As she was explaining this, he could sense how much she cared about it. He felt a little envious of this remarkable ability of hers to focus on and care deeply about whatever was in front of her. So many different things seemed to matter to her. He had the rather silly-sounding thought that perhaps what mattered in life was that things mattered—a lot of things. There was something almost surreal in this thought, which he attributed partly to the odd weather. It was distinctly cool for August, with an autumnal haze in the air and an earthy fragrance rising from the wet grass. It made what was happening for that brief moment seem more like a soft-edged dream than the prickly reality of daily life.
Aegean Odyssey, the restaurant where he was meeting Adonis “Donny Angel” Angelidis, was on Axton Avenue, less than three blocks from the apartment building on which the investigation had centered. The two-hour drive from Walnut Crossing had been uneventful. Parking, as on his previous visit, was no problem. He found a spot within fifty feet of the restaurant door. He was exactly on time: two p.m.
It was quiet inside, and almost empty. Only one of the twenty or so tables was occupied, and that by a solitary old man reading a Greek newspaper. The interior decor featured the typical Greek blues and whites. The walls were accented with colorful ceramic tiles. There was a mixed aroma of oregano, marjoram, roast lamb, strong coffee.
A young waiter with dark eyes approached him. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Gurney. I’m meeting Mr. Angelidis.”
“Of course. Please.” He led the way to a partitioned area at the back of the room. Then he stepped aside and gestured toward a booth that could have accommodated six people but had only one occupant—a heavyset man with a large head and coarse gray hair.
The man had the flat, crooked nose of a boxer. His thick shoulders suggested he had once been quite powerful, perhaps still was. The expression on his face was dominated by deeply etched lines of sourness and distrust. He held a fat stack of dollar bills and was counting them out onto a neat pile on the table. There was a gold Rolex on his wrist. He looked up. His mouth smiled without losing any of its sourness.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Adonis Angelidis.” His voice was low and hoarse, as if there were calluses on his vocal chords from a lifetime of shouting. “Forgive me for not rising to greet you, Mr. Gurney. My back is … not so good. Please sit.” Despite his hoarseness, his articulation was oddly precise, as if he was choosing each syllable with care.
Gurney sat directly across from him. There were several plates of food on the table.
“The kitchen is closed, but I asked them to make special a few things, so you could choose. All very good. You know Greek food?”
“Moussaka, souvlaki, baklava. That’s about it.”
“Ah. Well. Let me explain.” He laid his stack of bills on the table and began pointing at and describing in detail the contents of each dish—spanakopita, salata melitzanes, kalamaria tiganita, arni yahni, garithes me feta. There was also a small bowl of cured olives, a basket of crusty sliced bread, and a large bowl of fresh purple figs.
“I invite you to pick whatever appeals to you, or take a bit from each. All very good.”
“Thank you. I’ll try a fig.” Gurney took one and bit into it.
Angelidis watched him with interest.
Gurney nodded his approval. “You’re right. It’s very good.”
“Of course. You take your time. Relax. We talk when you are ready.”
“We can talk now.”
“Okay. I must ask you something. Somebody told me about you. You are an expert at murders. This is true? I mean, of course, solving murders, not doing them.” The mouth smiled again. The heavily lidded eyes remained watchful. “This is what you care about?”
“Yes.”
“Good. No Organized Crime Task Force bullshit, right?”
“My focus is homicide. I try not to let other issues get in the way.”
“Good. Very good. We have common ground maybe. Maybe ground for cooperation. You think so, Mr. Gurney?”
“I hope so.”
“So. You want to know about Carl?”
“Yes.”
“You know Greek tragedy?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sophocles. You know Sophocles?”
“To some extent. Only what I remember from college.”
Angelidis leaned forward, resting his heavy forearms on the table. “Greek tragedy had a simple idea. A great truth: A man’s strength is also his weakness. This is most brilliant. Do you agree?”
“I can see how it could be true.”
“Good. Because this truth is what killed Carl.” He paused, gazing hard into Gurney’s eyes. “You wonder what the hell am I talking about, right?”
Gurney said nothing, took another bite of the fig, held Angelidis’s gaze, and waited.
“A simple thing. A tragic thing. Carl’s great strength was the speed of his mind reaching a conclusion and his willingness to act. You understand what I say? Very fast, no fear. A great strength. A man like that achieves many things, great things. But this strength was also his weakness. Why? Because this great strength has no patience. This strength must eliminate obstruction immediately. You understand?”
“Carl wanted something. Somebody got in his way. What happened then?”
“He decided, of course, to eliminate the obstruction. This was his way.”
“What did he do?”
“I heard that he wanted to put out a contract through a certain individual to have the obstruction eliminated. I tell him he should wait, take smaller steps. I ask if there is anything I can do. I ask this like a father to a son. He tells me no, the problem is outside my … my area of business … and I shouldn’t be involved.”
“You’re telling me he wanted to have someone killed, but not by you?”
“According to the rumor, he went to a man who arranges things like that.”
“Did the man have a name?”
“Gus Gurikos.”
“A professional?”
“A manager. A talent agent. You understand? You tell Fat Gus what you want, you agree on the price, you give him information he needs, he takes it from there. No more problem for you. He manages everything, hires the best talent—you don’t need to know nothing. Better that way. Lot of funny stories about Fat Gus. Someday I tell you.”
Gurney had heard enough funny stories about mob guys to last a lifetime. “So Carl Spalter paid Fat Gus to hire the appropriate talent to remove someone who got in his way?”
“That’s the rumor.”
“Very interesting, Mr. Angelidis. How does the story end?”
“Carl was too fast. And Fat Gus wasn’t fast enough.”
“Meaning what?”
“Only one thing could have happened. The guy Carl was in such a rush to have removed must have found out about the contract before Gus passed it on to the hitter. And he took action first. Preemptive strike, right? Gets rid of Carl before Carl gets rid of him.”
“What does your friend Gus say about this?”
“Gus don’t say shit. Gus can’t say shit. Gus got hit too—that Friday, same day as Carl.”
This was a big piece of news. “You’re saying the target found out that Carl hired Gus to set up a hit, but before Gus could make it happen, the target turns around and hits them both?”
“You got it. Preemptive strike.”
Gurney nodded slowly. It was certainly a possibility. He took another bite out of the fig.
Angelidis continued with some enthusiasm. “So this makes your job real simple. Just find out who Carl wanted hit, and you got the guy who turned around and hit Carl.”
“Would you have any idea who that might be?”
“No. This is important for you to know. So you listen to me now. What happened to Carl got nothing to do with me. Got nothing to do with my business interests.”