Once a Crooked Man (32 page)

“The one straight ahead” came the patient reply.

The elevator glided up and gently came to a stop. The door reopened. A young teenage girl was standing in the doorway of the one apartment on the floor. Behind her were suitcases and bags. Someone was about to take a journey.

“Hi there!” she said brightly. “I take it you've come to see my pops.”

“Could be,” replied Luigi, and he extended his hand. “You are?”

“I'm Amanda Allinson,” she replied, and gave him a firm handshake. “If you'll just wait a moment I'll go get him. Why don't you go into the living room?”

Amanda ran off as Luigi strolled across the marble floor and into the big sunlit room.

Luigi Rienzi lived in a third-floor walk-up above the Fabiani Pizza Emporium in Queens. He had all the comforts of home. A small but adequate kitchen, a bed, a table with four dining chairs, and a comfy armchair strategically placed in front of his home entertainment center. Slowly turning around he admired the fancy upholstery with the big pillows, the beautiful drapes, the artwork, the luxurious carpet. He was looking at a shelf of art books when a voice behind him said, “Hello there.”

Luigi lived alone. Although he was never short of female company he somehow had never found his other half. The ideal match. Walking over towards him now was his idea of perfection. The archetypal New England woman. Above-average height, short hairstyle, classic features, smart for sure and with a body to die for. Luigi was all too aware that such companionship came at a price. This babe was high maintenance.

“My husband will be here in just a moment,” she said. Her voice was kind of sexy too. “Can I offer you anything?”

“No thank you, I'm fine,” replied Luigi wondering how long it would take him to earn enough money to make her an offer. Not in this lifetime.

“Charming apartment you have here,” he said politely.

“Yes,” she replied. “We're very lucky. Do you live in the city?”

“No, ma'am,” he said. “I live over in Queens. Been there for over ten years now. It's modest, but it's home.”

Footsteps across the hall floor heralded the arrival of the man of the house. Tall, slim and exuding confidence. Luigi handed him his card. The man read it, gave no visible reaction and indicated one of the armchairs.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Rienzi.”

Luigi sat down and took out his notepad. The man sat opposite him. His wife settled into the sofa between them.

The agent began: “Last night in New Jersey, a boat by the name of the
Gazelle
sank at its moorings. We traced the ownership to…” Still keeping his attention focused on Pops, Luigi glanced at his notes … “the Martinson Metal Recycling Company. The address of this company was listed as care of you, Mr. Allinson at Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher on Park Avenue South. We would like to speak with the operators of the vessel, and specifically about the past two days. Can you furnish us with that information?”

“Possibly. I would have to go to my office” came the reply. “I handle many companies. Tell me, your card here says that you are with the Drug Enforcement Administration but also the IRS. How come you're investigating a boat sinking?”

“I'm afraid I'm not able to reveal that at this time, Mr. Allinson,” Luigi replied evenly. “How soon do you think you could give us the information?”

“Do you have a fax number?”

“It's on the card.”

Carter looked down. “Oh, so it is. As soon as I'm in the office I'll look it up and send it to you.”

“When will that be?”

“Would first thing in the morning be soon enough?”

“Sure. That would be fine.”

“Thanks.”

All three stood up. Luigi made his way across the hall towards the elevator. Passing the luggage he asked, “Taking a trip?”

“My daughter is,” replied Mrs. Allinson as she walked past him and pushed the button for the elevator. “She's off to Florence on a school trip.”

“Ah,” said Luigi. “Lucky girl.” On an impulse he turned and said, “Speaking of
la bella Italia,
Mr. Allinson, do you by any chance know anyone by the name of Bruschetti?”

The tall man stopped dead in his tracks.

“Bruschetti?” he asked.

“Rhymes with ‘spaghetti,'” said Luigi.

“No” was the reply. His head went very slowly from side to side. “Can't say I do.”

The elevator arrived. Luigi nodded good-bye and stepped in. The door slid shut.

The agent smiled to himself. He loved his job. One word had just revealed to him that Carter Allinson was guilty of something. Luigi had no idea what that might be, but it would be very interesting and possibly rewarding to find out.

 

58

Carter Allinson was about to go back to his study when Fiona asked, “What was all that about?”

“Nothing. At least nothing to do with us.”

“Who's Bruschetta?”

“No one important. Someone I once did business with. It's a long time ago.”

He turned to go, but his wife put her hand on his arm to stop him.

“Tell me about it?”

“Why?”

“When you heard that name you turned white as a sheet.”

Carter kept silent. He knew if he opened his mouth there would be no going back. But what could he say or do?

“I think I need an explanation,” she persisted.

“Fiona, it's a long story,” he bluffed. “I'll tell you all about it another time.”

“Why don't you try now? I have plenty of time.”

“It's also not a pretty story. Are you sure you…?”

“Carter. I'm your wife. The mother of your children. Whatever it is, I can handle it. Tell me why that man was here!”

“I'm afraid it has to do with drugs and a silly, youthful transgression back in college. You remember how it was.”

“No, I do not remember how it was,” she said with a scathing look.

“Come off it!” said Carter. “We all did a little something back then.”

“No, we did not all do something.”

“Oh please!”

“What do you mean it has something to do with drugs?”

Carter took his time before saying, “I met a guy who worked in the college commissary.”

“The commissary?”

“Yes. He was the guy who cleared the tables. He sold me some marijuana. Made it easy for me to supply my friends. I became very popular, and at the same time it gave me a little pocket money.”

“Was his name Bruschetta?”

“No. And it's Bruschetti.”

“So, you met a man in the commissary called Bruschetti who sold you drugs. Is that all?”

“No. Look, why don't we sit down and talk…”

Fiona flared. “For Christ's sake! We just had a Federal Agent in here asking questions and you're burbling on about college!”

“Look, I'm the one who put us in this mess,” said Carter, beginning to get irritated. “So you're just going to have to be patient and let me find a way out of it.”

“Patient! What mess? You still haven't told me…”

“Will you please shut up and let me explain?”

“Don't talk to me like that!”

“I'm going to talk to you any way I please,” he said pointedly. “Because right now we don't have many options open to us.”

“Then start at the beginning,” she said bitterly. “If my life is going to fall apart I would like to have some idea of just how it happened.”

“I need a drink,” he said, and walked into the short passageway that served as a wet bar. Fiona followed and leaned in the doorway as he took down a whisky glass and half-filled it with scotch. He added ice from the ice machine and topped it up with water.

“I've done my best to insulate you and the kids from what happened back then,” he said turning to face her. “I've done everything I can to bury the evidence and cover my tracks so that no one would ever be able to follow the paper trail. From what we just heard, I must have slipped up somewhere.” He took a long drink. “The last thing I ever expected was to see a cop walk in here and use the name Bruschetti.”

“Were you using pot when I met you?”

“Good God no! It was all over by then. But that's when all the trouble started. When I tried to quit, I was blackmailed.”

“By the man in the commissary?”

“No, not him. He was nobody. It was his boss, Sal, the man who had been supplying him all along. I met with him and he told me quite simply if I didn't agree to work for them and handle their investments he would kill me. ‘Dead meat' was the phrase he used.”

Carter downed the whisky and banged the glass down on the counter.

Fiona stared at her husband. “You agreed to take care of this man's investments even when you knew you could be handling drug money?”

“What option did I have?”

“Why didn't you go to the police?”

“Would you have married me if you had known I was involved with illicit money? Would your father have taken me into the firm?”

He walked up to her and spoke quietly and intensely. “Let's get realistic. I am extremely successful in what I do. And that success has brought me a large number of wealthy clients. Like it or not, when I was starting up, that ‘drug money,' as you call it, made all that possible.”

Fiona looked at the agent's card in her hand. “Why was he here?” she asked. “Why is the IRS involved?”

“I have no idea. That's why I should go talk to Max.”

“Max?

“Max Bruschetti. Sal's brother. He's the real boss now. The capo.”

“Capo!” said Fiona. She turned away and began to wander distractedly around the living room. “Jesus!” she cried. “The hospital presentation is tomorrow. What should I do about that? And Amanda's trip! Does this mean we'll have to cancel it? What about the schools? How do you think Deerfield is going to react when they find out? And the clubs? How long before they ask us to resign? We're going to be just like Valerie and Geoffrey, aren't we? Everything in the
Post
for all the world to see! Do you think you've been clever enough to make the front page?”

He took a step towards her.

“Don't touch me!” she said, her voice a whisper. “Just leave me alone. Get out of here! Go to your office! Meet with your capo! Do whatever you have to do to save your rotten, filthy skin.”

With that she strode away and down the hallway.

Carter sank into one of the big armchairs. Fiona's reaction to the bad news was understandable, but he was surprised that she had become so hysterical. Well, he mused, it had finally happened. The showdown that would no doubt open the floodgates. And all because of that stupid meeting with Sal Bruschetti in that filthy Chinese restaurant in Queens and the smug way in which the Sicilian rambled on about crime paying.

“Yes, Sal, it may pay and pay well,” Carter muttered to himself, “but you forgot to mention there's one hell of a downside.”

He stooped down and picked up the agent's card from the floor where Fiona had dropped it. Grabbing a jacket from the closet he walked out to the elevator.

In the lobby the doorman asked helpfully, “You taking your car, Mr. Allinson, or should I call a cab?”

“That's okay, Sergio,” he replied with a wan smile. “I need some air. I think I'm going to walk awhile.”

 

59

With no idea how long it would be before Enzo left his building, Harry had driven to McDonald's and loaded up with enough food for ten unhealthy adults. A mailbox partially hid his car as he sat waiting, once again across the street. To keep himself awake he spoke aloud lines of the various Shakespearean parts he had done over the years. As he reached the point in Mercutio's Queen Mab speech where “her chariot is an empty hazelnut” the familiar car pulled up outside.

Enzo came hurrying out of the lobby and got in back. Harry started up the engine but sank way down in his seat until they had passed by and then followed as they went east on 62nd Street to the FDR and then south and through the tunnel to the depths of Brooklyn. As they drew up curbside he drove past. At the first corner he turned and slammed on the brakes. Jumping out, he ran back and was just in time to see Enzo going alone through the front door of a big warehouse.

Harry had two choices: wait and follow them when they left or stay and take a look around. He chose the latter as the old building was the perfect place to hide Lizzie and he could pick up Enzo's trail anytime. The sun was now just above the horizon. Prudence suggested that he wait for dark before setting off. At one point in his vigil Enzo reappeared and drove off. Harry calculated that he had been inside for about twenty minutes.

Taking deep breaths he crossed the road and headed down the alley at the side of the building. The walls here were sheer and every window was covered with thick wooden planking securely nailed in place. Without a sledgehammer or crowbar there was no way in. Harry went to the end and looked around the corner. Midway down the back wall was a fire escape. Moving closer he saw that the lower part of the ladder was hinged at the first floor and held up by a counterweight.

From several piles of junk and garbage he was able to dig a piece of old rope and a length of two-by-four. With the wood securely tied to the rope he flung it up over the ladder. It took three attempts before it took hold but then he was able to ease the contraption down. Mercifully for an old piece of machinery it made little sound.

The fire escape was old and rusty but still safe to climb. As he stepped off the last rung the counterweight dropped and the ladder creaked back up to its original position. A stairway now rose up above him. On each landing he found an emergency exit, but each one of them was locked up tight from the inside. Peering through a tiny crack in the top doorframe he could see only emptiness. It was frustrating but he kept going up and was rewarded to see a narrow walkway that ran along the center of the roofline. On one side was a straight drop to the roof of the fourth floor. Parallel to the walkway was a row of skylights. At some time they had been covered in black paint, but much of this was now peeling away. Some were now lit from below.