A Quiet Vendetta (35 page)

‘Not a man I would like to upset,’ Hartmann said.

‘That’s the problem,’ Verlaine replied. ‘I think I just did.’

‘He won’t do anything,’ Hartmann said. ‘A warning is not the same as a threat.’

‘I hope to fuck not,’ Verlaine replied, and then they gained the freeway, and the lights of New Orleans were ahead of them.

They did not speak again until Verlaine pulled to a stop two blocks from Hartmann’s hotel. He did not wish to have any of the federal agents see that they had been together.

‘You need any other favors,’ Verlaine said, ‘you can forget about them before you even think it.’

Hartmann smiled. ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said. He reached over and gripped Verlaine’s hand where it rested on the steering wheel. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Have a couple of shots of sourmash and hit the sack. Forget about this . . . it isn’t your problem, okay?’

Verlaine nodded. ‘Thank fucking God.’

Hartmann climbed out of the car and watched as Verlaine drove away. He turned right and started walking, and within a minute or so had reached the Marriott. He glanced at his watch. It was a little before nine, and already he felt as if he hadn’t slept for three weeks.

In his room he undressed and showered. He called room service and ordered coffee. He turned on the radio and listened to nothing in particular, and then he lay on his bed and wished this had never begun.

And then the storm began – suddenly, violently – and the sound of rain rushing down from the sky and hammering against the roof of the hotel was almost deafening. Hartmann turned over and buried his head beneath the pillow. Still the noise was there, ceaseless and unrelenting. The whiplash snap of lightning, and back of that the rolling mountain of thunder that escalated until it seemed the whole sky was charged with its force and momentum.

The sound was perhaps some help, for within it Hartmann found it difficult to think. He recalled these same storms from his early childhood, both he and Danny as tiny children crouched beneath the covers while their father told them that somewhere God was angry, but not with them, and so there was no need to be afraid, and from the landing the sound of their mother’s voice telling them that big boys weren’t afraid of storms. Hartmann closed his eyes, closed everything down, and somehow managed a brief respite from what was happening to his life.

Within twenty minutes he was asleep – quietly, gratefully asleep – and he did not wake until the telephone rang with his alarm call on Tuesday morning.

It was 2 September, and he had only four days until his life reached yet another watershed.

He rose without delay, he showered and dressed, but his mind was elsewhere, unable to find any real point of anchorage, and only when Sheldon Ross came to get him did he realize he was on his way back to the Field Office.

Another day, another handful of hours seated in the cramped and airless room.

Another dark catastrophe of visions courtesy of Ernesto Cabrera Perez.

When he arrived he was acutely aware of how empty the place was in comparison to the previous days. Schaeffer was present, as was Woodroffe, but apart from them he saw only two or three additional agents.

On each wall of the main outer office Schaeffer had positioned a large monochrome photograph of Catherine Ducane. Hartmann paused and looked at the face staring back at him. The picture showed Catherine at perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. She was a pretty girl, but innocent and vulnerable.

‘Looks like my brother’s daughter,’ Woodroffe said, and Hartmann started nervously. He had been miles away, thinking that when Jess was such an age she would look perhaps very similar. Maybe that was Schaeffer’s intention: to give them all something, to keep it there in their minds at all times. They were looking for someone, a real person, not only a real person but a frightened and confused teenage girl who had no idea why she’d been taken.

Hartmann said nothing. He turned and made his way through to where Schaeffer was waiting. In the man’s eyes he could see the question that didn’t need to be verbalized.

Schaeffer shook his head. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘I got sixty men putting hundreds of miles on their wheels and between them they have come back with nothing.’

Hartmann merely nodded and took a seat at the table beyond the small office where he would sit with Perez.

Perez was controlling them all, like some sort of chess grand master. Everything they were doing had been predicted by him, every eventuality had been taken into consideration, and – in all honesty – Hartmann believed that whatever they did, whatever effective action Schaeffer might instigate, they would be seated there for as long as it took for Perez to finish what he had to say.

And then the man came, and Hartmann turned and saw him walking down the length of the open plan office, an agent on each side of him. He was going nowhere – they all knew that, and he was going nowhere merely because he intended it to be that way.

Hartmann rose to his feet. He nodded at Perez as Perez walked past him. Perez smiled, entered the narrow room at the end and Hartmann walked in behind him.

Once seated, Perez steepled his fingers together and closed his eyes. He seemed to inhale deeply, exhale once more, as if performing some kind of ritual.

‘Mr Perez?’ Hartmann asked.

Perez opened his eyes. Hartmann imagined he heard a dry clicking sound, like a lizard sunbathing on a rock.

‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez whispered.

Hartmann felt his skin crawl. There was something tremendously unnerving about the mere presence of the man.

‘I have been thinking,’ Perez said. ‘Considering the possibility that we may run out of time.’

Hartmann frowned.

‘It seems that the more I tell you of my life the more there is to tell. I was thinking only last night of another aspect of how these things have come about, and though I had never intended to tell you of them I feel they are integral to obtaining a full understanding of the situation within which we find ourselves.’

‘I’m listening,’ Hartmann said, ‘but I must urge you to tell me whatever you wish as quickly as possible. It would seem to be a pointless exercise if the girl dies.’

Perez laughed. ‘Not at all, Mr Hartmann. She is alive as long as I tell you she is alive. She could be dead even now. The beauty of this situation is that I am the only person who knows where she is . . . even Catherine Ducane herself has no idea where she is imprisoned. Until I tell you where to find her you will have to hear me out.’

‘So start talking,’ Hartmann said. He clenched his fists beneath the edge of the table, out of view. He willed himself not to lose patience. He was tired. He knew Schaeffer and Woodroffe and the other sixty agents assigned to this were tired also. They were all here, every last one of them, because of this man, and this man – this animal – was playing games with them.

‘Speak,’ Hartmann said. ‘Tell me what you want me to hear and let’s get this done, okay?’

Perez nodded. ‘You are fatigued, Mr Hartmann, no?’

Hartmann nodded. ‘I am fatigued, yes, Mr Perez. I am so dog-tired you have no idea. I am here because you insisted that I be here. I am willing to hear everything you have to say, and though everything you have told me so far makes me feel nothing but revulsion for what you have done, I am nevertheless obligated by duty and by loyalty to continue this charade.’

‘Emotions are strong,’ Perez said. ‘Revulsion? Duty? Loyalty? These are powerful words, Mr Hartmann. I would ask you not to lose your connection to reality until I am finished . . . I believe that is the very least I can ask of you, considering what I have done for you.’

‘For me?’ Hartmann asked, his tone incredulous. ‘What you have done for me? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Your perception of yourself,’ Perez replied. ‘Already I perceive that your own view of yourself has shifted. You have come to realize that you are in fact solely and exclusively responsible for the situation within which you find yourself. You have been a troubled man, Mr Hartmann, and if nothing else my presence here has assisted you to put such things into perspective.’

Hartmann shook his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and yet at the same time there was a dark shadow of something that told him that the man was somehow right.

Had his perspective changed? And if so, had it been because of Perez?

‘Whatever,’ Hartmann said, simply because there was nothing appropriate he could think of to say. He would not be played by this man. He would sit and listen. He would do his part in helping to locate Catherine Ducane, and then he would go home and do his best to straighten out the Vietnam of his own existence.

‘So talk to me,’ Hartmann said. ‘I want to hear what you have to say, Mr Perez . . . I really do.’

‘Very well,’ Perez said. ‘Because you asked, and asked politely, I will tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Hartmann said, and reached out to close the door behind him.

Las Vegas was the promised land.

One time a jerkwater nothing of a place somewhere in the desert – gas stations, truckstops, a scattering of run-down and ramshackle slot-machine emporiums and greasy diners where the
Blue Plate Special
was the kind of mystery meat you wouldn’t serve to a dog – but envisioned as a glittering opportunity going to waste by Meyer Lansky. Lansky kept hounding Bugsy Siegel to see the possibilities, to open his mind and let it run wild – the legalized gambling, the unconquered territory – and finally, in 1941, Siegel sent a trusted lieutenant, Moe Sedway, to see if he couldn’t figure out what Lansky was talking about.

After the war was over, Siegel, far more interested in his Hollywood playboy lifestyle, finally looked for himself and got a glimpse of the Las Vegas that Lansky had conceived of. Las Vegas, and the six million dollars that Siegel ploughed not only into building The Flamingo but also into his own Swiss accounts, became the legacy that would not only memorialize his life, but also instigate his death.

Meyer Lansky, never a man to capitulate on his own vision, assumed control of The Flamingo, and within a year it turned a profit. Las Vegas became a honeypot for the wasps. Las Vegas State officials levied stringent rules and regulations to keep the families out, but it was futile. Lansky controlled The Thunder-bird; Moe Dalitz and the Cleveland mob assumed autonomy over The Desert Inn; The Sands was controlled jointly by Lansky, Joe Adonis, Frank Costello and Doc Stacher. George Raft, the Hollywood actor, came in on the deal, and even Frank Sinatra was sold a nine percent share. The Fischetti brothers – the same brothers who took Sinatra to provide entertainment at the Havana Conference, Christmas Eve of 1946 – controlled The Sahara and The Riviera, alongside Tony Accardo and Sam Giancana. New England’s head honcho, Raymond Patriarca, moved in and took possession of The Dunes.

And then there was Caesar’s Palace. Back of Caesar’s were Accardo, Giancana, Patriarca, Jerry Catena from Vito Genovese’s outfit, and Vincent ‘Jimmy Blue Eyes’ Alo. Conversations with Don Ceriano never failed to include the legendary Jimmy Hoffa, leader of the Teamsters’ Union, a man who orchestrated the investment of ten million into the Palace and another forty million around Vegas’s other numerous hotspots. The money masqueraded as loans, but those loans were as good as permanent and no-one ever thought to return a dime. No-one thought, either, of the hundreds of thousands of over-the-hill truck drivers who never did get their pension checks as they’d been promised.

I went to Caesar’s soon after the Alcatraz Swimming Team arrived in Vegas. It was vast and extravagant, a place guested by those who, some decades before, might have guested the
Titanic
. I had never seen anything like it before. The hotels we had frequented in Havana, places like The Nacional and The Riviera, paled in comparison. I walked barefoot on a carpet that almost reached my ankles. I took a bath in a tub in which I could have effortlessly drowned. I lay on a bed, wide like a football field, and when I called room service they were there within minutes. Las Vegas seemed to be everything I could never have imagined it to be, and though I was there in Caesar’s no more than forty-eight hours, I felt I had – at last – truly arrived.

Once Don Ceriano’s business at the hotel was done, I and the rest of the crew moved to the outskirts of the city. We took a house on Alvarado Street. Don Ceriano came down the following morning and he gathered us together.

‘People here,’ he said, ‘ain’t nothing like the people back in Miami. This is where the real deal lives. This is where we get the running orders, and we run just like they say. Job needs doing we do it, no questions asked, no answers expected.’

He smiled, leaned back in his chair. ‘We ain’t smalltime, never have been, never will be, but this is earned territory. Lot of blood got spilled to make Las Vegas, and that blood belonged to men like us, men who were better than us truth be known, and we keep our hands in our pockets and our eyes going both ways at once if we wanna stay alive. You get me?’

There was a consensual affirmative from the gathered crew.

‘Down here you got politics and kickbacks and folks in high places who wanna stay high. They don’t wanna get their shoes dirty kicking shit down the sidewalk. That’s where we come in, and if we do what we’re asked then there’ll never be a shortage of money or girls or respect. Key to all of this is knowing your place on the totem pole, and while we may not be feeling sand between our toes we sure as shit ain’t the fancy bit on top.’

Where we were on the totem pole was the hired hands, the wet crew, the guys that got a call in the early hours of the morning to go down to The Sands, come in quiet through the back kitchen doorway, turn left, left again, and there in the meat locker find some poor dumb schmuck who figured he could take the place with a blindside hand fat with Schaffners; figured he could get the dealer to catch the eye of some pretty cigarette girl and slip a jack where it shouldn’t have been; where we were was hammering that poor schmooze’s thumbs to a pulp and then kicking his ass six ways to Sunday so he and his confederates got the message loud and clear; where we were was driving a trailer jammed to the gunnels with stolen liquor and Luckies out of the desert at three in the a.m., parking it up behind a cheap bordello, unloading those cases into a lockdown garage, slipping away quietly and losing the trailer down a ravine near Devil’s Eyelid, and walking four miles back on foot as the sun rose and the heat got mighty and the shirt you were wearing stuck to your back like a second skin.