The Reckoning (19 page)

Delores Maranzano had a thing for shoes—more of an addiction, truth be told, especially the stiletto kind with the scarlet soles. She had eleven different shades of the same shoe, and right now she was thinking about making it a perfect dozen. She shopped for shoes every other day, and always at Neiman Marcus in Fountain Square.

She was sitting on a butternut leather banquette in the butternut-and-auburn-walled and dimly lit Private Client lounge at Neiman Marcus, sipping a crystal flute of Veuve Clicquot, twiddling her naked toes in the halogen downlights.

She liked the muted bustle of all the wealthy young concubines just like her as they went back and forth between the cases, waited upon by willowy clerks, all male, all pretty, all sexually adaptable, all fluttering around them like a sparkly flock of cinnamon-scented Tinkerbells.

Frankie Twice was nested up in a corner of her Venezia bag, nothing but his nose showing, and she took a second to make sure he wasn't peeing on her stuff, which he was entirely capable of doing.

As she was leaning over the bag, the clerk—sorry, the sales associate—came back, her favorite new shoe clerk at N and M, a muscular young man so sinfully gorgeous he made Ryan Gosling look like a box of stale macaroons.

His name was Raylon Grande—pronounced
gran-day
—and he had only been at Neiman Marcus for two weeks. He had quickly become her favorite because, although he tried hard to fake it, Delores was convinced that Raylon was, against all the odds, not even slightly gay.

There was another reason as well. Delores was always interested in new people who came into her life, especially new people who showed an interest back. Delores had looked into Raylon Grande's background—she had her sources—and found out a few intriguing facts, other than the gay-faking thing. Which was crazy obvious on the face of it.

No seriously gay guy would have the trouble Raylon Grande was having whenever she gave him the Full Delores, and she was letting him have it right now as he stood there with the shoe box in his hand, staring down the front of her blouse as she leaned over to ruffle Frankie Twice's nerves.

She let him enjoy that for a while, until Frankie Twice, sensing her insincerity, nipped her on the thumb. She fake-yelped, sat back, and gave Raylon Grande an up-from-under smile as she licked the tip of her thumb with her pointy pink tongue.

Raylon, his skin flushed, kneeled down at her feet, patted Frankie Twice's head, got a snarl and a tremble for a reply.

Now Raylon was in a position to give
her
an up-from-under through a lock of his shiny blond hair that always managed to fall just so over his left eye. Part of his gay act. Not even slightly persuasive. More like a parody, how a straight guy would think a gay guy would act.

Raylon was slipping a jade-green stiletto onto her left foot, slowly, gently, and with feeling, and she encouraged him by letting her thighs wander just enough to make him get even pinker. She had undressed carefully for this part.

Gay, my sweet dimpled ass,
she thought, wondering how to go about what she had decided to go about today. And then Raylon asked her a very convenient question, and she was on her way. “I know this is a personal question, Miz Maranzano—”

“Please, call me Delores.”

“Thank you, Miz Mara—thank you, Delores. I was just going to ask you if you're feeling any better now? I mean, after your tragic loss?”

She put a faraway glaze in her eyes and then smiled bravely. “Oh, Raylon. How
kind
of you to ask. Honestly, I do find the nights are the worst. That big empty bed. I
cannot
sleep in an empty bed.”

Raylon gave her a shy smile. “Then you should find a way to fill it,” he said. “You're a beautiful woman.”

“Dear
darling
Raylon. No. I couldn't. It's much too soon,” she said, her voice breaking ever so slightly. “The wound is simply too…too deep. Frankie…was the one true love of my life. My shining star. I need time for my heart to
heal
.”

She managed a plausible lip tremble while lifting her right foot to receive the other stiletto. She watched him struggle to maintain meaningful eye contact as her knees parted company.

He finally gave up on that, and let his eyes wander slowly over her body in a way that heated her up wonderfully. “But you're not
alone
, I hope. You have family?”

Curious guy, isn't he?

“Oh my yes. I have houseguests. Actually, I wish they'd go away.”

“Relatives?”

“No, not really, although they are
family
, if you know what I mean?”

Raylon's expression remained blank. She decided to follow through a bit more.

“I mean, they're all business associates. Of Frankie's, really. They're staying with me while I sort out the estate, the business complications. That sort of thing.”

She stood up and walked across to check out the Louboutins in a mirror. Very nice. She pivoted to check the other angle, aware that Raylon was watching her ass with more than a professional interest. She
owned
this guy.

“I love them, Raylon. I'll take these and the black ones.”

“You already have three pair of Louboutins…Delores.”

“I know. But I hate it when the red gets all scratched up. I like my soles pure.”

Raylon smiled as she came over and sat down again. “I like my souls marked up some,” he said, slipping the shoes off her feet and putting them back in the tissue paper. She crossed her legs again, watching him watch.

“Well, aren't you a
bad
boy. Can you
deliver
?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The shoes, Raylon. Can you take them over? I mean, up to the suite? I hate to leave packages with the concierges. They're nosy and careless.”

“Oh. Of course. Will someone be there?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. They never go out. They just sit around and stink up the place. I'll be happy when they're gone. Ask for Mr. La Motta.”

“You want me to take them
personally
? We have a messenger service? I mean, of course, I'd be delighted.”

“If you would, Raylon? I'd love it.”

“Of course…right now, then?”

“Please. I'm taking Frankie Twice to the vet. Just ring through and one of them will buzz you up.”

Raylon said he'd be happy, and Delores signed the account slip, saying as she did, “Raylon, don't be too upset by the way they talk.”

“I'm sorry?”

She leaned in to whisper at his cheek, making sure he breathed her in. “Mario and Desi and that nasty Jew. They're sort of rough people. The things they say, it would curl your toes to hear.”

“Yes?” he said, his smile faltering, staying with her whisper, leaning in close enough for her to smell his skin, which reminded her of fresh-cut hay. “What kind of things?”

“Oh, you know. Business stuff. I never knew what Frankie did for a living—”

As if.

“But he certainly seems to have kept some rough company. Oh my yes. Well, tah for now. You will do the shoe thing?”

“I will,” said Raylon, and his eyes stayed on her until she was out the door with a backward finger-twizzle.

A dangerous little bitch
, he was thinking.

The security guards at the Memphis phoned up to the Maranzano suite and got an okay to send Raylon Grande up with the shoes. On the penthouse floor the double doors got jerked open by a fat sweaty man with a face like a baboon's butt who gave Raylon a once-over—Raylon could see the thought bubble appear over his bald skull:
faggot—
and took the packages with a guttural grunt. He was about to slam the double doors in Raylon's face when Raylon held up the receipt form.

“I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to sign?”

“Fuck me,” said La Motta, and walked off, presumably to find a pen. He left the door open wide enough for Raylon to get a look at the main room and the other two guys in it, both of whom were staring back at him, a thick-bodied guy with a brush cut and a birdlike freak with a bony skull and sharp black eyes. The room was clouded with cigar smoke and beer smell and stale pizza fumes and the reeking haze of tough talk and bad intentions. La Motta found his pen, waddled back, and scratched an indecipherable signature on the clipboard.

Raylon got to say most of his
Thank you, sir
to a hard-slammed door. “I guess that means no tip, then?” he said.

Fifteen minutes later he was in the Starbucks in the lobby of the Bucky Cullen Federal Building. Sitting in the booth across from him was a large barrel-bodied guy with a round beefsteak face and a ratty beard. He was wearing a rumpled blue suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, and a badly knotted red silk tie. His name was Benjamin Hackendorff, but he was generally known as Boonie, and he was the special agent in charge of the Cap City FBI office.

“She did that?”

“She did,” said Raylon. “It was her idea.”

Boonie shook his head, sipped at his mocha latte. Raylon had some of his espresso while Boonie thought it over.

“And you saw them?”

“I did.”

“La Motta, Munoz, and Spahn. All three of them? You made that ID? Solid? It was them?”

“It was sure as hell Mario La Motta. I remember his intake shots from Leavenworth, after Deitz threw them all under the bus. I'd need to see the best shots we have of Munoz and Spahn. But…yeah, I'm pretty sure it's them.”

He placed the clipboard on the table, handling it carefully. “And I got this. I asked La Motta to sign. And he did.”

Boonie looked down at the clipboard.

“Fingerprints?”

“Pretty sure,” he said, smiling like a Velociraptor. Raylon Grande was a happy man.

“How the fuck did they get past our watchers?” Boonie was wondering. “And why didn't Leavenworth let my office know these mutts were headed my way? Who the fuck's their parole officer? This is exactly the kind of intel we're supposed to get from DC. Useless dickheads.”

“It happens, Boonie. It's the frontline guys out here in the wilderness who actually get stuff done. Guys like you.”

“You can knock off kissing my ass, kid, although I admit I'm enjoying it. What I don't get is why she's so
careless.
She's been a mobster's
goo-mai
for years. And here she is talking loose and ditsy with a shoe clerk—”

“Hey. A
sales associate
, if you please.”

“Bite me. I still don't get it. Jeez, you think she's onto you? That she
knows
you're a Fed? You think maybe she
wants
these guys busted out?”

Raylon considered it. “I don't know. I doubt it. Maybe she just hates them. I mean, from what I saw, having those three mutts for houseguests would be like raising warthogs in your living room.”

“Well, we gotta think about what that might mean. I mean, she pisses them off, she's not gonna want to lose her end of Frankie's business.”

“Maybe she already has. Or she's afraid she's about to. I can't see those guys being too fair-minded about the Maranzano operation.”

“So…right now she's vulnerable. We could bring her in, lay some bullshit on her, you know, aiding and abetting a criminal conspiracy, that sort of thing. Scare her a bit and see if she wants to cut some kind of deal?”

Raylon shook his head.

“No. What's in it for her? And scaring that broad is easier said than done. She's a rock-hard little diamond, Boonie. And I just don't buy that she thinks I'm a Fed. I mean, she knows
you
. You've questioned her yourself, after that fire fight at Charlie Danziger's place. Why not just make an anonymous call to you? No. Tell you the truth, I think she's just looking for some male companionship. From a guy who doesn't stink of cigars and pizza and isn't uglier than Barney Frank. She's a hot number and she knows it. She's got her motor running, that's for sure. Just to let you know, I might have to…
fraternize
…You know, sacrifice my virginal body on the sacred altar of justice?”

“Virginal? And anyway, you're a married man.”

Raylon looked prim. “It's not infidelity if you're more than five hundred miles from home. Anyway, May and I have an open marriage.”

“May fucks around too?”

Raylon was scandalized. “Fuck, no. She's a good Catholic girl.”

“Then what's all this bullshit about an open marriage.”

“It's a compromise. She's married and—”

“You're open. What if May hears about that?” Raylon's leer went away fast. “Christ, Boonie, don't even
say
that. She's Irish. She'd fucking
assassinate
me.”

Boonie shook his head in rueful…rue. “Anyway, sleeping with a target is against agency policy.”

“Only if
you
find out about it.”

“Well, I might let it slide if you got pictures. She really coming on to you?”

“Like a vampire bat on a big toe. I can see why shoe salesmen have to be gay. She gave me the complete guided tour up the Vale of Cashmere while I was slipping on her Louboutins.”

Boonie visualized that for a while. “Man, I wish I could go undercover.”

Raylon laughed. “Maybe at a Pep Boys, Boonie.”

“Yeah, well, looks aren't everything.”

“Lucky for you. So. What do you want to do?”

Boonie gave it a moment.

“You know we've got a line-of-sight angle on the Maranzano suite right from my office?”

“Yeah. I've seen it.”

“We could put a laser mike on their windows right from the lunchroom. Wouldn't even have to find a place to set up.”

“That's right.”

“And we've got paroled felons who're under a federal court order not to associate with each other or they get their early outs revoked and they're on their way back to Leavenworth. And they're all sitting around Delores Maranzano's apartment right now. Three mob mutts in a suite owned by another dead mob guy with links to Tony Tee and his Miami machine? Any judge in town would give us a warrant in a heartbeat.”