Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Felton knew that fear had a point of diminishing returns. The shaking Italian before him could be no more terrorized than he was at that moment, trembling in the chair of Felton's study.

From here on in, more threats would only diminish fear and action could somehow strangely eliminate it. He had seen too many people afraid of beatings until the first blow, afraid to die until they saw the finger tighten on the trigger.

«We're going to hold you awhile,» Felton said.

Bonelli groaned. «Why me? Why me?»

«Simple. You're Carmine Viaselli's brother-in-law. You people are strong for family.»

Bonelli slid from the chair to his knees. «But nobody comes back when you have 'em. Please, on my mother's grave, please.»

Jimmy, the butler, standing behind Tony's vacated chair, chuckled. Felton shot him a dirty look. The smile disappeared, but Jimmy's large, raw-boned hands began to rub together like a man anticipating a meal.

«You'll be safe,» Felton said, leaning back in his leather chair, raising a leg over the other so that his kneecap was nose level with his guest. «As long as I'm safe, you'll be safe.»

«But I came free. Nobody brought me. Why all of a sudden, after twenty years, this? Why?»

Felton uncrossed his legs quickly and leaned forward. Veins bulged in his massive neck. He looked down at Bonelli's slick combed head and yelled: «Because you don't give me the answers!»

«Whadya want to know? If I know, I'll tell you. Honest. I swear on my mother's grave.» He pulled a silver medal from beneath his shirt and kissed it «I swear.»

«All right. Who is coming after me and why? Why the pressure? Who'd gain but your brother-in-law?»

«Maybe some other syndicate?»

«Which one? Everything's settled. You tell me, Tony. You tell me everything ain't decided over a conference table or in some damned guinea kitchen. You tell me, huh? You gonna tell me?»

Tony shrugged, a supplicant in a temple whose god knew only wrath.

«Tell me it's the cops, Tony, tell me. Tell me about one-armed cops that come in killing. Tell me about 'em. Tell me about an Internal Revenue man poking around my junkyard in Jersey City, tell me what he's doing. Or bartenders who get people interested into moving into Lamonica Towers. Tell me it's cops when a hooked torpedo says he wanted to rent in the Towers and then goes for my throat. Tell it to me, Tony.»

Beads of sweat formed on Felton's forehead. He rose from the chair. «Tell me.»

«Carmine didn't send 'em. I swear.»

Felton swung his body around and leaned over yelling. His hands flailed the air. «You didn't send 'em?»

«No.»

«I know you didn't send them.»

Bonelli's mouth opened. He gaped unbelieving.

«I know you didn't send them,» Felton yelled again. «That's what's bothering me. Who? Who?»

«Please, Felty, I don't know.»

With a sweep of his hand, Felton dismissed his guest «Jimmy, get him to the shop. He's not to be hurt. Yet.»

«No. Please. Not the shop, not the shop. Please.» Tony ripped the medal from his neck, imploring for mercy. Jimmy's large hands grabbed the padded, pinstriped shoulders and lifted the guest to his feet.

«Get him out of here,» Felton said like a man asking that lobster shells finally be removed from his plate. «Get him out of here.»

«Right, boss,» Jimmy laughed. «C'mon, Tony baby, we're gonna take a trip. Yeah. Yeah.»

When the sliding door clicked shut, Feltoa walked to the cabinet bar and poured himself a massive shot of Scotch in a tumbler. His castle had been breached. The Tower had holes. And for the first time, Norman Felton was not attacking.

He swilled down the drink, made the face of a man unaccustomed to heavy drinking, poured another, looked at it, then returned the liquid-filled glass to the cabinet. Well, now he would attack. He didn't know where, but he knew as all jungle animals do that there is a time to kill or be killed, there is a time when waiting means only counting the minutes to death.

He walked out on the balcony again and watched the lights on the George Washington Bridge that linked the two great eastern states.

He had ruled as champion in these states for nearly twenty years. And in a decade, he had never had to use his own muscles until… he glanced at the broken palm pot… until tonight.

He had built up a system of contract torpedoes and sub-let torpedoes. With just four regulars who could buy the hit-men and with the perfect way to get rid of bodies, he reigned unmolested in the quiet of Lamonica Towers.

But one of his regulars, O'Hara, had bought it, right in the living room. One blow, a slash of the hook, a head opened and twenty-five percent right off the top, the top of the system.

Felton stared at his hands. Now there were three: Scotty in Philadelphia, Jimmy here, Moesher in New York. A multi-million-dollar system and it was under attack from an invisible enemy. Who? Who?

Felton's hand tightened into a fist. There'd have to be hiring. Moesher would lay low and come in only on cue. Jimmy would stay in the Towers.

It would be like the forties again when nothing could stop him, nothing, not the crummy rotten world, the cops, the FBI, the syndicate, nothing could stop him. When, with his hands and mind, his team had made Viaselli, the punk, chief in the east; made a second-rate numbers banker the king and kept him there.

Felton breathed deep the clear cool night air and a smile formed on his face for the first time that night. The tinkling of a phone floated out to the patio.

Felton returned to his study and picked up the black receiver on the mahogany desk. «Yes?»

«Hi, Norm,» came the voice, «This is Bill.»

«Oh, hello, Mayor.»

«Look Norm, I'm just calling about that suicide. He carried identification as an outpatient from Folcroft Sanitarium. It's in Rye, New York. Ever hear of it?»

«Oh, he was mentally disturbed.»

«Yes. Looks like it. I spoke personally to the director up there, a Dr. Smith. And, Norm, I warned him that if he released any patients who are cuckoo, he's responsible. By the way, Grover and Reed were all right, weren't they? I have them here right now. They gave me the lead on this Folcroft.»

«They were fine,» Felton said. «Just fine, Bill.»

«Right. Anything I can do for you, just buzz.»

«I'll do that, Bill, and we'll have to have dinner some night too.»

«Right, bye.»

Felton waited for the click, then dialed.

A voice at the end said «Marvin Moesher's residence.»

«This is Norman Felton. Please put Mr. Moesher on the line.»

«Certainly, Mr. Felton.»

He hummed as he waited in his study.

«Hello, Marv. Vas masta yid?»

«Eh,» came the voice from the end. «Nothing… and you?»

«We got troubles.»

«We've always got troubles.»

«You know where Scotty is?»

«Home in Philly.»

«We may have to do some hiring again.»

«What? Just a minute. Let me close the door. This is an extension phone, also. Just to be safe.»

There was a moment of silence. Then Moesher again: «Business picking up?»

«Yes.»

«I thought we had cleared the market.»

«A new market.»

«Viaselli expanding?»

«No,» Felton said.

«Someone expanding?»

«I don't think so.»

«What does O'Hara say?»

«He passed away this morning.»

«Mine gut.»

«We won't be doing any hiring yet. There's some things we have to find out.»

«Speak to Mr. Viaselli?»

«Not yet. He sent a representative for preliminary talks.»

«And?»

«And he's still talking.»

«Then it might be Mr. Viaselli who's…?»

«I don't think so. I'm not sure.»

«Norm.»

«Yes.»

«Let's retire. I got a nice house in Great Neck, a wife, a family. Enough's enough. You know. Why tempt fate?»

«I've been paying you good the last twenty years?»

«Yes.»

«You do much work in the last ten?»

«You know it's been nothing.»

«Jimmy, Scotty, and O'Hara been carrying your load?»

«Scotty ain't been working either.»

«He's going to now.»

«Norm, I'm going to ask a favor. Let me retire?»

«No.»

«All right.» Moesher's voice was resigned. «How we going to work it?»

«First, ground work. There's a place called F-O-L-C-R-O-F-T. Folcroft. It's a sanitarium in Rye.»

«Yes?»

«Find out what it is. Try to rent a room.»

«Okay, Norm. I'll get back to you.»

«Marv? I wouldn't be calling if I didn't need you.»

«Forget it, Norm. I owe this much. I'll give you a buzz tomorrow.»

«Love to the family.»

«Zama gazunt.»

Felton replaced the receiver and clapped his hands. A private sanitarium. No government office to hide behind. That was it.

He made two more phone calls that night. One to Angelo Scottichio in Philadelphia; and the second to Carmine Viaselli