BRIGANTI AWOKE TO a hot and oppressive noon. He felt rested and none the worse for all the wear and tear of the previous evening. Below him, clogged traffic honked and fumed. It was a muggy, irritable day, when tempers were short and every look an affront. A great day for murder.
Briganti’s first thought was for coffee, but that would have to wait. His second and third thoughts were for Antonia Paoli, in quite different contexts. He would have enjoyed waking up with her, so that they could eventually fall asleep together again. She was quite a gal; he hoped to learn more about her.
But he also sensed that she was in danger. Despite her late chuckleheaded brother, she might well be in deep trouble. She had promised to wait in the coffee shop—and unless Briganti knew nothing about women, Antonia would keep her promise—if she were permitted to do so. That she was gone without a word, a note, or a trace... Briganti scowled.
His next thought was for coffee again. He showered, shaved and dressed quickly, locked the door securely after him, and went down to the coffee shop in the building. He had to fight restless lunchers for a seat at the counter. He got a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
And then he was ready for a day’s work.
At the newsstand, he picked up a copy of the News. In 42-point bold caps, the headline screamed: “MAFIA AT WAR!” The rest of the page was devoted to a full shot of Carlo’s garage after the massacre. In the foreground, Briganti recognized Pointy Head and Dom. They looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. The early edition of the Post, in equal billing, chose to headline: “MAFIA ON WARPATH”. The two photos featured a similar shot of the garage and one of Chu-Chu and Two-Cents swimming in pools of blood and broken glass.
Briganti took the papers up to his room and settled back for some research. He hadn’t asked for it, but the way a housefly manages to find the sticky paper, so he was stuck with this whole mess. He was in the thick of it; every time he lifted a leg to free himself, he only plunked it down in more of the sticky stuff. And the irony of it was that, like the fly, he had no inkling of what the hell it was all about, except that the Paolis were on the receiving end of a lot of flying lead. Every time he seemed close to some explanation, the connection was broken. First, Vincent Paoli, then Antonia, and finally, Carlo and his hoods. Normally, Briganti could not have cared less if they were to kill each other off, except that his mission in life was to take his share of the killing. Either side; it didn’t matter. But now, he felt genuinely concerned for Antonia. It would be a shame if she were to become a victim of this mindless, wholesale slaughter. Briganti bit his lip contemplatively and stared off into space. In this case, he concluded, it sure looked like he had chosen sides.
So where to begin? Antonia. He had to find her. Even if he had never heard of the Mafia, he would have to find Antonia, because she was certainly worth the finding.
He needed a place to start and the best he could was to start with the newspapers.
“The long-smoldering rivalry among city-based Mafiosi erupted last night in a spate of brutal murders reminiscent of gangland methods of the 30’s. In the first of several incidents, two unidentified gunmen stormed into Enrico’s Restaurant at 341 Kenny Street and mowed down two men reputed to be members of the Paoli Family before being gunned down themselves by a person or persons unknown, according to witnesses who were unable to provide any other information.
“Assassins subsequently entered the fashionable apartment of Vincent Paoli, 62, head of the Family, and emptied their guns into the sleeping Mafia chieftain. The body of the suspected murderer was unaccountably found on the sidewalk in front of the building, apparently after having fallen twenty floors from the terrace of the Paoli apartment. At press time, the dead man had not yet been identified.
“In the third and most spectacular incident during the active night, according to police at the scene, a group of heavily-armed gunmen forced entry into a garage at 582 West 19th Street and massacred the owner, Carlo Paoli, 28, son of Vincent Paoli, and seven employees. Their bullet-riddled bodies were strewn throughout the garage in what police termed ‘a ghastly, cold-blooded massacre...’”
There was more to the story, but nothing of interest to Briganti, who might have written the story himself, had he been a newspaper reporter. The story was continued on page 8. Briganti flipped the pages.
“District Attorney Tom Logan today expressed the opinion that the outbreak last night of Mafia war fare was in some way connected with the fact that Vincent Paoli, one of the slain bosses, was facing deportation proceedings.”
“Ah,” said Briganti. “Ah. Seek and ye shall find.” He read further.
“... Mr. Logan surmised that the latest bloodshed was an outgrowth of the scramble for the Paoli interests, which are believed to be considerable...”
“Surmised, my ass!” Briganti said. The D.A. knew exactly what he was talking about. He was leaking information; for whose benefit, Robert Briganti had no idea. All he knew was that Antonia Paoli had not been very talkative in the park last night.
“... The District Attorney’s office has issued a subpoena for Miss Antonia Paoli, daughter of Vincent, and sister of Carlo. Miss Paoli, a college sociology professor, is the last remaining blood member of the Paoli Family. She has not been seen since leaving her classes at the University early last evening.”
“Miss Paoli,” Briganti said to himself, “you are indeed in trouble. And I don’t mean the D.A.” Somebody obviously wanted his hands on the last remaining blood member of the Paoli family. Unfortunately, despite his reading, Briganti had nothing to work on. No other names had been mentioned in the account of the murders; no other places to check out.
Glumly, his mind fishing for something to latch onto, he thumbed through the pages. And there, on page 23, another story caught his eye.
POLICE SMASH GAMBLING RING
“District Attorney Logan today announced the indictment of 38 persons who he said had run a fifty million dollar-a-year gambling empire ruled by organized crime. All were charged with 34 counts each of promoting gambling, possessing gambling records and conspiring to run a gambling operation. They face a possible hundred and sixty years in prison if convicted.
“Mr. Logan said the operation was originally organized by Vincent Paoli who, until his death last night at the hands of persons unknown, was facing deportation as an undesirable alien.
“In a series of lightning raids on central gambling drops, including headquarters in the popular Hangover Club, police seized thousands of gambling records, including master sheets indicating millions of dollars in betting.
Among those arrested in the raids were Jerome (Tonto) Barola, said to be an associate of Vito Spazzi, the underworld kingpin...”
When Briganti looked up from the paper, he was grinning from ear to ear. He was beginning to understand what the shooting was all about. A well-known family’s rackets—their “business interests”—were up for grabs, now that the Paoli men, father and son, were dispatched.
But wait a minute. That one needed rewinding. It didn’t quite make sense. The Paoli rackets had not been up for grabs until the men were killed. The Paolis had apparently worked very well with their associates for some time before that. Why, then, were they suddenly executed—and both on the same night? Could it be—hell, it had to be—somehow connected with the gambling raids.
Briganti peered at the newspaper again. “... Jerome (Tonto) Barola, said to be an associate of Vito Spazzi …”
All right, it was no secret (to Briganti) that Spazzi was involved in the slayings. Now, if his associate, Tonto Barola, was arrested in an operation “originally organized by Vincent Paoli”, it meant that Spazzi was tied to Barola, who was tied to Paoli. On the day that Barola is arrested and a giant operation destroyed, Paoli and his son are murdered...
Why?
Briganti got to his feet and paced the floor. Had Paoli skimmed profits off the top as they liked to do in Vegas? No; that did not explain the police raids. Briganti paused in mid-step. The police. He suddenly snapped his fingers and did a little jig. He had it. Paoli, up for deportation, had finked to the cops. He’d sung a song of millions of gambling dollars in exchange for a drop in the charges against him. To stay in the country, Paoli was willing to sacrifice one of his more lucrative operations. And because he had talked to the D.A.—and would probably have continued to talk—he and his son were put out of the way.
Omerta.
Oh murder.
And that left Antonia. More than likely, the murderers, would assume she knew about her father’s business affairs; and so, to keep her mouth sealed, she, too, would have to be dispatched.
Briganti nodded with satisfaction to his vast audience. Capisce? It was all very neat and tidy. Nobody liked a fink and least of all, the Mafia.
It was time to prepare for work.
For Briganti, work and play sometimes amounted to the same thing. From under the bed, he pulled the heavy canvas bag containing his minor arsenal. Where his armor was concerned, Briganti was never one to trust other people’s housekeeping. Now, he dumped all the captured weapons onto the bed, and one by one, examined them for cleanliness and condition. But his dismay grew with each piece he looked at. Those Mafiosi button-men would never pass inspection in his army. All they seemed to know was how to squeeze the trigger—and even there, they left much to be desired. Trigger happy slobs, that’s about the best you could say of them.
From his own bag, he extracted a small can of No. 1 machine oil, a stack of clean patches and a small bore rod. He whistled “When the Saints Come Marching In”, as he set to work on the pile of iron.
Briganti, a consummate artist of the gun, took pride in his equipment. He had a deep prejudice against dirty firearms, and insisted that any piece he handled be clean. A clean weapon simply gave him more confidence in his ability to do the job called for.
He sat on the bed, swabbing out bores and revolver chambers with the clean cloths. He wiped the cylinders, slide rails, and all parts where powder residue might collect. Then he lightly oiled each bore with a patch, and wiped down all exposed parts. Finally, he checked the action on each piece and tightened all screws.
When he was done, he set them out on the bed in a display and stood back to admire his arsenal. Each piece gleamed as if it were still on a shelf in a gun shop. Each one would do what it was machined to do.
He chose a pair of snubby .38 Special Colt Cobras. The cops sometimes called these aluminum revolvers “two-inchers” because the barrel was two inches long. They could almost be hidden in the palm of the hand. For concealability, they were hard to beat. And concealability was Briganti’s first interest at the moment.
Among the ammo boxes, he found a box of .38 special cartridges that would move about 1300 feet per second. He loaded both snubbies, checked the safety, then taped one each securely to each lower calf, an inch or two above the ankle. Friskers, he had learned, were awfully sloppy when they went over a man; they seldom checked below the knee.
Pleased with his last hour’s accomplishment, Briganti replaced all firearms in the canvas bag; and, still whistling “Saints”, went for his first ride in the subway.