“How do you know that?”
“I knew Carl pretty good. If it was something I could take care of, he would have come to me. Point is, he went to Fat Gus. So it was a personal thing for him, nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with my business.”
“Fat Gus didn’t work for you?”
“Didn’t work for nobody. Fat Gus was independent. Provided services to various customers. Better that way.”
“So you have absolutely no idea who—”
“No idea.” Angelidis gave Gurney a long, straight look. “If knew, I would tell you.”
“Why would you tell me?”
“Whoever hit Carl fucked things up for me. I don’t like when people fuck things up for me. Makes me want to fuck things up for them. You understand?”
Gurney smiled. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, right?”
Angelidis’s expression sharpened. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
The question and its intensity surprised him. “It’s a verse from the Bible, a way to achieve justice by matching—”
“I know the fucking saying. But why did you say it?”
“You asked me if I understood your desire to get even with whoever killed Carl and Gus.”
He seemed to be thinking about this. “You don’t know nothing about the hit on Gus?”
“No. Why?”
He was silent for several seconds, watching Gurney intently. “Very sick shit. You didn’t hear nothing about that?”
“Zero. Didn’t know the man existed, didn’t know he died.”
Angelidis nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll tell you this, because maybe it helps. There was a Friday-night poker game Gus always held at his house. The Friday Carl got hit, the guys show up, nobody answers the door. They ring, knock. Nobody comes. This never happens. They think maybe Gus is taking a crap. They wait. Ring, knock—no Gus. They try the door. Door’s unlocked. Go in. Find Gus.” He paused, looked like he was tasting something unpleasant. “I don’t like talking about this. It’s sick shit, you know? I believe that all business should be reasonable. Not like this crazy shit.” He shook his head and adjusted the position of some of the dishes on the table. “Gus is sitting in his underwear in front of his TV. Got a nice bottle of retsina on the coffee table, half-full wineglass, a little bread, taramasalata in a bowl. Nice lunch. But …”
“But he was dead?” Gurney prompted.
“Dead? He was real dead. Dead with a fucking four-inch nail hammered into each eye, into each ear, right into his fucking brain, and a fifth one through his fucking throat. Five fucking nails.” He paused, studying Gurney’s face. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering why none of this made it into the news.”
“Organized Crime Task Force.” Angelidis looked like the words were making him want to spit. “OCTF dropped down on it like a pile of shit. No obituary, no funeral notice, no nothing. Kept all the details to themselves. Can you believe that? You know why they keep this stuff secret?”
Gurney wasn’t really being asked a question, so he didn’t answer.
Angelidis sucked loudly at his teeth before continuing. “They keep it secret because it makes them feel like they know something. Like they know secret shit nobody else knows. Makes them feel like they got power. Got classified information. You know what they got? They got shit for brains and toothpicks for dicks.” He glanced at his big gold Rolex and smiled. “Okay? It’s getting late. I hope this helps you.”
“It’s all very interesting. I have one last question.”
“Sure.” Angelidis looked again at his watch.
“How well did you get along with Carl?”
“Beautiful. Like a son to me.”
“No problems?”
“No problems.”
“You weren’t bothered by all those ‘scum of the earth’ speeches he made?”
“Bothered? What do you mean?”
“In press interviews he called people in your line of business the scum of the earth. And a lot of other unpleasant things. How’d you feel about that?”
“Felt it was pretty smart. Good way to get elected.” He pointed at the bowl of olives. “They’re very good. My cousin in Mykonos sends them to me special. Take some home to your wife.”
Chapter 26. Not a Fucking Chess Match
When Gurney arrived at the end of the mountain road that led to his property, he was surprised to discover a large black SUV parked by the barn. He lowered his window at the mailbox and found that Madeleine had already emptied it. Then he drove slowly over to the shiny Escalade and stopped in front of it.
Its door opened. The man who emerged had the bulky physique of a football lineman. He also had a shaved head, unfriendly bloodshot eyes, and a rictus-like grin. “Mr. Gurney?”
Gurney returned the empty smile. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Mick Klemper. That mean anything to you?”
“CIO on the Spalter case?”
“Right.” He took out his wallet, flipped it open to his Bureau of Criminal Investigation ID. In the younger photo displayed on the laminated card, he looked like mindless muscle for the Irish mob.
“What are you doing here?”
Klemper blinked, the grin wavered. “We need to talk—before this thing you’re involved in gets out of hand.”
“This thing I’m involved in?”
“This bullshit with Bincher. Do you know about him?”
“Do I know what about him?”
“What a scumbag he is?”
Gurney thought about this for a moment. “Did someone send you here, or is this your idea?”
“I’m trying to do you a favor. Can we talk?”
“Sure. Talk.”
“I mean, friendly. Like we’re on the same side of the street.”
The man’s eyes radiated danger. But Gurney’s curiosity outweighed his caution. He turned off the engine and got out of his car. “What do you want to tell me?”
“This Jew lawyer you’re working for, he’s made a career out of smearing cops—you aware of that?” Klemper reeked of mints overlaying a sour miasma of alcohol.
“I’m not working for anybody.”
“That’s not what Bincher said on TV.”
“I’m not responsible for what he said.”
“So the Jew scumbag is lying?”
Gurney smiled, even as he shifted his feet to get into a better position to defend himself physically, if the need arose. “How about we get back to the same side of the street?”
“What?”
“You said you wanted a friendly talk.”
“My friendly point is that Lex Bincher makes money by digging up phony little glitches he can use to keep his slimebag clients on the streets. You ever see his fucking house in Cooperstown? Biggest house on the lake, every cent from drug dealers he kept out of prison with one fucking technicality after another. You know about this shit?”
“I don’t care about Bincher. I care about the Spalter murder case.”
“Okay, good, let’s talk about that. Kay Spalter killed her husband. Shot him in the fucking head. She was tried, convicted, and sentenced. Kay Spalter is a lying, murdering cunt, doing the time she deserves. Except now your slimy little Jew friend Bincher is trying to spring her on procedural—”
Gurney interrupted him. “Klemper? Do me a favor. I’m not interested in your Jew problems. You want to talk about the Spalter case, talk.”
There was a flash of hatred on the man’s face, and for a moment Gurney thought their confrontation was about to become brutally simple. He closed his right hand into a fist out of Klemper’s line of sight and adjusted his balance. But Klemper just produced an empty smile and shook his head. “Okay. What I’m telling you is this. There’s no way she should walk on a fucking technicality. With your background, you should know better. Why the hell are you trying to spring a piece of garbage?”