Operation Bamboozle (35 page)

“You'd hate it,” Julie said. “Baggy pants and big black mustaches. Not your style.”

“Or I could not go to Milan.”

“It's Italian. He'd respect that. Pull over here.”

The Packard bumped onto the grass verge and he killed the lights. A distant whiff of the Pacific drifted into the car. Far off, première searchlights scanned the night sky and found nothing. “You gave away fifty grand back there, Luis. Why did you do that? First you bust a gut to get it, then you …” She raised her arms and let them flop.

“It was a surprise,” Luis said. “Some of them didn't really trust me. So I stuffed their mouths with gold.”

“It was
their
gold.”

“That's not how they feel. They've each won five grand, and they've still got ten grand capital, plus forty they'll earn.”

“Fat chance. We just lost fifty grand. I'm not complaining, I just want to get the con straight, because the way I see it, we need to find two hundred grand for the first quarterly dividend, and now we haven't got it.”

“That's a long way off. Maybe I'll find it in Istanbul.”

“Where you're not going.”

“For Vito's benefit. If we hurry home and I pack now, maybe there's a late plane I can miss.”

She drove him to the airport. On the way, she said: “Maestro. Maestro DiLazzari. That was a bit rich.”

“I simply told him what he wanted to hear. It confirmed his own opinion of himself. Now he believes he's running the show. He's the maestro, I'm just his bagman.”

“Uh-huh. What was really on that tape?”

“President Eisenhower's State of the Union speech. Your pal at the studio lowered it a couple of tones and played it backward. Sounded Ukrainian to me.”

“Gunshots?”

“From his sound-effects library.”

They walked into Departures and looked at people buying tickets. “I got nowhere to go,” Luis said. “Everywhere is out there, but I got nowhere.”

“It's a blues number. Try New Orleans.” They kissed. She left. Long goodbyes were not their style.

The DiLazzari organization made money the way cows make milk. Each day's output is recorded. A cow goes dry, it's off to the slaughterhouse. No sentiment. The beast is not a pet, it's a delivery system.

Once a week, Nicky Zangara got reports from Vito's lieutenants, boiled them down and told Vito what was paying and how much.

Now he could see Vito didn't care. Bored. Same old stuff. Nicky finished up fast.

“This Ukraine thing,” Vito said. “Part of the crusade to save the West. I been thinkin', what the US needs is a vigilante force to whack the Reds who've been infiltratin'
us,
like Joe McCarthy says.”

“McCarthy's a bag of wind.”

“That a fact? Maybe you've gone soft on Communism, Nicky. You never liked this Ukraine thing, did you? Maybe you're some secret bleeding-heart pinko liberal. Maybe my vigilante force ought to whack
you
first.”

“Gimme the say-so an' I'll have Cabrillo whacked.”

“And lose our investment? Not very smart.”

“This patriotism shit,” Nicky said wearily, “it's not what we do. It's not business. It screws up the accounts.”

“Which are history,” Vito said. “Cabrillo is the future. Patriotism is big business. Get your sliderule mind around that. How many beans make five, kid?”

“It ain't six,” Nicky said.

“No? Rub 'em together, make 'em breed. Could be you got six, even seven, maybe eight. Get me? You make me tired. Be missing.”

Nicky left.
Be missing,
he thought.
Al Capone used to say that. Capone, too full of himself, picture always in the papers, big shot, big name, where did it get him? Jail is where. Huh. Be missing. Cheap crack. Cheap and stupid.

Agent Fisk told his boss that Cabrillo-Conroy were still active in LA, according to local Bureau sources.

Agent Prendergast had kidney stones. He hadn't told Fisk, hadn't told anyone in the Bureau, because he hated the thought of being suspended for reasons of health. Meanwhile the kidney stones hurt. He asked Fisk exactly what ‘active in LA' meant. Fisk said there was a pattern of association with known mob figures. Prendergast got a stab of pain in his gut and said, “If you want to go to LA and connect the dots and be a G-man hero, do it on your own time. Take a vacation.” Fisk said he had two weeks coming and he took it and flew west.

Agent Moody was surprised to see him. “You sounded a lot taller on the phone,” he said.

“I was standing on a box.”

They went to a coffee shop. “Strictly speaking, I'm on leave,” Fisk said. “But seeing as I'm a local boy, got my degree at USC, and I followed Cabrillo-Conroy up and down the East coast, it seemed worth getting your slant on the case.”

“There is no case,” Moody said. “They keep bad company. So do I. Some of their bad company end up dead. So do mine. Cabrillo-Conroy live in the Santa Monica mountains which we bug and tap and I think they know it because she sings
These Foolish Things Remind Me of You
right into the bugs. Sometimes they talk about Ukraine but the only crime being committed on the premises is the dog's breath, which is not a federal offense.”

“And Vito DiLazzari?”

Moody took off his shoes and held them in his left hand and placed his hat on top of them. “What's that?”

“Don't know.”

“It's a Mob boss with the shit kicked out of him. It's DiLazzari, one day. But right now we can't nail him.”

Fisk sipped his coffee and thought. “Cabrillo-Conroy and DiLazzari form a pattern. A shape. There must be a purpose.”

Moody put his shoes on. “I think you'd better meet Charlie Denny. He's no damn help but he gives a very good lunch.”

They ate at the Los Angeles Yacht Club.

“Fisk is a great believer in patterns of crime,” Moody said. “Personally I never saw much shape in anything except maybe those cute chalk outlines on the floor. You have any thoughts?”

Denny sucked down an oyster. He stared into space, as if listening for it to drop. “DiLazzari is taking a ride on a tiger,” he said. “Cabrillo has the tiger by the tail. Or maybe the positions are reversed.” He smiled benignly.

“Told you so,” Moody said to Fisk.

After ten days, Luis came back.

He was in the belvedere, using a thin black cigar to burn holes in the red-and-green tunic he had bought in New York weeks ago, when Julie came up to say they had a visitor. Name of Denny. Said he was CIA.

“An impostor,” Luis said. “Since when did the CIA make house calls? I'll see him off the premises.”

But Denny was in the kitchen, coat off, enjoying a cup of Earl Grey. He had an easy smile and a firm handshake. “Can't tell you how much I've looked forward to this meeting,” he said. “Call me Charlie. I suppose you want to see a badge and ID and so on.”

“No thank you. It won't be as good as mine.” Luis showed him the honorary detective badge given him by the chief of police in Caracas. “Worth all the fifty dollars I never paid for speeding offenses.”

Denny was impressed and amused. “Some of my colleagues warned me about you, Mr. Cabrillo. They said you were a maverick, a loose cannon, a rogue male. So I took the trouble to investigate Operation Bamboozle. We have men inside Ukraine.
They tell me half the State lottery tickets are indeed forged. Congratulations. It's not easy to jump over the Iron Curtain.”

Silence. Julie looked at Luis. He was as straightfaced as a statue but his eyes had the look of a man who has just won the Nobel for piracy on the high seas.

“Excuse us for a minute,” she said to Denny. “Have a cookie. Have them all.” He gave her a smile. No problem. He had plenty more.

She took Luis by the hand and led him out of the house. “One. This guy is a Government man. Don't ask me how I know. Two. It's quittin' time. Tell him the Ukraine is a con, pure and simple. Or dirty and complex. Whatever. Just tell him. Three. I'll pack the bags because we gotta get outa here.
Now.”

They went inside. “Luis has news for you,” she said.

“It's all a con,” he said. “Forget Ukraine. They don't even have a State lottery, so there can't be any forged tickets, can there? Bamboozle is exactly what it says, a swindle. You've had a wasted journey. More tea?”

Denny's smile turned into a laugh. “They told me you would say that. Forgive my hilarity. But Ukraine does indeed have a State lottery, it
is
run by the KGB, it's a racket and half the tickets are fake. The profits are channeled west through a Swiss bank, obviously. It's a beautiful operation and the Agency wants it, complete and entire, for itself. We thank you for blazing the trail, and goodbye.”

“No, it's a con,” Julie insisted.

“We know otherwise. The only real con is when you try to tell us it's a con. Shame on you.” That last was a joke.

“Where does this leave Vito DiLazzari?” Luis asked. “He's a major investor. You're making a hostile takeover bid. He won't like that. It's not ethical.”

Julie sighed. “You're away with the fairies again,” she told him.

“Give him back his money,” Denny said.

“There's more to it than that,” Luis said. “Vito wants recognition as a concerned citizen and a patriot.” Denny cocked his head and looked sideways. “It's true,” Luis said. “The DiLazzari organization outgrossed Pepsi in southern California last year.”

Julie raised both arms. “Who cares?” she shouted.

“Set up a meeting,” Denny said. “I'll make him an offer he can't understand. That usually does the trick.”

“In your office?” Luis said. “Have you got a photograph of you with the President?” Denny nodded. “Vito will like that,” Luis said.

Nothing more to be said. Denny thanked Julie for her hospitality, and left.

She swirled the dregs in his cup and looked at the pattern formed by the tealeaves. “I see a mobster as mad as a wet hen.” She swirled again. “I see a boy and a girl riding into the sunset pretty damn fast.”

Luis shook his head. “There is still juice in the lemon,” he said. “Old Ukrainian saying.”

A short five-hole golf course had been put into the grounds of the DiLazzari residence, and Vito was playing Nicky Zangara. “Bend your goddamn knees,” he said. “Look at the goddamn ball. Keep your fuckin' head down.” Nicky smashed the ball as if he hated it and they watched it soar two hundred yards and vanish into the trees.

“Shithead,” Vito said. “You lost it, you bought it.”

Nicky gave him a dollar. Vito stared. Nicky gave him another. “I hit the sonofabitch twice as far as you,” he said.

“Got no style. No class. This is a game for gentlemen.” The Packard came in sight, bending with the driveway. “Okay, fun's over. Start polishin' your decimal point.”

Luis and Julie walked toward them. It was a silent afternoon, one of those gentle Californian moments when the trees were utterly still and the birds had the manners to chirrup softly and the sky had patents on a soft blue never seen elsewhere. Vito was throwing golf balls at squirrels. “Little bastards bury their nuts on my putting greens.” he explained. “What's new in Ukraine?”

“I held discussions with the general,” Luis said, “and he is steadfast in his resolution, deep in his admiration, and he wishes you to accept as a gift this item from his KGB uniform, being a token of your mutual respect.” He gave him the red-and-green tunic.

“Gee. I'm speechless. He wore this? A Russian general's tunic?” Vito put it on. “Hey! He's got some chest on him. And look … Is this what I think it is?”

“Bulletholes.”

Vito counted them. “Five.”

“Two from the assassination attempt. The others came later.”

Nicky had moved behind Vito. “Shots go in the front,” he said. “Don't come out the back.”