Bad Business (2 page)

Salamandra summoned Nemo then, and the dwarf hopped to it. Augustine wondered what they were talking about. He was afraid even to venture a guess.

When Nemo finished making what seemed to be a brief presentation, the old man spit out another skin, glanced at Giordano, then looked at Salamandra. He frowned deeply and shook his head.

Salamandra looked at Nemo, shrugged, and shook his head.

“Ma perchè?
But why? I don't understand. This is a good deal.”

“He say no,” Salamandra said firmly. “No is no.”

Augustine felt his stomach tighten. A slow drill was boring
through his skull under his left eye, another damn cluster headache. The dwarf was right, dammit. It
was
a good deal. And it would make a lot of money. Money he needed.

“Ask him why it isn't a good deal,” Augustine said. “Ask him how we can fix it. Tell him we can be flexible.”

The others stared at him as if he'd just arrived from Mars. He wasn't supposed to talk directly to the boss of bosses—Mafia protocol. Well, to hell with that.

Zucchetti put another grape in his mouth, rolled it on his tongue, crushed it, spit out the skin. “Can no fix,” he said to the bunch of grapes in his hand. He pointed to Salamandra. “I trust Ugo.” He pointed to Nemo. “Ugo trust Nemo.” He pointed to Giordano. “Nemo trust accountant.” He looked up and stared Augustine in the eye. “But nobody can trust lawyer. Very bad plan.”

“You're wrong, Mr. Zucchetti. It's a very
good
plan.”

Nemo cut in abruptly. “Shut up, Augustine. This ain't the debating society.”

Zucchetti spit out another skin. “Au-goos-teen,” he pronounced slowly. “Maybe like Saint Augustine? Very smart man, Saint Augustine. I think you very smart man too.”

“Well . . . yes, actually.”

“Then you understand chain, Saint Augustine. One bad link, whole chain no good. You tell me chain good, but I see
two
bad link.” Zucchetti pointed to Giordano and Augustine. “Two bad link, accountant and Saint Augustine.”

“Why? Why are we the weak links?”

Nemo was livid now. “I said shut the fuck up, Augustine. You're outta line.”

Zucchetti raised his hand and waved the dwarf off. “I tell you why chain is no good, Saint Augustine. Accountant? No experienz'. My business no in ledger book, no in office. On the street, my business. Accountant have no experienz' on the street. No good for my business.”

Giordano looked like a guttering candle, sickly white and melting down in the oppressive heat.

Augustine took a deep breath and screwed up his courage. “And what's wrong with me?”

A crooked smile snaked across the old man's face. “You no Sicilian. You no in my family. Policeman catch you, you tell everything. You know
omerta
?”

“Yes, I know what
omerta
is.”

“What is
omerta
?”

“It's”—Augustine hesitated, unsure about using the word “Mafia” in front of these men—“it's your organization's code of secrecy.”

“Yes,
my
code, no you code. You have no obligation to me.
That
is why I can no trust you.” The old man turned and started to walk away.

“I can assure you, Mr. Zucchetti,” Augustine called out quickly, “that I have told no one of this enterprise. Not my closest advisers, not even my wife. I have always believed that it's best to act alone in matters that matter”—he raised his voice—“for today's confidant can become tomorrow's tattletale.”

The old man stopped and looked back at him. “Bravo, Saint Augustine. You speak beautiful, like Shake-a-speare. Beautiful words . . . but all bullshit. Just make-believe story.”

Nemo and Salamandra were staring hard at him, as if this impertinence were unforgivable.

“Hear me out, Mr. Zucchetti. Please.”

Zucchetti tilted his head back and flashed the crooked smile. “Speak, Saint Augustine. I hear you. Tell me good story.”

“I realize, sir, that you are far more experienced in this business than I am. I do know from the drug cases I've tried in New York that the basics of our plan are not particularly extraordinary. Giordano has lined up a solid connection in Colombia who will sell him cocaine which Nemo will bring here to you. Nemo takes your heroin in exchange for the cocaine and smuggles the heroin back to the United States.
Nothing new about that. The specially designed Oriental rugs with the hidden plastic inner layers is new to me, but to be perfectly honest, it's not a revolutionary advancement in smuggling technology. Nemo delivers the heroin to Mr. Salamandra, who distributes it to his network of barbershops and beauty parlors, where it will be retailed. The proceeds will be siphoned back to Giordano, who will launder the money and get it into Swiss bank accounts. There's really nothing new about any of this. It's all pretty standard for your business. Isn't that so, Mr. Zucchetti?”

Nemo bristled. “Hey, Augustine, who the fuck you think you're talking to?”

“Aspett'!”
Zucchetti glared at the little man. “Go on, Saint Augustine.”

Augustine sucked in a breath. The drill kept grinding into his face. “What isn't standard about this plan is
my
participation. I am the guarantee, the insurance policy. The major transactions will take place in New York, which is my jurisdiction. If it so happens that one of our people is apprehended by the police or any of the federal law-enforcement agencies, the case will have to come to my desk, and I can manage to dismiss it for lack of sufficient evidence. Even if arrests are made, I can make sure these people never see the inside of a penitentiary. In this way, I can guarantee you virtually uninterrupted business.”

Zucchetti nodded in thought. “And what happen if the police catch Nemo with fifty kilos of
heroina?
You can make this many drugs ‘insufficient evidenz'? How? By magic?”

“I would hope that Nemo would be more careful than to be caught with that kind of quantity. But for argument's sake, let's suppose he was. In that case, we would have to go to trial, and I would have to lose the case.”

“You can do that, Saint Augustine?”

“It can be done. There are many pitfalls in the American judicial system. It's very easy to make a small technical mistake
that can be disastrous to a case. And it's even easier when you're trying to.”

“And what does it cost to have a saint work in my business?”

Augustine squared his shoulders and tilted his head back. “However much money it takes to get me elected mayor of New York City. Fourteen million or so, I'd say. Not an unreasonable price to have a friend in City Hall, when you think about it.”

The old man stared at him. The crooked smile was gone. He looked at Salamandra and gestured with his head for the fat man to follow him. They walked back toward the vineyard together. The old man threw the bunch of grapes away and clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the volcano as his corpulent lieutenant whispered into his ear again.

The drill bit was smoldering as it ground on and on and on.

Nemo was in a state. “I told you to shut the fuck up, Augustine. You shoulda listened. You can forget about it now. Just forget about it.”

Giordano was in shock. His eyes were bulging and his bottom lip hung slack. He looked like Lou Costello trapped in a haunted house. He was totally perplexed. Like all accountants, he knew numbers, not people, and people were never as predictable as numbers. If only they were.

Salamandra pointed to Nemo then and summoned him over to the huddle. The old man wasn't talking, but the other two were in hot negotiation. Augustine guessed that Salamandra was looking for assurances and Nemo was frantically making promises. The dwarf and the fat man ended their powwow with a lot of solemn head nodding. The deal was then formally presented to Zucchetti, who studied them both in cold silence. Augustine clenched his hands. Then Zucchetti nodded once.

Nemo turned on his heels and headed for the barn. “C'mon. Follow me. The both of you.”

Augustine frowned but obliged, following Nemo into the
barn with Giordano clinging to his coattails, Salamandra and Zucchetti bringing up the rear. It was cool inside the barn, with shafts of light piercing the dim, hay-strewn interior, but the place stunk to high heaven.

“Which way?” Nemo asked. “Over here?”

“Over there,” Salamandra said. “In that one.”

Nemo found the stall Salamandra had indicated and threw back the coarse blanket that covered the opening. The only light in there came from the sun beaming in through chinks and seams in the plankboard wall. When Augustine's eyes adjusted to the shadows, he was suddenly startled by an unexpected figure seated against the wall. It was a man tied to a straightback chair, hands bound behind him, legs bound to the chair, his clothing soaked through with sweat. His head was covered with a black cloth hood taped securely around his neck. Sensing that visitors had arrived, the man started murmuring frantically, thrashing his head. He was obviously gagged under the hood.

Salamandra moved behind the prisoner. He had a grimy length of rope in one hand. “Mr. Zucchetti he reconsider your idea. He think maybe it can be done.
If
you can prove to him that he can trust you. He must know that your loyalty is like steel, can never be broken. Also, he must know that you have the guts to work in our business.” Salamandra tossed the rope to Augustine, who caught it as if it were a rattlesnake.

“I don't understand,” Augustine said. He turned to Nemo. “What's going on?”

“You ever hear of the Italian Rope Trick? Well, you're gonna learn it now. You too, Vin.” Nemo took the rope from Augustine's hand and looped it twice around the prisoner's neck. The man started thrashing his head like a fish on a hook. “Here. You take one end, and you take the other. Now, when I say go, all you have to do is pull.”

Giordano didn't move. Neither did Augustine.

From the stall entrance, the old man coughed up a bitter laugh. “See? I tell you. No guts.”

Augustine looked at Zucchetti. “Who is this man?”

Salamandra answered. “He is magistrate from Palermo. A stupid young man who think he can be big shot, persecute the Mafia. Like you, Augustine.”

Augustine stared at the black hood for a moment and imagined the face underneath. They were asking him to commit murder to prove himself. It was the standard Mafia ordeal, the test that all their members had to pass before they're admitted. He'd read about it, but he never thought he'd . . . He suddenly remembered the mayor's race then, and the fact that running for public office was his only viable option since his boss had made it clear that he wasn't looking to move on and make room for him. There was the possibility of private practice, but the only firms he'd consider were headed by founding partners who ruled like mandarins. The only career move left for him was in politics. But he needed money to climb that ladder, a great deal of money. He looked Zucchetti in the eye. “My price—do you have a problem with that?”

Again Salamandra answered for the big boss. “We have no problem. Is cheap.”

Augustine held his breath. The drill was suddenly whirring fast, bearing down hard. Augustine took one end of the rope and wrapped it around his hand. “Okay. Fine.” He looked at Giordano. “I'm ready.”

Giordano was still doing his Lou Costello impression, looking lost and scared. He was holding on to his end of the rope, but just barely.

Augustine blinked against the pain in his head. “Wrap it around your right hand,” he ordered under his breath. “As if this were a tug-of-war, one on one. You did play tug-of-war when you were a little boy, didn't you, Giordano?”

“Yeah . . . sure.” His voice was a vague murmur.

“All right, then do it.”

“Huh?”

Augustine's face was drenched. “You do want this, don't you? I think they've made their conditions pretty clear, Giordano. They want us to prove ourselves before they'll sanction us.”

“Yeah, yeah . . . I know . . .”

The drill was spinning fast, the pain becoming unbearable. “Now, you listen to me, Giordano. Just hold on to your end and don't let go. I'll take care of the rest.”

Fighting the pain, Augustine gripped the rope and took up the slack, bending his knees and leaning back, bracing himself for the chore. The magistrate was mumbling wildly, screaming behind his gag. This had to be done fast, no hesitation, just do it. Augustine looked to Nemo, ready for the go-ahead.

“Aspett'.”
The old man pointed to the magistrate. “Does he have children?” he asked Salamandra.

The fat man shook his head. “Not even a wife. Just the fiancée.”

The old man nodded. “Continue.”

“Go 'head, do it,” Nemo said.

Augustine pulled, but Giordano just stood there like a mental patient, the rope loose in his hands. Augustine yanked harder. The magistrate's chair tipped and nearly toppled over. “Come on, damn you.
Pull!
”