Singapore Wink (5 page)

“La
Cosa Nostra is what he calls it.”

“Is that its name?”

“No,” Small said, “but it's always good for a few laughs. So let's get back to the meeting.”

“In Atlantic City.”

“That's right. They were all there, Costello, Luciano, Vito Genovese, even Capone and his brothers. Anybody who was anybody. They got together at this meeting and decided that they needed to reorganize their operations. They were going to lay out territories, cut out the wars, and improve their image, although nobody was using that word then you understand. They just wanted to get more respectable and one of the ways they decided to go about it was to send some of the younger, brighter punks to college. So they went around the room to find out if there were any candidates. My brother was there and he put in my name and promised them that he'd break my neck if I dropped out of high school. Costello said he knew a young kid who he'd do the same thing to, so out of that entire crowd they could only come up with two they could send to college, me and this kid that Costello nominated.”

Small paused and took another long swallow of his drink. “Well, the other kid made it. You know what happened to me—I already told you that. But they got a tutor for the other kid and he not only finished high school, but they got him into Harvard and they put him through in style. I mean he didn't lack for anything. Then when he got through Harvard, they sent him down to the University of Virginia's law school. I hear he breezed through that.”

“And this is the man in Washington who wants to see me?” I said.

“He's the one.”

“How did he get to be Sacchetti's godfather?”

“Because Angelo Sacchetti was Sonny from Chicago's kid and Sonny from Chicago once saved this guy's life.”

“You lost me again.”

Small sighed, this time more deeply than before. “I shouldn't be telling you all this. It's just going to get you in trouble.”

“From what you've said, I'm already in trouble.”

He thought about that for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision. Or perhaps he was just acting it all out; I could never tell.

“All right,” he said finally. “This Sonny from Chicago, nobody ever found out his real name, showed up in New York one day with a one-year-old kid on one arm and a violin case in the other.” He paused and looked at me skeptically. “You think I'm kidding about the violin case, don't you?”

“You're telling it,” I said.

“Then keep your looks to yourself.”

“Go on.”

“Well, it seems that this Sonny's wife was an ex-hooker who had got into some trouble with one of the Chicago outfits and they dumped her into Lake Michigan. I don't know what kind of trouble it was. So this Sonny takes his violin case and takes out seven of the guys who he thought were responsible for it and he brings his kid and his Thompson down to New York. Well, by this time the kid I went to high school with is through with law school and he's back in New York and running a few errands for Costello. He meets this Sonny from Chicago who's also gone to work for Costello and they start palling around together. You know why?”

“I couldn't even guess,” I said.

“Because this Sonny from Chicago looks nice, you know, neat—just like a college kid. He speaks well, dresses conservatively, and this kid I went to high school with has turned into something of a snob because of his education. You follow me?”

“So far.”

“Well, the guy who's gone to college gets into trouble—not with Costello, but with somebody else, it doesn't matter who. But it's bad trouble, very bad, and Sonny from Chicago and this kid get caught in a fight down in the Village. Somehow Sonny saves the kid's life and the kid promises that he'll make it up to him.”

Small gave me another of his long pauses. “Well?” I said.

“Well, they catch Sonny from Chicago trying to cheat in a crap game two weeks later and they just nail him to the wall and leave him there. The college kid hears about it, so he takes this one-year-old baby of Sonny from Chicago's to raise. He becomes his godfather.”

“And the baby was Angelo Sacchetti.”

“That's right.”

“Why the name Sacchetti?”

“I don't know, but somebody once told me that he got it off a box of noodles.”

“What happened to the college kid—the godfather?”

“They sent him to Washington.”

“Why?”

“Why does anybody send anybody to Washington? As their lobbyist.”

“I'd say he forgot to register.”

“Don't kid yourself.”

“What does he do?”

Small managed a pained expression. He did it very well, I thought. “Let's just say he looks after their interests.”

“And this guy reared Angelo Sacchetti?”

“He tried to anyhow. Maybe you don't know it but Angelo had about nine governesses and maybe as many tutors. He was kicked out of four prep schools and three colleges. The only thing he ever liked was sports and that's how he wound up out here.”

“His godfather put the word in?”

“Right,” Small said.

“Does the godfather have a name?”

“It used to be Carlos Colanero. Now it's Charles Cole, and in certain circles it's even Charlie the Fix.”

“You seem to know a lot,” I said.

Small gestured at the framed pictures on the wall behind him. “With a few drinks in them they sometimes talk a lot—to one of their own kind.”

“Why does Cole want me to find Angelo?”

“I don't know,” Small said. “Angelo hung around sometimes, but not much. Then he was dead for a couple of years and nobody seemed to go into mourning. Now you say he's alive.”

“And they want me to find him.”

“Not they. Charles Cole does, and when you meet him you'll have gone about as high as you can go.”

“You think I'll meet him then?” I said.

There was still another pause. Finally Small said, “Cole does and Cole usually gets his way.”

“Any advice?”

“Sure. Change your name and disappear. This isn't just a search for the missing heir. It's some kind of big mess or they wouldn't send Callese out on an errand-boy's job and he wouldn't go on one. Somehow, they've got you all wrapped up in it.”

I thought about that for a moment while Small watched me intently. “I think I'll say no,” I said.

“They don't understand what it means.”

“There isn't much they can do.”

“There's just one thing,” Small said.

“What?”

“They can make you wish you'd said yes.”

CHAPTER V

Someone had done a thorough job. All four tires on both the Jaguar and the Ford were slashed, the canvas tops were in shreds, and two empty gallon cans of Karo syrup stood on the floor at the rear of the two cars near their open gasoline tanks. The Cadillac was untouched.

Trippet was walking around the Ford when I arrived the next morning, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets as he gave instructions to Sydney Durant, one of our long-haired young employees who looked as if he were about to cry. I could tell that Trippet was upset, too; otherwise he would never have had his hands in his pockets.

“We had some night visitors,” he said.

“So I see. How bad?”

“The tires and the tops obviously, but those can easily be replaced. I was hoping that we could drain the tanks, but they jumped the ignition on both cars and let them idle until the syrup had the opportunity to do its work. Syrup is worse than sugar, you know.”

“I didn't,” I said.

“Bastards,” Sydney said.

“Take a look inside,” Trippet said.

“The upholstery?”

“Quite.”

I looked. A razor or a sharp knife had been used to slash the soft leather that covered the seats of both cars. Someone had taken his time. After neat vertical cuts had been made every two inches or so, they were followed by similarly spaced horizontal slits. It was as fine a job of professional vandalism as one could hope to see.

“What about the office?” I said.

“Nothing touched, nor was the Cadillac.”

“No, they wouldn't touch the Cadillac.”

Trippet looked at me quizzically and then turned to Sydney. “Be a good chap and go fetch Jack and Ramón and push these into the back.”

Sydney shoved a long blond hank of hair from his eyes, glowered out at the street as if he expected to find the vandals with their noses pressed against the plate-glass windows, and then muttered something about what he was going to do when he caught up with the sons of bitches.

“We'll help,” I told him. “But let's get these two off the floor first They're not very good advertising.”

Sydney headed for the back shop and Trippet said: “You don't seem too surprised.”

“I think someone wanted to give me a message. Everything considered, they were more polite than I could expect.”

“Who?”

“I don't know who did it,” I said, “but I probably know who ordered it done.”

“Friends of yours?”

“Newly found acquaintances. Let's get a cup of coffee and I'll tell you about it.”

We walked around the corner to a short-order cafe that afforded fairly good coffee and after the waitress had served us in a booth I told Trippet about Callese and Palmisano and who they were and what they wanted me to do.

“What they did to the Ford and the Jag was just a friendly nudge,” I said. “If I keep on saying no, they might blow up the place or burn it down or something equally unpleasant.”

“And if you still said no?”

“They could get more personal—maybe a broken arm or leg.”

“You wouldn't be of much use to them then.”

“I wasn't talking about my arm or leg, I was talking about yours.”

“Can't say I fancy that.”

“No, I didn't think you would.”

“I suppose we should ring up the police.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

Trippet poured a small container of cream or milk into his coffee and then reached for the one that belonged to me and poured that in, too. He added three teaspoons of sugar and then stirred it all up together.

“What would they do, take fingerprints?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “Probably ask around the neighborhood to see whether anyone noticed something unusual about three o'clock in the morning—such as somebody hacking away at the tires with a sharp knife.”

“Sounds rather useless,” Trippet said. “But we'll have to call them so that the insurance people will be happy.”

“That's true.” I sipped the coffee and it seemed better than usual. “I'll probably be getting a visit or a call about three o'clock this afternoon from Callese. He'll be wanting to know what I've decided.”

“What will you tell him?”

“No. Or do you have some other suggestion?”

Trippet leaned against the back of the booth and inspected his coffee spoon carefully. “I'm not unduly upset about the wanton destruction of our private property, Edward. That's the risk that any entrepreneur takes who ventures into the commercial jungle.” He put the spoon down and looked at me steadily. “I don't like it, of course, but I'm not outraged—as Sydney is. However, I will not be coerced.”

“Then you agree that I should say no?”

“Absolutely no.”

“Okay. When we go back to the office we'll call the police and the insurance company.”

“I'll take care of it,” he said.

“There's one other thing you might do.”

“What?”

“Check to see whether our fire insurance premiums are paid up.”

The call came from Callese at 3:05
P
.
M
. I remember writing the time down because I thought it might be important. I also took notes on the conversation. I needn't have bothered; Callese didn't have anything to say that I couldn't remember.

“You can pick up your ticket at the United desk at the airport, Mr. Cauthorne,” he said by way of greeting. “The flight leaves at ten-fifteen tomorrow morning, first class, of course. There'll also be an envelope with further instructions and some expense money.”

“I won't be needing it.”

There was a brief pause, and then something that sounded like a sigh. Or perhaps it was just Callese exhaling smoke from one of his oval cigarettes. “My job is to get you to Washington to see a man,” he said. “You can say no in Washington.”

“I'll say it here.”

“I must not be too good at persuasion.”

“You're fine,” I said. “I found your message this morning. Very neat work.”

There was a pause and then he said, “I suppose now I'll have to think up something that will persuade you.”

“Don't bother,” I said and hung up.

I pushed a button under the desk that rang a klaxon horn in the shop. Trippet came in, dressed in his white siren suit with
Les Voitures Anciennes
stitched across its back in green Old English letters. Our crew of three wore similar ones. I think they even wore them on their dates.

“He called,” I said.

“And?”

“He said he was going to think up something that will persuade me.”

“Any notion of what it may be?”

“None.”

Trippet produced a box of
Senior Service
and offered me one. He always offered them and I always refused. He was extremely polite.

“I seriously doubt that he'll try anything here tonight,” he said.

“Why?”

“The police. They said they'd keep an eye on us for the next few days.”

“They say anything else?”

“They wanted to know who did it—you know, perhaps a disgruntled customer. I, of course, told them that we had no disgruntled customers.”