The Con Man's Daughter (19 page)

Angelo called Eddie over and welcomed him with an affectionate hug.

"The court looks good," Eddie said. "New Scoreboard, ball holders, the works."

"Looks ain't everything," Angelo said. "It still don't drain right. Every time it rains, we sweep puddles. Cost us twelve grand for this, and we're bowling through mud half the time. Is it asking too much to slope a piece of ground so it drains? It's not rocket science, is it?"

In his early seventies now, Angelo had just begun to look as old as his younger brother had-the last time Eddie saw Paulie the Priest, that is. The mob guy had led a healthier life than the cop. The Priest used to say that for every five years Angelo spent in prison, he came out looking ten years younger. A ring of white hair circled the well-tanned bald head. Silver-framed glasses sat on an aquiline nose.

"I heard about your daughter. I have people sniffing around about this. It's not right, this kidnapping thing the Russians do. Fucking animals, if you ask me."

"Richie Costa is working on it, too," Eddie said.

"Richie is off-limits to you now, Eddie. I heard all about it, and interceded on your behalf. I can understand one time, your emotions all jumbled. Our kids make us crazy, and this situation is a heartache. But once is all we can forgive.
Capisce
?"

Angelo picked up an unlabeled gallon jug of red wine. He filled a pair of clear plastic cups two-thirds full. He handed one to Eddie and held his up in a toast.

'To Paulie," he said.

Without drinking to his ex-partner, Eddie put the cup back down on the table. "What the hell is going on, Ange?"

"I should ask you that question. They threw his head at your door, not mine."

"Was Paulie in business with the Russians?"

"I should know? Paulie was Paulie. Nobody could predict my brother. Not even when he was a little baby. Paulie lived like he wanted to. Caution to the wind. You know that, the shit he pulled with you."

They both turned to watch a white-haired man in a Panama hat as he tossed a small natural-colored ball, the
pallina
, or "little nut," down the other end of the clay court. There would be no serious play today, in deference to the death in the family. They were playing only to take the focus off the conversation between the ex-cop and the old mob boss.

"Sunday is the service," Angelo said. "Our Lady of Consolation, two o'clock. I didn't think they would do it on a Sunday, but the priest was kind enough to allow a small Mass for my brother."

"I'm sure you'll be generous."

"We must do all we can for the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, Eddie. No burial ceremony, though. We'll add his name to the stone, underneath his brother's. If his body turns up later, we'll cremate. They let you cremate now, as long as you promise not to throw the ashes."

"Paulie always said he wanted his ashes spread in Vegas," Eddie said.

"The Mirage, that's right. He loved the Mirage. Maybe I can make a call."

"Why did he leave Sicily?" Eddie asked.

"Who knew he left? Three weeks ago, I talked to him; he was home. Maybe a little more than three, but everyone thought he was in Sicily. My sister talked after I did, a few days maybe."

"He got over here somehow," Eddie said.

"You figure that out all by yourself?"

I figured out more than you can imagine, Eddie thought. Partners spend a lot of long hours together. Eddie knew a few Caruso family secrets.

"Was he using other identities?" Eddie asked. "There's no record of him leaving Sicily. Any other name he might have on a bogus passport?"

"I think he was dead when he got here, Eddie. I know some people in Sicily-they went over and looked at his house. His villa was wrecked, his safe emptied. They said there was blood all over the place."

"This safe," Eddie said, measuring his words. "What did Paulie have in it?"

Angelo smiled. Eddie held his arms out as if inviting Angelo to search him for a wire.

"My brother should have been more like you," Angelo said. "He was not careful."

"Too many people are careless, Ange. That's why there's so much trouble in the world."

"I don't know what he kept in his safe," Angelo said, blowing a smoke ring. "Maybe the panties of his old girlfriends." Eddie noticed the stump of his little finger. Angelo bragged that it had been chopped off by a hit man from Calabria. Paulie told him it was a woodworking accident in his garage.

Eddie said, "Did Paulie ever mention a set of black loose-leaf binders that belonged to Marvin Rosenfeld? They contained phony corporations."

"Yeah, Paulie sold them to Anatoly Lukin. Why the hell do you think Lukin hired you? I thought partners told each other everything."

"We know different about Paulie, don't we, Ange?"

"Let's not speak ill of the dead, my friend."

Wooden balls rolled across the deep red clay. A red ball close to the
pallina
was knocked away by the green ball. The old man in the Panama hat slapped dust off his hands, pleased with himself.

Angelo said, "You ever see Paulie's villa?"

"Never had the pleasure."

"You never went, really?"

Eddie took a deep breath and looked away. A breeze blew, shuffling papers on the tabletop: a
Racing Form
, a copy of the
New York Post
Eddie had read from cover to cover in the FBI office a few hours earlier. Angelo took a metal tape measure and used it as a paperweight on the
Racing Form
.

"My brother, the ex-cop," Angelo said, "he builds a house that should have been on
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
. I tried to talk to him, but he never listened. He thinks because he's in Italy he can spend like a drunken sailor and no one will notice. Called attention to himself, that's what he did."

"Paulie keep a lot of money in the safe?" Eddie asked.

Angelo laughed and shook his head.

"If the motive was robbery," Eddie said, "why did they throw his head at my house?"

"Because someone knows more than they should, my friend."

"Knows what?" Eddie asked.

"My brother is dead. Stop playing games, Eddie."

"If there was some secret to know," Eddie said, "how would these people who killed Paulie hear about it?"

"Maybe Paulie told them. They beat him, tortured him, and he told them."

"How would they know enough to ask Paulie the question in the first place?"

"It has been my experience over the years," Angelo said, "the bigger the secret, the shorter its life."

"I would think the opposite."

"You are some piece of work," Angelo said, "you know that? I remember the first time my brother brought you to my house. You had the balls to tell that joke about a little kid playing with shit in the street. Remember that? A kid making a statue with shit. When someone asked him what he was doing, he said he was making a statue of an Italian cop. At first, I thought my friends were going to throw you on the barbecue pit. I said to Paulie, 'Who is this stupid Irish bastard telling guinea jokes here, of all places?'"

"They didn't."

"I know. You got their attention, got it good, and then you delivered the punch line: The person asked the little kid why he didn't make an Irish cop instead. The kid said he was going to but he didn't have enough shit."

Angelo laughed; the joke still had a bite for him. Eddie was struck by the peacefulness of all the sounds. The soft breeze through the leaves of the trees, the wooden boccie balls rolling, a rake combing lines in the copper-colored clay, the voices.

"So I shouldn't be surprised," Angelo said, "you have the balls to come here and accuse me of being a rat."

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Angelo. I'm trying to figure out how many eyes I should keep open at night."

"Keep them all open, Eddie. Just like I do. And stay away from Richie Costa. That's your last warning."

Chapter 21

Friday

3:00 P.M.

The afternoon turned into one of those warm spring days when you can smell the new grass. Eddie threw his raincoat in the backseat. He'd worn a sports jacket for the FBI meeting. He should have arrived in a ripped T-shirt. That would have been the wardrobe they expected. If Eddie despised one thing in his life, it was bullies. His rules were simple: He hated people who hurt other people. It didn't matter whether it was physically, emotionally, or financially. French Cuffs had used the FBI's muscle in a heartless, cowardly way. At a time when Eddie was desperate, this arrogant bastard had decided to play tough guy. With an innocent woman's life in the balance. There'll come a day, Eddie thought. There'll come a day.

Warm weather had lured the denizens of the Bronx into the streets. Jump ropes snapped, Rollerblades whirred, and boom boxes confirmed that rap now ruled. Eddie parked at a meter in front of the bakery on East 187th Street. He put his S &W in the purple Crown Royal bag and wedged it in the seat springs. Ten minutes later, he came through the door of the Bronx Knights Social Club with both hands raised above his head. He held a flat white box in the air.

"Peace," he yelled to a dozen gun barrels pointed his way.

"Just do a one-eighty, Eddie," Lino Terra said. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

"Cannolis from Ferrara's," Eddie said. "An offer you can't refuse." He put the box on the table and opened it. He stepped back, held his jacket open to show he was unarmed.

"Stick those up your ass," Richie Costa said. Richie's face was half-covered by a white bandage. He looked like the Phantom of the Opera.

"I just left Angelo Caruso," Eddie said. "He said I could talk to Richie for five minutes as long as I behaved myself."

"I don't give a shit about Angelo Caruso," Richie said. "You get your ass outta here, and take your fucking pastries with you."

"Angelo said we're all family men," Eddie said. "His brother and I were family. He said you guys would understand."

"We understood one time," Lino Terra said. "You don't get away with that shit twice."

"I'm not here to hit anyone," Eddie said.

"Good-bye," Lino said.

"Most of you guys have kids," Eddie said. "Lino, back me up here. If someone snatched your beautiful little girl Marissa from Saint Anthony's one morning, you'd understand then, right? A bunch of you guys have kids; I know that. Or maybe I'm wrong here. Maybe you can't know until it happens to you. How helpless you feel, how desperate."

"Is that a threat, you crazy fuck?" Lino said.

"Somebody shoot this mick cocksucker," someone yelled.

"Do something for me," Eddie said. 'This is all I ask. When you tuck your kids in tonight, give them a kiss for me. I would never want any of you guys to feel the pain I'm going through right now. That's from the bottom of my heart."

"You always go too far, Eddie," Lino said.

"How far would you go, Lino? All I'm asking is one simple thing: I want to talk to Richie for five minutes. Come on… you can't give me five minutes?"

The ticking of a ceiling fan was the only noise. The TV above the bar had the sound turned down. They were watching CNBC; the stock market ticker ran across the screen. Like the micks from Yonkers, the bent-nose guys from the Bronx Knights were into their portfolios. Lino Terra patted Eddie down. They gave him five minutes with Richie, out of earshot, but they'd be watching.

"Make this quick, asshole," Richie said.

Eddie gently touched Richie's shoulder. He could feel him trembling.

"You are my last hope," Eddie said softly. "Without you, my daughter dies."

"Don't put that weight on me, you cocksucker. I had nothing to do with it and I don't know what the fuck is going on."

"I need to find Sergei Zhukov."

"Oh, like I know where the Russkies hang out."

"Don't make me beg here, Richie. I'm not good at it. I'm serious. I need you to be serious. Listen to me: If you don't help me here, I will kidnap Lino's daughter. Then I'll get the others. And they'll all know it's because of you, because that's exactly what I'll tell them before I leave here."

"Don't put me in the barrel like this. If I knew anything, I'd tell you. You gotta believe that. Only thing I know is that he lives in Queens. I went drinking with him a coupla times, after we closed the Eurobar."

"He lives in Rego Park. Where did you drink with him?"

"Always Russian clubs. One place in Manhattan, on Fifty-second Street, but mostly Brighton Beach joints. And poker games-the guy is a heavy-duty cardhead. One of the worst degenerate gamblers I ever saw. He'd bet on stupid shit, like two cabs pulling away from a light, old ladies running for a bus. Shit like that."

"Tell me about the card games," Eddie said.

"We hit a little game in one of the clubs, but the guy loves high stakes. He goes for ten, twenty grand without batting an eye. Every Friday night, he goes to this game. I went with him once. But it sucked. All Russian guys talking gibberish. You don't know if they're fucking you or laughing at you, or what."

"Where is the game?"

"You'll never find it. When I played, it was in an apartment on Avenue U. But it moves every week. They got these fucking psycho luggers."

"Where did you meet the luggers?"

"Parking lot on Brighton Eighth, near the beach. You park your car and they have luggers drive you to the game."

"How good are the luggers?"

"In-fucking-credible," Richie said. "Best wheelmen I ever saw. No way can you tail them. It's impossible. They go down one-way streets, make a U-turn, and come back at you. Then they drive down another one-way street the wrong way all the way. Red lights mean nothing. They drive over the sidewalk. The guy we had drove through a fucking park, across the softball field, a fucking city park."

"Better than your dad's luggers?

"Better and way crazier. These mutts don't give a shit about losing their licenses. They just get a new one sent from Russia with a different name, then take it to Motor Vehicles and get another New York license. No problem."

"Who else was at the game?"