Part 15 (2/2)
”Hey, ya f.u.c.kin' moron, I tole ya no smoking in this house. What, I gotta be like a schoolteacher? I gotta appoint monitors? Take the b.u.t.t outside, then come back in. No smoking. We all got that, huh? f.u.c.kin' dunsky b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!”
The culprit, shamefaced, muttering apologies, left the house quietly trying to brush smoke outside with him.
Richie was wearing a pair of good gray slacks, a bright red silk s.h.i.+rt, and a black leather vest. As always, he was meticulous, down to his s.h.i.+ny black shoes. He escorted Nick into the large living room. It didn't seem possible that this was the same vacant house Nick had carefully checked out just a few days ago. He had received the Hong Kong Enterprises check renting the house for one year for Dennis Chen, through his corporation, which had sprawling offices on a high floor in a Queens Boulevard office building.
Nick glanced around. Everything looked as though it absolutely belonged where it was. The rooms were completely furnished, including drapes and rugs; books in the bookcases, wood stacked in the fireplace. Every room but the dining room had been totally empty when Nick sent cleaning service in.
”How the h.e.l.l you get this done so fast?”
Richie was modest. ”We got a coupla guys from the stagehands union. A set decorator checked the place out and they fixed it up like this. Nice, huh?”
All the furniture was rented through some company of Richie's. There was a mellow, comfortable, old-money feel to the place.
Nick stopped at the open door of a room obviously intended as an office. Joe the Brain Menucci looked up from behind a table filled with computer parts.
”How ya doin', Nicky?”
Nick nodded. Richie pulled him along by the arm and said in a low voice, ”He's got music piped into every room in this house, too. Ya know, Nick, I never believed all them stories about Joe the Brain. I never heard him say nothin' too smart.” He shrugged. ”Like, I know he's good with electronics and all, but I don't know about that other stuff people say. Wadda ya think?”
Nick said quietly, ”I wouldn't know, Richie. But I'd be careful. You know, just in case.”
”In case? In case a what?”
Richie sounded worried; he motioned Nick toward the dining room. It had been thoroughly cleaned. Centered beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier in the enormous room was an eighteen-foot mahogany dining table surrounded by twelve chairs. Other matching side chairs were placed around the room near various small serving tables, lamp and telephone tables.
”So, the kid said you got a problem. What's up?”
Richie looked over his shoulder, motioned Nick closer. He didn't want anyone to overhear their conversation.
”Well, I had the place checked out, ya know, for bugs. This room especially, because all this stuff was here for a while. This guy, the expert, come with a good recommendation, ya know? Like, he brings in all kindsa electronic equipment, sweep stuff and all. The guy finds this one device.” Richie dug in his pocket and brought out a small square recording device. ”It was wedged under one of the chairs. Near the head of the table.”
Nick studied the device; it looked like a Cold War relic. ”Anything else?”
”No, but ya know how ya get a feelin'? Like something just ain't right? The guy who come here, Johnnie Cheech sent him. Cheech ain't the smartest, ya know, but he said the guy's okay. So I just wanted you to take a second look.” He wrinkled his brow. ”d.a.m.n feeling I got, is all.”
Nick studied his cousin's face. ”Why the h.e.l.l didn't you ask Joe the Brain? He's the expert.”
Richie glanced over his shoulder. ”Hey, c'mon. Joey works directly for Papa. I wouldn't never ask him to do nothing for me. And ya know, the c.h.i.n.ks, they're gonna check it out and they find something, how does that make me look? Not too f.u.c.kin' good, right?”
”Uh-huh. Who's had access to this place recently?”
”You.” Richie shrugged that away. ”And the cleanin' people you sent ...”
”I didn't send them. Tessie called the regular company that cleans up places for the agency. I didn't even meet them.”
”So, okay. The bug guy checked, no signs of breakin' and enterin'.”
”So just the moving guys and your people been in and out tonight, right?”
”They're all my guys-my moving company, furniture company. I vouch for all of them. So I just wanted you to take a good look. Ya don't got no equipment?”
Nick didn't answer. He asked questions, got seemingly satisfactory answers. Yes, every chair had been turned over and examined carefully. The table had been checked, under and over. The walls had been scanned; the edging on the chair rail. Shelves where some china was set on display. But still, Richie had a feeling.
Nick also had a feeling. Something in the way his cousin watched him, narrowing his bright eyes, almost daring him.
He checked out the telephone on a small side table and one on a small desk under the window. He re-checked all the furniture; searched carefully for over an hour. Then he approached a heating vent set into one wall. Nick, using a flashlight and a penknife, pried the grate from the wall. As Richie hunched over him, he ran his hand inside and removed a device identical to the one Richie had earlier shown him.
Richie shook his head and began to curse. ”That f.u.c.k, that dumb sonovab.i.t.c.h. Wait'll I get my hands on Cheech and his s.h.i.+t of a friend, the dirtbag.”
Nick watched him carefully. There was something not quite straight in Richie's anger. Nick had seen him go ballistic over small matters, and a hidden device was no small matter. His eyes locked on Richie's, and for a split second they tried to read each other.
Finally, Richie put his hand on Nick's arm, squeezing. ”Christ, Nicky, ya saved the day. Jesus, am I glad I had that d.a.m.n feeling, ya know?”
Nick said quietly, ”I got a feeling now, Richie.”
”Yeah? Like what?”
”Like if Cheech's guy overlooked one device, maybe he overlooked another. They don't all look like that, ya know.”
”Naw, I think ...” His cousin stopped abruptly and nodded. ”Yeah, okay, ya wanna search some more, go ahead, be my guest.”
It took Nick about fifteen minutes to examine the small leather-top desk in one corner carefully; each drawer was checked, and then finally, meticulously, he touched each item on the surface of the desk. The small tooled-leather letter holder had some heavy cream-colored stationery; next to it, a gold-colored stamp holder. A cup of sharpened pencils; a cup of pens.
Nick's hand covered the porcelain cup that held the pens, then, carefully, his fingers moved and he held up an old-fas.h.i.+oned black Waterman fountain pen, laced with an intricate silver design. He examined it thoroughly, then turned to Richie.
”Say a few words to the listening public, cousin Richie.”
Richie stared, mouth open, as Nick removed the cap, then hooked a fingernail under the silver plunger used to fill the pen. Dark blue ink squirted, then dribbled down Richie's bright red silk s.h.i.+rt.
”Oh, Jesus, Richie. I'm sorry. I made a mistake. It's just an old pen. In fact, it's my old pen. Must have fallen out of my pocket.” He slipped the pen into an inside jacket pocket and returned Richie's glare with a smile and a shrug. ”Hey, s.h.i.+t happens, right?”
Richie took a deep breath, and wordlessly the cousins acknowledged their wary dance. Richie had tested Nick to see if he would find, and reveal, the planted bug. Nick showed Richie he was wise to the test. Check. Checkmate.
Finally, softly, Richie said, ”You playin' with me, Nick?” The slight smile pulled his lips back into a grimace.
”Richie, even when we were little kids, I didn't play with you. You know why? Because you cheated. All the time, Richie, you cheated.”
Richie Ventura snapped his fingers, slid his arms into the black leather coat held out to him, his eyes fastened on his cousin. Years fell away and they were the same two boys vying for their grandfather's approval, the most important thing in their young lives. They should have finished with this s.h.i.+t years ago. Why the h.e.l.l did Nick turn up in his life now?
”You take good care of yourself, Nick, ya hear me?”
”I always take good care of myself, Richie.”
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