I flipped back to the photo of Azrael and the brooding male model holding her hand. Then I squeezed my eyes shut and recalled the blowup in Larry Feld’s office of himself, Mike Wallace and Dante Gandolfo. Add a few years, a few pounds, a little gravity, some salt to the black pepper of his hair and there’d be a match. O’Toole had told me that Johnny’s girl had been a wiseguy’s toy. Christ, MacClough could really pick them. But even here, with a bloody stiff at my feet, I couldn’t blame Johnny. In twenty-year-old pictures, she could make you want her. Believe me. She could. I wondered what kind of world it was that turned her into the orange-faced loser I found eating canary on Christmas Eve.
Before burying my new-found booty in my pocket, I spread the old news clipping out on the dead man’s table. It looked strange unfolded like that. What I mean to say is that most of the article had been neatly scissored or razored out, but one of the edges was rough, torn, uneven. The tear seemed fresh. Fresher, at least, than the cut edges. Someone had recently removed a piece of the puzzle and I didn’t have time to look for it. I heard steps crunching up the snow on the front steps.
“Dead?” Johnny asked, already knowing the answer.
“Quite dead.”
MacClough put his knee in the pool of drying blood and lifted the body just as I had. He shook his head and let the corpse back down: “Belly shot with a twenty-two. Three, maybe four times. He let the killer get awfully close to him. Asshole.”
I didn’t disagree.
“Call the cops?” MacClough wanted to know.
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I figured we had a lot to talk about first,” I prodded.
“Is that what you figured?” Johnny was just full of questions.
“Uh huh,” I could be so articulate.
“Then you need help with your figuring,” the wary ex-cop advised. “We don’t have anything much to discuss.”
This sparring was giving me a bellyache and making me remember my sore ribs. I wasn’t much in the mood and I was getting pretty fucking tired of digging for every answer and then trying to decipher it like a hieroglyph. I laid it out for him much as I had the brittle newsprint.
“Look Johnny,” I slammed my fist on the table, “let’s stop the cha-cha. Her name was Azrael Wise and she was Dante Gandolfo’s property. Problem was, she didn’t love him. She loved you. But ‘Don Juan’ wasn’t an easy guy to walk away from, especially after she’d seen things. She’d seen the kinda things that get some people a half-dozen consecutive lifetimes in stir. She’d seen the kinda things that get other people to swallow bullets. Anyway, she rolled over on Dante’s old man. I suspect with a big push from a chesty, rookie cop who was sure he knew what the right thing was,” I cleared my throat. “Stop me when I get cold,”
He didn’t stop me.
“So, with you pushing, she witnessed against Robby ‘The Boot.’ And that was that. Azrael was persona non grata everywhere on this planet murder could reach. She bid adieu to Johnny Blue, riding off into the sunset on the back of the Witness Protection Program. But the program wasn’t so sophisticated then like it is now. Now they use fake social security numbers and fabricated identities. When Azrael went underground, they used the identities of people who didn’t have much use for ‘em anymore. You know, people like a little dead girl who drowned while her big sister watched,” I was shouting now. “People with names like Carlene Carstead, for instance.”
He still didn’t stop me.
“You’re in this shit, MacClough, up to your guilty nipples and I’m tryin’ like hell to pull ya out. Don’t even tell me ya don’t want my help,” I waved off any potential objection. “You’re gettin’ it.
“Now I know you didn’t whack Azrael and I don’t think you whacked Mr. Pinky Ring either. Ya might have, if you’d gotten the chance. I just don’t think ya got that chance. Him,” I shrugged at O’Toole’s nearly forgoten body, “maybe he was squeezin’ ya. Maybe ya had to quiet him. But even if ya didn’t, you’re gonna kill. I can smell it on ya like my father’s cheap aftershave on Sunday mornings. I don’t know that I could stop ya, but I figure to try.
He shook his head from side to side: “You still need help with your figuring.”
“You help me,” I pointed at him accusingly. “You help me make sense outta this. Why’d she come outta hiding after all these years? Christ, the old man wasn’t even convicted and he’s not head of the family anymore. The contract on her must’ve been colder than Candlestick Park in July. Why now, Johnny? Why now?”
“We got nothin’ to talk about, Klein, except maybe the weather.”
“Okay, MacClough, the cops are gettin’ called,” I moved for the phone.
“Yeah and so what happens?” the ex-detective seemed less nervous about the cops’ arrival than the dead man at his feet.
“I’ll talk a lot. I’ll let them stop ya, if ya won’t let me,” my voice cracked as if puberty was late in arriving. “I’ll tell ’em that you killed O’Toole. I’ll tell ’em anything I have to.”
“They won’t listen,” he yawned. “Here,” he handed me the phone, “call.”
“I can prove you withheld evidence,” I took up his challenge and the phone. “In fact I bet you’re carrying that evidence with you in the shape of a diamond heart. Try explaining that away.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as a drop of sweat rolled off his upper lip. The granite cracked.
“You won’t do that,” MacClough fingered off the sweat. “You’ll be hanging yourself. You were the one who lied to the cops. You were the one who held back the jewelry. All I have to say is I was holding the heart for you, that I didn’t know where it came from or who it was for.”
“You’re wrong, Johnny. I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. I’ll do it.” Puberty struck again. “When all is said and done, the stink that gets raised will be enough to warn anybody off.”
“Why don’t you just call my alleged victim and warn him straight out?” Johnny smirked sardonically.
“Because that’ll make you a target. And that’s the only thing I won’t do. I don’t want any killing with you on either side of the gun barrel,” I shook my head no. “Why don’t you just give it to the cops and let them take care of it.”
“The cops!” MacClough’s hearty laugh was lined in sadness. “The cops wouldn’t be able to pin this on the Gan-dolfos with shoestring and bubblegum. I’m somewhat familiar with how both sides work. Anyway, even if they managed to make a case, the Gandolfos’ whore mouthpieces would shoot it down before it ever got to trial. No, Klein, this is old business. My business.”
I couldn’t really dispute Johnny’s arguments. He knew the cops and I knew the lawyer. We were at an impasse and the body at our feet wasn’t going to keep forever. I called 911, gave my name and suggested the coroner be alerted. We waited.
At the distant squawking of sirens, John Francis spoke up: “When the locals show, play along with me. Play along and you’ll get your answers.”
“When?”
“You’ll get your answers,” he repeated, ignoring my schedule request. “But I can’t let you stop me.”
“Fair enough,” I extended my hand for a shake.
He shook it and pulled my right ear close to his lips. “I loved her, Klein.”
Lots of feet were crushing the snow on the stoop now. Fists knocked on the door and bells chimed like Big Ben with a sore throat. Discordant voices shouted, “Police. Open up.” MacClough pushed me away, took out his detective’s shield and started marching to the entrance. Halfway down the shadowed hall, he turned back to me.
“Christ, I really loved her,” he shook his head. “Don’t forget. Play along.” He continued up the hallway.
Sure I was going to play along. Didn’t Johnny know? I’d been playing along most of my life.
Polyester Suits, Dacron Shirts, Nylon Socks and Vinyl Shoes
I played along. I was still without answers, but I played along. God, it was scary to see the ease with which MacClough manipulated the uniforms. Uniformed cops, in spite of their resentment and envy, can act awfully like novice priests in the presence of the Pope when presented with the gold and enamel of a detective’s shield. They can’t help themselves. From their first day on the job they shoot for that shield. They shoot for the day they can dress in polyester suits, dacron shirts, nylon socks and vinyl shoes. They shoot for the day when someone can kiss their rings. It’s funny. It didn’t seem to matter that Johnny was retired and that he was supposed to have returned the shield and that he was two counties removed from his former jurisdiction. It didn’t seem to matter and he knew it.