A Quiet Vendetta (47 page)

And then morning invaded his room, and he rose, he dressed, he drank two cups of strong black coffee, and he and Sheldon Ross – who now looked ten years older than the young fresh-faced recruit he had first seen only a handful of days before – made their way back to the office on Arsenault Street to hear what the world and all its madness had to offer them today.

And it was only as he passed through the narrow doorway into the all-too-familiar office that he remembered that there were three reasons. Three reasons Perez had chosen to bring him here to New Orleans. Perez had told him two of them, and Hartmann – amid all that had been said – had forgotten to ask for the third.

It was the first thing he asked Perez when they were seated.

Perez smiled with that knowing expression in his eyes.

‘Later,’ he said quietly. ‘I will tell you the last reason later . . . perhaps when we are done, Mr Hartmann.’

When we are done
, Hartmann echoed. It sounded so final, so utterly conclusive.

‘So we shall share a little of California,’ Perez said. ‘Because I believe that sharing is a truly Californian trait, is it not?’ Perez smiled at his own dry humor and leaned back in his chair. ‘And when we are done we will return to the hotel. We will share some supper and then I will give you the answer to your proposal.’

Hartmann nodded.

He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to see his daughter’s face.

He struggled but it did not come.

Angel and I, we went out to the West Coast of America; to California, named after an island in the Spanish novel
Las Sergas de Esplandian
by García Ordónez de Montalvo.

The Land of Happily Ever After; the Big Sur coastline where the Santa Lucia mountains rise straight out of the sea; the northern coast, rugged and desolate, deep banks of impenetrable fog; the dormant volcano Mount Shasta; beyond this, vast groves of one- and two-thousand-year-old redwood trees.

Los Angeles, The Angels, surrounded to the north and east by the Mojave Desert and Death Valley, but despite the vision and the apparent romance of this place, despite the promise of sun, of twenty miles of white sand and warmth at the Santa Monica beachfront, we came to this city in March of 1982 as immigrants and strangers.

Our welcome was no welcome at all. We moved into a three-story walk-up on Olive Street by Pershing Square in downtown LA. We paid for the place in cash and registered under Angelina’s maiden name, and though we had been people in New York, though we had possessed faces and characters and personalities, in LA we possessed nothing. We were swallowed silently, effortlessly, into the great maw of humanity within that pinpoint microcosm of America.

It was three weeks before I saw our neighbor. I came back from a meeting with Don Fabio Calligaris’s cousin who ran a chop-shop on Boyd Street. I saw a man leaving the house adjacent to my own, I raised my hand, I called out
Hello
, and he turned and looked at me with a sense of distrust and resentment. He said nothing in return, did not even acknowledge my presence but hurried away, glancing back only once to repeat the look of hostility. I wondered for a moment if my sins were painted on my face for all the world to see. They were not. It was not me; it was Los Angeles that did it to them, relentlessly and irreversibly.

We came here for Angelina, for the children also.

‘The sunshine,’ she said. ‘The sun shines here. It is always dull and gray in New York. There are too many people who know of me back there. I wanted to get away, Nesto. I
had
to get away.’

I could empathize with her. I felt the same way for New Orleans, perhaps for Havana, but the coldness of the city, the absence of feeling and family in California was disturbing.

There was no shortage of work, however. Through Fabio Calligaris’s son I met Angelo Cova’s brother, Michael. Michael was a man unlike any I had met before. He was a big man, in stature – much the same as Ten Cent – but more so in personality. We met in the first week of May, and he explained to me that there were matters of business that I could attend to in Los Angeles that would be gratefully acknowledged by New York.

‘LA is Lucifer’s asshole,’ he said. We sat in a small diner back of Spring Street. The narrow building seemed to rumble constantly with the traffic running along the Santa Ana Freeway. Ahead of us was the Hall of Justice, behind us the US Courts, around the corner the Criminal Courts Building. I felt cornered in a way, fenced in by the presence of authority and federal residence. ‘LA is what God created for human beings to exercise their depravity. Here you got hookers with faces like a bulldog licking piss off of a lemon tree. You got thirteen-year-old boys peddling their asses for barbiturates and amphetamines. You got drugs the like of which you wouldn’t give a dying man to ease his pain. You got gambling and murder and extortion, all the shit you’ll find in New York and Chicago, but in LA there’s a difference. Here you’ll find something missing, and the thing that’s missing is a basic respect for the value of human life.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Take last week,’ Michael Cova said. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He held a small espresso cup in his hand despite the fact it was empty. ‘Last week I went down to see a guy who runs a few girls. They ain’t bad-looking girls, little rough around the edges, but slap some face paint on them ’n’ they look halfway decent. Sort of girl you’d slip the old salami and have a pretty good time, you know? So, I went down there to see him. He wanted some help dealing with some assholes that were trying to muscle in on the turf, and there was this girl down there, could’nta been more ’n’ twenty-one or two and she had half her face banged up so bad she couldn’t see out of her eye. Her lips was all swelled like a punchbag, and across her neck and throat were these dark black welts like some motherfucker had tried to strangle her.’

Michael cleared his throat.

‘I says to this guy, I says, “Hey . . . what the fuck happened to her?” and he says, “Oh, take no notice of the bitch”, ’n’ I says, “What the fuck happened, man? She get hit by one of these assholes you tellin’ me about?” ’n’ he laughs ’n’ he says, “No, she got herself teached a good lesson”.’

Michael uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

‘So I says, “What the fuck is that all about? She got a lesson about what?” and this dumb fuck he says, “Bitch tried to hold out on me, bitch tried to hold out on me for fifty bucks she got off some rich asshole from uptown so I had to teach her a lesson, right?” and he started laughing.’

Michael shook his head and frowned.

‘I was shocked, man, I can tell you without any problem. This asshole beats the living crap outta this poor girl for the sake of fifty bucks. Never seemed to occur to him that she wasn’t gonna be entertainin’ anyone with her face all smashed up. Never thought to occur to him how much money he would lose with her out of business ’n’ all. And that’s the kinda thing I see every day down here. Basic lack of respect for the value of human life. It’s like they’s all lost their own self-respect and dignity, and sometimes it can’t help but stick in my craw.’

Michael put his empty cup on the table.

‘So things is a little different down here, and though we didn’t wanna have you involved with any of this kinda shit I’m afraid that you’re gonna come across it whether you look for it or not.’

‘So what d’you want me to do?’ I asked.

‘A bit of this, a bit of that. Angelo told me something about the kind of work you were doing for Fabio Calligaris, and we figured we could always use a little help in that quarter, you know what I mean?’

I nodded; I knew what Michael Cova meant. ‘So is there something specific?’

Michael smiled. ‘Well, that little story I told ya just then, I didn’t tell ya just for the sake o’ shootin’ the breeze and passin’ the time of day. I told you because the guy, the hitter, you know? The one who slapped the girl around?’

I nodded; I knew what was coming.

‘Well, seems she’s not the only one who’s been holdin’ out on fifty bucks here and fifty bucks there. Seems he’s as guilty as any of those girls of his, and we need you to go down and have a few words with him, sort of words he will thoroughly understand and never have the chance to repeat.’

‘You want him clipped?’

Michael looked surprised, and then he started laughing. ‘Shit, Angelo was right about you. You don’t fuck around, do you?’

I shrugged. ‘What’s the point? You want him clipped then say you want him clipped. We’ll save all the nice things about the weather and whatever the fuck else for sometime when I come over to yours for a barbecue.’

Michael dropped the friendly face. I heard it hit the floor of the narrow diner near the Santa Ana Freeway.

‘Sure, so we want him clipped. You can handle that?’

‘Consider it done. Any particular
way
you want it done?’

Michael frowned. ‘Whaddya mean?’

‘There’s as many different ways to clip someone as there are different people. Sometimes it needs to be fast and quiet, like the guy disappears for a holiday and never comes back, other times it’s because someone needs an example made to anyone else who might have the same idea—’

Michael brightened up. ‘That’s the baby. You got it there. We want him done like he’s an example to any of the other smalltime lowlife scumbags who might be getting the wrong idea about who they’re working for.’

‘When?’ I asked.

‘When what?’

‘When d’you want him done?’

Michael shook his head. ‘Today?’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Today’s as good as any other. What’s the address?’

Michael gave me the address, a house on Miramar and Third near the Harbor Freeway.

I rose from my chair.

‘Now?’ he said, seeming surprised.

‘Any reason not to?’

Michael shook his head. ‘S’pose not. Why the hurry?’

‘I gotta pregnant wife back home . . . said I wouldn’t be out late.’

Michael laughed suddenly, coarsely. He looked at me like he expected me to start laughing as well. I didn’t.

‘You’re serious,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘Okay. Fair’s fair. You gotta do what you gotta do.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said, ‘You want me to call you and let you know when I’m finished?’

‘Sure, Ernesto, you call me.’

‘You gonna be here?’

Michael shook his head. ‘I’ll be home more than likely.’

‘Gimme your number.’

He gave me his number and I wrote it down alongside the address he gave me. I looked at the address and the number until I was certain I would remember them, and then I lit the piece of paper and let it burn in the ashtray.

‘And the guy’s name?’

‘Clarence Hill,’ he said. ‘Buttfuck’s name is Clarence Hill.’

I took a route avoiding the main freeways – Spring down to Fourth, along Fourth and beneath the Harbor Freeway to Beaudry, and there on the corner of Miramar and Third I found the place.

I backed up and parked the car two blocks south, got out and walked back on foot. By that time it was early evening, the sun was down and the lights inside told me where the girls were working.

I went up the front steps and knocked on the door, knocked three times before it was opened, and when I stepped inside, the smell of the place assaulted my nostrils violently.

‘You want?’ some ugly rash-faced Hispanic asked.

‘Need to see Clarence,’ I said.

The Hispanic frowned. ‘Whassup wit’ you? You gotta cold or somethin’? Don’t be comin’ down here infectin’ everyone wit’ no goddamned influenza.’

‘I ain’t got influenza,’ I said. ‘I ain’t gonna breathe through my nose . . . this place stinks like no place I ever been before,’ which was not true, because as soon as I had walked inside the door I was reminded of some late night, staggering through the doorway of the house where I had lived with Ruben Cienfuegos so many years before.

The Hispanic made a sneering noise, and said, ‘What you want wit’ Clarence?’

‘I got to see him,’ I said, ‘I gotta deliver something from Michael.’

The Hispanic smiled broadly. ‘Shee-it, why in the fuckin’ hell you not say you was here from Michael? I know Michael, me an’ Michael we go ways back and then some more. Me an’ Michael sometimes just sit down and have a beer, make some face-time, you know?’

I nodded. I smiled, I could imagine that Michael Cova sitting down and having beer with the Hispanic was as likely as me shooting the breeze with Capone.

‘So where is he?’

The Hispanic nodded towards the stairs. ‘Up on the first, third door on the left, but for fuck’s sake knock on the door ’fore you go in ’cause he’s more than likely getting his hardware polished if you know what I mean.’

I shook my head, but I smiled for the Hispanic. Clarence wasn’t only beating the crap out of the trade, he was stealing from the cookie jar as well.

I went up quickly and quietly, along the upper hallway until I reached the door. I knocked once, heard a voice inside, and I went in.

Clarence Hill was a fat fuck useless sack of nothing worthwhile. He sat back in a deep armchair dressed in nothing but shorts and a filthy tee-shirt. In his right hand he held a TV remote, in his left a can of beer. On the floor ahead of him were three more empty cans.

‘Yo!’ he said. ‘Think maybe you’re in the wrong room, mister.’

I shook my head. ‘Michael sent me.’

Clarence tilted his head to the right and squinted at me. ‘Ain’t never seen you before. How the fuck d’you know Michael?’

‘We’re family.’

Clarence smiled wide and cheerful. ‘Well hell, if you’re family with Michael then you’re family with me . . . come on in, take a load off.’

‘I will,’ I said. I took a .38 from the waistband of my pants and pointed it directly at his head.

Clarence dropped the remote and the beer can simultaneously. He opened his mouth to say something, something loud and worthless no doubt, and I raised my left hand and pressed my finger to my lips. ‘Ssshhh,’ I whispered, and Clarence fell silent before a single word had escaped his trembling lips.

‘The guy downstairs . . . what’s his name?’