The Fifth Witness - Michael Connelly [108]
I suddenly recognized him as the one who did all the talking in the garage.
“It’s them,” I said, pointing down. “He did the talking and he did the punching. Who are they?”
Cisco nodded as though the confirmation was only a formality.
“They’re brothers. The talker is Joey Mack. The puncher is, get this, Angel Mack.”
“Listen, we don’t even know what it was about,” the Talker yelled out. “Please! We made a mistake. We—”
“You’re fucking-A right you made a mistake!” Cisco yelled, his voice coming down on both of them like the wrath of God. “And now you pay. Who wants to go first?”
The Puncher started to whimper. Cisco walked over to a card table where there was a spread of tools and weapons, plus the roll of tape. He chose a pipe wrench and a set of pliers and turned back. I thought and hoped it was all an act. But if it was, Cisco was turning in an Oscar-caliber performance. I put my hand on his shoulder and held him from approaching the two men. I didn’t have to say anything but the message was clear. Let me have a shot at them.
I took the wrench from Cisco and squatted like a baseball catcher in front of the captives. I hefted the heavy tool in my hand for a few seconds, getting a good feel for its weight, before speaking.
“Who hired you to hurt me?”
The Talker answered immediately. He wasn’t interested in protecting anybody but himself and his brother.
“A guy named Dahl. He told us to hit you hard but not kill you. You can’t do this, man.”
“I think we can do whatever we want. How do you know Dahl?”
“We don’t. But we had a mutual connection.”
“And who was that?”
No answer. I didn’t have to wait long before Bam Bam lived up to his moniker and leaned down and hit them both with pistonlike punches to the jaw. The Talker was spitting blood when he gave me the name.
“Jerry Castille.”
“And who’s Jerry Castille?”
“Look, you can’t tell anybody this.”
“You’re not in a position to tell me what I can or can’t do. Who’s Jerry Castille?”
“He’s the west coast representative.”
I waited but that was it.
“I don’t have all night, man. West coast representative of what?”
The bloodied man nodded like he knew there was only one way to go here.
“Of a certain east-coast organization. You get it?”
I looked at Cisco. Herb Dahl had ties to east-coast organized crime? It seemed far-fetched.
“No, you don’t get it,” I said. “I’m a lawyer. I want a direct answer. Which organization? You have exactly five seconds until—”
“He works for Joey Giordano outta Brooklyn, okay? Now you’ve sealed the deal on us anyway. So go fuck yourself.”
He reared back and spit blood at me. I had left my suit coat and tie at the office. I looked down at my white shirt and saw a bloodstain just outside the area that would be covered by a tie.
“This is a monogrammed shirt, you shit head.”
Tommy Guns suddenly moved between us and I heard the brutal impact of fist on face but didn’t see it because of Tommy’s massive size. He then stepped back and I could see the Talker was now spitting out teeth.
“Monogrammed shirt, man,” Tommy Guns said, as if offering an explanation for his vicious action.
I stood up.
“Okay, cut them loose,” I said.
Cisco and the two Saints turned to look at me.
“Cut ’em loose,” I said again.
“You sure?” Cisco said. “They’ll probably go running back to this fucker Castille and tell him we know.”
I looked down at the two men on the floor and shook my head.
“No, they won’t. They tell him that they talked and they’ll probably end up dead. So cut them loose and it’s like this never happened. They’ll drop out of sight until the bruises go away. And that will be the end of it.”
I bent down to get close to the two captives.
“I have that right, right?”
“Yeah,” said the Talker, a bulge the size of a marble forming on his upper lip.
I looked at his brother.
“Is that right? I want to hear it from both of you.”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” the Puncher said.
I looked at Cisco. We were finished here. He gave the order.
“Okay, Guns, listen up. You wait till dark. You leave them in here and wait till dark. Then you bag