Murder by Candlelight (31 page)

"Also to say a word of thanks -- though I
was never in danger, no matter how you might have taken what I said
about me being followed. But we been friends for a long time, you
and me. And you did your best by me, such as it was. And Johnny
Dosso don't forget his friends. Never!"

Clearly, it was hard for John to admit, even
to himself, he'd needed Z's help. Which was OK with Z.

"Then, too, it occurred to
me you might have had your hand in what happened that changed the
... situation." John drummed the fingers of both hands on the sides
of his chair. Drew back his upper lip in another, canine-exposing,
grin. "Me and you both know that you got a way of gettin' yourself
in the middle of things. Like a special
meddling
talent. Like that. So I was
wonderin' ....."

"What?"

"Wonderin' if you might have had something
to do with a certain something I heard about a lowlife name of
Marco Minghetti."

"No."

"Yeah?"

"No."

"I wasn't meanin'
personally. I know that. But I was a long time in that sewer of a
hotel -- and I wouldn't send one of my girls to a place like
that
, to say nothing of
me going there in person. Like I was sayin', I had awhile to do
some considering. And I got to thinking about how Minghetti's
pistol Pete would go about bird-dogging me. Now, with me stashed
away, and you bein' a friend of mine, I got to figure the asshole
would come after
you
." John frowned.

"Much as I don't like him, Cristoforo's a
smart boy."

"Cristoforo?"

"Yeah. What you call in English,
Christopher. That's what he calls himself. Christopher Columbus --
like he owns this new world -- get it?"

"Yeah."

"He don't call himself Cristoforo Columbo.
Just Cristoforo. Like he's so famous he's only got one name. Like
you say Barbra, and you know right away it's Barbra Streisand."
Unless you think Barbara Walters, Z countered to himself. "Or Cher
or Madonna. Like that. Or Janis Joplin." Though John had wandered
off the mental track, Z knew what he meant. Nodded.

"This Cristoforo's a little shit, but he's
not stupid. So, I say to myself, what would a not-so-dumb kiss-ass
like Cristoforo do, given the task Minghetti gave him?

"I got to figure he tries to tie you to me.
And knowing how much you like your privacy, when I made a call this
morning and heard what I heard, I got to figure that you maybe had
a hand in turning Cristoforo around."

"Call?"

"Yeah. Like I keep saying, I got friends in
the organization. Good friends." None John could count on when in
big trouble, Z thought.

"I made this call and what do you know? I
find that, overnight, things had changed in my favor. Now, I'm not
so stupid in my old age that I believe everything I hear over the
phone, particularly when somebody's lookin' for me. But then I make
a couple more contacts and find it's true."

"What?"

"That Mr. Big Shot Marco Minghetti got
himself offed last night. The way I hear it is he's got this estate
south of Leawood, but on the Missouri side of State Line. Got all
kind of protection. Guards on the complex. Got electric gates,
fences protecting his grounds. All kind of security. But somebody
gets Minghetti to open up. Had to have been somebody near and
dear.

"Minghetti comes to the door all happy. And
gets whacked. First, shot a bunch of places you don't even want to
think about. Then gut-shot and left to die all over the front
hall.

"I also hear that the cops don't got a clue
who did it. But then, the cops don't never know shit." John
shrugged in apology for having stated what was common
knowledge.

"The inside guess is that some young punk
who worked for Minghetti is the one who did it. Name being
whispered around is this same Cristoforo. Had to be pretty mad to
have hit Minghetti like that. 'Cause that's not the way it's done
in the majors. Too public, for one thing. Got to be done through
the proper channels, like in any other modern organization." John
shrugged, not able to keep from grinning like a wolf.

"So, by this time, the punk had better be in
the fuckin' Amazon, fuckin' some of them headhunter native girls,
he havin' no place left to hide. You don't offend guys that high up
and then stick your nose in no civilized places."

John lowered his voice. "It now comes out
that this Minghetti -- so recently deceased the blood's not yet dry
-- had failed to get proper authority to meddle with me. So, all
the way around, everybody is pleased. The bad guys are dead or on
the run. The cops are scratching their dicks in amazement, figurin'
that some nigger come south to rob, instead, tragically murdering
an upstanding member of the community like Mr. Marco Minghetti."
John snorted merrily.

"Three days, I give the story, before
somebody else's problems wipes the TV screen of this mysterious
business." Again, the knowing grin.

"Meanwhile, higher-ups have asked me to
resume my valuable contribution to the entertainment of the adult
community, giving me the respect I should have got before. With
words said about how you can't trust newcomers, but have got to
stay with those who took you to the dance." John grinned again. "I
been bad mouthin' my end of the take, but the fact is that I'm
doin' pretty good. Seems like the drug part of the family business
has about gone bust. As you might guess, because of foreigners:
spics flooding the market.

"Which leads me back to askin', what was
your part in that nigger coming south to total Minghetti?"

"No part."

"No? OK. That's the way you want to play it?
OK by me. But all talk aside -- and not forgetting for a moment
that when the Z-man gets involved, things got a way of being
resolved on the side of the angels -- I come to say, I owe you. And
one of the things that old-timers like me hold dear, is that a debt
is always to be repaid. So I'd appreciate it if you were to think
of some favor I could do to get you off the "owing side" of my
ledger. Because we're friends, and shouldn't be dealing with each
other in terms of debts, but like we always have, in terms of
favors given without a favor expected in return. Like old friends
from high school."

Z knew what Johnny meant, but didn't know
what to say. He could repeat that he hadn't caused Minghetti's
death. Which was true, as far as it went, but a little like
maintaining that pushing the first domino in the row has nothing to
do with the eventual fall of the last one. Or he could have said
he'd done what he'd done for Susan more than for John -- so John
didn't owe him -- neither of those things seeming quite right.

"Anyway, I'm flyin' high
again. Not that I was havin'
that
much difficulty," John added, quickly. "And now I
got to tell you the truth. I got to go because this ... place ...
of yours is depressing the hell out of me. And I'd feel even worse
for letting a friend dig himself into such a hole, except that it's
not my fault. Every time I make an offer of work, you turn it down.
Nothing rough, neither." John took a deep breath, holding his hand
up to keep Z from interrupting.

"It's your Mama I blame.
For feeding you all that crap about honesty being the American
way." John shook his head, Z's ignorance saddening him. "The
American way is making a buck any way you can, my friend, and
that's the real truth. The only people talking
honesty
are politicians who are
trying to back other people away from the valuables so the pols got
elbow room to steal." John was working himself up, like he
sometimes did. John could speak "good" English; but in a temper,
reverted to "wise guy."

"And the religious is just
as bad -- worse, cause a politician is
expected
to lie and steal in
moderation. What your purer-than-piss preacher says is, drop your
money in the pot and you'll get a slice of heavenly pie. But
do
they
drop in
any coin? Nosiree. They're grabbin' it out with both hands. I watch
'em on TV. And a richer bunch I never saw. Got suits better than
me. Limos." John was getting louder and redder in the face.
"Gettin' to travel all over the world off poor folks' savings.
Don't pay no taxes, 'cause they're livin' off the fat of the
religious hog. Breakfastin' with the president. And what do they do
for all that money? Nothin', but tell the poor they better shell
out their last dime or God'll punish 'em. Like some little old lady
did in Bible times." An interesting slant on the parable of the
widow's mite, Z thought.

"Me -- the kind of guy priests spit on -- I
give value for the dollar. Want a little adult fun? My girls are
ready to provide it for a fair price. I don't threaten hellfire to
make people buy what I got for sale, like the preachers do. What I
give is honest service for an honest price. Gambling? Sure. And I
always win. But everybody knows the odds are set in favor of the
house. Pays for the upkeep. Pays the dealers' salaries. I got
overhead keepin' cops from bustin' in."

John was breathing hard now. Sweating
heavily. Exhausted.

Another way John's job "paid off," Z could
tell, was in poor health. Booze and broads and cards and being
threatened by "higher-ups" were taking their toll.

To be fair about
it,
Z's
job
wasn't all
that
safe. And to be
strictly
honest, paid a lot less.

Maybe Z's Mom
had
sold Z a bill of
goods on the American way. Then, again, maybe she was
right.

"I'm goin'. I'm goin'," John said after he'd
caught his breath, lurching up. "Just remember, Z, you got a favor
comin'. Just don't be too long about collecting, hear?"

After seeing John out, Z thought that -- all
things considered -- Johnny D's situation had resolved itself
pretty well. John was safe, at least for the time being. Susan was
safe. Z was safe. Safe all around.

As for Z's old
clothes,
still
in
the trunk of John's limo ... no problem.

Z looked at his asthmatic old
wristwatch.

Plenty of time to dial the insurance
company. Tell Susan he'd be by to take her home.

They'd have to get her bag at the other
girl's house, so maybe the thing to do was have Susan tell her
friend to expect them later, after Z took Susan to dinner. Though Z
didn't know exactly how much money he had, he still had Harry's
check in the bank. He could afford a pizza. Maybe even a ritzier
meal at the Corner Cafe.

Taking five more minutes
to go over the whole thing
once
more
, the only residue Z
could think of to this nasty -- turned dangerous -- business, was
the favor John thought he owed to Z.

Which meant that Z had to
think up a favor big enough so John would feel satisfied paying
off. But small enough so
Z
, in turn, didn't feel a debt
to
John
.

All told, Z's
new
fear was that
picking the right favor might prove to be a bigger problem than the
Cristoforo-Minghetti mess.

* * * * *

Chapter 18

Z drove around awhile, the therapeutic ride
followed by a long, thoughtful supper. So that it was dark by the
time he got home, an unpleasant time for him, the night forcing Z
to face his dreams.

As Z came up the back walk, the blackness
mercifully hiding the yard's trash, Z thought again of Johnny
Dosso.

John ran hookers and high stakes games for
the organization, apparently seeing nothing wrong with these
illegal "activities."

Prostitution? Gambling?
Compared to John's
daily
illegalities, Z was living the life of a saint.
And yet, it was
Z
who was having terrifying dreams, nightmares so bad he
couldn't remember when he'd had a good night's sleep.

Why was John so guilt-free, Z so
guilt-ridden?

Picking his way up the
broken concrete walk, it popped into Z's mind that John's religion
might be what was giving John relief. In John's faith, they had
what was called confession. As Z understood it, a man could confess
his crimes to a priest, the priest honor-bound to keep those
felonies a secret. You could tell the priest
anything
.

As a child, Z remembered "confessing" to his
Mom about some kid's offense he'd "committed." And feeling better
after he'd "fessed up," even though his Mom punished him for doing
wrong.

Z had to wonder if John's being able to tell
his priest all about his crimes was what made the difference, John
able to live comfortably with himself after confession. In Z's
case, unable to tell anybody about this Kunkle business could be
bottling up enough guilt to produce the nightmares.

If there was any truth to
this line of thought, Z had to ask himself if
he
could do something along the
confession line to help himself? Not talk to a priest; you had to
believe in religion for faith to work -- but maybe seeing Dr.
Calder. For wasn't it the case that, what a priest was to "true
believers," a psychologist was to regular people, psychologists
pledged to keep your sins a secret?

At the very least, Z could ask Calder if
Calder kept confidences; if a psychologist was like a priest for
ordinary people.

Z liked the chubby prof from Bateman
College, Calder hiring Z, first to see that a building contractor
did the job Calder had paid for, then to investigate more "ghostly"
matters. Calder had even been responsible for Z getting employment
with Bateman College on another "Ghost light" case, Calder
recommending Z, Z hired by a shady dean named Ashlock.