Once a Crooked Man (31 page)

“How did you know where to find me?” Charles was asking.

“It was Murphy. He called from New York and gave me all the particulars I needed. I was beginning to think of him as your Guardian Angel.”

“Guardian Angel be damned!” exclaimed the Colonel. “The man is a thief, plain and simple. Gave me some cock and bull story about overhearing Max talk about us.”

Rhonda folded her hands in her lap and then said quietly, “Tell me. What conclusions have you come to?”

“That perhaps it's time to take our leave. Go somewhere quiet and simply disappear for a while. Go to ground, so to speak.”

She smiled at him. “Charles, I like what you're saying, but I think you're selling yourself short. You shouldn't give up so easily. You know a great deal. About Max. About all of them. And Max knows this.”

“Are you suggesting I demand some sort of severance pay?”

“You could call it that. I prefer to think of it as a way of financing our retirement.”

“Max would never go along with it.”

“On the contrary. He would have no choice. And there would be no need to incriminate yourself. You could spill the beans anonymously. And Max knows this too. Trust me, I know exactly how to do it.”

“But shouldn't we wait…”

Rhonda silenced him with a wave of her hand and walked over to the sofa, where she picked up the newspaper and the phone. Returning, she dropped the paper on the table.

“Have you seen this?” she asked.

“Good God!” he said when he saw the lurid headline.

“Read it,” she said. “All of it.”

When he finished he muttered with feeling, “Poor Percy.”

“Yes! Poor Percy. Do you want to end up like him?”

She handed him the phone.

“It's the perfect time to call Max. What you say is simple. You tell him that due to present unforeseen circumstances, the Villiers are going to retire. You then let him know that for inconvenience caused you need to be recompensed.”

He stared at her. “How much do I ask for?”

“I don't know,” she answered. “What do you think?”

He shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea. I have to leave that to you.”

Rhonda Villiers thought for a moment.

“Well,” she said. “A million pounds has a pleasant ring to it.”

 

54

On the top floor of Mazaras, Max was slumped on the sofa in his office feeling angry and tired. Since he had made the decision to make necessary changes to his lifestyle all hell had broken loose. To add insult to injury there was now this irritating call from Villiers.

The Colonel and his stupid ultimatum would have to wait. Max had more pressing matters to deal with. First and foremost was the offer from Hernandez. The idea of setting up such a massive new organization was ludicrous. Twenty years earlier Max would have jumped at the opportunity, but not now. It was time to call Enzo and put an end to the whole business.

He opened the desk drawer and took out a phone. There were only two left. A trip to Walmart was needed to restock the supply. As he went to dial the one in his hand, the phone on his desk rang. He reached over and picked it up.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Max, it's Enzo…”

“What's up, little brother? I was just about to call you. About the Hernandez offer…”

“Max…”

“I have no idea how he'll react but…”

“Max!” Enzo said louder. “The boat sank. Sometime last night. Right at the dock.”

“What?”

“I just came from there. The super's been trying to call us all morning.”

“It sank?”

“Yes, Max.”

“Was it an accident?”

“Boats don't just sink. This was no accident. Nino found a couple of flippers.”

“Then how…?”

“I have no idea how! But the
Gazelle
is on the bottom of the fucking river. All I could see was the top, all those mast things; everything else is under the water.”

“I don't get it.”

“I'm on my way to see Vic. Find out if he knows of anyone who might have a reason to get even with us. And then of course there's Murphy.”

“You think it could be him?”

“He certainly has the motive.”

Max sat down and cursed. Murphy was a cat with nine fucking lives, a goddam grenade rolling around with the pin out.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“With Benny on my way to the warehouse. Murphy's girl still there?”

“Not for long,” replied Max. “I told Rocco to go get her. He's bringing her here.”

“Maybe she knows more than she's letting on.”

“Maybe. But leave her to me. I'll make the bitch talk.”

 

55

Lizzie heard footsteps descending the stairs. The pipe against the door clattered to the ground. Rocco came in, grabbed her by the arms and pinned her against the wall, where he secured her wrists with a plastic tie. At no time did he give her an opening to take him down. Silently he frog-marched her up the stairs, along the corridor and outside to a car parked at the curb. The street was deserted.

As they drove through the tunnel beneath the waters of the Hudson, Lizzie couldn't help wondering whether Harry's lifeless corpse was floating above her at that very moment. A shudder ran through her body at the thought.

They emerged on the West Side of Manhattan. The driver turned sharply around two corners, up a ramp into a parking garage and over to a gray steel door marked
Fire Exit Keep Clear
. Rocco got out and indicated to her she should follow him. He pressed the buttons on the electronic keypad and opened the door, keeping a wary eye on her as she crossed the threshold.

The lighting was low and red. The soft carpet beneath her feet was red. The damask walls were red and black. The air smelled odd. Cheap perfume and garlic.

Her captor propelled her down two flights of stairs into a dark basement and over to a door marked WC. Taking a knife from his pocket he cut the plastic holding her hands and pushed her inside. The door shut. A key turned in the lock. Footsteps walked away and up the stairs.

As part of her training at the Police Academy, Cadet Lizzie Carswell had attended a lecture on what to expect if she were taken hostage. The lecturer was a craggy ex-paratrooper who had evidently made the subject his life's work.

“If you have the misfortune to be abducted and held for any kind of ransom,” he had intoned, “you should consider your life over and at an end. For all intents and purposes you are dead and buried. The inviolable rule is that no government, be it local or national, can ever enter into negotiations or pay money to terrorists or kidnappers. It just perpetuates the kidnapping cycle.”

Supervised drills were undertaken where each of the students was deprived of all normal senses. For several hours they were blindfolded, bound, gagged and placed in a dark and very narrow space. Lizzie had little problem with these exercises. She had just slept.

Now she used the toilet, sat down and made herself as comfortable as she could. She was determined to rest. With Harry out of the picture, her only objective was to escape.

 

56

Enzo's car sped out of the Marina with Harry in hot pursuit. At the first intersection the light changed as they passed through. Harry risked the wrath of the law to keep up with his one link to Lizzie. The West Side Highway allowed him to keep a little distance between them. They crossed Central Park at 66th Street and pulled up outside an apartment building on Lexington Avenue.

Harry watched from a slight distance.

Enzo was clearly in no mood for pleasantries and brushed past the doorman. The car drove off. The coast was now clear. Harry ran across the road and entered the lobby.

“Yes, sir, can I help you?” asked the same doorman.

“
Buono sierra!
” Harry was now a New York Sicilian. “The guy went up in that elevator.
Dio mio!
” He tapped his forehead. “
Ho forgetta il suo nome! Enzo, Enzo…?
”

The doorman fell into the trap. “Bruschetti,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah, thatsa right,” said Harry brightly. “Enzo Bruschetti. He lives in the pentahousa, right?”

The doorman hesitated. Perhaps he had just made a big mistake. “What exactly do you want with Mr. Bruschetti?”

Harry looked at his watch. “
Santa Margharita Portofino vecchia Maria!
Is thatta the time!” He wheeled towards the front door. “I see Enzo later. My cousin Vinny's waiting for me.
Ciao bella!
”

Out on the sidewalk he flew across to his car, drove fast around the block and parked. If he was going to find Lizzie he needed all the information he could muster. The IRS agent was a good place to start and at the same time he could find out if they knew anything. Cursing his stupidity at not bringing his cellphone from the apartment, he spent five minutes finding a pay phone that functioned. He took out the card from his wallet and called Special Agent Luigi Rienzi. The familiar voice answered.

“It's Harry Murphy,” he said.

“Harry Murphy! What do you know! We've all been wondering what happened to you. You sure know how to disappear. Are you okay? Marty needs to talk to you.”

“You can tell your pals I'm fine.”

Luigi's tone became confidential. “Between you and me,” he said, “until we find your lady friend we're on twenty-four-seven. What can I do for you?”

“I need information. Do you have access to department files?”

“Sure do,” said the agent.

“Could you check for a name for me?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I'll tell you all that later. It's Enzo Bruschetti.”

“How do you spell it?”

“No idea. I've only heard it spoken. Rhymes with ‘spaghetti.'”

“How soon do you need it?”

“How soon can you get it?”

“Depends on the filing date. If it's in the computer I'll have it in a few minutes. If I have to shuffle paper it'll take at least an hour. A day maybe. Perhaps never. Where can I call you?”

“I'll call you,” said Harry. “Speaking of my lady friend, I don't suppose you have any news?”

“You got that right. But don't lose heart, Harry, everyone's working hard on it. Look, where are you? We could send a car…”

“No thanks,” said Harry. “Later maybe.”

 

57

Marty MacAvoy was sitting down to a pizza burger in the commissary when Luigi walked up to him. “Whatever it is, it can wait, Lou,” he said pointedly.

“No it can't boss” came the reply. “I just had Murphy on the phone.”

“Great! He's coming in.”

“No he's not. He wanted to know what we knew about the name ‘Bruschetti.' Rhymes with ‘spaghetti.' Mean anything to you?”

“No. Is that all?”

“I was wondering if I should find out who owns the boat Murphy jumped from last night.”

“Frank's already on it. He's over at the Marina right now.” MacAvoy picked up his burger.

“No, he's back,” said the IRS agent. “I just talked with him. Guess what? The
Gazelle
was where it was supposed to be but was sitting firmly on the muddy bottom of the Hudson. The Marina super thinks it was sunk deliberately. He said something about a bunch of holes.”

MacAvoy thought for a moment and then said, “Do you suppose Murphy did it?”

Luigi gave a short laugh. “I hadn't thought about that. Yeah, you're probably right. He's sure got the balls for it.”

MacAvoy said bitterly, “God, I hate all this. It keeps creeping up my ass. All right, Lou, do what you think best. But keep it quiet, okay?”

Luigi drew a finger across his mouth. “My lips is sealed. Enjoy your burger.”

Luigi needed to talk with Frank Torregrossa in case he had the identification number of the
Gazelle
. He did. Luigi made a copy and took it back to his cubicle, where he had his nephew Mario at the NYS Department of Motor Vehicles look it up and give him the name and address of the boat owners. With his Windbreaker over his arm, he left the building and took a cab across town.

The offices of Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher were in a tall glass building on Park Avenue. Luigi pushed open the doors, flashed his badge to the security agent and took the elevator up to the seventh floor. At the reception desk he pulled out his badge again.

“I'm with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said politely. “I'd like some information please.”

The gray-haired receptionist reacted as everyone did when he announced his affiliation: a startled look that morphed into one of complete innocence.

“Who's in charge here?” Luigi asked, smiling. It always helped to keep it friendly.

“On this floor?”

Luigi nodded.

“That would be Mr. Allinson. But he's not here right now.”

A young girl came up to the desk with a bunch of envelopes and put them in the outgoing-mail tray.

“Mr. Allinson?” she said. “He went home already.”

The receptionist gave her a chilly look.

“And where would home be?” asked Luigi pleasantly.

The receptionist hesitated. “I don't know if I'm allowed…”

Luigi held his badge two inches from her nose.

“Well,” she said, “if you insist.”

A Lexington Avenue subway took him up to 86th Street and he walked the rest of the way. A white-gloved doorman opened the door as he approached. Luigi handed over one of his calling cards. The doorman told him to wait while he called the Allinson residence. After a brief conversation on the intercom, Luigi was shown into a shiny mahogany elevator with polished brass fittings. The doorman reached in and pressed a button.

“Which apartment?” Luigi inquired taking back the card.