"Who're they?"
"My two guards. They live up here every night. Once everyone leaves and they lock those gates, there's no way anyone could get in."
"Looks good to me," I said. "If Big Julie and Raymond can take care of themselves."
Chickie laughed. "Don't worry, man. Big Julie's the strongest guy this side of the circus and Raymond used to be one of the best ordnance sergeants in Korea. He knows what guns are all about."
"Good enough for me." I got to my feet and Louie did the same. "Thanks a lot, Chickie," I said. "We'll be seeing you, I guess."
"Right," he said. We shook hands, and Louie and I went back down the staircase. Alerted now, I could see the steel gates inset into the walls on each landing. It was a nice tight setup, but I had an idea how it might be breached.
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.
Canzoneri: You'll find Spelman
In Room 636 Chalfont Plaza Hotel.
He's bare-assed and dead as hell.
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.