When they got to Phil’s white stucco house in suburban Cicero, Stilotti, Phil’s first cousin, went to the door. Phil’s oldest son admitted him. Stilotti fought to keep his face straight as he sat in the living room watching Phil’s Amazon wife, Ella, draping and pinning material on Phil’s gaunt frame.
Phil darted a look at Stilotti as he shucked himself free of the cloth. “I’m the only one in the house close to her height,” Phil said as he straightened his checkered bow tie and hunched his shoulders. “So, I’m the dummy for the dress she’s making for when Junior gets his degree in pharmacology next week.”
Stilotti glanced at his watch and rose from the sofa. He grinned and said, “Filippo, with some silicone up front—” Stilotti’s hands made a pinching gesture. “Marone!”
They laughed. Phil led the way through the house and out the back door to his workbench in the garage. He took an encased .257 Weatherby Magnum rifle off a shelf and slipped it free of its case before passing it to Stilotti, who hefted it and examined it with satisfaction.
“A lotta rifle.”
Phil said, “Yeah, with the 180-grain slugs the boss is gonna get high speed and the accuracy that goes with it.”
Stilotti said, “Sanitary?”
Phil said, “Yeah, a hundred and ten percent untraceable!”
Stilotti gestured toward the large Buick sedan in the garage. “That’s the transportation?”
Phil said, “Uh-huh, and also a Dodge already stashed in a drop with clean plates.”
They got in the Buick. Phil drove to the street. Angelo and Collucci followed a block behind as the Buick cruised toward the far Southside. Phil pulled to the curb at a light honk of the Caddie’s horn. Collucci and Stilotti switched places in the cars. Angelo drove the Caddie to the Dodge sitting in a two-car garage behind a fire-gutted house. Angelo and Stilotti transferred to the Dodge. Several miles later, Phil turned into an alley and drove past a row of condemned tenements.
“Mr. Collucci, you know I’d be happy to do the job on this dinge,” Phil said seriously.
Collucci said, “Phil, you do it, I’ll feel only half good. For most of my life I’ve wanted to put him to sleep. Today is my day to feel all good!” He chuckled, “And besides, Phil, even with a scope, at four hundred yards, maybe you’d be slightly unsure going for the noggin. You’re damn good, Phil, but not for this one.”
Phil shrugged and braked behind a corner tenement. They got out and stepped toward the abandoned building and noticed Angelo and Stilotti walking down the alley toward them. The Dodge was parked in the backyard of a condemned house.
Collucci and Phil went up a scabrous stairway through the stench of ancient urine to a rubble-strewn apartment on the fourth floor.
Collucci stood wide-legged and flexed his gloved fingers like a gunfighter before a showdown in the Old West. He sat down on a tattered sofa covered with newspaper that Phil had positioned the day before.
Phil’s gloved hands set the rifle up on a revolving tripod. He suctioned-cupped it to a steel milk crate several feet from the windowsill. Then he wiped the whole installation thoroughly with his handkerchief.
Collucci sighted through the scope across four hundred yards of urban clearance. The church and milling people were blurred under an overcast of dark sky.
Collucci said, “Without this starlight scope, I’d have to postpone my pleasure.”
He zeroed in on the head of one of the mourners streaming from the church. Collucci glanced at his wristwatch and said, “Taylor should be coming out!”
Phil said over his shoulder as he hastened toward the door, “Get a bull’s-eye! I’ll get the hell out of here and take care of things downstairs.”
Before the noise of Phil’s shoe soles grating on the gritty stairway had faded away, Collucci saw the pallbearers come from the church and start down the stone steps with the casket. From Collucci’s perch they were like black beetles in the dull light.
Collucci felt his heart boom as he caught sight of a trio of cars containing Warrior bodyguards pull to the curb behind the family car. A dozen Warriors leaped from their cars and descended upon the hearse and lead family car. He peered eagerly through the scope as he swept it back and forth across the pallbearers as they descended the steps.
In the alley, Phil set the Buick’s engine a-throb. Angelo, armed with a sawed-off shotgun, peered from the blistered carcass of a jalopy on its side twenty yards behind the Buick. Stilotti, near the exit end of the alley, lurked in the ruins of a tenement cradling a machine gun.
The Warrior guards had formed a double line facing one another on the sidewalk. The funeral director opened the door of the lead limo. He assisted to the sidewalk Rachel’s mother and Rachel, followed by Fluffy and Taylor—the target!
Collucci trapped and savored the Watusi head in the spyglass. His amusement shaped an odd smile. He was reminded how his organ somehow felt electrified by the sting of kinky bush when he pistoned his lust into black women. His finger masturbated the trigger.
Fluffy was going down the church steps when her shoe heel caught in a crack and she was twisted off balance.
Collucci squeezed the trigger, and T. heard the crack of the Weatherby at the exquisitely synched instant of his move to reach forward to support Fluffy.
T. heard the shriek of the bullet and stared hypnotically at the wisps of smoke curling from the tunnel through Fluffy’s natural hairdo. In one motion, he swept her off the steps and into his arms as he dropped to the pavement. A ball of bile rolled up T.’s throat when he saw the dwarfish funeral director collapse. He flung his hands to his lidless head as if to contain the ooze of brain matter dribbling down like a troublesome forelock into his dead eyes.
People shouted and scuttled for cover. For Collucci’s radiant eye, the sweet illusion was bull’s-eye! A thrill sparkled him when T. crashed to the pavement.
T. rolled Fluffy and himself to the shield of cars at the curb. Collucci gouged a half-dozen slugs into the pavement in pursuit.
Phil heard the second shot and realized Collucci had missed. Collucci sat stunned and drained by failure. His nostrils quivered in the stink of emotion sweat. He was unaware that a sharp-eyed Warrior had spotted a flash of muzzle from the room darkened by the overcast and soot-encrusted windows.
Phil plunged up the stairway into the room and shouted, “Mr. Collucci! Please, for love of the Holy Mother, come the hell out of here!”
Collucci nodded dazedly and got to his feet. He went almost casually down the stairs. Phil was livid with strain behind the wheel. He bombed the Buick down the alley with Collucci half inside. Angelo’s eyes glowed excitement on the backseat. Stilotti hauled himself into the rear of the Buick.
A half block away a carload of Warriors roared toward the Buick. They slammed it with pistol fire as it turned out of the alley to double back to the Dodge drop.
Just as Phil sprinted the Buick around a corner, the back window disintegrated. “The Surgeon’s” bulk hurtled off the backseat into the back of Collucci’s seat and banged him against the padded dash. Angelo dived for the floorboards. He lay open-mouthed staring at the drippy hole in the back of Stilotti’s head.
Angelo shook his head and said quietly, “Lollo is a goner.”
Phil turned his eyes toward Collucci for an instant and glared accusation.
Collucci whirled and yelled, “Stay down, Angelo!” Then he drew his heavy Magnum pistol from a shoulder holster and thundered slugs into the radiator and block of the pursuing Chevrolet.
The Warrior car shivered like a poleaxed steer and wobbled to a stop. All the way back to the Dodge there was only silence and the stench of Lollo’s terminal BM.
Grunting and sweating, they finally managed to remove “The Surgeon’s” four hundred pounds of blubber from the Buick. Phil tenderly wrapped a plastic litter bag and the bottom of Lollo’s overcoat around his leaky head before they hoisted him into the Dodge trunk.
They climbed into the Dodge. Phil darted evil eyes at Collucci, who
caught it. He lounged loosely on the backseat with his eyes apparently closed. He spied through slits at Phil’s stony face in the rearview mirror on the dashboard. Collucci pondered why he had missed when he was certain he had fired on target with the first shot.
Without widening his eyes, Collucci said casually, “Phil, it’s a fucking shame about Lollo. You know I’ve, like yourself, cared about him since we were all punks on the Westside. I’m sorry to say we have to deny Lollo a big proper funeral.”
Collucci watched Phil’s jaw muscles work in the long silence before Phil said bitterly, “Is it because he was just a soldato that we can dump him in a hole like a bag of garbage?”
Collucci said, “Don’t crack that shit on me. We already got enough goddamn pressure on us from the bosses to get Taylor. Phil, Lollo deserves a hundred-grand funeral, but the dead can’t feel slighted.
“Phil, you’re so upset you can’t see how stupid it would be to lay ourselves and the Organization open to the police and newspapers just to get a burial permit and some flowers for Lollo.”
Angelo said, “Jesus, I hate it about Lollo. He gave me a trillion laughs. And the kicks we usta dig up! I remember the time we muscled a mud kicker when we was, oh, ten . . . twelve, and got our first blowjob together. He passed out when he popped. It’s too bad, just too bad about Lollo.”
Phil said, “Yeah, maybe it’s too bad for Lollo because Mr. Collucci didn’t let me do the job on Taylor.”
Collucci had the cruel thought that Stilotti had been eating himself into an early grave anyway. He said, “Phil, stop dreaming you can outshoot me, or out anything me. The lucky cocksucker stumbled forward or bent over to tie a shoelace or something at the same time I squeezed off the first round.”
Phil grunted sourly.
Angelo said, “Nobody’s luck stays peaches and cream forever. He’ll poke his dome into the next one.”
Collucci said, “I don’t want anybody to know exactly what happened. I’ll put together a report for the bosses that won’t give them an ass ache. Capisce?”
Angelo nodded his shaggy head and said, “Sure, Mister Collucci, I got it.”
Phil remained silent, and his jaw muscles rippled defiance.
Collucci, white hot at the insult, leaned toward him to jab his index finger into his shoulder to force his reply. He sprawled back onto the seat instead. In that same instant he decided that Phil should be put to sleep as a hazard.
Angelo glanced back at Collucci’s face and knew Phil was finished. He sighed and put himself on alert for Collucci’s moves.
Oh, this stupid mother! Collucci thought. He sucks my ass for most of his life. So with my blessing he’s a capidecina, the boss of ten soldati! And now the lousy cocksucker insults me, his capiregime. Today he sees me a little off form, a little off base, and he decides I’m ready to switch ends.
He makes it clear to me himself that he’s too big a risk to afford . . . He’s leaving nice kids, nice house, and Ella’s great legs and cute ass . . . All the guilt and responsibility for that is his. He’s stupid like the others. He deserves killing like the others.
Phil, apparently shaken by the doomsday vibes, turned and peered at Collucci and said, “I’m a thousand percent with any way you handle things . . . alright, Mr. Collucci?”
Then meekly, “You’re not salty, Mr. Collucci?”
Collucci managed a smile, and his cat eyes lulled Phil with warm yellow light. He remembered Phil owed him a bundle.
He said, “Salty? Phil, you think I’m sucker enough to fall out with a guy into me for seventeen grand?”
They laughed. Collucci sneaked the Magnum from its holster to his pocket. He thought, Angelo should do it to Phil so I can be sure he doesn’t have sentimental hang-ups. I’ve always liked Phil . . . But what the hell, the guy’s mouth could get diarrhea and give the bosses the angle to sour my support and bury me.
Darkness was quickly falling when they pulled alongside the Caddie. They got out and Collucci lunged and seized the back of Phil’s overcoat collar. He jerked it down to pinion Phil’s arms to his sides at the elbow like a straitjacket.
Collucci yanked. The willowy Phil crashed to the concrete. He lay on his back gasping, half-stunned. Collucci dropped a heavy foot against Phil’s forehead and looped a finger around the trigger of the Magnum in his overcoat pocket.
He pointed it at Angelo and studied his eyes for a long searching moment before he dipped his head. Angelo drew his forty-five and squatted at Phil’s side. He pressed the snout of the silencer between Phil’s popping eyes.
Collucci said, “Spare him the pain and slop. A clean one through the pump.”
Phil walled his eyes up piteously at Collucci, and his brow popped sweat bubbles. His gray lips flapped mutely before he whispered, “Why? . . . Why am I losing my life?”
Collucci said in soft Sicilian, “Because I was hurt to lose your respect, Filippo. You should not have forgotten you are just a lieutenant. I must spare myself the greater hurt to lose your loyalty . . . Money . . . Everything will be provided for Ella and the kids.”
Angelo watched Collucci’s face harden as he stepped back and almost imperceptibly winked his right eye. The forty-five bucked in Angelo’s fist. Phil’s back arched like a taut bow for an instant. His tiny feet kicked lazily like a swimmer afloat before he lay still.
They gently lifted him into the trunk beside Stilotti. Collucci drove the Caddie a half mile behind Angelo. They unloaded the bodies in the garage behind Collucci’s Sweet Dream.
Collucci used the roadhouse phone to call the same undertaking team of Marty and Freddie Rizzo that had planted the corpses of Love Bone and his Mexican sweetie.
Collucci tipped Marty, in code, that there were bodies to be buried in the mob cemetery.
“For Christ sake! Pick up your old man. He’s got a snoot full, and he’s spoiling Tony’s wedding,” Collucci said.
Marty answered, “Yeah, thanks.”
Then he said something in code that pleased Collucci a great deal. Marty had discovered a time and place to hit Cocio!
They left the Sweet Dream and stopped for the late papers after Angelo dumped the Dodge. Collucci sat up in the front seat reading by dash light an account of the sniping death of the funeral director.
There was mention of the police discovery of the sniper’s roost and the tripoded rifle. Collucci smiled grimly. There was only brief mention of Taylor as a black militant who could have been the target, but he had denied it.
There was nothing about the shooting when Phil barreled out of the alley. Taylor had obviously sent out the word that had gagged the pro-Taylor witnesses. There could only be one reason for this, Collucci reasoned. Taylor intended to strike back, hard and soon.
Collucci said, “Angelo, you better head for the penthouse so I can make the report to Tonelli I just put together.”
There was silence for some time as Angelo drove Collucci home after the report to Tonelli. Finally Angelo said, “Excuse me, Jimmy, for sticking my big mouth in . . . but was everything peaches and cream up there?”
Collucci laughed, “What else, Angelo? The story I fed them was so obvious and simple. It was tough luck that Phil and Stilotti bungled the job on Taylor. It was worse for them to be obviously captured and disposed of by the Warriors. I, we know nothing of what happened except what the papers and the police surmise. So, relax, old friend, everything, like you say, is peaches and cream.”
When Angelo pulled into the Collucci driveway, Collucci said, “Kill the engine. There are several important things you must attend to.”
Angelo turned and faced his boss, moon-face serious.
Collucci said, “First thing tomorrow, get Marty and Freddie into Lollo’s rooms with the responsibility to guard the grounds. I want you to pull out three of the men on security at my Big Dipper gambling joint upstate.
“Get the armored Lincoln out of storage and tuned up. Put those three on shifts around the clock cruising my block. Tell them I’m doubling their salar
ies.”
Angelo said, “I got it . . . but the extra commotion . . . the neighbors . . . the chief of police?”
Collucci said, “Fuck the neighbors! They beef to that old buck-grabbing bastard and he’ll tell them I’ve brought in private security to block a kidnap threat to Petey.”
Collucci decided to test Angelo for any possible changes in his attitude or slavish subservience that the day’s bloody happenings could have brought about.
“Too bad Phil and Lollo had to go. We will miss them, won’t we?” Collucci said.
Angelo said, “Lollo a lot.” He frowned and hunched his bullish shoulders. “But Phil, maybe a little . . . The way he was feeling about Lollo and blaming you and all, his big mouth woulda finally spilled for the bosses.”
Collucci smiled and threw Angelo a luscious curve. “Angelo, I am convinced that nobody has ever had a finer stand-up friend than you have been to me for all these years. I have perhaps been selfish to keep you so close to me. And now I want to reward you.”
He paused and scrutinized Angelo’s face. “I want you to replace Phil.”
Angelo’s mouth gaped open, half in surprise and half in alarm that Collucci could be ordering him out of his treasured groove as closest friend and confidant. He shrilled his protest, “Jimmy, please! Who the hell would take care of you and understand you if I took Phil’s spot?”
Collucci smiled and banged him on the shoulder. “Nobody! You sweet lug head sonuvabitch. Nobody!”
Collucci moved toward the door, and Angelo leaped out and opened it. Collucci stepped out. They embraced for a long moment in the frosty starlight. Then Collucci turned away and went toward the mansion thinking how certain he was of Angelo’s friendship and loyalty . . . Well, at least for now anyway. Weary, Collucci thought as he let himself into the mansion, Goddamn! . . . Going for that cocksucker . . . and missing . . . was one helluva drain . . .
16
Around midnight on the second evening after Collucci’s failure to put Taylor to sleep, Taylor, trembling in fury and desperate for revenge, paced the parsonage office. He smashed his fist again and again into a blood-red palm. His mind whirled with plans to exterminate his mortal enemy, and all the Chicago Mafiosi. He was certain he had enough weapons and a sufficient number of fanatical Warriors like himself for an all-out war against the Mafia.