Codes of Betrayal (21 page)

Nick continued to relay information, prepared by his grandfather, to Coleman. Information he gathered himself, to Caruso. From Coleman’s office he picked up information, mostly useless, but enough to show his grandfather that Nick was doing his job. Caruso intervened just this once, a gesture valuable in and of itself, but also in helping to secure Nick’s standing.

Yet Nick would awaken in the middle of the night in a cold sweat in his cold bedroom. Christ, did he give Coleman information meant for Caruso? Then his grandfather’s mole in the DEA would know what Nick was doing. He felt like a traveler without a compass: handing off messages, some phony, some real; some important, some not. One mistake could trip him up. There were times when he longed to sit down with someone, outside of all this, and try to keep his balance. But there was no one. He knew things were moving rapidly. He longed for the whole thing to be over. He longed to stop being three different people. At times he really didn’t know who the hell he was anymore.

He was getting ready for bed when the soft buzz of the house phone jarred him.

“Yeah?”

It was Fred, the retired-cop building security guard with a tight New York voice. “Young guy here, Mr. O’Hara. Don’t much like the looks of him. Says he gotta see ya. Name’s Vinny Tucci.” Then, loud enough to be heard throughout the main lobby, he added, “Looks like bad news to me.”

Vinny Tucci was the twenty-five-year-old nephew of Salvy Grosso, who had watched out for the kid since his punk father Tooehy Tucci got clipped in a dumb street thing. His sister kept nagging him: give the kid a job. Vinny Tucci helped around the Queens real estate office. Ran errands, made deliveries, picked up and sent out mail. Listened to everything that was going on. Sometimes he went down to Manhattan to run some errands for Nick’s cousin, Richie. The kid was a wannabe with never-be written all over him. A street punk.

“Put him on the phone,” Nick said.

The kid sounded smug. He’d just shown the security guy something or other.

“Hey, Nick. It’s me. Vinny.”

“What, Vinny?
What?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, your cousin Richie said … listen, could I come up and see ya a minute, okay? Tell Dick Tracy here it’s okay.”

Vinny Tucci was slender and badly dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized baseball jacket. He had a nice face that was spoiled by a nervous tic. Every few minutes his thin lips would pull out into a stretched, meaningless smile. The tic had gotten him into some serious trouble, from the time he was a schoolboy. When he attended a wake, he remembered to keep a hand over his mouth.

Nick led him into the kitchen and blocked his view of the rest of the apartment.

Vinny looked around, his small eyes darting as he waited to be offered something. A drink. Coffee. Something.

“What, Vinny?”

Nick apparently had no class. Vinny delivered his message, his hand cupped around his mouth. “Richie says to meet him at this place. Out here in Queens. In Forest Hills Gardens.” He dug into two or three pockets, then found a smudged piece of paper with an address written by Richie in the clear, legible handwriting of his early Catholic school days. It was about all of his education he had retained.

Nick held on to the paper. “Okay, what else did he tell you?”

“Oh. Yeah. He said, uh—uh”—Vinny bit his lip, closed his eyes, then snapped them open—“Yeah, and he says do you know anything about bugs? Ya know. Not the creepy-crawlies. The listening things, ya know? Like a place being bugged. Ya know. Like you guys use. In the cops. See, he wants you to meet him there and check out the place. Want I should take you there? I got a car right downstairs.”

Nick took Vinny by the arm, somewhat surprised by the good muscle development. He remembered the kid worked out, wanted to be a lightweight contender. Right. Sure. He led Vinny to the door, opened it, and not too gently pushed him out into the hallway.

“Thanks, Vinny. You do nice work. I have my own wheels, but thanks anyway.”

As he closed the door, he heard the raspy voice offering to take him there, anywhere. Hey, any time. He could help Nick any time at all, all you hadda do was ask, okay?

Nick heard the elevator arrive, the door slide open. He watched as Vinny, grinning, stared longingly back at Nick’s door, then left via the elevator.

F
OREST HILLS GARDENS WAS
a private community, a thirty-minute subway ride from mid-Manhattan. Continental Avenue stretched from busy, commercial, high-rise Queens Boulevard past a collection of shops, restaurants, newspaper stands, a movie, fast-food places, a big old five and dime, under the old-fashioned ridge of the Forest Hills Long Island Railroad Station. Once through that arch, there was a vast red cobble-stoned expanse: a town square setting. An “old English” inn, with an internal bridge, led across the road from one side of the elegant building to the other. There was a perceptible quieting once on the streets of the Gardens, which had been built in the twenties and thirties as an alternative for very successful professional and business people who did not want to live in Westchester or anywhere on Long Island. Appearances aside, Forest Hills Gardens was actually in Queens, New York.

The only thing not perfect was the limited amount of land around each home. Some of the Tudor houses would have fit in on acres of bright green, well-tended lawns overlooking the mists of an English landscape. Plantings, shrubbery, flower beds, and trees concealed or revealed however much each owner desired. There were street lamps in lavish wrought-iron shapes: lanterns, glowing mild yellow, that seemed to have been lit by an ancient lampman. There were park squares, with mellowed wooden benches for nannies to rest while their infant charges slept in this oasis of isolation.

The only incongruous intrusions were the many signs placed along the curbs, outside and within the private parks, warning everyone that these streets were private. Presumably, all illegal cars would be towed away at their owners’ expense. When they reclaimed their vehicles, paid a stiff fine, they would still have to deal with a large windshield-sized sticker pasted with stubborn glue: that’d show ’em.

Not very long ago, many homes still welcomed guests with shiny-faced black jockey boys, their glowing lanterns lighting their lawns. Most of the statues had disappeared, though one or two of the grinning figures were resettled inside the private backyard gardens.

Nick pulled up just as a large moving van drove away from the stone and brick mansion. Lights were burning from every window. The neighbors might wonder why anyone would be moving furniture in until eleven at night, but no neighbors, curious or otherwise, could be spotted.

Richie opened the door at Nick’s lightest tap, put an arm around him; without taking a full breath, he yelled at one of his men.

“Hey, ya fuckin’ moron, I tole ya no smoking in this house. What, I gotta be like a schoolteacher? I gotta appoint monitors? Take the butt outside, then come back in. No smoking. We all got that, huh? Fuckin’ dunsky bastards!”

The culprit, shamefaced, muttering apologies, left the house quietly trying to brush smoke outside with him.

Richie was wearing a pair of good gray slacks, a bright red silk shirt, and a black leather vest. As always, he was meticulous, down to his shiny black shoes. He escorted Nick into the large living room. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same vacant house Nick had carefully checked out just a few days ago. He had received the Hong Kong Enterprises check renting the house for one year for Dennis Chen, through his corporation, which had sprawling offices on a high floor in a Queens Boulevard office building.

Nick glanced around. Everything looked as though it absolutely belonged where it was. The rooms were completely furnished, including drapes and rugs; books in the bookcases, wood stacked in the fireplace. Every room but the dining room had been totally empty when Nick sent cleaning service in.

“How the hell you get this done so fast?”

Richie was modest. “We got a coupla guys from the stagehands union. A set decorator checked the place out and they fixed it up like this. Nice, huh?”

All the furniture was rented through some company of Richie’s. There was a mellow, comfortable, old-money feel to the place.

Nick stopped at the open door of a room obviously intended as an office. Joe the Brain Menucci looked up from behind a table filled with computer parts.

“How ya doin’, Nicky?”

Nick nodded. Richie pulled him along by the arm and said in a low voice, “He’s got music piped into every room in this house, too. Ya know, Nick, I never believed all them stories about Joe the Brain. I never heard him say nothin’ too smart.” He shrugged. “Like, I know he’s good with electronics and all, but I don’t know about that other stuff people say. Wadda ya think?”

Nick said quietly, “I wouldn’t know, Richie. But I’d be careful. You know, just in case.”

“In case? In case a what?”

Richie sounded worried; he motioned Nick toward the dining room. It had been thoroughly cleaned. Centered beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier in the enormous room was an eighteen-foot mahogany dining table surrounded by twelve chairs. Other matching side chairs were placed around the room near various small serving tables, lamp and telephone tables.

“So, the kid said you got a problem. What’s up?”

Richie looked over his shoulder, motioned Nick closer. He didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation.

“Well, I had the place checked out, ya know, for bugs. This room especially, because all this stuff was here for a while. This guy, the expert, come with a good recommendation, ya know? Like, he brings in all kindsa electronic equipment, sweep stuff and all. The guy finds this one device.” Richie dug in his pocket and brought out a small square recording device. “It was wedged under one of the chairs. Near the head of the table.”

Nick studied the device; it looked like a Cold War relic. “Anything else?”

“No, but ya know how ya get a feelin’? Like something just ain’t right? The guy who come here, Johnnie Cheech sent him. Cheech ain’t the smartest, ya know, but he said the guy’s okay. So I just wanted you to take a second look.” He wrinkled his brow. “Damn feeling I got, is all.”

Nick studied his cousin’s face. “Why the hell didn’t you ask Joe the Brain? He’s the expert.”

Richie glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, c’mon. Joey works directly for Papa. I wouldn’t never ask him to do nothing for me. And ya know, the chinks, they’re gonna check it out and they find something, how does that make me look? Not too fuckin’ good, right?”

“Uh-huh. Who’s had access to this place recently?”

“You.” Richie shrugged that away. “And the cleanin’ people you sent …”

“I didn’t send them. Tessie called the regular company that cleans up places for the agency. I didn’t even meet them.”

“So, okay. The bug guy checked, no signs of breakin’ and enterin’.”

“So just the moving guys and your people been in and out tonight, right?”

“They’re
all
my guys—my moving company, furniture company. I vouch for all of them. So I just wanted you to take a good look. Ya don’t got no equipment?”

Nick didn’t answer. He asked questions, got seemingly satisfactory answers. Yes, every chair had been turned over and examined carefully. The table had been checked, under and over. The walls had been scanned; the edging on the chair rail. Shelves where some china was set on display. But still, Richie had a
feeling.

Nick also had a feeling. Something in the way his cousin watched him, narrowing his bright eyes, almost daring him.

He checked out the telephone on a small side table and one on a small desk under the window. He re-checked all the furniture; searched carefully for over an hour. Then he approached a heating vent set into one wall. Nick, using a flashlight and a penknife, pried the grate from the wall. As Richie hunched over him, he ran his hand inside and removed a device identical to the one Richie had earlier shown him.

Richie shook his head and began to curse. “That fuck, that dumb sonovabitch. Wait’ll I get my hands on Cheech and his shit of a friend, the dirtbag.”

Nick watched him carefully. There was something not quite straight in Richie’s anger. Nick had seen him go ballistic over small matters, and a hidden device was no small matter. His eyes locked on Richie’s, and for a split second they tried to read each other.

Finally, Richie put his hand on Nick’s arm, squeezing. “Christ, Nicky, ya saved the day. Jesus, am I glad I had that damn feeling, ya know?”

Nick said quietly, “I got a feeling now, Richie.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like if Cheech’s guy overlooked one device, maybe he overlooked another. They don’t all look like that, ya know.”

“Naw, I think …” His cousin stopped abruptly and nodded. “Yeah, okay, ya wanna search some more, go ahead, be my guest.”

It took Nick about fifteen minutes to examine the small leather-top desk in one corner carefully; each drawer was checked, and then finally, meticulously, he touched each item on the surface of the desk. The small tooled-leather letter holder had some heavy cream-colored stationery; next to it, a gold-colored stamp holder. A cup of sharpened pencils; a cup of pens.

Nick’s hand covered the porcelain cup that held the pens, then, carefully, his fingers moved and he held up an old-fashioned black Waterman fountain pen, laced with an intricate silver design. He examined it thoroughly, then turned to Richie.

“Say a few words to the listening public, cousin Richie.”

Richie stared, mouth open, as Nick removed the cap, then hooked a fingernail under the silver plunger used to fill the pen. Dark blue ink squirted, then dribbled down Richie’s bright red silk shirt.

“Oh, Jesus, Richie. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It’s just an old pen. In fact, it’s
my
old pen. Must have fallen out of my pocket.” He slipped the pen into an inside jacket pocket and returned Richie’s glare with a smile and a shrug. “Hey, shit happens, right?”

Richie took a deep breath, and wordlessly the cousins acknowledged their wary dance. Richie had tested Nick to see if he would find, and reveal, the planted bug. Nick showed Richie he was wise to the test. Check. Checkmate.