Codes of Betrayal (25 page)

His grandfather’s face was benign; his blue eyes narrowed to match his easy smile. He had a self-satisfied expression. All his life’s work would be accomplished and on balance. He would finish his life as a good and honorable man.

W
ITHOUT PLANNING IT, NICK
O’Hara drove from Westbury, Long Island, upstate to Spring Valley. He drove past the house Kathy had recently sold, without a glance. Headed a mile up the road to Frank O’Hara’s home.

He saw Frank’s Oldsmobile pulled up in the driveway; saw lights on inside the house. He parked in front of the house, strode to the front door, and pounded with his clenched fist. His aunt Mary, book in hand, opened the door, stunned. Before she could say one word, Frank shouldered her aside.

“It’s okay, Mary. Go back inside.”

He looked around, checking the street for prowling cars; finally grabbed Nick’s arm and pulled him around to the back of the house. Half of the double garage had been equipped with Frank’s woodworking equipment; pieces of furniture in various stages of repair or construction were strewn about. Frank didn’t put on any lights and he moved Nick away from the window.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Nick?”

Nick’s jaw tightened. He raised his chin, and, staring into Frank’s eyes, realized for the first time in his life that he was slightly taller than his uncle. Slightly larger.

“You checked him out, right? Nobody knew him? It was all a game, a trick of my cousin’s? You know what happened, don’t you?”

Frank had been told about the double murder; the two bullet-riddled bodies found in a parked car in Brooklyn. Had been told the identities.

“Nick, I swear to Christ. No one acknowledged the poor bastard. Maybe he was some old-timer’s snitch, some guy who played it close to the vest.”

“Who’d you talk to, Frank? You knew Salvy Grosso had to be deep under. Fuck it, Frank, he was right
inside
the family, every day. How could no one have heard of him?”

Frank earnestly studied his nephew; his face softened. He shook his head. “Look. If it’s any consolation, the guy was a dirtbag. Street scum. He’d sell his own mother and kids if it would do him some good. He was one of the lowest of the low, Nick …”

“How do you know, Frank, if you’d never heard of him?”

Frank shook his head. “No, Nicky. I only heard about him after his body was found. And Vinny Tucci? He was at the wrong place, wrong time, but he was considered a loose cannon. Sooner or later, he’d have ended up the way he did last night. One thing you gotta believe, Nick. If I’d a found out Salvy was a snitch, I’d have told you.” When Nick turned his head away, an expression of disgust and anger pulling at his features, Frank said, “Listen to me. I tried, believe me or not. But I will tell you this. One way or another, he was a threat to your life, Nick. It was you or him, simple as that.”

“Simple as that? Christ Almighty. Know something, Frank? All the things you’ve said about Salvy are the same things my grandfather said. And Vinny was nothing. Scum. A dirtbag of no value. He told me, forgeddabout it. Good guy and bad guy—you both said the same thing.”

“You took a stupid chance comin’ up here, Nick.”

“Right. I won’t do it again. Good-bye, Frank.”

Nick drove back to Forest Hills, his mind a total blank. He purposely sang along with the radio. He didn’t want to think about anything. At all.

Back home, he made himself a cup of instant coffee, drank a little, poured the rest down the drain. He stared out the window without seeing what was before him. Salvy had been so totally discardable; not worth a second thought. Vinny? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nick could see, feel, smell Salvy’s terror. The Polaroids were imprinted on his brain, the last conscious moments of the man’s life; the second of his awful death.

God, he needed to talk to someone. He needed to be … heard. He dug in a desk drawer, found his telephone notebook. With an index finger, he punched out Kathy’s number—hit a wrong button. Stopped. Thought about a long time ago. He would come home from some assignment, agitated, worried, concerned, disillusioned, filled with conflicting emotions. He had talked, sometimes for hours, and she would listen. The process would be renewing, cleansing. He had needed her presence, her cool, clean, uncomplicated certainty that he would be okay.

On the second try, she picked it up on the first ring. Her cheerful greeting changed; her voice changed. “Nick? Well, this is a surprise.”

“How are you, Kath? I’ve been thinking about you. I …”

“I’m about to go to bed, Nick. I’ve had a long day and I’m very tired. Outside of that, I’m fine, okay?”

He was unnerved by the desperation in his own voice. “Kath, I’m in trouble. Big trouble. I’ve got to talk to someone. I’ve got to talk to you.”

She broke a long silence abruptly. “You were right the first time. You’ve got to talk to
someone.
Not me, Nick. You and I, we haven’t talked, really talked in years. There is nothing I could possibly say to you, about anything.”

“Kathy, I need you. Kathy.” He stopped speaking. When she didn’t answer, he said quietly, “I thought maybe, as old friends, I could discuss something with you. You could give me another perspective or …”

There was a new, quick impatience in her tone, her words revealing more of her early Bostonian clip than he’d heard in years. “Too late, Nick. We haven’t been friends in years.” She hesitated; then with obvious determination, she said, “Nick, whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll work it out. You always do. With or without me. I … I wish you nothing but the best, Nick. I have nothing more to say to you, to discuss with you. I don’t want to hear from you, Nick.”

She hung up without another word. He held the receiver in his hand for a moment.

In the past, he could always turn to Frank. But the Frank O’Hara he had grown up idolizing, loving, and respecting was gone. In his place was a cold-blooded, ruthless man. No excuses; no apologies.

He punched out Laura’s number, but disconnected before the first ring. He couldn’t expect anything from her. He had no right.

Nick flopped on the sofa; played with the remote control, flipping from channel to channel. A cop show: big case, heavy investigation, solution within the given hour. Coupla guys got clipped, but hey, so what? They probably weren’t worth anything. He wondered what their obits would read, their memorials.

There was no reason in the world why he had any right to reach out, to expect any kind of help, concern, understanding, but somehow he had known all along that eventually he would call Eddie Manganaro.

Within an hour, Eddie arrived at his apartment. Eddie’s presence seemed the most natural thing in the world.

They studied each other carefully, looking first for the familiar, then confronting the differences that had grown between them.

Drinking nothing but coffee, Nick talked while Eddie listened. From the very beginning. Eddie nodded, interrupted a few times. He had wondered about the sudden, reckless gambling. Attributed it to the loss of both Peter and Kathy, Nick’s escape. Had never realized what a huge debt Nick had been carrying. Or why.

“But Jesus, Nick, why did the robbery at the restaurant have to be so damn authentic? They got you on tape—Christ, didn’t you know the DEA had it staked out?”

Nick nodded. He knew. He also knew that his grandfather had sources that would verify the reality, spot any fraud. Yes. He had put himself totally in the feds’ hands. His uncle had told him he would be Nick’s safeguard, should anything go wrong. But now, Nick wasn’t even sure of that.

“Hey, if I louse up—make sure you compose a real funny memorial for me. Hell, name names, it’ll make everyone go crazy.”

Eddie reached out and tapped Nick’s chin with his closed fist. “I’ll write one in poetry. What rhymes with ‘bastard’? I got it. How about ‘outlasted’?”

Eddie’s questions brought some light to dark places. “Yeah, too bad about Salvy and his nephew Vinny. But that was a done deal, right?”

“I guess, but. …”

“Jesus, Nick, I’m sure you feel terrible about it. Wish you weren’t the guy involved with Salvy. But, buddy, you were. And it probably saved your life in the long run. The guy was runnin’ scared; he probably would have ratted you out in some way or other. Think about it.” Eddie studied his friend’s wounded face. “Ah, Nicky boy, don’t tell me you
really
thought there are still good guys and bad guys?
They
do what they gotta do.
We
do what we gotta do.”

Finally, Nick came to it. “Here’s what I gotta do, Ed. I’m pulling out. I’m dumping the whole thing. I won’t go to their fucking meeting wearing a fucking bug, won’t write up reports, won’t testify, won’t name names. I’m bailing out.”

Eddie Manganaro, the Irish poster boy, shook his head slightly and whistled between his teeth. It was a habit that indicated to Nick deep thought; a search for a solution to a tough problem.

“Is there anyone, at all, in the whole thing who you trust?
Really trust?”

“Tom Caruso. I’m planning to tell him about the fucking agent-mole, Felix Rodriguiz. Christ, wouldn’t you think they’d have run a check on their own guys? Just a basic background check on the guy’s assets? He doesn’t drive a Ferrari, for crying out loud, but he must have his dirty cash stashed away somewhere. Why the hell didn’t these guys check out their own?”

“Maybe they don’t want to? Who the hell knows. But look, Nicky. You’ve gone all this way. If not you—who? If not now—when?”

“That from an old song? Or a Boy Scout oath? Sounds familiar.”

“Put it in perspective, partner. You’re all they got to round these people up for RICO, for openers. And, sooner or later, there’s always your big rat rushin’ in to make the deal. Look at Gotti—Teflon Don, my ass. I’m sure your cousin Richie has his very own Sammy the Bull.”

Nick nodded. “Pauly the Playboy Pilotti would sell his sacred barbells to keep from going to prison. He knows where the bodies are buried, who put them there, when and why.”

Eddie grimaced. “Pauly the Playboy?”

“Funny. Remember the old days? When we were kids, we’d hear about it—the vow of silence. We wouldn’t even snitch on each other, even if we had to take a beating. Code of honor? No more. They’ve been selling each other out for years now.”

“There’ll be a big rush on—wait too long and you miss your opportunity. That’s how it works. Nick, you’re not thinking of bailing out because of your grandfather, are you? You two been getting close, right?”

Nick shook his head. “He’s an old man. What the hell could they do to him?”

Eddie shook his head. That wasn’t what he meant and Nick knew it. He had told Eddie the whole story, starting with his own father’s death and what had really led to Peter’s murder. One way or another, it was all at his grandfather’s feet.

“I want to look him in the eye, Eddie. I want him to know that I know the truth. I really want that minute between us. Everything else between me and my grandfather is bullshit. Life and death, that’s the real thing.”

Eddie advised him to get in touch with Caruso as soon as possible. Get Rodriguiz out of the picture. Hang in; see the job through.

“If you bail now, Nick, don’t count on anyone—not your uncle, or anyone—to take care of you.”

Nick nodded. They rode down in the elevator together, looked at each other and grinned. There was that old reliability, that old trust and confidence. You watch my back, I’ll watch yours. They’d been each other’s safety.

“I just wish I could help you in some way. Up close, ya know.”

“You’ve helped more than anyone could have, Ed. I mean that. That was your role in all of this, okay?”

Eddie had parked down the block and they walked along briskly in the light rain. What Nick didn’t notice as it passed them by, heading for the driveway to his apartment building, was Laura Santalvo’s car.

She had been thinking about Nick. She had listened to the brief messages he had left on her machine, and she felt a hunger and a loss and a regret at the sound of his voice. She figured she’d surprise him; just show up. She wanted to touch him, to see him.

She watched the two men walk along, stop at a car. Watched them talk, then, finally, reach out and hug each other—not in the automatic, meaningless way men had been doing in her world for years, but in a way that meant something. Strong, meaningful, trusting. She sensed something about Nick. She could barely make out his expression as she drove slowly past, but it seemed to her that Nick looked relieved of some heavy burden.

She was starting down Queens Boulevard toward Manhattan when it hit her. That bright red hair: the Irish poster kid with the Sicilian parents. His former partner.

Why would Nick, at this stage of his life, be seeing his ex-partner, the detective?

It could be for any number of reasons. Nick had left the department under a dark cloud. He had severed ties with all his old friends when he joined up with the family, made a new life for himself. Which shouldn’t include an old cop buddy.

Laura pulled off the boulevard, drove around for a while, then got on Grand Central Parkway and headed out to the Westwoods, to that private enclave in Westbury, Long Island.

P
APA VENTURA KNEW MORE
about Laura Santalvo than anyone in her life had ever known. Yet there were certain things she kept hidden deep within herself, and that was the source of her strength. They sat across from each other in his library, she with her feet neatly crossed at the ankles the way she sat when she was a child and had confronted him at their very first meeting. He had been impressed by her courage, aware of her fear. She had thanked him properly when he had made arrangements with which her family could be happy. She had written him a beautiful, formal note, and along the sides were her drawings of lovely figures wearing beautiful clothing. He had saved it through all the years.

She took a sip from the lovely crystal glass of white wine, then put it on the small table beside her chair. He waited her out.

“Papa,” she said finally, “I get so tired. I’m still jet-lagged, believe it or not, but I … just wanted to see you.” She held her chin cupped in her hand, her eyes, smoky, intent on his. “I always feel better when I see you.”