Thomas Perry - Blood Money

Bernie interrupted. “Honey, where were you when you found out about Rita’s letter and came back for us?”

“Toledo, Ohio,” said Jane. “Why?”

“Just at the north end of Albuquerque we meet Interstate 40. Go east on it.”

Jane hesitated. “You can’t possibly want—”

“It’s this truck, or whatever it is. It’s full of letters back here. The damned things take up so much space, I can hardly move my arms or legs, lie down, or sit up. Let’s go mail them.”

“I don’t know,” said Jane doubtfully. She found herself turning her eyes toward Rita.

The girl was hunched down in her seat, looking very young, thin, and dirty. Her eyes were glistening, and she was staring at Jane. “Please,” she said. “Just give us this much. We can hide for the rest of our lives.”

29

Frank Delfina liked his Albuquerque bottled-water business because it didn’t stink. Flower shops smelled, bakeries smelled. Even supermarkets smelled if you came in the back door, where the food was delivered. There was breakage, and you always found yourself stepping on a spot that made your shoe stick, and then the sole made a little smacking noise for the next few minutes. He looked across the plant at the clean, clear bottles waiting for tomorrow morning’s shift to come in and fill them.

He liked everything. He liked it that people were dumb enough to believe that spring water driven down from the mountains in a truck was better than water that came from the same reservoir in a pipe, although they couldn’t tell the difference. He knew that, because this plant topped off each bottle with about two inches of tap water.

Delfina didn’t like flying into Albuquerque and then waiting like this. He noticed Buccio walking toward him from the distant doorway, and he stared at him in frustration. He had let himself put faith in Buccio and his crew, and it had been a mistake. Buccio had the short-haired, big-shouldered look of a marine officer, always standing up straight and wearing his sleeves rolled up above his big forearms, as though he were about to do something impressive. He always looked like somebody who could pull off just about anything, and to do him credit, he was always eager to try. But that didn’t mean things would work. Delfina had almost let Buccio and his guys talk him into letting them pull an attack on a bus carrying the bosses of half the families in the country. At least Delfina had backed away from that one.

Buccio said, “Vanelli’s car just pulled up in the lot outside.”

“All right,” said Delfina. “Get the rest of your guys in here now.”

Buccio gave Delfina a puzzled glance, then turned on his heel and strode quickly into the bottling area.

Delfina twisted in his chair to look up at Mike Cirro, then held out his hand. Cirro reached into his sport coat, produced a Smith & Wesson .45 semi-automatic pistol, and placed it in Delfina’s palm. Delfina examined it, pulled the slide to cycle a round into the chamber, then slipped it into the back of his belt and adjusted his coat to cover it, and leaned back in the chair.

A few hours ago, Delfina had let Buccio pull one of his commando-raid travesties outside Santa Fe. Buccio had flown a dozen men into Albuquerque, held a rendezvous at the airport, then deployed his troops. He had explained to Delfina how he’d sent snipers in camouflage into the desert to cover the house and the road, then pulled a full-scale assault to kick in all the doors at once and rush in. As Delfina thought about it, he was positive that at some point in the operation, Buccio must have said, “Synchronize your watches.”

But Buccio had stormed an empty house. Rita Shelford had been gone. The woman who had been helping her hide had been gone. They had found computers, all set up in the dining room, and lots of different kinds of paper and envelopes. Buccio had had the sense to take the computers. As Delfina thought about it, he could almost forgive Buccio for the childish theatrics. Having the computers was going to be better than having the girl.

Delfina was glad he had listened to Buccio’s whole story without interrupting him or shouting, because he had heard about Buccio’s mistake. He watched the rest of Buccio’s crew coming in from the door to the plant and the outer doors. They were Buccio’s hand-picked protégés, all of them. They all had his close-cropped, overexercised look with thick necks and empty faces.

Delfina heard the distant door to the parking lot open and turned to watch the last four men come in. He recognized Vanelli and Giglia. They were laughing and talking with the other two men, who looked a little more subdued. When they came into the big room and saw Delfina, Vanelli stepped forward and said respectfully, “Frank. I brought some friends of ours to meet you. This is Paul Lomarco.” He indicated a tall, dark young man in a pair of jeans and a windbreaker. “This is Pete DiBiaggio.” That one was wearing a sweatshirt above his jeans that said, NEW MEXICO, LAND OF ENCHANTMENT.

Both men smiled and nodded timidly at Delfina.

Delfina smiled too, stood up, and shook their hands. “Glad to meet you.” He turned to Buccio. “Go get these guys a beer.” Buccio prepared to pass the order to one of his crew, but Delfina’s stare remained on him until he went toward the office himself. Delfina turned to the two men. “You guys are Cleveland boys, eh? Part of Al Castananza’s family?”

Both men nodded. Lomarco said, “Yeah. They sent us here to watch the airport for the two women.”

“Yeah, I got guys all over the place on that too.” Delfina smiled and shrugged. “The only good part is, I’ll bet you’ve had tougher jobs than that. Probably looked for women when you weren’t even getting paid for it. So you guys happened to run into each other at the airport?”

“That’s right,” said DiBiaggio. “I met Vanelli a couple of years ago, so I went over to talk to him. He remembered me, too.”

Delfina nodded. “Ah, here’s Buccio with the drinks.” Buccio handed each of the two a bottle of beer.

Both men looked increasingly uncomfortable. Lomarco looked around him. “Wow. This is a big place.”

Delfina nodded. “Yeah, I figured if you build something, it should be big enough so you don’t have to do it again in five years.” He looked at the twelve men along the wall to his right. “Come on, you guys. Relax. I didn’t mean to leave you out.”

The men approached, a little warily. A couple of them nodded at Lomarco and DiBiaggio, who didn’t seem to be made more comfortable by the new faces. “Come on, guys. These are friends of ours. Aren’t you going to shake their hands?”

A couple of Buccio’s men shook hands with Lomarco and DiBiaggio. Delfina stepped back to make room for others. In a moment he was behind the two guests. As Buccio and Vanelli stepped forward and grasped the two men’s hands, Delfina reached under his coat to his back, held the pistol behind Lomarco’s head, and fired. The noise seemed to make the air in the cavernous building harden and slap the eardrums. Four or five men cringed or ducked their heads, but Delfina already had the pistol at DiBiaggio’s head. He fired.

He stepped over the men lying on the floor and walked toward his chair. Buccio, Vanelli, and two others had been spattered by blood. They were looking down at their hands and shirts, and the others seemed to be in the process of awakening from paralysis. They looked at the bodies, then at one another, and then at Delfina, who was shaking his head sadly.

“They seemed to be two pretty good men,” said Delfina. “It was a shame to have to do that.” He looked up at Buccio’s crew. “That was totally unnecessary. Do I have to remind you guys what this is about?”