7 — Interrogative
October 8, 1938
The place was dark, and the swirl of cigar smoke and old garlic that passed for air was shot through with hints of sweat and sex. Dwight braced himself and slipped inside.
He barely had to go two steps inside the door to see Dominic Tamburo. The man was seated at a central table, holding forth with some dramatic tale while a gang of lackeys sat around, starry eyed and adoring. There were girls as well, one on Tamburo's knee, one leaning against the back of the chair. They spotted Dwight first, and the one behind the chair shifted as if to approach him, but seemed to think better of it.
"Dominic Tamburo?" Dwight rattled.
The man in question looked up, a trace of confusion on his face.
"I know you?" he asked.
"No, but we're gonna change that real quick. See, I got a few questions for you."
Dwight noticed more than a few lackeys reaching for their jackets. If they were smart, they wouldn't try anything without Tamburo's nod.
No nod was granted. Instead, Tamburo stood, crossed his arms, and moved toward Dwight.
"I dun talk Englizzh s'gud," he slurred.
A couple of the lackeys chuckled. Dwight shrugged slightly, letting one side of his jacket flare.
"Can the cute shit, Tamburo. You were born and raised here, your mother was born and raised here. If those little speeches at your father's Christmas parties are anything to go by, you speak English better than the king of England."
Tamburo's face had gone deep red, and his arms dropped to his sides, fists clenched.
"You got some business with me," he gritted out, "we can take it up Monday, at my office. Otherwise..."
"Oh, I got business with you. And we're gonna take it up right now."
"Says who?" Tamburo growled.
"Says me and the cops who are waiting to rush this place if I'm not back out front, with you, in..."
Dwight paused and looked at his watch.
"Fifteen seconds."
Tamburo's face went pale now, and slack, and without a word, he grabbed Dwight by the shoulder, spun him around, and marched him back out of the place. Some of the lackeys started to follow, but Tamburo cut them off with a few words in Italian.
Outside, Dwight wrenched himself out of Tamburo's grip.
"You can cool it, Tamburo. The cops were a bluff."
Dwight braced himself for fists, or a sudden knife to the gut, but instead, Tamburo laughed.
"That... You... Look, this a gag? Nato put you up to this? Or my Regina? Honestly..."
"I'm not here on behalf of your brother or your wife. I'm here at the request of Spiros Angellini. Seems his brother Ari used to work for you..."
"Ari never worked for me. Just for Nato."
"Now see, that's funny. 'Cause Spiros says his brother worked for you a lot. That officially he worked for Nato, but..."
"Look, sometimes Ari'd run an errand for me. Pick up some papers and such. But he was Nato's employee."
"I see. And can you tell me why, exactly, your brother Nato fired Ari?"
Tamburo shrugged, shook his head, and fumbled a cigar from his pocket.
"I dunno. He wasn't working so well, I suppose. Nato doesn't keep me apprised of his entire life."
"Would your brother ever go above and beyond firing someone?"
"Huh?"
"See, Ari Angellini was found beaten half to death a few days after he told his brother he'd been fired. He'd apparently seemed very concerned that his firing wasn't the end of the matter, that their might be trouble..."
Tamburo's eyes narrowed.
"Who are you? You're no cop, that's for sure."
"I'm a private investigator. Spiros Angellini has retained me to look into the matter of his brother's beating."
"Ah. I'd think the cops would look into a matter like that."
Dwight shrugged.
"Seems the Angellini's are concerned that the cops might not put their all into an investigation of this matter. That certain individuals might pervert the course of justice."
"Pervert, huh?"
Tamburo bit the end from his cigar, lit it and, after a few puffs, went on.
"If you want to worry over perversion, Mister Private Investigator, maybe go and ask Spiros Angellini what his dear, sainted brother knows about perverts. Ask him if maybe his brother didn't bring the beating on himself."
With that, Tamburo spun on his heel and headed back into the "gentlemen's club" where his lackeys and girls were waiting. Dwight watched him go, then glanced down to the pavement.
Crouching, Dwight eased the tweezers from his coat pocket. He tweezed the cigar end up with care, slipping it into a small envelope in another pocket. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Posted Oct 7, 2019, 8:30 AM UTC · edited