Chapter 6 #2
Although the determined infiltration did piss me off.
If the cockroaches were starting to crawl from their holes again, I’d need to place everyone on high alert.
We were used to stragglers here and there, but the clandestine activity meant thoughtful planning, including putting someone on the inside.
That meant a bigger investment of time and opportunity was likely on the horizon.
So much for boring peace.
“Any idea who they are?”
Donatello shook his head. “Nothing yet. The obvious leader is inside the warehouse waiting for you. I thought you’d want to use your bag of tricks for interrogation.”
“Yeah, why the hell not? I can’t remember the last time.” I walked closer, Zorro dutifully following.
I’d always adored dogs. I had since I was a kid, yet my father hadn’t been interested in his children having a pet.
I don’t know why I hadn’t relented before.
Zorro was my discovery, a beautiful three-and-a-half-year-old retriever/shepherd mix who’d been with a rescue organization at a local hardware store I used for my interrogation kits.
He’d been so forlorn until I’d stopped by. When I learned he’d once been a drug dog, used by the local police department, I’d been shocked to find him hopeful of being adopted. His handler had passed away and the goddamn police hadn’t wanted to keep him.
Who the fuck did that?
An opportunity had been born, yet I’d believed I wouldn’t be the best owner. Maybe the change was exactly what I needed. He responded to me better than anyone.
I’d taught him to bare his teeth on command, which was often enough to terrify the fuck out of people since the pup was a stocky eighty pounds of all muscle.
And sweet as could be.
I noticed Donatello was antsy. So was I.
“Any thoughts if they’re Russo’s people?”
“Then we deal with the situation as we would any other.”
Since leaving the hotel, all I’d thought about were the details surrounding our tentative friendship with the Russos.
A partial reason for the success was that Catherine Prince, Alexander’s wife, was the illegitimate daughter of Vitelli Russo, the dead Cosa Nostra patriarch.
Their arranged marriage had fucked with the Bratva’s plans.
Their love had and still did transcend all enemy lines.
Carmine as her half-brother had yet another interest in keeping the scenario a happy one. Alliances with opposing crime syndicates were always tenuous at best, but why they’d betray us now was the first question. Although I’d toss in a how dare they do something so fucking stupid.
“So you’re aware, I also noticed a couple of Russo’s guys at the club the other night. At least I think they were Russo’s men.”
“It’s a free country and that’s not a smoking gun. They are welcome in our establishments.”
“Yeah, but they were really paying attention to the activity in the club.”
“Were they talking to anyone?”
“Not that I could tell.”
Exhaling, I realized accusing the Russos of anything without clear proof was not in anyone’s best interest. However, the anger level had just been jacked up two hundred percent.
“We go in as if blind with no preconceived notions.”
“I thought that’s what you’d say. Boss.”
“Come on, boy. Let’s get the party started.” Zorro was already eager, trotting with us with his head held high. Donatello and I walked past the other bandits on the way to the warehouse. I couldn’t help myself, stopping to admire the captives.
Until one made the mistake of spitting in my direction.
That prompted Zorro to growl, but I put my hand out for him.
“Don’t worry, pup. I’ll handle this.” With a brutal backhand from me, the asshole landed on his back, likely staring up at a colorful set of stars.
The pup licked his chops while Donatello bit back a smile.
“I suggest you take a moment to appreciate my hospitality. If you don’t, I’ll have my men drop you off in heavily shark-infested waters with a few gallons of chum. Then we’ll take bets as to if any of you can swim back to shore.”
I was off my game this morning. That much I could tell.
All because of a stunning ballerina.
When the guy sneered, I almost yanked out a weapon but thought better of it.
For now.
Once inside the warehouse, I took my time heading to where the illustrious leader was being kept. My guys had arranged the shipment, which was by all appearances legitimate. With Zorro by my side, I headed to the forklift, pulling out a couple of bottles.
The alcohol had come from our largest distiller. That could mean another complication.
“Good quality shit,” Donatello told me as I pulled one kilo of powder taken from the boxes. Street value, there was at least two million and change. All headed for Indulgence.
Not a bad haul.
I pulled a chair from around an employee table, planting it in front of the guy.
He was eying me warily. The man on his knees in front of me was sweating, enough so the stench was revolting this early in the morning.
Given his young age, I doubted he’d been in control of more than a couple of operations.
I guess we all had to start somewhere.
There were no discerning tattoos like with cartel members or Bratva. Russians usually had their expression of loyalty carved into their skin. A barbaric practice. While that eliminated two potential sources, there were a half dozen more.
Given New Orleans’ location on the Gulf of Mexico with a commanding port and four interstates running through the city, the location was ripe for cockroaches of varying sizes hungering for a dose of prosperity.
“Who do you work for?” The question was simple and I expected an immediate answer.
“What do you mean? Champion Distillery like it said on the ticket.”
“Ah,” I said, glancing at Donatello. “So you have no idea how a couple million in powder just happened to appear in the bottom of the two dozen boxes of liquor you brought.”
He shrugged as if it was no big deal. Yet the sweat was getting stronger.
Even the dog whined, opposed to the odiferous stench.
“Hmmm… I guess it could happen to anyone. Right, Donatello?”
“Sure, boss. Last week we found gold bars in the bottom of the cognac crates.”
I thought about how to handle the situation. The driver wasn’t offering me anything to play with. “Why did you need five guys to deliver twenty boxes?”
“We like working in teams. There is no ‘I’ in T. E. A. M.”
He did not just quote a line from the movie Scrooged. He thought this was funny.
I didn’t.
When I whipped out my favorite knife, he cringed enough to allow a reminder he was concerned about his wellbeing. When I shoved the point under his chin, he didn’t flinch.
Good boy.
He’d been well trained, completely unlike a typical driver. I twirled the sharp tip until a tiny string of blood appeared. Still, he did nothing but stare at me with cold, dark eyes.
Until I drove the blade between his legs in warning.
That got his attention, the single moan allowing Zorro to offer a howl.
And during the loud canine roar, I also heard the dude’s exclamation.
“Sei un fottuto stronzo. Ti ammazzerò.”
Well, well. We were finally getting somewhere.
You motherfucking asshole. I will kill you.
He likely thought I didn’t know Italian, which was his first language learned as a baby. That was always resorted to in times of stress. What he obviously hadn’t been told was that I had a Harvard education and had taken it upon myself to learn several languages.
That didn’t verify who he worked for. Italians in New Orleans were a dime a dozen. Even the Bratva used a few as their muscle.
I shifted the knife back and forth, debating what to do with him.
The language didn’t one hundred percent mean that the Italians had dared defy us. The Sicilians had been an on again, off again problem. Specifically, Vitelli and Carmine Russo.
However, we’d learned through several acts of subterfuge not to rely on one definition of the enemy. After all, we employed men and women from various nationalities.
However, my gut was working overtime at this point.
“Who was your contact at the club?” I allowed his exclamation to go for now.
“I don’t have a contact. I drop liquor off at your warehouses.”
“Sorry, buddy. You’re not on the dossier. Were you recently hired?” Donatello asked the question.
The driver’s legs were shaking and he constantly checked where the knife was located. He managed to look at my second in command. It would seem his favored method of answering question was shrugging.
When Donatello stepped on the rung of the chair I was sitting on, leaning over and getting in the man’s face, the guy almost shit a brick.
“I’m going to offer you a piece of advice.
Answer the man’s questions. You might not be able to tell from the initial look about him, but the man is certifiably off his shit kicking rocker.
I’m talking the dude cut out a man’s tongue for coughing within ten feet of him just last night.
I felt sorry for the guy. I had no idea how he was going to enjoy his steak dinner after that. ”
I shook my head. “I’m not that crazy.”
“Oh, yeah, you are. You’re about to cut a man’s testicles off. What are you going to do with them? Use them in your martini?”
“Not a bad idea,” I said as I scrubbed my face. “Since the day is young and we have five more men to interrogate outside, maybe I’ll fire up the grill tonight and have a few skewers.”
That was about all the encouragement I needed to offer my guest.
“I swear to God. I’m just a guy they hired to deliver the booze. Okay?” His entire body was shaking. “Honest. I don’t know where the drugs are going. I was told to drop off the shipment and that’s it.”
When Zorro started growling, I shook my head.
“In addition to my pup being an incredible drug dog, he knows when someone is lying. It’s an uncanny ability.
You’re just a special little boy. Aren’t you, buddy?
” I stroked behind his ear again before glancing at one of my men.
“Hey, Marcus. Do me a favor and take the pup for a walk. Don’t go too far. ”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Be a good boy, Zorro.” I told him. The last thing I wanted to do was to allow him to see something so reprehensible. The pup deserved the steak I mentioned, not witnessing the murder of an asshole who was lying to me.
“I’m not lying. I swear to God!”
“God isn’t going to save you. Only I can do that. Give me a name. That’s all I need and you can keep the family jewels.”
Donatello knew better than to remain where he was. I was coming to the end of the interrogation. He knew all my tricks of the trade. That’s why we worked so well together.
To add encouragement, I drove the tip through his jeans far enough the jerk sucked in his breath and grew taller by several inches.
“Sergio!”
Sergio. Whoa. Hold the fuck on. This was the last thing I’d expected to hear. Sergio was the youngest Russo brother, the reason Carmine had bothered jumping into the family regime.
Donatello and I looked at each other, both trying to keep from laughing.
“Sergio Russo?” Donatello asked.
The man nodded at least six times.
Jesus Christ. My Capo’s hunch appeared correct.