“Think he’s likely to drift far enough to sink his own flotilla?”
“Flotilla?”
She shrugged. “Just preserving the metaphor.”
“No, that won’t sink him – not all by itself,” I said. “Fortunately, I have only begun to fuck with him.”
“Good one, John Paul Jones,” she said. “Are those the devilish doings you referred to last night?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Tell me,” she said.
So I did. It took quite a while.
When I was done, she sat there and looked at me for several seconds. “I knew you could be a tough son of a bitch, Sergeant – you have to be, in your job. But this kind of ruthlessness is something I haven’t seen in you before. I’m not sure I like it.”
“Yeah, well, extraordinary times demand extraordinary measures. Somebody said that once, although I forget who.”
“No, don’t hide behind clichés. That’s for cheap politicians – and whatever else you are, you’re no cheap politician.”
“What do you want me to say? That I’m happy about it? That I rubbed my hands together and cackled fiendishly when the idea came to me, like some fucking mad scientist in the movies?”
She shook her head slowly. “I know you better than that. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“I don’t get to look myself in the mirror anymore,” she said. “But you do – every damn day. Question is, will you still be able to do that, after this shit you’re talking about goes down? Always assuming you can make it work, that is.”
I rubbed one hand over my face, slowly. “I don’t know, honey. I really don’t. But I do know this much – I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror again if I let this city go right down the fucking tubes, without doing everything I can to stop it. And I mean everything.”
The mug she’d been drinking from had left circles of moisture on the table. She traced each one with her fingertip slowly, as if she had all the time in the world. Then she looked up and said, “Well, if that’s the way it is, Sergeant, then all I can say is – get out there and kick some fucking ass.”
This time, I was the one who’d suggested the Brass Shield Bar and Grill as a meeting place. My motivation was basically the same one that had brought Louis Loquasto here the first time – safety, but a different kind of safety. Before, Loquasto had wanted to be close to all these off-duty cops as protection against the Delatassos’ bombs and bullets. Now, I wanted to be seen talking to him in here, because nobody in his right mind would even think about engaging in a criminal conspiracy while surrounded by all these guys wearing badges. At least, that’s what I planned to say to Internal Affairs, if it ever came to that – and it might.
We’d agreed to meet at eight o’clock, an hour before my shift was due to start. I figured that would be plenty of time – after all, how long does it really take to light a fuse?
The consigliere was punctual, sliding into the booth just as the clock over the bar reached the top of the hour. The room was full of the buzz of about two dozen half-drunk cops having what passed for conversation; I had to lean forward so he could hear me, and maybe that was just as well. I nodded toward the glass resting on his side of the table. “I ordered you a bourbon on the rocks, like you had last time. Don’t drink it if you don’t want to – it’s just for show.”
“Just as well,” Loquasto said. He had to lean forward as well. We’d look like conspirators, except every other booth in the room featured the same thing. “As I recall, it isn’t very good bourbon.”
“I guess most cops don’t have your refined taste in booze.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “I hope you had in mind something more interesting to talk about than your tiresome class envy.”
“Yeah, I did, actually,” I said. “How’s the war with the Delatassos going?”
“We’ve taken some losses recently, but it’s not over yet. I have no doubt that Mister Calabrese will ultimately prevail.”
He was both a Mafia consigliere and a lawyer, so I couldn’t tell that he was lying – even though I knew he was. Word on the street was that the Calabrese Family – what was left of it – was hunkered down in defensive positions, driven off their turf by the Delatassos’ car bombs and superior firepower.
“What would you say,” I asked him, “if I told you there was a way for your boss to get the Delatassos out of Scranton and out of his face – for good – in just a few days?”
He looked at me for a second or two, then picked up the glass of mediocre bourbon and drained it in two swallows.
“I would say, ‘Tell me more,’ naturally.”
“It involves more work for your pet shark, John Wesley Harding,” I said.
“I have no idea to whom you’re referring ,” he said. Loquasto was not only an expert liar but a grammar maven, too. “But do continue, if you wish.”
“You know that Ronnie Delatasso is trying to take over in Scranton because he’s probably never gonna head the main branch of the family down in Philly – his old man being undead and all.”
“I believe I was the one who conveyed that information to you, Sergeant.”
“I’m just trying to set the stage,” I said. “OK, Delatasso Senior is undead – but that’s not necessarily a synonym for ‘immortal’, as the number of vampires who have died in this town recently should demonstrate.”
“Yes, I was aware of that very basic fact,” Loquasto said. “Were you planning to tell me anything that I don’t already know?”
“I was just going to point out to you that if something should happen to his old man, Ronnie would probably pull up stakes here – no pun intended – and go back home to take over the family business. He’s the only son, right?”
“Yes.” Loquasto chewed his lower lip for a moment. “But if you’re suggesting that some hypothetical ‘pet shark’ of ours should be sent to Philadelphia on a mission to assassinate Charles Delatasso, you’re wasting your time – and mine.”
“Why’s that?”
“If we did have some Boston hit man on retainer, I would be fairly certain that he’s never worked in Philadelphia before.”
“And that would be a major problem?” I already knew the answer to that question, but I wanted Loquasto to say it himself.
“Of course.” He made an impatient gesture with one hand. “A man like Delatasso is going to be well protected. If there is a gap in his personal security, even a local professional could take weeks finding it. As for someone coming in from out of town, who’s unfamiliar with both the city and its criminal element…” Loquasto’s thin lips pursed for a second before turning down at the corners in a frown. “Let’s say that the talents of such a man would be better employed… elsewhere.”
“Good as Harding is, he hasn’t been able to stop the Delatassos from kicking your asses so far.”
“I would dispute your characterization of asses being kicked, as you so elegantly put it,” Loquasto said. “Besides, as I told you, it’s not over yet.”
“But you agree that if Charlie Delatasso was to run into the business end of a wooden stake tomorrow, your troubles would be over.”
“In theory, perhaps. But I find wishful thinking a waste of time and mental energy, Sergeant.”
“Yeah, me, too,” I said. “I don’t figure it would come as a surprise to you that the Philadelphia cops have been keeping the Delatasso family under surveillance for years, waiting for the Don to make a mistake so they can put him away.”
“As you say, not much of a surprise.” Loquasto maintained his poker face, but I was close enough to see the pupils of his eyes contract, which meant that I’d finally said something that interested him.
“What if this guy you never heard of, John Wesley Harding, got his hands on the Philly Organized Crime Unit’s file on Delatasso? A file that lays out where the Don spends the day, the places where he does business, and the guys he hangs out with – including names, addresses, phone numbers, and even photos of Delatasso and his ‘business associates’?”