Killers on the Doorstep by Tom Turner

Author:Tom Turner [Turner, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-18T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

Al D’Ambrosia, Santo Rossi, and Tommy Palumbo were driving around Palm Beach in a rented white Cadillac ST 5.

D’Ambrosia, at the wheel, shook his head in disbelief at all the glittering opulence and in-your-face ostentation he’d been observing for the last forty-five minutes. “You believe this town, man?” he said to Rossi.

“Sick,” Rossi, a man of few words, said. The word seemed to be stating his approval.

D’Ambrosia scanned a sidewalk on North County Road. “Like a fairyland with no poor people, ugly people, black people, or brown people.”

“Probably got all them hauling garbage or working some sorry road crew,” Tommy observed.

D’Ambrosia nodded.

“Biggest houses in Providence are like the smallest ones here,” said Rossi.

“I never seen a place so clean. Like you’d get life if you dropped a candy wrapper on the sidewalk.” Ambrosia took a left on Worth Avenue.

Rossi scanned the well-dressed pedestrians with shopping bags. “People look like they’re dressed up for a party ‘stead of just buyin’ shit.”

Ambrosia slowed and pointed. “What the hell—” He pointed at a colorful porcelain bowl on the far corner of the sidewalk with a faucet above it and a sign that said “Dog Bar.”

“You believe that shit?”

“Like you said, man,” Palumbo said. “Sick.”

*****

They drove down South County Road, past the Poinciana Club, then to where South County merged onto South Ocean Boulevard. A half mile later, as the road bent to the right, Rossi glanced to the side.

“What the hell is that?” he asked, taking in the eighty-eight-foot tower looming above Mar-a-Lago.

“Donny’s pad. Mar-a-Lago,” Ambrosia said. “I seen pictures of the place. Wanna drop in, say hi?”

Rossi laughed. “Maybe after we done with our business.”

Three minutes later they saw the number on South Ocean Boulevard identifying Reed Barton’s house.

“Jesus,” said D’Ambrosia, “those Quinn mutts are staying there? Un-fuckin’-believable.”

Rossi and Palumbo didn’t say anything, just shook their heads in amazement. D’Ambrosia drove past the house and two minutes later, a view of the ocean opened up on the left.

Rossi just slowly shook his head. “If I had ten million lyin’ around, I might get a crib down here.”

“Think again, my friend. I was checkin’ on the internet and ten mil doesn’t buy you squat.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“Nope. An okay condo or a dump with no view, that’s about it.”

“Holy shit.” Rossi kept shaking his head. “So, how you wanna play this, Al?”

“Simple. We wait until dark.”

“Sounds good,” Santo said. “We could maybe park up at Donny’s place. I mean, shit, I voted for the guy.”

*****

At seven that night, D’Ambrosia, Rossi and Palumbo parked in an empty lot across from the Racquet and Beach club, just south of the roundabout at the Southern Bridge. Rossi grabbed a small backpack from the back seat of the Cadillac and the three headed east toward the beach and the ocean. Passing through the R & B club parking lot, they were intercepted by a valet.

“Excuse me, are you gentlemen members?” the valet asked.

“Of what?” D’Ambrosia asked.

“The Racquet and Beach Club.”

D’Ambrosia didn’t answer; the three simply continued walking toward the beach.

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