Max Collins - Ask Not

My nine-millimeter Browning was in its shoulder holster, by the way, a tight fit in a suit not cut for it. I also had a Colt Woodsman .22 stuck in my waistband, though concealed by my suit coat (one button buttoned), and a little Mauser .22 auto in my left-hand suit-coat pocket. These handguns had been retrieved from the late Rodriguez and the Oswald look-alike, when I’d returned to the scene to do a little of my own cleanup.

Not much had been necessary. I just wanted some extra firepower, if I was going midnight-calling on Uncle Carlos. And I did need to spend some time at the scene of Mac Wallace’s tragic suicide, wiping off my fingerprints from a few surfaces — again, not many: the towel and garden hose, for example, were not conducive to prints. The window and its handle, however, were.

“Leo,” the shades-of-green younger one said in a cornpone drawl, “I believe the old gent’s heavy. Don’t the old gent look heavy to you?”

He had noticed the bulge under my left arm.

“Good eye, Freddie boy,” Leo said. “Give the man a frisk. You’re gonna have to stand for a frisk, bud.”

“No,” I said.

They both looked at me like kids who just learned the truth about Santa Claus.

“Those weren’t Jack’s orders,” I said, nothing confrontational in my tone. “Keep your distance and we’ll stay friendly.”

This seemed to offend Leo, though his irritation would have carried more weight if he hadn’t been wearing that dumb cap. He growled, “What makes you think Jack’s the one gives the orders around here?”

“Because I saw him give you orders. Don’t overstep.”

Leo frowned. “Frisk him, Freddie.”

I laughed.

Freddie glared at me. “What’s so funny?”

“It just sounded funny,” I said with a shrug. “‘Frisk him, Freddie.’ Sounds like a British Invasion tune.”

Hurt, Freddie put his Colt away in his own shoulder holster and said, “You gonna stand for a frisk, smart-ass, like Leo says.”

When he stepped toward me, I shoved Freddie into Leo, and they both went down. I kicked Leo in the wrist and his.44 popped out and landed in the gravel a foot or so away.

By the time the door opened and Jack came back out, with Uncle Carlos right behind him — the five-foot criminal kingfish wearing a purple silk robe belted over white pajamas in his bare feet — they found me pointing the nine millimeter down at the two flunkies.

“What de fuck is dis, Heller?” Marcello demanded. “What is dis shit?”

The bullnecked, broad-shouldered little mob boss brushed past Jack and barreled down the steps in my direction. Walking on gravel in his bare feet caused him no more trouble than a Hindu fakir treading over hot coals.

“They got frisky,” I said. “In the take-my-gun-off-me sense. Good evening, Uncle Carlos. Or is that good morning?”

“Let’s hear it, Heller,” Marcello demanded. He was frowning, making his dark wide-set eyes disappear into slits. His receding hairline gave several veins plenty of room to stand out his forehead.

“We shouldn’t discuss it,” I said, “in front of the children.”

His nostrils flared. “Dis is funny, is it? You bargin’ in on me, middle of the night? Roustin’ my boys?”

“Apologies. Stressful evening.” I gestured with my free hand, still training the nine millimeter on the two men down on the ground. “Jack, come over here, please.”

Jack glanced at Marcello — he was at his boss’s side now — and the Little Man, though sneering, nodded his permission.

With my free hand, I held my suit coat open, exposing the automatic in my waistband. “Take it,” I told the hulking barber. “And get the little one out of my left suit-coat pocket, too.”

He did so, then backed away, and displayed the weapons to Marcello, who seemed more confused than angry now.

I said, “I lifted that hardware off two dead men who tried to kill me tonight.”

Again Jack glanced at his boss, looking for an explanation that Marcello didn’t (or maybe couldn’t) provide.

I put my nine millimeter away and the two flunkies on the ground looked at each other and then at their boss and the barber, too, not knowing what to make of my action or what to do about it.

“Go on, get up,” I said, not harshly. “Leo, you can collect your.44. Just both of you, back off.”

They did.

“This is a friendly call,” I said to one and all, “but I’m not going to give up my gun. Too much shit has gone down tonight for me to take that kind of chance.”

“And comin’ out here like dis,” Marcello said, his curiosity getting the better of his rage, “ ain’t takin’ a chance?”

“Uncle Carlos, I am assuming,” I said, not exactly telling the truth, “that you had nothing to do with the attempt on my life tonight. But I thought you should have the opportunity to deal with the mess I made, since this is your turf, and the dead men had ties to you.”

“What kinda fuckin’ ties, Heller?”

“They were involved in... helping you remove a stone from your shoe.”

Livarsi ‘na pietra di la scarpa!

His dark inverted-V eyebrows rose so high, they formed straight lines momentarily; the dimpled chin jutted out over his second, fleshy one. His dark eyes were moving with thought.

Then he summoned a somewhat convincing smile for me and gestured with his pudgy hands, saying, “Come have a chat wid me, Nate. You boys cool your heels, ya hear? Dis be a friendly chat.”

Following his lead, I walked with Marcello over to where the clearing gave way to marsh. Where just two years before, he had painted pictures in the air of condominiums and shopping malls and theaters and stadiums. Right now the swamp stretched out in endless contradiction of that dream, the moonlight making silver highlights on the rippling water. Birds and bugs and frogs were singing their individual songs that somehow made a unified musical statement, as if to say they had been here before man and would be here after man.

“So, Nate, my frien’... what da fuck dis about, anyway?”

“Uncle Carlos, ever hear of a guy named Mac Wallace?”

He drew in some cool night air, then nodded as he let it out.

I asked, “You’re aware that he was LBJ’s man?”

The dark eyes squinted at me. “ Was? ”

“I killed him tonight.”

“Did you now.”

I might have just told him the score of a game he had nothing bet on.

But I elaborated: “Rigged up a suicide-and-car-crash combo that will have everybody guessing. On that crushed-shell lane under the Huey Long Bridge approach... Jefferson Parish side. It’s right by the bridge, so it’s gonna get noticed. But you may still have time to deal with the other two.”

“What other two would dat be?”

“A Cuban named Rodriguez. The other I don’t know by name... but he’s the look-alike who went around Dallas, last November, advertising Lee Harvey’s bad intentions.”

He frowned and nodded and took me gently by the arm. We strolled back over to Leo and Freddie, to whom he had me give a more specific rundown on the corpses and their whereabouts. Then Marcello gave the pair quick but detailed instructions, getting a lot of nods in return, and soon they climbed in the Dodge Lancer and stirred gravel peeling out.

“Let’s go in de house, Heller,” Marcello said, through a forced smile, then led the way up the porch steps, pausing to say to his all-purpose bodyguard, “You keep watch out here, Jackie boy, hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack said.

We did not sit in the kitchen this time listening to Connie Francis records. We did share drinks again, although this time I asked for rum and got it, with Uncle Carlos giving himself a healthy slug of Scotch, as before. This was the second floor of the renovated barn, the handsomely appointed conference room, its wood-paneled walls arrayed with framed aerial photographs of Marcello properties.