Onyx Webb: Book Three Read online

  Onyx Webb: Book Three

  Diandra Archer

  ONYX WEBB, BOOK THREE

  Copyright © Richard Fenton & Andrea Waltz 2018

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher or authors.

  DISCLAIMER:

  This book is a work of fiction. And while some real locations, historical events, company names and easily recognizable public figures have been used, the story is strictly the product of the authors’ imaginations. Beyond that, any names and/or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-947814-02-8

  Print ISBN:

  Lust for Living Press is an imprint of

  COURAGE CRAFTERS, INC.

  Visit Our Webb-Page

  www.OnyxWebb.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Quote

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Quote

  In Loll…

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Quote

  Chapter One

  Episode 7: Crimson Cove

  August 8, 1936

  One thing was for sure, Ulrich thought. Crimson Cove was indeed a place one could disappear.

  Located directly between two inlets—Yaquina Bay to the north, and Alsea Bay to the south—Crimson Cove was a nothing place in the middle of nowhere. Having lived in the bright lights of Chicago and New York City, Ulrich had a hard time imagining staying here for any length of time.

  A minute after entering the seaside hamlet, they were on the way out if it. Ulrich considered simply continuing north to Tillamook, then jutting inland and up to Seattle, but Seattle, like San Francisco, was a big city in which the Spilatros would likely look for him. And with The Owl even more determined to find him and extract revenge for the death of not just one son, but two, what choice did he have?

  After leaving the Open Arms Orphanage and flitting around the country—living on the mob’s stolen money, and barely escaping with their lives when the Spilatros found them in San Francisco—Ulrich knew it was time to put down roots.

  He owed Onyx that much.

  And then Ulrich saw the lighthouse.

  Onyx and Ulrich checked in to a small motel called The Timbers on Route 1, and, as Onyx rested, Ulrich went in search of a filling station. And that’s when—there, off on the horizon—he could see it.

  A lighthouse.

  Ulrich was not one to normally notice beauty, but, next to Onyx, the Crimson Cove lighthouse was one of the most stunning things he had ever seen.

  Ulrich peppered the station attendant with questions as the man filled the Chrysler’s tank with gas and radiator with water.

  “The lighthouse, I assume there is a caretaker?” Ulrich asked.

  “Sure is,” the attendant said. “Old Tom been the keeper for, God, must be going on thirty years. Lost his wife about a year back.”

  “So, he lives alone?” Ulrich asked.

  “Yes, sir, just him and 103 steps to go up and down each day. I don’t know why he wants to buy the place, be out there, all alone day after day. But who knows what drives a person, right?”

  “He’s buying the lighthouse?”

  “Yep. State of Oregon put it up for bid a couple months back,” the attendant said.

  “Why is the state selling it?” Ulrich asked.

  “Well, I reckon they want out of the constant expenses of upkeep and repair,” the attendant said. “Speaking of repairs, looks like you might be in need of a few repairs yourself.”

  Ulrich ignored the man. He was deep in thought, a plan already beginning to take shape in the back of his devious German brain.

  The sun was just coming up when Ulrich steered the Chrysler down a long dirt road that led to the Crimson Cove lighthouse. He pulled to a stop at the edge of a clearing, behind a small clump of spruce trees, and turned off the engine.

  He knew he only had one shot at pulling off his plan and was determined to take his time and do things right.

  Ulrich walked to the lighthouse and up the steps to a large set of double doors. He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the metal pipe with his right hand, and gave three hard raps on the door with his left.

  And waited.

  A full minute passed by and Ulrich pounded on the door again, harder this time. He could hear what sounded like footsteps coming from inside. A moment later, the door swung open and a man appeared.

  “What can I do you for?” the man asked, looking Ulrich over. “Lost? Car break down?”

  The man looked to be no less than eighty years of age, thin and frail. To think he was concerned almost made Ulrich laugh aloud.

  “You the caretaker?” Ulrich asked.

  “If I ain’t, then I’m a stupid old fool for taking care of the place,” the caretaker said. “Now, what can I—”

  Ulrich stepped forward and—with one quick motion—raised his right hand and struck the elderly man in the middle of the forehead with the metal pipe.

  Hard.

  Ulrich had never bludgeoned anyone with a pipe before, and, having used an amount of force triple what was needed, the old man instantly collapsed from the deadly blow. The man literally did not know what hit him, giving Ulrich an unexpected feeling of satisfaction from a job well done, even if it was an act of pure evil.

  Ulrich rummaged through the man’s pockets, but they were empty. Didn’t matter. Ulrich’s motive wasn’t robbery, and that the man had no money on him was not important. What mattered was that it looked like a robbery, so he pulled each of the man’s pants pockets out, leaving them hanging like cloth rabbit ears on his hips.

  Yes, that should do it.

  Ulrich glanced through the open door that led into the lighthouse, but knew he dare not get caught inside and accidently risk leaving evidence.

  Proud of his decisive action and with his plan now in full swing, Ulrich drove back to the hotel to do the only other thing he had to do.

  Wait.

  The next day, Ulrich inquired in town if there were any jobs available and was told about the shocking death of the lighthouse keep
er. Wasting no time, he drove straight to the county courthouse. After $5,800 and an ungodly amount of paperwork later, the lighthouse was his.

  His plan complete, Ulrich got Onyx from the hotel. “Here, put this on.”

  “A blindfold?” Onyx asked. “What is this for?”

  “A surprise,” Ulrich said.

  “I don’t like surprises, Ulrich,” Onyx said.

  “Don’t worry, Onyx,” Ulrich said with a sly smile. “You will like this one, I promise.”

  Chapter Two

  Wheeling, Illinois

  November 13, 1962

  Tommy Bilazzo felt like a piece of ham in the middle of a ham and cheese sandwich, wedged in a booth between the only two men he knew who were larger than he was.

  The first of the two, seated on Tommy’s left, was Chicago mobster Salvatore Tombo—whom everyone referred to simply as Fat Sal—which was appropriate given the man’s enormous girth.

  What Fat Sal actually weighed was anyone’s guess, but Tommy was sure it had to be somewhere north of 450. Sal had given up trying to weigh himself once he’d passed 380 pounds, which was as high as the doctor’s scale went.

  When the doctor told Sal the only way to get his accurate weight was to use one of the hog and cattle scales down at the Chicago stockyards, it pissed Sal off so much he went back home and made himself some pork sausage and a giant bowl of Fettuccine Alfredo covered in grated parmesan—which he washed down with several bottles of Chianti, just to calm himself.

  It didn’t.

  The next day, when Sal started to take his anger out on his crew, Chuckie Bags—the man in the booth to Tommy’s right—paid a visit to Sal’s doctor, too. Chuckie made it clear that if the man ever mentioned Sal’s weight again he’d kill him and feed his dead carcass to the stockyard hogs.

  Chuckie Bags was Sal Tombo’s hired muscle, and a big man in his own right. The difference between Big Sal and Chuckie Bags was that the majority of Big Sal’s weight was pure fat, while every inch of Chuckie Bags was hard as a rock, the result of throwing weights in the YMCA gym two hours a day, seven days a week. In Chuckie’s case, the term “hired muscle” was an apt description.

  Tommy liked Fat Sal, and he tolerated Chuckie Bags. But Tommy detested the fourth man in the booth with them.

  “Milwaukee Phil” Spilatro—who got the moniker when he first joined The Outfit, running cash from Chicago to Milwaukee and back several times a week—could not have been more different from the other three. Thin as a toothpick, Phil was a smart-ass punk with a long nose that made him look like a weasel and a short fuse that made him unpredictable and dangerous.

  The grandson of Faustino “The Owl” Spilatro—who’d run Las Vegas for The Outfit back in the 1930s and 40s—Phil had been handed his position. And though The Owl’s power within the mafia had weakened over the years, Phil’s sense of entitlement grew stronger by the day.

  “So when does this show get on the road?” Milwaukee Phil asked, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Shit, I need a drink. Do they have any waitresses here or are they on strike?”

  “Waitresses don’t have a union,” Tommy said.

  “We can hope, though,” Fat Sal said. “Is anyone ordering food? I’m hungry enough to eat my own arm.”

  “Screw this, I’m going to get a drink from the bar,” Milwaukee Phil said, sliding out of the booth and stalking off.

  “Damn kids got no patience, wants everything now,” Sal said.

  “You want me to? I could kick his punk ass,” Chuckie said. “Oh, wait, the skinny punk ain’t got no ass.”

  The three men laughed because it was true. Phil Spilatro was a real punk ass.

  Truth be told, Tommy felt like punching the little punk himself sometimes. But violence simply wasn’t in Tommy Bilazzo’s nature. Tommy also had no desire to find out if Phil was crazy enough to put a gun to someone’s head and pull the trigger just for the fun of it.

  In retrospect, getting involved with the mob had been both the best and worst decision of his life. But after Declan Mulvaney enlisted in the army a month after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Tommy was left to fend for himself.

  After returning to Chicago, Tommy worked a series of odd jobs, including his old job at the Riverview. And while the amusement park was not a long-term solution, it was a place that paid in cash and where people asked few questions. Without a birth certificate and driver’s license, he couldn’t even get a job driving a cab. That’s where the mafia came in.

  But the thing Tommy thought would give him an automatic in didn’t help him at all. His last name. Bilazzo.

  Tommy had an Italian name, but he wasn’t family, so the only way in was to prove his worth.

  One way was to hijack a truckload of cigarettes and deliver it to a local wise guy. Quicker still would be to whack someone and take over his small piece of turf. Both options were out of the question—Tommy had seen enough violence during his years at the orphanage. He’d have to find some other way.

  The answer came in the form of the daily papers.

  According to the Chicago Sun Times, the four big players in The Outfit were Paul “The Waiter” Ricca, Sam “Momo” Giancana, Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti, and Salvatore “Fat Sal” Tombo.

  Tommy decided to try Sal Tombo first. Not because Sal Tombo was the most powerful of the four—he wasn’t—but because Tommy knew where he could find him.

  Fat Sal owned a bar called The Purple Pig, a low-class place that, during the Prohibition, charged patrons for a glimpse of a pig slathered in purple paint, hence the name. The pig itself was long gone, replaced by an even bigger pig.

  Fat Sal himself.

  Taking the most direct approach possible, Tommy marched into The Purple Pig and went directly to the table where Fat Sal and Chuckie Bags were seated. “Mr. Tombo, my name is Tommy Bilazzo and—”

  Chuckie Bags stood up with his hand inside his coat as if reaching for a gun. “Beat it, kid.”

  The next day, Tommy went back—and the day after and the day after that—convinced his persistence would pay off.

  It didn’t.

  When it became clear that Fat Sal wasn’t going to allow Tommy to even make a pitch, he decided to take a different tactic, which came in the form of taking notes.

  Every time Tommy saw someone who he knew to be involved in The Outfit, he’d make a note of it—who it was, date and time—and who they met with or talked to while there. Admittedly, he had no idea how the information would ever be useful. Maybe he’d write a book someday? Heck, if Declan was crazy enough to think he was going to own an airplane, then the idea that he might write a book seemed reasonable. In any case, it helped fill the time

  One day, Tommy saw a man coming down the street toward The Purple Pig, and, based on the way the man was dressed and how he carried himself, it was obvious he was an important member of the mob.

  The man turned out to be one of the other three whales—Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti—who had once been Al Capone’s right-hand man.

  Dressed in a double-breasted suit and wearing a pencil mustache beneath dark brown eyes and a matching brown fedora, Nitti was as dapper in person as he was in his pictures, making him look somewhat out-of-place stepping into a dump like The Purple Pig.

  An hour later, Nitti exited The Pig and walked several doors down to the Green Mill, another popular establishment frequented by Chicago mobsters. Ten minutes later, Nitti came out carrying a pink cardboard box, which Tommy assumed was food, maybe some cannoli. It seemed too small for much of anything else.

  Nitti headed down North Broadway on foot, and Tommy made the fateful decision to follow the man with no idea as to where or why. All he knew was that he wasn’t getting anywhere hanging outside The Purple Pig.

  Tommy ended up following Frank Nitti home and began a new stake out there rather than at The Purple Pig.

  Tommy’s big break came the day before Frank Nitti was scheduled to appear before the grand jury. Tommy was leaning against a tree three hous
es down from Nitti’s brown two-story at 712 Selborne Road in Riverside, and he was freezing.

  Tommy watched his breath make a white stream in the air and pulled the collar of his coat up tight around his neck. A few minutes passed, and Nitti’s wife left for church, which Tommy had seen her do numerous times before.

  Another hour passed when his prey literally stumbled out the front door of the house. Tommy stiffened, knowing something was up. The man looked…

  Drunk.

  Tommy followed Nitti as he walked several blocks to the railroad tracks, and then down the tracks another hundred yards to a local railroad yard. Nitti staggered toward the fence and wiped tears away with his coat sleeve. Then he pulled a .32 caliber revolver from his coat pocket and placed the barrel of the gun under his chin. Tommy wondered if he should do something but didn’t.

  Tommy could see Nitti hesitate, thinking—his hand unsteady, shaking—but then he pulled the trigger.

  And missed.

  The bullet tore through the brim of Nitti’s fedora, and for a moment the man seemed confused. Realizing what had happened, Nitti placed the gun directly under his chin and pulled the trigger a second time.