Operation Bamboozle (25 page)

He had a friendly smile.

“Why not?” Luis said.

“Where you going?”

“Manhattan.”

“Jump in. Just that bag? Traveling light, huh?”

“Sure.” Luis got in. “My old daddy used to say, ‘What you ain't got, the bastards can't steal.'”

“Ain't that the truth?” Fisk said.

The cab began the long haul through Queens. They introduced themselves. Fisk said he was Thomas G. Duffy, in the garbage disposal business, a private joke. Luis said he was Arthur Plunkett, which sounded modest, so he added retired squadron leader, New Zealand Air Force. That would explain his un-American accent. “If you won't ask me what I did in the war, I won't ask you what you do with garbage,” he said. “My operations are still classified top secret. Get my head chopped off if I told you.”
Hey, that's good,
he thought.
War hero whose hands are tied. I like that.

“I wouldn't want that to happen,” Fisk said. “Redundant body parts are something we can't dispose of. Not legally.” They both laughed. “I'll let you in on one trade secret. Plastics are made from oil. The first guy to reverse that process will make a killing.”

“How interesting. My squadron made a small killing after D-Day. Smuggling whisky into France. There are twenty-nine places you can hide a bottle in a Spitfire, and I discovered eighteen.”

“Good God.”

“Or so I'm told. Personally I have no memory of it. Have you?”

“Damned if I can remember.” More laughter. Luis relaxed. A journey shared is a journey halved, and so was the fare.

As they crossed into Manhattan, Fisk asked where he wanted to be dropped. “I collect old coins,” Luis said. “Is there a street that specializes? Like the diamond merchants in the West Forties?” Fisk told the driver where to go. Ten minutes later they were standing on the sidewalk, paying the driver, adding the tip, watching him pull away. “Thank you for your help,” Luis said.

“I've got a couple of hours to kill. Mind if I tag along?” Luis hesitated. “Garbage disposal gets kind of tedious,” Fisk said.

Luis smiled his agreement. “I'm not here to buy. Just checking out some items on behalf of a rich collector.”

They moved from store to store, looking at rare coins in display cabinets. Often, Luis had opinions about them. “Ah yes, an Australian gold sovereign of 1868. A
good
year, but not a
great
year … Now look at this 1928 silver piastre from Cyprus. Very scarce, and deservedly so. Did you ever see anything so ugly? … Oh dear, a Prussian 20-Marks piece, gold, 1913. When Kaiser Wilhelm abdicated in 1918, he is said to have stuffed his
breeches with them. Highly unlikely. Very old and weak. He couldn't have walked a yard.”

Everywhere they went, Luis asked if they had a Norwegian 10-schilling coin, bronze, 1805? Nobody had. “Pity,” Luis said. “The Norwegian cavalry fought magnificently at Trafalgar. Napoleon was all at sea. Norway struck the coin in honor of the victory. It's very rare. Almost unobtainable.”

They reached Sixth Avenue: no more coin dealers. They wished each other well, shook hands and parted. Fisk walked back to the FBI office. Luis strolled around the block and reentered the biggest of the dealers. “I'm interested in redundant paper currency,” he said. “Czarist Russian banknotes, that sort of thing.”

“It's kept in the basement,” the man said. “We sell it by the pound. Want to follow me?”

Fisk found a veteran agent who specialized in counterfeit currency and told him about the quest for a bronze 10-schilling Norwegian special issue to celebrate the success of the cavalry at Trafalgar in 1805.

“Where to start?” the agent said. “Norway didn't exist in 1805. It was part of Sweden until 1814. The schilling was and is Austrian currency. Norwegian cavalry never fought Napoleon, especially at Trafalgar, which was a sea battle. He wasn't even there. You can stop looking for that coin.”

“As I thought. Just checking.”

“Don't take any wooden nickels.”

Fisk poked his head around Prendergast's door and said, “Our man Cabrillo just flew in from LA.”

Prendergast was drafting his report on the triple homicide in Staten Island. He looked up without moving his head. “And?”

“He calls himself Squadron Leader Plunkett, retired. He spent an hour with rare coin dealers, looking for something which, if it existed, which it doesn't, would be phony.”

“So?”

“He's still full of Grade-A bullshit.”

“Tell me when you know different.” Prendergast lowered his eyes and wrote.

Vito's uncle telephoned. “He would like for us to meet,” he told Julie. “You and Mr. Cabrillo both.”

“He's in luck,” Julie said. “Luis just got back from the East Coast.”

“Yeah. We know. That's why. Church of St. Timothy and All Angels, tomorrow, eleven. Dress serious.”

“Stevie too?”

“Not with you. She escorts Mrs. DiLazzari. Her Cadillac will collect.”

Luis had been flying with the sun, which made it a long day, and he was weary. “You go,” he said. “It's probably his nephew's christening. Buy him a silver egg cup. We're not family, for heaven's sake.”

“Yes we are,” she said. “Uncle has spoken.”

They had to park two blocks away. Police were everywhere, controlling traffic. A deep and solitary bell tolled once every minute. Everyone wore dark clothing: astonishing in Southern California. Total silence when the hearse arrived. Then another hearse, and another. “Explains everything,” Julie whispered. “Triple-header. Big deal.”

They were lucky to get places in a remote pew. They caught a glimpse of Stevie and Mrs. DiLazzari in aisle seats. When Vito appeared he was a pallbearer of the first casket. His head brushed the edge of a mass of flowers.

The order of service named three Brunos: Dominick, Paul and Francis.

The ceremony lasted an hour and a half. Three priests shared the load. There were six eulogies, all B-movie standard, but they caused some sobbing. The choir had several solo spots and impressed with ambitious counterpoint. The organist fired off everything from handgun to howitzer and may have effected a nosebleed in a small boy. Bells tinkled, incense wafted, holy water was sprinkled, and at the end of it all, nobody was in any doubt. The three Brunos in the caskets were definitely dead.

Julie and Luis allowed themselves to be washed out in the slow flood, and Uncle was waiting. “Private interment,” he said. “Family only. He wishes you to share lunch with him.” A car was waiting. “Not the fiancée,” he added. “She goes with his mother. They eat at home.” It didn't sound like a feast.

Vito was in a private room at an Italian restaurant. He kissed, he shook hands, the waiters made sure nobody fell out of their chair, and then got lost. Uncle poured sparkling wine.

“A sad occasion,” Luis said.

“Tragic.” Vito raised his glass. “To their immortal souls.” They drank to that. “Uncle wants me to marry in St. Timothy's.”

“Good enough for your father,” Uncle said. “Good enough for your Communion.”

“No, impossible, it's a museum. Full of ghosts. I'm not going to marry Stephanie Fantoni with ghosts watching. I want a church of my own.”

“You wanted a church before you got engaged,” Luis said.

“So what?”

“So nothing.” Julie got in fast. “There's a church you can buy. Buy it today. Trouble is, it's in South Central LA.”

“Got a name?”

“Heavenly Home of Zen and Zulu Zion,” Julie said. “Somewhere in Compton. Martial Arts on Thursdays. Broke, can't pay their utility bills.”

“Compton.” Vito looked at Uncle.

“Where the bums go to die,” Uncle said.

“Or I found a storefront place near Venice Beach,” Julie said. “It's called ‘God Shoots, God Scores Inc.' The cops closed it down last week. Going cheap.”

“Venice is full of fag bodybuilders,” Vito grumbled. “Jockstrap HQ. Disgrace to LA.”

“There's worse,” Julie said, “but you don't want to hear about them. Especially the cult in Anaheim that worships its own feces. The city can't get in the building to serve a summonse because … Let's forget it.”

“Yes, let's,” Luis said. “We're at lunch.”

But Vito wasn't ready for food. “I'm very disappointed. You had a couple weeks, now nothing. We own a laundry up in Van Nys, garbage trucks in Inglewood, night clubs on the Strip, ice cream plants all over, for Christ's sake, one lousy church, it's not much to ask.”

“Technically we don't own those garbage trucks,” Uncle said. “We just tell them where to go.”

“Same diff,” Vito said.

“Also where
not
to go. People pay more when their garbage piles up.”

“Screw the garbage. I'm very disappointed. It hurts me.”

“It hurts you.” Luis finished his wine in one swig. “Let's get this situation in proportion. LA is big. You expect Julie to check it out? One person? Not me, I've got my own priorities. My organization reaches far beyond yours, Mr. DiLazzari. The operation demands great patriotism, as I told you. But sometimes patriotism is not enough.”

Silence. Vito stared, and Luis stared back. Far away, in the kitchen, someone was murdering Pagliacci.

“Patriotism and what else?” Vito asked.

Luis was in no hurry. He rearranged his cutlery. “Resources,” he said. “It's not your problem.”

“I care for my country. And I know guys can make things happen. The DiLazzaris are not without influence.”

“This patriotism,” Uncle said to Luis. “It pays?”

“Forget money,” Vito told him. “You're always thinkin' of money. I'm thinkin' of Uncle Sam.”

“Quarterly return of one hundred percent,” Luis said.

“Holy cow,” Vito whispered. A waiter tapped on the door and opened it. Vito tossed the empty wine bottle to him. The door closed. “A dollar makes four in a year,” he said. “Almost as good as loan-sharking.”

“Better,” Uncle said. “Sharking, you get bad debts.” He shook his head. “People in trouble need loans but the trouble they're in means they don't repay and now they're in bigger trouble so they take a second loan and that puts them in the biggest trouble. I got no time for financial irresponsibility.
People can't manage their affairs got no business doing business with regular folk.” It was the most Luis and Julie had heard him say.

“Uncle belongs to the older generation,” Vito said. “Mention risk to him and he breaks out in hives.”

“I learned from your father. He built the organization. From nothing.”

“Sure. The way the Egyptians built the Pyramids. Same damn thing over and over again. No imagination.”

The waiter brought in another bottle of wine. The business of refilling glasses eased the tension. “Here's to us,” Luis said. Seemed safe.

“This thing you're doing is too hot for the CIA,” Vito said. “Your words. So who's watching your back in DC?”

“Let's just say my authority comes from the top. I can't mention names—you might break out in hives—but our partnership reaches back to the Hitler war. Mrs. Conroy and I wrote the book on Counter Intelligence.”

“Bamboozling the Führer,” she said.

“There are fourteen ways to bamboozle a field marshal,” Luis said, “and I invented eight.”

“Dang my hide,” Vito said. “We don't go in for bamboozling in LA. Must be a New York word. Hornswoggling, now that's something we understand. So … tell us how you're hornswoggling the Kremlin. We're all patriots here.”

Luis took a piece of paper from an inside pocket and unfolded it. “Here is the ace of trumps.”

It was the size of a small handkerchief. Densely packed Cyrillic characters were printed in red, black and gold. Vito took it and studied it and passed it on. “Sensational,” he said. “I may hyperventilate.”

Uncle held it up to the light. “Watermark. Fellow with a mustache. Kind of like Mark Twain.”

“That's Ivan Franko.” Luis took back the paper. “Poet, very big in Ukraine, a symbol of good luck.” He rattled the paper. “Not in this case. It's a ten-karbovansiv ticket from the Ukraine State National Lottery and it won nothing.”

“Ukraine,” Vito said. “Russia.”

“Technically, part of the USSR, but Ukrainians are a maverick people. The home of the Cossack, remember. But sabers are no good against the Kremlin, and then there's the KGB.”

“Sonsabitches,” Uncle muttered.

“A fine body of men,” Luis said. “And much-maligned. The KGB sends a guilty Russian to Siberia for ten years, but if he is innocent, only five years.”

“That's what the British call irony,” Julie said. “They have it instead of air conditioning.”

“And the KGB runs the Bolshoi Ballet,” Luis added. “The CIA wouldn't know a
pas de deux
from
pommes de terre frites”

“Enough irony,” Vito said. “Cut to the chase.”

“I can't tell you everything. And first, you must appreciate the dynamo that drives Operation Bamboozle. It's love of liberty and democracy.”

“I wore my country's uniform,” Vito said. “Front line against the Soviet juggernaut.”

“I bought War Bonds,” Uncle said.

“And we all stand shoulder to shoulder in the crusade to turn back the Red tide,” Luis said. “The KGB is everywhere. The Ukraine State Lottery is run by KGB General Bolshevik, obviously not his real name but we gave him that codename because originally Bolshevik meant ‘a man who wants more.' Recently we found that he was siphoning money from the lottery. Every time the list of winners was announced, the general's police arrested two or three of them. You can't live in the USSR without being guilty of something, so no one was surprised. And General B kept their winnings in his back pocket.”