La Donna Detroit Read online

  But knowing that her father was a mobster didn’t mean that she had any clear idea of what he actually did. He seemed mostly idle, but he was always talking about “business.” What kind of business? She didn’t know and she understood that it was not to be inquired about too closely. She knew almost nothing about how the organization actually functioned. She was genuinely dismayed when they continued to pursue her after Carmine’s slaying. Why hadn’t they, of all people, understood that she’d had to revenge her father? Okay, they had to make a show of revenging Carmine, but when she’d survived the attempts to kill her, she felt that should be the end of it.

  She had survived, she hadn’t tried to retaliate in turn. In a curious way, she believed that her success had crucially altered the equation. It was the mandate of heaven, a concept she remembered from a college class in Chinese history, perhaps a little unclearly. Sometimes, it seemed, a perfectly legitimate and long-established dynasty had been overthrown. The new regime justified its usurpation under the handy principle of the mandate of heaven, which turned out to be a form of realpolitik, at least as she understood it. The emperor is defeated, long live the (new) emperor. Of course, she wasn’t the new emperor. She was just an agent of change. Humphrey DiEbola was the new don. In fact, in the eyes of the most knowledgeable, he’d been the “real” don for years. So maybe it wasn’t a change of regimes. But she had not thought that far.

  The first hit attempt had separated Helen from Joe, but they’d finally been reunited, in Salt Lake City. Then they had survived another botched attempt. She’d thought they were through the bad part. Unfortunately, just when she and Joe were on their way to freedom—the vindication of success!—Joe had suffered a serious medical relapse on the train bound for Denver, in the very throes of sexual celebration.

  By then, Helen was getting more proficient at thinking on her feet. Mulheisen had actually been on the train, hot on their heels, literally in the next compartment. Under the circumstances, Helen had been compelled to abandon Joe to the detective’s mercy, which permitted her to get away.

  Not incidentally, she had also managed to throw a couple of duffel bags full of money off the train, intending to salvage them later. This money, amounting to nearly eight million dollars, was the remnant of a larger amount that her father had originally skimmed from an unauthorized mob activity in Detroit. She felt it was her money. Joe Service, who had actually acquired the money, felt it was his, but he was happy to share it with her. Humphrey DiEbola felt it belonged to the mob, and he wasn’t interested in sharing. This complication helped to confuse the issue of revenge: was the mob willing to forget vengeance for money? Humphrey had hinted as much. Vengeance wasn’t the primary principle it was construed to be.

  Itchy was familiar with an old adage: When a guy says it ain’t the money, it’s the principle—it’s the money. Humphrey’s interest wasn’t revenge, it wasn’t sex. It was money, just as any Detroit kid would know. Itchy was no genius. He was one of those mob figures whom the press like to inflate when they get caught, or take the fall, instead of the real villains. Not that Itchy wasn’t a genuine villain, but he was only the visible villain. He was loyal and didn’t think too much. Years ago, he had gone to prison for Carmine and the press had described him as a deadly ice-blooded hit man who had taken a softer fall. In the present case, his function was to “bring Helen home.”

  That’s what he told Helen now. Or did he have other instructions? Bring home the money? Cancel her? That’s what she wanted to know.

  She and Itchy discussed this issue in the hotel bar, in Winter Park. Itchy was a man of fifty years, not much taller than Helen, despite his expensive elevator shoes. He was a careful dresser. He had a very black mustache and was concerned about his thinning hair, which had once been his pride. Now it was streaked with silver, or would have been, if he didn’t use dye regularly. He advised Helen that she could get rid of the skunk stripe in her hair with his special preparation.

  Itchy was a competent fellow, to a point, and unlike Helen, his ethical concerns stopped with loyalty to the boss. He was willing to use violence, if necessary, usually in the form of a discreet bullet. He didn’t like breaking people’s limbs, or scarring them. But he would, if so instructed.

  He had actually met Helen a couple of times, when she was a child. He had liked her father. Everyone did. And he liked her, as much as you could like a child. Although, it was obvious she wasn’t a child anymore. He didn’t consider it a factor. To Itchy, Helen was just a songbird sitting on a wire. He called Humphrey as soon as he saw her, sitting at the bar, alone. Humphrey asked about the money. Specifically: “Has she got it with her?”

  Itchy: “Not that I can see.”

  Humphrey: “Well, find out.”

  Itchy: “And then what? That’s why I’m calling. It’s cold. I’m standing outside.”

  Humphrey: “I want to talk to her.”

  Itchy: “Okay.”

  Humphrey: “Don’t you do a thing. Hear me? I gotta talk to her, first.”

  Helen didn’t want to talk to Humphrey, initially. She felt it was something that she and Ezio—she did not once use that despised nickname, which he’d always resented but had come to accept— could work out. She wanted his help in recovering the money, she said. She brought it right up, without any probing on his part. It was somewhere out in the country, lying near the railroad in two not very conspicuous blue duffel bags. It wasn’t very safe there, but it would be safe for a while, she thought.

  Helen could see that she was stuck with Itchy, for the time being. He hadn’t tried anything heavy, except that he warned her he wouldn’t hesitate to gun her down if she tried to run off. She smiled and replied that if he even thought of taking a gun out she would blow his ass to kingdom come with the Smith & Wesson .38 in her coat pocket. Itchy wasn’t sure if she was kidding, but anyway, it didn’t matter. They were stuck with each other.

  “Whether you talk to him or not, I gotta call the man back,” Itchy said. “Okay?”

  Helen sighed. “Okay, but you don’t say a word about the money. I’ll take care of that.”

  Humphrey convinced Helen on the phone that he bore her no ill will. She didn’t say anything about the money and he didn’t mention it either. But she knew it was her hole card. Humphrey wouldn’t do anything until he knew where the money was and how he could get it.

  Humphrey was concerned about her, he said. He’d always been like an uncle—Unca Umby. He cared about her and her mother. That was a good touch, just mentioning her mother, in a friendly, non-threatening way. He reminded her again that he had tried to dissuade Carmine from hitting her old man, she must believe that. Here he had precedent on his side. She must know that on an earlier occasion, when Big Sid had dipped a little too deep, it had been Humphrey who convinced Carmine not to whack the likable mobster. It was true. Humphrey had long believed that loyalty was overrated. Crooks will be crooks. You had to convince the underlings that their success was related to your success. You couldn’t prosper, no one could prosper, if everyone was going to be ripping off more than was reasonable. A little skim, sure. But nothing messy or pretty soon there’s no icing on the cake. That time, Humphrey had gotten Big Sid off with a wrist slap and a season or two of laboring in the latrines of criminal activity—enforcing and discipline.

  Once back in good graces, however, Big Sid had gone back to his old sticky-fingered ways. On an earlier occasion Humphrey had told Helen that when the second transgression was discovered, he had felt that a little more severe discipline might be in order, but not a hit. Big Sid was a friendly, likable guy. The business needed these guys, a lot. It made the business a lot easier. But Carmine was pissed, he wouldn’t listen. There was no way of proving that this was the truth, but Helen believed it, which, after all, is what mattered.

  What was the big problem that was bugging Humphrey? It didn’t seem to be the money, or he would have said something. It was something bigger. He couldn’t say on the phone. It was too big. He’d te
ll her all about it when she got home.

  Helen, of course, wanted to go home. Especially with Joe in the hospital, soon to be in the penitentiary, she figured. He was no good to her now. Maybe he’d never be anything to her again. She felt drained of whatever little sentimental sweetness her soul had ever possessed. Or maybe only the Detroit molasses remained. Time to cut your losses.

  Cutting losses did not mean forgetting about the money. But it was the dead of winter. If the money hadn’t been discovered already—and if someone, say a railroad worker or a rancher, had found it lying in the boondocks, next to the railroad, the story would have hit the news with a loud splash—then it could probably lie there till spring. It would take a bit of finding, obviously. She’d simply tossed a couple of duffel bags full of money off the train, somewhere west of Granby. She had a pretty good idea of the location—she’d noticed some signs—but that was not the same as having a dead fix on the site. The idea of it just lying out there, available to any passing hunter or cross-country skier … it wasn’t a comforting thought. And for all she knew, one or both of the duffels might have broken open on impact and even now the Colorado winds were broadcasting money hither and yon.

  She had an image from the old Kubrick movie The Killing, where the desperate robber’s suitcase of loot breaks open on the airport tarmac and prop wash sends the dollars flying. That vision haunted her.

  What the heck. She was here. Might as well go look. Itchy was agreeable. He had a rented car. They took off up Route 40.

  The problem was, she knew that the money had to be somewhere west of Granby, not too far, but it was hard to judge distance on the train. It’s not like driving your car, where you constantly pass signs, annotated landmarks. On the train you’re just riding through the countryside. She thought she had a good idea, though.

  Driving westward—that is, in the direction the train had traveled from—she was at first discouraged, because she thought they had been closer to Granby than they had, in fact, been. But when they drove into Byers Canyon, she realized it must be beyond that spectacular red-rock gorge, along which the Colorado River surged. Soon they issued out onto the high plateau, and then she saw, to the south, the mountains she’d noticed when she tossed the bags. Also, she recalled that the tracks had been close to the highway, on the north side. But her hopes fell when they got to Kremmling and the tracks shifted to the south and they couldn’t follow them.

  She told Itchy to turn around. It had to be on the stretch between Kremmling and the canyon. They were only a few miles east of Kremmling on the return when she saw a railway maintenance shack with the painted inscription H.B.D. 98.9.

  “I saw that when I first lugged the bags to the platform,” she said. The platform was in the middle of the double-decker car, at the foot of the stairs, with openable upper doors on either side of the passageway. She’d opened the upper half of the northside door and tossed the bags out, on the side away from the highway.

  Shortly, the tracks crossed the highway, and now she knew she was close. They slowed and she looked carefully at the mountains to the south. And then another remembered landmark appeared: a large, wooden archway at the gate to a ranch. It was not far. They parked and hiked across the road and began to walk the track.

  They walked about a mile and Itchy wanted to quit. He wasn’t outfitted for this. He had snow in his fancy shoes; they were ruined. He was cold, and he’d lost confidence in Helen. She wasn’t daunted, however. “Just one more curve,” she begged.

  And then they saw the bags. They were about a hundred yards apart, and no more than a hundred feet from the road. She urged Itchy to go back and get the car. By the time he returned, she was standing by the road with both bags.

  Now the big question: How to split?

  They discussed it on the drive up over the pass to the highway to Denver. Itchy’s initial claim was simple: no split, return the money to Humphrey. But Helen’s argument was also attractive: Humphrey had no idea if they actually could recover the money, or how much it was. He hadn’t even asked if she’d had it with her. So he didn’t know. They could split it, she argued, and he was free to return his share to his boss, if that was what he wanted. Or, he could take his share and go live on a tropical island. She would never rat on him, she couldn’t. She was going back to Detroit. She might have to return something to Humphrey, if it came to that, but she’d decide that if and when it came up.

  It would come up, Itchy was certain. But he was receptive to her suggestion that even if he returned to Detroit with his share, she would have no reason to tell Humphrey that he had taken a cut.

  The first order of the day was to count the money. They drove south of Denver and checked into a new, almost empty hotel off I-25, near Castle Rock. It was an ideal place, comfortable, inexpensive, and isolated by a newly landscaped site that hadn’t been completely cleaned up and resodded yet. In the room, they counted up $7,375,223. Fifty-fifty would yield $3,687,611.50 apiece.

  Itchy had no visions of palm trees and margaritas. He was going back to Detroit too. And he wasn’t going with no three million and change, a hefty chunk of which would have to be turned over to Humphrey. He proposed a 33-33-34 split, with Helen keeping the extra point.

  No, no, she argued. Remember that Humphrey doesn’t know how big the pie is, or even that they had it. Why not a mil for Humphrey, maybe a few extra bucks to make it look realistic, and they’d split the remaining six or so? They could figure out a plausible story and Humphrey would have to accept it.

  Itchy didn’t buy it. They went on in this way for a while, then went for a walk down to the town, for a little air, and Itchy found some cheap cigars in a convenience store. On the way back, nothing resolved, they loitered around yet another construction site, another new roadside motel, while Itchy smoked one of the cigars. He perched on a low concrete wall, recently poured but now cured and waiting for a hotel to be erected on it. He puffed his cigar and examined his ruined shoes.

  “Two hunnerd and fifty bucks,” he said, disgustedly.

  “You can buy yourself a dozen new pairs,” Helen observed. “Why do you smoke such bad cigars?”

  “That’s all they got,” Itchy said, poking at his shoes mournfully.

  She paced about, gazing at the hazy mountains to the west, beyond which the sun had just set. She heard a cry and wheeled around. Itchy had disappeared. One shoe lay on its side on the earth, next to the wall.

  She raced to the wall and looked down into the huge excavated basement. No Itchy. But there was a large circular concrete projection from the earthen floor, perhaps a drain or something. It looked like a concrete tube on end, a vertical culvert. She found a place in the wall where she could clamber down onto the floor, which would soon be poured with concrete, level with the lip of the tube. She could see down into the tube. It was perhaps eighteen inches in diameter, maybe more. She could see Itchy’s feet, about three feet down, one of them stockinged.

  Somehow, he had tumbled backward and into the tube, no doubt striking his head in the process. He was neatly stuffed in the culvert. She called, but there was no response.

  She stood up and took a deep breath. It was horrible, but there it was. The answer to her problems. There was no way Itchy could extricate himself, if he wasn’t already dead. He was headfirst down a drain, unable to move his arms. He would soon suffocate, or maybe … well, she didn’t know just how he would die, but he would by morning, that was obvious.

  She could call for help, but that would mean the fire department, the police, and then … well, she couldn’t call for help. She looked down the drain. There was a muffled groan. She sighed and reached down. By nearly diving into the hole herself, just barely keeping her feet on the ground, she could seize Itchy’s ankles. She began to tug.

  The next morning, on the way to the airport, she explained the cut to him: with his million he could keep a low profile, and when he eventually retired he’d be in excellent financial shape. She knew of some excellent investments. As for
Humphrey, he’d have to be satisfied with the news that they had been unable to locate the money. Hell, he didn’t even know it had been on the train.

  3

  Blackout

  It is disarming to find powerful persons engaged in common pursuits—Winston Churchill diverting himself from imminent invasion by laying bricks on his estate, or the archbishop on the first tee at Pebble Beach. Of late, in the middle of the night, the boss of organized crime in Detroit and its surrounding territory was sitting quite bemused at his computer terminal, surfing the Web. Lately, he had established contact with a remote outpost in northern Ontario, an indigenous peoples site. He was wholly engrossed.

  It was a bitter-cold night in January. Humphrey DiEbola was finally going to bed. He stubbed out his last cigar, signed off on his machine, and padded across the hall from his study to his bedroom. He disrobed and put on his pajamas, then sat on the edge of the bed and stared across the room at a beady red light glowing at the corner of the ceiling. He was a few years beyond middle age, a man with a large face and a strong nose. His silk pajamas were bottle-green with yellow piping, and the drape suggested not a robust or athletic physique but rather one a little bulky; not obese, but recently reduced, perhaps.

  “Bernie?” he said, hardly more than whispering into the gloom.

  A crisp, calm voice answered immediately from a speaker mounted in the elaborate headboard of the bed, among the reading lights, the bookshelves, the hidden electronic panel that controlled things like a radio, the stereo, the lighting. “Bernie’s gone home, Mr. DiEbola,” the crisp voice stated. “This is John.”