The Ghost of Blackwood Lane Page 27
She looked down. “Oh, it’s an elephant ear,” she said, pointing over her shoulder at a stand that sold them, along with a dozen other fried treats. “It’s good. Want some?”
Mike smiled. “Sure. I’m Mike, by the way. Want to ride the Pirate Boat? I’m a little nervous,” he said, winking. “Is it dangerous?”
She smiled, and then unexpectedly punched him in the shoulder. “No, silly. You’re just saying that to get me on there, and you know it.” she said. She smiled and turned and started for the Pirate Boat.
Mike glanced over at Gary, who had been watching Mike talking to the girl. Gary smiled for the first time since the bakery, and then Gary waved Mike in the direction of the girl.
When Mike looked back at the girl, he saw that she’d stopped a few feet away and was looking at him. “I’m Tina, by the way. You coming?” she asked in a no-nonsense tone that Mike liked very much.
After a second, he nodded and followed her.
Chapter 50
Vincent was running. He’d recovered the money and it was safe, but he couldn’t get to the warehouse or his car. The buildings would have afforded him the most cover, but he couldn’t get there. What were they using, Uzis? And there was at least one sniper—he’d recognized the sound of the gun.
Vincent saw three men in the doorway of the large warehouse, firing back at the men on top of the garage, but they didn’t seem to be making any progress.
A gun battle erupted in the lower levels of the parking garage, and Vincent knew that parts of the security detail were trying to clear the parking garage and take out the shooters on top. All Vincent had for protection was his little Beretta handgun and the twenty rounds in the magazine.
Vincent reevaluated his situation—trying to get to the warehouse was pointless. He’d be cut down in an instant, running toward the gunfire.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Princess Margaret—he was halfway between the warehouses and the riverboat, but he’d have much better luck getting to the riverboat. And there were several cars between him and the gangplank that lead up onto the Margaret.
And there were guns on the riverboat.
A week before, Tony had taken Vincent on a tour of the soon-to-be-completed riverboat, and one of the things he’d pointed out was a secured locker, fully stocked with weapons and ammunition. Tony had said he’d put it in just in case there was trouble on the riverboat, but Vincent thought that there might be another reason—Tony might be planning on using the boat as a base of operations wherever he went up and down the Mississippi.
He waited for the sound of gunfire to slack off, and ran for the Margaret, lugging the heavy duffle bag. He wove between the cars and up the gangplank, and just as he cleared the main entrance, a large chunk of the doorway next to him exploded, showering him with wood and paint and plaster.
Someone had been aiming for the back of his head.
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A pitched battle was raging between the first and second levels of the parking garage—the casino security detail was attempting to make progress, but Shotgun’s men were laying down suppressing fire that kept them back. There was no way the detail could get onto the upper level of the garage and stop the hail of automatic fire falling on the parking lot outside—they were simply outmanned and outgunned. In the time it took two of the Lucianos’ men to reach the second level, the other three had been cut down in the crossfire or taken out by the sniper. The security detail, now down to two men with a limited amount of firepower, fell back and secured the bottom level of the garage, hoping to at least trap the gunmen in the parking structure.
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Tony watched as his brother made it up the gangplank and onto the Margaret. A chunk of the entrance exploded just as Vincent made it inside and that told Tony the rifleman, presumably Shotgun, was gunning for them personally. Tony had heard that Shotgun had been in the military once—he was known for his organizational ability—but evidently he or someone on his crew was a crack sniper as well.
Tony glanced around the Volvo and saw that Vincent’s Mustang was okay—the trunk lid was down and the car appeared drivable. The passenger side windows had been shattered. Tony couldn’t see the condition of the other side of the car, but the coke was secure, for now, and he made a split-second decision to run for the warehouses. His men were in there, returning fire, and one of them had been waving at him to run.
Tony saw a few reinforcements arriving from the security detail always on board the Princess Anne. It looked like the lead security guard on the ground level of the parking structure was explaining what was happening. One of the Anne guards was using his walkie-talkie, and Tony hoped he was communicating with the men in the warehouse and the remaining guards on the Anne, requesting assistance. They also had a few special materials hidden away—Tony hoped they remembered to use them. If there was ever a time to break out the big guns, it was now.
Tony waited for a break in the gunfire and ran for Warehouse One, the larger one. Several of his men were in the doorway, and when they saw him making a break for it, they all opened fire on the parking structure, trying to keep the gunmen pinned down and protecting their boss.
He ran, diving from side to side and running between his men and into the warehouse. Tony stopped a little way inside the door, his hands on his knees as he bent over, panting, trying to get his breath. He could hear the gunfire outside, and one of his men in the doorway was hit, groaning as he fell to the pavement.
This was all too crazy.
Tony looked around the warehouse, wondering what he could do. There were rows of stolen items and inventory he’d acquired at very good prices—it was all destined to be sold at a profit. There were boxes of clothing, rows of televisions and VCRs, still in their original boxes. One corner of the warehouse held ten pallets of tires, the result of leaning on his associates at a tire manufacturer up in Granite City. There were scores of boxes of various items: crates of mustard and ketchup, boxes of cheap reproductions of fine paintings, two dozen dishwashers and washing machines, and a half dozen stolen cars.
In the back of the warehouse was an airplane. It was a small two-seat biplane normally used to dust crops. The engine didn’t work, but he’d acquired it for a song and had thought it amusing at the time. He’d always wanted to take his business to the air, and Tony had played with the idea of working air delivery into his stable of businesses.
But he didn’t see anything that would be useful. He could hop into one of the cars and try to get away, but that wouldn’t end the gunfire or save his brother, now holed up on the Margaret.
What Tony needed was a plan.
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The last security guard finally showed up at the parking garage with three boxes of the stuff, and the remaining members of the security detail got ready. There were at least five more gunmen remaining on the top and second levels of the parking structure.
The lead guard lit the first stick of dynamite and stood, flinging it around the corner and up onto the second level of the garage. A moment later, a huge thud shook the structure, and he and the other guards stormed up the ramp, turning onto the second level and opening fire on the stunned men.
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Tony heard the gunfire outside die down. Only one of his defenders in the warehouse was still on his feet.
Tony ran back over to the doorway and picked up one of the detail’s Uzis and walked over, checking on his last defender.
“You okay?” Tony asked.
“Yeah, boss. Got nicked here in the leg, but I’m okay,” the guard said, gesturing at a hideous wound in his thigh. “It looks worse than it is.”
Tony didn’t believe him. “Here, get inside. It might start up again anytime.” He helped his man back into the warehouse and leaned him against a table well inside the door. “Here, tie that up,” he said, looping a piece of fabric around the man’s thigh. “All you need to do is guard the door, okay? Anybody comes in who doesn’t look familiar, you shoot them. Capiche?”
The guard nodded, wincing as he tied off the tourniquet. “That’s better. Where’s Vincent?”
Tony glanced toward the doors, wondering why the gunfire now sounded contained within the parking structure. Maybe his guards were making progress, fighting it out with Shotgun and his boys.
“He grabbed the money and made it onto the Margaret,” Tony said. “It was too dangerous coming this way—the guy with the rifle is a good shot.”
“Yeah,” the guard answered. “He was taking potshots at us, too. Got Steve and Neil.”
Tony nodded. “I’m gonna take a look.”
He walked over to the door, cradling his weapon. He’d only fired an automatic weapon a few times. There hadn’t been much call for it in all the years the Lucianos had been a legitimate enterprise, but he knew which end was dangerous. He skirted the door opening and looked out onto the parking lot.
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Willie B. and Shotgun returned fire, spitting up chunks of concrete as they fired at the approaching guards. Shotgun had brought ten guys, but the guards had been using dynamite and that had evened the numbers. Now only Shotgun and Willie B. and three other guys remained.
“Go up the ramp and shoot back down!” Shotgun shouted at one of his men. “Flank them!” He’d worked hard, teaching some of the crew a few basic infantry commands, and it was paying off.
There was at least one of them in the hidden concrete areas between the ramps, and he’d pinned in Willie B. and one other guy, backing them into a far corner with weapon fire.
Another blast of dynamite rocked the garage, sending up a pall of smoke.
Shotgun had traded his rifle and scope in for one of their Uzis, but now he picked up the rifle again and trained it on the darkened area between the ramps. He looked through the thermal scope, watching for movement, any kind of fluctuation in coloration against the darkened background. Shotgun was rewarded a few moments later and squeezed off a round.
He heard the shot hit someone in the darkness. The security guard spun out of the dark notch, holding his chest and collapsing to the pavement. Shotgun’s men, now facing only one more gunman and not a deadly crossfire, stormed down the ramp and dispatched the last man in a few moments.
Willie B. and the remaining men came back up the ramp, smiling. “That’s all of them, boss. Now what?”
Shotgun glanced over the edge. He could see Tony Luciano below in the doorway of the larger warehouse, peeking out and holding an Uzi.
“We get the brothers,” Shotgun said carefully. “One’s on the larger boat with the money, the other is in the big warehouse. The coke is in the Mustang, so avoid any more gunfire on that target. We don’t want it to burn.”
He looked at the men, all sweaty and keyed up. “And we do not split up—we take the one in the warehouse first, then the one on the boat. And I kill them both unless absolutely necessary—is that clear?”
All of his men nodded in unison, and for the first time in a long time, Shotgun felt like he was in the military again. This group of men was a good one, and he’d be proud to go into combat with any of them. But wasn’t that what they were in now?
Shotgun slung his long sniper’s rifle over his shoulder and picked up his Uzi, checking the clip. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 51
“This is my friend, Gary,” Mike said, introducing the young woman to him. Gary could see why his friend was smitten—she was cute, with that charming Midwestern demeanor and a friendly, open face. Nothing like the girls in LA.
“Hi, I’m Tina,” she said, smiling. “Mike says you guys are back here on a little vacation?”
Gary nodded. “Yes, I grew up around here, and I’ve been bending Mike’s ear for years about how great it is,” he said, glancing at Mike. “I told him he’d love it.”
“You guys are from Los Angeles?” she asked.
“Well, Mike is,” Gary said. “I went to school out there and then ended up staying. But Mike here, he’s never been around real people before. Go easy on him, okay?”
Mike smiled at him. “Thanks, Gary.”
“No, seriously,” Gary said to Tina. “You should have seen him this morning, eating real pancakes. It was like he’d discovered a whole new food group.”
Mike shot him another look, and Tina glanced up at Mike, then back to Gary. “We’re getting ready to ride the Ferris wheel—do you want to join us?”
“No, that’s okay,” he said, looking around. After a moment, they excused themselves and headed away to the far side of the fair.
Gary watched the other folks at the Mayfest, but no one seemed to realize who he was. The longer he strolled around the carnival, the more relaxed he became. It had been a long time, and it was good to let his defenses down and just enjoy something. The whole business with the dream and the woman in trouble and Vincent—it could wait until another evening. Tomorrow, he’d drive back out there and see her, or at least figure out what to do next; tonight, he was going to relax.
Impulsively, he got in line at one of the food booths for a funnel cake, a rare treat that he hadn’t had in years. He wondered if it would be as good as he remembered.
“One, please,” he said to the woman when he got to the front of the line. He fished out his wallet to pay.
“You want strawberry topping on that?” the woman asked, not looking up.
“No thanks.”
The woman slid a funnel cake in front of him.
“That’ll be four dollars.”
He pulled out a twenty and handed it to her. She looked at him for a long moment.
“Chris? Chris O’Toole?” she asked, still holding his money.
The headache was like a punch to the face. He leaned hard on the counter and tried not to put his head down in the funnel cake.
“You’re Chris O’Toole, right?” she said again, bringing on another way of pain. “You graduated with me, class of 1987. Christine, Christine Pryor.”
He looked up at her and nodded, one eye closed.
“Hi,” he said weakly.
“Wow, how have you been?” she said, handing back his change. “You moved away...” she started to say, then stopped.
“You okay?”
Gary nodded. “Yes, I just have a headache. Nice seeing you again,” he said pathetically, turning away.
“Hey, wait!” the woman said from behind him, but he didn’t turn around. He stumbled off with his funnel cake, looking for a dark alley to duck into or an empty bench to sit on. He finally found one and sat down heavily.
The headache washed over him like the tide, and he just sat back, accepting the pain. He’d been worried that someone might recognize him, putting him and Mike in danger. Gary hadn’t even thought about his mind’s reaction to hearing the only name for him these people knew.
He felt like an idiot. Why put himself in this situation? Of course there would be people back here that would recognize him, and the longer he hung around, the more likely it was that one of them would see him. And the one person he wanted to talk to, he couldn’t find.
But others knew who he was, and now the headache was back.
Gary tried to do what Dr. Myers had suggested and repeated his real name over and over. It didn’t hurt as much as it had that night at the Point Vincenté lighthouse, but it still hurt.
“There you are,” the woman’s voice said, and he turned. It was Christine. “You forgot your change.”
He looked up at her, and her smile faded.
“Are you okay?” she asked again, sitting down next to him on the bench.
Gary had no idea what to say, so he just said the first thing that came to mind. “Hi, Christine. Don’t say my name, okay? It gives me horrible headaches.”
She looked at him strangely.
“I know,” Gary said. “It doesn’t make any sense. How have you been?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.
Christine sat up, her face still showing concern for him. “Good, good. It’s good to see you. I’m head of the high
school boosters—that was our booth. I got married to Tommy, Tommy Weber. Do you remember him?”
Gary shook his head. At this point, it was hard to remember anything with his head pounding. He took out four Advil and dry swallowed them.
She watched him but didn’t comment.
“Tommy and I have two kids, now, and he’s an accountant over in Belleville. And you?” she asked warily.
“Oh,” he replied, not expecting the conversation to swing back to him so quickly. “Uh, I moved to California and got my degree. Architecture. Now I work at a firm in Los Angeles.” He rubbed one of his temples.
Christine leaned forward again.
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
Gary laughed out loud—he couldn’t help it. The situation was just too bizarre. “Actually, I saw one today. No, it’s nothing—I just need that Advil to kick in.”
She nodded and handed him the change. He could tell by the look on her face that she had about a hundred questions she wanted to ask. Finally, she picked one.
“Do you ever see Judy anymore? Weren’t you guys engaged?” she asked.
He doubled over in pain, letting out a shriek. If he’d had the capacity to be embarrassed, he would have felt bad about the girlish squeal, but he didn’t care. The funnel cake slid from his lap and plopped to the ground. Gary pushed on either side of his head with his hands, willing everything to stay inside his skull. The pulsating rush of blood made it feel like his eyes were bulging from their sockets.
After a long moment, he sat up a little and looked at Christine, who looked like she was trying to decide whether to comfort him or rush off to the medical tent for help. The spinning lights of the midway and the screaming carnival music of the fair didn’t help.
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” Gary repeated. “Just don’t say her...actually, I haven’t seen her in a long time. Not since I was back here.”