White Wolf McLeod Page 20

  McLeod looked over the documents that Charlie had prepared and hummed to himself. His disposition seemed to be improving. “He has been playing both sides,” he surmised. “Good work, Charlie!”

  “Seems like it,” Charlie agreed. “And that’s not all. Senator Laughlin seems to be biting the hand that has been feeding him, too. He’s begun drafting legislation designed to limit and regulate gambling much more severely than what’s on the books now. And all of his efforts seem to be aimed at the Seriglio’s legitimate interests.”

  McLeod gazed at Charlie, but his focus was centered behind the man. “Maybe Senator Laughlin has been persuaded to change sides as well. It is no secret that the Tanelli and the Cantinelli families are the most unhappy of all the New York families about the defection of the Seriglio family and their move to Lake Tahoe. What better way to hurt them than to turn their own Congressman against them.”

  “I don’t follow, boss,” Tim questioned.

  McLeod turned on him with piercing eyes and spoke to him as a teacher to a recalcitrant pupil. “The Seriglio family claim that they moved to Lake Tahoe to legitimize their interests, but don’t be so naive. They still deal with the vices of the White Man. Gambling is legal in Nevada, and so is prostitution. The family hasn’t changed its nature, only its spots. Being in legitimate, and therefore legal, enterprises, they still make a lot of money, and money buys power. Always has, and always will. They also removed themselves a little from the Government’s spotlight, which allows them to delve into the darker vices of people. Don Antonio might not want to have anything to do with drugs, but that doesn’t mean that his son will follow his direction or any of his underlings who might be likewise tempted. If you can’t ruin your enemy by decimating his army and burying him, then maybe you can hurt him by applying Government restrictions that will not only limit his ability to wield his influence and power but might eventually drive him out of business. I believe it is fair to say that the New York families would love to see the Seriglio family destroyed, if for nothing more than just out of principle.”

  “So, this Prescott has turned the Senator against his sponsor. But what’s in it for the Tanelli family?” Tim queried.

  “The whole west and more money than you’ll ever dream of seeing,” McLeod answered succinctly. “That and a drug problem that will eventually cripple the United States.”

  “Huh-uh. Bye-bye White Man, huh?” Tim quipped.

  “It’s not just the White Man, Tim” McLeod remarked in a quiet voice. “Your people are going to be affected too, along with countless others, Tim Robbins,” McLeod reminded him sharply. “Besides, a lot of my people live in the west, too.” The remainder of his meaning did not need to be said.

  “There’s more, Chief,” Charlie interjected. The Marshall gave him a quizzical look. He removed a memo from his briefcase. He carefully set it down, placing it so McLeod could read it. He watched as the man’s eyes widened with disbelief.

  “Is everything here true?” McLeod demanded, his voice low and thick with anticipation. He had been handed evidence he had never dreamed existed. It proved a depth of corruption that touched the Justice Department itself down to the intermediate levels of management.

  “I’m afraid so, Chief,” Charlie verified sadly.

  “Who else knows?”

  “Just you and I and the people I got this from.”

  “Is this your only copy?”

  Charlie shook his head and smiled. “I learned from the master.”

  “Do you want to share it with us, Sam?” Mary asked. “Or is this another one of those things that it would be best we didn’t know.”

  McLeod passed the sheaf of papers back to Charlie. “Make a copy of everything and put it on my desk.” He chose to keep the single memo. He folded it in half and tucked it away inside his inner breast pocket. Then he looked at Mary and said, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Has anyone heard from Chino,” he asked his team, changing tact.

  “You told him not to contact us, as I recall,” Tim answered before anyone else jumped in. “You said that you would contact him.”

  “You’re right. I did say that, didn’t I? Okay, Tim, put an ad in all the Miami papers. The ad should read: ‘Lost Chamorro pet. Reward.’”

  “Consider it done, boss.”

  McLeod then concluded the meeting and left the conference room.

  “Say, just what did happen in Tahoe, Mary?” Tim asked.

  “Shut up, Tim!” she responded, following her superior out of the room.

  Twenty minutes later, McLeod was in Welsh’s office, facing a very angry bureaucrat. “Just where the hell have you been?” Welsh growled at him, reminding McLeod of a hungry bear that had just awakened from a long winter’s slumber.

  “Tahoe,” he responded simply.

  “Under whose authorization?” he demanded with a heated glare.

  “Mine. I had business there.”

  “Associated with the Marta’s investigation?” Seeing the Marshall nod, he continued. “I thought we had that all wrapped up.”

  “I found reason to go.”

  “Well, the Department’s not going to pay for your little side trip, McLeod. In fact, I am sorry to say, I have been very unhappy with your performance. You took a simple murder investigation and blown it all out of proportion. You have made inquiries into activities that have had no bearing whatsoever on this case and proceeded to go outside of your jurisdiction.”

  “I go where the leads take me, Director Welsh,” McLeod stated flatly. He could feel his own ire rekindling and fought to control his voice.

  “I also have a report in my possession that you accosted two FBI agents. They claim that you left them in the hands of some—uh—women of ill repute. I also understand that they will require several months of therapy to recover from their—uh—peculiar bout of illness.”

  “You did send them to spy on me, sir. When they pulled their guns on me, it sort of pissed me off.”

  Welsh appeared rankled by the revelation. “I am going to level with you, McLeod. I have been hearing some disturbing things about you and your irregular activities. Frankly, you seem to enjoy doing things outside the prescribed Department procedures. I am beginning to think that you’re dirty. There have been allegations made that you have been seen consorting with individuals who are known to be operating outside the law.

  “I have no recourse but to ask for your gun and badge. As of this moment, you are under suspicion until these charges—er, allegations—are rectified.”

  “I don’t think so, Director Welsh,” McLeod contradicted evenly, his eyes flashing. He withdrew the memo that Charlie had given him and tossed it down on Welsh’s desk, as if it were the unexpected trump card that set the opposition’s bid for a Grand Slam contract.

  “What’s this?” Welsh demanded.

  “You better read it.” McLeod growled, watching with a perverted sense of satisfaction as the man’s complexion whitened.

  “Where did you get this?” Welsh asked in a small, wavering voice.

  “I have my sources, too,” McLeod answered with meaning in his tone, rising from the chair. “Only, I have proof of my allegations. I would suggest that you make your own arrangements to leave. I’ll give you twenty-four hours, and then I will give this memo to the Justice Department.”

  The Marshall left the man’s office with his superior hunched over his desk, clutching at the memo, staring wordlessly at the words on the page but not reading them. He held in his hands the ruination of what could have been an illustrious career.

  “YOU HAD A call from a Sylvia Castanza,” his secretary told him as he reentered the offices. She noted his demeanor and started to withdraw into herself.

  “She leave a number?” he snapped unintentionally.

  “No, sir,” she replied in a small voice. “She did ask that you meet her at your favorite rendezvous. She also said that you would know what it was about.” The secretary looked up at him, her face full
of questions but did not have the fortitude to voice them.

  “Forget you heard anything,” McLeod told her. “It will be easier in the long run.”

  “It’s forgotten, sir,” she promised. Her accompanying smile, although forced, was reassuring.

  McLeod paused only to pick up a large envelope from inside his desk and stuffing it with the original documents he had purloined from Michael’s office and several of the copied documents that Charlie had made for him. Then he departed the office for his appointment with destiny. He chose to drive this time to Carlini’s Delicatessen and park the car at the curb in front of the establishment. He entered and espied Sylvia sitting at a table in the back. He found himself smiling, although he did not particularly feel happy, as he sauntered over to the table and sat down across from her.

  “Hello, Sam,” she greeted him not as warmly as their other meeting. “I guess you know why I’m here.”

  McLeod nodded. “There’s a contract out on me,” he surmised, “and you’re not the messenger.”

  “There is still an out, Sam,” she reassured him. “You embarrassed Uncle Luigi, and he’s spitting mad.”

  “I didn’t start the war. You know me. I don’t start anything, but it’s just my nature to be the last man standing.”

  “Do you know how many people you killed?” Her question was not rhetorical, and by her tone she betrayed her awe at his cold-blooded nature, which up to now she might have suspected but never had proof.

  McLeod shook his head. “I didn’t take any scalps; so, no, I didn’t keep track. They tried to kill me, Sylvia. Uncle Luigi should at least understand that I did what I had to do. Michael, too. I didn’t go out there looking for trouble. It just happened to find me. Besides, there was nothing personal in it, just business.”

  “Except that Uncle Luigi is now going to have to make reparations, you know,” she pointed out sternly. “You were under his protection. He gave his word to the Seriglio family.”

  “Tell him it’s better this way,” he matched her tone. “If they had their way, Uncle Luigi would have had to go to war when they brought back my body. I couldn’t let that happen. Besides, I like the way my body fits my spirit.” McLeod then passed the envelope to her. “Here are the papers I took. I’m sure Michael will be very appreciative when these are returned.”

  She accepted the envelope and placed it on the bench beside her. “You copied them, of course.”

  The Marshall spread his hands apart. “I don’t need to use them. I probably won’t ever have to use them. Tell Uncle Luigi to tell Michael that he has my promise. Let’s call it a compromise. I have something that will ensure his cooperation and leave my team alone. I promise to overlook the incriminating evidence in those papers.”

  “I guess, then, that our business is concluded.”

  “You just might want to look inside the envelope,” McLeod appended.

  “Why?” she asked nonplussed.

  “There’s something that should interest Michael very much. And Uncle Luigi, as well. It also might mitigate some of the hostility he has towards me right now. I made him a promise in exchange for that information, and I always try to keep my promises.”

  Sylvia picked up the envelope from its resting place and opened it. She began reading the papers he had added. “You’ve got to be kidding!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  “Like I said, a promise is a promise. Michael’s position is not as secure as he or his father might think. No, let me rephrase that. He and Don Antonio have always known that their move to Lake Tahoe wouldn’t be an easy one. They just underestimated the enmity of the opposition. These additional papers should help them even out the odds or maybe put them in his favor.”

  “Question, Sam: why are you so willing to help the Seriglio family?”

  MCLEOD PONDERED AT the question, one he himself had been thinking about on the flight back to Washington, D.C. When he had been a sophomore in high school, he woke up one morning and decided that he wanted to be class president. He had befriended—or maybe it was the other way around—two classmates that followed him everywhere, almost to the point of worship. Both were large for their age, and their brawn made up for their small intellects. One was a blond Pollock, the other a dark-haired Italian. With these two bodyguards constantly at his side, he knew that he would never have to fight another battle in school. He simply told them that he wanted to be class president, and these two lugs strong-armed and threatened the rest of the class to go along with the idea. In fact, White Wolf had managed to become the class president for his final three years in high school. Without much thought put towards the idea, he had actually created his own family of a sort. It had been so easy. And these two boys felt and demonstrated their loyalty to him to a fault.

  Maybe that was why he was willing to turn a blind eye to the questionable tactics of the Seriglio family. He had no loyalty to them, of course, only to his Uncle. He had compromised his Uncle’s standing in the Mafioso. But he also understood that in any relationships there had to be give-and-take. Sometimes misunderstandings between the families did not always have to end with blood being spilled to repay a debt.

  “WHAT DO I care if one White Man kills another White Man,” he answered her.

  “You didn’t used to be so cold, Sam,” Sylvia commented in a softer voice as she put the papers back into the envelope.

  “The last couple of days reminded me of just who I really am.” It was not an apology; it was just the truth.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Your boy Chino is missing.”

  McLeod’s ears picked up, and a wave of consternation passed over his face. “How do you know about Chino?”

  “Oh, come on now, Sam. You’re not the only one who keeps secrets,” she reminded him.

  “Does anyone else know?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “I find it good business to keep some things to myself. It didn’t take me long to figure out who the Mendendez were talking about. Uncle Luigi caught wind of it and passed the information on to me. He thought you might be casually interested. I didn’t tell him anything,” she added quickly, anticipating his outburst. “You’ve upset one too many apple carts lately as it is.”

  “Just tell me the facts. Where is he?” he prodded.

  “He was sent to Colombia. He was supposed to be training a few of the other raw recruits who were sent there with him on how to shoot. He checked into the villa where he and the others were quartered, but he didn’t check out. His bed had been slept in, but he was missing. Elian Alvarez had suspected him to be a CIA plant, just because he could shoot like a demon, and now his disappearance just about confirms his suspicions. He was raving at the Mendendez about interference and started threatening to do something to prevent it from happening again.”

  McLeod absorbed this information and started adding it to the rest of the facts stored in his memory. “What do you think happened to him?”

  “He was snatched. What do you think? I don’t think your boy would have gone over the hill unless you ordered him to.”

  “You’re right on that account. Is someone trying to find him?”

  “You bet. Alvarez has men scouring every village within ten miles of his fief. If he finds him, he won’t just disappear, Sam. He’ll be dead.” She looked at suspiciously. “You know where he is, don’t you?”

  “No, Angel, I don’t. But I am beginning to get an idea who does.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me, are you?” she pouted.

  “No, I’m not. You’re smart enough to figure that one out yourself. I need a free hand to extricate him before something happens to him. Without your—uh—help.” He wanted to say “interference,” but he did not want to risk making her any angrier than she was. He might need her help again in the future.

  Sylvia did not comment but just looked at him with a steady stare.

  “Well,” Sam moved to the end of the bench seat and started to rise, “I’ve enjoyed our little chat. It has not only been information
al but rewarding as well.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t have to kill you, Sam,” she declared, her eyes moist and longing.

  “Correction. You could have tried to kill me. You forget that I left a trail even the dumbest White Man could have followed, and they still didn’t find me.”

  “Yes, but they were on your turf, Sam. Remember, the city is my turf. You would have never seen me.”

  McLeod smiled with genuine warmth. “Until next time, my Love.”

  “Watch your back, Sam. Not from me. You’re up to your thighs in some dirty caca, and you’ve made a lot enemies these past couple weeks.”

  “Yeah. But I’ve made enemies before, and guess who’s still here.”

  He nodded and strode out of the restaurant. He returned directly to the office and saw that Tim was just clearing his desk and preparing to go home.

  “Need a favor, Tim.”

  “Shoot, boss. Not literally, I hope.” He held up his hands as if he was suddenly the victim of a mugging.

  “I need you to contact your sources. I have a hunch they may have Chino.”

  “Say what? Who told you that?” McLeod felt a degree of satisfaction and pride that Tim was just as concerned and ticked off about Chino’s situation as he was.

  “Let’s just say a little birdie and leave it at that. If they have Chino, ask them what they want. Then tell them that I want to deal with them one on one.” He did not have to explain who “they” were.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SIMMONS

  IN THE WEE hours of the morning two days later, McLeod’s telephone jangled three times on his nightstand before he was awake enough to hear it and reach for it. He looked at the LED on the clock, and it read two thirty-six.