Dinah Schwind was wishing that while they had Joe Service in the hospital, they had thought to implant a locator beacon in his ass. She hadn’t seen him in days, nor heard from him. She was kicking around in Detroit, visiting various federal agencies, police, just killing time and trying to convince the Colonel, who was in Washington and calling every day, that everything was fine. She had no such confidence. Beyond that, she missed Joe.
Two events tightened her tension. The first was a slaying in Pontiac, a city north of Detroit that doesn’t like to think of itself as a suburb, because it had a fairly long separate history. The deceased was a well-known Detroit hood named Kenneth Malateste. He’d been shot in the head in a municipal parking garage. The woman who ran the booth at the entrance told the police that there had been two other men in the car with Malateste, but she hadn’t paid much attention to them.
The car had been left, with Malateste lying on the front seat, slumped over. It had been there for several hours before someone noticed that there was blood on the windshield. Obviously, he’d been shot by someone in the back seat. No robbery; his identification and money were left on him. The doors were locked. Of no particular interest to Schwind, when she read the report, was that Malateste had a couple of cigars in his suit-coat pocket, in a plastic bag of the pressure-fastener sort. She was interested, however, in the fact that the victim was considered to be a key enforcer for Humphrey DiEbola, in recent times the administrator of the mob’s protection racket.
Two days later, another body was found, another known associate of DiEbola’s. This was Wallace Leonardo, a tough waste-removal contractor, popularly called Nardo. He’d been found by some kids playing around a flooded quarry in Lapeer County, north of Detroit. He had been pretty badly battered. The coroner thought his fatal wounds had been inflicted either in falling or by the skull being crushed with rocks. In addition, his abdominal cavity had been cut open and filled with rocks, presumably an attempt to keep the body submerged, but that hadn’t sufficed. He had not been robbed. His personal effects were still in his pockets, including a couple of cigars.
Schwind could no longer ignore Joe’s failure to report. Colonel Tucker flew into Detroit to confer, along with two other agents from other federal agencies. Counting Schwind and one other man, they constituted the ad hoc group that Schwind had described to Joe. Besides the Colonel and Schwind, the members were Bernie Acker, Dexter Collins, and Edna Swarthout. They had all worked with the colonel in one group or another. They were united in their impatience with bureaucratic bungling and corruption, coupled with a bold willingness to take direct action. Edna Swarthout, who had been with the colonel in his encounter with Joe and Helen in Salt Lake City, had not been able to make the meeting.
They were staying at a hotel in Southfield, in the northwest Detroit metropolitan zone. They conferred in the colonel’s room. “Do you think this is Joe’s work?” the colonel asked.
Dinah did not think so. She was emphatic. “If you’re suggesting that Joe is initiating a campaign, no way,” she said. “I never mentioned these men to him, and he’s not an enthusiastic killer. I’ve talked to the police investigators in both cases. These appear to be unrelated killings, by different assailants. The techniques are different. What links them is the relationship to DiEbola and the closeness of events in time. This is either more evidence of the diffusion of criminal hegemony in the Detroit area—a natural consequence of the decline of mob power—or it may be a kind of weeding-out process instigated by DiEbola himself. Neither of these men were considered very staunch allies of DiEbola’s, but neither were particular enemies, as far as anyone knows.”
“What does Joe say about it?” the colonel wanted to know. Schwind was unable to say. She hadn’t heard from Joe. “Well, we better find him,” the colonel said.
“Any ideas?” she asked.
“I’d keep an eye on the woman,” the colonel said. “He came looking for her in Salt Lake. He must be in communication with her here.”
Schwind saw his point. She had been observing local events, but that had not extended to physical surveillance; she was contacting police and other investigative organizations, trying to get a clearer picture of general activity.
They were only a small group, and their activities had to be carried out while ostensibly on other missions. Schwind’s presence in Detroit, for instance, was being attributed to a larger investigation of organized crime.
The colonel saw the problem even as he spoke of it. “I’ll get you some help,” he said. “I’m supposed to be liaising with the INS here. I’ll clear it with the director.”
Two days later, after tailing Helen to the cigar factory, Schwind was sitting in a surveillance van with a couple of INS agents, parked down the block, when she saw Joe Service enter the building. She wondered what Joe saw in this skinny little woman with too much hair, with that ridiculous silver streak. Some men might find Helen attractive, she supposed, but in her eyes the woman was superficial, affected, pretty but insignificant.
Joe and Helen came out together and took her car to the Renaissance Center hotel. They went up the elevator together. Presumably, one of them had booked a room. They stayed there for more than an hour, then returned to the cigar factory, where Joe got into his car. They followed him in the van to Saint Clair Shores—at first Schwind thought he was going to DiEbola’s, but he didn’t stop in Grosse Pointe—where he pulled into a parking lot at a marina and entered a restaurant. Schwind went inside.
Joe was waiting for her. He had reserved a table. They sat, looking out over the boats at the lake. He was pleasant and friendly, apologetic for not calling her. “I kinda figured you’d be around,” he offered. He had noticed the van when they were coming out Jefferson Avenue. Schwind found it difficult to be annoyed.
When she asked him about the killings he readily volunteered the information they sought. “Humphrey’s up to something,” he said. “Malateste and Nardo were hit by rivals. I think Humphrey tipped the killers. I don’t know what he had against the two. Maybe incompetence, but now he’s got a couple of new allies, only they aren’t traditional mob guys. Maybe that’s his plan, to broaden his base. The thing is, you’d think that it would weaken his support among the traditional guys, but the feeling seems to be that it was another guy, Soteri, who screwed up. Soteri talks a lot. He was telling everybody in town that Kenny and Nardo were screwups, that they couldn’t run their own show. I don’t know where he got his poop. Maybe Humphrey put him up to it.”
Schwind knew who Soteri was, a dealer in stolen cars. She wondered what advantage DiEbola could get from this.
“Malateste was a protégé of Rossamani’s, who was one of Carmine’s boys,” Joe said. “Rossamani was involved in some kind of action behind Humphrey’s back, with your buddy Echeverria. He got his when my cabin blew up. Maybe Malateste was thinking of making a move on Humphrey, I don’t know. Nardo? He was an all right guy, maybe a little old-fashioned. I heard that his operation was under pressure from outsiders. Maybe they bumped him. Maybe Humphrey sold the franchise. Who knows? Humphrey is very deep.”
Schwind digested this. She was very pleased with Joe. He was giving them great stuff, she felt. “What’s next?” she asked.
Joe had a theory. “I think Soteri’s in trouble. The mob guys don’t like him. Things are changing around here. A lot of incompetent people are getting weeded out. It looks like Humphrey is building a leaner, more effective mob.”
“Who else?”
Joe told her about Mongelo’s disappearance. “Word is, he was run off,” Joe said, “several weeks ago. He hasn’t been seen. But they say that he was an old friend of Humphrey’s, they were kids together. The word is, he got paid off and told to retire. Rumor says he went to the Bahamas, or maybe even farther.”
“Another step toward the New Look?” Schwind offered.
“Trimming the fat,” Joe said. “I guess Humphrey is remaking his organization in his own image. You might want to keep an eye on Soteri. They say he’s making a move on some rivals.” He gave her an address on Shoemaker.
Schwind, grateful as she was, still naturally wanted to know his sources. Joe said he’d gotten some of it from just talking to Humphrey; other pieces had come from conversations with a variety of old Detroit hands. None of it was ironclad, just speculation, but it sounded plausible. When you saw Arab gangs operating Malateste’s business without retaliation by DiEbola, or the Armenian prospering in the suburbs, you had to conclude that the rumors were valid. But who knows? Maybe Humphrey was biding his time. Maybe he’d crack down.
“How are you getting along with Helen?” Schwind asked.
“All right,” Joe said. She couldn’t tell if he had been aware that he’d been followed to the Renaissance. “Helen’s okay.”
“What’s her role in all this?”
“She’s Humphrey’s new pal,” he said. “Well, he’s known her since she was a kid. He relies on her to take care of the legitimate side. She’s pretty capable, you know.”
“Just the legitimate side?” Schwind said.
“Yeah,” Joe said. “What are you doing for dinner?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Do you like Arab food?” he asked. “I heard about a place in Dearborn.”
“I’d be delighted. I’m sure the colonel would like to join us, and a couple of other guys. It’d be a good opportunity for you to meet the Lucani.”
Joe raised an eyebrow.
“That’s what we call ourselves,” Schwind explained. “It’s from Lucania, a province in Italy. DiEbola is supposedly from there.”
“It’s a date,” Joe said.
Dinner was great, if you like tabbouleh and that sort of thing. The colonel was very affable, as were Acker and Collins. The colonel was congratulatory about Joe’s progress. He made no direct reference to their encounter in Salt Lake City, when Joe had thwarted an operation aimed at breaking up Helen’s attempts to smurf the cash that she and Joe had taken, but he asked after “the lovely Miss Sedlacek.”
Joe took this opportunity to say that he would have no part in any operation that targeted Helen. The colonel was quick to allay his fears. “We have no interest in Helen Sedlacek,” he said. “You have my word on that.”
Joe noticed that Schwind looked steadfastly at her plate.
They were eating some kind of spicy goat stew when the colonel got a call on his cell phone. There had been a shoot-out on Shoemaker. Aldo Soteri was dead. There were some federal agents on the scene. The colonel suggested they all take a run across town. Joe didn’t think that was such a good idea. It wouldn’t be good for him to be seen in their company. The Lucani conceded the point.
Sometime earlier, at about the moment the Lucani were sampling the tabbouleh, Humphrey was at the cigar factory. He’d asked Strom to meet him there.
They met at the loading dock. Strom was alone, as was Humphrey.
“Where’s your boys?” Strom asked.
“They had work to do,” Humphrey said. It was dark, just a few minimal lights. The parking lot and loading area were empty. “Don’t you have a watchman?” Humphrey asked.
“Don’t need one,” Strom said. “This ain’t a great neighborhood to be out in at night, and the guys who make it not such a great neighborhood know who runs this biz. They don’t fuck with us. Besides, you got your boy downstairs, watching Mongelo. If anybody tries to break in, he can tend to it.”
“That’s not why he’s here,” Humphrey pointed out, “but never mind. Let’s go see Monge. You got a piece?”
“Sure,” Strom said. He patted his breast.
They went down to the basement. The guard was a young fellow from the potato chip factory. He didn’t speak English. He was sitting outside the cage, watching a porno movie through the bars, with Mongelo. He jumped up when they approached. Humphrey’s Italian was poor, but he managed to convey to the young man that he was relieved, he could go.
After he left, Humphrey told Strom to leave him and Mongelo alone, but not to go too far. He was unarmed, he said, and while he didn’t expect Mongelo to make any trouble, it wouldn’t do to give him too much slack.
“Why’dja let the kid go?” Strom said.
“None a your business,” Humphrey said. “I gotta talk to Monge. Just back off, but stay handy. Capisce?”
When they were alone, Humphrey unlocked the cage and went in. He could see Mongelo was edgy. “Relax,” he said. “Listen, this is it. You’re gettin’ outta here.” That didn’t seem to relax Mongelo. Obviously, he was thinking that “gettin’ outta here” might mean something final. Humphrey tried to calm him.
“You’re lookin’ good, Monge. I’m proud a ya.” It was true. Mongelo looked ten years younger. He had lost over a hundred pounds. He looked better than he’d looked in … well, ever.
But he was a chronic complainer. Tonight, it was the fillings that Humphrey’s dentist had put in. They had gone to the dentist a few days earlier. The dentist hadn’t been a very fancy one. Mongelo had been surprised that Humphrey would go to such a sleazebag dentist, but Humphrey had assured him that he’d been going to this guy forever. And the guy had found some cavities that Mongelo didn’t know were there. His teeth were fine, he’d thought, but the dentist said no. All those X-rays, before and after! Who takes X-rays after? But that was what made this guy so good, he was told: he X-rayed after to be sure the fillings were right and all the decay removed. Mongelo was still sore, though.
“Monge, forget the dentist,” Humphrey said. “I told you I was having trouble, remember? Well, now I need you with me. I want you to come to my place. I got a ’partment all fixed up for you. Together, we’ll fix these bastards that are ratting us out.”
“Who is it? D’you find out?”
“I got a line on them. Malateste was one. I took care a him,” Humphrey said. “But there’s others. We’ll discuss it. So, you ready to go?”
Mongelo was ready.
“Can I count on you?” Humphrey asked, fixing him with a sharp look. Mongelo said he was ready. He was Humphrey’s man.
Humphrey called out to Strom. When he loomed up in the light, Humphrey beckoned him in. “Give me your piece,” he said. Strom looked surprised, but readily pulled out his gun. It was an automatic, a nice, flat, compact .38. He handed it to Humphrey, who held it on the flat palm of his gloved hand. Then he turned to Mongelo.
Mongelo’s eyes grew round. His mouth fell open. But then Humphrey handed the gun to him. He nodded toward Strom. “Do him,” Humphrey said.
Strom whirled and started away, but Mongelo did not hesitate. He blasted Strom down with three quick shots. Strom’s body sprawled on the concrete, in the semidarkness. The shots had reverberated in the chamber, but there was no response in the silence that followed. No one had heard a thing.
Mongelo stood outside the cage, staring down at the body. Humphrey took the gun from his hand and dropped it into a plastic bag. “We’ll get rid of this,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get outta here. Leave him.”
In the parking lot, Humphrey explained that Mongelo would have to ride in the trunk. “Boss, I don’t wanta,” Mongelo said.
Humphrey produced a revolver from his pocket. “Get in the trunk, Monge,” he said. “Trust me. I ain’t gonna hurt you. It’s only, you can’t be seen.”
Mongelo got in the trunk. Humphrey drove home. When they passed through the gate, Humphrey stopped to tell the gate man that he was home for the night. He drove around to the other side of the house, toward the boat slip, and parked. He went into the house. The watch commander was at the console. “Go relieve the gate,” Humphrey said. “Tell him to go to the relief room. I might have a visitor tonight and I don’t want nobody around. I’ll give you a call.”
When the man left—it wasn’t John, tonight—Humphrey switched off the monitors. He went down to the bunker, let himself in, then went out through the emergency exit. He got Mongelo out of the trunk. “See?” he told him. “It’s all right. I told you.”
When they were in the bunker, Humphrey showed him around and explained a few things. He had to understand that he was there in secret. It was crucial. The rats in the organization couldn’t know he was on watch. Nobody would know. Together they’d root those bastards out. Mongelo seemed ready. The bunker was not luxurious, but it was better than the cage. There was plenty of movies, plenty of food.