Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“You really believe-?”

“It’s not what I believe, Mickey… although I do believe. It’s the decision of the leadership. But the only way it happens is if we keep the coalition in place. That’s why I’ve been sent to you now.”

“Yes?” Shalare said, a dozen questions in that single word.

“This whole territory has been Beaumont’s for a long time. You and that wop Dioguardi, you’ve both been coming at him, but from different directions.”

“Dioguardi’s a stupid thug.”

“Granted. And you’re a soldier. A general, I should say. You’ve built up a fine collection of allies, all over the state.”

“With the Organization’s money,” Shalare said. “I know.”

“Ah, that’s not where I’m going at all, Mickey. Haven’t I been talking politics from the moment I came here today? And that’s why Dioguardi is important.”

“Dioguardi doesn’t have one single-”

“If you’re going to say ‘judge,’ or ‘senator,’ you’re right. But what he does have is friends. Or bosses, more likely, the way those people work. And the people over him, they’ve reached out to us.

“You understand? We’re all of us agreed, each for his own reasons, sure, but all as one for this. The last thing we need now, when we’re so close, is some kind of raging gang war. The big cities have gone quiet. The way they’re supposed to. Oh, there’s crime. Always will be. And there’s people making their living from it. Always will be that, too. But there’s a deal in place, Mick. From New York to Chicago to Detroit to Los Angeles to Houston to New Orleans to… Well, if you took a map of America and stuck pins in it for all the places who’ve come under our control, you’d hardly be able to see what’s underneath.

“I’ve been around a long time, my son. And if I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this. A free press doesn’t mean it’s not a tame press. So this whole business of crime, it makes a headline once in a while, but it’s not the daily fare. If you read the papers-I don’t mean just here, I mean anywhere throughout this country-you’ll see nothing but teenagers on the crime pages. That’s what’s got this country all in an uproar. Not the men at the top. Not who controls prostitution, or gambling, or booze. No, what scares Americans is crazy children who kill each other over who gets to hang out in what sweetshop.”

Shalare calmly regarded the man across from him. “Still, the crime-fighters always get the vote, don’t they?”

“Not if that’s all they have to offer,” the bulky man shot back. “A man named Dewey found that out a few years back, didn’t he? Now, listen,” he said, a quicker, deeper current entering the dark river of his voice, “Kefauver’s done. He had his chance. He won’t be on the national ticket ever again. The Democrats are going our way. All the way. The train has already left the station. But if the press starts up again, if bodies start dropping in the streets, the public could turn on us.”

“Turn to where, Sean? Whoever runs for office in this country, they always say the same things. They all promise to clean up whatever mob’s making the papers.”

“Sure,” the other man said, not rising to the implied challenge. “But this election, it’s going to be paper-thin. We’re going to need every last vote. That’s a huge machine to keep oiled, Mick. The coalition has to come at it from both sides. We need the organized groups to work the vote. And we need the wild kids to keep the public’s eye off us.”

“What is it you want from me, then? Every single politician on my payroll is actually on yours, already.”

“You’ve been brilliant at that,” the other man said. “Stunning, really, considering how little time you’ve had. It’s the other side of your work that’s the problem.”

“Sean…”

“Dioguardi. You and him, you’ve got to call a truce.”

“We’re not at war. He wants the-”

“You both want what Beaumont has. So it’s just a matter of time before you step on each other. And it’s Beaumont we’ve got to approach.”

“What do we approach him with, then?”

“With whatever it takes, Mickey. But it’s got to happen. Beaumont’s been the ruler around here since before most of the other big dogs were puppies. Like I said, my son… every single vote.”

“Spell it out.”

“The killing has to stop. Dioguardi’s lost two men. Three, really, if you count that boy in a coma.”

“Wasn’t any of our work,” Shalare said flatly.

“Who, then? Beaumont?”

“Nobody knows. Some think it’s just one of their vendettas. Among themselves, I mean. Those people are like that.”

“I told you, that’s over. If the Commission-that’s what the Italians call their council-was going to sanction a killing, it would be Dioguardi himself who got done. And that would only be because he refused to go along with the plan I told you about.”

“It wasn’t any of us,” Shalare repeated.

“Then it had to be Beaumont.”

“I might be able to tell you something about that, in a short time.”

“You have someone…?”

“I do.”

“When you talk with him, then, will you ask him a question? For us?”

“Aye,” Shalare said.

“The question isn’t what you think. Sure, we need to know if it’s Beaumont hitting Dioguardi’s men. If it is, we’ll ask him to stop. A truce, we can call it. A freeze, more likely. Everybody keeps what they have, nobody goes after anything that belongs to another. That will work for Beaumont, because he’s the one who’s got what the others are coming after. It’s in his best interests to work with us.”

“So the question is…?”

“The question is this: if Beaumont were to go, are any of his people in a position strong enough to take over and keep his enterprises going, like proper businessmen? Or are those hillbillies crazy enough to start a war?”

“I’ll ask,” Shalare said.

“That’s all we ask,” the man across from him said, smiling broadly as he extended his hand.

1959 October 04 Sunday 09:04

“Nobody saw anything?” Procter asked, notebook open in his lap.

“In that neighborhood? The only people on the street that time of night are the kind who don’t volunteer as witnesses,” Chief George Jessup said, sitting behind his ornate desk, framed between an American flag to his right and the state flag to his left.

“So all I can go with is-”

“It was a murder,” Jessup said, as if underscoring an indisputable fact. “Anything beyond that would be pure speculation at this point.”

“My sources tell me it had all the earmarks of a gangland assassination. A professional hit.”

“Or a jealous husband,” the chief said, dismissively. “This is off the record, but we’ve got it on pretty good authority that the deceased-Tony LoPresti-was a class-A cockhound. The other one, Lorenzo Gagnatella, he was probably just in the wrong place, with the wrong guy.”

“You think so? I heard whoever shot them gave each one the coup de grâce. That sounds pretty professional to me.”

“Anyone’s ever gut-shot a deer would know to do that much,” the chief said.

1959 October 04 Sunday 09:12

“That’s all he wanted for his meal last night?” Rufus asked Rosa Mae. “Nothing else?”

“Celery sticks, carrots, radishes, lettuce, and a red onion,” the young woman recited, as if reading back an order.

“That’s nothing but a salad.”

“No, Rufus. He didn’t want them mixed. Didn’t want no dressing, either. Now I got to get going. I’m going to be late for church.”

“That’s no kind of meal for a man. Especially a drinking man.”

“I don’t know about that,” Rosa Mae said, shrugging her shoulders. “Clara down in the kitchen said they didn’t even know what to charge for all that. She had to call upstairs to ask.”