A/N: This chapter ends our second arc, This Fevered Spring.
I hope everyone is staying strong.
(She Was A) Hotel Detective
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Mobster and the Detective
Tuesday, November 9, 1965
Suburban Chicago Home of Tony Accardo
2:17 pm
Sarah parked the car and got out, the sleet still falling. The sky had darkened overhead and the temperature, rising slowly in through the morning, seemed to be falling quickly. Two men, each almost as large as the bridge troll who had let Sarah through the gate, walked toward her.
One motioned her toward the door, between them. Sarah nodded once and took her place. The three of them walked to the door. Sleet speckled her glasses and face.
They stopped at the door and the other man ran his hands down Sarah's coat, patting her down. She had left her gun in the glove compartment of Holbert's Fairlane.
She knew she would never get it inside. Her best chance was to minimize herself as a threat. She submitted to the pat-down. The man finished and grunted at the other man. The other man opened the door. Sarah stepped inside.
The room was dark; no lights shone.
The house smelled like Sarah's apartment had when she had gone home Friday evening to find Carina cooking. The scent of tomato sauce, spicy, hung in the air. Sarah's stomach growled. She had not eaten much in the past few days — mostly halves of things, donuts, hot dogs.
The man who opened the door grinned when he heard her stomach. "Boss was having a late lunch." He had a voice like a dump truck dumping gravel.
The other man walked ahead of them and Sarah followed. The house seemed larger inside than it had from the outside. They left the front room and entered another, the living room. They crossed through it, under the dark grey skylight that offered limited, chilly illumination. The man in front opened a door and they stepped into a brightly lit dining room.
Food in profusion covered the large tabletop. Salads, bread, a massive pan of cannoli. There was also a heavy bowl of pasta and a deep bowl of tomato sauce.
No one was seated at the table except Tony Accardo, in a chair at the table's head. He had a plate in front of him, streaked with tomato sauce, and he was holding a slice of buttered bread in his hand, a fleshy, balding man. He looked at Sarah with stony-hearted eyes and motioned for her to sit at his left hand.
The two men took up positions side-by-side at the foot of the table.
He took a bite of the bread and chewed it slowly while observing Sarah. She felt more like one of the dishes on the table than a person invited to sit at it. In the long silence, Sarah heard a grandfather clock in some nearby room, its resonate tick, tick, tock. She met Accardo's eyes, carefully keeping hers as neutral as possible.
Accardo wiped the remainder of his bread in the remainder of the tomato sauce on his plate. He ate that and returned to observing Sarah. After a minute or two passed, marked by the ticking clock, he pushed himself back from the table and picked up the linen napkin on his lap. He wiped his mouth. He put the napkin down.
He looked at the two men at the other end of the table and nodded. One left. The one who remained was the one who grinned at Sarah's stomach-growl.
"So…" Accardo began, playing the word out, "...you want to talk to me about...recordings and records?"
"Yes."
Accardo motioned to the other man. He walked around the table, picked up the pan of cannoli, and held it while Accardo chose one for himself.
Accardo put the cannoli on his plate then looked at Sarah. "Cannoli?"
"No. No, thank you."
Accardo motioned the man away. The man returned the cannoli to its previous place on the table and then lumbered to his at its end.
"I take it you got some connection to Mr. Bartowski and his widowed sister, Mrs. Mills?"
"You might say that I'm here on their behalf."
"Might I? Good to know." Accardo picked up the cannoli with his fingers and leaned in, bit into it, the filling oozing out onto his cheeks, some onto his plate, falling amid the red streaks of tomato sauce.
He spoke with his mouth half full, his cheeks dabbed with filling. "You see, Miss, I'm eating late today. That's because I've been on the phone all morning with lawyers. — Do you know who I hate more than lawyers?"
He picked up his napkin with one hand, the cannoli was still in the other, and wiped the filling off his face. He dropped the napkin on the table.
"No," Sarah answered simply.
"Squealers. Squawkers. Leaks. Folks with runny mouths, y'know?"
Sarah nodded slowly.
"So...I've been on the goddamn phone all morning with lawyers, and then, when I get a minute to myself, a minute for some logitation, to rub my temples, I get a call with a voice from my recent past, Bartowski's voice, the recording of a conversation I had with that cream puff," Accardo smirked at Sarah and waved his cannoli as a prop, "when he and I talked some...business at the Green Mill."
He gave Sarah a flinty stare. "Now, I want you to tell me how that's possible?"
"There's this thing called a tape recorder," Sarah offered, her inflection deadpan.
Accardo glared at her. "Very funny. Very."
Accardo put the uneaten cannoli on his plate and slowly smashed it with his fingers, then his palm, flattened. He licked the filling off his fingers and palm as he returned his attention to Sarah, his threat unspoken but acted out. He picked up his napkin and wiped his hands, his face.
"'Here on their behalf'? I don't like that. See, it sounds like lawyer double-speak. — Why are you here, what are Bartowski and Mills to you?"
"Family." The word was out before Sarah thought it. She heard it as if someone else had said it.
The word jolted Accardo. "What, are you a long-lost sister?"
"No. Let's just say that their welfare matters to me."
He stared at the ruin of the cannoli. Then he shifted his gaze to Sarah. "I care about my family too, Miss...Walker."
Sarah controlled her reaction to her name. "So…" she played the word out in imitation of Accardo, "you know who I am?"
"I do — and I don't. I know who you are 'cause Daniel Shaw knows who you are and he told the lawyer I sent him. And Joey the Clown," Accardo looked to the seat at his right hand, empty, "although he didn't know your name, when he woke up at the hospital, in custody, he was crystal, crystal about what you looked like. He told a lawyer of mine too.
"Neither Shaw nor Joey told the police about you, at least not yet. They know better than to squeal unless it's on cue from me. So, I know your name. I know that you did what you did last night, and, even if it was at my expense, I'll admit, what you did was some impressive bulldiker shit. You must've been some phys-ed queen back at school. — Hell, I wouldn't mess with Joey The Clown, and I'm me, Tony Accardo."
Accardo's tone had grown angrier as he spoke. "Not to mention, Larkin's aging in wood. You are hell on wheels, lady. Hell on wheels. A serious Grand Bouncer. A fucking killer. Under other circumstances, I'd put you on the payroll."
"But not under these?"
"No, not under these. Under these, things are going to be less...pleasant for you."
"Even though I have the recording."
Accardo eyed her face. "Gotta say, babe, you do the frigid map better'n anyone I've ever seen. Hard to read. So, you have the recording. See, see, that's surprising since Larkin had the tape, and since the tape was blank, blank like your face."
Sarah spoke carefully. "Larkin was...the real clown, he did not realize that Bartowski had reset the tape player. The tape could only be heard when it was replayed at a particular speed. Larkin did not know that Bartowski's an electronics whiz, that he built that tape player. — And I took the tape from Larkin, along with a can of 8mm film…"
Accardo's eyes widened. "Is that so? Watched it yet? I have to say, that Mrs. Mills — of course, she wasn't Mrs. Mills then, was she?, she's got a south side that would make any man point due north, volunteer a tablespoon of man oil…" He leered at Sarah.
Sarah thought of Accardo and his goons watching the film, of Algernon and his men listening to her and Chuck. Sarah felt herself redden, powerless to stop it.
Accardo saw it. "There she is. — Yeah, that Mrs. Mills…" he shook his head, licked his lips. "See, that husband of hers started all this. A skinny kid who came to me years ago. Worked for me for a time, small-time stuff, but the kid had promise. Eventually begged me for some cash, and said he'd work it off. I gave it to him and then he blew town. It wasn't 'til I saw him on the movie screen that I realized where he'd gotten himself to, what he'd become. He owed me, and folks don't owe me and not make good. I ain't God, forgiving debtors." He crossed himself. "That shit gets sorted in the afterlife. But in this life, I do the sorting. Me, Tony Accardo."
Sarah stared at Accardo. "I take it you settled Mills' debt. The fall on the set, killed him."
Accardo did not look at her. He just shrugged.
"But why set up Bartowski? What did he do to you?"
"Him? Nothing. But his sister told me no and had the gall to send him to bargain for her. I didn't care for that. So, I was going to teach her a lesson."
"Do you think the frame-up would've worked?"
Accardo shrugged again. "It was a last-second thing, Joey's brainstorm. Larkin helped. He was the one who saw Bartowski place the tape recorder. I didn't care if the kid went to prison, I just wanted his sister, and him, to suffer." He chortled softly.
"But she was going to pay you, is going to pay you. Aidan's money."
Accardo banged his fist on the table, making the various pans and bowls jump. "I don't care about the fucking money, biscuit! I care about the principle! I am who I am. You don't welch on me, you don't squeal on me, you don't say no to me. Not to me! I run this town. I decide. I say yes or no!"
The man at the end of the table took a step back. Accardo's face was tomato-sauce red.
"Now, here's the deal, biscuit. You're going to give me that tape, and it had better be the only copy."
Sarah had managed not to jump when Accardo struck the table. She kept herself still. "No, I won't be doing that. We have other business to discuss. Maria Tomek's records."
Accardo was panting, agitated. Dangerous. "You have those, do you?" He was trying to rein himself in but failing. His eyes betrayed him. He did not have the records.
Sarah pressed her felt advantage. "Not with me. Let's say they are...accessible...to me. And, you must know I am not a fool. I wouldn't walk in here without being sure I had a Get Out of Jail Free card. You may monopolize Chicago, Tony, but you do not monopolize me."
Accardo looked stunned. It was obvious no one talked to him that way, especially not in his house, at his table. His hands fisted hard, one of them squeezing his napkin.
He made a show of staring Sarah up and down. "You weigh what, a buck ten, a buck twenty, fully dressed?" He glanced at the man at the end of the table. "Mungo here's taken dumps heavier than that. — You got no gun. You got no chance. And you got no records. If you had them, this would all be going a different way."
Mungo produced a large gun, seemingly from nowhere, showing tremendous dexterity for such a large man. Accardo nodded at him. " I need to call my gals at the phone company. It's time to bring this whole farce to an end. But first..."
The other man walked back into the dining room. He was holding a gun. Both men now had guns trained on her. There was a knife on the table, next to the bread. She could get to it, maybe even get to Accardo with it, before one of the men shot her.
The margin would be incredibly slim, almost non-existent. Her shoulder was hurting, stiff, trimming the margin still farther. If Accardo moved away from the table, even a little, before she got to him, she would be done.
She raised her hands. Stay alive. You can't fight when you are dead.
Accardo relaxed in his chair, all but his hands.
He looked at Mungo and the other man, then back to Sarah, his lips curled into a complacent sneer. He stood, his hands still fisted. "Now, biscuit, tell me about this...access."
Sarah pulled against the ropes that bound her hands, her feet. No luck, no give. Her fingers and toes were already tingling, going numb.
Mungo stood looming over her.
She spat blood.
Accardo had smacked her repeatedly; Sarah had lost count of how many times he hit her.
Then he had ordered Mungo to hit her, punch her. Mungo had, but Sarah was almost certain Mungo pulled the punches. Despite it all, Sarah had told Accardo nothing. She took the beating.
Accardo had checked his watch and told Mungo to take her downstairs.
"Let her think it over." He had then looked at Sarah. "If this starts again, it starts with your clothes coming off."
Mungo and the other man had carried her downstairs, into the basement, and tied her, hands and feet. She was on her side on the rough concrete floor. The room was lit by a single bulb hanging down from a wire, swinging side to side where Mungo had shouldered it as he passed by it. The other man had gone back upstairs.
Sarah spat again.
Mungo looked at her. "Lady, talk. Tell Accardo what he wants to know. I don't like hitting women." His face pinched. "Doing things to women." Given the situation, the pleading look on his face was incongruous. He was pleading with her. "Just talk. Boss wants those records."
Sarah rolled onto her back, or as much as she could, given that her hands were tied behind her.
She let blood trickle out of her mouth, onto her chin, and she softened her eyes. "Have you worked for him for a long time?"
Mungo looked around, and saw that the other man was gone. He looked back at Sarah. He was surprised by her question. "Since I was a teenager. A long, long time."
Sarah trembled and let Mungo see it, then she played a hunch. "Did you know Aidan Mills?"
Mungo grinned at the name — a fan's grin. "Yeah, before he was a star. Vincent, that's what we called him back then."
"Vincent? Why? Was that his given name?"
Mungo shrugged. "Don't know. Just hate it that he's dead. He was a good actor and getting better all the time. And I knew him." He stood, sighed and shook his head, then turned and walked away, flicking the switch as he closed the door.
The basement instantly filled with blackness, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling blackness. The black blinded Sarah.
Sarah felt the bloody spittle on her chin drip run down to her neck, turning cold on her skin. She turned her head and spat again.
The bleeding would stop soon. She was woozy, bruised and battered, but not seriously hurt.
But they would hurt her, seriously, and soon. She had maybe a few hours before they came back. Other than her captors, no one but Chuck knew where she was. She had told him to stay in the room.
She had miscalculated, seriously miscalculated, too oriented on her possible future to reckon the present clearly. Now that future had gone dark.
What is in those records?
It could not just be something about Accardo, the Outfit. She had known that; Algernon's involvement proved it. But what was of interest to Algernon? Did Accardo know the KGB wanted the records? Was the Outfit working with the KGB? In the past, for all their crimes, the mob, mobsters, had always been patriotic.
America was the mob's Land of Opportunity — a different kind of opportunity, but opportunity.
"If you had them, this would all be going a different way." — What had Accardo meant by that?
Both Algernon and Accardo seemed to fear what was in those records.
She was furious with herself. All of this had been to save Chuck. What would happen to him now? Maybe Algernon was lying, but maybe not. If not, the antidote was the only sure remedy. And Sarah had to have the records to trade for it.
She was furious with herself. — Who would save Chuck now? Chuck!
Furious. All of that made her furious with herself. Her fury was a fever, burning her up, inside out.
And this too: she had not taken her chance to say the words to Chuck.
It would have been so sweet to say them, although they were momentous, frightening. That would, paradoxically but undeniably, have made them all the sweeter. Sweet.
Chuck is so sweet.
She had miscalculated.
Would Chuck have said them back? I think so. And that would've been sweet too, immeasurably sweet. A woman like me, to be loved by a man like him.
So sweet to hear those words.
She had not taken her chance.
She had miscalculated and everything was ruined, like the cannoli on Accardo's plate.
The blackness that filled the room began to seep into her as hopelessness and the cold concrete cooled her fury.
A/N: And our second arc is a wrap. Chapter Twenty-Five will begin our final arc, Green Grass Glowing.
I've been hoping to entertain you during difficult times; I'd sure love to hear something back from you. Feeling a bit isolated myself. Writing is a lonely business.
Thoughts?
