Lullaby Town

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Sal "The Rock" DeLuca had three adjoining brown-stones just east of Central Park on 62nd Street. One block in from the park a homeless woman with two children was building a little hut out of cardboard against somebody's front gate while a wino staggered by and offered her a drink. The wino didn't look where he was going, tripped over something, stumbled around in a wide orbit with a lot of hand waving, then fell onto the cardboard and threw up. The homeless woman kicked him in the balls. Anywhere else in America, East 62nd Street was a place you'd avoid after the sun went down, but not in New York. In New York, people paid millions to live on East 62nd Street. There were trees on East 62nd. The French Embassy was around the corner.

Charlie DeLuca's black Lincoln Town Car wasn't around, but a couple of guys in a maroon Mercedes were. If Sal knew what Charlie was up to with the Jamaicans, I figured that Charlie would come to Sal first for damage control. If Sal didn't know, then Charlie would charge straight out to Chelam and try to end it before Sal found out. The black Town Car not being around was a good sign, but maybe Charlie had come with somebody else. He even might've taken a cab.

I made the block twice, then parked on Fifth and walked back, trying to figure a way to see Sal without getting killed. The two guys in the Mercedes watched me as I walked past.

The homeless woman and her children were huddled in their little cardboard house and the wino was sitting with his back against the building, holding his crotch with one hand and his bottle with the other. I made a big deal out of weaving as I walked and stopped a couple of times as if I had to steady myself and then I sat down next to the wino and studied the block. There were no fire escapes to creep up and no alleys to slip within and no second-story landings to leap to in a single bound. There were only the two guys in the Mercedes and another guy hanging around on Sal the Rock's top step. Phoning for an appointment probably wouldn't work.

The wino burped softly and gingerly fingered his crotch.

I said, "Pretty nasty shot she gave you."

He nodded ruefully. "Women have been my ruination."

"Is there any wine left in your bottle?"

The wino lifted the bottle and looked at it forlornly. "Alas. Non." Our breaths were fogging in the cold night air.

"May I have it?"

He placed the bottle carefully on the sidewalk. "My world is yours to share."

I picked up the bottle and wobbled across the street.

The two guys in the Mercedes and the guy standing on the top step watched me, but it was the guys in the Mercedes I was worried about.

I leaned against one of the trees for a while and pretended to drink, then continued along the sidewalk until I came to Sal DeLuca's. When I got to Sal's, I sat on the bottom step.

The guy on the top step said, "Beat it, rummy." He was a little guy with a squinty face.

I mumbled something and hugged the bottle.

"Hey, asshole, I said beat it." He pounded down the steps and grabbed me by the back of the jacket and tried to lift me. When he lifted, he pulled me to him and I pushed the Dan Wesson into the soft flesh beneath his ribs. I said, "If you give it away, you die first."

He stopped moving and stared directly into my eyes.

I said, "Take me up the steps. Walk like you're helping me. We're going inside. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Is Sal DeLuca in there?"

"Yes."

"Is Charlie DeLuca in there?"

"No."

"Who else is in there?"

"The old man. Vito and Angie. The staff." I didn't know who Vito and Angie were, but it didn't seem to matter.

"Let's go."

We went up the steps, walking close so that the gun was hidden between us.

Halfway up, the passenger side of the Mercedes opened and one of the guys got out. "Hey, Freddie."

I dug the gun into Freddie's side a little harder. "Tell'm you're getting me something to eat."

Freddie told him.

The guy at the Mercedes laughed and called Freddie an asshole.

We went up the rest of the way and Freddie let us into a long marble entry with a high ceiling and ornate stairs. The house was quiet. I said, "Take me to Sal."

"You gotta be crazy."

"If I was crazy, I'd have said take me to your leader." I gave him another prod.

We went down the long entry, then through a living room that looked like it was maybe a hundred years old and then into a wood-paneled den with a fireplace. Sal DeLuca was sitting with a couple of well-dressed guys close to his age, the two guys on one couch and Sal on another, facing each other across a little table. Vito and Angie. They had hard, lined faces, and one of them had a gray mustache, and both of them looked at me with the sort of mild curiosity you reserve for a strange dog with a skin rash. Capos. Mafia executive material.

Sal looked surprised. "What do you want?"

Then Sal saw the gun.

Sal DeLuca was in his early sixties and maybe five ten but he was very wide, with the sort of muscular density that allows great strength. He would've been very strong when he was younger, and he was probably very strong now. They don't call you Sal the Rock because you're wuzzy. He had a round face and protruding eyes and a wide mouth and fleshy lips, sort of like a frog's. He was wearing a deep blue smoking jacket. The last guy I'd seen in a smoking jacket was Elmer Fudd, but I didn't tell him that. Instead I said, "Two of your soldiers were killed today in Brooklyn. I'm the guy who killed them. Charlie DeLuca is partnered with a Jamaican gangster named Jesus Santiago. No one knows it yet, but they're stealing dope from the Gamboza brothers."

The guy with the gray mustache said, "Hey."

The other guy said, "You gotta be outta your fuckin' mind."

Sal DeLuca didn't say anything, but when I mentioned Charlie, something cold flickered in his eyes and I felt scared.

I said, "I wanted you to find out first, Sal. I didn't want it to get around before you knew." I lowered the Dan Wesson.

Sal said, "Vito."

The guy with the mustache hopped up and took the gun. Vito. I said, "There's a.32 on my right ankle." He took that, too, and put both guns on the little table between the two couches. Sal picked up the Dan Wesson with his left hand, felt its weight, and then he looked at me and nodded. "You got balls, I'll give you that. What's your name?"

"Elvis Cole."

"That's a stupid fucking name."

"Better than Elvis Jones."

Sal made up his mind about something and leaned back in the chair, still holding the Dan Wesson. "Okay. You got fifteen seconds to tell me something that will save your life."