From the moment the mismatched quartet stepped onto the Amtrak train Southwest Chief, bound for Chicago from Los Angeles, they were the center of attention. There was something different about all of them; the other passengers could sense it. And in spite of themselves they could not refrain from sneaking glimpses at the mysterious group whenever possible.
Oddly enough, the one who was clearly the youngest was also clearly the leader. The other three followed him and obeyed whatever he told them to do. For the first leg of the journey he remained in his seat, staring out the window with one arm propped on an elbow. But the longer the trip persisted the more restless he became. He stood frequently, pacing up and down the aisles with a strut that suggested he believed himself to be important and a glare that screamed to leave him alone. Everyone did.
The heavyset man appeared to be the most nervous. He watched the pacer with anxious eyes, as though prepared to jump up in an instant and run over to him. He stayed sitting, looking as though he did not want to cross paths with the almost-youthful leader unless absolutely necessary.
The silent man at his side was also watching, albeit his expression was more difficult to read. He seemed content to linger in his traveling companion's shadow, not about to make a move without consulting him first.
All of this was very strange.
The fourth person was a blonde girl who was not much older, if anything, than the leader. She followed his movements with her eyes, wringing her hands in her lap. After allowing him to pace for some time she at last stood and went to him, speaking in low tones. He snapped back something or other, stubbornly remaining standing. When she returned to her seat, looking helpless, he leaned against the wall, twisting a ruby ring around his finger and gazing into the distance.
The other passengers were soon whispering among themselves. Who were these strange people? Why did they let themselves be led by someone so much younger than any of them? What was the leader so agitated about? And why was there a woman traveling with them? Was she related to any of them? Could she even be married to one of them, perhaps the leader?
When someone on the staff spoke to one of the men, they received various terse replies. The woman was much more polite, albeit subdued and worried. None of them were willing to offer any information on who they were or what their business was in Chicago. It was not long before the staff tried to avoid the group when possible.
As the night wore on and people went to the dining car, the leader was not hungry. Instead he ordered an alcoholic drink, then another and a third. The girl protested the more he drank, but to no avail. When he was nearing the point of obviously having had too many, the other men had had enough. They got up with one accord as the heavyset man declared that their leader had had too much to drink. Amidst screams, curses, and struggles, he was dragged away from the table and out of the dining car. Everyone watching stared in a sort of disbelieving fascination. No matter what these people did, they caused some sort of stir.
With the trip being overnight, many gossiping passengers wondered if the girl would share a room with one of the men. Several attempted to discreetly spy on them when they finally departed to go to their cabins. But if the other travelers were hoping for a scandal, they did not get it. The heavyset man and his quiet friend disappeared into a room with two beds. The leader and the girl each went into a room of their own.
The second day was more of the same—the unsociable behavior, the pacing, and the anxiety. The tension hung heavy in the air. It was noticeable, almost tangible, and several people opened windows in the hopes of dispelling it. Eventually the group vanished into their respective rooms, where they stayed for the rest of the journey.
When the train at last pulled in at Chicago, they were among the first to disembark. As the most curious passengers observed, along with the usual suitcases removed from the baggage car there was also an ominous, oblong wooden crate. This the three men loaded onto a long baggage cart. Then, before nosy passersby could hail them, they and the girl disappeared into the crowds.
One staff member, out of idle curiosity, later looked up the names the quartet had registered with. Most were common names that no one would give a second glance to. But one shot the young woman's eyebrows high.
"`Sherry Fingerhead'?" she read in utter amazement. She set down the records, shaking her head. "If that was my name, I'd change it in an instant."
Then she replaced the folder and thought nothing more about it.
****
Chicago was more built up than he had remembered. And yet on the other hand, so much of it seemed just the same as it had several years before. He recognized the great majority of the buildings. But there were plenty of subdivisions that he had never seen. And once upon a time, he had all but memorized this city.
He stared emptily out the window of the large van as Vince drove them through the streets at his direction. When he fell silent for a few minutes, the others glanced his way with uncertainty, wondering if he was still aware of their surroundings. But then he spoke suddenly and without warning, telling Vince the next street to turn onto or what kind of landmark to look for.
"Gee, Baby Face, you remember this place really good," said Vince at last.
"Of course I remember it good," Baby Face retorted. "I first got into crime here."
"Do you really think the mansion will be just as you left it?" Vince wondered.
"It'd better be," Baby Face growled. "Eduardo left it to me, and I left it in the best condition. I've checked in with the servants I kept off and on through the years to make sure it stays that way."
"It's a lucky break you own this place, Baby Face," Vince said. "If you didn't, we'd be out in the woods..." He trailed off, uncomfortable and sobered.
Baby Face grunted, not pleased at the vocal reminder but saying nothing. He knew it as well as Vince did...as well as they all did.
He continued to gaze out the window as the sun began to sink and the lights of the city started to come on. Eduardo had been content to stay here, operating his various branches of organized crime from his estate. But Baby Face had always been too wild and too restless. Eduardo had known that Baby Face could not be happy settling down like that, at least not for years. But he had willed the manor to his young charge anyway, both feeling that it would be a great help at some point and not wanting it to fall into the hands of strangers.
And in that he had been right, as he had been right about so many things. Law enforcement officials had no idea that Baby Face was connected with Ambrosius Eduardo. With Eduardo's secrecy and the seclusion of the estate, they probably did not even know he was dead. And with Eduardo's organized crime rings brought to a halt by his murder, other criminals left the mansion alone. Baby Face had determined that the property would be a safe place to return to now and then when he needed to lay low. And in this case, for other reasons too.
"How far do we go now, Baby Face?" Vince asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Baby Face did not miss a beat. "Keep on this road until you hit the big tree up there," he said. "Then turn left. Keep going until there's not much around. It'll come up on the right."
He laced his fingers. The years were falling away in his mind's eye as they traveled the familiar road. He had been on this path countless times as a teenager. He had only lived with Eduardo for three years, but it had been a far more welcome and pleasant time than all the years he had previously spent with his aunt and uncle in Detroit. He had been accepted and treated well and cared about, unlike what he had experienced throughout his entire childhood.
Nevertheless, his memories of Chicago were not all positive. He was still bitter and angry over Eduardo's murder. He remembered that dark night all too well. He had shot two of the killers—the first two people he had ever killed himself. Eduardo had managed to shoot the third, but then he had slipped away in Baby Face's arms. At the age of sixteen, Baby Face had been left all alone.
Eduardo had a private family cemetery on his spacious grounds. It was at the far edge of the property, completely surrounded by an iron fence and further obscured by large trees. Baby Face had spent the rest of that night digging a grave in the cold earth and burying his mentor's body. Then he had left the cemetery, never to look back. Visiting cemeteries was not his style. Just thinking about Eduardo's death made him furious. To return to the place where Eduardo had been laid to rest would only make it far worse.
In the present, the mansion looked the same as it always had. Baby Face sat up straighter as Vince drove to the locked gates. Beyond them, the three-story red-and-white estate loomed large over the van.
"Lean out the window," Baby Face directed. "There's an intercom. Push the button."
Vince obeyed. After a short buzz, the system crackled from lack of use and a stuffy voice said, "State your name and business."
Vince hesitated, not sure what to say. "Uh...Vince Ruckyzer," he said then. "I'm driving Baby Face Morales here."
Baby Face yelled across the van, "We're just coming to take care of something." He added a word that held no meaning to any of the other occupants of the vehicle. Apparently it was some sort of code, as the voice changed to surprise and recognition.
"Of...of course, sir. Come in, please."
The gates creaked open almost in the same moment.
Vince looked to Baby Face with raised eyebrows. "That's quick service!"
Baby Face shrugged. "They know I'm the boss," he said.
Vince drove through the gates and onto the winding driveway. By the time he reached the head and stopped, several servants had congregated at the garage to welcome the group.
Baby Face opened the passenger door and stepped out. They were all here, a few years older but basically still like he remembered them—Charles, the butler, serious and no-nonsense; Cora, the housekeeper, motherly and accepting; Aggie and Henri, the maids, more perky than he liked; and Johnson, the elderly gardener, gruff but proud of his work.
"You're looking well, sir," Charles commented.
"It's so good to see you home, sir," Cora exclaimed. "Should I make up rooms for you and your guests?" She looked to the others with curiosity, but said nothing else. Baby Face would introduce them when he felt like it.
"Yeah. Make up four rooms," Baby Face said. "We'll be staying the night. Maybe longer."
He turned to Johnson. "We need your truck," he said. "And some tools." He named several. "Get that map of the cemetery plots while you're at it."
Johnson's eyebrows rose. "I'll get on it right away, sir," he said. "What have you been getting into?" This he mostly muttered, not really expecting an answer.
"Just get the stuff," Baby Face growled.
Johnson nodded and hurried off to his shed.
Charles looked back to Baby Face. "Should we take your luggage, sir?"
"Yeah," Baby Face said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the back of the van. "But leave the crate."
Charles nodded and walked around to the back of the vehicle. Cora and the maids went to help him. Baby Face watched with crossed arms as they lowered the ramp, took out the suitcases, and headed for the front porch.
Ruby stepped closer to him. He could feel her searching eyes on him, but he ignored her. She was worried about him, and had been ever since this had started back in L.A. several days ago, and there was nothing he could say to her that he had not already said. He was fine; she did not need to keep thinking he wasn't. This sort of thing happened in their line of work. It was not the first time and it would not be the last.
Several minutes later the headlights of Johnson's old light-blue pick-up illuminated the property. Baby Face stood by, waiting until the truck pulled up alongside the van. Then he walked to the driver's door, looking up at Johnson through the window.
"Help us load the crate in the back," he said. "You're coming with us to the cemetery."
Johnson nodded. "Sure thing," he said. He got out of the cab and walked around the vehicle, lowering the flatbed gate. Then he followed Baby Face to the van, where the others were starting to push the wooden crate towards the ramp. Together the four men lifted it down and carried it to the truck. Ruby stood by, watching, then followed Baby Face to the cab of the truck.
"You and I are riding up front with Johnson," Baby Face told her. "The others'll sit back there to make sure nothing messes up."
Ruby gave a slow nod. "Okay, Baby Face," she agreed.
The ride down one of the estate's many paths took several minutes. Baby Face spent most of the time studying the plot map. When they pulled up at the small cemetery he had decided where to go.
He got out of the cab and walked to the back of the pick-up. "Start opening the crate," he ordered the other gang members.
They nodded in obedience. Each taking up a crowbar, they began to pry off the front panel. Once it was sufficiently open, they began to ease out the simple coffin inside. Baby Face and Johnson took hold of the end, lifting it down with the help of the others.
"Do you want me to dig the plot?" Johnson asked once it was on the grass.
"Nah. I'll do it." Baby Face gestured for the gang members to hand him the shovel. Vince gave it to him and he stepped to the spot indicated on the map. Pushing the shovel into the earth, he ground it deeper with his foot and then lifted the first scoop of dirt.
His expression hardened as he worked. This was dredging up the memories of that other night when he had dug a grave in this place. Eduardo's blood had been all over him, but he had not noticed until he had seen the crimson stains on the shovel. Then he had discovered the red on his hands, clothes, and even his face.
This time there was no blood. The shovel did not slip and slide in his grasp. And he was not alone. Ruby and the gang were standing by, both to pay their respects and in case Baby Face needed them. Johnson was also lingering, albeit he was standing further back so as not to intrude.
Baby Face leaned back when the hole was deep enough. "There," he muttered, pushing back his hat. It sounded somewhat strange to speak, after such a stretch without words.
"Do you want to have some kind of a service, sir?" Johnson asked.
Baby Face shook his head. "I'm not much in for that kinda thing," he said. "You know that. Besides, what's there to really say? We know what he was like." He gestured between himself, Ruby, and the other gang members. "We can remember him just fine." He turned away, going to attach the cables to the coffin. "Let's just bury him and get it over with."
Johnson nodded. He and the other two men moved to assist.
No one spoke again until the casket was being lowered. "This seems so unreal," Ruby whispered.
Vince gave a somber nod, clutching his bowler hat in his thick hands. "I bet he didn't have any idea this would happen," he said.
"Of course he didn't," Baby Face snarled. "No one knows they're gonna die."
"I mean about you burying him here, Baby Face," Vince hurried to say. "I wonder if he still thought or hoped to be buried by his wife."
"And that's something I couldn't swing," Baby Face retorted. "This is the best I could do. It's better than some unknown place in the woods."
"I'm sure he'd be grateful, Baby Face," Ruby tried to assure him.
"It's not like it matters now, anyway," Baby Face said. "We were a gang before he came along and we'll keep being a gang now that he's gone."
As the coffin reached the bottom and the cables were unhooked and brought up, Baby Face returned to the shovel. He only hesitated a brief moment before loading it down with dirt and dumping the dirt into the hole.
Again there was silence as he worked. When the task was done, Baby Face looked at the fresh grave for only a moment. Then he spun with a whirl, taking the shovel back to the pick-up. Without so much as another look at the cemetery he climbed into the cab.
One by one the others filed away, also heading back to the truck.
Ruby hesitated. She bit her lip, gazing at the lonely spot. "I wish it hadn't turned out like this," she said quietly, "but I'm sure you wish that too.
"I...I'm worried about Baby Face," She admitted. "He's taking this hard. I know he won't admit it. I don't think he even realizes it himself. But...there's hardly anyone he'd bury here, in his mentor's private cemetery. I hope you know that."
She looked back to the truck. "Well...I'd better go," she said. "Goodbye, Tony." She trudged back over the grass and to the cab.
Vince, who had also lingered, echoed Ruby's farewell. "Yeah...Goodbye, Tony," he mumbled. He turned away, heading to the back of the pick-up.
****
The rooms were ready by the time they returned to the house. Vince and Harry went to theirs, numb and still trying to comprehend what had happened. Even after all this, it felt unreal. Instead of the burial grounding them more firmly in reality, it had only served to make everything seem more like a foggy dream. They should wake up and find that everything was fine and Tony was alive. Instead, that would never happen.
Ruby went to freshen up in the private bathroom attached to her room. It had been a long trip here on the train, and the small bathroom in her cabin did not have anywhere near the amenities of this large and spacious room. It was probably as big as her entire apartment in Los Angeles!
She stood in front of the mirror, a sad sigh escaping her lips as she splashed water on her face. Baby Face had not followed them upstairs. He was probably still on the first floor. And if Ruby knew him as well as she thought, he had probably gone to the bar in the house.
Several minutes later she was out in the hall, looking at the other doors up and down the corridor. There was no way to tell which one belonged to Baby Face. But she doubted he had ever come up. She would go downstairs and look for the bar first, then ask about his room only if she could not find him there.
When she found the bar, sure enough—he was there at the counter, pouring himself a shot-glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp and started to pour another. From his unsteadiness, he had already managed to have too much before she had come.
"What'd you think of that, eh?" he mumbled, aware of her entrance. "That's how I handle funerals. Just bury 'em and get it done. None of that drawn-out mushy trash like what was at your old man's funeral." He did not really expect an answer, and Ruby was more concerned about his alcohol level to give one.
"Baby Face, you need to stop," she said as she went to him. "You've had too much!" She reached out, hoping to take the bottle away.
He jerked it out of her grasp. "I'm not going to stop," he snapped. "I'll decide when I've had too much." He drank the next shot of whiskey and again tipped the bottle to fill the small glass. It clanked against the edge.
"Baby Face, I know you're upset, but this isn't going to help!" Ruby tried again.
Baby Face slammed the bottle on the counter so hard it was a surprise it did not immediately shatter. "I'm not upset!" he roared. "I just want a drink. Leave me alone!"
Ruby sank onto the next stool over. She felt helpless, as she always did at such times. Baby Face refused to listen to reason. Drinking himself into a stupor was the way he dealt with his emotions. Well, that and attacking everything in a room. That might come later.
She looked back to him when she heard him fumbling with the now-empty shot-glass. As he set it on the counter he leaned forward, swearing in anger.
"I couldn't even save him," he said. "I couldn't save Eduardo and I couldn't save Tony. That idiot! That crazy idiot!" He slammed his hand on the counter, spewing a series of foul names.
Ruby watched him, her heart twisting at how visibly distraught he was now that he was drunk. "You don't mean those things," she said.
"Of course I mean them!" Baby Face snapped. "I mean every word! If he's so useless as to go getting himself killed, then I never needed him anyway." He stood, hurling the empty bottle of whiskey at the wall. It shattered, sending pieces flying in every direction. The shot-glass soon followed.
With nothing else on the counter to throw, he turned his attention to the room. Ruby cringed as he overturned every table and sent chairs sailing. To try to stop him would only make it worse. More than once she had watched him throwing furniture and empty crates in fits of fury. From experience she knew she had to stick it out and wait for him to finish unleashing steam.
When everything in the room that could be uprooted was on the floor he stood over the mess, breathing heavily. Then he turned, stumbling back to the bar. He sank onto the stool, trembling.
"So that's it then," he said. "Tony's dead. He's really dead." He leaned against the bar, running a shaking hand over his eyes. He swore again, but there was no anger in his tone now. He sounded as despondent and as helpless as Ruby felt.
"I'm sorry, Baby Face," Ruby quavered. "I'm really sorry."
If he heard her, he gave no heed. Instead he just repeated the curse.
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