The Big Scam (14 page)

“How many are here?” Kasdan started digging through the pile but was really examining the bowl, subtly scraping the substance on the rim. It turned to dust under his thumbnail. Water-color paint. Cleaning it would be only a minor nuisance.

“Thirty-seven is what I counted.”

Kasdan stacked them on the counter, verifying the count. “They are pretty worn.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the market is glutted with them.”

“These are pure silver.”

“Have you checked the commodities market today? Silver is selling at about the same price as peanut butter.
Mint
silver dollars from this era are worth maybe a buck and a quarter, but these aren't mint.”

“How much?” Straker said, his suspicion increasing.

“Forty-five dollars for the lot. And if you think I've got someone waiting out back to make a big profit on this, I don't. I'm going to have to sit on them for a while and hope silver goes up. Or you can take them and wait yourself.”

“No, I can't wait. How do I know you're not jerking me around with the price?”

“Go online and check. You'll see there are tons of these things out there that people can't sell. And for the same price I'm offering you.”

“Can't you do a little better? I really need the money. It's sort of an emergency.”

Kasdan gazed sincerely as if he were considering going against his business sense. “I'll give you sixty bucks for the coins and the bowl. I think my wife might like it. She's into kitsch.”

“Kitsch, what's that?”

“It's German for crap.”

Straker rubbed his chin. “Can you make it seventy?”

“Sixty-five.”

“Wait a minute, Jack,” Snow finally spoke up. “How do you know that bowl's not worth something more than twenty bucks?”

Straker turned back to Kasdan. “What about that, is it worth more?”

“Do you see any bowls in here? How am I supposed to know? I told you, it's something my wife might like. Take it, save me twenty bucks. She's not that great a wife.”

Snow picked up the bowl and rubbed some of the paint off with a fingertip, as though he were as discerning as Kasdan. As he did the bottom became visible. The pawnbroker could make out “L.C.T.” inscribed in freehand in a counterclockwise arc along the outer edge as was the maker's custom. Just as he had suspected. Louis Comfort Tiffany. It had to be worth thousands. It was red, the rarest of Tiffany's colors. The majority of the outer surface was covered with gold leaf, dramatically shaped into a floral pattern.

Snow said, “I say we take it somewhere else, Jack. Get a second opinion.” He started putting the silver dollars back into it.

“Hold on a second, let me check something.” Kasdan walked into the back room slowly, as if he had no expectations whatsoever. He returned with a pair of glasses that had a magnifier hinged over one of the lenses. He examined the gold portion more closely. “Hmph! That's real gold. Scrap gold is selling less than twenty dollars a gram, but maybe I could sell it to a broker I know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Snow snorted, “you're just figuring that out now.”

“I don't really care for what you're implying,” Kasdan replied. “Why don't you take the bowl and the coins and go someplace else.”

“Hold it,” Straker said. “Howie, go out to the car. I'll handle this.”

“Jack, this guy is trying to screw you.”

“Just go out to the car, man. I'll take care of this.” Snow glared at the owner and left. “Okay, let's quit fucking around. You're obviously interested. How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Three fifty.”

“Three hundred.”

“Three hundred for the bowl and forty-five for the silver dollars.”

“I was only giving you that much because I was interested in the bowl. They're not really worth that much. Three forty.”

“Then I'm going back up to three fifty.”

For the first time the pawnbroker saw resolve in Straker's eyes. He was beginning to suspect the bowl was worth considerably more. He wasn't going to lose it for five dollars. “Okay, three forty-five.”

Straker waited until he had pulled away from the curb before taking off his baseball cap and ponytail. “You played him perfectly,” he said to Snow. “I thought his eyes were going to come out of their sockets when he saw the initials on the bottom.”

“Great, nothing gives me wood like committing a good felony.”

Half a block away Straker pulled over. He lit a cigarette and held it up in a philosophical pose. “You laugh, but this was a good felony. This guy has been fencing stolen property for twenty years, and the pawnshop detail has never been able to catch him at it. You heard him, he thought he was buying stolen property. And he sure as hell thought he was ripping us off on the bowl. I suppose honest people get cheated all the time, but it sure as hell is easier if they're dishonest.”

“If I could be granted one wish in this life, Jack, it would be to have your lack of regard for consequences.”

Straker reached under the seat and pulled out a black radio with the initials NYPD stenciled in white on it. “Hey, Nick gave us that list of DeMiglia's associates and told us to see what we could do. So we did.”

“He said to target them, not rip them off.”

Straker keyed the radio's mike. “Mark, he's got the item. He's all yours.” Straker put the radio back under the seat. “Let me offer a few words in my defense: Howie, do you want to get laid tonight?”

The two men watched as two unmarked NYPD cars quickly pulled up in front of the pawnshop and four detectives got out. One of them waved to the agents as they went in. Snow said, “Well, at least he's being arrested. I guess that's the important thing. And I've got to hand it to you, that
was
pretty ingenious dripping those paints over the bowl to make it look like some old discarded piece of crap. But where did you get the coins?”

“My mom did leave them to me. And believe me, she would have gotten a laugh out of what we did with them. Hell, if she was still alive, I wouldn't have needed you.”

“WE'LL CAMP,” PARISI OFFERED.

“Camp!” Tatorrio said and, with a look of burlesqued panic, quickly pulled out his wallet. He extracted a photo ID, pretending to check it. “No, mine says Mafia.” He looked to the others who immediately fell in line, holding up a variety of cards and reporting that they too were certified members of organized crime. “Sorry, Mike, no Outward Bounders here.”

Parisi's crew was standing in the parking lot of Burbarger's, one of the Catskills' time-weathered hotels. A couple of elderly guests stared at the oddly dressed group of men. “No, it'll be good,” Parisi assured them, “it'll make us one with the land. You know, get a feel for where we are. Maybe that's where the others failed.”

Dellaporta laughed. “One with the land? No disrespect, Mike, but you've really got to learn what this life is about. When we get back to the city, I'm going to take you out so you can murder someone.”

To demonstrate that he was not above being the target of their humor, Parisi laughed. He had yet to tell any of them about DeMiglia's “plan” for the crew. Before, even though ordered not to, he would have needed them to know what a good boss he was, that he had shouldered the burden for them. But instead, he was starting to acquire the vague nobility that came with the loneliness of command. And while it gave him confidence as
capo,
he was still nagged by the feeling that he really didn't belong among these men. Maybe it was their sense of humor, the ultimate marker of membership that comes only from years together in the trenches. But the ribbing was good-natured and, in its own way, a small, inconspicuous medallion of acceptance. That he couldn't return it with an insider's ease made him wonder if he ever would, as Dellaporta put it, “learn what this life is about.” The easiest thing would be to pack up and get out right now. Out of Phoenicia and out of the business. And he would have if he hadn't pledged the don his support. But the minute he was back on his feet, free from the latest opportunity of treason, he vowed to find another way to make a living.

And this treasure thing. Now that he was out here, it was hard to believe he had ever taken it seriously. Apparently from their complaining, displaying their usual flashbulb attention span, the others had begun to feel the same way. But something about all of it was calming his mind, arranging all the scattered pieces of a puzzle without his help. What that puzzle was, he had no idea, but its distant promise was demanding that the hunt for Arthur S. Flegenheimer's metal box be seen through to its conclusion. “Everybody in the cars. We're heading back to that outdoor store we passed on the way up here and get some camping equipment.” With uncharacteristic speed, Dellaporta hurried to his car and got in.

“Where're you going in such a hurry?” Parisi yelled to him.

“To a liquor store. I've got to get my own camping supplies.”

With about two hours of daylight left, three Cadillacs and a Lincoln pulled into the Sleeping Bear Campgrounds off Route 28 in Phoenicia. Dellaporta pulled himself from behind the wheel of his new Lincoln and stretched his back from side to side. Manny pushed himself out of the passenger's seat. “Why you blaming me, Gus? I'm supposed to know all the hotels would be booked for a—what was it, Tommy?”

Ida had just exited Parisi's Caddy. “A Washington Irving festival.”

“The fuck was Washington Irving?” Dellaporta asked. “That's not that civil rights guy, is it?”

“Christ, Gus,” Ida said. “You know,
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
Rip Van Winkle.”

Turning to Baldovino, Dellaporta said, “I'd like to Rip Van Winkle you, give you the nine-millimeter nap.”

Manny went around to the trunk of Dellaporta's car and opened the lid. “I know Mike wants to get an early start in the morning so we can get back to the city by tomorrow night, but this is crazy.” Everyone was out of the cars now. “Mike,” Baldovino yelled over, “where do you want this stuff set up?”

Parisi looked around briefly and spotted a large clearing with a stone ring for a campfire with wood already stacked in it. “Over there by the fire thing. Must be part of the rental deal. I'm going to go pay this guy and ask him if there's anyone around who might be able to help us find, you know, what we're looking for.”

“Make sure you ask him where the men's room is,” Jimmy Tatorrio said.

After he was out of earshot, Dellaporta said, “I love a man who's in charge.” He reached inside his trunk and took out a long belt, which he wrapped around the elastic waistband of his jogging suit, an outdoor concession from his usual sport coat.

Tatorrio stood watching him, clearly amused. Dellaporta took out a stainless steel automatic and slipped it into the back of his pants under his jacket. “Hey, Gus, we're going to the sleeping bags, not the mattresses.”

“The fuck's the name of this place, moron?”

“Ah, Sleeping Bear Campgrounds?”

“That's right. And you know how those old Indians were, they named things by what they saw. And I don't care if they are sleeping, because with that big mouth of yours, I'm sure you'll wake them up. I'm just getting ready.”

“I'm
a moron? There aren't any bears here. The guy who owns this place probably named it.”

“Have it your way, Jimmy, but when some pissed-off grizzly has got ahold of you by that bony ass of yours, don't be waking me up.”

The group started toward the site, their arms clumsily wrapped around sleeping bags and tents. Coming around a stand of full hemlocks, they found that a half-dozen tents had been set up next to the campfire site. “Hey, Gus, somebody's already here,” Manny said.

Dellaporta and Tatorrio walked up. “When they get back, Jimmy and I will see if they don't want to move.” Tatorrio opened his arms and let everything fall to the ground. “Manny, the fuck's those sausages? I'm hungry.”

Tatorrio, as anyone on the crew could attest, was always hungry, as if his metabolism burned not only fat but the muscle that clung to his skeletal frame. His arms were grotesquely undeveloped, his hands not much more than long, awkward pincers.

“I still think we should of got hot dogs. That's what you eat when you camp, hot dogs,” Baldovino said.

“First of all, you eat hot dogs when you go to a ball game or after you beat on some guy what's late with a payment. Second of all, we're not camping. We're…just stuck. And third, do you know what they put in hot dogs?”

“Those were one hundred percent beef.”

“Everything on a cow is considered one hundred percent beef, even the eyelids and armpits.”

“Cows don't have arms,” Manny mumbled. “Besides,” his voice gained strength as he found logic in the point he was about to make, “you think there's nothing but filet meat in that sausage?”

“Don't start on my sausage, Enzo makes it up special for me.”

“Enzo? Enzo the gambler? Enzo who you tuned up once for not covering his bets? Oh, yeah, it's a good thing you didn't get the hot dogs. You never know what's in
them.”

Parisi came walking up. “What's with the other tents?”

“I guess we're claiming squatters' rights,” Ida said, pointing at Tatorrio, who was using a switchblade to cut a loaf of French bread into sandwich-length pieces.

Tatorrio said, “Manny, you gonna want some sausage?”

“Sure.”

“Now you gonna want it cooked or raw?”

Manny held up his hands to deflect any further orders. “I'll build the fire.”

Ida asked Parisi, “Did the owner know anything?”

“I tried to act like I was just curious and told him I heard there was some old gangster's treasure buried around here somewhere and pretended not to be that interested. He kind of smirked like it happened all the time. He showed me how to get to where the creek and railroad tracks were closest together. Like on the map. We'll go over there first thing in the morning.”

A half hour later, Manny was still trying to get the fire started. Tatorrio had trimmed a reasonably straight branch into a cooking utensil and a flaccid pink and white link of Italian sausage drooped from the sharpened end, awaiting the miracle of fire. “If I die from hunger tonight, just before my lights go out, I'm borrowing Gus's piece and popping you.”

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Manny struck his disposable lighter and lit a small tuft of dry grass. He blew on it gently, trying to get it to ignite. “You know, until this very minute,” Gus said, “I could never understand why our crew never got into the arson business.”

Manny ignored him. Suddenly they heard the sound of slow, steady movement. Dellaporta drew his handgun as a man in a scout leader's shirt and blue jeans broke through the edge of the clearing. He was followed by a snaking line of boys in dark blue Cub Scout shirts and bright yellow kerchiefs, which had been knotted with as much uniformity as could be expected from nine- and ten-year-olds. The first boy behind the leader was carrying the troop guidon, a pennant of the same predominant yellow. When the scoutmaster saw the men, he held up his hand to halt the boys. As fast as it had been drawn, Dellaporta's gun disappeared. “Hello,” the leader said with uncertainty.

Parisi hurried over to him. “I'm sorry, are we in your area here?”

“No, I'm sure there's plenty of room for everyone.”

“Hey, Chief,” Tatorrio called out, “any of your men there got their badge in starting fires?”

Parisi looked at the fire pit and then the man. “Jesus, I'm sorry, your boys probably put all that wood in there.”

“It's okay, one of the things they don't get badges for is sharing. This'll be good for the boys.”

Parisi smiled warmly. “That's awfully nice. When you get them settled for the night, we'll buy you a drink.”

The scoutmaster looked over his shoulder and in a low voice said, “I'll be needing one. Thanks.”

As dusk settled over the Catskills, the air cooled, bringing everyone closer to the fire. As the flames found pockets of resin in the pine logs, they sputtered orange-white and sent up silky helixes of smoke. The scouts, prodded by their leader, started introducing themselves. Not sure of Cosa Nostra–Cub Scout etiquette, or how secret his crew's reconnaissance was, Jimmy Tatorrio gave his fellow campers the alias he had used during his Mohegan Sun junket, Johnny Waylon.

He passed out more sausages to the kids than he had intended and received cracked, blackened hot dogs in exchange. Some of Parisi's crew sneaked off to their ill-slung tents to lace their soft drinks and coffee with whiskey. Dellaporta thinly disguised his bottle in a brown paper bag and, as usual, ate nothing.

When it was good and dark, the natural but uncertain sounds of the woods had a marshaling effect, and Scoutmaster Bob, encouraged by his third cup of “coffee,” told the all-too-familiar ghost story that ended with the killer's prosthetic hook hanging from the couple's car door.

One of the scouts, dreading more of the same, said, “How about you, Mr. Waylon, I'll bet you know some great ghost stories.”

“I don't know, kid. I think all the ones I know are R-rated.”

“Yeah,” the other boys chimed in, wanting to hear them more than ever.

The scoutmaster smiled dizzily. “Yeah, Mr. Waylon, come on.”

“Well, okay. Let's see…Once there was this man who lived in the city, in Brooklyn as a matter of fact. His name was Billy the Weasel, excuse me, William the Weasel.” The boys giggled, leaning closer to the fire. “He had made many friends among the poor people by lending them money and charging only seven and a half percent. He was known as a man of great compassion and wisdom because of his understanding when someone was a little late with the vig.”

“What's the vig?” the same boy asked.

Tatorrio looked over to the scoutmaster in an appeal for a change of subject, but Bob just stared back drunkenly, apparently as interested as the boys. “See, it's what you owe at the end of the week for what you borrowed. It's like rent, only on the money. It's a good thing. That way the borrower doesn't have to come up with the whole nut, and the lender makes those points every week.”

A chubby boy with glasses asked, “Isn't that type of loan considered usury?”

“Ah, sure. You can use it for whatever you want. Just don't be late at the end of the week. Because then you've got to look at some ugly mutt like Gus here. And he won't be bringing hot dogs when he comes, if you know what I mean.” The boys laughed harder, delighted at being made part of the story.

Fearing Tatorrio's well-known lack of restraint in front of an audience, Dellaporta, in a strained whisper, which everyone could hear, said, “What the F is wrong with you, telling these kids about me? That one with the glasses probably just decided to become a federal prosecutor.”

Tatorrio took a couple more swallows and examined each of the boys' faces. He looked over at Baldovino. “Hey, Manny, I think Gus is right, isn't the redhead one of the Feds that locked you up?” The kids all twittered, and a couple of them slapped the “Fed” on the back.