do a double-take. Then grab their cell phones and punch the keys furiously.
Larry gets there first.
“Jackie and Evelyn Kline—”
Curly and C.H. shout in unison, “And Dottie Hailstock!”
They slap each other on the back, do a high-five, and some sort of strange victory dance.
Then C.H. says, “The odds of two of our lists playing a single song at the same time are impossible to calculate because our lists were pre-programmed to constantly shuffle, and each computer has a different random sequence. We’ve been working on the calculation for years. I can show you the algorithm flow chart if you’d like.”
“Another time,” I say, which sets them to laughing.
The biggest surprise comes when they show me Moe’s room and I happen to open the closet door and see his corpse hanging from a hook, wrapped in plastic.
“This can’t stay here,” I say.
“Okay,” Curly says.
I supervise as they carry the body to the antechamber.
“How long will you need to keep my laptop?” I ask.
“For what?” Larry says.
“To program it the way I outlined.”
“We can do it remotely. We’ll send you a link when it’s ready.”
“We should exchange phone numbers,” I say.
They laugh.
“Right,” I say. “You’ve got my number.”
“And you’ve got ours,” Larry says. “All you have to do is press the star key twice. We’ll answer.”
“How will you hear my call over the music?”
“All phone calls mute the music.”
We say our goodbyes. When they’re out of sight I look at Moe’s body, at my feet. A man so broken up by Lou’s sudden death, he killed himself. A man so alone in the world there was no one to contact about his death.
Unless the others killed him and made up the story.
I shake my head, call Tommy Cooper, and tell him to bring a friend.
16.
Callie Carpenter.
THE CONTiPORARY GANGSTER handbook calls for high income-earners to keep a low community profile. Following that advice to a T, Frankie and Angie De Luca maintain an unassuming home in a modest neighborhood.
It’s nine-thirty p.m. under a dark sky as Callie approaches the residence. She knows the De Lucas dined across town with Sal, Marie, and several mob lieutenants and wives at Luigi’s, a mob-connected family restaurant. Their plans had been to finish dinner around nine, then watch the fireworks from the restaurant’s courtyard, which overlooks the Ohio River. Luigi’s isn’t the best viewing spot, since the fireworks are launched a mile away, but it’s safe, private, and the De Lucas will be there at least another forty-five minutes. Which means they’ll be gone an hour, if you include driving time.
And why wouldn’t you?
She picks the back door lock so quietly the family dog sleeps through the process.
Until Callie opens the door.
When that happens, several things occur. One. The alarm panel beeps, which tells her the De Lucas have an alarm, but failed to set it. Two. The beep is sufficiently loud to wake the bullmastiff, who goes berserk upon finding a strange woman standing in the hallway. Three. Callie leaps atop the washing machine and spends the next twenty minutes hopping back and forth between the washer and dryer as the dog snarls, lunges, jumps, and tries to eat her ankles instead of the biscuits Callie keeps tossing to the floor.
Callie didn’t know there’d be a dog, but there often is, so she came prepared. The dog biscuits contain enough synthetic opiate analgesic to render your typical canine adversary unconscious within minutes.
Dosing is simple.
Each biscuit neutralizes twenty pounds of dog. For a ten-pounder, you break the biscuit in half. The dog currently trying to maim Callie is a seven-biscuit beast.
Ten minutes of jumping tires most bullmastiffs. Twenty minutes exhausts them. When the De Luca mastiff finally hits the wall, he eats the biscuits and hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Callie races to the kitchen and searches the drawers and cabinets till she finds the burglar alarm
Larry gets there first.
“Jackie and Evelyn Kline—”
Curly and C.H. shout in unison, “And Dottie Hailstock!”
They slap each other on the back, do a high-five, and some sort of strange victory dance.
Then C.H. says, “The odds of two of our lists playing a single song at the same time are impossible to calculate because our lists were pre-programmed to constantly shuffle, and each computer has a different random sequence. We’ve been working on the calculation for years. I can show you the algorithm flow chart if you’d like.”
“Another time,” I say, which sets them to laughing.
The biggest surprise comes when they show me Moe’s room and I happen to open the closet door and see his corpse hanging from a hook, wrapped in plastic.
“This can’t stay here,” I say.
“Okay,” Curly says.
I supervise as they carry the body to the antechamber.
“How long will you need to keep my laptop?” I ask.
“For what?” Larry says.
“To program it the way I outlined.”
“We can do it remotely. We’ll send you a link when it’s ready.”
“We should exchange phone numbers,” I say.
They laugh.
“Right,” I say. “You’ve got my number.”
“And you’ve got ours,” Larry says. “All you have to do is press the star key twice. We’ll answer.”
“How will you hear my call over the music?”
“All phone calls mute the music.”
We say our goodbyes. When they’re out of sight I look at Moe’s body, at my feet. A man so broken up by Lou’s sudden death, he killed himself. A man so alone in the world there was no one to contact about his death.
Unless the others killed him and made up the story.
I shake my head, call Tommy Cooper, and tell him to bring a friend.
16.
Callie Carpenter.
THE CONTiPORARY GANGSTER handbook calls for high income-earners to keep a low community profile. Following that advice to a T, Frankie and Angie De Luca maintain an unassuming home in a modest neighborhood.
It’s nine-thirty p.m. under a dark sky as Callie approaches the residence. She knows the De Lucas dined across town with Sal, Marie, and several mob lieutenants and wives at Luigi’s, a mob-connected family restaurant. Their plans had been to finish dinner around nine, then watch the fireworks from the restaurant’s courtyard, which overlooks the Ohio River. Luigi’s isn’t the best viewing spot, since the fireworks are launched a mile away, but it’s safe, private, and the De Lucas will be there at least another forty-five minutes. Which means they’ll be gone an hour, if you include driving time.
And why wouldn’t you?
She picks the back door lock so quietly the family dog sleeps through the process.
Until Callie opens the door.
When that happens, several things occur. One. The alarm panel beeps, which tells her the De Lucas have an alarm, but failed to set it. Two. The beep is sufficiently loud to wake the bullmastiff, who goes berserk upon finding a strange woman standing in the hallway. Three. Callie leaps atop the washing machine and spends the next twenty minutes hopping back and forth between the washer and dryer as the dog snarls, lunges, jumps, and tries to eat her ankles instead of the biscuits Callie keeps tossing to the floor.
Callie didn’t know there’d be a dog, but there often is, so she came prepared. The dog biscuits contain enough synthetic opiate analgesic to render your typical canine adversary unconscious within minutes.
Dosing is simple.
Each biscuit neutralizes twenty pounds of dog. For a ten-pounder, you break the biscuit in half. The dog currently trying to maim Callie is a seven-biscuit beast.
Ten minutes of jumping tires most bullmastiffs. Twenty minutes exhausts them. When the De Luca mastiff finally hits the wall, he eats the biscuits and hits the floor with a heavy thud.
Callie races to the kitchen and searches the drawers and cabinets till she finds the burglar alarm
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