Mr. Paradise

10

The way it worked, a contract would fall into Avern Cohn's lap and he'd put Carl Fontana and Art Krupa on it.

Avern was one of those Clinton Street lawyers who hung out at the Frank Murphy and picked up criminal cases assigned by the court-where he first met Fontana and Krupa on separate homicide arraignments. Avern called himself their agent and took 20 percent off the top of fifty thousand, the minimum he charged for a professional hit. The people who wanted somebody taken out could afford it, all of them in the drug business. Fifty grand was what, the wholesale price of two and a half keys to get rid of competition or pay somebody back.

At one of the early meetings when they discussed the deal, having drinks at the Caucus Club, Fontana said, "I thought agents only got ten percent."

Avern said, "What we'll be doing isn't exactly show business. You walk in where I tell you the guy will be, shoot him or throw him out a window and collect the balance, your twenty grand each. What I have to do for half that much is find you the job. I can't advertise, can I? Like I'm one of those personal injury fuckheads. I can't appeal to the little housewife whose husband beats her up every time he gets drunk. And she can't run an ad in the Help Wanted. So I have to deal with people who shoot each other."

It answered Art Krupa's question, why Avern didn't get jobs from ordinary people who wanted somebody whacked. Art said, "But they're out there. Carl knows one."

"Yeah, my wife Connie," Fontana said. "She happens to come to you, turn her the fuck down."

Avern loved these guys he had brought together. They never saw a problem with a job. Walk in Baby Sister's Kitchen, pop the guy eating his farm-raised catfish and walk out. Pop the guy's bodyguard while they're at it. They didn't do drugs to excess, and they were both racist enough to feel more than comfortable about taking out black guys and ethnics, like Chicanos and Chaldeans.

Avern had represented Carl Fontana for killing a man with a slug barrel mounted on his Remington. What happened: this guy Carl knew from church shot a deer up by Northville. It was out of season so they left right away, brought the deer to the guy's house and hung it on the garage over a washtub. They drank a bottle of Jim Beam while the deer bled out. Carl's statement: "Here's this guy doesn't know shit about dressing a buck, he's hacking at it with this big fuckin Bowie knife. All I said to him was, 'You don't cut the steaks till you have him dressed out, asshole,' and he come at me with the knife."

Not a week later Avern represented Art Krupa for the fatal shooting of a black guy during an argument-in a Seven Mile bar on Martin Luther King Day. Krupa was connected to the Outfit at the time, collecting street taxes from bookmakers, but the shooting had nothing to do with his job. Krupa said it was just one of those things. "I had no intention of taking the smoke out when we started talking. The guy must've been offended by something I said about Dr. King, broke off a beer bottle and I had no choice."

Manslaughter with a firearm could get them each fifteen years. Avern worked a deal: they drew the Southern Michigan Prison at Jackson, Fontana forty-two months, Krupa, forty.

While they were down a client came to Avern complaining about drive-bys fucking up his business. "Man, nobody wants to walk in a crack house all shot up." Avern thinking about a professional hit man service: relieve the client, who'd be an immediate suspect, from being involved. Hire bad guys to hit bad guys. Why not? Contracts without contracts. He could reach in his files not even looking and pull out shooters, but they were mostly all kids, gangbangers, hard to control. He thought of Carl and Art, both at Jackson in D Block, grown men, white, unaffiliated. Not big guys but tough monkeys, both of them. He'd tell them to look each other up, and if they hit it off come see him, he had something for them.

Carl Fontana was fifty-two, five-seven, wiry, losing his sandy hair, a bricklayer who hated doing patios with designs to figure out. But thirty years ago in Vietnam Carl was a tunnel rat, his size getting him the job. Crawl into a hole with a. 45 and a flashlight. Carl said, "I can't tell you how fuckin scary it was." But he did it, he went in. He came home and did county time for raising hell, a couple of aggravated assaults, before settling down with the bricks. Carl told Avern you didn't just lay 'em one on top the other, each brick was different.

Arthur Krupa, forty-eight, five-nine, stocky, came out of high school wanting to be a gangster or a movie star who played gangsters. He didn't know anybody in Hollywood, but had an uncle who was connected. Art pulled a store burglary to prove himself and his uncle got him in. But, Jesus, it was boring collecting from the books, have to listen to 'em bitch and call him names in foreign tongues. Art thought he looked like John Gotti, but no one else did.

That time at the Caucus Club Avern ordered another round the same way, martini with anchovy olives, a couple of Molsons with shots of Crown Royal on the side. These guys were blue-collar down to their white socks.

Avern said, "If I can get you five a year that's a hundred grand each. But five might not be possible. You're gonna have leisure time in between. You might want to look into home invasions, see if you like it."

Art said, "I've done it."

Avern said, "You'll be shooting criminals if you need to think about it."

Art said, "I 'magine mostly smokes."

Avern said, "You don't see a problem picking up guns?"

Art said, "In this town?"

Avern said, "Barbra Streisand sang here at the Caucus when she was eighteen years old." Avern was sixty-one, active in a theater group. "I remember her doing 'Happy Days Are Here Again' real slow."

They'd been in business now a year and a half, five home invasions that paid okay, but only four hits. They blew another one trying to pop the guy in his car, firing at him doing sixty up Gratiot and the fucker spun out of control and got hit by a truck. They had a shotgun now for when they'd try him again. The hits were three black guys-first you had to find the fuckers, never where Avern said to look-and a Chaldean drug dealer who owned a gas station/convenience store. There were a bunch of Chaldeans in Southfield, Carl said, from Iraq, towelheads but they weren't Muslims. Art had dealt with Chaldean bookies. He said what's the difference, a fuckin towelhead's a towelhead.

Avern told them about the next hit saying it would be the easiest one yet. "The front door's unlocked. Walk in and shoot the old man and walk out. Make it look like you broke in. The houseman, Lloyd, will be in bed. Montez, the contractor"-Avern no longer called the one paying for the hit a client-"lives there but won't be around. He says he'll pay you in two days, meet you at a motel on Woodward." Avern saying, "I got the name of it here someplace."

They were in Avern's office on the twentieth floor of the Penobscot Building, drawings of old guys in wigs and robes on the wall behind him, like cartoons but weren't funny. Carl watched him looking for the note on his desk and asked why this Montez couldn't have the money ready, at the time.

"I just told you he won't be around, doesn't want it to look like he's involved in any way." Avern said, "Here it is," and handed the note across the desk to Art. "The University Inn, near Wayne."

"This Montez isn't a dealer," Carl said, "but can put his hands on forty grand, cash?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, well, you're all set," Carl said. "How'd he know you could get this done for him?"

"I'd see Montez at Randy's, different places. When he was a kid I used to represent him at Frank Murphy arraignments, get him a plea deal. Now we have a drink and talk. He asks my advice about things, his future."

"He ask you how to get his boss knocked off?"

Carl felt Avern was holding back, not telling the whole story. He listened to Avern saying the old man was feeble, incontinent. Changing his diapers, feeding him, had become a full-time job. "The old man wanted Montez to whack him, put him out of his misery, but Montez couldn't do it. He was ready to die, so Montez agreed to find somebody. I accept that as his reason," Avern said, "and thought, why not help out, make a few bucks."

Art said, "Come on, let's go."

Carl said, "Montez is getting something out of this."

Avern said, "Well, yeah, he's in the old guy's will. He must be."

But didn't say a word about a girl sitting in the chair with him topless, her jugs and her face painted.

From the start Carl had a bad feeling about this one. First listening to Avern making it look simple, and now in the Anchor Bar, talking to Connie on the phone till she hung up on him. Going back to the table, Art sitting there with a rum and Diet Coke watching the hockey game on TV, Carl wanted to blame Connie for how he felt.

Art said, "Fuckin Wings, man. Yzerman scored, they're up four two over the Rangers."

Carl sat down and picked up his Seven and Seven. "I got two calls, but she won't tell me who they were."

"Connie?"

"I told her I'd drop off a bottle of vodka and I forgot. She goes, 'You don't do nothing for me, I don't do nothing for you.'"

Art said, "She's got a car, for Christ sake."

"They took her license again, third D.U.I. in the last year and a half. I tell her, 'Jesus Christ, can't you drink without getting smashed every time?' She goes, 'What would be the point?'"

"It might've been Avern," Art said. "You want to call him?"

"He won't be there," Carl said.

Art brought his watch up to find some light in this joint and raised his face to look at it, his hair combed back like John Gotti's, no part in a full head starting to turn gray. "You ready?"

Carl lit a cigarette. He picked up his drink saying, "This old man isn't a criminal. Avern said we'd be shooting bad guys."

"We get in there," Art said, "check the liquor cabinet, pick up a bottle of vodka. We could look around some, see if there's anything we like."

"I'd just as soon go in and get out," Carl said.

Art said, "You aren't in the mood now, are you? Any time you talk to her you tighten up. You have to explain to me sometime why you don't fuckin walk out on her. Connie, you know, 'cause I heard you say it, isn't even that good-looking. The only thing she's got going for her is that red fuckin hair, man, the way she fixes it. You stay at my place more'n you stay with her." Art checked his glass, rattling the ice.

"Let's go do it."

They took Fontana's red Chevy Tahoe across downtown to the parking lot behind Harmonie Park. On the way back to pick it up they'd stop in Intermezzo right there and have a few to unwind. They walked up to Madison and then east a short way to the Michigan Opera Theatre and stood on the empty sidewalk smoking cigarettes pinched between the fingers of their black kidskin gloves, waiting for the performance to let out.

Art said, " Tales of Hoffman," looking at the poster. "You ever see one?"

"What?"

"An opera."

Carl said no and that covered the subject.

"They're starting to come out," Art said. "Hey, but if you rather boost one it's okay with me."

Carl said, "This is too fuckin easy."

They put their hands in the pockets of their black raincoats and walked around to the side of the opera house where attendants were bringing cars to people coming out from the cashier's window inside. Carl and Art stood among the dressed-up operagoers in the dark, Art with a five ready, watching headlights coming along in two lanes bumper to bumper, the attendants in jackets and gloves in a hurry, keeping 'em coming. An attendant got out of a white Chrysler to stand waiting, holding the door open, looking at the crowd through the mist of his breath. Art said, "There it is," and they stepped out of the crowd. Art handed the attendant the five and got in behind the wheel. Carl strolled around to the other side. Once they were out of there, working through downtown south to Jefferson Avenue, they brought Detroit Tigers baseball caps from their raincoat pockets and put them on-the Tigers road caps with the olde English D in orange-Art looking at the mirror to set his just right.

They were quiet now coming to the house on Iroquois lit up with spots, no way to miss it. They'd checked it out earlier. Art pulled into the drive, right up to the door and cut the lights. They sat there not talking. Now they brought out semi-automatics and racked the slide to put a load in the chamber, Carl's a Smith amp; Wesson, Art's a Sig Sauer. They were told the old man would be in his bedroom upstairs, end of the hall, if he wasn't downstairs somewhere. Avern guaranteed he'd be alone.

Still not saying anything they got out of the car and went in, the door unlocked, and heard the TV on in the living room, directly ahead of them, a big chair facing the set. They crossed the room to come up on either side of the chair.

The blond sitting with the old man was topless, her jugs and her face painted, looked up at them holding guns, but didn't scream or freak or anything. She said to the old man, "Friends of yours?"

The old man squinted at them like he was thinking. Are they? But then, trying to sound tough, in charge, he said, "Take what you want and get the hell out of here." He said, "I don't have a safe, so don't waste your time looking for one," the old man not sounding at all feeble; he knew what was going on.

Carl pointed his Smith at the old man, shot him in the chest and shot him in the head.

It caused the blond girl to suck in her breath, a hard gasp, and sit rigid, her painted eyes wide open-Carl and Art watching-now her mouth opened and she was touching the tip of her tongue to her lips, reached down to bring her skirt up, exposing herself-Carl and Art watching-and said, "You fellas aren't mad at me, are you?"

Art shot her.

Hit her just above her breasts and in the center of her forehead. He stooped to pick up his casings and then felt around till he had Carl's. Art stood up hearing cheers, crowd noise, coming from the TV and took a look at the football game that was on. He watched for a half minute, turned to Carl and saw him looking at the girl. "They're watching the Rose Bowl Michigan won," Art said. "Here, Washington State's on Michigan's twelve. Woodson's about to pick off a pass in the end zone, save the Wolverines' ass. I remember the game, I won a hunnert bucks." He turned to Carl again and said, "She's dead."

Carl could see that.

Art said, "You know I had to do it."

"I know."

"I was afraid if we started talking to her-"

"I know what you mean," Carl said.

"Man, she was cool," Art said. "I'd like to've known her. Sure as hell if we started talking to her:"

Carl turned from looking at her to see Art pointing his. 40-caliber Sig at the hall.

At a dressed-up black dude saying, "Don't shoot, man, I'm the one paying you." Coming toward them now, his eyes on the chair till he reached it and was looking at his boss and the girl. His eyes closed and he said, "Oh, shit," sounding like a groan dragged out of him. He said, "You didn't have to," shaking his head now. "I mean it, you could've let her go and she wouldn't of said one fuckin word. Man, you don't know what you did."

Art looked at Carl staring at Montez, Carl saying, "He was suppose to be alone."

"And you suppose to be where I can reach you," Montez said. "I call the number, this angry woman hangs up on me." He looked at the dead girl shaking his head again. "You blew it's what you did."

Carl raised his Smith, putting it in the guy's face.

"You want to fuck with us?"

Montez said, "You want to get paid?"

Art said, "You have it?"

Montez said, "You get it when you suppose to."

Art walked up to him raising the Sig Sauer in his right hand, got Montez looking at it and hit him in the face with a left hook, hard. It staggered Montez but didn't put him down. Art said, "You don't show up with it the day after tomorrow, Smoke, we'll find you."

Montez worked his jaw but didn't touch it with his hand, staring at them like he was deciding whether to stay in the game or get out. What he said was, "Go on take something, the silver, those old paintings, take something, anything you want."

Carl had that feeling again that bothered the hell out of him. "You want it to look like a robbery."

"A home invasion," Montez said, "that went bad. You come in thinking nobody's home-"

"Come in," Carl said, "and a fuckin party's going on. A surprise party. Nothing wrong with the old man. Has a broad with him. You show up in your pinstripe suit, start telling us what to do: Why you want him dead anyway?"

"'Cause he's old, tired of his misery. You want the truth, it was his idea. Go out with a bang."

"I get old, I hope I'm this fuckin miserable," Carl said. "Watch a football game with a naked broad. What do you get out of this? You don't pay fifty grand to get hold of his suits."

"How about the next time," Montez said, "we skip the conversation. I hand you the money, you don't even have to thank me."

Carl wanted so bad to shoot him he had to keep the Smith stiff-armed at his side, telling himself to take it easy. The sound from the TV went off. He heard Art say, "Twenty-one sixteen," and then, "there's your vodka," and Carl grabbed it out of the ice bucket, a brand he'd never heard of.

Going out to the hall Art said, "I remember that Rose Bowl like it was last week, Michigan finally taking one."

Carl said, "I almost shot that jig."

"I know what you mean," Art said. "He sure has a mouth on him." At the door he aimed his piece at Montez, still in the living room, and reminded him of the day after tomorrow. Montez yelled at them to break the glass. Outside, Art smashed a pane with his gun and said to Carl, "You think the cops'll buy it?"

Carl said, "It ain't our problem."