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So I just said four words, the lethal information I had gained from my friend the organized crime historian.
“Eugene Costa, your grandfather.”
One black eyebrow went up.
“He wasn’t just a gofer for Harley Talbott,” I said. “He was a middle-man between Talbott and the Chicago mob. The DeSimone case was bullshit, of course. But the articles mentioned Eugene Costa. Just a bit player. A nobody, unless you knew what you were looking for. Unfortunately…” My throat started to close and I slowed myself down. “Unfortunately, Robin happened to run Eugene Costa through some old property records and put that information as a footnote to the report we gave you.”
“You’re a genius.” He aimed the gun at my chest.
“She didn’t know anything. Neither did I.”
“The
y always say that.” His voice sounded thirty years younger and I could imagine the many executions he had carried out. In fact, I knew about ten of them. He must have negotiated a sweet deal with the feds to avoid the needle. If I were thirty days younger, I might have been afraid, might have been anxiously worried about time—just like that little boy at Kenilworth School, watching the clock. None of that was in my mind now. I settled in the sofa and spread my arms over the back, feeling the cool leather on my hands.
“You’re an idiot,” I said. “You rat out your old pals, get witness protection to resettle you here, and pretty soon you’re selling black tar heroin to high-school kids. You can take the goombah out of the rackets but you can’t take the rackets out of the goombah.”
“I opted out of witness protection a year ago,” he said. “They check in every now and again, but you know how it is, war on terror, budget cuts and all.”
“You might have gotten away with it if you hadn’t paid ten thousand dollars to that woman to kill Robin and me.”
“It would have been twenty thousand if she’d done the job right. I should have had Tom do it.”
“Like he did the job right on Jax Delgado.”
He moved his finger off the trigger, curious.
“It was meant to look like La Familia’s work,” I said. “But because you’d seen Jax with Robin, you figured she was a risk, too. So you had Holden send her his head. That way, when she ended up dead, the cops would think it was another killing by Mexican gangs. Nobody would ever suspect you. So far so good? But you learned her brother-in-law was a deputy sheriff. You backed off. You’re a careful guy. You wanted to know what Robin had learned from Jax: so you did the Judson Lee thing, gave us a cold case, quoted Napoleon on history. You provided us with just enough information that our findings would tell whether we knew the secret about Jax and you.”
He moved the Beretta to his lap, watching me intently. I remained sprawled on the sofa.
“Robin didn’t know anything.” I spoke slowly, letting each word hit him. “She was just a thorough researcher. It got her killed.” A voice in my head: David, you got her killed. I said, “You killed her and it made me curious why.”
“I don’t like curious guys.”
“That’s why you killed Jax, too. Too bad he was a federal agent.”
Moretti opened his mouth but nothing happened except a string of saliva separated between his lips.
“Oh, you didn’t know that, Sal? You thought he was El Verdugo and he’d go to work for you? Be some insurance against the cartels?”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re a crazy man!” He stood and backed away, keeping the gun on me. At a 1950s-style bar cart, he poured himself Scotch, neat. He didn’t offer me anything. Slipping the gun in his pocket, he consumed two fingers of the booze in one gulp.
“Jax Delgado was ATF,” I said. “He discovered that you were off the witness protection reservation. But it wasn’t the heroin he was after. It was the Jesus Is Lord Pawn Shop, which you secretly own through your friend Barney.”
The two black eyebrows slithered up his forehead. “Smart guy. How do you know this?”
“Just destiny.”
He slapped the glass down hard and paced the large room. It was amazing how isolated the space felt, but it was designed to be that way, so people could come in their garages, watch television and play video games, and never notice what might be going on outside their front doors.
“Nobody can prove it!” His voice echoed into the high ceiling.
“I thought you old-school guys didn’t kill cops, code of honor, and all that shit.”
“It’s no shit! It’s real. This Mexican passed himself off as a contract killer. The best! I don’t kill cops. Don’t you realize I could have killed you and the girl anytime? I could have had you killed in that parking lot with those spics, but I didn’t. I am a man of honor.”
“Forgive me, Salvatore.” I said it with the old-world flair of Judson Lee, and then laughed slow and low. I thought he’d shoot me right then, so I continued quickly.
