A Quiet Vendetta (49 page)

The girl must have been beaten half-dead. Her face was swollen to twice its normal size. There were cuts on her upper arms and her breasts, as if someone had beaten her with a wire. Her hair was matted with blood, one eyed closed completely due to the swelling of her cheek. Her buttocks were the same, and around her lower stomach and the tops of her thighs there were marks as if ropes had been used to burn her.

‘These are police photographs?’ I asked.

Ten Cent nodded.

‘And how did Don Calligaris get them?’

‘He has friends in the New York police department. He had them send copies.’

‘And there were no questions as to why New York would need them?’

‘His friend in New York told the LAPD that he’d heard of the case, that he believed there may have been a link between this and some outstanding investigation there. They didn’t ask questions. They just sent them, and Don Calligaris gave them to me to show you.’

Never women and children . . . you never hurt the women and children
. That was the thought that came to me. Unspoken, as if by tacit consent, and here – a member of my patron’s family – beaten within an inch of her life by a clothes designer from Hollywood.

‘His name?’ I asked.

‘Richard Ricardo is the name he uses,’ Ten Cent said. ‘It is not his real name, but that is the name he uses, the name he is known by.’

‘And he lives where?’

‘He lives in an apartment not far from Hollywood Boulevard, the third floor of a building on the corner of Wilcox and Selma. The apartment number is 3B.’

I did not write down the address. My memory was good for small details, and carrying written names and addresses was never good practice.

‘Tell Don Calligaris that this matter will be very swiftly resolved,’ I said.

Ten Cent rose from his chair. ‘I will, and I know he will be appreciative, Ernesto.’

‘You are leaving already?’ I asked.

Ten Cent nodded. ‘There are many things I have to do before I leave Los Angeles. It is late. You must see to your children.’

Once again the dichotomy of my life; black and white, no shades of gray between.

I saw Ten Cent leave. I held his hand for a moment at the door.

‘We will meet again soon,’ he said quietly. ‘Give my best wishes to your family, Ernesto.’

‘And mine to yours,’ I replied.

I watched him walk down the steps to the street, walk to the end of the block. He did not turn back, he did not glance over his shoulder, and I closed the door quietly and locked it.

That night I could not sleep. It was the early hours of the morning when Angelina stirred and woke, perhaps sensing my internal disturbance.

She lay there quietly for a moment or two, and then turned and snaked her arm across my chest. She pulled me tight and kissed my shoulder.

‘Your friend,’ she said. ‘He has something for you to do?’

I nodded. ‘Yes.’

She did not speak for a minute. ‘Take care,’ she said, ‘Now you have not only yourself to think of.’

And she said nothing more, and when morning came she said nothing of Ten Cent, nothing of the business that he had brought for my attention. She made breakfast as always, tending to the children – all of seven weeks old, innocent and wordless, wide-eyed and wondering at the ways of this new world they had entered – and in my heart I felt for them, felt for who I had become, and what they would feel if they ever knew.

I left that evening. It was dark and the children were sleeping. I told Angelina I would be no more than a few hours, and for a while she held me close, and then she reached up and kissed my forehead. ‘Take care,’ she said once more, and stood at the door to watch as I walked down the street. At the corner I glanced back. She stood there, illuminated in silhouette from the light inside the house, and I felt something in my heart, something that should have pulled me back, but I did not slow or stop or retrace my steps with second thoughts; I simply raised my hand and waved, and carried on my way.

I took the subway as far as Vine. I made my way down Hollywood Boulevard and the Walk of Fame, turned left on Cahuenga, right onto Selma, and there at the corner of Wilcox I found the building of which Ten Cent had spoken. I could see lights right across the third floor, also the second below, and I could hear the faint sound of music coming from the windows.

Entrance was easy. I went in through the back exit out of which the garbage and tradesmen would come. I found the base of a narrow stairwell that appeared to climb the height of the building, and up I went – silently, two risers at a time – until I reached the third floor.

I stood silently in the doorway at the top of the well, held it open no more than an inch or two, and it was there I heard the music louder. It came from the apartment facing me, from behind a door with 3B clearly visible on it, and I stayed there for some minutes ensuring that there was no coming and going along the hallway. When I was sure there was no-one entering or leaving any of the upper apartments I crossed the hallway. From my inside jacket pocket I took a thin sliver of metal and eased it between the door jamb and the striker plate. I nudged it down until I felt it touch the latch, and then with silent hair’s-breadth motions I started to wedge the blade into the lock. The lock sprang without difficulty. I turned the handle and the door gave way. I inched it open a fraction and waited for any sound inside. I heard nothing but the music, louder now, and realized that whoever was there would not have a hope of hearing me as I entered.

The hallway carpet was thick and dark. Along the walls hung black-and-white photographs, some of them clearly identifiable as images of cityscapes from many years before, others more abstract and undefined as to subject matter. I closed the door behind me, slid the chain across and flipped the deadbolt. Richard Ricardo evidently believed that once he was within the confines of his own home he was safe. Nothing, but nothing, could have been farther from the truth.

I went along the hallway without a sound. My breathing was low and shallow, and when I reached the end and pressed myself against the corner of the wall I could tilt my head and see into the main warehouse apartment.

Through a half-open door on the other side of the room I could see the end of a bed. The figure of a man, apparently naked, flitted across my line of vision and I shrank back. I waited for a second and then looked again. I could see no-one.

I stayed close to the wall and went into the main room, pressing my body against the plasterwork and circumventing the entire width until I came around on the other side and stood at the rear edge of the bedroom door. I could hear voices, at first one and then a second, and with my heart thundering in my chest I withdrew my .38 from the waistband of my pants.

The sight that greeted me as I peered around the doorframe and looked into the room surprised me. There were two men, both naked, one of them lying back on the bed with his hands cuffed to the stead. The second man was kneeling between the spread-eagled man’s legs, his head going up and down at a furious rate. I watched them for a little while, my mind turning back to Ruben Cienfuegos and the men we had robbed in Havana, the death of Pietro Silvino, the things he had said to me before I killed him.

The man lying down was moaning and writhing. The second man continued energetically for some thirty seconds or so, and then he kneeled back on his haunches, pulled the other man’s legs together, and then sat astride them. Shuffling forward he moved upwards until he sat across the man’s chest, and then using his hand to hold the cock of the man beneath him he gently eased backwards. I watched as the man’s cock slid inside him. The two of them were laughing together, and then the man on top started to rock back and forth, gently increasing his speed as he went.

I stepped away from the wall, crossed the room behind them, and with a single swipe of the gun handle I swept the music player off the table. The music stopped dead. The two men stopped also.

‘What the hell—’ the upper man exclaimed, and then he turned, and then he saw me standing there with a gun in my hand, and there was an expression in his eyes that said everything that could ever be said without a single word.

‘Oh my God . . . oh my God,’ he started, but the man beneath him was pale, in shock. Not a word came from his mouth as he lay there, with his hands cuffed to the frame of the bed, as naked as the day he was born, his cock inside someone’s ass and feeling like the world was ready to end.

The man on top fell sideways and started to his feet.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ I said.

He did as he was told.

‘You want money?’ he started whimpering, and then there were tears in his eyes. ‘We have money here, a lot of money . . . you can have all the money—’

‘No money,’ I said, and it was in that second that both of them realized what was going to happen.

The handcuffed man began crying, and pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to turn his body away so I could not see him naked.

‘What d’you want?’ the seated man asked.

‘Which one of you is Ricardo?’ I asked.

The seated man looked at me with horror. ‘I . . . I am Richard Ricardo,’ he said, and his voice cracked with fear.

‘You’re traveling both ways then?’ I said, and I smiled.

Ricardo frowned.

‘Girls and boys, whichever takes your fancy, right?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you mean . . . what do you want?’

‘Retribution,’ I said, and from the inside jacket of my pocket I took one of the photographs that Ten Cent had shown me.

I held it up so it could be clearly seen.

Ricardo stared silently at the picture, and then he closed his eyes.

‘What’s his name?’ I asked, and indicated the other man lying on the bed.

Ricardo glanced sideways at him. ‘His name?’

I nodded. ‘His name.’

‘Leonard . . . this is Leonard.’

‘Well, tell Leonard he ain’t a fucking ostrich. Just because he ain’t looking at me doesn’t mean he’s invisible.’

Ricardo reached over and put his hand on Leonard’s shoulder. Leonard tried to shrug it off. He buried his face deeper into the pillow, and though the sound was muffled I could still hear him sobbing.

‘Undo the cuffs, Richard,’ I said.

Ricardo reached for the key on a small table beside the bed and unlocked the cuffs. Leonard tugged the bedsheet up and covered himself.

‘Leonard?’

Leonard didn’t move.

‘Leonard . . . turn this way and look at me or I’m gonna come over there and shove this gun so far up your ass you won’t stop hurting ’til Sunday.’

Leonard turned onto his side, and then eased himself upright. He clung onto the sheet as if he believed it would protect him against a bullet.

I held up the photograph so he could clearly see it. ‘You he might love for eternity,’ I said, ‘but your friend Richard has a certain way with the ladies that they don’t appreciate.’

‘You . . . you don’t understand—’ Ricardo started.

I raised my gun, pointed it directly between Ricardo’s eyes, and took three steps forward until the barrel touched the bridge of his nose.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said. With my other hand I held the photograph and waited until he was looking directly at it. ‘You know this girl?’ I asked.

Ricardo tried to frown, tried to make out like he was remembering whether or not he knew her.

‘We’re not playing games here,’ I said. ‘I know and you know, so don’t waste my time telling me anything else. You know this girl?’

Ricardo nodded. He closed his eyes. Tears were running down his cheeks.

‘You did this to her?’

‘She . . . she wanted me to . . . wanted me to hurt her . . . you gotta understand she’s a crazy fucking bitch. She wanted me to hurt her. . .’

‘She wanted you to hurt her,’ I said matter-of-factly.

Ricardo was nodding furiously.

‘She wanted you to beat the crap out of her, wanted you to hit her so hard she couldn’t see straight for days, wanted you to whip her with a wire coat hanger until she’d screamed so much she lost her voice? She wanted you to do that?’

Leonard was looking over Ricardo’s shoulder at the photograph, his eyes wide and incredulous.

‘Ricky . . . Ricky? You did this to that girl?’

Ricardo turned suddenly. ‘Shut the fuck up, Lenny . . . just shut the fuck up?’

‘Yes,’ I interjected. ‘Shut the fuck up, Lenny.’

Lenny closed his open mouth and turned away. He looked like he was going to puke. I figured he wouldn’t want to fuck Richard Ricardo in the ass again.

‘So seems to me that whatever the hell went down between you and this girl, well she got a little more than she asked for . . . would that be somewhere close to the truth, Ricky?’

Ricardo didn’t move a muscle, didn’t say a word. I jabbed the barrel of the gun into his forehead. He winced with the pain.

‘You reckon that’s somewhere close to the truth?’

Ricardo nodded.

‘You sorry for what you did to her?’

‘Oh Jesus . . . oh Jesus God, I’m sorry. I never meant for it to be that way . . . I promise I never meant for it to turn out like it did . . . it was a wild night, it was crazy, there were all these people and we drank too much and took too much coke, and things just got out of hand—’

‘Ssshhh,’ I whispered. ‘Ssshhh now, Ricky, it’s okay . . . it really is okay.’

Richard Ricardo opened his eyes and looked up at me. There was a pleading expression in his eyes – pleading for understanding, for forgiveness, for mercy, for his life.

‘Never again,’ he mumbled. ‘Never again. . .’

‘Too right,’ I said, and with all the force I could muster I raised the gun and brought it down on the top of his head.

The sound was indescribable, as if his whole body had collapsed from within – ‘Nyuuuggghhhh’. He fell sideways and rolled off the edge of the bed onto the floor. Blood started to ooze from the split in his skull and soak into the carpet.

Lenny started screaming. I reached across the bed and grabbed him by the hair. I forced him face down into the mattress to muffle the sound, and then I warned him that if he didn’t shut the hell up he was going to get a bullet in the back of his neck. He stopped immediately.