Halfway to Hell

Halfway to Hell Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

Anthony Francini Junior collects nicknames like cow pats collect flies. Little Tony was how he was usually known. He hated it. Reminded him that his Dad, Big Tony, was still the man in charge. But being the son of a mob boss has its advantages. When Little Tony wanted to play baseball, Big Tony bought a going nowhere club called The Jets on the condition that his son made the first team every match. To be honest, the kid wasn’t half bad and, with Big Tony’s check-book bankrolling them they bought enough good players to fill out the rest of the roster. That was when Little Tony got his second nickname: Slugger.

            When The Jets won the pennant for the first time in their history, ‘Slugger’ felt like celebrating. High on pills and booze he took his girlfriend, a wannabe model called Claire Daniels out for a spin in his new sports car – a present from Big Tony for doing so well. He managed to wrap it round a tree on a deserted stretch of highway. He was lucky. He walked away. Claire Daniels didn’t. He paid the price though. He busted his leg so bad he would walk with a limp from then on. It was the end of his baseball career and the start of his third nickname: Tony the Gimp. Not that anyone called him that to his face. Not if they wanted to keep breathing that is. After that, he went to work for his father. Turns out he had a knack for it. If you wanted someone gone, Little Tony was your guy. It earned him his last nickname: The Magician. This one he liked.

            I checked myself out of the hospital the next morning. I found the nearest pay phone and put in a call to the Daily Clarion. When the switchboard answered, I asked for Steve Babbidge. It was still early, but Steve was already at his desk. I gave him the names Rachel had given me and asked him to dig around, see what connections he could come up with. He wanted to know why, of course, but he had to make do with it being something big and, if it panned out, he would get the scoop. Steve’s an okay guy. Better than that, he knows he can trust me, so he agreed to do some digging. I told him I’d call back later. Then, I took the bus to my apartment, ditched my torn and blood stained clothes and showered. I wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror and took a look at myself. It wasn’t pretty. My nose was bandaged, both eyes were purple-black circles, the lids almost closed and there was a line of matching contusions across my ribcage. It couldn’t be helped. I dressed in a white shirt and tie, sport coat, slacks and loafers. My faithful Betsy was snug in a shoulder holster under my left arm-pit. Time to go visiting.

            I broke out in a flop sweat as soon as I hit the sidewalk. The air was so hot it felt like it was boiling me from the inside out. It was still morning, but the light was dim, the sun struggling to find its way through the banks of black clouds that rolled down from the hills. Thunder rumbled in the distance. It made my skin crawl. A steady rhythm began to beat inside my head. I knew I had to do this fast, before the storm broke and washed me away.

            I got lucky. The third cab company I tried had a driver called Whistler. A grease monkey took his head out from under a hood and said: ‘Sure, he works here. When he can be bothered that is.’ I wasn’t surprised. Somehow I hadn’t pegged this Whistler guy for employee of the month. The monkey directed me to the Dispatcher. The guy wasn’t too keen on doing me any favours, but when I told him Whistler owed me money and I meant to collect he had a change of heart. Seems Whistler wasn’t Mr Popularity either. Go figure. The Dispatcher put out a call but got no reply. ‘Probably taking his lunch break early, the lazy bastard,’ he said. Then he gave me the name of a diner that I could try. As I left, he said: ‘Hey, when you see him, tell him to get back on the streets or don’t bother coming back at all.’ I told him I would be happy to pass that on.

            The diner was called ‘Mabel’s’. It had a row of booths along one wall and a counter that ran the length of the back wall. A waitress in a stripped uniform and a white apron was moving between the booths. She looked about seventeen and had her blonde hair pulled back in a pony-tail. She would have been pretty apart from a scar that started beneath her left ear and angled its way down to her mouth, twisting her upper lip into a permanent smile. The nametag on her left breast said: Patty. If she ever shortens it to Pat she is gonna be in trouble.