Powder

  Powder

  by

  Leopold Borstinski

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Powder (The Lagotti Family, #3)

  Part 1: Los Angeles, Sunday June 29, 1968

  1

  2

  Part 2: Monday July 7, 1968

  3

  Part 3: Saturday October 20, 1962

  4

  Part 4: Saturday October 27, 1962

  5

  Part 5: November 1968 to November 1969

  6

  7

  Part 6: February 1971

  8

  9

  Part 7: March 1971

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Part 8: Good Friday April 9, 1971

  14

  15

  Part 9: Saturday April 10, 1971

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Part 10: Easter Sunday April 11, 1971

  28

  29

  Part 11: Monday April 12, 1971

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  Part 12: Tuesday April 13, 1971

  40

  41

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  About Leopold Borstinski

  Text copyright © 2018 by Leopold Borstinski

  Published by Sobriety Press

  Cover design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  The right of Leopold Borstinski to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Published by Sobriety Press. No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. For information regarding permission, contact info@leopoldborstinski.com.

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  Part 1: Los Angeles, Sunday June 29, 1968

  1

  Mary Lou Lagotti drove at five miles an hour below the speed limit away from Burbank Airport. The first time since 1962 she felt alone, certain there was nobody on this planet who she could rely on for anything.

  Always checking in the rearview mirror for signs of trouble, she headed to the Clements Fitzrovia Hotel. Occasionally, she’d glance down at her bloody skirt and glimpse the red ovals on her arms - the small globules of her husband’s blood which had splattered over her while he was shot twice as he knelt beside her.

  Tears still dribbled down her cheeks as the shock and torment of those few moments juddered across her mind. No matter how much she concentrated on the road ahead, Mary Lou couldn’t shake off the image of Frank bleeding out in her arms. Of her shooting the Fed before he arrested her. Of her zigzag escape from the parking lot that brought her to within three blocks of her current location.

  She drove the green saloon to the back of the hotel and grabbed the two holdalls she’d stashed in the front passenger footwell. Mary Lou looked around, saw no-one and bent down to open the lighter bag and move its contents to its heavier twin. Then she zipped it shut and dragged it out the vehicle. She fingered every cent of the one hundred and forty thousand dollars contained inside. Laundered money from the robbery at the Lansdowne branch of the First Bank of Baltimore. And she was the sole survivor of the entire gang now that her Frank was no more.

  Into a side door, Mary Lou hoped to find a service elevator but somehow she headed straight for the main reception area. She spotted the bellboy, Tom who strode over to her.

  “Jeez, miss. What happened?”

  “No time to explain, but I need your help.”

  “I’m not surprised. Housekeeping will be hard pushed to take those stains out.”

  Mary Lou looked down at herself and realized how blood-drenched she appeared. Never mind.

  “Has anyone else been asking about us since we left this morning?”

  “No, none.”

  “Good.”

  Beat.

  “I’ll come down in ten minutes and I want you to call a cab and have him wait at the side of the hotel. Got that?”

  “Sure, miss.”

  Mary Lou laid a clean Jackson on Tom who nodded, smiled and went off to find that taxi. Meantime, she hauled straight up the stairs to the second floor and then ran all the way to their room. She fumbled with the door key but after a lifetime the lock pinged open.

  In front of the bathroom mirror, Mary Lou stripped out of her bloody clothes and stared at herself. Her legs and arms were splattered with too much blood. She used the shower attachment to wash away the red from her limbs but she still felt dirty inside. Unclean.

  That unfathomable sense of disgust clung to her skin as she put on fresh underwear, a shirt, a pair of jeans and sunglasses. A walk around the suite enabled her to gather every ounce of possessions they’d scattered round the place since their arrival in LA. She stuffed all her clothes on top of the cash and shoved all Frank’s things into the empty holdall. Mary Lou checked her revolver and filled the chambers with slugs.

  One final trip around and by the time she returned to the bed, she knew it was clear. Another image flashed in her head as she recalled Anthony flying through the air with the force of the bullet slamming through his body. His death meant nothing to her - he was one of the thugs Uncle Frankie hired to hunt them down, kill them and return the money. The Shylock had played fast and loose and was left with bupkis. Not even his life.

  Mary Lou reckoned the hit she’d arranged on Uncle Frankie must have been executed by now. All that stood between her and some kind of future was the New York mob and the Feds. Her best hope was to leave the country soonest and wait for the heat to die down.

  One last check of herself in the mirror, Mary Lou grabbed the holdall and left the room. Down the stairs and into the lobby where Tom hustled over to her.

  “The cab is waiting like you asked.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

  “No, you’ve been great.”

  She placed another Jackson in his palm.

  “If anyone else comes wandering past asking questions...”

  “... I know nothing.”

  “You said it. You keep your mouth shut. Even if it’s the cops.”

  “Especially if it’s the pigs.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek to seal the deal. There’s no way that sixteen-year-old boy would spill his guts even to a G-Man.

  Without turning her head backwards, Mary Lou strode out the Clements and into the back of the cab. It was less than thirty minutes
since Frank drew his last breath. She sank into the seat as the taxi dredged its way to the bus depot.

  Mary Lou bought a ticket for the first vehicle leaving town. After only a quarter hour, she stepped onto a bus, shoved her bag onto the overhead shelf and slumped into the aisle seat so no-one could grab it without her taking direct action against them.

  Ten hours later, she reached San Francisco where she laid overnight in a fleapit near the bus station. Her time in the city was uneventful but unpleasant. She picked her way past the hookers plying their trade as she entered the hotel.

  The following morning, Mary Lou returned to the depot and purchased another ticket - with Vancouver as her destination. There was a two hour wait, so she trooped over to a diner to fill up on food. Her appetite was still shot to hell from the previous day’s violence but she ate anyway.

  Thirty hours later and Claudia Starr stepped out into the Canadian sun. She showed her fake ID to cross the border so once the Feds identified her, they’d not be able to trace her departure from the land of the free.

  As the mob used intel from the Hoover boys, Mary Lou figured the trail of carnage around the city of Angels would stop at the Clements Fitzrovia. Even if someone worked out she had made it to San Francisco, they wouldn’t be able to follow her any further.

  As she walked on the foreign concrete sidewalk, Mary Lou removed her sunglasses and tried to breathe and act like a normal person. Only trouble was: she couldn’t remember how to do it.

  2

  Charlie Pentangelo accepted his mob money had floated into the wind. He was calm about not seeing the cash ever again, but he continued to fume at the people who’d taken the proceeds of the heist from him.

  As he never held the cash, he was no worse off than before the robbery was mentioned. The Shylock, Frank Lagotti Senior, felt differently. He had the money almost in his hand before his step nephew snatched it out of his grasp. The real issue for Charlie was that people shouldn't steal from him. Rob from a bank? Knock yourself out. Take from Pentangelo? Not if you want to see your next birthday.

  Earlier in the day, word reached him about a gunfight in LA and how the Feds had done for his boys while they were trying to get the money back. Details were scant, but he knew the proceeds were gone and two of his own needed a funeral.

  Now he sat on his own in his favorite chair contemplating his next move. Frank Senior had been wise to let his step nephew take the First Bank of Baltimore and its half a million even though the man himself was a parasite on the carcass of the world.

  The phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  Beat. The voice on the other end of the line spoke flat, no intonation. Just the facts with no comment.

  “The money has left Burbank Airport. Our two are dead, the Shylock’s men are offed as well.”

  “And?”

  “Our FBI sources confirmed Frank Lagotti and one unknown guy are dead. The woman took the money and ran. She is still at large.”

  “Any good news for me?”

  “Nothing to put a smile on your face.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Charlie heard the click of the receiver as the call ended. That woman, Mary Lou, held his cash and would need to pay for her mistakes. The phone rang again - a different voice on the line.

  “Bad news, Charles.”

  “What now?”

  “There’s been a death.”

  “Who?”

  “Frank Lagotti Senior.”

  “The Shylock? How?”

  “Bullet through his face.”

  A professional hit.

  “Any idea on the perpetrator?”

  “Not yet but we’re working on it.”

  “Where did the deed take place?”

  “In his cathouse. No struggle. The hitman walked in, plugged Lagotti, did for the girl sat on his dick and strode out.”

  Beat.

  “Too much of a coincidence for Lagotti’s murder to occur the same day as the fracas in LA. Make some enquiries. I want to know more details.”

  Pentangelo waited ten minutes and dialed a special number - it was never written down but always memorized by those who used it. When serious men needed professional help to complete their murderous tasks, they contacted Murder Inc: the nickname for a unique group of killers who originally came out of Brooklyn. These fellas were the most dangerous the mob families knew. If anyone would take out a hit on someone outside their territory, these were the people to call.

  Charlie booked a requisition on the head of Mary Lou and it was immediately sanctioned even with a specific request. He wanted the best man for this job: Arnold Roach. A killer’s killer. An elite fiend with a knife or a gun. A relentless murdering machine. Once you hired him, he never gave up. Whoever he held a contract on always wound up demised.

  As the sole survivor of the heist, Mary Lou must take responsibility for all that has happened: to the money, to the men and now to Frankie. Roach would track her down and slash her throat. Or cut her open from one side to the other. Whatever Charlie wanted.

  Safe knowing Roach was on the case within a matter of hours, Pentangelo put on an aria on his record player and settled back down in his chair. Mary Lou was as good as dead.

  Part 2: Monday July 7, 1968

  3

  There had been a Murder Incorporated since the day the Big Bankroll formed the Five Families back in the Thirties. Out of Brooklyn - and only Jewish - mobsters turned to these guys when violence between clans was required.

  When not wreaking revenge on those they were paid to kill, the members spent their time playing penuckle and performing freelance assassinations instead. Arnold Roach was the best of the best and you could always rely on him to get the job done quickly, effectively and without leaving a trace of his passing through town.

  As a result, he had little time to engage in extracurricular subversion but, occasionally and for the right price, he’d lend a hand to a stranger. A month ago Roach received a call from a woman seeking revenge on a moneylender. He never wanted to know the justification for his services being rendered. It was of no concern to him what the beef was about. He would happily kill anyone who moved, provided there was green in it for him.

  The Shylock was based in Baltimore and the downpayment arrived as requested. When the time was right, he drove down to the city, found the middle-aged man in his flophouse and shot him in the face.

  Standard terms applied and Arnold waited a week for the second half of his money. He had learned to leave several days before getting the final payment as word needed to spread sufficiently far for his employer to hear the good news about the demise of their nemesis.

  But the money didn't appear. One day late was of no concern to him as he was off on Murder Inc business and did not return home until a further two days. The absence of an envelope primed with cash caused consternation, but nothing more. Once a full week had lapsed, Roach was like a bear with a honeypot jammed on his nose with an angry bee inside.

  Arnold sat in his armchair with one eye on the fire escape and the other on the door. The leather surface leant him comfort, but he gritted his teeth every time he thought about Mary Lou and Frank Lagotti Senior.

  The walls closed in so he grabbed his wallet, keys, checked his jacket holster and headed onto the street. Round the corner was a little cafe where everyone minded their own business and nobody listened too carefully to the conversation of adjacent customers.

  Arnold strode to his usual location - at the back, half in shadow and an extra five inches from any other table in the joint. The owner ambled over and placed an espresso by Roach’s elbow, who nodded and let the world pass him by.

  He had been a fool: why take a job away from home and from a virtual stranger. Roach knew the answer before the thought had tripped out his head. Because the money was good and she was a woman aggrieved.

  Something about her voice when they first spoke made him agree to the proposition she lay before him. Killing the moneylender didn't caus
e him a moment’s lost sleep - before or after the event. There was an angry edge to her tone which screamed out how much she wanted the guy to suffer before he died.

  Roach wasn't in that business. He was a murderer, not a torturer, and made that clear to her before they struck their deal. If Mary Lou was dissatisfied with the job he performed, she should tell him and they could discuss the matter but her absolute silence? That showed she’d flown in the wind.

  And there was no way he could allow someone to fleece him. If word got out you could stiff Arnold Roach, his professional reputation would be over. Kaput.

  He swigged down his coffee and headed back to his apartment. Arnold would have to find the woman and extract his money from her. If the cash was not forthcoming, he’d put a bullet between her eyes.

  Sometimes life can be as simple as that.

  Part 3: Saturday October 20, 1962

  4

  Mary Lou Belle left home when she was fifteen and never looked back. Her mother, her sisters and her cold dead father ceased to feature in her existence from the moment she walked out the family bungalow and into the world. She headed straight for New York but never got there, instead lighting upon Atlantic City and, when the chips were down, over to Baltimore.

  As a girl with no book learning, Mary Lou mixed with the wrong sorta guys because they were the only kind who’d give her the time of day. She paid no tax, and she surrounded herself with interesting characters from the dark side of town - a place she’d lived for six years.

  One Saturday, her closest girlfriend suggested they go to a neighborhood party and Mary Lou agreed. What better excuse to drink too much and enjoy the laughs and indiscretions of youth?

  Mary Lou shared a fleapit apartment with Vicky Fischer. They’d met within a few days of her arrival in the city and split the rent for living quarters two weeks later when she grew tired of sleeping on strangers’ floors and became disillusioned with sleeping in strangers’ beds.

  The party was one block from home - a neighborhood affair - and Vicky assured her there would be some fresh meat as well as the local boys. Mary Lou’d had her fill of the juvenile young men, who frequented the dive bars near the apartment. They never showed the level of seriousness nestling deep inside her own heart.