Lethal Experiment Page 5

  As she climbed out behind me she whispered, “Am I allowed to call anyone a dirty rat?”

  I tried not to smile, but failed.

  “Say it,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m funny too.”

  “You are not funny.”

  “Am too!”

  We climbed the steps and entered the house. I remembered every nook and cranny of the place from two years earlier, when I’d broken into this very same home and set up residency in Sal’s attic for a week.

  The party was in full swing. Some of the guests were half plastered, as evidenced by the young, up-and-comer from Dayton, who shouted, “Hey, Creed! Yeah, I’m talking to you. You think you’re hot shit? You ain’t nothin’!”

  Beside me, I could feel Kathleen’s body tensing.

  I gave him the hard stare and his eyes went wild. He started moving toward me. Lucky for him, his father grabbed him by the collar and passed him off to his bodyguards.

  “My son has no manners,” said Sammy “The Blond” Santoro. “Please forgive him, Mr. Creed. It’s the liquor talking. I shouldn’t have brought him.”

  I looked at him without speaking. We’d made it maybe ten feet inside Sal’s home and I was already on the verge of being exposed.

  Sammy, a well-known killer in his own right, a city boss in Sal’s organization—was visibly nervous, practically cowering. Bringing Kathleen to this party had been a mistake. I could only imagine what she must be thinking. She had to be wondering why these hardened men were terrified of me.

  “Mr. Creed, I’m prepared to make this right,” he said.

  I moved close to him and whispered something in his ear. He bowed, thanked me profusely, and backed away.

  “What on earth did you say to that man?” Kathleen said.

  “I told him he and his son gave a great performance.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s all part of the show,” I said. “Sal hires people to maintain the theme. It’s all staged, like when you go to a Wild West town and a gunfight breaks out in the saloon.”

  The foyer led to the huge great room, decorated in white. We crossed the foyer and got stuck in guest traffic for a minute.

  “You think a phony gunfight might break out tonight?” Kathleen said.

  “If it does, just play along,” I said.

  Looking over her shoulder I watched Sammy “The Blond” and his goons drag Sammy’s son out the front door. One goon had his meaty hand smothering the kid’s mouth so I wouldn’t hear the insults he was attempting to hurl at me.

  I recognized Jimmy “The Pearl” Remini standing next to us.

  “Hi Jimmy,” I said.

  He turned to see who was speaking. When he recognized me his face blanched.

  “Jimmy?”

  “The Pearl” had gone mute.

  “Jimmy, it’s okay,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m just a guest here, saying hello.”

  Jimmy breathed a visible sigh of relief. “Jesus, you startled me,” he said. “I haven’t seen you since—” he stopped to consider his words.

  “Since that thing,” I said, helpfully.

  “Yeah, right,” he said “the thing.”

  We introduced our significant others, and Kathleen said, “What thing?”

  “Take care, Jimmy,” I said. “You too, Mrs. Remini.”

  They backed away quickly and gratefully.

  “You gave a great performance, Jimmy!” Kathleen shouted.

  Jimmy “The Pearl” and his wife smiled and nodded and kept backing away.

  “They seemed nice,” Kathleen said.

  The great room was cavernous, with twenty-four foot ceilings. Up above, there was only room for a crawl space, something I knew first hand. The week I “visited,” I hung out in the areas above the bedrooms. There was standing room there, and I’d managed to fashion a relatively comfortable lifestyle. I had to remain quiet and cramped at night, of course, but when the family was out I could move around and make some noise. My first job had been to divert a portion of the heat and air to the attic. Next I hooked up a phone jack, so I could record all the land line calls that came in and went out of the house.

  Kathleen looked at the ornate painting over the fireplace.

  “Is that Sal’s wife, Marie?” she said.

  “It is.”

  “She seems so young. How long ago did she pose for it?”

  “Maybe fifteen years ago.”

  A young lady was making a bee-line to us through the crowd. Kathleen squealed, “Why Donovan, she’s beautiful!”

  “Damn right, she is! Kathleen, this is Liz Bonadello, Sal’s daughter.”

  Liz was a tall, classic Italian beauty, close to Kathleen’s age, meaning mid-thirties. Watching them interact socially was a thing of beauty. Over the next two minutes they had started and discarded half a dozen topics of conversation and were now deep into an animated discussion that generated no small amount of laughter, as if they’d known each other for years.

  Liz had her own place, but Sal and Marie kept her old bedroom ready for the occasional weekend visit. Liz spent the night here only once during the week I hid in the attic. After the first day, after I’d completed my noisy work, I was able to relax and enjoy their home. On those occasions, while Sal and Marie were out, I’d push down the attic stairs, climb down and raid the cupboard or fridge, take a shower, and use Liz’s old computer.

  Liz and Kathleen concluded their discussion and promised each other they’d stay in touch.

  As Liz walked away I said, “What do you think of her?”

  Kathleen said, “Classy, olive complexion, nice boobs, knows her fashion.”

  “Do women always size each other up that way?”

  “Always. What planet are you from?”

  “What do you suppose she’s thinking about you right now?”

  “Classy, porcelain complexion, small tits, sexy boyfriend.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said. “Especially the last part.”

  “Me too,” she said. “So where’s the bar?”

  “There,” I said, pointing to the door that led to the terrace.

  Once outside I could see that Sal had really outdone himself. The terrace had been professionally decorated with lavish columns, topiaries, and hundreds of tiny white lights that made it seem like a fairyland. The tables were draped in textured, white linen, with centerpieces of fresh-cut orchids. The chairs were covered in white fabric with organza sashes in cobalt blue. The bar was at least twenty feet long, with three bartenders going at it double-time.

  Despite the ample and capable staff , it took ten minutes to get our drinks. While I waited, I looked back up at the house. The curtains along the back of the house were open. All the lights were on, and I could see inside Sal and Marie’s bedroom.

  I’d been hiding in Sal’s attic for a reason. He had been given some misinformation about me and decided to have me whacked. I figured the safest place to hide out was in his attic. I tapped his phones and bored some tiny holes in the various ceilings and fitted them with pinhole cameras. I was trying to learn which of Sal’s lieutenants had lied about me. I figured I’d find him and torture a confession out of him. Barring that, I’d kill Sal. As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long. Six nights into my stay, while Sal and Marie slept in their bed, I heard two guys break into the house. Through pinhole cameras I watched them creep toward the master bedroom with their guns drawn. I positioned myself over Sal’s bedroom. When they flipped on the lights, I put a gun in each hand and jumped through the space between the floorboards, came crashing through Sal’s ceiling with guns blazing. I killed both the would-be assassins, and later learned they’d been sent by Artie Boots, the guy that tried to set me up.

  You’d think Sal would have been grateful, but it took all this time for him to forgive me. One reason he finally began trusting me is because, with Victor and Hugo’s help, I took down Joe DeMeo. I seized several of Joe’s
off shore accounts, worth millions of dollars, and gave Sal half of everything I stole.

  Money may not buy happiness but enough of it buys loyalty.

  As we stepped away from the bar, I spotted Sal and Marie holding court on the far end of the terrace. One by one, criminals approached him, kissed his cheeks, and handed him envelopes. Sal shook their hands, appeared to make some small talk, and spent a lot of time smiling. As the mugs left, Sal looked in the envelopes and said something to either T-Bone or Big Bad, his bodyguards. T-Bone seemed to be writing something in a small ledger book, probably recording the size of each man’s contribution. Then Sal deposited each envelope into a large wooden box on a bar table that Big Bad was guarding.

  Kathleen and I were particularly impressed with the backyard.

  At the center of the terrace, eight wide steps down led to the sun deck and swimming pool, which had been covered for the occasion with an enormous dance platform. An eight-piece swing band had set up in the gazebo, next to the pool house, but hadn’t started playing yet. For now, the music was provided by an unlikely pair of very old men. One, the violin player, had a shock of white hair and wore the thickest black glasses I’d ever seen. He moved through the crowd while playing, pausing occasionally to whisper something in the ear of each pretty lady he encountered. The other guy, the guitar player, squinted and scowled at the guests like a jealous lover, and did his best to keep up with the violinist, both musically and spatially.

  “I love the musicians,” Kathleen said. “They’re so cute!”

  “Cute,” I said.

  “Well, just look at them. They must be eighty years old.”

  I did look at them, in fact, I knew them. And “cute” didn’t seem an appropriate description. Johnny D and Silvio Braca were a pair of octogenarians who could play a romantic ballad one minute and break your knee caps the next.

  “I wonder what he’s whispering to all those women,” I said.

  Kathleen flashed a grin at me. “Maybe I’ll just walk over there and find out,” she said.

  Chapter 12

  Sal caught my eye and motioned us over. We worked our way over to him.

  “This is my wife, Marie,” he said to Kathleen.

  “And this is Kathleen,” I said.

  I nodded at Big Bad and T-Bone and they each gave me a short, tight nod in return.

  Sal made a great show of bowing and kissing her hand. Then he took a step back and appraised her body like a meat inspector deciding between choice and prime. Prime won.

  “Ah,” he said, licking his lips. “You done good with this one here, Creed.”

  Marie said, “Stop it Sal. You’re making the poor girl uncomfortable.” To Kathleen she said, “Don’t pay any attention to him. He thinks he’s a stallion.”

  Kathleen smiled.

  Marie’s eyes turned fierce. “I mean it,” she said. “Don’t pay any attention to him!”

  Kathleen flashed me a look of confusion.

  Sal said, “Marie, this is Creed’s girlfriend.” He emphasized the word by arching his eyebrows.

  Marie showed skepticism.

  “They’re adopting a kid, for Crissake,” he said.

  Marie’s demeanor changed instantly. “Really, Donovan?”

  “It’s true,” I said.

  Marie beamed at Kathleen. “You’ll have to let me help you plan the wedding!”

  Sal laughed. “Hell, they ain’t gonna exchange—whatcha call—nuptials. They’re going to keep living in sin like we used to do.” He gave her a wink.

  “We did nothing of the kind,” Marie huffed. She turned to Kathleen. “That true? No marriage?”

  Before Kathleen could think of a response, Marie shook her head and left us to chat with some guests.

  Sal said, “You bring an envelope?”

  “Better than that,” I said, “but we have to go inside to get it.”

  “No shit?” Sal said. “Then let’s go!”

  He told T-Bone to guard the stash and motioned to Big Bad to follow us. We started making the journey through the crowd of well-wishers and glad handlers. As we walked I said, “How’d you know about the adoption?”

  Sal smiled. “I got my—whatcha call—sources.”

  To Kathleen, Sal said, “You ever see this one fight?”

  “I heard him once.”

  Sal said, “Heard him? What’s that mean?”

  She gave me a look. I said, “Nellie’s Diner. Joe DeMeo’s goons.”

  Sal said, “You was there?”

  Kathleen nodded. “Sort of,” she said. “I was in the restaurant, hiding under a table.”

  We entered the great room. Santo Mangano waved from the foyer and yelled, “Hey, Sallie!” Sal returned the wave.

  “Thing of beauty,” Sal said, “the way Creed—whatcha call—inflicts physical damage. We was in a place one time, some martial arts guy was drunk and comes at me for no frickin’ reason. Before Big and T have a chance to react, Creed goes after this guy and I swear to Christ, it looked like a cyclone fightin’ a water bug!”

  Kathleen squeezed my arm. “You think that’s something, you should see him in the sack.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Except in the sack, I’m the water bug.”

  Sal started to laugh but a thunderous voice suddenly took over all the speakers in the house. He flinched slightly, but stood his ground. All around us, gangsters hit the floor, pulling their wives down with them. Women screamed as their husbands scrambled for cover. Guns were produced from ankle and shoulder holsters. Servers brandished knives, proving me right about the brandishing.

  The voice was masculine, and powerful, like the wrath of God.

  The voice boomed: “The mightiest warriors are not the most physically impressive!”

  The lights went out and circles of blue lasers started flashing at the far end of the foyer. The giant voice spoke again.

  “Behold the mightiest warriors of all time!”

  A giant cloud of smoke appeared and the lights came back on. A wheelchair stood where the smoke had been. Not an ordinary wheelchair, but one fashioned from space age materials. It was equipped with a series of roll bars, lights, and all manner of electronic equipment. Navigating the chair was a little person with enormous dreadlocks, wearing an electrified shirt.

  Victor.

  At Victor’s side, the ever-present, always angry Hugo, “The Little General,” stood guard. Hugo was Victor’s aide, confidante, and advisor in all things military. Victor and Hugo were little people who dreamed of conquering the world with their midget army. If they ever succeeded it truly would be a small world, after all.

  All eyes turned to Sal.

  “Relax,” he said. “The little guys wanted to make a—whatcha call—entrance. I told ‘em, knock yourselves out.”

  Dozens of gangsters sheepishly holstered their weapons and dealt with their angry spouses with severe, whispered threats.

  Victor made an adjustment on the arm of his chair and the loudspeaker voice softened. “Could I have the honor of Salvatore Bonadello’s presence for one moment?”

  Sal said, “Let’s—whatcha call—indulge the little guy.” We started walking toward Victor and Hugo.

  “I need to check my makeup,” Kathleen said, just the way we’d rehearsed. “Can you point me to your powder room?”

  “Powder room?” Sal said. “Now that’s class!” He pointed the way and Kathleen headed there.

  “At first I thought she meant gunpowder,” Sal said, studying her ass as long as he could before she disappeared from view. “That there’s a winner. I envy you, wakin’ up to that every morning.”

  Victor’s speaker voice said, “Will you all please give a warm welcome to my manservant, Merlin.”

  No one moved to make a sound. Once again, all eyes were on Sal. He looked around the room and shouted, “He means clap your hands. Show some class here!”

  Sal began clapping his hands. Others, clearly befuddled, reluctantly joined in.r />
  From behind the assembled guests a woman screamed. Everyone spun around. Then the scream circled the room through the speakers and the guests saw that Victor had created a diversion so the magician could appear.

  Merlin began approaching Sal. Big Bad produced a .357 magnum and held it at Merlin’s face.

  Merlin regarded the gun with more than a little trepidation. “I was told there’d be no guns?”

  Sal said, “I’m gonna let the gun stay where it is. Just in case.”

  Merlin assembled his courage and said, “Very well, but please be careful. Can you give me a dollar please?”

  “The fuck?” Sal said.

  Sal looked at Victor. “It’s my friggin’ party,” he said. “It don’t set well givin’ money to this guy here.”

  “Just one dollar,” Merlin said. “I can assure you, you won’t be sorry.”

  “I better not be.”

  Sal dug into his pants pocket, produced a wad of cash big enough to choke a wide-mouth frog. He flipped through the bills until he found a dollar, which he peeled off and handed to Merlin. Merlin’s right hand was empty—I was watching it—then suddenly it held a felt-tip pen.

  I’ve seen good before. Merlin was great.

  “Please sign the dollar, so we’ll know it’s yours.”

  “I already know it’s mine, shithead!” Sal said. But he signed it anyway.

  Merlin took the bill and held it high over his head as he backed up a few steps. Sal told Big Bad, “Keep an eye on this friggin’ guy.”

  Big Bad nodded and kept his gun sighted on the magician.

  Merlin produced an envelope, again seemingly out of mid-air, placed the dollar in the envelope and tore it. When he did that, Big Bad cocked the trigger.

  A very nervous Merlin probably never had to work under this type of pressure, but he managed to complete the trick. He folded the envelope several times while tearing sections of it. Then he unfolded the perfectly intact envelope and held it high above his head, waiting for applause.

  There was none.

  Sal said, “Where’s my money? These guys’ll tell you, you don’t want to owe me money.”