A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(115)

He picked up the first of the printed sheets and looked at the pictures. They had been taken at night, with a couple of bright flashlights on them. One of them was a man with his head crushed and a big stone beside it. Another was lying with his body strangely twisted, as though he’d been hit by a car. The third picture was of a man who had been shot in the chest. The last one was lying facedown in a pool of blood from a wound high up on his body. “Jesus,” he whispered to himself.

He put the driver’s licenses and the sheets back into the envelope and looked up at the woman. He could see she was tall and thin, and she was dressed in black jeans, a black pullover, even black sneakers.

“You killed all these guys?” he asked.

“Some of them. But that’s another thing that doesn’t matter.”

“Then what does matter?”

“It matters that you and I understand each other.”

“Why would I want to understand you?”

“Because if I think you’re not listening to me during the next two minutes, your life will end in that lawn chair.”

“I’m listening.”

“From now on, if any men like the ones in those pictures come near Jimmy Sanders or Chelsea Schnell, you will die. There will be no more warnings, no way to take anything back. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Then I’ll leave you now.”

The woman turned and opened the sliding door into his kitchen, closed it, walked past the unconscious Spato, and then disappeared into the front of the house. Mr. Malconi stood up and listened, holding his breath. He heard his front door slam. He took a deep breath and let it out. She was gone.

Mr. Malconi reached into his coat pocket, took out his cell phone, and pressed Salamone’s number.

“Yes?” said Salamone.

“It’s me. Get over here now. Bring Cantorese and Pistore, and at least two more guys. I’ll explain when you get here.”

“I’m on my way.”

Mr. Malconi ended the call.

He dialed a number he knew by heart because he would never put it, or any of a few others, in a phone’s memory. He stood up while it rang.

The phone rang and then he heard the voice. “This is Joe.”

“Joe,” he said. “This is Lorenzo Malconi. I’m calling with some very bad news.”

“I know already.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. It’s been all over the Boston TV news yesterday and today. It was a massacre. The reporters act like they won the lottery.”

Malconi said, “I’m deeply sorry. Of course I’ll help the families. I’ll have a man bring some money to them, and deliver it in person.”

“Are you going to send some money to make up for what those four were earning for the organization?”

“You know I can’t hope to make this up to you. But I’ll be sending a man to you too, so you’re not left with a bad feeling. I asked for a favor, and you responded like a friend. I’m sorry.”

“You told me this was just some guy, and maybe his girlfriend. They had help. I want to know who.”

“I don’t know yet,” said Malconi.

“Well, when you find out, maybe you’ll send me their heads in a box,” Joe said. “I’d better be going. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Good-bye.”

Malconi ended the connection and put the phone back in his pocket. He went to his chair and lay back in the sun, but didn’t close his eyes. This time he listened to his heartbeat. It was faster than normal, but it was still strong and regular. A man his age could have a heart attack after an experience like that, but Lorenzo Malconi was not easily frightened. He began to consider his situation calmly and rationally. He thought about the strange woman with the gun. He had heard threats and ultimatums before, and he was good at detecting whether they were empty bluff or serious. This one he could not ignore. She had come here to show that she could get to him anytime she wanted and put a gun to his head.

Five minutes later, he was still thinking about what had happened to Joey Corpa’s four men. The man with the crushed skull made him remember the head injuries that football players got. It was a miracle any of them had any brains left when they got to the pros. People were saying that football might be outlawed and then the families would lose the billions they made on the weekly betting slips. He knew that was a stupid worry. America loved its blood sports. Getting them to outlaw pro football would be like getting the rabble of Rome to vote to outlaw gladiators.

But maybe there was a way to pull an insurance game. If he and one of the New York families formed a clean-looking insurance company, they might be able to sell special concussion insurance to all the mothers of little football players, elementary through high school. He began to play around with names for the company. He liked the names that were midwestern cities. Maybe Topeka Mutual, or Springfield Casualty. It might be even better to use a whole state. Wisconsin seemed to be a good, trustworthy state for insurance. Wisconsin Health and Life.

He heard something and looked toward it. There was Salamone, coming out through the glass door from the kitchen. Salamone said, “What the hell happened to Spato and Vacci?”

“They’re just asleep. You can have your guys put them in beds in a minute,” Mr. Malconi said. “That manila envelope on the table. Take a look inside.”