Shot of Tequila (31 page)

“Marty broke his first cellular phone because he was so angry Tequila got away, so we went to his car phone in the garage. He talks on the phone for about a minute, gets real angry, and hangs up again. Then he says,
I’m fucked.
”

“He told you you were fucked?”

“No, he said it about himself. Then he pulls his gun and shoves it in his mouth. I yell for him to drop it, but he pulls the trigger.”

Fonti continued to stare at Slake, waiting for him to squirm or look away or give any other sign that he was lying.

Slake gave him blank, meeting the man’s stare, thinking about killing Terco. That was the secret to lying well, saying bullshit and then thinking about something else entirely.

“You’re lying,” Fonti said flatly.

“You think I killed him?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Slake switched on a liberal dose of outrage.

“Marty was like a father to me!” he screamed, standing up. Five thugs rushed him, pinning him down, but Slake continued his tirade. “I loved him! I loved that man! I tried to stop it! I tried to stop him!”

Slake struggled and screamed, and was eventually forced back onto the sofa, a hand over his mouth. He radiated anger at Fonti, burning holes through him with his eyes for suggesting such a horrible thing.

“Cool it,” Fonti said. “I believe you. It all checks out. Marty was losing it. He even killed one of his own men today. I was just checking to see if maybe Marty drew down on you, and you shot in self-defense.”

Slake’s rage intensified, but Fonti held out a placating hand.

“I know you didn’t. We checked your gun. It had a full magazine, hadn’t been fired. My men were there right after the gunshot, you couldn’t have reloaded. And I highly doubt you got Marty’s gun away from him and shot him yourself. The Maniac wouldn’t have let that happen. Plus there’s no point for you to kill Marty. Why would you do that? There wasn’t any reason. He was your boss. He paid your bills.”

Fonti motioned for his men to let Slake go. Slake shrugged his shoulders, still doing a slow burn.

“Look,” Fonti said, “I admire loyalty like that in employees. Marty messed up big, couldn’t deal with it, and he’s gone now. We all respected him, and we mourn his passing. You call me in a few days, you can work for me from now on.”

Fonti shook Slake’s hand, palming his business card to him. Slake dropped most of the anger and let himself appear deflated. He took a long time reading Fonti’s card, then put it into his pocket.

“Thanks,” Slake said.

Fonti nodded and walked off.

Slake was a good actor, but it took every ounce of effort not to break into a huge, self-effacing grin.

He’d gotten away with it.

All that was left now was Tequila.

And Slake knew exactly how to prepare for him.

F
lying on painkillers. Tequila took a cab from the hospital to a gas station a mile away from Marty’s house. He used the pay phone to call the Maniac’s home number. Tequila had a plan. He’d tell Marty he was sick of running, and set up a meeting to give Marty the money back.

Of course, Tequila wasn’t going to give the money back. He was going to buy a rifle and shoot Marty and his goons from three hundred yards away. There was a forest preserve in Elk Grove that he’d driven past which would be perfect for the set-up. He’d plan it for sometime tonight, so he had a chance to scout out the area and buy a rifle with a night scope.

But Marty didn’t answer his phone, some unknown man did. When Tequila asked for Marty, the man demanded to know who was calling.

“Guido Fucking Lambini, you schmuck,” said Tequila. Lambini was a well-known mafia figure from Detroit.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lambini. I hate to be the one to tell you, but Marty’s dead.”

“Dead? Fucking how?”

“I don’t know if you were aware of Marty’s recent money trouble, but he took a big hit for a large sum, and he cracked.”

“How did he fucking die?” Tequila demanded.

“He killed himself, Mr. Lambini. Shot himself in the head.”

“I don’t fucking believe it.” Guido Lambini said
fucking
a lot.

“None of us do. It’s a shock to us all. We’ll be sure to let you know when the services are being held.”

Tequila hung-up. Were they lying to him? Was the Maniac really dead? He didn’t buy it. Marty wasn’t the type to off himself.

But why would they lie? Did they know he wasn’t Lambini?

Tequila dropped another thirty-five cents into the phone and dialed
Spill
.

“It’s Slake,” Tequila told the answering bartender. “Put Marty on.”

“I thought you heard, Slake. Marty’s dead. Blew his own brains out. We might not even open tonight.”

Tequila replaced the receiver and walked into the gas station to get out of the cold. It was possible Marty had faked his own death, because he knew Tequila was coming for him.

But that was almost as implausible as Marty killing himself. The Maniac feared no man. He didn’t run away. He didn’t give up. And he certainly wasn’t the type to blow his own brains out.

“You buyin’ something?” the guy at the register asked.

Tequila bought two candy bars and ate one, thinking.

Perhaps Marty was dead after all, but not by suicide. Maybe someone killed him. Someone high up in the family. Someone who was mad that Marty lost all that money. Someone who didn’t want to be known, thus the suicide story.

But isn’t the point of mob revenge to be obvious, to make sure a message is sent?

Tequila decided it didn’t matter. Who knew why the Outfit did certain things? If Marty was dead, he was dead.

So what was next?

With Marty out of the picture for the moment, the only two left on Tequila’s hit list were Slake and Terco. Daniels had said Terco was in police custody, and Tequila didn’t want to mess with that. Jack was right, let the bastard rot in prison.

But Slake…

The man who raped Sally. The man who started it all.

Hector Slake had a date with a body bag, and Tequila was going to chaperon.

He left the gas station and wandered the cold city streets until he found a tended parking lot.

The same trick worked just as well as it had yesterday.

After getting the keys to a black Corvette from the frightened parking lot attendant, Tequila set a course for the suburb of Palatine for the second time in two days.

He wouldn’t be going back a third. This trip out, Slake was going to die.

And die bloody.

W
hen Jack Daniels arrived at Marty Martelli’s house via Checker Cab, she hadn’t expected to see that many people.

It was a beehive of activity, cars parked helter-skelter all over the lawn with a line of them waiting to get in. Something big was happening. Either there was a major meeting taking place, or someone important died.

The latter proved to be correct.

Jack passed up the house in favor of a phone at a nearby Dunkin Donuts. She called up the 7th Precinct and asked for either Detective Pierce or Rowan, the cops working on the Martelli case. She got connected to Pierce.

“We just got the word confirmed, Detective. Martelli is dead.”

Jack’s legs began to give out. She was too late. Tequila had murdered another man.

“How?” she asked.

“Seems like the guy ate his gun.”

“That doesn’t sound like the Maniac.”

“Who gives a shit? Ding, dong, the witch is dead. Case closed. Rowan and I are going out and getting butt-drunk. Wanna come?”

Jack was moved by the gesture. Maybe they considered her one of the boys after all.

“Not tonight, raincheck me. Thanks, Pierce.”

“No prob.”

Daniels hung-up, puzzled. She was sure Tequila would go for Marty. But with Marty dead, where would Tequila go next?

Slake. He’d go for the guy who started it all.

Jack picked up the phone. She needed to get some cars over to Slake’s place to stop Tequila. It was doubtful the mob had a hold over any law enforcement officers in Palatine.

After dialing 9 and 1 Daniels put the phone back down. If Tequila saw squad cars, he wouldn’t make a move. If he didn’t make a move, Jack wouldn’t be able to find him. No Tequila, no way to nail the dirty cops.

Jack considered the risk. If she used Slake as bait, and Slake died, it was no big loss to humanity. Slake was a scumbag.

But killing Slake would be Murder One. Jack would have no choice. Everything else Tequila had done could be called self-defense. This was premeditated. She’d have to arrest him, and he’d do time.

Daniels had to stop him.

She went back to the Checker Cab, which was waiting for her in the parking lot.

“You know where Palatine is?” Jack asked the cabbie.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Move it. And don’t worry about any traffic tickets.”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you sure you don’t want to grab any donuts while we’re here, officer?”

Jack stared at the man.

“No problem, officer. I don’t like donuts myself. Buckle up.”

Daniels snapped on her seatbelt as the taxi squealed tires, pulling out into the street.

She hoped she was figuring Tequila correctly.

She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake in not calling the cops.

Most of all, she hoped no more people were going to die.

On that last count, she was dead wrong.

S
lake had the guns in a footlocker under his bed. He had several other anti-personnel goodies as well, including grenades, two claymore mines, and a Russian made RPO-A single shot rocket infantry flame thrower which was capable of bringing down a wall. The footlocker also contained a pair of NVG-500 Starlight goggles, which allowed for a person to see in the dark, and a Kevlar bullet proof vest with side panels and a chest trauma plate. If Palatine was ever invaded by a hostile country, Slake would be able to hold them off for a while.

But a hostile country wasn’t invading.

Tequila was.

Slake strapped on the vest and removed a Thompson sub-machine gun from his cache, complete with the fifty round pancake magazine. A Tommy gun, made famous by Chicago gangsters. That’s the reason Slake had bought it in the first place, because he liked to look at himself holding it in front of a mirror, pretending to be Dillinger. Of course, being able to fire two-hundred rounds a minute was a reason as well.

He also took his tazer stun gun, his night vision goggles, and, what the hell, a grenade. Thusly equipped, he headed for the kitchen and opened the fuse box, hitting the circuit-breaker and turning out all the electricity in the house

Then the spider hid under the kitchen table and waited for the fly to come.

The trick was not to kill him. He had to shoot to wound, lest Tequila die without revealing the location of the money. It was a sticky proposition, because Tequila wasn’t treating him with the same consideration.

His best chance was to clip him in the knees, and hopefully the little shit would faint from the pain. Slake had shot people in knees before, and they usually weren’t conscious for more than a minute or two.

If he didn’t faint, Slake could always sneak up on him in the dark and taze his ass. Then it was into the basement, for the pain game.