger than the garage, but smaller than the palace at Versailles. In fact, the three-floored colonial looked rather plain for a Mafia don’s villa. I’d expected something along the lines of the Jefferson Memorial or the Pantheon. Now I stood just five feet away from sliding glass doors which ran midway along the colonial’s pool-facing back wall. The indoor side of the glass doors was heavily curtained, but not so heavily that I couldn’t make out light fighting through the drapery. And upon close inspection, I saw that the far left door was open a crack.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the open door policy. I didn’t like having gotten this far, unencumbered. I knew prostitutes that weren’t this easy. This wasn’t a soft spot in security. This wasn’t security at all. This was an invitation. And I accepted.

“Glad you could join the party, Mr. Klein,” an unfamiliar voice welcomed me. It’s owner was hidden somewhere behind an expansive mahogany bar. “Pat him down, Vinny,” the voice carelessly commanded and then wondered absent-mindedly: “Where’s the black Sambuca?”

Across the bar, seated on a green leather and brass tacked sofa was MacClough. He was bleeding from the nose and mouth and his right eye was swollen shut. Behind him stood a stone-faced fireplug of a man in his fifties wearing an ugly brown polyester suit. He had old school written all over him. He was the type that killed to keep in practice and, unlike Vinny, wouldn’t mind taking some lumps in the process. When Johnny acknowledged my presence by leaning forward, Fireplug rapped him with the back of his hand. “Stop bleedin’ on the fuckin’ couch.”

Vinny the lisping Adonis started to frisk me. “You look like shit.”

“Where’s your bosth?” I asked, mimicking the muscle head.

“He’th not carrying, don Roberto,” Vinny announced with slave-like reverence.

And suddenly I understood Larry Feld’s caveat about the old man.

“Here it is,” a deeply tanned, bald head popped up from behind the bar. Its face displayed a sweet, grandfatherly demeanor, but its eyes were traitors to the mask. They were morgue-room black; cruel, cold and detached. They were the eyes of a dangerous man, even more dangerous than the eyes of his son.

I took a quick step toward MacClough, but that’s as close as I would get. Vinny clamped a finger vise around my neck and I went stiff with pain. I nearly fainted.

“Vinny, Vinny,” the old don came running around the bar, “is that anyway to treat a guest?” Don Roberto held a glass of inky black liquid under my nose. It’s licorice smell made me dry-retch. Don Roberto didn’t like that, pulled the glass away and slapped me across the face.

“Thanks, I needed that,” I smiled. So did Don Roberto.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you and Detective MacClough, but-”

“Retired,” Johnny interrupted just to bust balls.

“Shut up!” Fireplug clapped MacClough’s left ear and put him to sleep.

“As I was sayin’,” his Brooklyn was starting to show, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but my son won’t be joinin’ us tonight. Always busy, my son. Always busy with the puttana. You know what puttana is, Mr. Klein?”

“Whore,” I replied.

“Where you learn that?” the old man seemed genuinely impressed.

“Brighton Beach. Half the kids in my high school were named Cohen and the other half were named Carbone.”

“Cohen and Carbone. Hey Vinny, I like that. Cheech,” the don turned to Fireplug and uttered something in Italian.

In the next instant, Vinny and the old school soldier were carrying MacClough into another room. Don Roberto was so comfortable with his power and so certain of it, that he didn’t bother threatening me or warning me about trying to escape. He just knew I’d stay put. He was right.

“My son is a weak man, Mr. Klein.”

“Not according to the newspapers and TV,” I interrupted now that the muscle was out of the room. It didn’t matter. The old man wouldn’t be derailed.

“He stinks of fish, my son. A man should find a wife. If he wants to have fun, he takes a mistress. We understand that. But not my son. No. Ever since that cunt turned against him,” Don Roberto was shouting now, spraying my face with spit, “he’s been a waste to me and this family. I should have been able to enjoy my painting, my opera. . Instead, I must pull the strings. Always, I must pull the strings. We have people to take care of, responsibilities.”

“ You had her whacked,” it was almost a whisper. “ You had Azrael killed.”

Robby “the Boot” smiled with his fine white teeth and crooked lips, but his eyes were unwaveringly chilly. “No, Mr. Klein, I didn’t have anything done to that whore who preferred a cop to my Dante. I had the pleasure of carrying out la vendetta myself. My only regrets were that I could not have made her pain last longer and that I had to waste a perfectly good canary.”

“But I found a freshly buried body out in a field near Sound Hill.”

“ You found the body! Fuckin’ incompetent cops,” don Roberto threw his thin arms to heaven. “That stiff was a little Christmas present,” the old man crossed himself, “from me to them.”

“You killed a man just to throw the cops off the trail?” I guess I sounded naive to the Mafia king.

“These things happen,” was his calm response as if he was explaining to his wife that the dog had eaten her rose bush. “Anyway, he was a cruel man. The world will not mourn him.”

“But why after all this time?” I asked.

“Do you like a beer, Mr. Klein?” He answered my question with one of his own.

“Sure.”

The don offered me a frosted bottle of Peroni. I would have prefered a Corona, an Anchor Steam or even a Budweiser, but the situation called for diplomacy and I accepted the Italian beer with a nod. It went down smoothly enough and was a definite improvement over polluted snow. The don took a bottle for himself.

“What do you think of my bar?” Robby “the Boot” was just full of questions.

“A little big for the room,” I burped and excused myself, “but it’s fine work.” I wondered where this was leading.

“It’s from one of Capone’s speaks. One day outta the blue, I get a call from a guy I haven’t heard from in years. He tells me he bought this bar in a junk yard in Connecticut and he can’t unload it and he’s gonna have to sell it for firewood and he knows I have an eye for fine carpentry. I tell the guy I’ll think about it, but first he gotta answer some questions: How much for the piece? How much kickback does he get? How many people was it offered to before me? And why didn’t they take it?” the don took a gulp of beer and made a disapproving face.

“Well, Mr. Klein,” he continued, “this dealer could answer all of those questions but one. The price was right. Damn cheap, if you ask me. This guy says he’s willing to take half his usual finder’s fee just to get rid of the piece and he gives me the name of everyone it’s been offered to. But he can’t explain why no one’s taken the deal.”

“You took it.”

“I did,” the old man slapped the bar, “but not because it was from a Capone speak or because I loved it. You’re right, it’s too big for the room. When I look at this bar, it makes me wonder about why people do or don’t do things they should. That’s a good thing to think about in my business.” I had a funny feeling we were about to get to the point.

“A few months ago, I get another call.”

“Antique dealer?” I busted his balls a little.

“Cop. Dirty cop. Used to be a bag man for me.”

“O’Toole,” I took a not so wild guess.