House of the Rising Sun

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Pull up right here and let me out,” Tony said as Rocco eased the Lincoln Town Car against the curb in front of the Messina Seafood Company on North Rampart Street. The rain was coming down hard.

The building was just east of the French Quarter, in a commercial district that was home to a host of small businesses, most of them barely dodging bankruptcy. The tin buildings lining the four-lane avenue sported peeling paint and faded signs. The sidewalks were strewn with waterlogged trash, plastered to the cement by the steady rain.

Under the nearby eaves and awnings, drug addicts, pushers, and prostitutes waited for a break in the weather so they could get back to work. This was the edge of the Ninth Ward, and Tony knew it well. He grew up here.

Just like its neighbors, the Messina Seafood Company was housed in an old metal building with peeling paint and a faded sign. The sides and back had once been dark blue, but the years and the sun had faded them to a light, almost baby blue. The brick facade was set back from the street just far enough to leave room for the sidewalk. The front third of the building was a two-story office suite. The rest was a high-ceilinged, single-story refrigerated warehouse for storing the oysters, shrimp, and fish that came in fresh from the Gulf of Mexico every day.

“You want me to come with you?” Rocco asked.

With the car door already open, Tony was getting pelted by the rain. He didn’t even glance back. “No, I don’t want you to come with me. Just park the car and wait. When you see me come out, pick me up so I don’t get soaking fucking wet.”

Tony dashed from the car to the front door, dodging puddles. He stood for a moment under the protection of the overhang above the front entrance and stared at his reflection in the glass double doors. Using an embroidered silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabbed raindrops from his suit, then tugged at the slim knot in his tie. Next, he dragged a comb across his hair, knocking off the water that had beaded on top of his styling gel and making sure each strand was in place.

The image that stared back at him from the glass was that of a man on his way up, a man about to overcome the few obstacles in his path. Tony pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The pretty, dark-haired receptionist with the fake boobs waved as Tony passed her desk, making him think again how much he’d like to fuck her. Still, he couldn’t remember her name. Connie, Karen… something like that. The only problem with her was the way she talked. She had the same Chalmette accent as his wife.

If he ever screwed Connie, or Karen, whatever her name was, he wasn’t going to let her talk. He’d make sure her mouth stayed busy doing something else. He probably wouldn’t get to fuck her, though, because the boss had a rule: no screwing the girls in his office. The rule didn’t apply to the Old Man, of course. Rumor was he had some hot piece of tail on the side, and the smart money was on Connie, Karen, what-ever-the-fuck.

If he wasn’t in such a hurry, Tony would have stopped by her desk and laid on a little charm, just in case the boss wasn’t filling all her needs. Tony thought that maybe he could forget that aggravating accent, at least for a little while. The Old Man couldn’t handle a woman like that, even with the blue pills he was taking. What she needed was a real man, a man in his prime. Not a fossil.

Tony found Carlos Messina behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, the telephone stuck to his ear. Carlos waved Tony to a chair in front of his desk. While Carlos talked on the phone, Tony watched him. Like a boxer scrutinizing tape of an upcoming opponent, every chance he got, Tony studied the man.

Everyone called Carlos the Old Man-never to his face-although it wasn’t a slam on his age so much as a sign of respect for the man. But for Tony it was respect for the position only, not the man. In Tony’s judgment, Carlos Messina was getting weak. His years in power had dulled his edge. A toothless lion, he could still roar but could no longer bite. Meanwhile the young lions circled, watching and waiting for their chance.

In his late sixties, Carlos was a fat man with a shock of gray hair. His face was round, with thick jowls that hung past his chin, and a bulbous nose pitted with acne scars that stuck out like a doorknob. From somewhere in his roly-poly face, probably from his dark, almost black eyes, Carlos still occasionally managed a look of authority that made Tony nervous, but it wasn’t often, and for the most part, Tony thought the Old Man just looked like a has-been. It was time for a new generation.

There was one thing Carlos Messina hadn’t lost-his style. Although from the outside the Messina Seafood Company looked like shit, inside, the Old Man’s second-floor office was nice. Positioned at the back of the two-story suite, Carlos’s office had two huge windows: one in the back wall that looked out over the open warehouse, the other looking down on the service drive running alongside the building. The office was also big, with lots of open space, built-in bookshelves, a massive marble-top desk, a sixty-inch flat screen, and plenty of cushioned places to sit.

The kind of office Tony hoped to have one day.

Carlos hung up the phone and looked at Tony. “What do you want?” The message was clear: don’t waste my time. The Old Man was gruff, still trying to roar so no one noticed he had no teeth. Knowing that, though, didn’t mean Tony could act stupid. The boss’s position was a strong one, even if the man in it was weak. Tony would have to tread carefully.

Officially, Tony Zello was just a button man, a soldier. While a caporegime -a captain-might talk to Carlos every day, Tony had only spoken directly to the man a dozen times in the five years since he had been made. Because Tony worked directly for Carlos’s brother, he didn’t even have his own crew. Not a real one, just a few steroid cowboys who were more like flunkies. They sure as shit didn’t bring in any money.

The problem, at least the immediate problem, was Vinnie. He just wasn’t an important member of the family. Because they were brothers, Carlos had put Vinnie in charge of the House. But that was it. And Vinnie was happy with that. He knew enough about his own limitations to stay out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tony draped an ankle over his knee, trying to strike a casual pose. “I came to update you on what’s been going on at the House since the robbery.”

“My brother sent you?”

Tony shook his head.

Carlos looked surprised. “Does he know you’re here?”

A tiny flutter started in Tony’s stomach. “I came on my own.”

Carlos fixed Tony with a look-almost like he could see inside him-as he leaned forward across the marble desktop and propped his bulk up on his elbows. “You got balls coming to see me like this.”

Tony didn’t say anything, just looked into Carlos Messina’s cold, dark eyes and felt his confidence start to slip. Maybe the old lion still had a few teeth left after all, maybe he could do more than just roar. A slight quiver started in Tony’s legs. It reminded him of when he was a kid, just before he’d get into a fight, usually trying to keep the black kids from taking over his block, his little patch of the Ninth Ward.

Carlos said, “You got something to say, say it.”

Fuck you, old man. You’re nothing but a dinosaur, a throwback to the old days. Carrying around all that Sicilian bullshit. But Tony didn’t say that. Instead, he said, “I don’t think it was a good idea for Vinnie-”

Old Man Messina jabbed a finger at Tony. “That’s your first mistake.” Then he tapped his finger against his chest. “I do all the thinking around here.”

Feeling like he had been caught in the open with no cover, Tony pressed on. “This guy Shane, he’s just a security guard. Now your brother’s got him trying to find these four fucking assholes.”

Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair. “He’s an ex-cop, a detective. I thought it was a good idea.”

“But this guy’s a fuckup. He’s the reason that crew got inside in the first place.”

The Old Man looked across the table for a few seconds. “What is it you have against this guy Shane?”

It was tougher than Tony thought, playing both ends against the middle. “I don’t have anything against him. I just don’t trust his judgment, and I don’t trust his loyalty.”

“My brother trusts him.”

“Shane said himself he can’t do it, said he thinks these assholes are long gone.”

“I don’t give a shit if they ran to Canada, Russia, or all the way to the fucking moon. We’re gonna find these bastards and take care of business.”

“I know Ray Shane,” Tony said, trying to get the conversation focused back on Shane. “I knew him before, when he was a cop. He was an idiot then, and I think the joint made him even stupider. Only good thing about him is he’s being honest when he says he can’t do it.”

The Old Man shook his head. “He did some hard time for us, and he never opened his mouth. Not many people can do that anymore.”

Tony bristled, hearing yet again how tough Shane was, deciding here and now that he was going to puke if he had to hear one more time about Ray Shane’s stretch in prison. “Just because a guy screws up and does a little jail time doesn’t prove his loyalty.”

Carlos gave him that same hard look. “You ever done any time?”

Time to change the subject. “This crew had inside help.”

Carlos snorted. “You think I haven’t figured that out on my own?”

“I’m just saying…”

“And you think it was Shane?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m not sure who it was. But they went straight for the counting room, they used Shane to get inside, and they hit us on Halloween night when we had extra cash on hand.”

“And whose bright fucking idea was that?”

Tread lightly, don’t push too hard. “Vinnie thought-”

Tony jumped as Carlos shot forward and pounded his fat fist on the desk. “I do the thinking. Do you understand me?”

As Tony swallowed, he felt his heart racing. “Yes, sir.”

“Now what are you saying?” the Old Man asked. “Are you telling me it was my half-wit brother who cost us three hundred grand?”

Not sure what to say, and despite his earlier confidence, Tony was too scared to say anything, so he didn’t.

Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair. “That other stuff you mentioned, those guys going for the counting room and using Shane, anyone who’s ever been in the House knows where the goddamn counting room is. It’s not like we keep it a secret.”

“But how many people know the door between the cage and the counting room isn’t usually locked, or that there isn’t a guy with a shotgun on the other side of the door?”

“Why wasn’t it locked, and why wasn’t there a guy with a shotgun behind the door? We got three hundred grand in cash on hand, you’re supposed to protect it.”

Somehow this conversation had gotten off track. “I had a man in the cage, a pretty good man, but these guys came in with masks on Halloween night and Shane walked them-”

“I know how they got in,” Carlos Messina said, “and I know what your man Bobby was doing when they got the drop on him, chasing pussy.”

I need to get this conversation back on track, like I practiced it in my head on the drive over here.

“Shane doesn’t normally work the door,” Tony said. “He’s supposed to be inside by the stairs, yet just before all this shit went down, he stepped outside to relieve the regular doorman. Shane says the kid told him he needed to take a piss, but now no one can find the kid to confirm Shane’s story.”

“What do you mean you can’t find him? Who is he?”

“Spanish kid named Hector. His girlfriend says he hasn’t been home since the robbery.”

“Who’s looking for him?” Carlos asked.

Tony smiled. “Shane.”

“You think this kid could have set it up?”

“Not by himself,” Tony said. “Hector’s not that smart.”

The Old Man pushed himself farther into the cushioned back of his chair and looked up at the ceiling. It was almost a full minute before he said anything. When he did, his voice was low. “You know what matters to me the most? I mean above everything else?”

Unless it was a retirement home in Florida, Tony really didn’t give a shit, but he knew enough to know he couldn’t say that. “No, sir.”

“Loyalty,” Carlos Messina said. “Because without that we got nothing. We’re no better than those fucking animals out in the street, just a bunch of niggers with guns. That one thing, loyalty, that’s what separates us from them.”

“Shane’s got no loyalty except to himself.”

Carlos looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

Everything Tony knew about old-style mobsters he had learned from watching The Godfather. He didn’t know anything about Sicily. He had never been there. He didn’t have any idea from what part of the Island his own family had come from. For all he knew, he might not be Sicilian. His family might be from mainland Italy. But what he did know, thanks to Marlon Brando, was that all of the old-timers cared a lot about their heritage. So he played that card, the heritage card.

“Shane’s not one of us,” Tony said, “and I don’t think we should have some stupid Mick handling our business. We should be taking care of it ourselves.”

Carlos got a far-off look in his eyes, like in his mind he saw himself forty years younger and a hundred pounds lighter, traipsing through the rugged hill country of Sicily, a cloth cap perched on his head and a single-barreled lupara resting on one shoulder. “Maybe you got a point,” Carlos finally said. “Something like this, it should be handled by members of the family.” He glanced at the telephone. “I’m gonna tell Vinnie he better get off his ass and-”

Tony raised his hand, almost like a kid in school interrupting the teacher. Time to drop the other shoe, but carefully. “Mr. Messina, your brother is… under a lot of stress, even before this happened. He was taking care of Pete…” For effect, Tony crossed himself. “God rest his soul. He was trying to deal with his money problems…”

Carlos’s head snapped forward. “What money problems?”

Shrugging, Tony said, “Mainly Pete’s school and a couple other things. Me and Vinnie, we’re at the House every day, and I guess sometimes he needs somebody to talk to. The other day he tells me that Pete’s school just went up on the tuition. It was already forty grand a year.”

The Old Man’s black eyes bored into Tony. “What else?”

“Sir?”

“You said Pete’s school and a couple other things.”

Tony shrugged. “Just personal stuff, you know, like everyone has.”

“His wife?”

“Just something he mentioned in passing. Apparently, she’s been spending a lot of money redecorating their apartment. She bought a new car.”

Carlos Messina looked up at the ceiling again, only this time he didn’t have that faraway nostalgic look. This time his teeth were clamped so tight his jaw muscles bulged under his flabby jowls. When he looked back at Tony, he said, “You’re on the inside over there. I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”

Tony nodded. Everything was falling into place.

Carlos laid his big hands on his desk. “So besides the Spanish kid, you think these mutts had somebody else on the inside?”

“They had to.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Tony said, wanting Carlos to drag it out of him.

“Guess,” Carlos ordered.

“Somebody who knew a lot more about what was going on at the club than the doorman.”

“Give me a name.”

“If I had to guess, Shane would be the obvious choice.”

“What about a not-so-obvious choice?”

Tony swallowed hard, exaggerating the motion of his Adam’s apple. “I’d rather not say, sir.”

The Old Man leaned over his desk. His voice was ice-cold. “Say it.”

Tony hesitated… just long enough. “I guess your brother is one possibility.”

Carlos Messina let out a deep sigh. “We’ve got big money tied up over there. I don’t want anything screwing that up, and that includes my fucking idiot brother.”

The Old Man picked up the phone. Then he looked at Tony. “You understand what I’m telling you?”

Realizing the meeting was over, Tony stood up. “Yes, sir, I understand.” He reached out to shake hands, but Carlos was already dialing a number. After a few seconds with his hand hanging over the desk, and the Old Man ignoring him, Tony turned and walked out of the office. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat.