W.E.B Griffin - The Murderers

“Sonny, I never laid eyes on this guy. I wouldn’t know him if he walked in that door right this minute,” Paulo said.

“Well, I’m sorry I had the wrong idea.”

“Why should you be sorry? We all make mistakes. Tell me, what sort of business associate of mine did you think he was?”

“Nothing specific. I just thought he worked for you.”

“You don’t know where he works?”

“He works at Wanamaker’s.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. In the warehouse, I think.”

“Just between you and me, did you really think I would have somebody working for me who works in the Wanamaker’s warehouse?”

“No disrespect intended, Mr. Cassandro.”

“I know that, Sonny. Like I told you, Marco’s been saying good things about you. Look, I know you were mistaken, and I understand. But when you were mistaken, what did you think this guy did for me?”

Sonny did not immediately reply.

“Hey, you’re among friends. What’s said in this room stays in this room, OK?”

“I feel like a goddamned fool for not knowing it was bullshit when I heard it,” Sonny said. “I should have known better.”

“Known better than what, Sonny?” Paulo Cassandro said, and now there was an unmistakable tone of impatience in his voice.

“He sort of hinted that he was a hit man for you,” Sonny said, very reluctantly.

“You’re right, Sonny,” Paulo said. “You should have known it was bullshit when you heard it. You know why?”

Inspiration came, miraculously, to Sonny Boyle. He suddenly knew the right answer to give.

“Because you’re a legitimate businessman,” he said.

“Right. All that bullshit in the movies about a mob, and hit men, all that bullshit is nothing but bullshit. And you should have known that, Sonny. I’m a little disappointed in you.”

“I’m embarrassed. I just didn’t think this through.”

“Right. You didn’t think. That can get a fella in trouble, Sonny.”

“I know.”

“Ah, well, what the hell. You’re among friends. Marco says good things about you. Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean about forgetting the whole thing?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“You know what you did tonight, Sonny?”

“No.”

“You wanted to be nice to the wife. You wanted to surprise her. You know a guy who works in the kitchen out there. You come to the back door and told him to make you two dinners to go. He did.”

“Right, Mr. Cassandro.”

“That it was on the house is nobody’s business but yours and mine, right? And you didn’t see nobody but your friend, right?”

“Absolutely, Mr. Cassandro.”

“Marco,” Paulo Cassandro said. “Get them to make up a takeout. Antipasto, some veal, some pasta, some fish, spumoni, the works, a couple bottles of wine. And then take Sonny here home.”

“Yes, Mr. Cassandro.”

Paulo Cassandro extended his hand.

“I would say that it was nice to see you, Sonny, but we didn’t, right? Keep up the good work. It’s appreciated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cassandro.”

“You see anybody here by that name, Marco?”

“I don’t,” Marco D’Angelo said.

“Sorry,” Sonny said.

“Ah, get out of here. Enjoy your dinner,” Paulo Cassandro said.

Impulsively, when he reached the Media Inn, at the intersection of the Baltimore Pike and Providence Road, Matt continued straight on into Media, instead of turning left onto Providence Road toward the home in Wallingford in which he had grown up.

Except for a lantern-style fixture by the front door, there were no lights on in the brick Colonial house at 320 Wilson Avenue; Mr. Gerald North Atchison, restaurateur and almost certain conspirator in a double murder, was apparently out for the evening.

There was time for Matt to consider, as he slowly approached and rolled past the house, that driving by wasn’t the smartest thing he had done lately.

What if he had been home? So what? What did I expect to find?

He pressed harder on the Porsche’s accelerator and dropped his hand to the gearshift.

To hell with it. I’ll go home, and hope I can look-what did Wohl say Amy said? A condition of “grief shock”?-sufficiently grief-shocked to convince my mother that I am not the sonofabitch I have proven myself to be.

Jesus! What if Amanda calls the apartment and Milham’s girlfriend answers the phone? Amanda will decide that I am letting some other kind female soul console me in my grief shock! And be justifiably pissed. Worse than pissed, hurt. I’ll have to call her.

And that’s not so bad. She said not to call her. But this gives me an excuse. Jesus, I’m glad I thought about that!

There was a sudden light in the rear of the house at 320 Wilson, growing in intensity. Matt looked over his shoulder-it was difficult in the small interior of the Porsche-and saw that the left door of the double garage was going up.

He pulled quickly to the curb, stopped, and turned his lights off. A moment later, a Cadillac Coupe de Ville backed out of the driveway onto the street, turned its tail toward Matt, and drove off in the other direction.

With his lights still off, Matt made a U-turn, swore when his front wheel bounced over the curb he could not see, then set off in pursuit.

Why the hell am I doing this?

Because I think I’m Sherlock Holmes? Or because I really don’t want to go home and have Mother comfort me in my grief shock?

Or maybe, just maybe, because I’m a cop, and I’m after that bastard?

Not without difficulty-the traffic on the Baltimore Pike through Clifton Heights and Lansdowne toward Philadelphia was heavy, and there were a number of stoplights, two of which left him stopped as the Cadillac went ahead-he kept Atchison in sight.

Atchison drove to the Yock’s Diner at Fifty-seventh and Chestnut, just inside the city limits. Matt drove past the parking lot, saw Atchison get out of his car and walk toward the diner, and then circled the block and entered the parking lot.

Atchison knew him, of course, so he couldn’t go in the diner. He walked toward the diner, deciding he would try to look in the windows. He passed a car and idly looked inside. There was a radio mounted below the dash, and when he looked closer, he could see the after-market light mounted on the headliner. An unmarked car.

The occupants of which will see me stalking around out here, rush out, blow whistles, shine flashlights, and accuse me of auto burglary .

There was a three-foot-wide area between the parked unmarked car and the diner itself, planted with some sort of hardy perennial bushes which were thick and had thorns. He scratched both legs painfully, and a grandfather of a thorn ripped a three-inch slash in his jacket.

He found a footing and hoisted himself up to look in the window.

There will be a maiden lady at this table, two maiden ladies, who will see the face in the window, scream, and cause whoever’s in the unmarked car to rush to protect society.

The table was unoccupied. Matt twisted his head-clinging to the stainless-steel panels of the diner wall made this difficult-and looked right and then left.

Mr. Gerald North Atchison was sitting at a banquette, alone, studying the menu.

Jesus, why not? What did I expect? People have to eat. Going to a diner is what hungry people do.

He dropped off the wall and turned to fight his way back through the jungle.

You are a goddamn fool, Matthew Payne. The price of your Sherlock Holmes foolishness is your ripped jacket. Be grateful that the guys in the unmarked car didn’t see you.

But, Jesus, why did he come all the way here? He could have eaten a hell of a lot closer to his house than this-the Media Inn, for example.