The Betrayers (23 page)

Authors: James Patrick Hunt

BOOK: The Betrayers

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Hastings said, “Why don't you come with me? Step out and we'll discuss it.”

Dillon looked at the side of the boxcar. There was a rung in front of him, a few feet to his left. A ladder rung running up the side of the car.

“Buddy,” Dillon said, “I'm not worth dying over.”

Dillon took one hand off his pistol and put it on the rung.

Hastings said, “You're right about that.” Hastings began edging away from the corner of his boxcar.

Dillon was climbing the ladder now.

He said, “What's this all about anyway? Salary and a pension? It doesn't mean anything. No one will care, no one will know. Just move on.”

Dillon had his hands on the top of the boxcar now. He peered over the edge, made sure it was clear. He climbed on top, stayed down at first. He had seen the cop briefly. Plainclothes, probably a detective. The same one standing by the door with the
what the fuck
expression on his face as Dillon drove the Thunderbird out of the garage. He was talking cool, but had to be scared while he waited for a helicopter or SWAT to show up and bail his ass out.

Dillon got to his knees and looked out over the boxcar. He stood up, put both hands on the pistol.

“All right,” Dillon said, “what can you offer me if I surrender?” Waiting now for the cop to step out and look across the yard as Dillon stood over him.

Hastings rounded the second corner of his boxcar and saw the man as he spoke, saw the man standing on top of the boxcar looking, concentrating
on the corner where Hastings had been. Hastings raised the shotgun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot took Dillon full in the side and punched him off the boxcar.

Hastings ran around to the other side, pumping another shell in the chamber as he did so, knowing the damage buckshot did at this range but not taking any chances on this one, still hoping it would not be necessary to fire on him again.

It wasn't. Dillon lay on his back, twisted and broken and half of his side cracked open. He had not been able to hold onto his pistol.

Hastings stood over him.

Dillon looked up at him, grinning and gasping, his wound making noises on its own.

Hastings held the shotgun at his side, something taken out of him now.

“God,” Dillon said, “I didn't even know you were over there. You part Indian or something?”

Hastings knew there wouldn't be much time. He said, “You shot Cain.”

Dillon still gasping. He said, “Which one was he?”

Hastings said nothing. He was tired now. He felt no shame or remorse, but he could not take pleasure in seeing this beast suffer either.

Dillon said, “You sure I don't know you?”

“Yeah,” Hastings said. “I'm sure.”

“Ohhhh â¦ well,” Dillon said, “I guess there are worse ways to die.”

FORTY-THREE

The nurse told him that he would have to have clothes brought to him when he checked out; his pants and shirt had been cut off in the emergency room. They still had his shoes and his jacket, though there were bloodstains on them both. Regan waited for the nurse or the doctor to tell him the police wanted to talk to him. Neither one of them did. The nurse's assistant was friendly though, smiling at him because he was dangerous and handsome.

Regan had never stayed in a hospital before. He supposed he could sneak out of the room, stand out in the hall in bare ass, and look for some clothes. But he had had his identification on him when he was shot, which he was sure the police had looked at by now, so there wouldn't be much point. He woke up at seven o'clock, the usual time. Except on this morning, the morphine had worn off and he felt like someone had driven over his midsection with a tractor. He found a remote next to his bed and turned the TV on because he couldn't get back to sleep and he told himself that the best plan was to remain cool until he could walk out of here.

That was how he found out Dillon was dead. Shot by the police in a railroad yard sometime in the night. Jimmy was dead too, though he had already known that. He watched images on the screen, a plainclothes detective walking up an incline toward two wrecked cars, one of them a police cruiser, the detective holding a shotgun with one hand, down at his side.

Jesus, it was done. Mike Dillon, nailed with a shotgun.

Would he have to give his half of the money back to Zans?

The nurse came in with a cup of water and some pain pills and advised him to take them. He did and was asleep in ten minutes.

When he woke up, the sun was brighter in his room. And there was a guy sitting in the visitor's chair. The same guy he had seen on television. Surreal.

Hastings said, “How you feeling?”

Regan said, “Tired.”

“Yeah, well, you lost a lot of blood.”

Regan said, “Apparently.” The cop didn't have the shotgun with him.

Hastings said, “Planning on going home soon?”

“Hoping to,” Regan said. “I'll have to call my wife, have her come get me.”

“Don't feel up to driving?”

“No.”

Hastings said, “Planning on taking the gun back with you?”

“What gun?”

“The one found in your jacket after you passed out,” Hastings said. “It's not registered to you, but then they never are, are they?”

Regan shrugged.

“Still,” Hastings said, “it's got your prints all over it.”

“So what?”

“So nothing,” Hastings said. “It's a misdemeanor I'll stretch into a felony. Or not. I haven't decided. I'm tired. Maybe I need to sleep too.” Hastings sighed. “I spent the last few hours on the telephone with Chicago police. They told me who you are, what you do.”

“I own a bar. We serve food as well.”

Hastings went on as if he hadn't heard him. “Three people in Chicago killed in the last few days, three cops killed here. Nice little balance. Two of them killed in your place. One of them the brother of Jimmy Rizza.”

Regan shrugged. “I wasn't there. Ask anyone.”

“I don't need to ask; I know. Anyway, what you did in Chicago is Chicago's business. What you did here is mine.”

“I got shot here. You want me to register a complaint with you?”

“You're an assassin. Killer for the mob. They say you're the man they call to take care of snitches.”

“Do they.”

“And that's what I think you were here for. To take care of Jimmy Rizza and Michael Dillon.”

“Well, it didn't happen, did it?”

“No, things don't turn out like you plan,” Hastings said. “But I would like to know who sent you here.”

Regan smiled, said nothing.

“Who put the hit out on Dillon and Rizza?”

“Hit? What do youâ
I
got hit.”

“Who was protecting Dillon?”

“I can't help you,” Regan said. “You got charges to file, file 'em.”

“
Was
Dillon a snitch?”

Regan shrugged again. He said, “Clean your own house.”

“I'm trying,” Hastings said.

After a moment, Regan said, “Sean would have known.”

Hastings looked at Regan. Regan picked up the remote and turned on the television. Sound and light interfering now.

Hastings said, “Sean Rizza?”

Regan nodded.

“But he's dead.”

Regan kept his eyes on the television. He said, “You're the detective.” It was all he was going to say.

FORTY-FOUR

Rhodes was waiting for him in the coffee shop of the hospital lobby. Hastings acknowledged him and said he needed to get some coffee. He was hungry too; a tired hungry, but the prepackaged “big donut” looked too big and sugary at this hour. He wondered if they had a toaster and some plain white bread in the back, because a couple of slices of lightly buttered toast would work just fine. But he realized that it would be silly to ask. He took his coffee and sat at the small beige table with Rhodes.

Rhodes said, “Well?”

Hastings said, “He's a lifer.”

“What do you mean?”

“A professional criminal. Probably most of his life. Chicago PD said he was clever. Never spent any time in prison. Never ratted on anyone in the mob to stay out of prison.”

“So?”

“So he didn't manage that by telling cops what they want to know. He's not going to tell us that, yes, he was sent here by the mob to whack Mike Dillon.” Hastings sighed. “He knows we know already. So why give us anything?”

“But you took care of Dillon for him.”

“So what?”

“So,” Rhodes said, “maybe he's grateful.”

“His is not a grateful lifestyle. Still,” Hastings said, “he did say we should check out Sean Rizza.”

“Sean Rizza?” Rhodes said, “Wasn't he one of the guys that was killed in Regan's bar?”

“Yeah,” Hastings said, “it is funny.”

A couple of nurses in scrubs took a table nearby. The one in pink scrubs told the other not to get her started because she was having the worst day. The other said, okay, and let her explain things.

Rhodes said, “George?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don't you go home?”

“Why?”

“May I say this with all respect?”

“Go ahead.”

“What difference does it make?” Rhodes said. “What difference does it make who sent Regan here? We got Dillon and Rizza. Those are our guys. Let Chicago handle Jack Regan.”

Hastings rubbed his eyes. “It isn't about Regan,” he said.

“What?”

“It isn't about Regan.”

“Then what is it? You want to pull Dillon out of the morgue, get him to confess?”

“I tell you, I would if I could.”

“But to what? If you're wondering about Cain, it's about as solid a case as you're going to get. Didn't he say to you, âWhich one was he?' Or something similar? And the woman, didn't she tell you that he killed Hummel? And Murph's statement: he was there. He saw Dillon. You read it yourself.”

“I know.”

“Then what? What, George?”

Hastings was looking at the large bagel with cream cheese sitting on the nurse's table. Big enough for two to eat.

Hastings said, “You're right.”

“Lieutenant, it's your call. But you've been up all night. And I think you should sleep. At least for a couple of hours.”

“Howard,” Hastings said, “you're making sense.”

A couple of hours sounded good. So he set the alarm for two hours and did some rounding up and it went off at 11:45 A.M. The radio was set on KMOX and he heard jumbles of conversation forming into Rush Limbaugh, talking about the hypocrisy of some other guy who had a talk show on television. Hastings turned the radio off. He sat up in bed and put his feet on the floor.

And then he said, “Clean my own house?”

He was driving on I-64 when he got Rhodes on the phone.

“Howard? It's George.”

“You get some sleep?”

“Yeah. Did a world of good. Listen, in the hospital, Regan said something that I didn't give much thought to until now. He said, âClean your own house.'”

“Yeah?” Rhodes wasn't following him yet, but he was willing to be patient.

“Well,” Hastings said, “I said some stupid shit like âI'm trying,' but I wasn't really thinking clearly at the time. I thought he meant, clean it up on your own. But he was talking about something else.”

“Like?”

“Cops. Law enforcement. Clean your own house, don't worry about mine.”

“But Treats said the same thing. How is this different?”

“It is different. Regan had nothing to do with Hummel. He was after Dillon.”

“Because Dillon was a snitch,” Rhodes said. “We know that now.”

“But we've been looking at it backwards, Howard. We've been looking at who he snitched on when
we should have been looking at who he snitched to.
”

“Why?”

“Because Chicago PD told us yesterday that someone tipped off Dillon before he could be arrested, but they don't know who. And
what Regan was telling me this morning was that that someone was in law enforcement.”

“He actually said that?”

“He didn't say it directly, Howard. But there has to be a connection. There has to be.”

There was a silence. And Hastings wondered if he'd lost his signal.

“Howard?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Who did Regan say we should look into?”

“Sean Rizza.”

“I'll start placing calls,” Rhodes said.

Hastings said, “I'll be there in ten minutes.”