The Lucifer Messiah (10 page)

“I don't understand. How could that kind of thing go unnoticed?”

“This is what I mean about low profile, Vince. No one's makin' any complaints, you see. Just talk. Neighbors, bar-keeps nearby, you talk to them and they'll all say the same thing. They see stragglers and weirdoes move in from time to time, real distinctive-lookin' characters some of them, the kind of faces you don't forget. But then they never see 'em again. It's like the place just swallows them up.”

“Strange, huh?” Vince mused.

“Yeah, but like I said, no complaints, no calls to the police, no missing-person reports. Nothin' we can do. Nothin' we want to do, tell you the truth. A few less bums around is fine with me, you know?”

Vince nodded. “A few less rats, right?”

Flanagan agreed, even though he didn't fully get the joke.

A
LTHOUGH ONLY A FEW MINUTES HAD PASSED SINCE THE
hands of the antique grandfather clock had marked half past five, several customers at the “Rock of Cashel” pub were well on their way to drowning their sorrows for the evening. Three of them sat along the length of the narrow, corridor-like bar, one sipping the last of his stout, another puffing on a cigar, and the last falling in and out of sleep as he tried to focus on his own increasingly blurry reflection in the mirror.

Vince entered through the heavy oak front door. Brass chimes clanged as it opened and closed. None of the men seemed to notice. The pug-faced bartender looked up, though, and he smiled as he finished drawing a pint from the tap. It was a grin that only ex-boxers could make, two teeth missing and a nose broken so many times it only looked straight when he laughed.

Tommy McCormick had been the only sober man in the pub. For that reason alone, he was happy to see his old friend Vince.

But neither one said a thing. No words passed between
the two as Vince approached the bar. He sat himself down on a stool near the front window. Tommy served up the pint, took his money and wiped his hands on his apron. He made his way toward Vince's end. As he walked, he rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing a pair of enormous forearms.

“You still lookin' for a beatin', Tommy?” Vince finally said when they were within a few feet of each other.

“Oh, my boy. The sun's yet to rise on the day that you could beat me!”

Vince laughed. It felt good, after the last few days.

He slipped off his coat then, rolled up his own right sleeve, and placed it on the bar opposite Tommy's. All the while pretending that he wasn't the least bit interested in the contest for which they were preparing.

“Whenever you're ready, little buddy. Unless you'd just like to admit I'm the better man ahead of time and save yourself the pain,” Vince said.

Tommy did not respond, except by clenching fists with his guest. Both men locked their arms into place. Each nodded to the other. The contest began. Tommy grimaced as he tried to force his arm over Vince's. His freckled cheeks swelled. Vince didn't budge. He pushed back even harder.

“I've not seen you in here fer a while,” Tommy said, between gasps. “To what do I owe the occasion?”

“I'm checkin' into something,” Vince answered. “I thought you might be able help me out. Lookin' for a Spanish guy.”

Tommy used Vince's pause to gain some leverage, but
they remained braced in the struggle, arm in arm. Little beads of sweat congregated across Tommy's reddening forehead.

“Why're you askin' in an Irish pub? We don't get too many spics in here,” he replied.

Vince squinted. His bicep burned.

“I know, but this guy's connected I think,” he said. “I never seen him before yesterday. Can't miss 'em, though. Looks for all the world like a rat had sex with a spic and popped him out. Real ugly.”

Tommy's grip fell suddenly limp. Vince slammed his wrist down against the bar. The arm-wrestling over, the conversation had only just begun.

“What's the matter? You're not goin' soft on me are you?” Vince chided while Tommy wrapped a wet towel around his arm.

“You know this guy, don't you?” Vince continued.

“Know who? I ain't got no idea who you're talkin' about, Vince.”

“C'mon, you known me a long time Tommy, since I was a rookie on the force and you were out there runnin' bathtub gin. You never lied to me before. Don't start now.”

The Irishman's voice dropped into a whisper.

“Do you have any idea what you're lookin' at?” he asked.

“Why don't you educate me?”

Tommy sighed, still cradling his defeated arm. He looked down when he spoke.

“Okay. This guy you're lookin' for. The rat-faced one. I seen 'em. They actually call him “Rat,” in fact. I don't
know his last name. Or if he even has a last name.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

Tommy paused again, for a deeply needed breath, and for taking a nervous look around the bar. None of the other three guys seemed alert enough to either hear, or care, about his conversation. But he wasn't taking any chances.

He cocked his head toward the back of the bar. Vince understood the gesture, and with the Irishman leading the way, they took a detour to a booth hidden in the shadowed rear of the establishment.

Tommy finally looked like he was about to spill it.

“Okay, listen, Vince. You didn't hear none o' this from me, understand?” he started.

“Okay. What's the story?”

“I don't know what you been told, but this Rat fella's been running with the crew from the Sunset. Rocco Gal-lucci, the Vig, Paulie Tonsils and those guys.”

“Right. Little Frankie Pentone's boys, the Calabrese crew. That much I figured.”

“Well, here's what you might not've figured. See, Sam Calabrese's been up to some weird shit lately. I'm mean, we're talkin' real oddball here, Vince.”

“I keep hearin' whispers about that. But nothin' specific. What do you know about it?”

“Well, I don't like 'em here, to be perfectly honest with you, the wiseguys and their cronies. But they been comin' in for years. What can I do? I'm just runnin' a business.”

“Okay, so?”

“Here's the thing. Those guys are real tight, you know?
Most of 'em grew up together in the neighborhood. Don't see too many new faces. I never seen this weird lookin' spic until just a few months back. Then one day he just shows up. Pretty soon we got a whole buncha new faces. Before you know it, it starts to look like Calabrese's been puttin' up recruiting posters in a circus tent.

“All weirdoes, Vince. Some Indian, looks like he just walked outta a cigar store. A midget with a face that looks like it's been hit by a shovel, and your man Rat. The word around is that the big guy ain't even himself anymore. I heard some guys talkin' the other day about some strange noises comin' from inside his loft. Like a bunch of dogs fighting, only no one was in there but Sam.”

“I don't know what to make of that either, Tommy. But you're tellin' me that this Rat fella is one of Calabrese's guys. That's what I needed to know. Anything else you got?” Vince answered, either unimpressed by the tall tales, or merely hoping to appear unimpressed.

“Afraid not buddy. Wish I had more, but that's all I know. You want my two cents Vince? Don't get involved with this. Whatever you're lookin' at, walk away now. I don't know what's goin' on around here, but I know one thing. This ain't no numbers racket or loan-sharking. Whatever Sammy Calabrese's into these days, it's something totally different. And with a guy like him, that's never good.”

“Can't really do that. Not yet, anyway,” Vince answered. “Anything else you got, old buddy?”

“No. I'd tell you if I did, I swear Vince. But this is what
I can do for you. You mentioned Frankie. Word around is that someone took him out.”

“So I heard.”

“He's not dead. Just in a hole, so to speak. I think I might be able to help you dig him out. He's the guy you need to talk to. I wish I could help you some more, but that's all I know,” he replied, scribbling something on a scrap of paper and passing it to Vince.

“Don't worry. You've been a big help.”

Vince read the note quickly. “Maria Torriella, 234 West Forty-Seventh, Apartment 3B.” Wiping his forehead, he lit himself a cigarette, grabbed his coat, and left the bar. Tommy McCormick wished him luck under his breath as he walked out the door, even though he didn't think it would do any good.

S
EAN WOKE IN THE LATE HOURS OF THE EVENING, RAM
bling again. He was pale, almost deathly. Maggie's hand trembled as she toweled the sweat from his brow.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“About what?” she whispered. It was dark outside. A whisper seemed somehow appropriate.

“Yesterday. Everything.”

Maggie smiled. It was a grim sort of smile, the kind made at funerals, or in cemeteries. Sean mimicked her, but fell quickly back into his slumber.

It wasn't long before Vince interrupted.

The broad-shouldered man entered the apartment and slammed the door behind him. He started talking before Maggie even had the chance to say hello, or to quiet him.

“Guess where I just went? I just got back from a nice little scenic trip all over the island of Manhattan! And you know why I did that?

“I did that because a goddamn sideshow freak with a face like a rodent has been tailing me since yesterday. Everywhere I go his face pops up. I had to lead that ugly
bastard all over the neighborhood before I lost him.

“I think.”

Vince stepped close to the couch, where Sean was writhing slowly in a cocoon of bloody sheets. He was clearly unconscious, but Vince talked to him anyway.

“You know what's even better? He works for Sam Calabrese. I don't know what the hell you're up to, but the word's out on you, buddy. You're in deep, old friend!”

Perhaps roused by the words, or maybe by something else, Sean wriggled. He stirred from the couch. Feebly, he seemed to be trying to prop himself up. The effort revealed the full weight of the red-stained bandages wrapped around his torso. Maggie noticed the four incision-like tears in the quilt where his
hand
had pierced the fabric the day before.

He tried to speak, but he could only manage a whisper. Maggie moved past Vince, closer to him. She knelt down to hold his head up.

“Morrigan,” was all he said.

Vince took his hat off, unbuttoned his jacket and left it draped on a chair.

“What the hell?” he said. “Listen, I know he's been through a lot, and I ain't askin' too many questions. But he's gotta come clean with this much right now, forget about the rest of this crap, what's the deal with you and Sam Calabrese?”

“Morrigan.”

Again, it was all Sean could mutter.

“Who exactly is Sam Calabrese?” Maggie asked.

The question brought a scowl to Vince's face.

“He used to be small time, nickel-and-dime stuff just in Little Italy. Last few years, though, he's been moving up. He's a big time operator now, even around here,” Vince answered.

“Small time what? Is he a bookie or something? Is that what this is all about Sean? You came back here because you owe someone money?” Maggie asked.

His eyes were open, but his expression was strangely blank.

“Well that just takes the cake, doesn't it?” Vince said, exasperated. “Sam Calabrese's not a bookie exactly, but he does have his hands in the rackets. Bottom line, he's not a man you want pissed off at you.”

He turned to Maggie as Sean slumped back down on the couch.

She'd lived in Hell's Kitchen long enough to know the ins and outs of the seedier side of things.

“He's no man,” Sean muttered, and just as he passed out again, said, “Morrigan.”

“Great. That's just great. You're a marked man and you're making jokes. Terrific,” Vince said.

“He's lost a lot of blood, Vince. He woke up a few minutes before you came in, but he's not going to last much longer without some proper medical care,” Maggie said.

“Well, there ain't no way we can take him to a hospital. Not now. Calabrese's gotta have feelers out to all the local places.”

“So what do we do? Let him die here?” she demanded.

“No. Not here, anyway.”

It was still, and it was late. Only a few cars crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, their occupants unaware of the goings-on beneath them, as two figures approached in the gloom on the Manhattan side.

The uneven light from the street lamps left most of the lower sections of the mammoth structure drenched in shadow. Stale water dripped from the steel rafters. Dirty waves lapped along the East River shores.

Charybdis was making her way carefully down the service stairs that led below street level. In the dark, as tall and lanky as she was, she might easily have been mistaken for man, especially in her gray flannel suit and raincoat.