Chapter three
Date: Unknown.
Nobody has questioned him for what seems like days, though it's probably not that long. Nobody has beaten him either. He'd almost welcome the distraction.
At least three times now, he thinks, someone has tilted his head back and poured buckets of water over his face. His head is hanging backward now – he should move it, his shoulders ache – but he's too tired. Other than the blunt male fingers that pried his jaw open last time he drank there has been no sign of another human – just silence all around.
He stretches out his senses, hoping for his brother. "Mando," he whispers. "Are you there?"
Ray feels the moment his brother shifts through the cold air to stand at his shoulder.
"Who's doing this to us?"
'You are,' his brother says. 'This is your fault. You have nobody to blame but yourself.'
"I'm sorry, you're right." Ray coughs, tries to spit it clear. Blood or phlegm – it sticks to his lips, and he can't wipe it off.
This was his fault. He took to the life too easily. He should have fought it harder, fought the Feds. Shouldn't have got comfortable, not even for a moment.
"I shoulda known then," Ray tells the empty air. He's talking out loud just to hear another person speak. "They were being way too friendly." No reply. Maybe somebody was listening. "I shoulda known then that something was wrong."
Monday, 2nd June, 1997. 11:23 am
Three months, three weeks and five days in, his mouth tasted like an old sock.
First time he blacked out, he'd thought, Shit, what did I do this time? What did Armando make me do? Then he remembered. Armando doesn't make me do anything anymore. He doesn't have to. I do it all by myself.
He peeked one eye open… Thank God. No sign of his brother.
Oh God, I hate mornings. And at least he knew where he was this time. He might feel like shit, but he was feeling like shit in a four-poster bed. Nice big hotel suite. What the hell am I thinking, spending so much money on one hooker when I could sleep with any whore in Vegas?
Behind him Hannah made a happy humming sound, and wriggled up against him. Her soft body cupped itself to his back. He could feel the swell of breasts cushioning his shoulders, and… He looked down. Her slender hands were wrapped round his waist, dark against his olive skin. He sighed, and laced his fingers through hers.
There was some comfort here.
Oh, fuck…
There he was, the bad penny. Pa. The Old Man was sitting across the room, with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of bourbon in the other. He raised the glass in salutation and winked.
Ray's whole body went rigid with self-loathing, and his father's ghost blinked out.
There was that smell again, the one from when he was a kid. Old books and beeswax and... Don't think about that, don't think …
He kept his eyes wide open and did an internal inventory. His body didn't feel like he'd just been… like he'd just done that. He knew it offended her, when he when he got too wasted for sex, but to be honest, sometimes it relieved him, to be unable. Ray had never done it with a prostitute before Hannah.
Who'd a thought I'd be such a sleazebag?
He hadn't dreamt of Sarah since.
"Morning, Armando." Hannah's voice was a warm alto, sweet like her stage name, and familiar – they'd been talking crap last night. He remembered… shit. He didn't remember. He knew he never told her anything important. Never told her Family business, never ever said he was a cop, never mentioned the Feds. It was usually baseball shit, Inuit stories – running off at the mouth about everything and nothing the way he used to with Benny. He was the king of bullshit, always had been. Besides, by the time he was relaxed enough to feel chatty she was usually too stoned to know what the hell they were talking about.
Right now she was chuckling, and tickling his belly. He peered down. Her fingernails were peach today. She never let them stray below his belly button without permission. Last time she'd tried he'd done the unforgivable and slapped her.
He'd only done it once, but he knew women beaters. He probably would again, one day. She'd probably let him.
Oh fuck, he was coming down. Thinking bad shit.
"What time is it?"
She yawned, and reached over his body to turn the clock to face them.
Damn. He forgot to set the alarm.
Ray scrambled out of bed, looking for his shirt.
"One day," Hannah said, "I'm going to get all those clothes off you, and show you a really good time."
"Shut up," Ray snapped, glaring at her. She pouted like a little girl. He sighed, smoothed his crumpled trousers, and tried to reign in his irritation. He didn't have time for her teasing. "What's it to you if I keep my pants on?"
"Why do you pay me then?" Hannah sat up, pulling the sheets to cover her breasts. She was obviously trying to keep things light, but her eyes were miserable. Of course, she was coming down too.
"Not for the Spanish Inquisition," Ray said, pulling on his shoes. Shit. Jackie was gonna be pissed to see him in the same clothes two days running. After he'd met Smithson, he was gonna have to go home and get changed.
"You think it's your house that's haunted," Hannah said, "but it's not. It's you."
Ray froze, jacket in hand. What did she just say?
"I hear you talking to them sometimes," she said, gently. "It's okay."
In a flash Ray was kneeling on the bed, his hands around her throat. "You tell anyone, anyone at all, what you just said to me, and I'll kill you."
Oh, God, I'm squeezing… He let his hands drop, and her fingers flew up to clutch her throat. She started coughing.
"Sorry," he said, and… I'm Pa. They turned me into Pa.
"I won't tell anyone," she whispered, tears shining on her lashes. "You know I don't tell anyone anything. That's our thing."
"I know." Hannah told the other hookers that Armando fucked her all night till she saw stars. Which… sometimes Ray did. Other nights he just passed out in her arms. She didn't complain about it. Why should she? She was the most envied whore in Vegas, living in the lap of luxury, the Bookman's goomah. And Ray, two or three times a week, got to sleep somewhere he felt safe.
Fuck… the phone was ringing. He had to answer it.
He took the call in the en suite, shut the door, and turned on the taps so Hannah wouldn't hear.
"Where the hell have you been?" On the other side of the phone, Jackie was sounding pissed, as usual. "You were meant to call first thing."
"Sorry, sorry. Something came up."
"I bet it did. Hope that bitch Honey was worth it."
"Shut up, Jackie," Ray snapped. I don't need this, not this early – Hell, it's not early at all. "Look, I'm here now – so what's the itinerary?"
"You're seeing Smithson, remember? What's wrong with you?"
Ray's mind went blank. Shit, he was still half out of it from the night before.
"You alright, Cuz?" Jackie sounded too calm, which was a sure sign that at some point today he was going to go ballistic.
"Yeah, fine."
"Just tired?"
"Yeah. Just tired."
Jackie fell silent. Ray sweated, the static hissing on the line between them, until his cousin spoke again.
"Okay, so you break Smithson. We're talking millions here, so Sal wants you to do it." Jackie sounded like he thought Sal was an idiot for trusting Ray, but kept going. "We'll meet up at the Bacchus, two o' clock. Get something to eat, give him time to get the papers together. He signs, we're clear for the day."
"Yeah."
"And you'd better get Smithson to cave, or I'll make you eat your own dick."
Ray shook his head at Jackie's rhetoric. He'd probably done that to someone. "Yeah, right. He'll cave."
Jackie grunted. "Let me know if you're running late."
"I'll be on time." He would be. He started off slow some mornings, but he was fine once he got moving.
"Okay." Jackie went quiet again. "You have a late night?"
Why the fuck does he care? Ray wanted to say something but... He couldn't be bothered to form the words.
"Cuz?"
"Just tired," Ray managed, with an effort. "I'll see you later." He snapped the phone shut, dropped it on the cistern of the toilet, and wondered what he'd forgotten.
Shit, he was going to have to leave the bathroom and face Hannah, after what he'd just done to her, after what he'd just said. He smacked his face, both to wake up, and punish himself. He paused, and smacked again, harder.
Okay… Shave, then get out there.
Hannah was sitting cross-legged on the bed, in a pink fluffy dressing gown, with a breakfast tray on her lap. They must have ordered last night – room service had been while he was talking to Jackie. Hannah was eating poached egg yolks and salmon. She was on some kinda crazy high protein diet to lose weight.
"You want yours?" she asked, pointing at his plate on the breakfast trolley. Jeez, you'd think I didn't just threaten to kill her.
"No," he said, not even wanting to see what he'd ordered. "Gotta go."
What have I forgot? He looked round the room. He had his wallet, he had the swipe card for his office. There was Benny's compass and – there wasn't anything else. Guns, numb-nuts. Ankle holster. Ray armed himself rapidly. Armando didn't so much carry his main gun, as wear it on display, like an extension of his classy suit. The Feds wanted him to wear a bullet proof vest, but Ray had reminded them that if he was ever strip searched that would just make him look like a coward. Okay, there's something else. What the fuck else have I forgot? He glanced at his side of the bed. Jeez, I nearly forgot the watch.
What the hell's wrong with me?
Ray strapped on the watch, grabbed his suitcase, and went to the door. Maybe for once he'd drive himself, by himself – that might cheer him up…
No. He couldn't get away with it. He was fairly sure nobody had a hit out on him right now, but he couldn't drive into the heart of Vegas if he didn't bring backup. The Onofri war was officially over, but someone with his profile was never safe.
And besides – it hit him with a shock. He had been a cop – he knew better than to drive under the influence.
"Hey, Baby." He turned. Hannah was smiling, holding his cell phone. Shit. I nearly forgot that too… It had happened once before, and both Sal and Jackie tore him a new one. The Bookman couldn't afford to go radio silent.
"Thanks, Hannah," he said, and heard his voice choke. She stood up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, like he was a regular husband and she was a regular wife. Then she gave him a little strip of pills, dexie, thank God.
"Have a good day at work."
"Yeah." His heart did a flip. If only he could be someone else. He lifted a hand, because it was impossible not to, and twined his fingers through her hair. A wild tangle of black with golden highlights. Not blonde highlights, but brazen yellow, shiny, and electric against the soft storm of her curls.
She smelled of poached eggs and fish when he kissed her, and his hands were reluctant to leave her face.
He didn't love her.
He had to go and destroy Smithson.
12:30 pm
If Smithson had a cap, it would have been in his hand. The man towered over Ray – he had several inches on Sal even, had to be six seven at least, and was skinny with it. A giant bean pole of a man. Even so, Ray's office made him look small; instead of looming, he stooped.
"Mr Langoustini," he cleared his throat and shuffled, as though he was a school kid caught smoking in the john. "I'm sorry if I was too early."
"Not at all." Ray would have made him wait anyway, even if he hadn't been late himself. He leant back into his chair, considered putting his feet up on the table, then decided that would look too casual. He needed to emphasise his authority to pull this off.
And honestly, it was going to be easy enough to do.
"About your debt –"
"Yes, Sir – I can –"
"No. You can't. You know how I know? You just called me 'Sir.' A week ago it was Armando."
"I'm sorry. Armando. I just… you have to give me more time. We're friends –"
"I have no friends," Ray stated. It was true. Armando had been so driven that he'd no real friendship with anyone beyond his brothers. Even the extended family – second cousins and so on, were kept at a distance by the Bookman. The rest of the world was divided up into useful, irrelevant. The fact was, Armando had no life, outside of work, and immediate family. And if he targeted someone for friendship, that 'friend' was in a lot of trouble – as Smithson was finding out.
Smithson hadn't known that though. Ray had relaxed around this guy, joked and laughed like they were buddies. The tall man looked like he'd been slapped. Ray schooled his expression, and wished he was as heartless as his brother.
"Maybe we're not friends then," Smithson choked out, "but I am a friend of Sal's, and –"
"You see Sal anywhere in this room?" Ray rotated in his swivel chair, pretending to look for his cousin. "Sal? You there?" He faced Smithson again, and shrugged. "I don't see him."
"He's in Italy," Smithson bit his lip. "I'm sure if he was here he'd –"
Ray laughed. "Who do you think told me to do this? There's no business in the Family without Sal's approval. If you really were a friend of his, you'd know that."
"Sir – Armando. Please. I need more time."
"There is no more time." Ray stated baldly. "You have to pay."
"But I can't!" The man flushed as he blurted out the terrible truth. "I can't! There's nothing left. I'm going to have to file for bankruptcy."
"You brought it on yourself. You think I'm going to front you any more money for gambling, when you're such a total loser?" For a second Ray heard himself, loser, and felt his face go hot, then cold. He stood up, feeling a sharp spike of fear through the dexie buzz, and walked around the table toward Smithson. What the hell am I going to do to him? Smithson backed off, scared by whatever it was that he saw on Ray's face.
"Sorry, sorry." The man was nearly sobbing – "I just don't know how it happened."
"I know how it happened," Ray said, feeling his heart slowing. Calm down. He'd only panicked for a moment. "I know exactly how it happened. We dangled you a bait, and you bit. We've been reeling you in ever since."
"You – you did this to me deliberately?"
Ray thinned his lips in a cold smile. "Now you understand."
"But what – how could – how could it benefit you? If I can never pay, how does –"
Ray put a hand on the man's shoulder, and felt him shudder. "Walk with me, Smithy." He strolled the length of his office to the vast window. He could look out at Vegas, Vegas could not look back at him. Mirrored on one side, bulletproof – the glass alone was worth a fortune. "You see that?" He gestured at the lights of the Strip, scattered like jewels from a treasure box.
"Yes, Sir."
"You know what that is? That's America's playground." He smiled at Smithson, looking for understanding in the watery blue eyes. "And we own it. Well… all of it that matters."
"Sir?"
"Now we own you. Got it?"
"But… I have nothing."
"You have your chain of fast-food restaurants, your gyms, your gas stations." Smithson's businesses covered the whole of Nevada – they were perfect for the brother's needs.
"But I'm going bankrupt!"
"No, no, no, no." Ray rubbed his hand in mock reassurance against the man's back. "We're going to buy you out."
"It was my father's –"
"And now it's mine. Don't worry – we'll be generous." For a moment Smithson looked hopeful. "We'll pay you ten percent of its market value." The guy went stiff beneath his hand, and Ray patted him between his shoulder blades. "There, there. It'll be alright." He turned and strolled back to his desk. "We might even keep you on as manager, if you play nice."
"But –"
"But what?" Ray sat on his desk, folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow. "This way your kids still go to college. Okay, you'll have to downsize. We'll have your house, of course, and your horses. I'm sure you can find a nice little home somewhere. Any other assets you might be thinking about hiding – don't bother."
"My wife –"
"Shush," Ray made a flapping gesture with his hand. "Don't worry. Your wife won't necessarily leave you."
Smithson swallowed. "But –"
"Oh. And your joint savings, bonds, trust funds, pension plans? We'll have them too."
Smithson was white and shaking. "You're evil," he whispered. "You – people – are evil."
"Yes." Ray curled his lip in amusement. "And you're a loser who paupered his wife and children, because he couldn't stop gambling. You're not better than us. You're just an idiot." He raised his hand and flicked it toward the door, dismissing the man. "You'll sign the papers today. Come round after office hours, six thirty. We'll be waiting."
Smithson said nothing, and Ray raised his eyes and sharpened his tone. "Or I'll come to your home with Jackie and some of our 'friends.' We'll get your wife to make you sign them."
For a moment Smithson looked as though he was going to resist, is he that that selfish, that he'd risk his own wife? What, he thinks he could run from us? But then –
"Yes, Sir."
Ray walked round his desk and sat, switched on his computer monitor and started typing, ignoring the other man as he shuffled from the room.
2:15pm
Ray and Jackie were facing each other across the table, arguing so quietly they could hardly hear each other. Family did not cause a scene in public.
"Ten percent was too much. What you trying to do, show mercy? I thought you said you were gonna ruin him."
"He ruined himself. And we got what we wanted."
"No. You gave him a fucking lifeline. People are gonna think you've turned soft."
"Do you have any idea how suspicious it's gonna look on our financial records if we suddenly just 'acquire' all those businesses? We have to pay something for them."
"Ten percent is too much."
The two men broke apart for a moment as the sommelier returned with the wine. When he'd left, they leant across the table again, practically nose to nose.
"I'm the fucking accountant," Ray said.
"And I'm second-in-command. With Sal in Italy, I'm capo, and my word is final. Ten percent is too much."
Ray felt his face go stiff with anger. Dammit, he's right. Even if Sal got back and agreed with Ray's logic, he would be furious at an act of disobedience to his deputy. "You piece of shit," Ray said. "That's what it's all about, isn't it? You ain't been capofamiglia for a few years now – it really rankles, doesn't it? Every year, the captains vote for Sal, not you."
Jackie went white. "That's not it, and you know it."
"That is it. You know why they vote for Sal? It's because he's not such a fucking hot head. You might be smarter, you're probably smarter than me, but you've got a bad attitude. You're the best capo bastone out there, and your guys would die for you, but you don't have it in you to be head honcho – you'd only start another war. They know that. That's why they vote for Sal."
Jackie sneered. "I don't care who's 'head honcho' so long as it isn't you."
"Excuse me? I'm third."
"No you're not. Sal listens to you too much, you might as well be running things."
Ray shoved back his chair, about to stand. Jackie grabbed his wrist. "Sit down. People are watching."
Ray yanked his hand loose.
"I'm going to the john. You wanna shake my dick for me when I'm done?"
Jackie flushed and his fist clenched on the table.
Fuck, if I'm not careful we're gonna start pounding on each other right here in the restaurant. Ray took a deep breath. Shut up, Vecchio, he told himself. Calm the fuck down.
"Okay, Jackie. I didn't mean that. I'm just –"
"Tired." Jackie's eyes glittered with spite. "I know."
Ray nodded. "I'll just be a minute."
He sat for more than a minute in the stall, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, waiting for the perc to kick in. He was too damn wired.
'He's right, you know.' Ray looked up, and there was Armando. 'It isn't even doing any favours for Smithson, allowing him an income – he'll only gamble it away again.'
"Don't tell me you sympathise with him."
'Sympathise with no-one, or they'll despise you.'
"What about your cousins? You sympathise with them."
'Family is family. Smithson? He's nothing. The quality of mercy is overrated.'
"Fuck you, Mando."
I shouldn't forget to take my pills from the Feds. Shit. He fumbled in his inside pocket and there it was. The bottle of 'anti-psychic thingummy jigs.' No way was he calling it what Doc Grey did. It's one way to keep the ghosts out, he told himself, bitterly, and bit down on the fucker.
God, the worst thing was, Mando was right – at least as far as logic was concerned. And – Shit, did I tell Smithson he could stay on as manager? What the fuck's wrong with me? It was up to Sal who he used to front the business now, and that gift was going 'in family.' That was part of what Sal was doing in Italy, after all. He wasn't just repairing his marriage, he was deciding which Italian Families to form alliances with, agreeing with them which capos and soldati he could move across to the US. The Iguanas had a far larger area to gather tribute from now that the dust had settled from the Onofri War. The fresh talent coming in from across the water would need legitimate jobs and green cards if the Iguanas were going to police this State.
Fuck, I'm a fuck up. The quality of fucking mercy's gonna get me killed.
Ray scrubbed his face with his hands, and took another of the Fed's pills, just to be on the safe side. Shoulda done it this morning, shut fucking Mando up.
Yeah, but it made him feel like crap.
Jackie's gonna kill me one day.
Don't throw up.
When he got back to the table he'd calmed down enough to smile.
"Okay. You're capo for the next week. So, whatever you say goes."
Jackie nodded, then surprised Ray by sounding sympathetic. "You're a sorry sack, ain't you? I know why you did it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. You lost everything, and you thought if you left something for Smithson's kids it might make up for what happened to your kids and Lexie."
"I didn't…" Shit. Jackie's saying I'm weak, and letting my feelings get in the way of business. "No."
"You don't wanna think about that kinda shit. Just eat up, drink up, and we'll get the bastard to sign the papers."
Ray stared at his plate.
"Cuz?"
"Sorry, Jackie. Feeling a bit queasy."
Jackie glared at him, his brief moment of good humour forgotten. "That's 'cause you don't eat, you stupid prick. What'd you have for breakfast? Besides Honey?"
Ray cast about in his head for a lie, and came up blank. He looked back down at the plate.
"Yeah. That's what I thought. Well, you ain't leaving this restaurant till you fucking eat – shit." Jackie's phone was ringing. He grimaced. "Pender. Can't wait." He stood and walked out of hearing distance.
Oh, that's just great. He doesn't trust me at all.
Methodically, Ray set to the grim task of clearing his plate. Although he couldn't hear what was being said, he recognised the rhythm of the language. That's not Pender, that's Sal. They're talking Italian. He's telling Sal that I fucked up. He can't say how, over the phone, but he's saying something… No. Maybe he was imagining it. Shit. How paranoid is too paranoid?
Jackie came back to the table, clicked his phone shut. "Not that I really give a shit," he said, as though they hadn't been interrupted, "but you look fucking wrecked." He paused. "Your ulcer playing up again?"
Ulcer? Ray glanced up at his cousin, and managed not to look surprised. There seemed something significant in the question. Something behind it. "Dunno," he said.
"Maybe?" Jackie asked.
Ray puzzled the question out. Armando had an ulcer? Well, that made sense – who wouldn't have an ulcer living like this? Even so, it felt like Jackie was talking in code. Ray stared back down at his plate. "Maybe," he replied.
Jackie sat back with a weird expression – part smug, part pitying – as though something had been confirmed.
"What?"
"It's alright, Armando," Jackie said. "I won't tell Sal. Just keep your shit together this time." Now he really did look pitying. "Thanks for telling me."
"Telling you what?"
Jackie nodded. "Just like that. Anyone asks, your ulcer is playing up."
Oh, shit. He thinks Armando's back on drugs… Ray blinked, with shock. Fuck. I'm on drugs.
"You want another glass of wine?"
"How's that gonna help an 'ulcer?'" Ray held his hand over the glass to signal that he didn't want another refill, although, actually, he really did.
"It's not the same thing. If you drank more you wouldn't need that other stuff."
If I drank more, I'd drown.
"Maybe later," Ray said, battling fear at the sudden revelation. I'm screwed. Four months in, and I'm a fucking junkie.
"Okay. Well then," Jackie got to his feet. "I'll be round the office at six to go over the paperwork. Half six, Smithy is signing. If he doesn't, we're visiting his wife and kids at half seven."
Please God, let him sign.
At half past six Smithson signed his life away, for one percent.
Eight pm
Ray used the emergency phone number, for the first time ever, and arranged a meet. He followed the co-ordinates to the barren lands in the west, and there, as promised, was Johnny, parked on the side of the road. Ray pulled alongside, both cars pointing in different directions, so they could talk through the windows without being disturbed. Neither man was to step out of their car. In the desert, sound travelled well. If they heard any vehicle approaching they were to start off immediately in opposite directions. Ray had swept his own car for bugs before he left – if the brothers were spying on him and heard this, he was dead.
Johnny's elbow was leaning out his open window. Ray wound down his own side window, and wondered how the hell he was going to say this.
Johnny opened, as always, thank God, by using his name.
"Are you alright, Ray? It's serious?"
This time, Ray replied by telling the truth.
"No. I'm not alright. I'm…" He held out a shaking hand, containing the last of Hannah's dexies. "I'm on drugs." Oh shit, I just said it. "There's perc as well. When I can't sleep or... And sometimes… I don't know. There's been other stuff, but that's it, mainly."
Johnny wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, then blew out a breath and took the dexie.
"I'm sorry, Ray." He looked directly at him. "We know."