I sat there and digested our conversation after Bill split.
Bill was regular infantry. I was not, and Bill knew it, though we never discussed missions. I belonged to a specialized group of men, one in a six-man team on our own deep behind enemy lines. We conducted reconnaissance, gathered intelligence on the enemy, and we tried our best to do it all undetected. The best mission was when a weapon was never used; the worst was when Recon became Contact.
Two officers killed would instigate a meeting. The new commissioner and the mayor would meet for a tête-à-tête, not in their respective offices, but in a parked car somewhere. Both men understood the odds of two men, off duty and killed minutes apart, on the same day and in the same manner were nil. Coincidences belonged to bad mysteries and thrillers. These killings reeked of P and V, professional and vendetta. It was something they’d like to box up and seal in Tupperware.
Both politicians—and the commissioner was as much a pol as the other man in the conversation—would decide who would work back channels to the North End to see if the mafia had any information on the murders. The mob didn’t kill cops. It was bad for business. A cop who busted a mob-run operation was doing the job he was hired to do. If he collared a wiseguy, the fight would continue before a judge as the referee, the lawyers as boxers, and a jury in the spectator’s box. There was a line, and there were boundaries.
As for the killer’s MO, it was scary, outside the realm of civilian knowledge. A button, a mafia hitman, would’ve been content with a shot to the head. He’d walk up behind his target, the muzzle behind the ear, and squeeze the trigger. If there was a need for assurances, then he’d deliver another round to the head. Any deviation from this style sheet indicated a personal message to other wiseguys. The missing tongue indicated a mob informant. Hands cut off designated someone that had violated security. The mafia’s modus operandi was understood, written in the fine print, and part of the contract when they swore the oath to the organization.
Here, each lawman took one to the chest, which meant their killers desired confrontation, as if it were a courtesy to see the person who took your life. The double tap, one to the chest and then head, was the signature of one of two possible organizations: elite military operatives or government assassins.
These two killings required time and thought. It takes time to plan when and where to take down the target and to do it without witnesses. Whoever pulled the trigger studied places and routines. It also required another weapon to extract bullets from body armor and bone. They collected shell casings. The killers expected the police to send their finest because two of their own had been killed. The best forensic teams on the scene would have nothing.
I folded my napkin, placed it next to my plate.
I spotted a squawk box on the far wall and dipped into my pocket for change.
I dialed Dot at Mercury. We were like old lovebirds. She recognized the sound of my voice on the first syllable and got straight down to business. “I have another set of initials and the usual.”
Bored or vindictive, she was toying with me. “The usual?”
“Cryptic as the Delphic Oracle.”
“I’m ready to play twenty-one.”
“JC for initials.”
“Okay,” I said. “Next card.”
“Tox did the foxtrot.”
I was speechless.
“Are you there, Mr. Cleary?”
“I’m here. Anything else?” She said there wasn’t, so I thanked her and hung up.
I fished for more change and dialed JC’s number. The phone rang and rang.
I had no intention of leaving a message on the Morgue’s answering machine. That nobody answered the city’s busiest office said the trays in the wall were filling up. I didn’t want to hear how many occupants were GWS, DT, and HO.
Gunshot wounds.
Double-tapped.
Hollowed out.
I checked my watch. Three o’clock.
I decided to call on the prince of Prince Street at his social club in the North End. It was like the kid’s game of telephone at the door. I stood on the front step, out on the street, while my name was passed to the back of the house. I doubt my Irish last name would be mangled beyond recognition by the time it reached Mr. B’s ears. I was invited inside.
Relieved of my coat and gun in a routine that reminded me of the army physical, I stood there. I turned. I raised my arms. I was frisked. I lowered my arms. The lower portion of the exam included more standing, this time legs apart, and some guy who wasn’t a tailor measuring my instep and seam, north to south, front and back.
Tony Two-Times appeared. “You should’ve called first.”
“Thought people were listening, Big Guy.”
His massive hands grabbed his stomach. “Think I’ve gained weight?”
“What?”
“Have I gained weight? You called me Big Guy.”
“No, Tony. You’re beautiful as ever, but I need a word with You Know Who.”
“Follow me.”
The boys in the room eyeballed me as I proceeded deeper into the social club. One wall was mirrored, and not because it was the latest trend in Architectural Digest. The multiple views and angles acted as primitive security.
Brown paper bags littered several tables. They were not lunches from Mom. Street crews bagged their collections for their lieutenants, and they take it to their captain. Once counted, the captain kicked twenty-five percent of the take up to the family. Some bags were fat; others, thin. It didn’t take a degree from the London School of Economics to see that some skippers did better than others.
Tony talked. “Want something to eat? We have a lovely minestra on hand?”
“Minestrone?”
“No, not minestrone. Minestra. I forget you’re Irish.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Minestrone is vegetables and thicker, whereas minestra is thinner, has vegetables, but meat is sometimes added.”
“Okay, what kind of meat is in today’s minestra?”
“None. No meat.”
“Why not call it minestrone, then?”
Tony shoved me into another room. “Get in there, Mr. Potato Head. I’ll bring you a bowl.”
I was full from the cheeseburger and beer, but a rule of thumb with the Italians was never refuse an offer of food or drink, unless you wanted the same thumb broken. I looked ahead. Mr. B was sitting at a square table, his soup bowl empty and off to the side. He dressed conservative for a wiseguy. His choice of colors today was muted, as in blue shirt, gray suit, single-breasted, and the pattern of tie, a foulard of alternating navy and silver stripes, meant to accentuate the colors in his shirt, slacks, and jacket. His eyes glanced at the chair opposite him. “Sit, please.”
Tony appeared ringside with the soup and a glass of wine. “Your soup.”
I looked at the glass. “A white wine? I thought you pair white with fish.”
“It’s special, a Vermentino from Sardinia.”
I thought of Peter at Federal Wines, who’d given me a wine tour of the Mediterranean.
I asked Tony, “Isn’t Calabria north of Sardinia?”
“Like Canada is north of us. I see you read the Times.”
Tony walked away with a grin on his face in the mirrored glass. Mr. B confronted me with a mortician’s cold stare. He said, “Enjoy your soup first.”
I tasted the usual ingredients for a soup base in my bowl: carrots, celery, and plum tomatoes. I moved cannellini beans to my mouth where I detected notes of rosemary, sage, and something else, something mysterious.
“Fennel,” Mr. B said. “Try the wine now.”
I did. “Nice.” I noticed the pack of cigarettes, unopened.
His eyes had followed mine. “Trying to quit. You quit, didn’t you? Admirable.”
“Kicking a habit takes time. Change must be coaxed down the stairs a step at a time, or words to that effect. Mark Twain.”
He considered the cigarettes. “We first make our habits, and then our habits make us. Source unknown.”
I worked the liquid love affair with my spoon and stopped for wine. “I don’t see matches or a lighter. The means out of sight frustrates the temptation.”
“You’re Catholic, even if you’re not practicing, so you know temptation is always around us, Mr. Cleary. Out of sight, out of mind is a subtle form of denial. In our world—and make no mistake, we both inhabit it—denial is both foolish and fatal. Now, what do you care to discuss with me?”
“If you trust Tony with your life, please call him and include him in our conversation.”