Beirut Incident

Chapter 13

Dinner was delightful, a small table in the back of Minetta's, on a night when there was hardly anyone there — a light antipasto, a good oso buco, zuccini strips fried in deep fat, and espresso coffee. Philomina was in that loving, glowing mood that puts a little excitement in life.

It all turned into a petulant Siciliano rage when I kissed her goodnight in front of her door. She stamped her foot, accused me of going to bed with six other girls, burst into tears, and finally ended up throwing her arms around my neck and smothering me with kisses.

"Nick… please, Nick. Just for a little while."

I disentangled myself firmly. I knew that if I went in, I'd be there much too long. I had things to do that night. I kissed her firmly on the end of her nose, spun her around so that she faced her own door, and smacked her smartly on her round behind. "Go on. Just leave the door ajar and I'll see you when I get through with the things I have to take care of."

Her smile was all-forgiving and, happy again, she said, "Promise?"

"Promise." I went back down the hall before my resolve weakened.

The first thing I did when I got to my room at the Chelsea was call Louie. "Hi, this is Nick. Look, how about meeting me tonight? Yeah, I know it's late, but it's important. Right! Oh, about midnight. And bring Locallo and Manitta. At Tony's, I guess. It's as good as any. Okay? Good… oh, and Louie, get hold of Lemon-Drop Droppo's address before you come, will you?"

I hung up before he could react to that last request. Then I went downstairs and around the corner to the Angry Squire. I ordered a mug of beer from Sally, the congenial English Barmaid, and then made a call to Washington from the phone on the wall at the end of the bar. It was just a routine precaution in case my hotel room phone was bugged.

I called AXE's Emergency Supply Section and, after identifying myself properly, ordered a 17B Demolition Kit sent to me that night by Greyhound Bus. I would be able to pick it up in the morning at the Port Authority bus terminal on Eighth Avenue.

The 17B Kit is very neat, very destructive. Six detonator caps, six timer fuses that can be set to trigger the caps at any interval between one minute and fifteen hours, six pieces of primer cord for less sophisticated jobs, and enough plastique to blow the crown off the Statue of Liberty's head.

It was difficult to make myself understood over the din created by a very good but very loud jazz combo some six feet away, but I finally got my message across and hung up.

At eleven-thirty I left the Angry Squire and wandered down Seventh Avenue, making plans for Lemon-Drop Droppo. At the corner of Christopher and Seventh, I turned right on Christopher past all the new gay bars, then turned left again on Bedford Street and down the short block and a half to Tony's.

It was an entirely different scene from what it had been just the night before at Philomina's party. Now it was quiet and intimate again, back to its usual dungeon-like ambiance, the dull orange lights on the dark brown walls casting barely enough light to allow the waiters to maneuver between the tables that were back in their accustomed places in the main room.

In place of the hordes of tuxedo-clad Italian hoods and their long-gowned women, the place was now sparsely populated with a half-dozen long-haired young guys in blue jeans and denim jackets and an equal number of short-haired young girls similarly clad. But the conversation wasn't much different from the previous evening. Where the talk at the party had centered primarily on sex, football games, and horses, tonight's crowd talked mostly of sex, football games, and philosophy.

Louie was at a table by himself, up against the wall to the left of the entrance, hunched morosely over a glass of wine. He didn't look too happy.

I sat down with him, ordered a brandy and soda and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Louie, cheer up. Things aren't as bad as all that!"

He tried a grin but it didn't come off.

"Louie, you really don't want to do it, do you?"

"Do what?"

Who was he kidding? "Take care of Droppo."

He shook his head miserably, not meeting my eyes. "No, I mean, it's just that… oh, hell! No!" he said with more force, glad to get it out in the open. "No! I don't want to do it. I don't think I can do it. I just… hell, I grew up with the guy, Nick!"

"Okay! Okay! I think I've got an idea that will take care of the Lemon Drop kid, make your Uncle Joe happy, and get you off the hook. How's that for a package?"

Hope gleamed in his eyes and that delightful smile of his began to spread across his face. "Honest? Hey, Nick, that would be great!"

"Okay. You did me a favor in Beirut, getting me over here. Now I do you one, right?"

He nodded.

"All right. First, I got this in my box at the Chelsea today." I handed him a note I had written myself.

Louie stared at it in disbelief. "Jeez! What the hell is this all about? Do you suppose it's true?"

"It's probably true, all right. There wouldn't be any sense in sending that to me if it weren't."

"No, I guess not. But why the hell would they send it? You just got here!"

I shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. The room clerk just said some guy came by and left it. Maybe whoever it was figured I was just handy and would pass it on to you anyway."

Louie looked puzzled, as he should have. "I still don't get it." He paused a minute, thinking. "Listen, Nick. Do you suppose it was the Ruggieros?"

Atta baby, Louie! I thought. "Yeah," I said. 'That's what I figure."

He frowned. "So what's this got to do with coming down here tonight? And with Lemon-Drop Droppo?"

"Just an idea. You got Locallo and Manitti with you?"

"Yeah. They're out in the car."

"Good. Now here's what we're going to do." I explained my idea to him, and he was delighted.

"Great, Nick! Great!"

It was only a few blocks over to 88 Horatio, which is just about a block or so off Hudson. I explained to Locallo and Manitti as we drove over. "Remember. We want him alive. It's all right if he's a little damaged, but I don't want any bodies. Understand?"

Locallo, behind the wheel, shrugged. "It sounds crazy to me."

Louie punched him lightly on the back of the head to let him know who was boss. "No one asked you. Just do like Nick says."

Eighty-eight Horatio was a faceless gray building with a line of identical high-stepped front stoops and iron railings. It took Manitti something like forty-five seconds to get through the lock on the outside door and another thirty to open the inside one. We filed up the stairway as quietly as possible, pausing finally on the sixth-floor landing to stop panting from the climb. There were just three of us — Locallo, Manitti and myself — since we had left Louie downstairs in the car.

Manitti had no trouble with the apartment door to 6B. He didn't use a plastic card like they do in all the espionage books these days. He just used an old-fashioned flat blade shaped much like a surgeon's scalpel and a small tool that looked something like a steel knitting needle. It didn't take more than twenty seconds before the door swung open silently, and Manitti stepped aside to let me enter, a big congratulatory smile of self-satisfaction on his Neanderthal face.

There were no lights on in what was obviously a living room, but a light did shine beneath a closed door across the room. I moved across quickly, Locallo and Manitti right behind, each of us with a gun in hand.

I reached the door, flung it open, and stepped into the bedroom in one quick motion. I didn't want to give Droppo a chance to go for a gun.

I needn't have bothered.

Greggorio Droppo was much too busy, at least for the moment, to worry about such a small incident as three-armed men bursting into his bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. Droppo's naked body heaved spasmodically, twisting and churning the sheets under the girl he was making love to. Her arms were tight around his neck, pulling him to her, their faces locked together so that all we could see was grease-slicked hair, mussed now by the grasping fingers of the girl. Her slender legs, shapely and white against the hairy darkness of his body, were scissored around his waist, locked against the slipperiness of the sweat that poured from him. Her arms and legs were all we could see of her.

With a great threshing effort, Droppo reared backward and upward, the classic stud movement before the final screaming plunge. Not having a glass of ice water handy, I did the next best thing and kicked him in the ribs with the point of my shoe.

He froze. Then his head snapped around, eyes wide in disbelief. "Wha-a-a-at…?"

I kicked him again and he gasped in pain. He pulled out, rolling off the girl and onto his back, holding his side in agony.

The sudden departure of her lover left the girl spread-eagled on her back, eyes protruding in terror. She half-raised herself on her elbows, her mouth opened to scream. I clasped my left hand over her mouth and forced her flat back against the sheets, then leaned over and pointed Wilhelmina at her, the muzzle just an inch from her eyes.

She struggled for a moment, arching her sweaty body under the pressure of my hand, then realized what she was looking at and froze, her gaze riveted on the gun. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead, matting the disheveled strands of her red hair.

Next to her, Droppo started to swing his legs over the side of the bed but Locallo was there. Almost casually he whipped the barrel of his revolver across Droppo's face and he dropped back with an anguished howl, clutching at his bloody nose. With one hand, Locallo whipped a crumpled pillow up off the floor and crammed it over Droppo's face, shutting off the sounds. With the other, he smashed between Droppo's extended legs so that the butt of his pistol slammed into the naked man's groin.

An animal sound came from beneath the pillow and the body convulsed high into the air, back arched, all the weight on the shoulders, then collapsed limply on the bed.

"He's passed out, boss," Locallo said laconically. I think he was disappointed.

"Take the pillow away so he doesn't suffocate," T ordered. I looked down at the girl and waved Wilhelmina menacingly. "No noise, no nothing when I take my hand away. Understand?"

She nodded as best she could, eyes staring at me in terror. "Okay," I said. "Relax. We're not going to hurt you." I took my hand away from her mouth and stepped back.

She lay motionless, and the three of us stood there, guns in hand, taking in her beauty. Even with the sweat of sex on her, the terror in her eyes, and the tangled mass of hair, she was exquisite. Her bare breasts heaved and tears suddenly poured from the green eyes.

"Please, please don't hurt me," she whimpered. "Please, Nick."

Then I recognized her. It was Rusty Pollard, the little redhead in the green dress I'd flirted with at the party at Tony's, the same one who, years before, had begun Philomina's torment with an anonymous envelope containing a clipping from the Times.

Standing next to me, Manitti was beginning to breathe hard. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaimed. He leaned over the bed, one hand reaching for her breast.

I cracked him across the side of the head with my gun hand and he jerked back, stunned.

Tears streamed down Rusty's cheeks. I looked at her naked body contemptuously. "If it's not one little squat Italian, it's another, right, Rusty?"

She gulped, but didn't answer.

I reached over and prodded Droppo, but he was inert. "Bring him to," I told Locallo.

I turned back to Rusty. "Get up and get dressed."

She started to sit up slowly and looked at her own naked body as if just realizing that she was lying completely nude in a room with four men, three of whom were virtual strangers.

She jerked into a sitting position, snapping her knees together and doubling them up in front of her. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared at us wildly. "You lousy sons of bitches," she spat.

I laughed. "Don't be so modest, Rusty. We've already seen you making it with this jerk. We're not likely to see you looking any worse." I yanked her by the arm and pulled her out of bed onto the floor.

I could feel that one little spark of fight go out of her right there. I let go and she slowly got to her feet and went over to the chair next to the bed, avoiding our eyes. She picked up a lacy black bra and started to put it on, looking away at the wall as she did. Complete humiliation.

Manitti licked his lips and I glared at him. Locallo came back from the kitchen carrying four cans of cold beer.

He put them all down on the dresser and opened them carefully. He gave one to me, one to Manitti, and took one himself. Then he took the fourth one and poured it steadily over the inert body of Lemon-Drop Droppo, the beer slopping over the sweaty form and soaking the sheet around him.

Droppo came to with a groan, hands instinctively reaching for his outraged genitals.

I tapped him on the bridge of his mangled nose with Wilhelmina just hard enough to make tears start in his eyes. "Who?" he gasped, "what…?"

"Just do exactly what I say, chum, and you might survive."

"Who?" he managed to get out again.

I smiled benignly. "Popeye Franzini," I said. "Now get up and get dressed."

Terror showed in his eyes as he slowly rose from the bed, one hand still clutching his groin. He dressed slowly, and gradually I could sense a change in his attitude. He was trying to appraise the situation, looking for a way out. He was hating more than hurting, and a hating man is dangerous.

Droppo finished the laborious process of tying his shoes, an occasional groan escaping his tightly compressed lips, then used both hands on the bed to lever himself to his feet. As soon as he was standing I slammed my knee into his crotch. He screamed and crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

I motioned to Locallo. "Get him up again, Franco."

On the other side of the room, fully dressed now, Rusty Pollard suddenly came alive again. Her hair was still mused and her lipstick smeared, but the kelly green skirt and black silk blouse she had put on over her bra and panties had given her courage again.

"That was brutal," she hissed. "He wasn't doing anything to you."

"Sending that clipping to Philomina Franzini years ago was brutal, too," I retorted. "She wasn't doing anything to you, either."

The last bit of brutalizing had taken the final vestige of fighting spirit out of Lemon-Drop Droppo and he came down the stairs with us quietly, slightly bent over, both hands pressed tightly to his abdomen.

We put Rusty up front with Locallo and Manitti, and jammed Droppo between Louie and me in the back seat. Then we drove to the Chalfont Plaza. Louie, Droppo, and I went in the main entrance of Manny's place while the other three went in through the Lexington Avenue side.

We met in front of Room 636. I took the Do Not Disturb sign off the door and turned the key. The smell wasn't too bad since I had turned the air conditioner on full blast before leaving two nights before, but it was noticeable.

"What's that smell?" Rusty asked, trying to pull back. I gave her a hard shove that sent her sprawling halfway across the room and we all went in. Manitti closed the door behind us.

I had warned the others what to expect and Droppo was in too much pain to really care. Not Rusty, though. She got to her feet with a look of sheer viciousness. "What the hell is going on here?" she screeched. "What's that smell?"

I opened the bathroom door and showed her Larry Spelman's naked body.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Rusty wailed, hiding her face in her hands.

"Now take off your clothes, both of you," I ordered.

Droppo, his face still drawn with pain, began dumbly to comply. He was past asking questions.

Not Rusty. "What are you going to do?" she screamed at me. "My God…"

"Forget God," I snapped, "and get undressed. Or do you want me to have Gino do it for you?"

Manitti leered at her, and slowly Rusty began unbuttoning her blouse. Stripped down to her bra and bikini panties, she hesitated again, but I waved Wilhelmina at her and she finished the job defiantly, throwing her clothes in a little heap on the floor.

Louie picked up both sets of clothing and stuffed them into a small bag he had brought along. Droppo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. Rusty was backed in a corner by the dresser, half-turned so that all we could see was her bare hip. Her arms covered her breasts and she shivered a bit. The room was cold from the air conditioning.

I paused at the doorway as we went out. "Now I want you two lovebirds to stay right here," I said. "Somebody will be up in a little while and you can get everything straightened out. In the meantime, Manitti here is going to be standing right outside the door. If it so much as opens one little crack before anyone else gets here, he'll kill you. Do you understand that?" I paused. "At least hell kill you, Droppo. I don't know what he'll do to Rusty."

I closed the door and we all went down on the elevator.

In the lobby, I used a pay phone to call Jack Gourlay.

"Son of a bitch!" he grumbled over the phone. "It's two o'clock in the morning."

"Forget it," I said. "I've got a story for you in Room 636 at the Chalfont Plaza."

"It had better be good."

"Well," I drawled. "Sounds pretty good to me, Jack. There's three people up there in Room 636, they're all naked and one of them is dead. And one of them is female."

"Jesus Christ!" There was a long pause. "Mafia?"

"Mafia," I said, and hung up.

We all went across the street to the Sunrise Cocktail Lounge and had a drink. Then we went home.