Dark Men (15 page)

“The truth is . . .” and for this she looks up, clapping her hands together to wash the dust off. “The truth is . . . you’re going to have a very hard time finding him.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Because Doug’s dead.”

CHAPTER NINE

T
heir last assignment together was the one Archie brokered. Did my name come up during that job? Did Archie mention me casually and Spilatro pounced on the name and came up with a plan to lure me out? Why would he want to?

The answer probably lies in the same reason I turned Archie’s office into ash. I knew if those files were left behind, vultures would descend on them to pick over the pieces. There is value in those files, the same value Archie told Smoke about in a prison cafeteria. Information. I’ve pulled a lot of jobs over the years, some extremely prominent, some that changed the political landscape of this country. If someone knew where to find me, he could broker that information to the relatives of my marks who were looking for atonement. Maybe Archie mentioned he worked with me, and maybe Spilatro turned that into a job for himself, sold my name to the highest bidder while he promised he would be the instrument of revenge.

So why did Carla think Doug Spilatro was dead?

When I was a kid at Waxham Juvey in Western Mass, there was a board game we could check out as long as we played it in the library. It was called “Mousetrap,” and it involved building an elaborate, Rube Goldbergian machine to catch a mouse. A crank rotated a gear that pushed an elastic lever that kicked over a bucket that sent a marble down a zig-zagging incline that fed into a chute and on and on until the cage fell on the unsuspecting mouse. But over the years, a few of the plastic pieces went missing and the trap wouldn’t spring. We used straws and toothpicks and toothpaste caps to fill in the blanks, rigging it so the cage would drop. The mouse didn’t know the real pieces weren’t there, and it didn’t matter as long as the trap sprung.

I think Spilatro has built his own mousetrap. Psychologically, he takes no pleasure in the kill itself; in fact, it repulses him. So he’s thrown all of his passion, all of his expertise, into building elaborate killing machines, elaborate mousetraps. With a living, breathing target, the machine has to be able to contract or expand or adapt based on the movement of the prey. He can build miniatures and plan to his heart’s content, but at some point toothpicks have to replace plastic pieces.

So the question is: how much has Spilatro been thrown off of his plan to kill me? Was I supposed to die in the construction accident that claimed Smoke? Was I supposed to get caught in the crossfire at Kirschenbaum’s house, trapped between the bodyguards and the police? Or am I still scurrying my way through the mousetrap, tripping a rubber band instead of a crank?

And one more thing: Carla referred to Spilatro as a Silver Bear, even though he takes no pleasure in the actual kill. My first fence taught me that to do what I do, to live with what I do, I have to make the connection to my mark so I can sever the connection later. I have to get inside his head, exploit whatever evil I find there, so I can continue to the next job. What I’m missing from all this, what I still don’t know, is
why
Spilatro singled me out. What connection do we have?

Carla and I move from the stoop on Warren Street to a coffee shop around the corner. I tell her she doesn’t have to worry about getting shot, that I just want to hear the rest of her story, but my words don’t seem to lift any weight off her shoulders. She sits like a prisoner in the corner of a cell, with no hope of rescue. I know Risina is out there watching, and I wonder if she can see the effects the killing business has on its participants.

“The last job. The one you did for Archie. Tell me about it.”

“Archie?”

“Archibald Grant. He was the fence.”

“Oh. Yes, Archie Grant. I only talked to him on the phone.”

“You never met him face-to-face?”

“I didn’t meet anyone except for K-bomb. And he, I only met once.” She holds up one finger. “He came to me after the job you’re talking about, when I was still trying to figure out what the hell I was gonna do now that Doug was gone. I never knew the fence’s name before that. I didn’t even know what a fence was, to tell you the truth. He just showed up and asked me if I wanted to continue working. I’ll be honest, I’ve only pulled a couple of jobs on my own. Today’s call came in from a third party and I thought it was weird and my antenna went up, but I showed up anyway because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. Should’ve known . . .”

“Yeah, well, here you are. If it makes you feel better, I’d’ve gotten to you one way or another.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Tell me about that last tandem job. I want to hear every detail.”

“You have to understand, Doug only told me the bare minimum to keep me involved. I was the flash of light, the honking horn, you know what I mean?”

I shake my head.

“The distraction. The feint. The thing that causes the mark to look one way when death is coming from the other direction.”

“Bait?”

“Look at me. Do I look like bait?”

“I meant . . .”

“I know what you meant. Sure, I’d meet a few of the marks. Get ’em to a particular spot Doug would designate in the run-up. That was tough for me, I gotta say. It’s one thing to see these targets from afar, another to shake their hands, hear them speak, watch ’em smile or what not.”

“The last job . . .”

“Yeah, I’m getting there. I’d been off for a while. I know Doug was taking contracts and fulfilling them without me. Two or three in a row and truth be told, I didn’t mind. I thought I’d like the adventure of it, the game, you know, but when I was lying in bed each night, I’d think about those men I helped put under, and I had a real hard time closing my eyes.”

She’s checking my face, looking for a sympathetic nod, but I give her nothing. She blows a bit on the top of her coffee before taking a sip.

“Anyway, he’d been home for a while and I knew he must’ve gotten a new gig because he spent a lot of time down in the basement. I’m talking a good two months, only coming up for a meal, a smoke, a bathroom break, or bed. I figured he was going to work this one solo, but this particular Sunday, he calls me down there.

“This is a simple one, he tells me. Police detective in Boston who drinks too much. This cop must’ve tossed the wrong guy in the can, because there’s a price on his head and Doug is collecting. The procuring fence wanted it to be a tandem, to make sure it went down on a certain day, and Doug convinced the acquiring fence that he’d supply the other contract killer. Me. So this fence . . .”

“Archie Grant,” I interrupt. I keep mentioning his name to see if it’ll elicit a response, but so far, nothing.

“If you say so. Anyway, Doug tells me this fence is skeptical, but Doug insists on bringing me on, and we can kill two birds with one rock. We’ll work the tandem and we’ll make sure it looks like an accident. I guess that satisfied what’s-his-name, because Doug got the gig and procured the down payment for both hitters.

“I remember thinking,
so this is why you want me to work with you now . . . so you can collect double fees on the same hit.
Say what you want about Doug, the man knew how to game a system no matter what it was. You thought you were pulling the strings? That’s only cause he let you think so. He was the one working the puppets, didn’t matter what the play was. It wasn’t till I saw him doing it to others that I realized all these years, he’d been doing the same to me, you know? I guess that’s neither here nor there now, but there it is.

“So getting back to this hit . . . Doug built this elaborate model of this alleyway in Boston. Painted and sanded and lit up to the very last detail. The bar where this detective liked to drown his sorrows was specially made with a flying roof so he could take it off and you could see inside. It was like nothing you ever saw. This one made the one he did for Cleveland look like a kindergartner’s shitty homework assignment. Doug had little bartenders in there, little dishwashers, little beer mugs, even miniature peanut shells on the floor. The works.

“So he starts talking me through the plan. This mark comes in this joint every Saturday night like clockwork and stays not only till the bar closes, but after the owner locks the front door. The target is chummy with the owner or shaking him down or whatever but he gets special treatment, one last glass of whiskey on the house before the lights go out. The owner’s a salty old Southey who fixes that last highball himself before running receipts in his office until the mark finally heads out the back door.

“So Doug has this plan. It involves me showing up just as the doors close, pretending to be a health inspector. I’m supposed to do a few hocus pocus maneuvers, you know, get the front door locked, slip a roofie in the mark’s drink, keep the owner occupied in his office or the kitchen, wave our target out the back door, and that’s just half of it. Doug’s showing me this elaborate set up he’s got worked out in the alley, real domino rally type stuff, ice on the steps, trip wire on the bottom, a lever that’ll whack his feet out from under him so that he’ll nail the back of his head on the ice, five other things I’m forgetting about. Complicated stuff and his eyes light up as he’s telling me all about it.

“I tell him it’s all too complicated and for just a moment, he looks at me the way he did when I confronted him in the basement when I first found the model. Oooh, boy, if the devil wears a face, that’s what it looks like. I shut up quick and he catches himself like he stepped past the caution signs and straightens up right away but it was there and I saw it. He smiles and tells me how hard he’s worked and how even if it’s a small job getting a drunk to slip on some icy steps, he wants it done right. He’s made a career out of getting it done right and I know better than to pop off again, so I button it and say however he wants to plug this guy is fine with me. I did not want to see that look again, I can assure you that.

“The night of the hit, everything is fine. I’m with Doug running lookout while he sets up the pieces of the trap in the alley. I haven’t seen him work like this and I can tell he’s excited about it, the way he’s moving around, a smile on his face, all hopped up like a football player before a big game, you know? Like a kid on Christmas Eve? He’s wearing a BWSC uniform—Boston Water and Sewer—and a fake beard and all that seemed
unnecessary
looking back but it made him happy so what the hell was I gonna say? He signals me when the trap is all set, and right on time, I hit the front door, just as the owner is cleaning up. Health Inspector is the best cover you can use with bars or restaurants because no one questions it—the manager or owner is mildly annoyed but always accommodating. This was no different and I got the mickey into the detective’s drink while the owner and he looked up at a fire exit with a faulty light I pointed out. No big deal. It’s amazing how many things people miss each day when they’re made to look in a certain direction, you know? Look at the birdie over there while I take the wallet from your back pocket here. People, for the most part, are suckers.

“The plan goes exactly the way Doug drew it up. I took the owner to his office while he told the cop to head out back. I watched out of the corner of my eye, you know, as our target got up and stumbled off. I counted to a hundred in my mind, all while I was talking about grease traps and proper temperatures on the refrigeration system and where the ‘wash your hands’ signs have to be displayed in the bathroom and I could see the owner’s eyes glaze over.

“Abruptly, I get to a hundred and I tell him everything looks good and he can count on a top notch report and can he let me out the front? Doug had told me the probabilities were he would follow me out since he liked to park his Dodge Charger right out in front of his bar. Sure enough, he comes with me outside and I watch from across the street as he climbs into the muscle car and drives away.”

“So where’s the complication?”

“There wasn’t one, is what I’m saying. Not on this job . . .”

“So . . .”

“So I go to meet Doug at the rendezvous spot which is three blocks away, this street corner near a motel and he’s got this smile big as summer on his face, you know? I’ll never forget it. He’s really happy. Says it went off without a hitch. Drunk detective stumbles down the stairs, the lever sweeps his feet, he cracks his skull, out cold. No way he won’t freeze to death. Doug even rigged it so some water would spill off the gutter above him, ensuring the detective would be found as frozen as a popsicle. No other way to rule this one but straight up accidental death.”

“What about the lever?”

“Doug fixed it with a string so he could slide it away. Everything planned to the last detail, like I said. This is how his mind worked.

“He told me all about the kill as we walked toward the car. I remember thinking I hadn’t seen him this happy since before we were married. And I was happy too, as weird as that sounds. I started seeing this life together, this future together. Me and Doug, a team. Other couples can sit on their asses watching the evening news while we’ll be out—I don’t know—changing the world. That’s something you do, you know? You imagine the work you’re doing is for the greater good although it’s probably just settling some small-time scores. Maybe we can make this work, I thought. Maybe this partnership is all we need to make it work between us, better than it ever was before. It seems silly now, but that’s what was going through my head.

All of a sudden, this black van roars around the corner and I get the uneasy feeling it’s coming up on us. You know that feeling? The kind that warms you up even though it’s cold as balls outside? Doug puts his arm around me all protective like and I remember thinking that was kind of a sweet touch, you know? He wasn’t much of an affectionate person, but he thought to put his arm on my shoulders and I thought that was nice.

“The van barrels up and skids to a stop and three sort of gangster looking guys get out, one black and two white and they call Doug by name. ‘You Spilatro?’ the biggest one says. Doug doesn’t answer, but I can hear his breathing stop and truth be told, I was scared to death. I hear another guy say, ‘yeah, he’s Spilatro,’ and I see this guy’s face as he steps into the light and he’s looking a little familiar, like maybe I know him from somewhere, and I’ll be damned if it isn’t Decker, his old army buddy, the one who brought him into the killing life. After Doug told me about him, I looked him up in some of Doug’s old army pictures, and this is the same guy, I’m sure of it. Doug realizes it at the same time as me and I can see him sigh heavily, like this is all just too much. The first guy, the muscle, raises his hand up and he’s holding a gun, some kind of big automatic. Don’t ask me what kind because I don’t know. The last thing Doug says is ‘don’t kill my wife,’ and crack, crack, the muscle shoots him twice in the chest. Blood flies on to me, I feel it hit the side of my face, and out of the corner of my eye I see Doug drop straight down. You know what I mean? Straight down like all his muscles shut down at once? Well, I just stood there like a jackass, you know, and the three guys pick up Doug’s body and throw it in the van. Decker turns and looks at me and I think maybe he’s deciding whether or not to drop me too, but he just gives me that hard stare men are so fond of, moves around to the driver’s side, and varoom, they’re gone. If this was retaliation for something Doug did, nobody said and I don’t know. The van drove off as though nothing ever happened and I stood there, I swear for an hour or two, not in shock but not thinking either, you know?”