Deacon King Kong(88)

“Tell that to the dead guy taking a nap with bullet holes in his face. Now the cops are all over me.”

“Would you come up to street level, Joe? I didn’t have nobody down at Vitali’s last night. We spent the night getting ready for this haul. Thirty-four TV sets from Japan—till you came. Now it’s thirty-two. The other two are at the bottom of the harbor by now.”

“I told you I’d pay for ’em.”

“Keep your dough and use it to go dancing next time I got an operation going. It’ll make my life easier. I’m glad you came, though. Showed me what I already knew: that boat captain is just the lizard I thought he was.”

“So you didn’t have those guys shot?”

“What do I look like, Joe? You think I’m stupid enough to set fire to money in my own pocket? Why would I have the cops rattling the docks when I had a shipment to move the next day? I had something going.”

Peck’s anger eased a little. He reached for a glass and poured himself a shot of the Johnnie Walker. He sipped deeply, then said, “You remember that kid? The little whiz kid who worked for me in the Cause Houses? The one who got himself shot by that old bird? Well, last night, the old bird came back with a second old bird to finish the job. The two of ’em shot the kid again—didn’t kill him, if you can believe it. This kid’ll give a gunman blisters before he keels over. But they killed one of the kid’s crew. One of the old guys got plugged. The old guy, your guy I think, he’s dead too, I hear. Floating in the harbor someplace. The cops are dragging for him tomorrow.”

“Why do you keep calling him my guy? I don’t know him.”

“You should. He’s your gardener.”

Elefante blinked hard and sat straight up. “Run that by me again.”

“The old guy. The one who shot the kid and got tossed in the harbor without instructions. He’s your gardener. He worked in your house. For your mother.”

Elefante was silent a moment. He stared at the desk, then glanced around the room, as if the answer to this new problem were hiding in the nooks and crannies of the dank old boxcar.

“That can’t be right.”

“It is. I got it from a bird in the Seven-Six.”

Elefante bit his bottom lip, thinking. How many times had he told his mother to be careful who she let in the house? Finally he said, “That old drunk can’t shoot nobody.”

“Well, he did.”

“That old man drinks so much you can hear his stomach slosh. The fucker can’t stand up straight. He uses a Mason jar for a jigger.”

“Well, he’s drinking all he wants now. Harbor water.”

Elefante rubbed his forehead. He poured another drink and gulped it down. He blew out his cheeks, then swore softly, “Shit.”

“Well?”

“I’m telling you, Joe. I didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Sure. And I’m a butterfly with a Jag.”

“I swear on my father’s grave, I don’t know nothing about it.”

Peck poured another shot of Johnnie Walker for himself. That was a pretty heavy denial: he’d never heard the Elephant mention his dead father. Everybody knew the Elephant and his old man had been close.

“It still screws me up,” Peck said. “There’s cops all over Vitali Pier now. And guess where Ray was gonna make my pickup?”

Elefante nodded. Vitali Pier would’ve been good. Unused. Vacant. Deep water. Dock still half-usable. This was a screwup, to be sure.

“When are the things from Lebanon coming?”

“Nine days.”

Elefante thought quickly. Now he saw the problem, or the beginning of it. Once again, he thought, Joe’s dropping a bomb on me. The shooting would bring—had brought—the cops. He realized that the only reason the heat hadn’t descended on him tonight was because the night-duty captain at the Seven-Six, whom he regularly paid off, was a good Irishman who kept his word. Elefante had tried to reach the captain today and couldn’t. Now he knew why. The poor cluck must’ve twisted like an octopus to keep squad cars and homicide detectives from trolling through his dock and was likely afraid to pick up the phone, thinking Internal Affairs was on to him. This kind of heat—three shootings, for Christ’s sake—brought the papers and full-blown attention from headquarters down on Centre Street. No precinct lieutenant or captain could hold off that kind of heat for long. Elefante made a mental note to send the captain an extra tip for his diligence.

“Things will cool down by then, Joe.”

“Sure. And the Bed-Stuy bastard gunning for my territory is at a peace conference right now,” Joe fumed.

“Maybe he’s the guy behind all of it.”

“That’s what I come to ask. You think your old guy worked for him? Was he that type?”

“I don’t know him,” Elefante said. “I spoke to him once. But he couldn’t pull this kind of stunt. He’s old, Joe. The guy’s so drunk he gets spirit messages from his dead wife. He’s a . . .” He paused. He wanted to say, “a deacon at his church,” but he wasn’t quite sure what that meant. The old bird had told him, but in the thrust of the moment he forgot.

Peck’s raspy voice cut into his thoughts. “He’s a what?”