KING OF THE CITY
By
John M. Floyd

Manny Ramirez was already there, waiting in the grassy clearing at the edge of the overlook, when the tall man arrived. Ramirez turned and watched, his elbows propped comfortably on the wooden railing behind him, while the man walked through the last of the trees and out into the sunlit clearing. As he approached he took something from his coat pocket and held it casually at his side--the object was large and black and rounded, and had a short strap attached. At the sight of it Ramirez tensed, then slowly relaxed. It was only a pair of binoculars. The tall man stopped at a distance of ten or twelve feet, and for several seconds the two of them stood facing each other in an eerie, heavy silence.

"So you're the famous Mike Valenti," Ramirez said.

The tall man -- who was also a considerably older man than Ramirez -- didn't reply. Their eyes held for a long moment; finally the newcomer turned to the wooden barrier and, like Ramirez, rested his elbows and forearms on the top rail. Below them, the city was spread out like an aerial map, and the valley stretched away into hazy blue distance. The guidebooks said you could see fifty miles from here--the old guidebooks, that is. The road to the overlook had been closed for ten years.

The man called Valenti raised the binoculars slowly to his eyes and studied the view for a moment. Without turning to look at Ramirez, he said: "Thanks for coming. I know it was short notice."

A silence passed, during which Valenti continued to examine the valley and Ramirez continued to examine Valenti.

After a moment Ramirez removed a long thin cigar from his vest pocket. Keeping his eyes on the older man, he lit the cigar with a gold lighter and inhaled deeply.

"I suppose I should be honored," Ramirez said, letting out jerky little clouds of smoke along with his words. "I'm told you don't come out of hiding very often."

Again the tall man didn't bother to reply. He kept his eyes to the glasses, his elbows on the railing. The only sounds were the sighing of the wind in the pines and the occasional faraway honk of a car horn.

"Actually I'm a little surprised," Ramirez added, watching him shrewdly. "You don't look nearly as much like a dago as I thought you would."

Valenti gave him a bored glance, then went back to the view. "You don't look like a man who might be about to die in a few minutes, either," he said. "Appearances can be deceiving."

Ramirez blinked. He was not someone who was accustomed to hearing threats -- at least not firsthand. He took his cigar from between his teeth; a slow smile spread across his face.

"Who should I be afraid of?" he asked carefully. "You?"

The tall man lowered the glasses and stared at him. "I doubt if you have sense enough to be," he observed. "But yes, you should."

Manny Ramirez laughed out loud. "You got some thick bark on you, Valenti, I'll give you that. Coming up here all alone, talking to Manuel Ramirez that way . . ."

Valenti smiled back at him. "I'm not alone," he said. "A guardian angel watches over me." He paused and looked out over the view once more, as if studying a rare work of art. "A short angel, with a bald head and only one eye." He raised the glasses again. "An eye sharp enough to put that cigar of yours out at a hundred yards, if I tell him to."

Ramirez' grin faded. Moving only his eyes, he glanced up and past the tall man's profile, up into the dark forest on the slope above the clearing. His gaze stayed there a minute, searching, then fell again to rest on Valenti. "You're lying," he said flatly. "Shorty's still in Quentin. With three years left to go."

"Not any more. He's here now. Working for me."

"I don't believe you."

Again Valenti looked up from his binoculars. "I figured you might not. He and I talked about that. So we agreed on a signal. A little demonstration, let's call it. The only problem is, you're not wearing a hat today, so I'm not sure what part of you he might choose to shoot off." He set the binoculars down carefully on the top rail and held both hands down at his sides. "Would you like me to show you?"

Manny Ramirez licked his lips. His smile was long gone now; the beginnings of a frown creased his forehead. He had known Shorty Robinson well, had even done a job or two with him over the years, and had seen the feats he could perform with a highpowered rifle. As a result Ramirez found himself faced with a dilemma. On the one hand, he seriously doubted that Valenti -- even with his obvious connections -- would be able to get a man like Shorty Robinson out of a maximum-security prison. On the other hand, Ramirez had grown rather fond of most of his body parts, and would prefer to keep them intact and working.

"You're forgetting something, Mike Valenti," he said tightly. "I'm not all alone up here either."

"Oh yes you are, Manny. I know you're not used to it, but you are."

Ramirez' frown deepened. Keeping his eyes on the older man, he turned his head to the left and called: "Pedro! Luis! Come out here."

There was no answer. Somewhere far away, a train whistle blew long and mournfully.

"Boys!" he called again, more loudly now. "Get your asses out here NOW!"

Silence.

After a moment Valenti said, reassuringly: "Your friends are fine, Manny, they're just catching a little nap. That's why I was late. If you behave you'll be able to stop and pick them up on your way out." He sighed and tried to look philosophical. "Good help is getting hard to find, isn't it."

Manny Ramirez' dark face seemed to darken even further. He started to take a step forward.

"Hold it," Valenti said sharply. "Just hold it right there."

Ramirez stopped, looking uncertain.

"As long as we've started on the ground rules, let me finish them up. I would advise you to listen closely." The tall man held a hand out in front of him and wiggled his fingers. "Anytime during our little meeting here today, if I raise my hand over my head with a forefinger extended, you will be wounded. A kneecap, probably. Also if you try to run away." He paused. "If I raise my hand flat, with the palm out and all five fingers extended, you will die. Immediately. You'll also die if you make a sudden move toward me, or try to pull a weapon. Understood?"

Ramirez stood there glaring at him, chewing the thin cigar. After a moment his eyes flicked past the older man again, scanning the forest, then returned to Valenti's face. "I'll kill you for this," he said fervently.

"Maybe later, Manny. Right now let's concentrate on the present."

Ramirez was quiet for several seconds, watching the other's eyes. "What is it you want?" he blurted. "Why are you doing this?"

"I want information," Valenti said. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets now; he looked like a businessman who had decided to take a stroll through the park on his lunch break.

"Information . . . ?"

"I want a name and a place. If you give them to me you can go. You'll find your buddies in a ditch just down the path a ways, tied up and snoozing like babies. I'm afraid you'll have to load 'em into the car yourself, though."

Ramirez' face hardened. He took out his cigar and flung it aside in disgust. "You can shove it, Valenti. You're not gettin' anything from me, now or ever."

"I truly hope you don't mean that, my friend."

"Damn right I mean it. Have your man kill me if you're goin' to, I'm not tellin' you nothin'." He glanced once more up into the trees. "Do it now, if you're so damn smart. Go ahead!"

The tall man sighed. "I was afraid of this," he admitted. "The typical macho Mexican. But if you don't care about your own life, maybe you do about someone else's."

Ramirez' eyes narrowed. "What?"

"How about your brother, for instance? You wouldn't want your stubbornness to hurt him, would you?"

"What are you talkin' about --"

With a swift, smooth motion, Valenti picked the binoculars up off the rail and tossed them through the air to a startled Manny Ramirez. "See for yourself," he said.

For a moment Ramirez just stood there holding the glasses and staring at the older man doubtfully. Then, puzzled but obviously worried, he turned to the overlook and brought the binoculars to eye level.

"The railyard," Valenti said. "The north edge, behind the old packing plant."

It took Ramirez a moment to find it and get the glasses focused. When he did he squinted and leaned forward an inch or two, as if that would be enough to show him he wasn't really seeing what he thought he was seeing.

Far below and almost two miles away, his brother Carlo was standing beside a black Cadillac in a deserted parking-lot near the back corner of the city railroad yard. With him were two other men; all three wore dark suits and sunglasses. As Ramirez watched, his brother said something to one of the others and looked down at his watch.

"They're waitin' on something," Manny said, as if to himself.

"They sure are," Valenti agreed. "They're waiting on twenty pounds of cocaine, which should arrive in about --" He glanced at his watch. "-- about ten minutes."

"What?" Ramirez turned to look at him. "How do you know that? I didn't even know that."

"I have connections, Manny. I won't bore you with details."

"But . . . why are you showing me this? What's going on?”

The tall man regarded him thoughtfully. "What you're seeing, my bean-eating friend, is a set-up. A sting, if you like movie lingo." He paused. "The coke will be there in ten minutes; the cops'll be there in twelve. To see it change hands."

"Whaaat?"

"I said I had connections; they're not just in the underworld. I've had the cops in my pocket for years now, you should know that. They want Carlo, and want him bad--so I gave him to them. On a platter." He paused again, and smiled. "The kicker is, I can also get him out of it. Or, to be exact, you can."

Ramirez was holding the binoculars to his eyes again, watching tensely. Nothing much had changed; Carlo and his compadres were walking around near the car, talking soundlessly and kicking cans with the toes of their thousand-dollar alligator loafers. At Valenti's last statement, Ramirez looked up at him sharply.

"Me? What are you talkin' about --"

"All you have to do," Valenti said quietly, "is tell me what I want to know. If you do, I'll abort the sting. Or at least spoil it. There's plenty of time yet; your brother'll get away clean."

But . . . how --"

The tall man reached into the left pocket of his coat and removed a small telephone handset. "A simple cellular phone," he said. "Two of my men are parked in an old tan Ford, in the bushes just beside the packing plant. The number of their car-phone is already stored in this handset. All I have to do is press a couple of buttons and I'll be talking to them. I'll just say one word -- 'Go' -- and they'll let loose a burst of machinegun-fire. Carlo and his friends are only fifty yards away -- they'll make a little water in their pants and then take off like a bat out of hell. And when the dealers arrive they'll find nobody there. Neither will the cops."

Ramirez stared at him, breathing hard. He was so confused and frightened he had almost forgotten his anger. Beads of sweat had popped out on his narrow forehead. He snatched up the glasses again. Sure enough, concealed behind some tall bushes near the packing plant he could see what looked like the top of a tan-colored car.

His mind spun. He swallowed loudly.

Suddenly he turned to Valenti. "What do you want to know?" he blurted.

"I want the name of Eddie Del Vecchio's accountant, and where t--"

"What? Del Vecchio--?"

"-- and where to find him," Valenti said. "I know already that he has all the records with him -- falsified tax returns, invoices for illegal arms shipments, everything. They can be requisitioned. The machinery is all in place; if I can point the cops to him they can put Del Vecchio away forever, just like they did Capone in Chicago. It's the last link." He paused for a beat, then hurried on: "Think what that would mean, Ramirez. The King of the East End would be out of business. Dethroned. In fact there'd be no more king of this or king of that around here; I'd run it all. And my organization would be no more a threat to yours than Del Vecchio's was; you and Carlo have never branched out any further than drugs anyway."

He paused once more, to let that sink in.

"That's the information I need," he said again. "But I need it now." He checked his watch. "Five minutes till showtime."

It was suddenly very quiet in the clearing. Ramirez looked at Valenti, then at the scene below, then at Valenti again.

A drop of sweat ran into his eyes, and he blinked.

Eddie Del Vecchio, he thought.

If Ramirez finked on Del Vecchio and Del Vecchio found out about it, Manny would soon be wearing lead galoshes, and he knew it. But why should Del Vecchio find out, Ramirez thought feverishly. At least half a dozen people knew the connection between Del Vecchio and his shyster bookkeeper. At least. Nobody could pin the leak on Ramirez. And besides . . .

Besides, his brother was a cooked goose if he didn't. Carlo had four priors, and a bust like this would send him up for good. That is, if they didn't have a shootout right there in the parking lot -- in which case Carlo might wind up in a coffin instead of a cell-block.

Ramirez made up his mind.

"Okay," he said, and swallowed. "I'll give you the name, and you sound the alarm."

"And the address," the tall man said.

"Yes. And the address."

Valenti raised the phone and held a finger above the buttons, his face tense. "Remember, " he said, "I'll know enough about this to know if you're lying."

There was another moment's hesitation, then Ramirez took a deep breath and let it out in a long whoosh.

"The bookkeeper's Toler," he said. "Benjamin Toler. He lives in Fairview Apartments, fourth floor. I don't know the number, but he lives with a gal named Bonnie Sims, he'll be easy to find."

Valenti's face went blank for a minute as he absorbed and processed the information. "Of course," he murmured. "The Sims woman was--"

"Come on!" Ramirez shouted. "I did my part. Call your men . . ."

The older man pressed a button -- and stopped. He turned the phone in his hands, examining it carefully. He put it to his ear, frowned, then looked at it again.

"What're you doing?" Ramirez shouted. "Make the call!"

Valenti looked up at him, a perplexed expression on his face. "Now ain't that a note?" he said solemnly. "The batteries don't seem to be working . . .”

Ramirez' mouth dropped open. Without even stopping to think, he snatched the glasses frantically to his eyes and focused on the scene below. The Cadillac was still there, his brother was still there. No sign of another group. Maybe the whole thing had been a hoax, he thought wildly, maybe there would be no bust--

Then, as he watched, another Caddie pulled into the yard, this one gray, and stopped ten paces from the first. Four dapper-looking dudes piled out, money and drugs exchanged hands. A moment later, right in the middle of the transaction, half a dozen police cruisers wheeled into the lot, their tires spraying gravel. Doors popped open, cops popped out, hands reached for the sky. Carlo Ramirez had purchased his last gram of cocaine.

Very slowly Manny lowered the glasses and turned to face the tall man, who stared back at him calmly.

"Dern Japanese phones," Valenti said, with a sigh. "You just can't count on 'em in a pinch."

Keeping his eyes on Valenti, Ramirez' right arm slashed out and to the right. The binoculars went spinning out into space. Far below, the sound of metal striking rocks floated back to them.

"You never intended to stop it, did you," Ramirez murmured. His face was beet-red, his eyes blazing. "You never even had any guys down there at all--"

Valenti considered that for a moment. "I would have," he said gravely, "but they all had other commitments. Something about a special at the pizza place--"

"I'll kill you for this," Ramirez said. His voice was deadly quiet. Every muscle in his face seemed to have taken on a life of its own, twitching and jerking. A blue vein pulsed in his forehead.

"Now you're repeating yourself," Valenti observed sadly. "A sign of a limited vocabulary, Manny. Maybe you should try to read more . . ."

Suddenly Ramirez' right hand, which had tightened into a fist, uncurled again and slid into his pants pocket. As it did, he took a step toward Valenti--

Quickly the tall man raised his own right hand, palm outward.

"Hold it, Ramirez," he said quietly. "Stop right there. One more step and you're a dead man."

Manny Ramirez paused, frowning. His eyes flicked up again at the trees behind Valenti, combing the slope for some kind of sign. He saw nothing.

A moment passed.

Then something changed, ever so slowly, in Ramirez' face. The doubt seeped away, and was replaced by a leering, confident smile. The vein still pulsed steadily in his forehead.

"A bad mistake, Valenti," he said softly. "You held up your hand just now, remember? You held up your hand like you were stopping traffic, with all five fingers extended -- the signal for Shorty to kill me, I believe you said. Isn't that right?" His smile widened into a fierce, murderous grin. "And nothing happened, did it, Valenti? Nothing happened because nobody's up there." He paused once more, and the smile fell away. His eyes blazed like those of a starving tiger.

Slowly Ramirez took his hand from his pocket. The folded switchblade opened with a snap; the thin blade flashed silver in the sun.

"You made a mistake," he repeated, "and now you're going to die."

He stepped forward.

Mike Valenti said nothing; he just dropped the phone to the ground and raised his fist toward the sky. Only his forefinger was extended, as if showing this misguided drug-pushing child of God the direction to Salvation.

At that instant, so sudden it seemed magical, Ramirez' right kneecap exploded. A split-second later they heard the sound of the gunshot; it came from somewhere in the thick woods above and behind Valenti.

Manny Ramirez fell like a tree, both hands clasped around his ruined knee. Blood was everywhere. He rolled back and forth, moaning and cursing with every breath.

Slowly the tall man walked over and stood beside him. As an afterthought he picked the switchblade up off the ground and tossed it over the railing. Then he squatted comfortably three feet away and watched with calm interest as Ramirez writhed like a snake in the dirt.

Finally Ramirez quieted down a bit, and lay with his eyes closed and his breath whistling through his clenched teeth. Both hands were still gripping his bloody kneecap.

"Look at me, Manny," Valenti said quietly.

Slowly Ramirez opened one eye and stared at him. It was wild with pain and hate.

"You made a mistake too," Valenti said. He held out his arm and flexed his fingers so Ramirez could see them. "I'm left- handed."

They stared into each other's eyes for a long moment, then the older man rose and stared down at the Mexican. "I'll call some of your goons and tell 'em where to find you," Valenti said. "It's anybody's guess whether they'll actually want to come or not."

Ramirez swallowed hard, his face drawn tight with pain.

"I'll . . . kill . . . you . . . Mike . . . Valenti," he whispered, very clearly.

Valenti regarded him thoughtfully for a second or two, then glanced down at his watch. "Afraid I can't stay and chat, Manny. Duty calls. Say hello to Pedro and Luis for me." He turned and walked away.

"I'll have you killed, Valenti!" Ramirez shouted after him. "You'll be dead by tomorrow night, I promise you that!"

The tall man walked slowly across the clearing and into the trees. Behind him, Manny Ramirez moaned and cursed and screamed his name. The shouts followed him almost all the way to his car.

# # #

Six hours later the tall man sat at his desk in the study of his home in a quiet suburb north of the city. On the right half of his desk were his stockinged feet; on the left was a stack of paperwork he had shoved over to make room for them. On his mind were the events of the afternoon. All in all, he thought, it had been a productive day.

Just after leaving his noisy meeting with Manny Ramirez he had driven for ten minutes along the winding forest road before stopping near a thicket of spruce and pine near the very top of the mountain. Shorty was there, packing up his rifle and scope and grinning like a kid who's just been down the longest slide at the Water Park. They had talked a bit, the bald marksman had accepted a thick envelope for his services, and they had parted. The tall man had then driven downtown to his office to make a few vitally important phone calls, and now -- at just past seven o'clock in the evening -- he was leaning back in his swivel chair, looking out between the V of his propped-up feet at the gathering twilight outside the window of his study.

The tap of footsteps in the hallway roused him from his thoughts. He turned toward the sound as his wife peeked in through the study door, then pushed it open and walked over to lean against his desk. He looked up at her and smiled. Her hair glowed like spun gold in the light from the desk lamp.

"You must've had a good day," she said. "You look . . . satisfied, somehow."

He regarded her in silence for a moment. "They picked up Eddie Del Vecchio this afternoon. He's going to prison."

She stood there looking at him, stunned. "That's fantastic," she said finally.

"It's a start," he agreed.

She came around the desk and sat down on the arm of his chair, her blue eyes studying his face. He reached up and draped an arm around her waist.

"Jack Warrington," she said with a smile, "you are going to be the best police commissioner this town has ever had. Only a month on the job, and . . . How many now? First Charlie Zizack, and now Del Vecchio . . ." She paused, then said jokingly: "At this rate maybe somebody'll shoot Mike Valenti, and people could actually feel safe on the streets again."

Commissioner Warrington looked up into her face, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight.

"Who knows?" he said. "Anything's possible . . ."



THE END

John M. Floyd is a former Air Force captain, recently retired from IBM Corporation. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in more than eighty publications, including The Strand, Writer's Digest, Woman's World, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. One of his stories was recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize. John M. Floyd's novel-length fiction is being represented by the Sternig & Byrne Literary Agency.