Deadly Age: A Deacon Bishop Mystery

By Michael Paulson

Private detective Deacon Bishop is feeling his age when he's awakened in the middle of the night by a low-rent hoodlum. But the criminal, Davey Kenyon, has something Bishop wants so bad he can smell it--evidence against the Portello crime family. Before the two can reach a bargain, though, Kenyon is gunned down outside Bishop's apartment and Bishop finds himself in the familiar position of being yanked in front of the police--a position made less comfortable because of Bishop's certainty that some in the police department are very much in the pay of the Portello family.

Bishop arranges a couple of PI jobs for himself looking for missing people--people who seem definitely connected to whatever is going on. He has a hard time believing the evidence he's turning up. Surely even Dominic Portello, the idiot brother in the crime family, wouldn't be stupid enough to get involved with Satanism? Yet that's exactly what Bishop seems to be discovering. Then there's the mystery of the tattoos.

Bishop keeps pushing, looking for something that will allow him to put a permanent end to the Portello family crime wave, but at the back of his mind he's absolutely certain of one thing--finding evidence may be tough, but staying alive long enough for that evidence to be useful is bound to be a whole lot tougher.

Author Michael Paulson creates a wonderful character in Deacon Bishop--a man who's hard-bitten but who, nevertheless, maintains a peculiar sense of honor as he deals with criminals, the police, and rich families gone bad. Bishop is man enough to desire some of the beautiful women who throw themselves his way, but cynical enough to suspect that few of them are motivated by simple desire for his aging body.

If you enjoy the hardboiled action of Raymond Chandler's Philip Marlowe, Mickey Spillaine's Mike Hammer and Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer, you'll enjoy the Michael Paulson's Deacon Bishop. Fans of hard-boiled mystery fiction (like me) will definitely want to grab DEADLY AGE. It's a page-turning thrill-ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Preece
• Release date: Sep 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781602152137

Michael Paulson

Michael Paulson lives in Austin, Texas and writes hard-boiled mysteries set in the streets of Austin and surrounding parts of Texas. Paulson grew up surrounded by crime and crime families and draws on his own background in creating the colorful characters and criminals who feature in his stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Old age hits each of us in its own way. For some, it is discovering the surgeon about to perform their bypass is younger than their grandson. For others, it is realizing that beauty on the beach lies with the surf and sand, rather than sun-tanned skin. For me, it was opening my eyes in the predawn and seeing an armed man moving past my bed. At that moment I felt very old, indeed.

Take a wrong turn, Slick? I asked, rising upon one arm.

My intruder was a tall, slim shadow. In the darkness, I could not see his face. However, my nose quickly detected two commonalties between us: A penchant for cheap cologne. And a consuming desire for liberal quantities of alcohol. As I watched he crept toward the window.

Stay cool, old man, he said, without so much as a glance in my direction. Got business wit' you; understand? Stay cool and nobody gets hurt.

His voice disclosed an African heritage and that he was under thirty. I yawned loudly and eased my free arm beneath the pillow to the Mauser, secreted there.

Who're you working for, Slick? I persisted, slipping my hand around the gun-butt, and my forefinger through the trigger guard.

Nobody.

Somebody put you onto my crib.

Blind Ray.

Tough racket, working for Ray.

Ain't workin' for him, he said. Not no more. There was a pause. Then he added, Beats the hell out'a being a nigger for a bunch of rich white folks, like my old man!

Blind Ray controlled the illicit drugs, gambling and prostitution for most of East Austin. However rumor had it he was backpedaling from the Russian mafia as well as from encroachments by the Portello Crime Family. Nevertheless, Ray was not the-forgive-and-forget-type when it came to his subordinates. If my shadow had pulled a fast shuffle time was on Ray's side, and vengeance was in the offing.

If he's got your number there's no escape, I warned. You may as well call Ray, so he can arrange your funeral. Use my phone. Then shut the door on your way to the cemetery.

He stopped and looked back at me. Ray got no complaint, old man.

Then why aren't you interrupting his sleep?

Ray can't do me no good. Not, with them spying on his ass.

He sidled over to the window and pulled the blind aside. The early morning light washed the shadows from his face. I could see he was about twenty-five years of age, and clean cut. Somewhere I had seen him, before. But, I could not tag his name. The shade fell back into place, cutting off the light. He turned toward me, staring in my direction through the darkness as if unsure as to his next move.

Somebody's got you running, I remarked. If not Ray, who?

Nothin', I can't handle, old man, he growled. And, there ain't nobody I can't handle-including you.

Tough talk from a guy hiding in the dark.

Overhead the Casablanca fan whirred. Outside, a small diesel rumbled past. Inside, my visitor crept over to the floor lamp by the easy chair, and flicked a switch. A blaze of light filled the room; momentarily hurting my eyes.

Satisfied? my visitor gritted.

He was dressed in formal evening attire. A white silk scarf hung loosely about his neck, just under a black overcoat. The pistol in his right hand was a Makarov; its hammer cocked. But, the heavy weapon hung loosely from his long thin fingers; pointing at the floor. The other hand was wrapped in a blood-soaked white rag. Through this a sticky redness seeped, glistening like ruby-dust.

You impress me, I taunted. Turning on that light took balls. About as much as an old lady crossing the street with a boy-scout escort. You got a name I can cling to, Slick? Or, did mommy forget to have you christened?

He squirmed a bit. Then his jaw muscles tightened as his brown eyes gave me another scathing. Finally he muttered, Davey Kenyan.

I remembered my visitor, then. It was after my last run-in with Blind Ray, the day I retired from Austin P-D. A hooker by the name of Margarita Ramirez had been murdered in the alley behind his nightclub; a place called, The Tearful Eye. I had spent several hours with Ray, not learning anything. On my way out of the club I had noticed Kenyan. He must have been about twenty, then. Dressed to the nines in tailored garb and arguing with a black man, about my age. The older fellow was clothed in faded coveralls, a plaid shirt and work boots. Angry words were being exchanged between them. But Kenyan had been on the retreat despite his superior physical stature. At the time, I assumed the older man was a relation: father, older brother or uncle.

What's next, Kenyan? We play jacks? I eased the Mauser beneath the blankets until it was pointed at him.

Pushing all my buttons, ain't ya? he growled.

Nobody here but you and me, Slick.

With a dissatisfied grunt he settled himself into the easy chair and let his long legs go limp, flopping wide at the knees. You're a big disappointment, old man.

Cocking one leg, I made a concealing tent of the blanket. Then I moved the Mauser beneath it; keeping the weapon pointed at him. He did not look like a serious threat. But, my life insurance had lapsed. And I hated the thought of departing this world. After all I had three ex-wives and a bookie to support. I eased off the safety.

You crouch in a three-room flop that's two breaths away from being torn down, he sneered. You sleep on a Murphy bed that's got a busted leg. And Ray figures I'm supposed to be impressed? You're nothing but empty reputation, Bishop!

My villa's being painted, I pinged. Some gutless asshole sneaked in trying to find a place to hide from his mommy. That's when the place got all messy. My cleaning lady beat the shit out of him. She doesn't usually anger easy. But it was her eightieth birthday that morning. And someone'd stolen the old girl's cake.

Kenyan smirked at my feeble comeback. Deacon Bishop's s'posed to be tough enough to consort with female alligators, he snorted. Then he gave his dark head a disappointed shake. Gotta' tell you, old man, from where I sit a crippled kitten could kick your ass.

I sat up slowly, keeping the bedclothes across my knees and the Mauser pointed at him. Then, I eased my feet onto the cold linoleum and let out a loud shiver to conceal the sound of my thumb cocking the pistol.

Come a little closer, I urged. Maybe, I can improve your opinion.

He snickered, Now, who's talking tough?

With my right hand I pointed to the bathrobe draped across the back of his chair. Toss me the robe, will you? I'm just getting over a cold. I'd hate to have it turn into pneumonia waiting for you to explain why you woke me up.

Kenyan' mouth chewed the air with something I could not hear. Then without turning away he reached back, grabbed the robe, and dragged it over one shoulder. After checking the pockets for anything dangerous, he tossed it to me. I caught the garment in midair with my right hand. Then I stood up, using the robe's body to conceal the Mauser in my left.

Who've you been playing patty-cake with, Kenyan? I asked, shoving the Mauser part way down the robe's left sleeve.

I waited until his eyes darted toward the bandages. Then I pushed the pistol through the sleeve opening; taking dead aim at his head. Set your weapon on the floor! I growled. And kick it over. Then, grab some wall. I get real ornery when I'm awakened before sunrise. And that gives me this urge to shoot people.

Kenyan glanced at the Mauser. Then he smiled as if he had expected me to turn the tables. Maybe you got moves, after all, old man.

Mine usually end with me squeezing this trigger--as Ray probably told you.

Kenyan leaned over and set the Makarov on the linoleum. Then he gave it a kick in my direction. The bulky pistol skidded to a stop partway across the floor. I waggled the Mauser as I moved toward him. He stood up, went beside the chair and faced the wall, laying the palms of his big hands against it while splaying his legs.

I moved behind him and jabbed the Mauser's barrel between the cheeks of his backside. Move, Kenyan, and your balls will be kissing your asshole goodbye.

You're calling the shots, old man.

I patted him down. Kenyan was carrying a silver cigarette case, a gold lighter and a wad of cash big enough to buy a burial plot in Manhattan. The money was carelessly bound with a wide rubber band. I backed away after returning those items to his pockets. Then I grabbed the Makarov from the floor before retreating to my bed.

Take the chair, Slick, I said. I prefer shooting people when they're sitting. It's the pixie in me.

Kenyan did as instructed; acting like a man much relieved.

I released the Makarov's clip, and slipped it into my robe's pocket. Then, I jerked back the slide to empty the weapon's chamber. After which, I tossed the heavy automatic onto my pillow.

Now, let's get to what brings your light and joy to my crib. I sat on the bed.

Kenyan crossed his legs and pulled out the shiny cigarette case. I need a job done, he replied. Gold glinted as he lit a smoke.

Next time phone ahead. If I'm not busy we'll play hopscotch. Right now my game-card is full.

I was busy. I was doing a missing-person pant for some rich eccentrics by the name of Verdune. The son's wife, Rose, had run off with a trumpet-player by the name of Aaron Jenkins-absconding with the family jewels. Matriarch Verdune did not care if I returned the wayward wife. But, she was eager to get her fat fingers on what Rose had taken.

He speared the air between us with the smoldering cigarette. This'll take but one night, Bishop.

Kenyan held up the cigarette case with his bloody hand. I nodded. He tossed it to me and I helped myself. After which, I hefted its weight and turned the case over. On the back was the inscription: 'Davey, all my love, Rita'

Expensive, I remarked.

Keep it.

I shook my head and gave it a return throw.

Kenyan quickly stuffed the cigarette between his lips and caught the case, with his good hand. Then he dropped it back into his coat. After which he leaned toward me to say, The job pays ten grand. That kinda' cash buys a lot of booze and broads, for an old man like you.

I took a book of matches from my robe's pocket and lit the smoke. Ten grand buys a lot of trouble, I countered. What've you got in mind?

The diesel heard earlier rumbled its return. Kenyan began to fidget, his eyes darting from me to the window. Finally he asked, Okay, if I check the alley?

I slid his Makarov under the sheets, propped my pillow against the bed's headboard, and then slid back against it. Carefully, I warned. Old men like me scare easy. And when that happens I shoot anything that moves.

Kenyan stood up and crept back to the window like a nervous tenant, hoping not to see his landlord.

If you've got friends out there I wouldn't make them welcome, I cautioned. I get indigestion if I empty a clip before breakfast.

He pulled the blind aside and stared out for nearly a full minute. Then, he uttered a sigh of relief and returned to the chair. His face was grim as he slumped down. His bandaged hand was oozing more red.

Who's after you? I asked.

He took another drag on his cigarette and muttered, The job's a simple escort service. No big deal.

Don't shine me on. I blew smoke in his direction. It's a depressed market for one-nighters. Armed escorts for a gig like that can be had for a few hundred.

Kenyan pulled out the wad of cash. There's this private freak-house outside of Mission, he said. It's a hangout for rich dopers and millionaire space-cadets. All you gotta' do is make a pickup. He tossed me the bundle. That's the ten in advance.

I caught the ball of cash and gave it an affectionate squeeze. The money felt warm and reassuring in my hand. So much so, I almost went woozy as my fantasies began to run amuck. Blondes, brunettes, redheads

What's the name of this place? I asked, still admiring the bundle.

Windston Asylum.

Bells of coincidence began a small din in my head. I did not know Dr. Windston, personally. However, by reputation he was a kindly physician-type who peddled heroin and hookers, as a sideline.

You carry a big gun, I told him, giving the bundle a friendly squeeze. What's stopping you from playing the part?

He leaned back and crossed his legs. That's what they're expectin'.

A queasy knot suddenly formed in the center of my stomach as my fantasies turned to dust. Whenever thousands are involved and pronouns are used instead of names, it usually means those names are too terrifying to utter.

How about some details, Kenyan? For example, who are 'they'?

He rubbed the side of his jaw with the back of the bandaged hand; leaving a wet, red smear. The Portellos.

I swung my legs around and jumped to my feet. I had an urge to run. But if Salvator and Dominic Portello were part of Kenyan's problems, there was no place to hide.

You look like a man just back from his proctologist, Kenyan snickered. All wobbly-kneed and white-faced.

Rita from the cigarette case is Rita Portello? I choked.

He nodded. Rita's gotta' get out of Windston's joint.

She's the goddamn pickup?

How long you had that yellow streak, old man?

I'm not stupid enough to jerk Rita out of some goddamn nuthouse after Salvator and Dominic have dumped her there!

Kenyan took another drag on his cigarette, and stared at me in silence; the smoke shooting from his nostrils like steam from ruptured pipes. The bundle of cash had become a cold, dead weight. I threw it back to him. He caught it and snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, adjacent to his chair.

You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I lashed out. I pull Rita out of there and I'm history! There wouldn't even be memories of me, for Christ's sake! As it is, you're coming here has probably ruined any chance at a second cup of coffee, before some torpedo stops by to feed me a lead breakfast!

Kenyan got up, his eyes going dead on me. I moved the Mauser in line with his chest. Men with that look do not mind dying. They do not know fear because they have nothing to lose.

I come here doin' business, I come here askin' for help, I come here payin' up front! he growled, shaking a threatening fist at me. All you gotta' do is fucking drive out there!

I jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen. Hit the road, Slick!

I'm up to my goddamn ass in trouble, Bishop! I've run out of time! I got nobody else!

Be on your way while you can!

Kenyan started toward me; his bandaged hand clenched. Ain't nobody gonna' know shit about who done what, 'less you get careless! he shouted. He held up the ball of cash, and shook it. Where else you gonna' get this kind of money for one fuckin' night?

I snuggled my finger around the trigger. Keep coming and I'll drop you.

He stopped; his eyes focused on the Mauser. Maybe, that wouldn't be so bad, he murmured. He licked his lips, considering his options. That'd solve everything.

For me, I said. Not for Rita. Not for my cleaning lady. How that dear old woman hates wiping blood off my walls!

His arms went limp, then.

You'd have a better chance at Windston's than me, I added, in my most encouraging tone. The Portellos and I have decades of bad history. All it'll take to finger me is a goddamn rumor. And if you were followed here that's already been handled.

Kenyan spread his arms beseechingly. You just wait in your car outside the fence! Rita'll take care of the rest! Ten minutes, Bishop! Ten grand for ten fucking minutes!

And, if something goes wrong like it's prone to, Salvator will see that Dominic spends a week killing mein ten thousand tantalizing ways! I shivered then. Damn! Nothing ruins a man's sweet disposition like a lit blow-torch shoved up the shit-chute!

Kenyan's shoulders stiffened. Then he turned his head as to leave. But a moment later he caught himself and faced me. His eyes were bright. There was an odd smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was like he had secretly won the lottery and the IRS would never know about it because I was about to keep that secret.

What if I sweetened the deal? he asked, his voice lilting with anticipation.

I shook my head. It's not the money.

His hands came at me, the fingers spreading wide. I'm not talking money, old man! I'm talking something you been after a whole long time! Something you'd trade your left nut for!

Despite my burning desire to see the last of him, Kenyan's insistence intrigued me. I place a high price on that area, I warned. The sweetener will have to be good to change my mind.

I can help you put the Portellos outa' business; for keeps!

Let's not start bragging, again.

No brag, old man! You in? Or, you just gonna' stand there pullin' my pud? I'm talking death row for those Sicilian bastards! Guaranteed!

Chapter 2

I had spent most of my career as a homicide detective trying to bring the Portello Crime Family, to justice. But, each time I made a case the evidence disappeared, or the witnesses did. Inevitably Salvator, Dominic and Old Frank Portello walked: something that still chafed my waking moments, years into retirement.

No offense intended, I told him. But anything you might know would be fourth-hand, at best.

Kenyan took a renewed interest in his damaged hand. Blind Ray and Old Frank made a peace treaty. Part of it had a safety check. Old Frank would place one of his men with Ray. And I was sent to work for Salvator Portello. How's that for fourth hand?

I had doubts about his claim. But stranger alliances had been formed. Ray's becoming liberal in his outlook.

Davey returned his eyes to me. The Russian mob was cutting in. Ray wanted to avoid a war. He'd heard that Old Frank had come to terms with the Russians, so Ray offered the Portellos the treaty. Ray figured it would push the Russians back. It did.

Ray's not about to trust the Portellos to keep their end.

The safety-check included me reporting to Ray. The other guy reports to Frank.

Old Frank's about to retire. That will put Salvator at the helm and Ray's contract down the toilette.

He scratched one ear. As long as Frank's alive and Ray keeps to the agreement, Salvator will have no choice but to do the same.

Maybe. How long have you worked for Salvator?

Six months, give or take.

The inscription on his cigarette case suddenly replayed in my mind. Fitting in Ok, are you?

His chin dipped.

Rita's taken quite a shine to you, has she?

More silence.

Ok. What've you got that's going to make me stupid enough to buy in?

He looked up grinning. The 'who' is Leo Dire.

Dire Industries? That industrialist's kid? The idiot who got cold feet before the wedding and headed to parts unknown? What has he to do with the Portellos?

Leo Dire didn't skip out. He got an unexpected case of dead.

I was gaping before I realized it. But the newspapers said… You saw him killed? Are you sure about this, Kenyan?

I saw Dire's corpse. And Salvator ordered me to get rid of it. That's as close to sure as it gets.

If he was telling the truth my years of frustration were about to come to an end. Why would the Portellos kill Leo Dire?

It wasn't a hit; not planned, anyway. And it was Dominic who did the dirty.

I dragged one hand across the back of my neck to wipe away a sudden onslaught of nervous sweat. Dominic was the youngest male in the Portello family. He was a year older than Rita. And Dominic, like Rita, had trouble following the old ways. As far as Dominic Portello was concerned, he would kill at the toss of a coin, or for any other reason that colored his dreams. That gave Kenyan's story a modicum of credibility, and me a fresh set of nerves. If I became Dominic's target for doing something foolish like breaking his sister out of an asylum, there would be no hesitation at killing me; no guilt afterward; and no body for my bookie to bury. Still…

If it wasn't a hit, what in hell was it? I demanded.

Think of it as free enterprise gone wrong. You see, Leo Dire went into business with Dominic. A little side-action that was supposed to be a moneymaker. But big profits come with big risks. The look he gave me then was more than suggestive. 'Specially if you're playin' with other people's money.

Dominic was never considered brain-trust material; not from any quarter or by any stretch of the imagination. Which was why Old Frank forced his youngest son to remain in the background when it came to business. And why Salvator was being groomed to take over. Invariably, Dom tried to gain part of the spotlight pointed at his brother. He was always wheeling and dealing at whatever idea somebody else came up with. But invariably these efforts failed, leaving Dominic more frustrated than before, and Frank fuming! Nevertheless, I still had doubts that Dominic would be foolish enough to raid the Portello coffers. Such a transgression would be a death sentence. Even Old Frank, who doted on his children, would not tolerate embezzlement. He might delay reprisal until the transgressing child's mother died. But retribution would be meted out.

Dom may as well have committed suicide as to pull a stunt like that, I told him.

But that's what went down.

Why would a billionaire's son like Leo Dire hook up with Dominic Portello in the first place?

Leo was in it for kicks, Davey explained. He figured it would shake Big-Daddy Dire up enough to shorten the old man's life! And that meant Leo would come into his inheritance.

But Leo should have been able to fund any venture with Dom.

Kenyan shook his head. Leo came with empty pockets. Big Daddy had cut him off.

What kind of business was this?

A new twist on an old theme. Cocaine, for starters. Smuggled in from Mexico. But right from the git-go there was trouble. The first shipment started a firefight with the Feds at the border. Two were killed. One was an undercover Fed. The other was a bodyguard of Salvator's. After that there were other slips. In time somebody tumbled Salvator to the action. He paused then. I mean, Sal was spittin' fire and talkin' funerals!

Which brought Old Frank into the fracas?

Kenyan wagged his head. Old Frank ain't never gonna' know! Salvator swore us to silence.

To protect Dominic? I don't believe it! Dom has been a millstone around Salvator's neck since day one!

Salvator talks tough. But he still looks after little brother. You in, then?

If Leo is dead, what happened to this business deal?

There was another angle being played--a real money pile. It was something Dom had going before it. Trouble was, it was going to take some time to tap out. And Salvator had to continue what Dom had started to make that work. Salvator's not happy about it. But he's no fool when it comes to easy pickings.

Everything Dom has tried since I can remember has turned to shit. And from what you've just said, his cocaine operation followed suit. What made this angle different?

His shoulders heaved and then fell.

From what I overheard, it come to Dom from outsiders. He thought for a moment. Then he said, They were the reason Dom built that church.

The Portellos were staunch Catholics. Perhaps because religion provides the means for those who have fallen astray to reap forgiveness, regardless of the type, or gravity of sin. Still, for Dominic to build his own private church was above and beyond the call to prayer. Particularly, when one considered the limited profit potential of such a venture after buying a priest.

Church? I jeered. What for?

He laughed at my incredulity. To have that special brand of religion.

I tried to convince myself that Kenyan was having me on. But from the unwavering look in his eyes, he was not. Meaning?

Satanism.

You're sure about this?

His eyebrows furrowed with impatience, then. I've given you more than a taste, Bishop. You in or out?

Still weighing risks. Why was Rita installed at Windston's Asylum?

He crossed his long arms over his chest. That's all I'm sayin', unless you're in.

When was Leo Dire murdered?

Kenyan visibly stiffened. It's do or don't time, Bishop.

I either had to agree or he was going to leave and take my dreams of vengeance with him. I'm in. But there are still things I need to know.

He tilted toward me like we were old friends. Leo was hit about four months back.

Why wasn't it reported? His family must have become suspicious when Leo stopped calling for money.

He began to fiddle with the bandage. Salvator put the fix in.

How?

He cut a deal with Dire's sister, Elaine. Don't know how it was handled, though.

Anybody else at this death-party besides Leo and the Portellos?

He smirked. A sleaze who calls himself 'The Weasel.' And another by the name of Roger Payne.

The Weasel was a small timer looking to move into the Portello family as an enforcer. He was a cokehead with no qualms about murder and a careless attitude about his white-powder hobby. Not the type Salvator would take on. But Dominic was just stupid enough to do hire him. Roger Payne was a name from a murder investigation, 17 years ago. A pusher by the name of Shellie Martin had been beaten to death. The prime suspect was a puss-boil pimp by the name of Harold Marker. But Harold had an alibi. He claimed to have been with one of the women in his stable when it happened. That woman was Ella Payne, Roger's sister. And Elaine supported Harold's alibi.

Roger came into the fracas through greed. After I finished yet another questioning of his sister, he followed me outside their apartment. There, Roger offered the solution to my problem. For a thousand dollars, he agreed to testify that Harold Marker had not been with Payne's sister. He had made my case whether he was lying or not. And his testimony sent Harold to death row and his sister to prison; where she later hanged herself.

Let's get to Rita, I said.

She was there when Leo got it, he replied, taking a visual tour of my kitchen. Then his stare locked onto mine. That's how I know what went down.

He had given me another stunning surprise. Rita Portello was the only daughter and Old Frank's favorite child. He had always demanded that she be kept out of any family business. And Salvator would have abided by his father's wishes. So for her to witness a murder committed by Dominic was inconceivable!

Rita?

Rita was the third partner in the business.

Not a chance!

He leaned back grinning proudly. Rita's got her own mind, Bishop.

He was right about that. Rita was also hot-tempered, ill-humored and not above letting anyone who crossed her know the error of his way, with a vengeance!

Dom wouldn't have allowed it! I insisted.

Rita didn't give him a choice.

Whatever else Rita may be, she wasn't stupid enough to get involved in one of Dom's harebrained schemes!

Kenyan looked me straight in the eye. Leo talked her into it after they got engaged.

So Rita was the mysterious woman who the newspapers' claimed had sent Leo running! Considering Rita's temperament and her family, I could understand why the Dires might believe Leo had left town out of fear.

The marriage gig was for Big Daddy Dire to figure Leo had changed, he continued. Leo would end up with the family business when Big Daddy died, instead of Elaine. That would be good for the cocaine smuggling. Leo and Dominic would have access to Dire Industries shipping; trucks, ships, planes--worldwide. Tons of cocaine could be brought without risk! She didn't love Leo Dire. But Rita figured Old Frank would see his baby-girl in a brand new light once the money started to pile up.

But why Windston's Asylum?

Rita went over the edge when she saw Leo get it. She threatened to go to Old Frank. Salvator figured he was sunk unless he put little-sister someplace where that could not happen; until she came to her senses.

I rubbed my nose in disbelief. I don't buy that, Kenyan. Rita might have lost her temper over Leo Dire's death--if she was going to marry him. But, she would've stood fast with her family!

He ducked my glare; taking renewed interest in his bloody bandage. You don't know anything about her.

I've known Rita Portello since she was a baby, Kenyan. I used to live next door to the Portellos when I was a kid. I waited in silence until he looked up at me. Then I said, You're the reason Rita was stashed.

His eyes flickered. Then he said, Rita and me have a thing going. So what? Nobody's business but ours.

I suspect the Portellos took a different view.

Ok. That's why she's where she is!

Why in hell didn't you tell me the truth?

I didn't think you'd take the job if you knew I was the reason.

Frankly, any man who can control Rita Portello has my admiration. I sighed. You said somebody tipped Salvator to what was going on. Who?

Kenyan shrugged. If I was to guess, it was Leo Dire. He knew the risk Dominic had taken with the family's money. He also knew what Old Frank would do when it leaked out. I think once that church was built, Leo figured to take over the action. Dom would be taken care of by brother Salvator. And the Portellos would be happy to shed the whole thing in Leo's direction. But that's me guessing. Whoever it was pointed Salvator to banks and that's all it took.

Where's Leo's body?

You'll get that after you get Rita. And that's the way it's gonna' stay.

I did not like the finality in his response. But from the look that came with it, Kenyan was not about to budge on that point without some powerful encouragement. I decided to let it pass for the moment, when I heard the timer on my coffee-maker kick in. There was nothing like a bit of steaming caffeine to induce a more amiable nature, in the morning. After we had shared a cup or two, I would readdress that concern. I stuffed the Mauser into my robe pocket, got to my feet and headed for the smell of fresh brew. Kenyan trailed after me.

When I reached the gurgling coffee maker I asked, How tight is this Windston character with the Portellos?

Kenyan's forehead furrowed with worry, as he leaned on the table toward me. Salvator owns the place. Doc Windston just runs it. Problems go in and never come out. That means Rita's there until I'm dead--unless you get her.

I said, If I was Ephraim Dire--Leo's father--I'd notice if my kid's habits changed. And running off or not, I'd want to talk to him.

Kenyan settled into the chair across from where I stood. Rita told me that Big Daddy Dire did hired a P-I to check up on Leo. A guy by the name of Martin. But Salvator took care of it.

He bought him off?

He shrugged. Rita didn't say. But it wouldn't have taken much, however it was done. Leo was the type who had no friends that worried.

I grabbed the freshly brewed urn, and set it on the table. Then, I retrieved two mugs from the cupboard. I put one in front of Kenyan and then settled into a chair with the other. Kenyan poured. I watched and considered.

Finally I said, Once I get Rita out, she's not going to let you testify against her brothers. And she sure as hell isn't going to help my plans.

No woman runs me, Bishop.

You apparently haven't seen Rita with her hair down and her fists in action! Not to mention the chance that you'll not survive long enough for me to get her brothers to trial. Getting Rita out won't change the Portellos' opinion of you. That leaves me with your money and empty hopes.

He slurped his coffee and let his eyebrows knit in thought. Finally he said, I won't have to testify. You see, there's a third party. Leo didn't trust Dominic. So he hedged his bet by hiring an electronic wiz to do some high-tech eavesdropping at that church. Salvator and Dominic don't know about it. But Leo told Rita.

It was almost like Christmas! Leo was killed at this church?

There's no doubt about that.

Santa Claus was finally hearing reading my mail! You have the DVD? I asked, my voice quivering so bad it sounded like I had just taken a perch on a straight razor.

I went back out there the next day and did some nosing around. I found a DVD recorder hidden in the attic of an outbuilding; just where she said it would be. Rita's holding it for safe-keeping.

It was like having a steak waved under my nose and then hauled away! Rita will never hand that over to me! I cried, in exasperation.

She'll do what I say; you'll see!

He was clearly convinced. But the Rita I knew would never deliver such damning evidence: not if I put a gun to her head! Who's this expert that was hired?

Kenyan shrugged his broad shoulders. But Rita knows. Leo told her. Bishop, you can believe it or not, but she's agreed to do whatever it takes to get out of Windston's. He's got plans for her. Plans Salvator don't know about. Rita's says Windston's going to kill her.

What for?

Something that happened at that church.

From the look on his face, Kenyan was telling it straight: at least as he understood it. That left only Rita as a loose end in the evidence chain. But there was no chance she would betray her family: not for love, or money. Nevertheless, if I could find out who Leo hired to eavesdrop on the Portellos, that could give me an alternative