Inherit the Mob (38 page)

“Well, naturally I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“And did he attempt to make good on his threat?”

“Well, all I know is that there’s been a series of amazing coincidences. First, I was almost killed by a hit-and-run driver coming out of a restaurant. Then, my fiancée, Jupiter Evans, was murdered, and my close friend, John Flanagan, was …”

Sesti stared at the screen in disbelief. That contemptible liar, he thought, deliberately twisting the facts to protect himself. And ABC—how could a responsible network broadcast such libelous charges? He had seen abuses of power in his life, but this was the most brazen, outrageous …

He was interrupted by the telephone. “Carlo,” growled Don Spadafore, “are you watching the news?”

“Yes,” said Sesti. “I was just planning to place a call to the head of the network, demanding an apology.”

“They’re crucifying me on television, consigliere, and you speak of apologies. I have already received calls from our friends in Detroit and Philadelphia. They say that this attention could be ruinous, and they are right. To them I said that it will soon stop. To you, consigliere, I say that you were the one who brought Gordon into our world, and he is your responsibility.”

Sesti felt a chill at the menace in Spadafore’s voice. “I assure you, as a lawyer, that Gordon has nothing whatever that could incriminate us,” he said. “The only papers he saw were fictitious. I anticipated that he might—”

“You anticipated nothing,” said Spadafore. “We are being publicly humiliated and you do nothing to stop it. If I wanted a moron for consigliere, I would have appointed Mario. Perhaps if I had, he would still be alive.” He hung up, leaving Sesti with a dead receiver next to his ear.

Sesti forced himself to stay calm. He hadn’t heard from Grady Rand since noon, and he wanted an immediate status report. Perhaps he could pick up Gordon’s trail from someone at ABC. Rand had told him that he would be at his office between seven and eight. He dialed the number and let it ring fourteen times, but there was no answer. Maybe he’s already on his way to the studio, Sesti thought hopefully.

Shortly after eight, Indian Joe, Zuckie and Handsome Harry returned to the apartment. They wore black Hasidic outfits, and Zuckie carried a hatbox. Jacob Gurashvili was with them, dressed in a Barry Manilow–type suit.

“Everything go OK?” asked Flanagan.

“A piece of cheesecake,” said Millman, showing his white teeth. “It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

“What do we do with this, boss?” asked Zuckie, gesturing to the hatbox.

Flanagan turned to Abramson. “Abe, you think that you could break into Carlo Sesti’s office? It’s in a building on West Fifty-seventh.”

“I imagine I could handle it,” said Abramson. “I’ve broken into better places.”

“Good,” said Flanagan. “I’ve got a little errand for you.”

The following morning, Carlo Sesti arrived at his office shortly before eight. A night’s rest had restored his spirits and his self-confidence. The storm of publicity was bad, of course, but it would blow over. The main thing, he told himself, was that Flanagan and Gordon had no proof of anything. When this fact came to light, he was quite certain that he could extract public apologies from ABC and the
Tribune
. This, he hoped, would go a long way toward mollifying the Don’s outraged dignity.

Sesti realized that Spadafore was his major problem at the moment. The old man was positively crazed with a desire for revenge, but the consigliere saw that it was now impossible to strike at the two journalists. If something were to happen to them it would constitute prima facie evidence that he and Spadafore were responsible. Somehow he would have to find Grady Rand and tell him to call off the contracts temporarily.

Sesti entered his private office and sensed, before he actually saw, that something was awry. His gaze wandered around the large room, and rested on his gleaming desk. He saw something that hadn’t been there the night before—a white plastic dummy’s head, of the kind used to display wigs. Perched on the head was an unruly mop of yellowish hair.

Carlo moved closer, and saw that there was caked blood around the scalp. He also found a note, attached to his desk. Printed in neat block letters, it read: “Carlo had a little lamb, his fleece was dirty blond; and if he wants to look for him, he better drain the pond.” It was signed, “The Mishpocha.”

Sesti looked at the bloody scalp in horrified disbelief, and felt his stomach rise in a rush. “My God,” he said to the empty room, and vomited all over his two-thousand-dollar suit.

T
he media war against the Spadafore Family reached a climax over the weekend. First,
Saturday Night Live
ran a skit called “Fat Luigi and the Spaghettifore Family” about a gang that stole food to feed their insatiable leader. Then, the following morning, on
Meet the Press
, Senator Danworthy announced the creation of a Senate subcommittee on organized crime to look into the Gordon Affair, as it was already being called on the national news.

Half an hour after
Meet the Press
, Carlo Sesti’s phone rang. “Be at my house at five this afternoon,” said Luigi Spadafore curtly.

Sesti took a Valium and put on a black business suit. He anticipated a rough session with the Don, and the worst of it was, he had no real solution to their problem. The media were like a swarm of vicious bees, and the consigliere had no idea of how to fight back. Given time, he was certain that he could find the answer; but Don Spadafore was manifestly running out of patience.

When Sesti arrived in Brooklyn, he noticed that the extra men
were no longer on duty in front of the brownstone, and the sharpshooters had been removed from the roof. “Who gave the order to reduce the guard?” he demanded of Nestore Bertoia, who was waiting for him outside the house.

“I did, Carlo,” he said. There was an annoying familiarity in the capporegime’s voice.

“On what authority, may I ask?”

“You mean, who told me to? The Don. You got a beef, take it up with him.”

Sesti let himself into the mansion and went directly to the Don’s study. As usual, the old man was seated in his easy chair near the fireplace. Sitting next to him was John Flanagan.

The consigliere felt a stab of annoyance. Somehow Spadafore had captured Flanagan, succeeded where he himself had failed. Probably he had found the Irishman by dumb luck, but even so, it was a humiliating turn of events. Sesti gave the Don a warm, boyish smile. “I see, Don Spadafore, that you have caught one of our elusive butterflies,” he said in Sicilian. “There is still much a young man can learn from the master. Now we must decide how to dispose of him. I have some—”

“Speak English, Carlo,” the old man interrupted harshly. “Mr. Flanagan does not speak Sicilian.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sesti in a chastened voice. Obviously the Don planned to rub it in. “I was just going to offer a suggestion about what to do with him.”

“That decision has already been made,” said Spadafore. Flanagan, brazen as ever, nodded in affirmation.

“May I inquire what you have decided?” asked Sesti.

“You may. I have just appointed Mr. Flanagan to the position of counselor.”

Sesti looked at Spadafore with dumb amazement. “Counselor?” he stammered. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s the English word for consigliere,” said Flanagan, speaking for the first time. “You should get yourself a dictionary, Carlo.”

“Surely this is a joke,” Sesti said, trying to recover his poise. “You do not actually intend to appoint this, this lunatic, to the post of consigliere?”

The Don shook his large head slowly and allowed himself a smile.
With his heavy eyelids and large, yellow teeth he looked to Sesti like a dull, malign mastiff. “Not consigliere,” he said. “Media counselor. I believe that is the appropriate term, is it not?”

“But I do not understand,” said Sesti. “Media counselor?”

“The last few days have taught me that we are living in the electronic age, Carlo, and a wise man adapts himself to the times. Mr. Flanagan and his friend, William Gordon, have given me a lesson in the power of the media; and I intend to harness that power for my own purposes. Now do you understand?”

Sesti threw his arms open in a Sicilian gesture of admiration. “It is a brilliant strategy, Don Spadafore. I am ashamed that I did not think of it myself, but, as I said before, there is much to learn from the master.” He turned to Flanagan and extended his hand. “Welcome to our Family,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to work together.”

Flanagan took the outstretched hand in his own, and tickled Sesti’s palm with his middle finger. The consigliere jumped in surprise, and Flanagan winked.

“Perhaps the reason that you did not think of this yourself is that you have been too busy with other matters recently,” said the Don. “Murder is a very time-consuming business.”

“Murder?” said Sesti, keeping his face expressionless by an act of will. “Ah, you mean Grossman. But of course, Don Spadafore, he is not dead. And, in any event, that was carried out on your orders.”

“I do not mean Grossman,” said Spadafore in a tight voice. “I mean the murder of my sons.”

Sesti felt a cold chill in the pit of his stomach. “Surely Don Spadafore, you don’t believe that
I
could have been involved with the murders of Mario and Pietro. Here is the murderer,” he exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Flanagan. “This man whom you wish to appoint counselor and his friend took the lives of your sons. You must believe that.”

“We have played that comedy long enough,” said Spadafore. “You are an analytical man, Carlo, and so I will explain my reasoning to you. That is,” he added with fine irony, “with your permission, consigliere.” Sesti, speechless, merely nodded.

“First, may I say that I never entirely believed that Gordon and Flanagan killed Mario. At my age you learn that people rarely act
out of character, and murder is not in the character of two journalists. And so, from the beginning, my suspicions were aroused. That is the reason I accepted Albert Grossman’s assurance of his son’s innocence.”

“But Pietro,” said Sesti. “You yourself told me after Pietro’s death that Gordon and Flanagan were to be held accountable.”

“That is true,” said Spadafore. “At the time, it appeared the most probable explanation. But that was before Gordon’s article appeared. I had no idea that the girl, Jupiter Evans, was his fiancée. I asked myself, why would a man murder his own future bride, simply to kill my son. It seemed illogical.”

“That bothered me, too,” said Sesti quickly. “But of course, these men are amateurs. Perhaps it was simply an accident that the girl was there.”

“Possible, I grant you,” said the Don reasonably. “Unlikely, but still possible. On the other hand, I began to think—who is the true beneficiary of this string of murders? And to that there was only one answer—it was you, Carlo.”

“And on the basis of such reasoning, you accuse me of killing your sons?”

“I am a cautious man, consigliere, and, I hope, a just one. Certainty required more, and luckily, Mr. Flanagan has provided it.”

“Flanagan? What has he told you?”

“Carlo, do you know a man named Grady Rand?”

For a split second, Sesti considered lying, but he realized that the old man would not have asked if he did not already know the answer. “Rand was an assassin. I used him for the Grossman job,” he said.

“Yes, it is in here,” said Spadafore, producing a small leather notebook. “This belonged to Rand. On the day that Albert Grossman was shot there is a notation—‘A.G.’ It may interest you to know that ‘M.S.’ appears on the day that Mario was shot, and ‘P.S.’ on the day that Pietro was blown up. What is your explanation for this, consigliere?”

“Where did you get that notebook?” Sesti demanded.

“Mr. Flanagan brought it to me early this morning,” said the Don.

“He could have written those initials himself,” Sesti sputtered. “This is a forgery. I’m certain of it.”

The Don shook his head. “I asked Arturo Pasterno to check the
writing against the other notations in the book,” he said. “It is identical.”