Falling Into Place (7 page)

Hector gazed up at Sandra Westhoff’s dead body for a moment and the look on his face was genuine sorrow. He whispered, “Princess” softly before quickly looking over at the closet. His eyes narrowed and his face became angry as he stared at the empty space for almost a full minute. McCabe waited him out patiently, hoping he was ready to break and spill his guts. Guerrero’s face then turned to pure terror and his body began to shake before his head dropped once again. He shook it from side to side yelling, “I-I-I don’t know, man! Please, let me go! I ain’t done nothin’ wrong! I just do what I’m told, man! Ask Digger, man! He’ll tell you! Ask Digger!”

At the mention of his partner’s name, Tommy snapped. All the frustrations of this bitch of a day came pouring out of him in a stream of obscenities as he began to beat Hector mercilessly. His fists smashed repeatedly into the captive man’s face and body, drawing blood and shattering bone. After three minutes, Tommy unleashed a haymaker to Guererro’s midsection that caused the pimp to involuntarily vomit all over himself. His body continued to retch and convulse long after Hector lost consciousness. The only sound in the apartment was Hector’s moans, groans and rasping breaths as Tommy once again walked toward the bathroom.

After finishing his now frequent ritual, Tommy wanted to let Hector stew for a bit so he searched the kitchen for supplies. He found a recently opened box of Glad Forceflex large garbage bags, an unopened roll of paper towels and, surprisingly, a bottle of Dewar’s White Label Scotch. He poured some whiskey into an old, Loony Tunes glass that looked reasonably clean and took a hearty swig. McCabe then methodically wrapped up the last remains of Sandy Westhoff using the garbage bags, the comforter from the bed and an entire roll of duct tape. Her body looked like a giant pupa inside its chrysalis right before it emerged as a butterfly. Alas, there would be no such metamorphosis for Senator Westhoff’s baby girl. Her fate was sealed the day she met Hector Guerrero.

When Tommy was finished, he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment collecting his thoughts. From where he was sitting he could see directly into the closet. Something about it still bothered him. What was Hector hiding? “Two Fists” slumped over, leaning his chin into his hands when he noticed something shiny in there. Without thinking he got on his hands and knees and crawled over to the closet to retrieve what had caught his eye. It was a cookie tin decorated with cartoon reindeer and Santa Claus in his sleigh. He sat leaning on the door frame of the closet as he opened the container.

The first thing McCabe saw was a faded, worn picture of a middle-aged woman with two younger women hugging her from either side. None of them were Sandra Westhoff. “X-mas ‘09 Montana” was written on the back in faded, blue ink. He rifled through the other items in the tin: a heart locket, two large fake- emerald earrings, an Army medal, a pair of glasses with one lens cracked and several letters. Tommy opened one of the missives and saw they were love letters: the kind teenagers write declaring their undying love for each other before the world wears them down and beats the romance out of their hearts forever.

“Nnnnn –whathafuck?” Hector mumbled as he began to stir.

Before the pimp fully regained consciousness, Tommy closed the cookie tin and placed it in his work bag. He intended to ask Hector about the closet, and its occupant again, but he didn’t want Guerrero to know he’d found anything, lest that information prejudice his responses. McCabe looked over his captive and it wasn’t pretty. Hector’s face was a mass of bruises, contusions and open wounds. His eyes were almost swollen shut, like Rocky Balboa at the end of the original movie when the fictional pugilist begged his trainer, Mickey, to “cut him” so he could see again. That gave Tommy an idea.

“Hector! Hector, wake up!” he shouted while playfully slapping the ice pick still protruding from his shoulder. “Time to finish our conversation. Are you ready, Hector?” Tommy quickly removed the ice pick, cleaned it on Hector’s shorts and placed it back in his bag.

“Tommy, man...Tommy, wait...please jus’ wait a sec. Please.” Hector whined through bloody teeth and swollen lips.

“Who was in that closet, Hector? Tell me who it was now or I’m going to get creative. You don’t want that, do you?” the fixer said without any humor.

“Tom, I-I-ca-I can’t...I don’t know what you want from me, man. Really, I don’t know.” Hector said so low it was barely audible.

“Okay, have it your way.” Tommy took another razor blade and cut Hector across both eyelids causing the beaten man to scream uncontrollably and shake his head violently back and forth. “Two Fists” then cut a lemon in two and squeezed them directly into the pimp’s eyes, causing even more violent body upheavals and caterwauling.

Tommy sat back in his chair and studied the effect of his handiwork. He couldn’t help but smile and laugh a little to himself. The lemons reminded him of Miracle Max’s line from
The Princess Bride
. After being asked if he was the one who worked for the King all those years, Max said, “The King’s stinking son fired me and thank you so much for bringing up such a painful subject. While you’re at it, why don’t you give me a nice paper cut and pour lemon juice on it?” That always cracked Tommy up, right from the first time he saw the movie with his former wife and son. He hadn’t thought about that movie or his family in a long, long time. He grabbed the paper towels and headed for the bathroom yet again.

Unbidden, Tommy’s mind drifted back to what he considered the moment of his greatest failure. The marriage had been over for years but they’d stayed together for Chris’s sake, trying to give their boy at least the semblance of a happy home. Eventually, it got to be too much for Margaret. Being married to the mob isn’t easy and it was especially hard for an honest, compassionate and God-fearing woman like her. She tried to be the doting wife and not ask questions but she wasn’t blind or stupid. There were only so many times you could wash out blood stains before you knew the answers without asking any questions. One night Margaret finally said, “This is no life for a man, cow-towing to thugs and criminals for scraps. You’re nothing but a mad dog to them, Tom...to be let off the leash if and when they need you.” In response Tommy slapped her, the only time he ever laid his hands on her, telling her to keep her mouth shut about things she didn’t understand. She left the next day without a note, message or good-bye.

Tommy knew they’d be better off without him so he didn’t even attempt to find them. Maggie was still a fine looking woman and she’d be able to remarry some solid, dependable guy who’d be the kind of man she and Chris needed, not a mook like him. Yeah, he rationalized it every time he thought about it but the fact was, it was a relief when he got home and they were gone. It was easier for him that way. Marriage and fatherhood were too hard and he was no good at either of them. So he just let them go, telling himself it was for the best, but deep down he knew. He knew he was a coward. He took the easy way out and look at him now. He was washing his hands for the fourth time in an hour while working over a lowlife pimp on the orders of a crime boss who was probably setting him up as a fall guy for the whole, fucking situation. Yeah, things had really worked out great for ol’ “Two Fists” McCabe, alright.

He shook his head in frustration and took a few long, deep breaths, exhaling dramatically after each one. Picking up the paper towels to dry his hands, Tommy muttered, “On top of everything else, the last thing I need is to start thinking about this crap. This day has been shit from the word go.”

“Hey! Leave me alone! No! Don’t! Toooommmmy!” Hector’s shrieks broke Tommy’s reverie.

He bolted out of the bathroom like an Indy racecar right into the business end of a Sig Pro semi-automatic pistol. Tommy simply frowned and said, “What the fuck are you doing here, Digger?”

“You know me, Tommy. Just looking for a little fun,” DiSalvo responded while holstering his pistol. “What do you have goin’ on here? Looks like a good time. Well, except for Hector there and the wrapped-up stiff on the bed,” he continued, laughing.

“Seriously, Digger. What are you doing here?” Tommy repeated, cold as ice. McCabe was less than pleased to see his partner. Even if he didn’t have trust issues with him right now, Tommy hated being interrupted while interrogating someone. He felt Hector was just about to start talking, but now all bets were off. With the addition of “Gravedigger” DiSalvo, the pimp was beyond terrified and on the verge of shutting down completely.

“Hector and me go way back, buddy. He always has the best shit and I felt like gettin’ some party supplies. You know how I do,” Digger said as he meandered around the room casually.

Salvatore DiSalvo wasn’t the kind of guy you could call inconspicuous. He was slender but tall, topping out at over 6’3”. He always wore his hair slicked back and when he was nervous he continually ran his ever-present comb through his raven locks. Digger had deep set eyes with bushy eyebrows that made him look angry even when he was smiling. He dressed much like Tommy, but preferred the classic pin-striped suit jacket over the more casual blazer. McCabe had known Digger a long time now, so it was easy to recognize that his partner had already been “partying” throughout the day. DiSalvo was definitely a coke man and he was pretty wired right now.

DiSalvo stopped near the bed, giving the wrapped-up body of Sandra Westhoff the once over. “So, who’s the stiff? Anybody I know?”

Tommy looked at his partner warily. “You tell me. If you and Hector are such good buddies, wouldn’t you know his houseguests better than me?” McCabe continued to study DiSalvo to see if his body language gave any inclination that he knew more than he was letting on but it was difficult because of the drugs. Digger had a whole host of ticks and twitches when he was high. Tommy knew from bitter experience that he was infinitely more unpredictable and dangerous that way too.

Salvatore just shrugged and said, “Got me. Hec over there has so many whores coming and going all the time, they’d need a nametag for me to know which one was sucking my dick on any given day.” DiSalvo snorted at his comment and started wandering around the room again. He hesitated at the closet and Tommy could see him give it a quick once over. Was he looking for something? Someone?

“And I thought my place was small,” Digger joked, pointing to the makeshift bed.

This situation kept getting more complicated. Not only was there the potential missing witness to Sandra Westhoff’s death that he needed to find and silence, but now his own partner was getting in the way. Tommy still wasn’t sure if Digger was involved but it seemed like everyone still alive in that apartment knew more than he did. It was starting to piss him off. McCabe needed to play this situation just right if he was ever going to find out what really happened.

“Seriously, Digger, enough fucking around. I got shit to do so I’ll ask you again, what are you doing here?” Tommy asked calmly.

DiSalvo smirked and sighed loudly. “Let me ask you a question and then I’ll get out of your hair, partner. I know how you hate company when you’re working.” Digger sat on the corner of the bed across from the closet, facing McCabe. Tommy remained all business, not showing any sign he was in the mood for games.

“Can you tell me what the difference is between a crossbow and a hand grenade?” DiSalvo asked coyly.

Tommy face grew angry as he replied, “What kind of fucking stupid question is that?”

Digger stood up with his hands out in front of him passively, as if trying to calm a barking dog. “Hey, that’s what I want to know, man. I met with the new boss this morning and he said he wanted me to be more like a crossbow and less like a grenade! I don’t know what the fuck he was talking about, do you?”

Tommy was stunned for a second before he suddenly burst out laughing. All of the stress and anxiety he was feeling completely left his body and he smiled ear to ear. “Are you fucking kidding me? He said he wanted me to act more like a scalpel and less like a shotgun!” he answered while chuckling. “You believe that?”

DiSalvo laughed so hard his body shook. “Oh, that’s great! Wait...wait! Maybe we should call ourselves Crossbow and Scalpel from now on! Like two douche bags in a buddy cop movie!” Digger shouted between guffaws, causing the two mobsters to laugh even more uncontrollably.

When they finally calmed down, Digger wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Listen, I don’t know about this new guy, Luongo” he said, suddenly getting serious. “He had me in his office early this morning and after dropping that crossbow/grenade thing on me, he makes me wait for another half hour in the conference room for nothing! He just calls me back in and tells me to do a collection round. Can you believe that? Me? Doing fuckin’ collections again!” The look of disgust on his face made Tommy grin again.

“Which begs the question once again, what are you doing
here
, Dig?” Tommy asked, bemusedly.

“Fuck that guy!” Digger responded. His demeanor changed to that of a teenager who got caught with a joint in his locker. He was indignant but slightly repentant. “I figured I’d get some blow from Guerrero and do my collections in a better mood, y’know?” DiSalvo then asked quietly. “You’re not gonna rat me out, are ya?”

“Why would I?” Tommy said. “There’s a ton of coke on that table by the door. Help yourself. Hector sure won’t be using it.”

Hector suddenly sprang to life again. He’d been quiet as a mouse, hoping the two fixers might get into an argument and take each other out before they remembered him. It was a pipe dream of course but, in his position, a pipe dream was the only chance he had. He said through swollen lips, “Hey now, Tommy. What do you mean by that? I ain’t done nothing, man. I –”

“Shut up, Hector!” Tommy and Salvatore said in unison, causing another few chuckles.

“Seriously, Digger. I have work to do. You should go.” Tommy said, trying to coax his partner out the door.

Salvatore stood and adjusted his coat. “Sure thing, partner. Just let me get that pick-me-up before I go.” He walked to the table and picked up a bag of white powder, walked back to the bed, took down a DVD from the book case and proceeded to form 3 parallel lines of cocaine on the cover. He quickly snorted two, then looked up with a huge grin on his face. “Want some?” he asked.