Fever City Read Online Free

he’d start travelling west through Mexico before heading up the coast to Los Angeles. They were expecting a frontal attack, explosive and loud. They were expecting Samson in the temple. But they’d wake in silence and feel the cold bite of the
navaja sevillana
scouring their throats. No time for panic, not even for pain; just the quick sting of realization: it’s over.
    He was allowing six months for the trip. He didn’t want to return until well after the elections. Otherwise they might think he was going after LBJ too. Bella sat in the passenger seat next to him, her head half out the window, breathing in the strange fragrances of chase.
    He had received the call almost a year before from Ragano, a mobbed-up lawyer for Carlos Marcello and Santo Trafficante. They had condoned a hit and Sam ‘Momo’ Giancana would control it. There was the first problem. Giancana, like all vain but unintelligent men, surrounded himself with stupid lieutenants; men like Johnny Roselli. The money was two hundred thousand down; three hundred thousand after. Ragano levelled with Hastings up front. This hit would be no picnic. High security. High probability of capture. Capture meant death—no one could ever be allowed to testify.
    There was no mention of the target. Hastings figured Castro or some other foreign bigwig. Or maybe someone domestic, causing problems for the syndicate, Jimmy Hoffa or Howard Hughes or maybe even J. Edgar Hoover. Someone big enough to be scary.
    Roselli set the meeting at the old Monogram Pictures Ranch. Hastings got there two hours early, checked for sniper and ambush positions, and then hid three weapons in separate locations. Bella sat in the slim shade of a stand of eucalyptus that filled the hot air with the scent of medication. Roselli arrived late with two cars full of goons. A display of power that only made him look weak. The two of them went for a stroll along a horse track, the hoods watching them with binoculars, Bella padding silently at their side, her bouts of sudden, frozen attention making Roselli nervous. ‘What the fuck is that?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜He’s seen something.’
    â€˜It’s a she. And she’s just scenting.’
    Roselli looked around, his pale face sweating in the sunshine. ‘Do you believe what they say, that dogs can sense ghosts?’
    There was no point in sharing the truth with a man like Roselli. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’
    Roselli stared at him for a long moment, sweat trailing like tears down his cheeks. ‘A man like you don’t believe in nothing.’
    Hastings whistled and Bella trotted up to him. He raised his chin and the dog sat. ‘I believe in well-trained dogs.’
    â€˜I seen a ghost once. Willie Bioff. That fink!’
    â€˜So why did he come back to haunt you?’
    â€˜I didn’t say he was haunting me. I just said I saw him, right after he died. Reflected in the swimming pool. Practically shat in my trunks. There was this fucking dog barking. No one could shut it up.’
    â€˜Bella doesn’t bark.’
    â€˜All dogs bark.’
    Hastings looked back at the parked cars. ‘I suppose we’re far enough away to talk?’
    â€˜Sure,’ Roselli said, wiping his face with a monogrammed handkerchief. ‘So here’s the deal. You, Chuckie Nicoletti and a Frenchman. The best.’
    The best. Charles ‘Chuckie’ Nicoletti had killed his own father when he was 12 years old. Not even a teenager and an Oedipal hit to his belt. He was Chicago—that meant Giancana was watching carefully. Hastings figured the Frenchman was Albert Luchino, a Corsican killer and drug runner for the French Connection. Rumour had it he was the lead gunman in the Trujillo hit. Fearless. Flashy. Highly dangerous to work with. And Hastings. War hero. Purple Heart. Honest man betrayed. Husband; widower. Lover. Loner. Loser.
    â€˜Three shooters, one