Amnesia (33 page)

He didn’t have time to muse on it, however, as his mind was brought to attention by Doctor Cliffe’s parting words, “He’s all yours Captain.” Captain? Captain of what? Sudden dread filled his heart as he sensed, rather than saw the man in the room.

“Welcome back, Lenny.” The man stepped into view at the side of the bed, looking at the medical equipment standing there. “Looks like you’ve been beaten up pretty badly.”

“Who are you?” Marconi rasped, sending rivulets of pain through his throat.

“I’m your new friend,” the man said, facing the patient. “Looks like you could use all the friends you can get right now.”

“What do you want?”

“Why, to help you, of course. Seems like there are a lot of people that want you out of the way, and I’m here to watch over you and make sure you’re alright.”

“You a cop?” Marconi asked, nervously.

“Of course. Boise Police captain Jack McConnell, at your service.”

“Leave me alone copper. I don’t need your help; I ain’t got nothin’ ta say.” He intended to sound tough and in control, but laying in a hospital bed, unable to move his arms, and rasping out every word, the effect was completely lost, even on himself.

“I see,” Jack rejoined, nodding his head, “you’re a tough guy, and don’t need anybody’s help with anything.”

“That’s right.”

“Alright,” Jack responded, feigning resignation, “next time Scardoni comes to visit, we’ll stand aside. I’m sure in your condition you can handle him just fine.” He watched as fear crept into Marconi’s eyes.

“Oh, that’s right,” he pressed, “you haven’t heard about your visits. Well, let me bring you up to speed. Your former employer has missed you, and has been by several times now.” He paused, letting the implication sink in, and then bore on.

“First he left you a present in your veins. Yeah, added a little extra potassium to your blood; a booster shot I guess. Good thing there was a quick thinking doctor close at hand.” Another pause as the fear deepened to horror.

“Then there was the fun one, where he pistol whipped Dolores, your nurse,” he gestured toward the door, in the vague direction Dolores had headed, “and beat up your armed guard. He really must have missed you.”

One last pause, as Jack watched the horror in Lenny’s eyes turn to terror, allowing the latter to connect all the dots, revealing a very nasty picture. Beads of cold sweat appeared unbidden on the patient’s brow, his mind working furiously to find a way out of the quandary in which he found himself mired. A hint of a smile appeared on Jack’s face as he delivered the coup de grace.

“Of course, as you said, you are a big boy, and can handle things yourself, despite having your legs immobilized, and barely able to move your arms. Well, good luck. It was nice to have met you.” He turned, a satisfied look filling his features. “Come on, Bill, let’s leave Mr. Marconi alone, he obviously doesn’t need our help.” He turned to leave, wondering how long it would take Marconi to call him back. He didn’t get far.

“Hold up a minute,” the man lying in the hospital bed called, the tone in his voice betraying his resignation to the inevitable. He looked down the length of the bed on which he laid, seeing his legs and hips completely immobilized due to multiple fractures; there would be no running away. He was completely vulnerable, he realized, relying wholly on the mercy of those surrounding him. He sighed deeply, and capitulated; the trap was sprung and he was snared. “What do you want? What’s in it for me?”

“Well, Lenny,” Jack answered, turning back to the bed, “I’m glad you came to your senses. First off, I thought we would have a nice little chat. As for what you get, it’s very simple: you work with me, tell me everything I want to know, I personally guarantee you don’t have to worry about Scardoni sending his regards. Are these terms acceptable to you?”

“I want immunity from any prosecution.”

“Fine. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they send your obit back to Philadelphia, make sure the ‘family’ knows.” He half turned away before Lenny caved.

“Alright, alright. What do you wanna know?” Again his voice dripped with resignation, unaware of the police officer’s bluff about Scardoni and the mob. One thing that Jack was counting on was the innate survival instinct that guided all men, but especially those who chose the ease of criminal activity over honest work.

“That’s better. Tell me about Drake.”

“Mannion? He’s dead. If he survived Walters’ orders, he wouldn’t have survived the crash.”

“Who is Walters?” Jack asked. He glanced over at Bill who was busily taking notes with his good right hand. A flash of gratitude touched his heart knowing that soon this would all be over, and all his friends would finally be safe.

“Randy Walters. He’s some muscle I hired to take care of some business for Scardoni. He’s dead too. If the plane didn’t take care of him Scardoni would have.” He paused and shook his head as he realized the stupidity of the plan. Suddenly he felt strongly compelled to tell McConnell everything, and hopefully extricate him from the whole thing. Even if it did mean some jail time, it would be worth it to get out from under the weight of the burdens he carried.

“Scardoni hired me to take care of some unwanted baggage and I contacted Walters and his guys to pull it off. He knew a pilot who knew how to keep his mouth shut. So we took this ‘baggage’ out in the plane, disposed of it, and should have come back to a slick $25k for our trouble.” Again he paused, knowing that his next revelation would incriminate him. Sure enough, Jack asked the correct question.

“And Drake Mannion was the ‘baggage?’”

“Yeah. Apparently the guy who hired Scardoni wanted Drake out of the way quietly, with no ties to him. We took him up in a charter plane, intending to toss him into Lake Cascade. We made sure to take his wallet and keys and such so he couldn’t be traced and took him up.”

He hesitated, noting the look of disgust on McConnell’s face, but pressed forward anyway, eager to get it all out into the open. “We had him right at the door and the stupid kid got away from me. I ended up out the door. Luckily I fell into a tree and survived, but pretty banged up. Apparently something happened to the plane because a few minutes later it went down. I didn’t see the crash, but heard the explosion and saw the light from the flames.”

“But you survived.” Bill noted, speaking for the first time. He, too, sported a look of disgust at the complete disregard for human life.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Marconi responded. The ironic tone was not lost on him; he held no allusions that he had any friends here. He was simply cutting his losses, knowing that with them he had options. With Scardoni, there was only one possibility—death.

“Why did this guy want Drake dead?” Jack asked, bringing the interrogation back to focus. He shared Bill’s feelings, but knew there was nothing to be gained from displays of righteous indignation.

“Don’t know,” Marconi replied. “I guess he knew somethin’ and we were trying to keep him quiet. That’s the way it usually is.”

“And you have no idea what that is?” Jack pressed.

“Nope. Well, there was something said about a book of his, but who cares about some stupid book. Ask Scardoni.”

Jack ignored the taunt, instead pursuing a different tack. “Who was Scardoni’s boss?”

“Call’s himself ‘Marcuse’ but I never met him. Don’t know anything about him. Scardoni was the only one that talked to him.”

“How did he receive his orders?” Jack knew that they had not met, hence the mistaken identity earlier, yet somehow they had to communicate.

“Cell phone. Marcuse gave him a phone and kept one himself. The number was on autodial, and he was under strict instructions to use it for nothin’ else. There was one time I was trying to get hold of Walters and grabbed that cell. Scardoni pulled his Rambo knife and threatened to take off my fingers for touching it.”

“Bill….”

“I’m on it Jack. The car’s down at impound now.”

Marconi watched the bigger man stand and exit the door. He wore a sling from a shoulder wound, and Lenny wondered for a moment if Scardoni had given it to him. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow, exhausted by the interview. The pain medication was still keeping him sleepy, and his head was still slightly spinning from the trauma.

Suddenly something clicked in his mind and his eyes flew open and he jerked his head up. The first thing he saw was a slight smile cross McConnell’s lips, reading the recognition for what it was.

“Yeah, Lenny, that’s right, Scardoni’s dead. I am a man of my word and I did guarantee that he would never bother you again, at least not in this world. Sorry I had to mislead you, but you know what they say, ‘Confession is good for the soul.’”

Marconi would never admit that he did feel lighter after explaining everything. He closed his eyes and turned his head, feigning anger when instead he felt mostly relief. He was tired. Not only from his injuries, but also from the life he had led.

He had been walking tightropes his entire life, surrounded by danger; from police, other gangsters, and even from his own family. He wanted out and wondered if turning himself into the police was the answer. Then he wondered if it would have been better if he had gone down in the plane with Walters. Somehow there had to be a way out of this mess. He heard Jack chuckle softly, and refused to look at him when he spoke.

“Thanks for the help Lenny. I’ll put in a good word for you.” He laughed again out loud, then turned and left the patient alone with his thoughts. He had a criminal to catch and put behind bars.

For his part, Marconi let his mind wander, thinking about life free from constant threats. He had no delusions of being a good man; he had lived a life devoid of morals, taking what he pleased from whom he pleased. He blamed no one for his failings but himself, knowing that conscious decisions had led him to this place, not some imagined force or third party. Still he wondered if there truly was redemption for a soul as rebellious as his. He didn’t really know, but deep down, he admitted, he hoped there was, and that there was some way he could put a claim on it. He just didn’t know where to find it.

He also realized that he was rather drowsy, and allowed himself to drift off to sleep. His last thoughts before sleep overcame him were that he was alive, and with Scardoni dead he might be able to stay that way. And with life, there is always hope.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

They called him “Mouse.” Ever since Ernest Dall had first dressed as the small rodent in his kindergarten class play, he had been handed the moniker, despite his adamant resistance. Of course the fact that he had protruding ears, a long slender nose, and a small thin physique only added to the overall impression of the small creature.

Unfortunately, as is common with all nicknames, over his forty-two years of life he grew to resemble the animal even his family had come to call him. He had grown a wispy mustache, giving the impression of whiskers, and kept his hair pulled straight back, lying limp around his small head, accentuating his beady eyes. He even spoke with a high, squeaky voice, and scurried rather than walked.

Yet unlike his greasy appearance, his heart was good, watching over his small flock of apartment dwellers like a loving shepherd. He knew each tenant by name, and could recognize each vehicle they used for transportation. He could even pick out the faces of the more frequent visitors and friends. He kept watch from afar, as a careful parent watches over their young.

Of course he knew they were unimpressed by him, several to the point of avoidance. But he didn’t really care. He heard the whispered comments, the unfeeling remarks about his appearance, but allowed them, knowing that much of what they said was true. It never even occurred to him that he should be offended by such talk—it was simply the way things were.

Then one day a remarkable woman walked into the manager’s office responding to an advertisement he had placed in the Idaho Statesman newspaper about a vacancy. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; about five foot six with light brown hair, an ever-present smile, and a personality that warmed his heart from their first words.

He had simply sat staring at her as she came through the door, his mouth agape at her beauty. She said something to him, but his mind was blank, scrambling to find coherency in the presence of such loveliness. A moment passed before his synapses began firing again, and he mumbled something unintelligible, trying to break through the trance she had put him under. Somehow he had made it through the required interview and paperwork, but he was forever smitten with her.

Several times since that embarrassing day he had attempted to engage her in meaningful conversation, proof that he did have a mind after all. But she had resisted, as had everyone else in his life. He didn’t blame her. He knew how others viewed him. Still, he wished she would at least call him “Ernest,” something no one else had done since he was five.

He took it upon himself to keep a closer watch on her, but from a distance, to ensure her safety. Perhaps as an older brother would. It was a fairly easy task, as she had few visitors outside of the monthly visit from the church people. Except of course that one guy she obviously didn’t like.