Joe Gores - Menaced Assassin

“Up yours, chief,” said Flanagan as the waiter returned.

“Just coffee for me.” Dante sighed and jerked a thumb at the pay phone and said to Flanagan, “I’ve put it off too long, I’ve got to call her father in L.A.”

“I always have one of the detectives do that for me.”

“That’s why I make the big bucks, Tim,” Dante said sadly as Flanagan burst out with his big braying laugh once again.

Skeffington St. John (“Pronounce that Sinjin”) was on the phone with talent agent Charriti HHope when Dante’s call came in. Sinjin put Charriti on hold; after all, his business with her and her clients was long-standing and not in the strictest sense business. On the other line was someone who identified himself as a Dante Stagnaro of the San Francisco Police Department.

“Mr. St. John, I have some rather-”

“Please. It’s ‘Sinjin.’ The British pronunciation.”

A pause. “I see. Your daughter Margaret Dalton…”

“We prefer Molly Sinjin, Officer.”

Another pause. “Yeah. Well, your daughter, Molly Sinjin…”

“How’d St. John take it?” asked Flanagan when Dante got back to their table. He had a huge cheeseburger and fries in front of him, with a side of rings and a green salad. At this time of night all Dante could stomach was black coffee and a couple of Turns.

“It’s ‘Sinjin’-British, you know.”

“Yeah?” Flanagan nodded wisely. “An asshole.”

Dante sighed, trying to wash St. John’s unexpected sobs from his mind with the thought, It’s just a game, pieces on a board. But he knew it was starting again, that intense involvement with a case that robbed his sleep and soured his gut.

Flanagan bit hugely, wiped away beef juice with a paper napkin, gestured with the ruins of his burger.

“Sorry I called you in on this one, chief. It’s the fucking husband did it.” Flanagan shook salt on his onion rings, belched, amended, “Had it done, anyway.”

“What did I miss?”

“He was too broke up.”

“He explained that, Tim. He got held up on the Bay Bridge or he would have been there before the hitman. He was feeling guilty because-”

“Because he wasn’t there to take one up the snout himself?”

“I checked with the bridge cops. A four-car pileup closed down all westbound lanes just about the time Dalton said-”

“See? You were bothered by him, too.”

Dante nodded abstractedly, sipped his coffee. He should have asked for decaf. He’d be up half the night.

“There was something with him… maybe what you say, too upset… or maybe he was holding something back.”

“Yeah, like who he hired to do the dirty deed.”

Dante took out his notebook and checked it, even though he needed no refreshment as to what was written there.

“Just take a look at it for a minute, Tim. He’s a professor at Cal-Berkeley in paleoanthropology. His wife is-was-corporate counsel for some big entertainment conglomerate. No kids, he does a lot of field world out of the country…”

Flanagan looked up from his meal. “Yeah. So?”

“So where does this guy find a professional hitman?”

“Some of them perfessers might surprise you. Hell, he just cruises the Tenderloin bars, waves a few C-notes around-”

“And gets mugged and wakes up in an alley with a headache and no C-notes.” Dante shook his head again, decisively this time. “No way, Tim.”

“So you’re buying it as big-time all the way.”

“All the way.” Dante marked off his points on his fingers. “One. The hitman walked into the place knowing she’d be there and what she looked like. Two. He used a Jennings J-22 that you can buy anywhere for seventy-five bucks but, amazingly enough, is still a hell of a reliable pistol. Even so, you have to be sure of yourself to know you can make a clean kill with a. 22. Three-”

“He shot her in the back of the head to make sure.”

“I’ll get back to that in a minute, I’ve got a theory.” He paused, eyes almost dreamy. “You know it was Hymie Weiss back in 1922, working for the Dion O’Banion mob out of Chicago, who invented taking a guy for a ride? Invented the shot in the back of the neck with a. 22 to finish him off, too.”

Tim stuffed in french fries. “Yeah? Fucking fascinating.”

“Anyway, three. He leaves the gun behind, serial numbers intact, which means he knows it’s clean, can’t be traced beyond some gun shop robbery. Four. Only two rounds in the gun-confident he isn’t going to need more than two. Five. The gun had been sprayed with Armor All, even though the witnesses say he was wearing gloves. You’ve got to admit that’s a pro’s touch.”

“Or a Hell’s Angel’s.”

“They’re not pros?”

Dante finished his coffee as Flanagan dabbed the last of his fries in his ketchup. Dante started over with his little finger again.

“Six. No elaborate disguise, just tinted glasses that hide his eyes and make a lineup identification virtually impossible. Seven. He walked out of the place. No running, no guilty looks over the shoulder. Delivering the mail. Pro hit all the way.” He leaned closer. “I’ll even tell you who he was.”

“A beer on league bowling night you don’t. But I gotta admit you could almost convince me the guy was pro. Except…”

“Except?”

“Pro hitters using guns do the old H and H-the head and the heart. But these days, most of ’em like to work close-a knife is so much more personal. Or they use ropes, garrotes, explosives… But this guy-”

“That’s why I know who he is. You ever hear of ‘Popgun’ Eddie Ucelli?”

Flanagan thought. “Back east, right? Jersey, like that?”

It was things like that made Dante like and respect Tim Flanagan, and work with him whenever he could. He nodded.

“He runs a legit meat wholesale business-as legit as anything a wise guy owns is ever legit. But the story is there’s sections of the Jersey Turnpike didn’t need any rebar-the bones of Eddie’s victims were enough to reinforce the concrete.”

“What makes this one Ucelli’s work?”

“The Jennings J-22-it’s a trademark of his, since the Colt Woodsman became a collector’s item, it’s why they call him Popgun. Other trademarks: One up the nose into the brain. Lightly tinted glasses. Armor All on the gun because he knew he would be leaving it. Walking out afterwards. I bet he gave his topcoat to the first guy he saw-Eddie always does. And he prides himself on never needing more than one shot to complete his contract.”

“This guy used two,” Flanagan pointed out again.

“That’s where my theory comes in. I think he was supposed to take out the wife and Dalton. Dalton wasn’t there so he used the second shot as a coup de grace on the wife only to empty the gun, because he didn’t want some hero picking it up while he was on his way out the door and shooting him in the back with it.”

Flanagan drained his coffee, was silent for a long moment.

“That’s a pretty flaky theory you got there, chief.”

“But mine own.”

“You got that right,” said Tim with his big laugh.

The bikers turned and looked at him, hopeful of an excuse to use their stomp boots, but saw cop in the bleak looks both men returned to them and hastily went back to their fries.

Flanagan got serious again. “Somehow, Dante, it just don’t scan. Same question you asked me a few minutes ago about her husband-where does the woman tie up with the wise guys?”

“She was a lawyer, what more do you need?”

“Yeah, what’s the difference between a spermatozoa and a lawyer?” Dante shook his head. “The spermatozoa has a one-in-400-million chance of becoming a human being.”

Tim guffawed loudly at his own joke, wiped his mouth with a fistful of napkins, and squealed his chair back.