Where's Jimmy?

"He has guys working with Joey. They've talked to the Chinese and the Mexicans, and Yuri Stanislav called Morelli. No one knows anything."

They drove in grim silence to Morelli's house. The gate opened, and they went through and waited in the car until the porch light flashed. Frank got a text. "All clear. Come in."

Paulo ushered them inside and re-set the alarm. He wore dress pants and a tie, his Kevlar vest obvious under his shirt. There was no jacket to get in the way of twin shoulder holsters.

"Subtle," Frank smirked.

"Hopefully unnecessary. Guido's in here. Come on."

They followed him into Morelli's private lounge, a classic wood-paneled room with leather couches and what appeared to be original artwork on the walls.

"Frank." Guido extended his arms to give his old rival a hug. "Strange bedfellows, you and me. And the lovely Carlotta." He kissed her hand with old world charm. "Sit. Espresso or a drink?"

"It was a long drive, old friend. Espresso for both of us."

"Ha! 'Old friend'. Your dad called my old man that. They hated each other."

"Family tradition. Guido, I'm too tired for small talk. Whadya got?"

Paulo offered a Cuban cigar to Frank, who took two and passed one to Carlotta. She lit hers and held the flame for him.

Morelli nodded. "Change is good. Never thought I'd have a sit-down with a cigar-smoking chick. Our dads must be spinning in their graves."

"She's tougher than some of the boys in your crew. The girl's good with a piece, and she plays hell with them computers of hers. She earns her keep. Now what's going on?"

"The Parnelli fire was arson. Cops found evidence of a timer and a gasoline bomb. Apparently it was in the credenza behind Sonny's desk. A bodyguard dragged his little brother Carmine outside, but he was dead on arrival at the hospital. Six dead, and the bodyguard was airlifted to a burn unit."

"Shit," Frank said. "Who planted the bomb?"

Paulo answered. "My mole with the cops has nothing. Crude timer anyone could make and two five-gallon metal gas cans. No leads on the floater. The wheelchair was stolen from the same place as the van."

Guido continued, "The Russians are scared. Stanislav told me the van and chair came from a shop that pays protection to him. Someone disabled the security system there before the theft, so they got zilch. Same with the Parnellis. Stanislav's cousin died in that fire, so he thinks he's a target, too. It's all connected, but no one knows how yet."

"Who's crazy enough to start a war?" Frank wondered.

"Good question," Morelli answered. "I don't know."

"You were school pals with Russell Buffalino, right? You probably know a hell of a lot more about Hoffa's disappearance than the feds do."

"I asked Russ about it right after Hoffa vanished, because I knew they had a beef. He said he was nowhere near that house in Detroit. We talked about it a lot, right up until Russ died. My family had dealings with Jimmy Hoffa. So did yours. I wanted info like everyone else did, but he claimed he knew nothing."

Frank puffed on his cigar. "I knew you raised quick cash, so I got curious. I think it's time you told me what you bought."

"It's all spread out on the table over there. Union records, court transcripts, receipts, letters, classified FBI files. I haven't gone through it all yet, but it looks more like the makings of a crime novel than anything real valuable. So far I don't think I got my money's worth."

"Could it get people indicted?"

"Those who didn't get whacked, yes. Some wise guys would have died in prison if the information had come out years ago. A couple fellows from the union would have done hard time, along with at least one investigator, and some interesting people made money, but everyone's dead. This is all stuff from the 1960s and 1970s."

"You paid a lot for it."

"Three million. Thought I was buying leverage."

"Be straight with me. Your boys didn't bat an eye when Jimmy Hoffa rolled up. Why?"

Morelli played with his cigar ash. "The caller sounded like shit on the phone, like he couldn't breathe right, so a half-dead-looking guy in a wheelchair made sense. It was midnight, lousy lighting. One of the boys said he looked familiar, but he wasn't sure until he did a search online for Hoffa."

"Why was Hoffa selling to you?"

"Carmine Parnelli called last week. Said he had shit that would be dangerous in the wrong hands. It was more damaging to my friends and family than his, so he and his brother weren't that interested. Said he was brokering a deal. I asked for who. He said that was on a need to know basis, and I didn't need to know until I paid. We set up a meet. Then I got a call on my private line from 'a friend of my grandfather'. Some guy wheezing and coughing. Said he's the seller and wants to cut out the middle man - a million off the price. Wouldn't say his name, just that he's not supposed to be alive. We checked. It was a throw-away phone bought in Detroit."

"That's where we were this morning," Frank said.

"Chasing the ghost of Jimmy Hoffa?" Guido smiled. "Thought so."

"Seemed like the best place to start. That's where his trail ends."

"The Parnellis were greedy bastards, so I didn't mind cutting them out of the deal, but I didn't kill them. The only stuff I found in that briefcase so far that's real news is stuff about Hoffa himself, and even that doesn't matter much now."

"Why would he sell incriminating evidence about himself?"

Guido laughed. "Obviously it wasn't Hoffa. The guy in the chair didn't say a word - just rolled up to my boys with the case on his lap. Barely nodded when my guy reached for it. They said he looked half dead. They could hear him wheezing. Everyone agreed he had to be at least ninety."

"No one figured out it was a mask?"

"It was fuckin' dark, Frank! Would your guys suspect a mask after you told them the guy sounded like shit? When the guy's body looked as bad as the face?"

"Probably not. But why go to all that trouble with the disguise? And who was the floater?"

"I can answer the last question," Carlotta said, not looking up from her tablet. "He had a concentration camp tattoo. Jakob Klein, liberated from Auschwitz when he was twenty-three, which means he's about ninety-three now. Last known address was a shelter, but he left there a month ago."

"Why cut off his head?" Frank asked.

"Why cut off his head with the mask on? Seems like that's what they did," Guido said. "I can see killing the poor schmuck to hide your tracks, but the mutilation is creepy. I get the idea of a mask, too, but why have one made to look like Hoffa?"

"Where do you get something like that?" Paulo asked.

Carlotta busied herself with her screen. "There was a little special effects shop in the Bronx that did custom masks for films and stage. Very high end. One man operation. It closed last month when the owner died."

"How did he die?" Frank asked.

Her screen refreshed. "Officially, suicide - single round to the temple point blank. The gun had the serial number filed off."

"Execution," Morelli snorted. "Now we know where the mask came from. Doesn't help much if the guy who made it can't tell us who bought it."

"Hoffa had kids," Frank said. "We should check them out."

"Already on it," Paulo answered. "Friends of ours are shadowing both of them, tapped their phones, hacked their computers, bugged their offices, the works. So far, nothing. Looks like they don't have a clue."

"We don't either," Frank grumbled, "and it makes me damn nervous."

"Joey put a detail of men at your house to guard it, but you're welcome to stay here tonight," Guido said. "My 'ornamental' fence around the property carries enough juice to fry an elephant. I have men hidden outside and two snipers on the roof. We're safe here."

"I hate hiding, Morelli. That ain't like me."

"Don't think of it as hiding, Frank. For all we know, whoever is behind this knows exactly where we are. If he does, he knows we're in a good defensive position. Short of an air strike, we won't have problems here. Since you were in Detroit, I assume you have bags in your car."

"Yeah."

"Give the keys to Paulo. He'll have one of the men get your things and take them to the guest suite. There's only one bed. I hope that's not a problem."

"Not at all, Mr. Morelli. We thank you for your hospitality," Carlotta said. She stared at the older man until he chuckled and broke eye contact.

"I like this woman," he said to Frank. "There's fire in those eyes."

"She's good to me. I trust her more than anyone."

"Even your old man?" Guido teased.

"Especially my old man."

"Your father was almost as much of a son of a bitch as mine. That's why they hated each other. I wouldn't believe either of them if I asked the time, but they made us the guys we are, Frank. We wouldn't be this far without them. Let's drink a toast to the old days." He opened a bottle of Johnnie Walker and pulled out four small tumblers. "Soda? Ice?"

"Two fingers, neat," Carlotta said, and the others nodded.

When they finished their drinks, Guido escorted the couple to the guest suite. Their bags were waiting for them. "If you hear something on the roof, it's my guys. No one else can get up there. Hope you get a good night's sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow." He closed the door behind him on his way out.

"I need a shower," Frank said. "I'm beat from that drive." He stripped and headed for the bathroom.

"I'll wash your back," Carlotta said, pulling off the last of her own clothing. "And your front."

He really was tired, but her soapy hands gently massaging his cock and balls gave him new energy. "You're such a bad employee."

"I'm sorry, Boss. Do you need to spank me? It might really sting with us being all wet." She turned and rubbed her ripe ass on him.

He gave her left buttock a firm slap, making bits of suds fly. He repeated the action on the right one.

She moaned and wiggled her hips. "I'm sorry I'm such a bad worker."

He spanked her again.

She bent over and steadied herself on the tub faucet. "Punish me, Boss."

He used both hands, cupped just right, to spank her ass loudly. When she squealed, he did it again, smacking the tops of her buttocks on the down-stroke, and slapping the bottom of her ass on his way back up. Soon, watching her cheeks dance and hearing her gasp was too much for him. He grabbed her and forced himself inside her slippery pussy.

"I'm a bad secretary. Fuck me. Cum inside my naughty little cunt!"

They mated roughly until she got her full punishment.

*******

In the morning, the couple found Guido in his study.

"Ah, there you are. Did you sleep well?"

"Nice room, Guido. You should bring the wife and kids and go out on my boat with me when this shit dies down."

"That's not happening yet. I just got off the phone with Paulo. The cops are ready to release the identity of the floater based on his tattoo. They're calling it a random hate crime against an old Jew."

Frank scoffed, "Wonder who paid for that story."

"They may believe it," Guido said. "Unofficially, it's a closed case. If they don't find the head with the mask on it, they'll file the whole mess and move on. The victim had a long history of petty crime and alcoholism and a ton of booze in him, so he was probably black-out drunk when they killed him. No one is saying shit about the piece of silicone. It doesn't show up in the list of evidence from the scene or the autopsy report."

"A cover-up?" Frank asked.

"Probably a fuck-up. Someone lost it or threw it away."

"You realize what this means, gentlemen," Carlotta said. "The cops don't know about a Hoffa impersonator. They're not going to look in the right places."

"They won't," Morelli agreed. "They're not gonna look much at all if they think it's some weird street punk crime. We pay enough cops we'd know if they had something. Part of me wishes they did."

"The less the cops know, the better," Frank stated.

"Normally you'd be right, but if they figure out who is behind this we don't have to. The cops don't see a connection. They're investigating the Parnelli fire, but they think it was about drugs. They know the Parnellis had bad blood with the Colombians."

"Not the Colombians' style," Carlotta said. "They wouldn't build a covert bomb. They'd shoot their way in and use flamethrowers."

"She's right. The Colombians had nothing to do with it. Got a call from my man in Bogota just before you came downstairs. He said the cops are up everyone's ass here, and agents are asking questions down there, but it wasn't them. He asked what I knew. Sounded more scared than me."

"What the fuck?" Frank fumed. "I didn't think them Colombians were scared of anything."

"May I look at your purchases, Mr. Morelli?" Carlotta asked.

"Of course. It's Guido to my friends. I already went through the pile on the left."

"You spent a lot of money, so if no one has any other ideas, we might as well look there."

A man in an apron and shoulder holster brought a cart into the room so the trio could have breakfast as they read.

After about an hour Carlotta said, "Found something."

"What?" Morelli asked.

"The money trail, maybe. There's a stack of IOUs here, all marked paid except one made out to James Riddle Hoffa for a hundred thousand dollars and signed by Angelo Carpucci. This is from 1959. Doesn't look like Carpucci paid the money back."

"Shit! A hundred grand was real money in those days," Frank said. "Wonder why Hoffa didn't collect."

"Maybe making the guy sign an IOU kept him on the hook so Hoffa could use him or the building later," Guido speculated. "Who is Angelo Carpucci?"

Carlotta searched the web. "Carpucci bought the building where the mask shop was from a foreclosure auction the day after he signed the IOU. His grandson Antonio was the guy who made masks."

"Wait," Frank said. "Hoffa fronted the money for the building to the grandfather of the guy who made the mask that geezer wore to the drop?"

"And Antonio, the mask guy, supposedly offed himself with a street gun last month," Morelli said. "How convenient."

"The guy who torched Parnellis' office and cut off that old wino's head bought a Hoffa mask and sold Hoffa documents," Frank mused.

"At least the same group of guys," Guido said, "but who?"

Frank threw up his hands in disgust. "How the fuck do we figure this out?"

"Gentleman," Carlotta asked, "may I make a suggestion?"

"What?" Morelli said.

"This thing has everyone running in circles. Maybe a sit-down with the other families to share information would be a good idea."

"I ain't sitting down with no Colombians," Frank stated.

"Wait, Frank," Guido said. "She may be right. The Colombians are scared, the Russians are terrified, everyone is spooked and chasing their tails. If we all meet we can plan our defense."

"Do you trust some of them guys, Guido? I sure as hell don't."

"Of course I don't trust them, but they're not stupid. They're trying to figure out what's happening too. Hell, I never thought I'd invite you to my home, but here you are.

"Yeah. Okay. Like you said - strange bedfellows. Where do you want to meet?"

"My warehouse on the highway. It's all open ground, so it will be easy to set up guards to see if anyone is coming. Friday night, seven o'clock?"

"Your Spanish is better than mine, so you can talk to all them guys and the Russians. I'll get word to the other families and the Chinese. Carlotta, let's go. We got shit to do."

*******

Friday evening a procession of expensive cars made their way to Morelli's warehouse. There were sentries everywhere. None of the guests tried to pretend they weren't heavily armed as they took seats on folding chairs set up in an area inside.

"Thank you all for coming," Morelli said. "As you know, we have a problem."

"Yeah, and some motherfucker in this room is responsible," Frank muttered to Carlotta seated next to him.

"As you know, there have been casualties. I've been in touch with some of you personally, and the rest were invited by others. Someone is fucking with the status quo. We need to figure out who it is and stop him."

"With respect, Don Morelli," a voice called out. "Who says it's not one of us?"

"It's possible it is. One man, or one organization, is out of line. None of us wants a war, but everyone needs to understand - when we find out who is behind this, there will be reprisals."

"Sounds like war to me," Stanislav the Russian said. "My cousin died in fire-bombing."

"There will be no war among us if no one has anything to hide," Morelli declared. "We need to organize ourselves ..."

He was interrupted by small arms fire outside. Every person in the room pulled a gun. Four men with automatic weapons went to the door. Joey and Paulo came in, supporting a man between them bleeding from a leg wound. They dumped him at Morelli's feet.

"Boss," Paulo said, "we caught him and his friends messing with the gas mains. They had C-4 and blasting caps with them. They opened fire on us. We're fine. They ain't. This lucky schmuck survived."

Morelli knelt next to the wounded man. "Who do you work for, my friend?"

"They'll kill me if I tell."

"I'll kill you myself if you don't, and I'll take my good sweet time about it. Now, who sent you?"

"I don't know no names. A dude said he heard someone was looking for a man who knew gas mains."

"Who was this 'dude'?" Morelli demanded.

"He sat next to me at a bar last week when I was in my gas company uniform. Asked if I wanted to do some side work for cash."

"You're bleeding badly, son," Morelli said. "Finish your story so we can get you medical attention."

"I don't know nuthin' else!"

Morelli kicked the man's wounded leg. "Sure you do. Talk to me, and we'll all be buddies."

When he stopped screaming, the man sobbed, "I gave him my number. Got a text saying to be here at six o'clock. The other guys didn't know nuthin' neither, I swear. There was a head dude and some goons with guns. They said we'd each earn fifty grand, but they'd kill us if we told or fucked up. They was waitin' for a phone call when your guys found us."

"Give me names," Morelli said.

"The dude on the phone gave us numbers. No one used a name."

Morelli put his shoe on the man's leg wound. "You're not holding out on me?"

"That's everything!" he blubbered. "I don't know nuthin'! I don't even know who you people are! Please!"

Morelli stuffed a wad of cash in the man's shirt pocket. "This should be enough to keep your mouth shut." He motioned to Paulo. "Put a tourniquet on him. Get someone to dump him at an emergency room. Push him out of the car and blow the horn. Use something with stolen plates."

"Got it, boss." Paulo had two of the guards carry the wounded man outside.

When they were gone, Morelli said, "Well. That pretty much rules out anyone in this room. An enemy of my enemy is a friend of mine. We must set aside our differences until we get through this."

*******

"Frank, I don't like having a man right outside the door," Carlotta complained that night in bed.

"Beats getting stabbed in our sleep," Frank said.

"Does danger turn you on, honey?"

He felt between her legs. "It turns you on. You're soaked."

"It would be really slutty to fuck with another man ten feet away," she giggled.

He pulled her hand to his hardening cock. "I like it when you're slutty."

She closed her fingers around it. "When I'm slutty, I'm loud."

He kissed her roughly, then stripped off her panties. "You won't make much noise with these in your mouth."

She wiped her wet slit with her fingers and held them to his nose. "Let's find out."

He inhaled her ripe aroma and licked her flavor off. "You're gonna get fucked right tonight, baby."

She spread her legs wide and rubbed herself. "Go ahead."