White Wolf McLeod Page 6

  “I still got the touch,” she purred.

  “Only if you want to die, Sweetheart.” He gave her a half-smile that conveyed a threat. “Next time, warn me before you do something like that. You don’t know just how close you came to dying. People have been known to be seriously hurt trying less. Nobody touches the temple.” He tapped his chest with the fingers of his right hand.

  She lowered her leg and put her foot back into her shoe. She wore a pouty expression on her face.

  “Don’t take it personal, Love,” he consoled her. “You know we’d have no future. If Uncle Luigi were even to suspect that we had feelings for each other, I’d be talking in a small high voice while they outfitted me for cement overshoes and a bath in the nearest river or lake.”

  “You’re right,” she finally admitted sadly after nursing her feelings for a few minutes. “Let’s keep it strictly business, then.”

  “Good idea.”

  HE STOPPED KEEPING a weapon under his pillow soon after he married his Korean wife. One day, his wife entered their bedroom to put away clothes while White Wolf slept. She was horrified to not only see the .45 pointed at her but the constant sound of the hammer falling as her husband followed her across the room with his hands and shot at her. Fortunately, the weapon was not loaded. No one touched this Indian without permission.

  THE FOOD ARRIVED, and it smelled so good that they did not talk again until they had almost finished the meal

  “Okay,” she began, wiping her full, luscious red lips with her napkin. “Uncle Luigi sent me.”

  “I surmised that from your phone call.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself. I’ve told him that many times before, but apparently he doesn’t believe me.”

  “You’re not back on the reservation, White Wolf. You’re playing in the White Man’s world.”

  “You’d be surprised how much I have learned to adapt. Their propensity for stupidity astounds me. They live in a world of their own making, and yet they can barely survive their environment.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to adapt to a lot more than their environment before this is over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll be going to Lake Tahoe soon.”

  “Lake Tahoe? Why?”

  “Uncle didn’t explain. He just said to listen. Once you start putting the pieces together, he said that you’ll understand the reason.”

  “Okay.” He decided not to press, although his interest was fully engaged.

  “He also said that if you have to use the family as a reference, he’ll vouch for you.”

  “That’s good to know,” McLeod said lightly, picking up his water glass to rinse out his mouth. “What else did he say, Angel?”

  “You know that he can’t tell you everything, Sam. You have to figure out some of these things yourself. Even he can bend the code only so far.”

  McLeod nodded. “But he’ll nudge me in the right direction when I start going of in a tangent, is that it?”

  Sylvia lowered her head once. “He knows that you’ll be investigating the identity of the dead man you found. He has also figured out that you’ll be sending someone to New York to see which families have it in for each other.”

  “He doesn’t miss a trick, does he? You know anything about the supposed war that is or will be happening?”

  “I don’t associate too closely with the family for obvious reasons. You know that, Sam. That’s what makes me such a great go-between.” She flashed that heavenly smile again.

  “What else?”

  “Be careful when you go to Miami.”

  MCLEOD SMIRKED. HE remembered his only brush with the law that landed him in a holding cell overnight. He had just parted with the military after his hitch. He had liked this particular fedora, believing it gave him character. While strolling down the street in broad daylight, he suddenly found himself surrounded by both plainclothes men and uniformed officers with their firearms armed and pointed menacingly at him. He had allowed himself to be handcuffed and submissively stuffed into a squad car. He had not been given the courtesy of identifying himself. Even after he had been cleared the next day when his fingerprints confirmed he was not the felon with whom he bore a striking resemblance they were looking to apprehend, he never wore a hat again, except when in disguise. The police thought that his description matched that of a felon just because of a hat. This had taught him to closely watch his attire. The night in jail was another argument that convinced him that he had chosen the right profession.

  “WHAT’S IN MIAMI?”

  Sylvia shrugged. “I don’t know. I only know that there’s something big going down. There’s been a lot of activity between Cuba and Miami, and a number of the families in Florida have been meeting clandestinely, even those that don’t particularly like each other.”

  McLeod had a sudden pang of concern for sending Chino into what sounded like a viper’s nest. “Drugs?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “I’m not sure. Something tells me that it is something a lot bigger.”

  McLeod remembered the circle Charlie had drawn on his map where he hypothesized the Marta had unloaded contraband to another ship. It was uncomfortably close to Miami.

  “Okay. Woman’s intuition. So, who’s in Lake Tahoe?”

  “The Seriglio family. They just moved out of New York.”

  “Why? I thought they had New York pretty well sewed up.”

  “Don Antonio is getting old, Sam. He wants to make his family legit. He’s tired of all the infighting between the families and is afraid that his children will get hurt. Plus, with the face of the Council changing, he’s losing his base of power and control.”

  McLeod nodded again. Then he exhaled loudly. “This case is barely a week old, and it’s giving me a headache already.”

  She reached out and touched the side of his head. This time he did not react to the unwanted touch. “Poor baby.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a question for you. What do you know about an Andrew Prescott?”

  Sylvia pursed her lips. “Are you sure you want to go there?”

  McLeod thought a moment before answering, “Yeah. I’ve been told to lay off from higher authority. And usually when someone tells me to keep my hands to myself, I figure there must be an awfully important reason—a reason I just have to know about.”

  “If Uncle Luigi finds out I told you this, I might be the one who is destined to become a part of a building’s cornerstone someplace. You’re supposed to be figuring this all out for yourself.”

  “Suppose you just help me cut a few corners.”

  “You know how we laugh when we say that all our elected officials are dirty?” Seeing McLeod smirk and nod once, she continued, “Well, the truth is, the word isn’t far off the mark. All the families have bought someone in Congress. They’re not satisfied with just getting a judge or two or a few corrupt cops. They want to make policy, too.

  “Prescott is one of Tanelli’s people. However—and here’s the strange part—he helped orchestrate the political launching of Senator Laughlin from Nevada, all with the Seriglio family bankrolling every step of the way. Senator Laughlin was the one who facilitated Don Antonio’s move out of New York to Nevada.”

  “I had a feeling the stench wafted up to the top, but I didn’t figure a Senator in the deal. Is he connected with the President?”

  “No way. He hates Kennedy’s guts. He’s been pretty vociferous about that, I understand.”

  “Wait a minute. If memory serves me right, there was some scuttlebutt a ways back that Kennedy was somehow mixed up with some of the New York families and the Miami families.”

  “That was Papa Joe, Sam. But the pebble doesn’t roll too far from the rock. You know that.”

  “Well, it looks like you’ve stirred up the bottom of the stream, dear. Everything looks pretty murky to me right now. Like our Uncle said, once I have sifted through everything, I hope to get a cl
earer picture. Guess I’ll just have to bide my time and play the cards I’ve been dealt. But you have given me a few aces to hide up my sleeves, and I appreciate that. And you know how I hate to wait around for things to happen.”

  She playfully cocked her head. “But nothing did happen. Not yet anyways.”

  McLeod smiled, relishing the fact that she remembered their playful days, too. “And that’s not going to happen either.” He wagged his finger at her. “At least not in the foreseeable future.” He enjoyed the fact that he had not completely closed the book on her fantasy.

  “Well, I’ve enjoyed lunch, Darling. Give our Uncle a kiss for me. And tell him not to worry about this little Indian. He can take care of himself.”

  Sylvia just shook her head at his stubbornness. They rose, and McLeod paid the check.

  As they walked towards the door, the hackles on the back of his neck started tingling, and he heard his Grandfather’s voice speak to him as clear as day: “Beware, White Wolf. You’re being followed.”

  McLeod stopped and looked out the large window facing the sidewalk. He saw a black sedan parked across the street with two men in suits watching the restaurant with more than a passing interest. He muttered an obscenity under his breath and quickly formulated a plan.

  “We’ve got a tail, Sweetheart,” he told her. “I’m betting that they didn’t see us enter the restaurant together. If they did, then both our gooses are cooked. You go ahead and leave first. I’ll watch to see if they take an interest in you. If they don’t, then I’ll duck out the back and have a little fun.”

  Sylvia turned towards him with deep concern in her eyes. “Don’t do anything stupid, Sam. I love you, you know.”

  McLeod grinned back. “Yeah, I know. Just don’t let my wife hear you say that too loudly. She doesn’t understand that kind of thing.”

  She touched his hand in parting and then exited the restaurant. The Feds—if that were who they were—merely appraised her as an object of lust and then returned their fixed gaze on the restaurant.

  McLeod needed to convince the owner to show him the back door by flashing his badge and threatening to invite the Health Department to take a closer look at the kitchen on their next visit. He then found himself in an alley and walked its length to come up to an intersection behind the parked car. Crossing the street, he casually walked up to the surveillance team and quickly slid into the back seat.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen!” he surprised them.

  “What the—!” the agent on the passenger side exclaimed and reached for his sidearm under his coat. That was the last move he made for a few hours, as McLeod suddenly slapped the man’s face with his right hand, shoving the man’s head first into the side window and then into the dashboard. In his left hand he held his service revolver and pointed it a few inches away from the driver’s nose.

  “The keys,” McLeod demanded coolly.

  The agent, his left hand held up at shoulder’s height, slowly withdrew the keys from the ignition with his right hand and lightly tossed them into the backseat.

  “Now, let’s have a little chat, shall we?” McLeod smiled, his eyes all business. “Who sent you?”

  “We can’t tell you that,” the agent whimpered.

  McLeod cocked the pistol. “Oh, but I think you can, unless you like your superior to explain to your wife and kids why your head has a big hole in it.”

  “It came from high up. We just follow orders.”

  The man never saw the fist that turned out the lights. He just slumped over onto his partner’s inert body. McLeod reholstered his firearm, picked up the keys from off the floor where they landed, eased out of the backseat, rounded the car to the driver’s side, and pushed the agent further onto the inert form of the other man. He started the car and drove a few blocks to an alley with which he was quite familiar. Parking the car and shutting off the engine, he then searched the men and found their identification badges. These appeared to identify them as FBI, but that tingling feeling on the back of his neck told him otherwise.

  He entered an establishment through a dilapidated door that had seen better times. A large mulatto man, bigger and twice as ugly than the door, confronted and challenged him. Then recognizing McLeod, he grinned and said, “Hey, Mac. Momma be sure glad to see you.”

  “Got a favor, Clyde.” Why Clyde liked the moniker “Momma” McLeod figured he would never understand. “Got two bozos in the car parked outside. How about you fix these guys up with the ladies and lose the car.”

  Momma’s grin grew even wider, if that were possible. “I think Maria and Stacey be glad to fix ‘em up good. Don’ you worry. We takes good care of you buddies.”

  McLeod breathed a little easier. Whoever “high up” these agents were reporting to would have a difficult time explaining why they had time to visit a brothel and lose a government car when they were supposed to be following him. If they were lucky, they might only come down with a mild case of the clap. Explaining how they had become infected to their wives might be more difficult than to the guy who was pulling their strings.

  “If only I were a fly on the wall,” he laughed to himself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LEGACY OF THE WOLF

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a day after the young White Wolf left the village to be on his own, a 1933 Ford pickup truck rumbled into the village. A huge man and a diminutive woman stepped out of the truck and proceeded directly to Grandfather’s teepee. Grandfather, having been warned of their coming by the uneven and sometimes backfiring sound of the truck’s engine while it was still far off, had risen early and now stood in front of the teepee’s flap to welcome them.

  He had watched them approach his dwelling with a critical eye. His daughter, who had been frail most of her life, looked robust and healthy, and this made his heart happy. When she had given birth to White Wolf, the youngest of her three children, he had thought that her third son had taken too much of her life, and she would no longer be present in the world. That is why White Wolf had come to the reservation as an infant: to be cared for and raised in the right world until either his mother had recovered or to remain with the People should she have cast off her Earthly robe and joined their ancestors.

  Her husband, Ernest McLeod, however, looked, walked, and smelled like a White Man; whatever Indian blood coursed through his veins had been minimized, repressed, or contaminated by the White Man’s world that he now wholeheartedly embraced. He towered over his wife like a massive oak over a sapling, and he exuded a strength and an authority from his size, magnified by the wearing of a constable’s badge that he was so proud of.

  “Hello, Father,” the daughter greeted. “It is so nice to see you again. You and mother look wonderful.”

  “My heart is lighter now that I see you have recovered from your illness, Clover,” Grandfather replied, addressing her by her Indian name.

  “You know why we are here. I would like to see my son now,” she said respectfully, but Grandfather picked up on a note of anxiety. “I have not seen him since giving birth.”

  “Your son had a vision of your coming,” Grandfather told them, “and he has run off into the woods. Do not despair, Clover,” he added quickly, noting her sudden concern. “Even now, the village Braves are searching for him. They will find him.”

  “He’s done what?” Ernest barked angrily. “Why didn’t you keep him tied up here?”

  Grandfather eyed him morosely, but it was Clover who spoke. “Do not blame Father. He has raised our son in the traditions of the People. Our son will be well and will soon be brought back to us.”

  “He’s just a five-year old kid, for crying out loud!” Ernest exclaimed with frustration. “Do you know how many missing persons I’ve had to track in the last ten years? Most of them were grown people, and if we were lucky enough to find them in time—” He choked off the completion of the thought, realizing that he would only add to the level of worry. “I’d better go look for him.”

  “Then we would be lookin
g for two,” Grandfather told him gravely. “Your son has grown up with the Land. He has become part of the Land, and it will sustain him. When he has worked out this change in his young life and discerned the Will of the Great Spirit, the Land will return him whole to us. Meanwhile, we will go into the teepee and wait.” To Clover, he said, “Your mother has prepared a fine rabbit stew. Already, it is calling my stomach.”

  Ernest did not welcome the idea of waiting in the village, much less in his father-in-law’s teepee, for eventual news of his son. He was a man of action. Even if his head was not in the right place, his heart still ruled him, and he was concerned for the welfare and safety of his youngest son. And if he had to chop down every tree in his path to find his son, that was his way.

  By afternoon, there was still no positive word from the hunting parties. Ernest and Clover grew more anxious by each passing hour, and the huge man chafed at the helpless feeling and the inability to do something. The village Medicine Man paid them a visit to both size up White Wolf’s parents and comfort them in this time of waiting. He was a well-built man and still athletic for a man in his fifties. He wore the simplest of clothes, cast-offs from a benevolent White Man’s charitable organization that prided itself in accomplishing good acts of kindness to the People whom it still regarded as nothing more than savages.

  “You should not be concerned for your son,” he told the parents with much compassion. “The Great Spirit has taken a great interest in the boy, and He will not allow any harm to come to him.”

  “The Great Spirit,” Ernest chided under his breath.

  “It is not a good idea to mock something that exists, even if you do not recognize it. He, at least, has recognized you,” the Medicine Man rebuked in a fatherly tone.

  “I will now tell you what has been revealed to me by the Great Spirit so that you might better understand your son. He has been blessed with many gifts, among which is the ability to commune with the world and the universe that exists around us.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Ernest disdained.