Chasing a Blond Moon(49)
“He was a fucking Nazi. Since then, nothin’ but pansies and players in yellow.”
Ficorelli wasn’t one to let his opinions lay dormant.
“I’m headed down to Jefferson. You know a guy named Masonetsky?”
“Rafe or his old man?”
“Either. Both,” Service said.
“Coupla loudmouths,” Ficorelli said. “I been bustin’ Rafe since he was twelve. Everybody thought he was gonna go into the NFL, but he went off to some dink college up your way and hurt his leg and that’s the end of that tune.”
Ficorelli didn’t know what had happened. “I don’t think that’s how it went down.”
“No?”
“He failed a drug test. Steroids.”
“Dumb fuck,” Ficorelli said, sounding delighted. “Big dumb fuck.”
“Do you know a guy named Randall Gage?”
“I thought you wanted to know about the Masonetskys.”
“Gage too.”
“Gage is a prick. He runs some archery shit up toward Oconomowoc. Bastard trucks in rabbits and cats and his members have night shoots.”
“That’s legal?”
“Fuck no, but the members are a tight-lipped buncha assholes and so far I haven’t been able to make a case.”
“You got a tip?”
“Madison got an anonymous letter.”
“I have business with Gage and I also want to talk to Rafe Masonetsky.”
“What business?”
“Gage’s membership list.”
“What about the big dumb fuck?”
Ficorelli didn’t sound particularly stable, but he decided to confide some of the reasons.
“There’s a warrant for his arrest. Drugs.”
“Steroids?”
“No, something else.”
“You want my help?”
“That’s why I called. We’ll be in town in about ten or so. Got the name of a good motel?”
“Hell with that motel shit,” Ficorelli said. “You can bunk with Mom and me.”
Service fought a snicker. “You live with your mother?” The man sounded like he was in his early thirties.
“You got a problem with that?” Ficorelli asked.
“No, no. But there’s two of us.”
“We got room.” Ficorelli gave him directions and promised to meet them at ten.
“We have a place to bunk tonight,” Service told Pyykkonen. “That will give us all day tomorrow to do business. We can talk to the cops tonight, get everything coordinated, make sure the warrants are in, check on subpoena status.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said.
Ficorelli and his mother lived in a farmhouse a mile north of town. It was surrounded by fields filled with dried field corn that rattled in the breeze.
The warden was no taller than five-six and small-boned, but jutted out his jaw like a feisty dog ready to do battle over anything. His mother was frail and gentle with blue hair, and blue veins showing through her pale cheeks.
Ficorelli met them with glasses of red wine. “Made this myself,” he said, beaming with pride. He was still in uniform. His mother had loaded a table with snack food and made pasta while they munched.
“How can you eat like that and stay so skinny?” Pyykkonen asked their host as he hoisted spoonfuls of food and swallowed without chewing. He ate like some sort of constrictor, Service thought.
“I fuck a lot,” Ficorelli said, breaking into a laugh.
Pyykkonen glared at Service, who raised his eyebrows in answer.
Service stepped onto the porch to try Nantz again and heard Ficorelli yip.
When he stepped back into the house, the warden’s cheek was red and he was eating silently, his attention focused on biscotti.
Pyykkonen stared at Service. Her look was not one of amusement.
11
Mama Ficorelli was up early the next morning and when Service came down to the kitchen she was already piling food on the table. The aroma of baking bread filled the house like an airborne intoxicant.
“Did you sleep all right?” Mama asked.
“Yes, fine.” But he hadn’t. He had left another voice mail with Nantz and still hadn’t heard from her.
Sometime during the night he also thought he heard voices in the next room—Wayno and Pyykkonen—but he decided that was ridiculous and went back to sleep.
Limey came down to breakfast before Ficorelli and sat on the side of the table, next to an open chair. Her hair was frazzled, and she looked like she hadn’t slept much. An insipid smile was pasted on her face.
“Good morning,” she said with more enthusiasm than Service was accustomed to.
Mama Ficorelli was serving blueberry pancakes when her son came bouncing into the room and plopped in a chair beside Pyykkonen. The antagonism of last night seemed to have dissipated.