Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Jesus,” Mack said, very softly.

His partner moved a few imperceptible inches away from the heretic.

“But that’s just background,” the speaker said, his tone indicating he was about to say something important. “In this region, our specific target is one Salvatore ‘Sally D.’ Dioguardi. Originally a member of the Mondriano family in Brooklyn, New York, Dioguardi was dispatched to Locke City approximately four years ago, with orders to wrest control of local rackets from one Royal Beaumont.”

The speaker’s assistants placed charts of the two organizations side by side on the easels.

“Beaumont is a local product, with no national connections. However, he is well entrenched, with deep roots in local politics, and Dioguardi has not been successful in dislodging him. The Bureau has been aware of the situation since its inception. However, as activity was relatively stable, and, presumably, well-known to local law enforcement, no Bureau role was envisioned.”

The speaker paused to gauge the impact of his presentation on the audience. His quick glance took in a wall of attentive postures and flat faces-a tabletop full of face-down cards.

“Recently, one member of the Dioguardi gang was severely beaten. He is still comatose. Two other members were assassinated. No arrests have been made. According to our sources within the Locke City Police Department, there are no suspects.

“Note, Dioguardi himself appears to share the view that Beaumont is not responsible for the attacks. Our profile of Dioguardi indicates that he is a rash, impulsive individual, with a violent temper. And hardly an intellectual,” the speaker said, chuckling.

None of the assembled agents joined in.

“Therefore,” the speaker went on, unfazed, “we do not believe we are facing a gang-war situation as has occurred in larger cities around the country. In fact, several of our RIs have reported rumors of an impending truce of some sort. Any potential alliance of criminal organizations is of great interest to the Bureau, especially one that involves Mafia families and outsiders. We have no record of this occurring previously, although, of course, nonmembers have worked with Mafia organizations on many occasions, and even formed working partnerships.”

“So pay close attention…” Mack said, just below a whisper.

“Every agent in this room has been working in a remote surveillance capacity of some sort,” the speaker continued. “Placing undercovers inside either of the organizations in question is not a viable option. So the information provided by our Registered Informants is, admittedly, secondhand. The purpose of the Task Force is, therefore, to begin the process of information sharing. The Bureau is extremely interested in these ‘truce’ rumors. So, once weekly, we will be meeting. Same time, same place. And once all the new information is assimilated and correlated, we’ll have-”

“-more fucking charts,” Mack said, under his breath.

“-a clearer, more comprehensive picture of whatever the various parties hope to gain from a joint enterprise.”

1959 October 05 Monday 06:44

“He never even mentioned the Irish guys,” the spotter said to the rifleman, as they drove back to their base in the warehouse district. “You think that means Shalare’s not a player?”

“No,” the rifleman said, “it means that kid in the fancy suit-Wainwright?-he’s not.”

1959 October 05 Monday 07:09

“I got it, boss!”

“You sure?”

“Boss, mebbe I ain’t sure ‘xactly what I got, but I got something, I knows that much.”

“What we were talking about?”

“Yes, sir. Just like you said there was gonna-”

“That’s enough. When can I see it?”

“I’m at work, boss. I don’t finish till six. I could-”

“Too much traffic then. Make it eight.”

1959 October 05 Monday 09:39

“You wasn’t in your room last night, suh,” the elevator operator said to Dett. “Even though it looked like you was.”

“How do you know all that, Moses?”

“Know it looked like you was, ’cause the maid said the bed all messed up when she came in to do your room earlier this morning. Knew you wasn’t, ’cause somebody else was.”

“Who?”

“Can’t say, suh. But I thought it might be something you would want to know.”

“Much obliged,” Dett said, offering his hand to shake.

The elevator operator hesitated, then grasped hands with Dett, felt the folded-up bill inside, and pulled it back with him. “Hope you didn’t give me too much, suh.”

“I don’t catch your meaning.”

“What I told you, wasn’t no big surprise to you.”

“How do you know that?”

“ ’Cause other peoples knew you was gonna be out real late, suh, if you came back at all. And I figure, a man like you, that can’t be no accident.”

“You’re an even sharper consultant than I first thought, Moses.”

“There’s a room I got here, suh. Not no room like you got, not a sleeping room or anything. More a big closet, like. Down in the basement, off the boiler room. Got me an old lock on it, but I don’t need it. Nobody would go in and mess with old Moses’s junk.”

“Why not?”

“ ’Cause, all the years I been here, I got a lot of friends. And I know a lot of things. Plus, I’m an old man, so, sometimes, I forget to lock that room for days on end. People got themselves plenty of chances to look inside, see what I keep in there.”

“And what’s that?”

“Got me a nice easy chair. Came right from this here hotel. They was going to throw it out, but I rescued it, like. I got a little table, a big green ashtray on it. And a picture of my wife, when she was a young girl. Most beautiful girl in Tulia, Texas, she was. I like to sit there, all by myself, just smoke me a sweet pipe of cherry tobacco. When I look at the picture of my Lulabelle through the smoke, it’s like she’s right there, still with me.”

“She’s gone, then?”

“Left me it’ll be twenty-eight years this December, sir. Just before Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was took with the cancer,” the old man said. “It came at midnight, the Devil’s time. When she woke up the next morning, it had her in its clutches. And it never did let her go.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“That says a lot about you, suh.”

“I don’t-”

“This little room I got,” the old man went on, as if Dett had never spoken, “it’d be a perfect place if a man wanted to keep something outside his own room. That is, if the man trusted old Moses enough to do it.”

“What time do you get off today?” Dett said.

1959 October 05 Monday 10:06

“You know what the other cops call you? ‘The Great Sherman Layne.’ What do you think that means?” Procter said, sardonically.

The calculated dimness of the bar was perfectly suited to morning drinkers. Even the mirror facing the two men was a murky pool of misinformation.

“It means you’ve got something on Chet Logan,” the detective said, the image of the jowly cop coming readily to mind. “Same as you got something on the chief. And probably half the people in this town.”

“You think it’s only Logan calls you that?”

“I’ve got no idea,” the big detective said, indifferently. “But he’s the one who caught the Nicky Perrini case, and with you nosing around the way you always do…”

“You think that’s a bad thing?”

“What?”

“To go nosing around.”

“It’s always a bad thing for somebody,” the detective said. “Sometimes, the guy who gets found out; sometimes, the guy who does the finding.”

“That sounds like a threat,” Procter said, tapping his glass on the counter for a refill.