Sweetheart (10 page)

A C
ADILLAC
fishtailed through traffic into the Combat Zone and eventually forced itself into a parking space, one wire-rimmed wheel up on the curb. Victor Scandura climbed out of the passenger side, leaving his topcoat unbuttoned. The March morning was mild. He walked along the sidewalk’s edge at a brisk pace until all of a sudden his step faltered. There was a burning below his chest from an ulcer that hadn’t kicked up in a long time. As he waited for relief, a woman police officer approached cautiously and asked whether anything was the matter. He shaped a smile of sorts. “Everything’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

A minute later he entered the dim of a girlie joint. There was not much of a crowd, nothing near the numbers that would be there later. A couple of blowsy women occupied a booth, another sat at the bar. Scandura proceeded to the end of the bar, and a man with a spotted forehead and thin combed-back hair emerged from a table, where he had been checking race results in the
Herald
. His smile was effusive.

“Victor. Good to see you.”

Scandura nodded, no smile. “We want a woman to do something for us. She’s gotta have class, talk right, know how to throw her ass around so it don’t hit you in the face. You got somebody like that?”

“No problem. I’ll get on the phone, get back to you in a coupla hours. Where will you be?”

“I’ll call you.”

The man batted his eyes. His voice squeaked. “I hear Anthony’s got trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“The crime-buster thing. That guy Wade, he gonna hit on here too?”

“He does, you call me.” Scandura started to turn away.

“Hey, Victor. Can I get you something before you go?”

“Yeah, get me a glass of milk.”

When Scandura returned to the car, Ralph Roselli immediately switched on the ignition and looked at his watch. “Plenty of time,” Scandura said, sitting back, half closing his eyes. They drove to Logan Airport, Delta terminal. The Cadillac slid to a sharp stop. Ralph Roselli, his baggy face immobile, grabbed a flight bag from the back seat and slipped out. Scandura eased himself behind the wheel and said, “Good luck.”

• • •

Christopher Wade telephoned Russell Thurston and said, “You were wrong. He doesn’t want to meet in some fancy restaurant. He wants me to take a trip.”

“What are you saying to me?”

“He’s got a summer house in Rye Beach, New Hampshire. That’s where he wants to meet.”

“I know the place,” Thurston said. “Blodgett took pictures of it a few years ago. A ninety-minute drive from here. That’s where he used to take his wife — the one he’s got now — before he married her. He didn’t let her into his house in Hyde Park till she had the ring on her finger.”

“Interesting.”

“When are you meeting him?”

“He wants Wednesday, the evening.”

“Give it to him.”

“I already told Scandura I’d be there, no promises on what I’d listen to, or even if I’d listen at all.”

“Beautiful,” said Thurston. “You’re a Hollywood actor.”

“What does that make you — Otto Preminger?”

“Make it John Ford,” Thurston said. “He was my favorite.”

• • •

Anthony Gardella took his wife to the theater, choice seats, a hit play, and later they went to a small North End restaurant that stayed open late, just for them. The owner made much of them, as did the waiters. They especially made much of her, to honor him. Later, at home, after he had locked up and checked the security alarms, he watched her remove her earrings. When she slipped out of her pumps, he placed slow arms around her. “You’ve been quiet lately. How come?”

“I’m happy, Tony. I don’t need to shout.” She smiled at him, but with care, as if to give him no wrong impressions. “How about you? Are you happy? Do you love me?”

“You know how much I love you. I loved you any more, it wouldn’t be right.”

Her lips grazed his cheek. “Talk to me that way always, I can live on it.”

He said, “This is a funny mood you’re in, but I like it.”

Afterward, in bed, their hands touching under the covers, he told her they would be going to Rye Beach on Wednesday. “I have to entertain somebody,” he said and told her who it would be. Her head shifted imperceptibly on the pillow.

“I read the papers, Tony. I know who he is, and what he’s trying to do to you.”

“The DA’s behind it. He’s looking to make political points, get some exposure on TV, some good ink from the
Globe
and
Herald
. Him I can’t talk to. Wade I can.”

“What makes Wade different?”

“He’s got a heart. He let it show once.”

There was a silence, no explanations sought. She was lying on one of her bobby pins, and she moved herself slightly. She let her eyes close with a flutter, as if from feelings that had uncoiled slowly, perhaps reluctantly.

Gardella said, “There’s going to be a woman with us. I want you to pretend she’s your friend.”

She kept her voice light. “And you don’t want me to ask why.”

“That’s right,” he said and gave her hand a playful squeeze. “I want you to be a real wop wife.”

• • •

Ralph Roselli drove over the Southern Boulevard Bridge into Palm Beach and, turning left, drove for more than a mile on Ocean Boulevard. Then he took another left, which aimed him into a network of narrow residential streets, tiny stucco houses jammed in from corner to corner, many painted pink. Checking signs, he eventually wound his way to a street narrower than the others and parked in front of a house more rose than pink. A man in rumpled pants that once went with a decent suit was watering his meager patch of lawn. The man looked up with a start as Roselli shuffled toward him. “You’re early,” he said and turned off the hose.

“No,” Roselli said. “If anything, I’m a few minutes late. You got my material?”

“Your material, huh. Yuh, I’ve got your material. It’s in the garage, back of my car.”

The garage was under the house, stuck in the ground, part of what passed for a basement. Roselli wrinkled his nose. “Stinks in here.”

“We got problems in the ground. Stuff seeps up that shouldn’t be down there in the first place. Half of Florida’s poisoned. Don’t drink the water.”

“Hurry up,” Roselli said.

The man opened the trunk of his car, gingerly lifted out a package the size of a shoe box, and passed it into Roselli’s careful hands. “Want me to explain the mechanism to you?”

“I needed you to explain it, I wouldn’t be taking it.”

The man said, “How long you going to be in the area, Ralph?”

“Why d’you want to know?”

“If you’re going to be around till Wednesday, my wife’s uncle’s having a big cookout. Lives in Lantana. You’re welcome to come.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” Roselli said and returned to his car. With much care he placed the package inside his flight bag. Moments later he was back on Ocean Boulevard. He drove south to Miami, scrupulously observing the speed limit all the way.

• • •

On Wednesday, late morning, Miguel Gilberto was killing time with a waitress in a hotel bar in downtown Miami. The waitress, who had joined him at his table when the only other customer had drifted out, sat with her knees knocked together, her kinky red hair worn long and wild. She said, “Maybe you got it mixed up. It must’ve been your mother was American, not your father.”

“No,” he said, his enormous black eyes sinking into her, “it was my father.”

“Then how come your name isn’t like his?”

“Gilbert didn’t go with Miguel. I put the
o
on to make it ring right.”

She laughed. “I bet you’re kidding me.”

“I don’t kid.” He scooped peanuts from a dish and ate them out of his hand, then licked the salt off his palm. “How about it, you gonna go out with me later or not?”

“You’re too short for me.”

“I got shoes with heels,” he said, “I’ll wear ’em.” She let out another laugh, but not as loud this time. His eyes were too sardonically into hers. He said, “Al Pacino’s short. You wouldn’t turn him down.”

“You serious? You really want to take me out?”

He gazed beyond her, and his face abruptly changed, grew hard in a way that daunted her. “You’d better go now,” he said quietly.

She got to her feet fast and went to the bar. Sal Nardozza dropped himself into the vacated chair. He was smoking a cheroot and wearing an open shirt, leafy in design, his silver chest floss showing. Leaning forward, he rasped, “Who we dealing with?”

“Couple of Cubans,” Gilberto said. “I’ve done business with them before. Ty O’Dea knows them. You can check with him, you don’t believe me.”

“I’d take your word before I’d take his. How many pure pounds we talking about?”

“They didn’t tell me. They just said how much money they’re going to need to make it happen. Million five.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You can’t handle it all, maybe we can bring in some other people, make up the difference.”

Nardozza said, “Million five is nothing to me. But I’ll feel better when Alvaro does his thing.”

“Alvaro does his thing, we’ll all feel better.” Gilberto’s eyes moved restlessly. “Right now, we got this business to decide.”

“I want to be eye to eye with them,” Nardozza said, “let them understand they got guns to their heads every minute my money’s in their pockets.”

“You want to talk to them, that’s easy. They’re waiting to hear from me out in the parking lot, sitting in a red-and-black Trans Am, dent on top of the hood, like somebody pounded his fist on it.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Chairs scraped. Gilberto sprang to his full height, which was half of Nardozza’s. “I’ll meet you out there, I gotta say something to the waitress.”

“The one you were talking to?” Nardozza gave a look. “She’s got stupid hair.”

Gilberto grinned. “Kind that drives me crazy.”

The waitress was sitting on a high stool at the bar and doodling on a pad, her eyes blank and bored. Gilberto sidled up. He had on a short-sleeved jacket with epaulettes and redundant pockets. From one of the pockets he withdrew a thick roll of bills, big denominations. She lowered her eyes and said, “What’re you showing me that for?”

“I’m going to California, live near the movie stars, I’m going to leave this bar, walk through the lobby, and catch a cab. Get me to the airport in ten minutes. You want to come, right this minute, no thinking it over, you’ll live like a queen.” He paused without a smile. “Up to you. Think fast.”

“One chance in a zillion you’re telling the truth.”

“Minute’s up.”

She slipped off the stool. “I’m going to take the chance.”

Sal Nardozza stepped out into the parking lot at the back of the hotel and immediately glimpsed the red-and-black Trans Am, two faces in it. Nardozza, chewing on his cheroot, walked closer and gestured, and the two men climbed out. One of the Cubans had a shaved head, which gave him a moronic look. The other, clad in a vested tropical suit, had a more intelligent bearing, despite mirror sunglasses. He said, “Where’s Miguel?”

“Coming,” Nardozza rasped. “We have to talk. Ground rules you guys got to know.”

“Sure, go ahead. Talk.”

“Not here. My car.”

Nardozza’s car was parked several rows away, a topaz-yellow Lincoln Continental with tinted windows and a bumper sticker touting Crandon Park Zoo on Key Biscayne. Beneath the Lincoln, gummed to its fuel tank, was a plastic explosive that could be detonated from across the street. Nardozza unlocked the door on the driver’s side and punched a button that unlocked the others. The two Cubans appeared wary, especially the one in the suit, who said, “Let’s wait for Miguel.”

“Miguel’s got ass on his mind. Get in.”

For the Cubans and for himself, it was the worst decision Nardozza could have made.

• • •

At Miami Airport, near a secluded bank of telephones, none being used, Miguel Gilberto checked the tickets, then his watch, and said, “We got an hour to wait.” Which did not please the waitress, who was already disquieted. He said, “Why the face?”

“You told me we were going to California.”

“A mistake. I meant Mexico. You’ll still live like a queen.” He grinned, exhibiting teeth he took good care of. “You got something against Acapulco? Tell me, so I can get it in the book of records.”

“What am I going to do for clothes?”

“We get there, I’ll buy you what you want.” He tucked his hand into a pocket. “You want to look at the money again?”

She glanced down at herself, at the soiled raincoat she was wearing over her waitress’s costume and at the bows on her frayed shoes. “I live like a queen, right? I don’t care for how long, long as it’s for a while.”

“You got it.”

She brightened some and said, “I’ve got to use the john.”

The ladies’ room was across the way, down a little. He watched her disappear into it and then picked up a phone. He had a sister living in Boca Raton and wanted to say good-bye to her, but there was no answer. When he hung up the phone, he sensed a movement behind him and spun around, then went still. Ralph Roselli hovered.

“You took off fast,” Roselli said. “You didn’t even wait for the bang.”

“I did my part,” Gilberto said with a sense of dread. “What more d’you want?”

“Why you shivering?”

“Because you scare me. You scare me all to hell.”

“Settle down,” Roselli said and took hold of Gilberto’s arm, a grip that couldn’t be broken. Roselli’s eyes seemed to sink away in their heavy pouches as he nodded toward a nearby door marked by a
no admittance
sign.

“Hey, I’m not going in there.”

“Sure you are,” Roselli said in a flat tone as Gilberto tried to resist. Nearly lifting him off his feet, Roselli walked him forcibly to the door and made him open it. At that moment the woman reappeared behind them.

“What’s going on?” she asked with a dismal air of being cheated, the chances of something enjoyable in her life fading away. Roselli eyed her lazily.

“Who are you?”

“I’m with him.”

“That’s too bad,” Roselli said and clenched her arm too.

• • •

Several hours later, up in Boston, Supervisor Russell Thurston phoned Christopher Wade. “Just so you’ll know, there was a bloodbath today in Miami. Three guys got blown to kingdom come outside a hotel. One was probably Salvador Nardozza, Gardella’s cousin. It was his car. Then later at the airport a runt named Gilberto and some woman were shot in the head, their bodies found on a stairwell. Dade County cops will probably mark it up to a local drug squabble. We know better.”