“Does that mean he deserved to die? To be burned alive? Ventilated by hundreds of nails?” Mario’s voice boomed out of the darkness. “Should we dispose of all our castoffs by sealing them in a car with one of your demented death traps?”
“It was a good idea. A smart backup plan. Just in case the first line of assault didn’t work.”
“Which it didn’t.”
“That’s … true. Like the bumper stickers say, shit happens. You can’t blame me for that.”
“You sent a hireling to perform a job you should have done yourself. You weren’t even there.”
“I couldn’t have passed as an office courier. My … appearance would’ve aroused his suspicions.”
“This is simply another attempt to excuse your failure. A ghastly failure that has now cost us two men. Including my nephew.”
“Give it a rest. You never liked Donny any better than I did. Just stay cool a little longer and I’ll serve Byrne’s head to you on a silver platter. Moroconi’s, too.”
“Your time is up, Mr. Kramer.” Mario rose to his feet and slowly emerged from the shadows. “For many years I have believed you were not a desirable member of our organization. In the old days, perhaps, you had a place. But now you are a relic. In this latest matter, you have proven your obsolescence. Although I have given you every possible chance, you have failed to deliver Moroconi. You haven’t even been able to find a stupid lawyer. And in the course of this catastrophic failure, you have cost men their lives and threatened the integrity of our entire organization.”
Kramer withdrew his lighter from his pocket and flicked it. The flame cast a dim glow through the darkened room. “Fine. You wanted to chew me out, you’ve chewed me out. I suppose I gave you an openin’. Now can I get on with my job?”
“You don’t have a job, Mr. Kramer.”
“What?”
“I am relieving you of your duties in this matter. In fact, I am relieving you of all responsibilities for my organization.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Can’t? I already have. You are no longer connected with us, Mr. Kramer. Whatever tenuous connection you once may have claimed is now and forever severed.”
“I was workin’ for this family before you were—”
“None of that matters, Mr. Kramer. I’m in charge now. And I have given you your walking papers. So walk.”
“You’re serious!”
“Very.” He stepped closer to Kramer. “If I see you around here again, I’ll have you killed.”
Kramer stalked toward the door, his teeth clenched, his fists balled up in rage. That explained why the room was so goddamn dark, he realized. Mario must have bodyguards in here. Otherwise he would never dare speak like that.
Kramer slammed the door behind him. Fucking pissant. The Outfit had shot straight downhill since Mario took over. Now they all wore business suits and pretended they were Wall Street tycoons. They didn’t know who they were anymore. They didn’t think they needed him.
Mario was just trying to scare him, Kramer told himself. He just wanted Moroconi and Byrne brought in. And this was his way of ensuring that Kramer worked night and day to make that happen. Bastard.
Fine. He’d bring in Byrne. He had hoped to do it with a minimum of fuss, but since Mario was in such a goddamn hurry, he’d expedite matters. He’d continue with his main plan—tracking Byrne—but he’d put his contingency plan into action as well. One or the other was bound to produce results.
After all, Byrne might be able to hide himself. But he couldn’t hide all his friends, too.
50
8:15 P.M.
TRAVIS ASKED CAVANAUGH TO pull over to a relatively unpopulated QuikTrip.
“Sure you understood what Crescatelli told you about the blue box?” he asked.
“Well enough. But make it quick, okay?”
“I’ll do my best.” They got out of the car and walked to the phone booth. Cavanaugh closed the glass door and opened the blue box.
“This will take a few minutes,” she said, “while I line up eight or ten trunks. You stand guard.”
“I can do that.” Travis watched as she dialed an 800 number randomly chosen from the phone book. She did seem to know what she was doing, and for that he was grateful. He hadn’t absorbed enough of Crescatelli’s lecture even to feign competence. He was so absorbed in watching Cavanaugh work that he didn’t notice the woman with the poodle until she was directly under his nose.
“ ’Scuse me,” she said. “Can I get to the phone, please?”
Travis could barely make out her face—it was buried beneath layer upon layer of makeup. She was chewing gum and her hair was in curlers. Now that Travis noticed, the poodle was in curlers, too.
“I need to use the phone,” she said.
“It’s occupied.”
“There’s a three-minute limit,” she said, cracking her gum for emphasis. She pointed to a sign on the phone-booth door.
“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “This is very important.”
“So is my call! If I don’t call Maurice, he’ll cancel our appointment. Then poor Sugar Pie and I will have to wear our curlers all week.”
“Maybe there’s a phone inside you can use.”
“There isn’t. I already asked.”
“Well, I’m afraid this one is tied up.”
“This is an outrage! I shop here regularly. I’m probably their best customer.”
Travis assumed that meant she bought her cosmetics here. “Ma’am, if you’ll please go away, I’ll give you five bucks for your trouble.”
She slapped the money away. “What do I look like, a streetwalker?”
Travis decided not to comment.
“I don’t want your money. I want the phone. I have a constitutional right to use the phone. And by God, I intend to!” She pivoted on one foot, dog in tow, and stomped back into the store.
Travis saw her stop at the cash register and complain bitterly to the clerk. Just Travis’s luck—he had to run into the only woman in Dallas who thought she had a constitutional right to talk on the phone.
Cavanaugh was punching in numbers, and the red light on the blue box was still glowing. Apparently she hadn’t gotten to a line she considered sufficiently safe yet. And if they disconnected the line now, she would have to start all over again.
The woman with the poodle reemerged from the store with an extremely reluctant clerk. Thank goodness I’m wearing the sunglasses and hat, Travis thought. By now, he had probably made the tabloids, and this woman undoubtedly read them every day.
“Uh, pardon me,” the clerk said, shuffling his feet. “There’s a three-minute limit on the phone.”
“There are two of us,” Travis said, gesturing toward Cavanaugh. “So we get six minutes combined.”
“You’ve been on the phone for more than six minutes,” the clerk observed. “But actually, you get no time, because you aren’t customers, because you haven’t bought anything.”
So the clerk was a literalist. Swell. Travis searched his brain for a new tack; the situation was becoming desperate. Ridiculous, but desperate.
“Ma’am, how long has your dog had poodle herpacocci?”
The woman looked at Travis blank-faced. “Had what?”
“Poodle herpacocci. Well, the full medical name would be”—he took a deep breath—“streptocardioencephalodoggy herpacocci, but I don’t see any reason to get bogged down in a lot of Latin, do you?”
The woman appeared stricken. “You think my Sugar Pie has a disease?”
“Surely you’ve noticed.” Travis bent down beside the dog. “The bloodred eyes, the discolored toes, the waxy quality of the coat. Oh yes, it’s a clear-cut case.”
“Are you a—”