The Dangerous Mr Wolf Page 3

  “That good for nothing snake,” Callaway said. “I’d like to burn his place down.”

  “I’ll see Sean Masters tonight.”

  “Say hello for me. The department doesn’t have jurisdiction off the coast.”

  “Has anybody heard from Sanchez?”

  “Not a word. I asked Gulino if he thought maybe somebody killed Sanchez and took over, but he doesn’t think so. I think it makes a lot of sense. Why wouldn’t he have called Gulino by now? You still chummy with his daughter?”

  “Of course.”

  “While I’m cleaning up the stiff, maybe you can go ask her. You might as well have all the fun, right?”

  “Didn’t you say last night’s witnesses mentioned only one shooter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was this him?”

  “Awfully skinny. I pictured somebody bigger. If it is, what do you think will happen next?”

  “You mean was this guy their only play?”

  “Something like that.”

  “No. Somebody’s got the kill fever. They won’t stop because of this. Maybe they have others on stand-by. Or maybe they’ll have to bring more in.”

  “Any other suggestions? I know I’m just a dumb cop, Wolf. I don’t know so much. Please tell me more.”

  Wolf grinned. “Don’t step in the guy’s blood.” He patted Callaway on the shoulder and walked away.

  Wolf sat in a corner booth at Gordy’s Restaurant, a popular bar and grill that offered live music every night and, for those who were properly connected or who knew the password, a game room in the back with everything except slots. On the stage, the piano player, a short blond man in a white shirt and dark slacks, played through an arrangement. The female singer, a tall brunette in loose jeans and a t-shirt, did the vocal work. Their starts and stops didn’t annoy Wolf.

  The restaurant wasn’t officially open for business, but Wolf was welcome any time. He liked being the only one in the dining room. The lights were low; the strips of light lining the walkways provided a quiet glow.

  He used a fork to cut his chicken fried steak, mixing it with mashed potatoes. He’d eaten the vegetables first, steamed broccoli and carrots. Presently he finished the meal, downed what remained of his Fireball whiskey and Coke, pushed the plate away, and lit a cigar.

  Gordy, the rotund owner of the restaurant, eased his bulk into the other side of the booth. What remained of his hair was slicked against his skull. Parts of his skull showed through the black strands.

  “Good dinner?”

  Wolf, puffing smoke, nodded. He placed the match on the table. A waitress walked by. She had her dirty-blonde hair tied back in a ponytail and a neck that looked too thin to support her head. She waved away smoke from her face. “Since when can we smoke inside?” she said.

  Gordy said, “Hey, Melissa.”

  The waitress turned. She slumped her shoulders and looked bored.

  “This is Mister Wolf. He’s a preferred customer. What he says come from me, got it?”

  “OK,” she said, and went away again.

  “New kid,” Gordy said. “Got a mouth on her.”

  Wolf grinned and sat back. He had known Gordy as far back as his teens. They had run in the white gangs together in the inner city. Wolf had gone away for a long time while Gordy remained to build his business and cement his relationship with the local Outfit. He wasn’t a major player but that was okay with him.

  “Been keeping busy?” Gordy said.

  “You haven’t heard? I’m a regular terror.”

  “What else is new? So, tell me the scoop. What am I not reading in the papers?”

  “Sanchez may or may not be dead,” Wolf said. “Nobody’s been able to reach him.”

  “Have you?”

  “Not yet. I’m going out to Sean Masters’ boat tonight to ask him a few questions.”

  “Masters isn’t a pushover,” Gordy said. “You want some of my guys to go with you?”

  Wolf puffed on his cigar. “I think I can handle it, Gordy.” He smiled.

  “Come on. Just one guy to watch your back.”

  Wolf figured Gordy wanted to volunteer for the duty, but Wolf had lost enough pals in battle. If the night went south, he wanted to die alone. “I got angels looking out for me, Gordy. I don’t need anything more.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Wolf laughed.

  Ferries SAILED out to the gambling ships every thirty minutes. Wolf boarded the 8:30 ferry and sat in a quiet corner, reading a racing magazine. He ignored the chatter around him. Everybody had a strategy; a set amount of cash and no more; the usual social-gambling talk. Wasted words. Some people wore fancy clothes, others not-so-fancy threads. Ever since the coastal ships had started running again, they had faced an avalanche of business which piled extra tax revenue into the state coffers. Not that ship owners complained. Most of them were tied up with the mob anyway; those who weren’t also reaped the benefits.

  Wolf left the magazine behind when he disembarked with the rest of the crowd, blending in. He wore his usual dark clothes; under the jacket he wore his pistol.

  The Princess Z spent its past life as a cruise ship before Sean Masters retrofitted it for his needs. It carried a crew of nearly 400, which included wait staff, gourmet chefs, a full orchestra, and various other performing acts. It also housed Masters’ crew of security officers, a rotating group which some gunmen joined when they needed to disappear from the street for a while. Able to host 2000 passengers, there were overnight accommodations for those who could afford it; everybody else had to take the ferries back at the close of the night.

  The passengers climbed a staircase mounted to the side of the boat. Halfway up, the wind made the staircase sway a little; the crowd of people didn’t help with stability. Wolf moved up a step at a time while listening to the couple in front of him. The female half had the jitters, holding tight to the railing; her boyfriend kept easing her along. She glanced back with a nervous smile.

  Once aboard worries about the wind faded fast.

  Wolf followed the people into the large playroom. Table games filled the room to the brim. If you wanted slots, you had to go to another section. The ship had dozens along with restaurants and bars.

  The A/C tried to keep it comfortable but too much body heat overwhelmed the cooling system. Crowded tables, bodies pressing together; clicking roulette wheels, the tapping of chips; cheers, jeers; calls of encouragement and caution. Wolf dodged and stepped between people who were too focused on gambling to notice him. He made it to the other side of the room, found the bar, leaned against the rail and waved over the bartender.

  “Bulleit and Coke,” he said.

  Drink in hand, Wolf turned back to watch the play.

  Now he was able to see beyond the faces of the customers. The suckers. The security team wore black slacks and blue blazers and the blazers weren’t cut to hide artillery. They stood at strategic positions around the playroom, a scene that would be repeated in every other game room on the ship, more of them than Wolf thought was needed.

  Wolf caught one eye in particular, and raised his glass, smiling. The man came over. He wasn’t wearing a blue blazer but a light windbreaker instead. He had thick, gray hair and a stocky build. He leaned against the bar next to Wolf.

  “Are we here for the same reason?” the man said.

  “Hello, Vince.”

  Vince Manning, Gulino’s top enforcer, ordered a beer.

  “Carlo told me you were on the job,” Wolf said. “How did you find your way here?”

  “Been up top yet?”

  Wolf sipped his drink. Manning wasn’t known for paying attention to others. But if he was on your side he was as loyal as a dog. Wolf said, “Just got here.”

  “Follow me after we finish.”

  “Got even more up top?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “For what?”

  Manning shrugged. “I didn’t come all the way out here to go home empty handed. I get seasic
k.”

  “You?” Wolf grinned. “I didn’t think anything could touch your cast-iron stomach.”

  “Uh-huh,” Manning said.

  Wolf looked over the side. He didn’t know how fast the ship was going, but the wake generated proved that they were indeed moving further away from shore than the three-mile limit the boat usually anchored at.

  “What business does this ship have outside the limit?” Wolf said.

  “Dunno,” Manning said, brushing past Wolf to continue forward.

  Wolf followed. He took out the .45 and clicked off the safety and held the gun beside his leg. The narrow walkway allowed them to walk side-by-side should they want, but Wolf stayed a few feet back. A warm rush filled his body. There would be action soon.

  They passed the darkened portholes of the state rooms and had to stop when yellow tape blocked their way. No Passengers Beyond This Point. But the winking flashlights up ahead showed that somebody couldn’t read.

  Manning hunkered down in a space between the staterooms and the tape. Wolf joined him. He tried to see into the darkness ahead but had trouble making out any shapes. Part of the bridge superstructure blocked the view.

  “We need to get closer,” Wolf said. He didn’t whisper. There was no reason to. The rush of the wind nearly drowned out his words.

  Manning said nothing. But he had taken his gun out, too, a revolver Wolf knew to be a Colt Python .357 Magnum. Just ahead, light spilled onto the deck from a stairway leading up from below, and shadows grew along the splash of light. Two men, their voices lost in the wind, stepped onto the deck and moved forward into the dark. The splash of light highlighted only one of them, very briefly. The man had broad shoulders and a bald head.

  Sean Masters.

  Wolf left Manning in his spot, bent under the tape and stopped at a rail that overlooked the stairway. He could drop over the rail and onto the steps but if there was somebody else coming up, he’d have a spotlight on him brighter than any stage light.

  Manning joined him, put away the revolver, and swung his legs over. Apparently, he had no such hesitation. He grabbed the rung of the rail and dangled a moment, dropped. He landed on the steps, moved quickly into the darkness. Wolf shook his head. Would it kill the guy to talk? He put the .45 away and duplicated the move. Nobody came up the steps. He found the other man once again crouched beside a wall, gun out. They both advanced, staying close to the wall. The winking flashlights looked like busy fireflies. They stopped at the corner. Light shined above them from the windows of the bridge but none of it touched them. The light did, however, help them see who was out there with the flashlights.

  Wolf stopped counting when he reached ten. There could have been more, out of sight, but the ten men clustered around the bow were all armed with automatic weapons. Masters and his companion watched the ocean. So did some of the troops. Their gaze lay further ahead, in the water itself.

  Waiting for something.

  Manning took out his phone, typed a quick text message, put the phone away. “I got another boat following us,” he said. “Off the port side.”

  “Nice of you to tell me in advance,” Wolf said.

  They were on the starboard side of the boat, the one facing away from shore. Broken words from Masters and his companion drifted their way but neither could make them out.

  Presently the ship slowed to a full stop but the anchor did not drop. The wind died down. The chill of the night crept along the walkway and Wolf shivered a little. The swells of the sea rocked the ship.

  Something flashed in the dark water. A light. It flashed again at repeated intervals and the troopers responded by flashing their own lights. Not long now.

  After a while, another boat approached the Princess Z. It moved slowly, stopping short, and a lifeboat dropped from the side. A small motor started chugging and the lifeboat closed the distance. The troopers sprang into action, lowering a net over the side. Four men climbed up the net and stepped onto the deck. Masters greeted each one and the lifeboat returned to the other craft.

  Masters, his companion, and the four new arrivals moved out of sight. Probably for the entryway located just under the bridge, Wolf thought. The troops stayed put for a little while after the others had gone and they, too, eventually went below deck.

  Each of the new arrivals had carried loaded canvas sacks.

  When the Princess Z started to move again, it turned slowly around. Soon the lights of the shore were on the starboard side and the boat started back for its usual place of anchor.

  Manning’s phone flashed. He read the message and stowed the phone and his gun. “Move,” he said. Wolf followed him back to the stairway and they went below deck, following a labyrinth of corridors that eventually took them back to the top deck and the game rooms. They entered a lightly-crowded dining room and made for the bar.

  “New shooters to replace the one you killed,” Manning said as he swallowed some beer.

  “What about your people in the other boat?”

  “Never mind them.”

  “I guess this was a good way to get them in without using the airports,” Wolf said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which means I need to go have a talk with Mister Masters. You in?”

  “Nope.” Manning drank some more beer. He did not look at Wolf. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  “It’s always nice to talk to you.”

  Wolf left the bar.

  Wolf went back outside the superstructure, climbed more steps, and followed a path to an entryway which he stepped through. Ahead of a short hallway was another door with a guard in front. The guard said, “Who are you?”

  “Wolf. I’m here to see Mister Masters.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Not this again.”

  The guard didn’t reach for a gun. He instead pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. Wolf closed in and bashed him over the head with the .45. He dragged the unconscious man into a corner, propped him up, and twisted the knob on the door. It did not open. He found a key in the guard’s pocket, unlocked the door.

  Masters had left the lights on. The carpet felt soft beneath his feet; the white and wood paneled motif, with pictures of other sea ships on the walls, provided a nice touch. A wooden desk sat in a corner, cluttered with paperwork. A panoramic window covered the right side of the office but there was nothing to see now. Wolf checked the private bathroom; no sign of Masters.

  Wolf moved to the desk and sank into the chair behind it. The papers were all business, so he didn’t waste time looking for a clue among them. He reclined back, held the .45 in his lap, and waited. The wind beat against the windows. After a few minutes, the door swung open and Sean Masters stared at Wolf for a few moments. Or, rather, he stared at the snout of the Colt automatic in Wolf’s hand.

  “Shut it.”

  Masters closed the door and shook his head. “You think I’m stupid enough to keep anything in this room?”

  “Why do you think I’d be looking for anything?”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know you’ve been stomping all over trying to find out who killed those guys.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Sit down or I’ll shoot your left kneecap.”

  Masters sighed and dropped into a chair on the other side of the room. “You’re supposed to search me, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not an idiot, either. Two-finger your roscoe and drop it on the carpet.”

  Masters used the thumb and index finger of his right land to pluck the .38-caliber short-nosed Smith & Wesson Model 60 revolver from under his left arm. He tossed it. The gun plopped on the carpet.

  “Now keep your hands on your lap.”

  Masters placed both hands on either leg, sat straight up.

  “Who were the guys who came aboard?”

  “Part of the future,” Masters said. “Things are changing in this city. I’m changing it.”

  “So, the killings were your idea?”<
br />
  “Hardly. But I helped facilitate.”

  “Who are you working with?”

  Masters cracked a smile. “You’d be surprised who I’m working with.”

  “Has Sanchez been killed?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Tell me who the mastermind is.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “You get to live.”

  “Wolf, you’re on a boat in the middle of the bay. That’s why I just walked in here without calling my guys. Go ahead and shoot me. What’s your escape plan?”

  “You let me worry about an escape plan.”

  “Right. Wolf never fails. Big bad Wolf.”

  “That’s the second time somebody’s said that to me. Have I become a joke?”

  “Once the shift in power is complete, I’ll be the one giving the orders. You’ll just be part of the scenery.”

  “You know me,” Wolf said. “I just don’t sit around looking pretty.”

  “With a face like yours?” Masters laughed.

  “You can’t be working with anybody in the city,” Wolf said. “You can’t keep this sort of thing quiet. Who on the outside would want the territory?”

  Masters shrugged.

  “I’ll get the answers the easy way or the hard way, Sean. Make it easy.”

  “What have you ever done for me?”

  “Okay, I’m done being nice.”

  Masters grinned. “Come and get it.”

  Wolf started to move and then part of the panoramic window shattered inward. Wolf bolted from the chair, swinging the .45 around. Somebody outside stuck a weapon through the hole and fired a full-auto blast. The slugs ripped into the chair and desk. Wolf fired several shots in quick succession, blowing out the rest of the window and wasting the man behind the gun.

  Masters dived for the .38, scooping it into his hand, lining up on Wolf just as Wolf pivoted and fired again. A neat hole appeared between Masters’ eyes. Masters dropped flat on the carpet.

  Cold wind filled the office. Wolf put his gun away and stepped over the body.

  “We’ll do it the hard way,” he said.

  He rejoined the fuss in the game rooms. None of the security team seemed alarmed. Perhaps Masters had only called the one gunman. When the next ferry arrived with a new load of players, he got on for the ride back to the coast and drove home.