Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

“And whose bright fucking idea was that?”

Tread lightly, don’t push too hard. “Vinnie thought-”

Tony jumped as Carlos shot forward and pounded his fat fist on the desk. “I do the thinking. Do you understand me?”

As Tony swallowed, he felt his heart racing. “Yes, sir.”

“Now what are you saying?” the Old Man asked. “Are you telling me it was my half-wit brother who cost us three hundred grand?”

Not sure what to say, and despite his earlier confidence, Tony was too scared to say anything, so he didn’t.

Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair. “That other stuff you mentioned, those guys going for the counting room and using Shane, anyone who’s ever been in the House knows where the goddamn counting room is. It’s not like we keep it a secret.”

“But how many people know the door between the cage and the counting room isn’t usually locked, or that there isn’t a guy with a shotgun on the other side of the door?”

“Why wasn’t it locked, and why wasn’t there a guy with a shotgun behind the door? We got three hundred grand in cash on hand, you’re supposed to protect it.”

Somehow this conversation had gotten off track. “I had a man in the cage, a pretty good man, but these guys came in with masks on Halloween night and Shane walked them-”

“I know how they got in,” Carlos Messina said, “and I know what your man Bobby was doing when they got the drop on him, chasing pussy.”

I need to get this conversation back on track, like I practiced it in my head on the drive over here.

“Shane doesn’t normally work the door,” Tony said. “He’s supposed to be inside by the stairs, yet just before all this shit went down, he stepped outside to relieve the regular doorman. Shane says the kid told him he needed to take a piss, but now no one can find the kid to confirm Shane’s story.”

“What do you mean you can’t find him? Who is he?”

“Spanish kid named Hector. His girlfriend says he hasn’t been home since the robbery.”

“Who’s looking for him?” Carlos asked.

Tony smiled. “Shane.”

“You think this kid could have set it up?”

“Not by himself,” Tony said. “Hector’s not that smart.”

The Old Man pushed himself farther into the cushioned back of his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It was almost a full minute before he said anything. When he did, his voice was low. “You know what matters to me the most? I mean above everything else?”

Unless it was a retirement home in Florida, Tony really didn’t give a shit, but he knew enough to know he couldn’t say that. “No, sir.”

“Loyalty,” Carlos Messina said. “Because without that we got nothing. We’re no better than those fucking animals out in the street, just a bunch of niggers with guns. That one thing, loyalty, that’s what separates us from them.”

“Shane’s got no loyalty except to himself.”

Carlos looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

Everything Tony knew about old-style mobsters he had learned from watching The Godfather. He didn’t know anything about Sicily. He had never been there. He didn’t have any idea from what part of the Island his own family had come from. For all he knew, he might not be Sicilian. His family might be from mainland Italy. But what he did know, thanks to Marlon Brando, was that all of the old-timers cared a lot about their heritage. So he played that card, the heritage card.

“Shane’s not one of us,” Tony said, “and I don’t think we should have some stupid Mick handling our business. We should be taking care of it ourselves.”

Carlos got a far-off look in his eyes, like in his mind he saw himself forty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter, traipsing through the rugged hill country of Sicily, a cloth cap perched on his head and a single-barreled lupara resting on one shoulder. “Maybe you got a point,” Carlos finally said. “Something like this, it should be handled by members of the family.” He glanced at the telephone. “I’m gonna tell Vinnie he better get off his ass and-”

Tony raised his hand, almost like a kid in school interrupting the teacher. Time to drop the other shoe, but carefully. “Mr. Messina, your brother is… under a lot of stress, even before this happened. He was taking care of Pete…” For effect, Tony crossed himself. “God rest his soul. He was trying to deal with his money problems…”

Carlos’s head snapped forward. “What money problems?”

Shrugging, Tony said, “Mainly Pete’s school and a couple other things. Me and Vinnie, we’re at the House every day, and I guess sometimes he needs somebody to talk to. The other day he tells me that Pete’s school just went up on the tuition. It was already forty grand a year.”

The Old Man’s black eyes bored into Tony. “What else?”

“Sir?”

“You said Pete’s school and a couple other things.”

Tony shrugged. “Just personal stuff, you know, like everyone has.”

“His wife?”

“Just something he mentioned in passing. Apparently, she’s been spending a lot of money redecorating their apartment. She bought a new car.”

Carlos Messina looked up at the ceiling again, only this time he didn’t have that faraway nostalgic look. This time his teeth were clamped so tight his jaw muscles bulged under his flabby jowls. When he looked back at Tony, he said, “You’re on the inside over there. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

Tony nodded. Everything was falling into place.

Carlos laid his big hands on his desk. “So besides the Spanish kid, you think these mutts had somebody else on the inside?”

“They had to.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Tony said, wanting Carlos to drag it out of him.

“Guess,” Carlos ordered.

“Somebody who knew a lot more about what was going on at the club than the doorman.”

“Give me a name.”

“If I had to guess, Shane would be the obvious choice.”

“What about a not-so-obvious choice?”

Tony swallowed hard, exaggerating the motion of his Adam’s apple. “I’d rather not say, sir.”

The Old Man leaned over his desk. His voice was ice-cold. “Say it.”

Tony hesitated… just long enough. “I guess your brother is one possibility.”

Carlos Messina let out a deep sigh. “We’ve got big money tied up over there. I don’t want anything screwing that up, and that includes my fucking idiot brother.”

The Old Man picked up the phone. Then he looked at Tony. “You understand what I’m telling you?”

Realizing the meeting was over, Tony stood up. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He reached out to shake hands, but Carlos was already dialing a number. After a few seconds with his hand hanging over the desk, and the Old Man ignoring him, Tony turned and walked out of the office. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.

Ray turned the corner in his Mustang and glided down Mandeville Street. It was a quiet residential street with modest single-family houses set right up against the sidewalks and nothing but on-street parking.

He found 1224 Mandeville in the middle of the block, a single-story, white clapboard house with a small covered porch. With the late-afternoon sun shining directly on the house, Ray couldn’t tell if there were any lights on inside.

He would have to watch the house.

After cruising past the house, he drove into the next block, turned around, and parked next to the curb on the opposite side of the street from the house. It was a long shot, but it was the best lead he had.

The Mandeville Street house was the last known address of Cleo Harris, aka Winky. If the cops had Harris right, and he had killed someone with the same Smith amp; Wesson. 40 caliber that the asshole in the skull mask had used to try to put a bullet in the back of Ray’s head, Ray wanted to know what Harris had done with that pistol.