Willy, to those who knew him.
Coalface, to those who did not.
Out of the blue, somebody considered him important enough to kill.
That raised his profile. People who thought they knew him took another look.
Willy maintained a secret office that came with a sink and toilet. Years ago, he’d added a shower. Stowed a hot-plate in a drawer. Tins of beans and soup lay at the bottom of a filing cabinet. A half-size fridge that kept his beer cold was useful now to chill food.
The sofa opened into a bed. He kept a sleeping-bag in a closet.
Almost no one entered but him. Nothing for the cleaning lady to see. Office tenants on his floor nosy enough to inquire were informed that he kept the books for select clients off-site. That explained his lengthy absences. He wasn’t Willy in the building. Not Coalface, either. He was Mr d’Alessandro.
He kept his communication equipment in a safe there. Never in his apartment.
Time to haul it out. Make contact.
On an ordinary telephone he could ring the head man in the Mafia; the boss would take his call. He could advise him to not take the news of his death to heart. Shed no tears. The trouble with that, the boss might be disappointed. Especially if he’d ordered the hit. Better to report his remarkable escape to a friend. Somebody a few rungs down. Let the news spread outward and upward. Allow his miraculous Lazarus revival to take on a mythological bearing by the time word reached the top man’s ears.
He called up Teddy The Bear.
‘What’re you saying to me that makes sense?’ Teddy asked.
‘Skin of my teeth.’
‘Who the dead guy if not you?’
‘Nobody I know. Your world. You tell me. I only keep the books.’
‘Yeah, but—’ A big part of this was not adding up.
‘I know, Teds, I know. Point is, he had no business in my bedroom.’
‘You whacked him?’
‘Hard to believe.’
‘You whacked him? You?’
‘Get used to the idea.’
‘Willy. I don’t believe this. You whacked him?’
‘Teds. Come on. Who had a choice? It was him or me. I preferred it was him.’
‘Holy goddamn shit, Willy. Where you now?’
‘Holed up.’
‘Where?’
‘Can’t say, Teds.’
‘Willy, it’s me.’
‘I know who I’m talking to. Think a minute.’
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Teds! I don’t know who ordered the hit.’
That gave Piergiorgio ‘Teddy The Bear’ Giordano pause. He took time to consider. ‘OK. You’re right. Lie low.’
‘I’m lying low. Teds, I got this feeling. Somebody wants me out of the way. Me? That’s strange-colored shit flowing downstream.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what. Like we’ll find out soon, like what. Tell the boss. I can’t poke my nose outside until I know what’s in the air.’
‘I tell the boss that?’
‘Please.’
They broke off their talk.
He had another call to make.
He got a machine. He gave his number and said, ‘Field report.’
He waited for the next automated voice. He’d been in on a killing, and now the time had come to start a war. To finish this. To do what had to be done and get out. If he was a marked man, his usefulness had arrived at its natural conclusion. One more gambit to make everything worthwhile. Tear the house down. He had a vested interest. He’d put in the time. He recorded his field report and added, ‘I need help.’
He hung up. Time to make up the bed.
He’d been on an adrenalin jag.
Dead men sleep, don’t they?