Deadly Deception Page 9

  Dani sat there, not sure if the woman were awake or asleep. Finally the breathing grew even, and the tight grasp on her hand relaxed. By the small light on the vanity she saw that Rosemary’s face was still, as though carved in marble. “Thank You, Jesus!” Dani breathed, then rose and left the room.

  7

  “London Bridge Is Falling Down . . . !”

  * * *

  The parking lot of the Black Orchid was eclectic. A four-wheel-drive Ford pickup with a 30-30 across the back window was bordered on one side by a sleek red Jaguar and on the other by a muddy CJ-7 Jeep. A small covey of Japanese imports was offset by a scattering of Town Cars, Imperials, and Caddies, and the lone Lamborghini seemed to stare balefully at the ancient Pinto with the crushed fenders, parked directly in front of it. Across what was left of the Pinto’s bumper, a tattered bumper sticker proclaimed: SO MANY PEDESTRIANS—SO LITTLE TIME!

  The Black Orchid itself, the building, was a study in pragmatic and utilitarian architecture. It had been built for one purpose—to provide a dark, private place in which people could get drunk; if there were a prize for Ugliest Building, the Orchid would have been a hot contender— except for the fact that it was merely one of a hundred or so “clubs” sown over the city—clones that were old the day they opened and reeked of corruption within a week. The low, flat-roofed, cement-block structure had no windows, and a double door in front. Perched on a paved lot on the fringe of New Orleans, the Orchid began to ingest its clientele in earnest when the sun went down, masticated them inside the blind walls until two o’clock, then began to vomit them forth, usually in a most reprehensible condition.

  Inside the Orchid was a small foyer that one passed through to the bar itself. The details of decoration are never significant in places like this, for it is always impossible to see them through the murky darkness, the eternal half-light through which waiters, drunks, businessmen, hookers, football players from the local university, discontented housewives, truckers, and denizens of all sorts eat, drink, whisper, yell, fondle, fight, scheme, and pay a king’s ransom for an ounce of alcohol, which numbs their brains and ruins their livers.

  Like all others of its breed, the Orchid had private rooms used for sundry and nefarious purposes. In one of these, a smoke-filled cubicle ten feet wide and twelve feet long, five men sat around a circular poker table. Like the famous Round Table of good King Arthur, there was no “head” where the highest might sit, but from one of the five emanated that force no man can define, imitate, or cultivate— whatever it is that makes people stare when the man possessing it comes into the room. Napoleon, Lincoln, Peter the Great, and Al Capone had it and used it for widely differing purposes.

  Johnny Ring had this power to command attention. He was no more than five feet nine and seemed fat. But the rotund shape was hard with muscle. He had dark eyes, a round face, and a small mouth, which he opened only enough to let his words escape.

  The man on his right, Joe Martino, was a pale imitation of his father, Salvadore Martino. Sal had been even harder than Johnny Ring, but the genes had backfired, and before Alzheimer’s disease had wasted the old man away, he had recognized that it would be Ring—not his own flesh and blood—who would control the empire he had created. If he had been a younger man, Sal would have eliminated Johnny Ring, but he had waited too long. Though Joe Martino had the name, everyone in New Orleans understood that the iron fist that controlled the Martino organization was attached to the right arm of Johnny Ring.

  On Ring’s left sat L. D. Burger, a tall, heavy man of fifty-six. This lawyer had a tanned face, a pair of sharp gray eyes, and the tastes of a Roman emperor.

  The other two men, Duke McCord and Ray Snyder, were hirelings. McCord was dark of hair and skin, while Snyder had thin blond hair and blue eyes, but they were Tweedledum and Tweedledee of a deadly, ruthless, and easily replaceable variety. Many young men envied McCord and Snyder, so many that L. D. Burger once asked in wonder, “Is there some sort of training school out there somewhere, turning out assassins?” With a sharklike grin on his small lips, Ring had replied, “Yeah, it’s called the Quarter.”

  “What time is it?” Burger asked. “I’ve got to be in court early tomorrow.”

  Ring glanced at the heavy gold watch on his thick wrist, a Rolex. “Only eleven.” He grinned at the lawyer. “You’re not thinking about court, L. D. You’ve got that little dancer at the Stardust on your mind.”

  A knowing laugh ran around the table, but Burger seemed not to care. “She’s better than losing money to you, Johnny. I haven’t won a pot in the last two hours.”

  “Maybe your luck will change.” Ring dealt the cards, and the game went on. Picking up his cards, Joe Martino blithely commented, “Things are going good, Johnny. I told you it would. Old Lanza’s given up.”

  Ring gave him a straight glance out of a pair of close-set eyes. “He didn’t get where he is by letting people take things away from him, Joe.”

  “Phil was his strength, though,” Burger suggested. The lawyer studied his cards and snorted. “What a mess!” He threw two cards down, took two from Ring, and added, “Maybe Joe’s right, Johnny. Phil was like a cobra. I never slept too well when that man was alive. But I don’t think Frank is so much along those lines.”

  “Who’d he ever put down?” Ray Snyder shrugged. “He’s a bookkeeper.”

  “He’s a Lanza,” Ring insisted stubbornly. “And Dom Lanza may be sick, but he’s got an arm as long as this state. When he decides to get someone, there’s not a hole in the country deep enough to hide in.”

  They argued back and forth, drinking and smoking the long cigars. Finally at a quarter to twelve, Ring exclaimed, “Enough already!” He threw his cards down and got to his feet, and the rest began to pull themselves out of their chairs. “We all straight on everything? Duke, you know what to do with Mattox? And you got the word on that clown at the Skylight who’s out to buck us, Ray?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Snyder said, getting to his feet. He picked up the shoulder holster draped over one of the extra chairs, slipped it on, then put his coat on. “No problem, Johnny.”

  “I still say we can’t risk a hearing with the DA over that Matson thing, Johnny,” Burger cautioned, shaking his head. “Let me delay it. Cost a little—but better safe than sorry.”

  Ring stared at him. “Okay. But I want it wrapped up quick.”

  “Sure.” Burger got up and put on his coat. He wore no gun, nor did Joe Martino, but the other three did. Suddenly he snapped his fingers, frowned, and recalled, “Joe, you’ve got to sign those papers on the Conway matter. They’re in my car.”

  “Can’t it wait?” Martino complained.

  “Won’t take but a minute. I’ll get them.”

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Ring ordered as he took a wad of bills from his pocket, extracted two fifties, and threw them on the table. Snyder and McCord followed him closely as he threaded his way through the dark room. Several men recognized him, but nobody did more than nod, and the three men left the Orchid.

  “Going to be cold tomorrow, the paper said.” Ring pulled his coat together, lamenting, “I hate cold weather!”

  “Be glad we’re not in Chicago,” Snyder remarked. “They got sixteen inches of snow today.”

  “People are crazy to live in a big freezer like that,” Ring asserted. “Come on, let’s get in the car.”

  They walked across the lot, threading their way through the cars until they came to a dark Cadillac sedan. “You drive, Ray,” Ring directed, tossing him the keys. “And get the heater going.”

  Snyder slid behind the wheel, and Ring sat beside him. Duke McCord got into the backseat. The engine started at once, and Snyder noted, “Take a few minutes for the heater to warm up, Johnny.”

  “Go on—let’s get started.”

  The heavy car moved forward, Snyder steering carefully between the rows of vehicles. When he came to the central drive, he turned left. As he did, a car that had been parked in the main drive
way began to move, its lights suddenly throwing out twin beams that picked up the Cadillac.

  Ring, huddled on the right side of the seat, paid no attention, but Snyder yelled, “Hey—what’s that guy doing?”

  At once Ring sat up, throwing a glance through the back windshield. He got a glimpse of the car, which was swinging out to pass them, but the lights blinded him momentarily. Because Johnny Ring had survived in a world that teemed with predators, he had developed a sense of danger that went beyond the brain. His nerve endings or some part of the chemistry in his body sent some sort of signal that he did not analyze. With one motion of his right hand, he slapped the door handle; then he threw his weight against the door. It flew open, and he rolled out of the seat, his right shoulder taking the force of the fall. His face scraped the rough concrete just as the chatter of automatic rifle fire sounded. Slamming to a stop, Ring saw the fiery muzzles of two weapons belching flame and lead into the Cadillac. The driver of the attack car, he noted, was good! He kept pace with the other car perfectly, allowing the gunmen to rake the car with a stream of bullets.

  The Cadillac swerved, ran through the steel cable that marked off the parking lane, and came to a halt. The other car accelerated, turned off onto the main highway, and did not make the mistake of tearing down the road at a breakneck speed—a tactic that had proved fatal by attracting the attention of police and others. It was just a car moving down the highway at a reasonable speed, no different from any other on the road.

  Ring got to his feet, wiped the trickle of blood from his cheek, then walked over to the Cadillac. It seemed very quiet, and when he looked inside, he noticed the side windows were slivers of glass, and the doors were patterned with hundreds of round holes. Ray Snyder lay across the seat, his face a bloody mask, and the still form of McCord filled the floor below the backseat.

  Quickly, Ring wheeled, for the doors of the Orchid had swung open. He moved to the parking lot, waiting until two men came hurrying toward him. He recognized Burger’s voice as the lawyer cried, “We’ve got to get clear, Joe! The police—”

  “Burger—,” Ring called out, and the two men halted abruptly.

  “Johnny?” the lawyer gasped. “I thought you were in the car!”

  Ring shook his head. “Ray and Duke got it.” He could not help throwing a barb at the two men. “What do you think of your nice little theory now? Still think Dom Lanza’s in his grave?”

  “Johnny, let’s get out of here!” Martino bleated. His face was pale and his hands were trembling.

  “You two get out. It’s my car, and the cops will pick me up. I’ll stick around. Get out.”

  The pair scrambled into their cars and left, and even as they did, Ring walked quickly inside. The crowd was packed in the entrance, and he shoved through, going at once to the manager’s office. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number and waited. “You know who this is?” he asked. “Okay, I’m ready to deal.” Ring paused and said in a tight voice, “I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to hit us.” He listened then, and finally said impatiently, “Yeah, yeah, I got you straight. Two of our guys are dead—and nearly me! So, we work together. You’re on the inside, and if Dom ever finds out you’ve got a deal with me, he’ll nail you to the wall! But that’s your lookout. We’ve got a deal. Here’s what I want you to do—and there’d better not be any slipups!”

  He spoke rapidly, slammed the phone down, and went out of the office. Faintly he heard the sound of sirens, and he stopped at the bar, took a bottle, then sat down and waited for the cops.

  “Let’s stop and have a drink, Ben. We’ve got time.”

  “I guess not, Abby,” Ben said. They had left the concert a little after 11:30, and as he drove along the highway his eyes moved continually, checking each intersection and every car that moved in their direction. “It’s pretty late.”

  Abby moved closer and put her hand on the back of his neck. “Oh, don’t be such a drag! It’s the first time I’ve been anyplace for two weeks, Ben. Just thirty minutes—please?”

  Her hand stroked his neck, and he could feel the pressure of her thigh against his, but he repeated cheerfully, “Just can’t do it, Abby.”

  She grabbed his hair and gave it a painful tug. “What’s wrong with you, Savage?” she demanded. “Don’t you like girls?”

  “Like them fine. But Mr. Lanza didn’t hire me to take you dancing.”

  “He won’t know.”

  “Maybe not—but I will.”

  Abby stared at him, then released his hair. She threw herself angrily to her own side of the seat and stared out the window. Ben insisted, “Come on, Abby. You’ve got a dozen boyfriends. Why would you need the scalp of a run-down P.E. instructor and third-rate chauffeur on your belt?”

  “You don’t know!” Abby turned to glare at him. “What kind of guy could I get? If I get one I like, he finds out about my family and runs like a rabbit. So I run around with those I don’t like, just to have some fun. Then I get locked in the castle.”

  “That’ll change,” Ben reassured her. “You’ll go back to college and marry the star football player and live happily ever after.”

  Silently Abby turned to stare blindly out the window. Finally she turned back to him. “Are you married?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ever been married—or engaged or anything?”

  “Just the last—anything.” Savage watched a brown station wagon pull out to pass them and put his hand inside his coat and kept it there until the vehicle was in front of them. He took his hand out, then asked, “You know what I like about beer?”

  She stared at him, then laughed. “I guess to drink it.”

  “No, I hate the taste of the stuff. To me, it tastes like the antiseptic you put on mosquito bites. What I like is an old commercial that was around a few years ago. Was on television all the time. There was always this scene with this guy and this girl in a beautiful setting. And some oily-voiced announcer would encourage people to go for all they could get in this life. I always thought that was pretty good.”

  “Hey—I saw that commercial! And it’s right on, Ben!”

  “Well, I didn’t much agree with the implication. It was saying, drink all the beer and liquor you can hold, make out all you can, and have fun, because the time comes around when you die and won’t be able to have fun anymore.”

  “That’s the way it is!”

  “Only for dogs and cats, Abby. I’m not much of a philosopher, but a man or a woman—there’s a little bit more to life than having fun.”

  “Working yourself to death, you mean? Or going to church with a long skirt and never doing anything the preacher says is wrong?”

  “I hate oversimplifications.” Savage grinned. “The old either/or trick. You’ve either got to be a drunk—or you’ve got to be a plaster saint in a monastery somewhere.”

  Abby was intrigued by Ben’s strange outlook. His adamant refusal to make a play for her had puzzled her, then angered her. Now she stared at him and asked, “Well, what are you going to do on your ‘one time around,’ Ben?”

  He turned off the highway, onto the private road that led to Twelve Oaks, and stared at a clump of trees set off to one side. When he passed them, he admitted, “Don’t know for sure, Abby. Guess both of us are looking around for the best buy. Who was it who said, ‘It would be terrible to come to the end of life—and discover that I’d never lived’”?

  He pulled up to the gate and was admitted by Louie, who passed on the message, “Mr. Lanza wants to see yuh, Ben.” He looked more closely at Savage and continued, “I was outta line today—at the swimming pool. Okay, Ben?”

  “Sure, Louie. We’ll go out and get a steak at Maxie’s pretty soon, right?”

  As Ben drove on, Abby was quiet. He parked the car, and the two of them moved toward the house. When they walked up the steps, Abby stopped at the door, turned to him and said, “Thanks for taking me.” She waited for him to try to kiss her, holding herself ready. But when he replied, “I enjoyed i
t,” she shook her head and ran inside.

  Ben went upstairs and knocked gently on Lanza’s door. It opened. Thomas Rossi nodded. “Come in. I’ve got some things to do.”

  Rossi left, and Ben walked over to where Dom sat in a chair. The only light was the lamp on the table beside him, and it threw his face into cavernous shadows. He was, Savage saw, being planed down day by day, the flesh retreating, leaving the outlines of the skull more visible.

  “Sit down, Savage,” Dominic commanded. “Or fix yourself a drink if you want one.”

  “No, thanks.”

  Lanza waited until Ben was seated, then asked, “You took Abby to some sort of concert?”

  “A rock concert, Mr. Lanza.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “No. I hate rock music.”

  Lanza spoke expressionlessly, “Abby is a difficult girl. She has been in trouble with men several times.”

  Savage gave Lanza a level stare. “She won’t be in trouble with me.”

  A light that could have been humor flickered in the old eyes. Lanza considered Savage, then nodded. “I believe that is true. In my day I could read men pretty well. I take you for a smart man—and it wouldn’t be smart to take advantage of my granddaughter.”

  “I never have anything to do with the women on a case.”

  “A good policy.” Lanza shivered and pulled his robe about him. “I can’t seem to get warm. That’s part of it, I suppose. Dying is an inconvenient business!” Then he queried, “What do you make of this business? What’s going to happen next?”

  Ben shrugged. “Right now it’s like two big dogs circling each other, each waiting for the other to blink. Sooner or later one of you will, and that’ll set the thing off.”