Killing The Rat (An Organized Crime Thriller) (3 page)

The elevator dinged and she stepped inside. She hit the button for the Lower Level. The ride down was uninterrupted; forty-three floors of companies whose employees had knocked down the door promptly at five and were already on their way home. Loreli didn’t blame them, nor did she envy them. She had a job to do and she did it right. Period. But now, inside the elevator, she shut off the agile mind of the legal secretary and thought only of Liam. She couldn’t wait to see him.

The doors opened onto the parking garage, and Loreli walked past the Porsches, BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes before getting to her beige Toyota Camry. It had a bubbling patch of rust over the right rear wheel well, and some of the rubber stripping below both doors was coming off. Each strip was bending back and every time Loreli saw them, she smiled, remembering the time Liam had told her they looked like wings.

 There were other problems with the car. The speedometer worked sporadically, the air conditioner blew hot air and there were more than a few spots of rust around the car, but Loreli didn’t care. The thing was paid for. And it was hers. And it got her where she needed to go.

She opened the door, climbed in and started the car up. The engine responded hesitantly, but Loreli gave it a little gas and it picked up quickly. She pumped the brakes a couple times; there was a leak in the brake line and she had just added some brake fluid this morning.

Loreli pulled out of her space, drove to the gate, held up her security card and when the giant white arm raised, drove out onto Jefferson Avenue. She turned on the radio and punched the button for her favorite rock station.

A song was playing that she liked and she turned the volume way up. One thing about her car: it was a piece of crap, but its sound system got the job done. Loreli’s left foot tapped to the rhythm of the song. She rolled down the window and let the warm air inside, then checked her cell phone for messages, but there weren’t any.

Loreli thought of Liam’s father. Which was always strange because Liam didn’t really have a father. Well, technically, he did. But for all intents and purposes he didn’t. Which was fine with Loreli. Liam’s father was the single biggest mistakes of her life. But that part of her life was over.

She pushed that line of thinking from her mind, like a house guest who’d overstayed his welcome, and sang out loud to the song on the radio. She concentrated on the future. She wasn’t going to be a legal secretary forever. She was good at it, and she would keep at it for a little while longer, but in a year, she planned to go back to college, to finish her degree and go to law school. Eventually, she wanted to start her own practice. Do lots of pro bono work for low-income single moms.

Loreli knew she could do it. She was as smart as most of the attorneys at Ryson, Butters & Mahoney. In fact, there were a few to whom she could give some pointers.

The old Loreli, the Loreli of five or six years ago probably wouldn’t have allowed a thought like that. But the new Loreli didn’t have any problem making the call. If her past had taught her one thing, it was to rely on herself when she wanted to get something done.

I-696 West was crowded as usual. Loreli pulled the Camry into the middle lane and notched the speedometer at 70. Any higher and the little car would start to shudder and vibrate. She took the Van Dyke Road exit North to Thirteen Mile Road. From there, she turned onto Irene Street, a quite neighborhood of mostly blue collar workers in the suburb of Warren. Warren was considered one of the most blue collar of Detroit’s suburbs. It was home to two General Motors and Chrysler plants.

Loreli’s house was a brick ranch built in the fifties. There was a one-car garage. The flowers Loreli had planted were in full bloom. The front yard was small, but the grass was green and lush. It was a well-kept, if extremely modest house.

Loreli parked the car in the garage and walked to the front door to check the mailbox. A catalog for children’s toys and the phone bill.  

She went up the front steps and opened the front door.

And her mouth dropped open.

Ted Haldeman, Liam’s father, sat in a chair, facing the door. Thick bands of duct tape covered his arms and legs, holding him to the chair. There was duct tape all over him. His chest. His neck. Duct tape around his ankles, around his crotch. There were even a few strips wrapped around his mouth.

Dried blood streaked down Ted’s face. A tack had been smashed into his forehead. Beneath the tack was a small slip of paper, splotched in places by blood.

“Liam!” Loreli screamed.

There was no answer.

In the chair, Ted shook his head from side-to-side.

Loreli went to him and ripped the piece of paper from Ted’s forehead. Before she even read the note, she knew what was happening.

Her worst nightmare had come true.

She read the note aloud. “Bring the money to The Venus Arcade in Troy if you want your package back.”

She ripped the duct tape from Ted’s mouth.

“Uhhh,” Ted said. His head sagged and small drops of blood appeared on the skin that had been relieved of the duct tape.

Loreli grabbed Ted by the front of his shirt. “Where is Liam?”

“Dexter took him to scare me,” he said, his eyes pinched shut. “Don’t worry. I‘ll get him his five grand. All I need...”

Before he could finish the sentence, Loreli slapped him. The blow rang out in the quiet of the room. Ted’s head snapped back, then lolled to the side. She stepped back and drove a fist into the middle of his face. Blood poured from his nose. Loreli raked her nails across Ted’s face, her teeth grinding so hard she felt a small piece break off in her mouth. She spit it out, then grabbed a handful of Ted’s hair with her left hand and smashed her right fist into his mouth. His lips split and blood gushed from his mouth.

Loreli turned and ran from the house, her car keys in hand.

Behind her, Ted’s head sunk to his chest.

4.

“I’m not happy with you,” Vincenzo Romano said to the doctor. It was the tone of voice that he’d used to scare his enemies into submission, or to keep his lieutenants in line. The doctor, a talented oncologist and surgeon and a normally supremely self-confident man, suddenly felt unnerved.

“The procedure...” the doctor began.

“Was nothing like you’d said it would be,” Romano interrupted. “I distinctly recall you saying things like, ‘minor pain,’ and ‘inconvenience.’ What I’m feeling isn’t minor and it’s a hell of a lot more than inconvenient.”

“There was significantly more bleeding than we’d expected,” the doctor said, his voice softer and lacking the assertiveness most of his patients experienced. Patient Romano was special. They didn’t teach him that in medical school. It was a skill handed down through the ages; it was called survival instinct.

“I’m very sorry if you’re in pain, we’ll get you on the proper medication and make sure your recovery is smooth and as free of pain as possible.”

Romano looked at the doctor, then softened his gaze. He wasn’t used to another man hurting him. The few who had were now at the bottom of the Detroit River. The doctor had done his job, if the procedure had a few difficulties, he would let it go. He wasn’t about to whack the guy. Besides, the most important job the doctor had was ongoing: no one was to find out what kind of procedure the head of the Detroit mafia had received.

A mastectomy.

Romano pictured himself at a rally, surrounded by women all with their arms around each other singing folk songs. And there he’d be, ol’ half-tit Romano, legendary crime boss now emblazoned with his new moniker: breast cancer survivor.

“Let me talk to you about maintenance,” the doctor said. Ordinarily, Romano would have an underling here to take notes. But everyone had been led to believe that he was in Vegas. Gloria knew, but that was it. And that’s the way it would stay. A thing like this could undermine his reputation and in his business, a reputation was sometimes more important than what you actually did. When he’d found the lump more than two months ago, he hadn’t thought twice. In fact, it had become a nervous tic, in meetings or on the phone, he’d found himself gently caressing his left breast. Finally, at his annual check-up, he’d mentioned it to the doctor.

In no time, he was under the knife.

“So we’ll expect to see you back in a week, Mr. Romano.”

An hour later, he was discharged and in a cab, headed for home.

***

Romano sat stiffly in the big leather chair in the living room, his eyes staring straight ahead. His face, usually splashed with color and an underlying ruddiness, was now pale and wan. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out along his forehead.

Nick Falcone walked into the room with the hesitancy of a dog caught stealing the master’s shoe.

“How you doin’, boss?” he asked.

“Shut up Nick.”

His voice was thick. His words came out soft but harsh. The doctor had told him that he had to take it easy for a few days. Rest. Relax. Try not to get upset over the fact that his left breast had been completely removed. Sure doc, he thought, ol’ Don Half-Tit was going to just relax. Romano stared at Nick Falcone. He felt the black rage rise within him, the kind that doesn’t heed the advice of doctors and significant others.

“What the hell were you thinking, Nick?” Romano said.

“Boss,” Nick began, but Romano cut him off.

 “We got a million bakeries in Grosse Pointe! We are the goddamn bakery capital of the free world. We got scones and éclairs and bagels and donuts and every other kind of baked good coming out our asses.”

“I know, Boss, but—”

“Then why in the name of God would you let Tommy Abrocci talk you into driving all the way out to Birmingham for some goddamn scones? Are you insane? Have you completely lost the ability to think for yourself?”

“But he said Mrs. Romano—”

“Nick.” Romano’s voice was low and even. “This is what they call a rhetorical question. Don’t bother making excuses. Mr.-drive-to-Birmingham-for-scones-so-Tommy-Abrocci-can-rip-me-off.”

Falcone opened his mouth to say something, but then snapped it closed just as Gloria walked into the room.

She had on blue jeans with a black belt and black leather shoes. A magenta blouse clung to her body, revealing her flat stomach and large, firm breasts. Her face was a true Italian beauty with olive skin, full lips, luscious brown eyes and black hair.

Romano contemplated his wife. They’d met through their families. Her father had owned a fine food grocery store that catered to all the Mob—or the Combination as it was called locally—functions. He’d met her when he was still a young man, had asked her to dance, and six months later they were married. That was nearly fifteen years ago.

He still desired her, but the feeling was faint and faraway. The doctor had told him that his hormones would be all over the place following the surgery and that his emotions might be up and down. He felt that way, but looking at Gloria, he felt calmed, the black rage passed from his body. Even though he had several mistresses and his marriage had become a joint figurehead, he could still admire her beauty. Even as she aged, Gloria didn’t become more beautiful, it was just that her beauty was different. More refined. More statuesque. More about the form of her face, the shape of her eyes than the youthful glow of her skin.

His ruminating was interrupted by the sight of the small bandage on the side of her forehead, slightly buried beneath the rich black hair. The inner peace he’d felt turned out to be fleeting. The rage came back. Tommy Abrocci cold-cocking his wife in his den, stealing his money. The bastard had to die.

The doctor had checked out Gloria. She needed rest and plenty of Tylenol.

Other than that, she would be fine.

Romano knew that Gloria had wanted to come to the hospital, to be there when he got out of surgery, but he’d vetoed the idea. Only a handful of people knew why he was at the hospital: himself, Gloria, the doctor, the surgeon and a few nurses. Romano had every intention of keeping it that way.

“Do you want anything?” Gloria said. “Tea? Espresso?”

Romano shook his head.

“How are you?” she asked. She sat on the arm of the club chair – his favorite because it faced Lake St. Claire and was close to the fireplace.

“I’ll be a lot better when I find Tommy Abrocci. He didn’t hurt you, right?” He reached out and stroked her back.  She didn’t respond to his touch. Hadn’t for a long time. He felt a wave of sadness but pushed it aside. It was too late for all that.

 Romano could see that she was hurt he’d put it in that order. He realized, after the fact, that he’d put her second in the equation, that a normal husband would first ask about his wife, then express the need to find the man who’d ripped him off. But he’d spent all his life putting business before everything. He wasn’t about to change.

He was just surprised that it still seemed to matter to Gloria.

“I’m fine,” she said. “A little—”

“Boss,” Nick Falcone said. “We’re ready for you.”

Romano heaved himself from the chair, winced at the pain that seemed to sting his chest.

Gloria didn’t wait, just stood and walked from the room. He followed and was almost through the doorway when he realized that Gloria had been saying something.

He was about to ask her, but she was already gone.

Too late.

He kept going.

5.

In Romano’s study, Nick Falcone slid back the oak panel of the entertainment center to reveal the flat-screen plasma television located behind it. He picked up the remotes and pressed buttons until the tape began to play.

Romano stood in front of the unit, not bothering to sit down. It wasn’t worth the pain. He slid his hands into his pockets and glowered at the television.

The footage was shot from the overhead security camera located in the corner of the office. The image was black-and-white, and showed Tommy Abrocci with a gun pointed at Gloria’s head. It showed Tommy going to the safe, getting the money, then putting the gun to Gloria’s head. Their mouths moved, then Tommy smashed the gun against Gloria’s head. The room was silent as Romano and Falcone watched Gloria slide from the chair and collapse onto the floor.