Cat In An Alien X-Ray

Woody laughed even harder. “Scared you some, didn’t it? This is one scary chair. Anyway, the answer is yes. I know a few old-timers who’d go after a secret stash. One in particularly.”

Matt saw a story coming on and just nodded, something he couldn’t do on the radio to encourage a shy caller. Wetherly was too old to be shy.

He leaned close enough for Matt to smell his cigar breath. “This is between you and me, not for the radio, right?”

Matt nodded again, fighting not to pull back from the foul breath.

Wetherly’s smile broadened, showing crowded yellow teeth. He leaned back. “There was this old kingpin. Jeez, he’d be in his nineties now. Or almost there. But back in the ’70s, he was big. We never could nail him for nothing, but pills, prostitution, protection—he was all over those rackets. Jack the Hammer, they called him.”

“After Jack the Ripper?” Matt wondered.

Wetherly shook his head from side to side with a tight-lipped smile. He leaned forward again, and Matt was too mesmerized to draw back.

“Cross him, and he’d drive you far out into the desert, which wasn’t that far in the old days. There was always a construction site. There was always a compressor with a jackhammer.…” Wetherly grinned.

“He killed people with a jackhammer?”

“Not people, kid. Rivals, upstarts, petty crooks who got greedy. You’ll never see anything on him in all those mob museums, not old Giacchino Petrocelli, because they never caught him and nobody ever killed him.”

“You’re sure he didn’t end up on the business end of his own jackhammer?”

“Only God and the buzzards know, sonny.”

“Jah-keen-o, how is that spelled?”

“It’s Italian. The J names always start with G-i-a, then two c’s give you k pronunciation. G-i-a-c-c-h-i-n-o. You jottted that down right. And ‘Petrocelli’ is right too. Okay. So what you up to? You want to make a headstone for the old mobster?”

“I might want to research him, for my show.”

“I’d watch myself. My theory is Old Giacch-o is still out there, all alone and sitting on his millions. And maybe floating a few deals or corpses even today.”

“Like that dead body of an old man that was dumped off Paradise behind the Strip a week ago?”

“Never knew that guy was old. Who’d bother offing someone my age?” Wetherly wheezed out a laugh that neared a cackle. Then his narrowed eyes almost disappeared in the dunes of flesh surrounding them. “I see, sonny. You’re thinking it might be some old-time mob guy.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Like that guy who was tied to the pirate ship prow after dark at the Oasis, and drowned with the ship when it sank.”

“Ooh, that was a nasty do-in, wasn’t it? Buried in the paper, though.” Wetherly nodded sagely. “Just like that. I hadn’t thought of old Giaccho, but maybe he wanted to change his MO to keep the police away from the fact that he is maybe still out there somewhere.”

The chair squealed as Wetherly slapped himself back into reclining position. He was still a big guy.

“I slam back a few at the cop bars around town. That ‘victim,’ Effinger, was known as a bad lot. Ran errands for anything shady around town. But he never was big enough to merit a mob offing with full honors. Weird case.”

“There’s a rumor Effinger knew something about the loot from an old heist.”

“Rumors.” Wetherly had turned scoffing. “Effinger was a rat fink, a pathetic hanger-on scratching out a few bucks now and then. If Jack the Hammer is still out there, he would have rubbed him out on principle.”

Wetherly’s contempt of his dead stepfather warmed Matt’s heart, not a very charitable reaction. It was always good, though, to learn his own opinion was shared by leaders in their field … in Effinger’s case, cops and crooks alike.

Matt thanked the old cop, who actually rose to see him out.

Wetherly whistled when he spotted the Jaguar at his curb. “Must have robbed a bank yourself.”

Matt smiled modestly. “My show does all right.”

“Keep it up,” the old man advised, “you’ll be seamed and freckled and useless like me before you know it.”

“You’ve been really helpful,” Matt assured him, surviving a crushing handshake before he finally got away.

Old people liked to talk. He often had to hurry them along on the radio. This old guy, though, had given him some solid information.

Maybe Molina would find the first dead guy at Area 54 had links to this Petrocelli character or his old-time operation.

Meanwhile, he checked his cell phone. Temple had texted him to come home. Max had found some new evidence to review.

Matt gunned the Jaguar away from the house, a rare expression of aggravation. Max Kinsella and his precious “evidence” could be abducted by aliens and never heard from again, as far as he was concerned.

Chapter 45

Murder Ménage III: The Thirteenth Sign

Max finally had his magic moment. He looked at Temple and Matt to gather their attention as they sat at the round table.