The Kaisho (17 page)

Nicholas looked at his own hands, knowing very well what Okami meant. They had been responsible for a number of deaths. He looked back up at Okami. He wanted the old man to tell him outright if his father had ordered him to murder Johnny Leonforte, but he didn’t think now that Okami would. He thought for a moment, said, “And did Captain Leonard’s death make a difference? Did the black market in contraband then dry up?”

Okami did not answer right away. “For a while,” he said at last, which was as much of an admission as he was willing to put forth. “But then to your father’s surprise, it began again. And this time neither of us were successful in tracking down its source.”

Nicholas stirred. “Weren’t you surprised as well?”

Okami gave the kind of smile a professor exhibits at a prize pupil’s canny question. “Believe it or not, I knew a great deal more about the American Mafia than your father ever did. I had studied them, had even made a trip to Sicily”—he waved a hand—“but that is another story. I knew that if one Leonforte was involved, others were, too.”

“You mean Alphonse?”

Okami shook his head. “There were originally four brothers. One died in a boating accident at college. Well, one is never certain that the word
accident
exists in the world of these people, especially when it pertains to the man Alphonse was grooming to succeed him. In any case, Paul Leonforte died young, so that left the black sheep of the family, Francis. He migrated to San Francisco and stayed there—over the strenuous objections of Alphonse. But Frank was always his own man; not for him the shadow of his big brother. He knew no matter how much personal power he amassed, he would always be taking orders as long as he stayed anywhere on the East Coast. He had no desire to lock horns with Alphonse, so he left to stake out his own empire on the West Coast, which he did with admirable success. He had three children, a daughter and two sons. One son, Michael, died a highly decorated veteran in Vietnam. The other one, Caesare, built on Frank’s successes and is now the don of the western half of the United States. He is the East Coast capo Dominic Goldoni’s chief rival.”

Okami grunted; it was half a laugh. “Caesare is called Bad Clams. You think it’s a joke, but it’s not. The way he made his bones in the organization is he was sent to assassinate a rival of his father’s. The man was eating dinner at a local restaurant. Pasta with fresh clams. The story is told that when Caesare had blown this man’s brains all over his three-piece suit, he stood over him with the gun still smoking in his hand and said, ‘Look what bad clams can do to you.’”

Okami gave a short, barking laugh, then quickly sobered. “But I digress. Thinking about it, it seemed logical that Frank would have been John’s ultimate source, but in order to confirm this theory either your father or I would have had to travel to San Francisco, where at the time neither of us had any connections. Besides, the Communist-instigated dock strikes in Tokyo soon took our attention elsewhere.”

Nicholas poured himself another brandy, then came and sat next to Okami. They both looked out at the dark water with its reflections of the palazzi across the Grand Canal.

“So the mystery was never solved,” Nicholas said at last.

“No, but today I find myself in a position significantly closer to its solution,” Okami said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

Okami turned his head to look at Nicholas. “Just this. While I have been trying to legitimize the Yakuza, someone unknown to me has been consolidating a link with the Mafia that I now suspect was forged during the days when Johnny Leonforte served as the Japanese point man.”

Okami’s eyes glittered as they caught the nighttime reflections off the water. “Linnear-san, it is my belief that this same someone—
one brilliant mind
—is behind the recent transformation of the Mafia. All the old dons with their sense of honor and family are being sold down the river, leaving behind the venal jackals, the button-down bean counters who would sell their souls for another billion dollars’ profit—and it appears as if they’ve sold their soul to this one man who is forging the international conglomerate from hell, the Godaisho.

“Such a conglomerate—a sharing of underground contacts and resources throughout the East and the West; a kind of criminal
keiretsu
with arms that can encompass the globe—could conceivably gain more power over the world economy than the governments of the United States and Germany do now. Have you any idea how much havoc such an entity could wreak? Legitimate business worldwide would literally be feeding it, allowing it to grow even more powerful.”

“But surely there are governmental agencies—the CIA, for example—that can deal with such a menace.”

“Ordinarily, that might be so. But recently I have been making inquiries along a specific line. It appears that the mystery of what happened with Leonforte in postwar Japan runs far deeper than your father or I had imagined. I believe that the alliances Leonforte made had,
at the very least,
semiofficial links. Appalling as it may seem, Leonforte must have been operating under the aegis of certain individuals within the two governments—Japan and America. The Godaishu is the end result. It is far more influential than you can possibly envision, its tentacles reaching all the way to the most powerful elements within Washington and Tokyo.”

“You mentioned needing time to initiate your own plans.”

“Yes. Over the last year, I have been trying to gather forces strong enough to stymie the Godaishu. It has been a formidable task, one that has exhausted me, taxing the limits of even the Kaisho’s influence. Now I am in the final phase, and I know it will be all or nothing. Either I will survive to destroy the Godaishu or they will become a force unstoppable by anyone or anything. You must buy me the time I need to bring the plan to conclusion. There is no one else who has the expertise, no one else I can turn to.”

Okami lit a cigarette, but he quickly stubbed it out, unable to enjoy its taste. “Frankly, Linnear-san, my desperation to stop the Godaishu has led me to make questionable liaisons with individuals whom I cannot openly control nor fully trust. I cannot say yet whether my actions will result in a brilliant coup or complete folly.”

Okami moved so that the lights from the palazzi across the canal played across his face, transfiguring it into the aspect of a Titian painting. “One thing I do know, my actions have put me into deadly danger. Already I have word that one of my partners, Dominic Goldoni—the only one I
could
trust—has been murdered. And now I am convinced that my intimate knowledge of the Godaishu and my attempts to move against it have marked me for death.”

Margarite Goldoni, with her daughter sleeping in her arms, had returned home to find that her husband had gathered an entire fleet of button men to go after Robert. Tony was of the old school—very macho. Which was why Dominic had appointed him custodian of the Family business.

In fact, she had been dreading her return. And all her fears were borne out when Tony ripped open the door. He did not ask her where she had been taken, how far her culpability went in her brother’s death, or even how she had made her way home. He asked her only one question: “Were you touched?”

Not even
Did he touch you?
because Tony would not personify what in his mind had already occurred to her.

Because, in a very real sense, her answer did not matter to him. He had already decided her fate, seeing in his mind what she had become. The Madonna he had always wanted her to be was now soiled forever.

She told him no. She told him that Francie had been drugged, which was the truth, and that she had been blindfolded, which was, of course, not. But how could she admit to anyone—especially to him—what she had been coerced into doing? Committing the act was one kind of hell; admitting to it afterward, a wholly different kind she would not tolerate.

He heard none of what she said; he wasn’t interested. He didn’t even want to come near her, standing apart, his eyes cold, disapproving, as if she had caught leprosy on her strange journey.

Despite the fact that she was obviously despairing and emotionally exhausted, Tony had forced her into having it out with him about going to war with Robert. He wanted his revenge.

“For Christ’s sake, Tony, we don’t even know his real
name!”
she had exploded.

Tony had that cunning look he got when he was about to ram a contract down an adversary’s throat. “But we have you, Margarite. Now that the kid is safe with us, you can give the artist I brought in a detailed description of him. His face is all we need. He’s a goddamned Asian. Do you think we won’t be able to find him?”

She took a deep breath, said slowly and distinctly, “Tony, I want you to listen to me. He said he’d be watching us, that if we did anything, he would take Francie.”

Tony waved his hands in dismissal. “Words, just words. He was trying to scare you, that’s all. Think about it, Margarite, how the fuck is he going to monitor what we do? Even the feds aren’t too good at that, and look at all the manpower they have at their disposal.” He shook his head almost in pity. “You’re a woman. He knows he can intimidate you. Men like him do it all the time. Let me handle things. We’ll get the bastard before he’s had a chance to shit.”

She put the heel of her hand to her temple as if by that gesture she could slow her pulse, diminish the rising tide of panic. How like a child she felt, so impotent, exactly as she had with her father. In despair, she said, “You don’t know him. He’ll take her. He can do it.”

She fought to keep her voice calm, but it cracked and the tears came. “Francie’s back safe with us. Jesus, just leave it alone now.”

“Leave it alone? You must be fucking nuts. Fagetaboutit! This sonuvabitch comes into my house, attacks me, humiliates me, and leaves me to clean up the bodies he slaughters all over
my
house. This is sacred ground, Margarite. Not even that sonuvabitch Bad Clams Leonforte would dare violate my house.” His face was full of blood. “Mary Immaculate, Margarite, he murdered your brother!”

She was silent before his power, his righteous rage so like her father’s. Tony began to order his button men around. Then he got on the phone, made some calls. He pounded into her bathroom, where she was taking a shower. “Get packed,” he said. “You and Francine are taking a trip.”

Margarite stared at him. “She’s already missed enough school, I don’t want her—”

“Do as I say!”

She obeyed.

Tony finished his preparations, then came into the bedroom where she was dressing. “Nobody knows where you’re going except a few of my most trusted people here and the man I’m on the phone with. It’s his house and he’s Family, so you don’t have to worry about him.”

He had a man carry downstairs the bags she had packed. He took the sleeping Francine in his arms, following them downstairs. He had tried to pry Ryan, her favorite teddy bear, out of her arms, but it would not come. Ragtag and chewed, it was the sole remaining vestige of her childhood, the one even as a teenager she would not part with.

Outside, Margarite climbed into the Lincoln, and Tony handed Francine in to her. They were surrounded by Family bodyguards both in the car and in cars in front and back of the Lincoln.

“I’ll see you when this is over,” Tony said, slamming the flat of his hand down on the roof of the Lincoln.

It was only after they had left the compound that Margarite realized that he had not kissed her, had not in fact touched her at all since she had returned home.

Francine lay still clutching Ryan, her head on Margarite’s lap, and she stroked her child’s hair as she had when she was a baby with the croup. As they sped through the night, she could not help thinking of what Tony must be planning, and her anxiety grew. She tried to calm herself. She told herself that without her help he would not get his portrait of Robert, but deep in the night that seemed scant comfort.

They reached the stone house in New Hampshire an hour before dawn. The men in the lead car entered the house first, turning on lights, searching the place thoroughly. Only then did they signal to the Lincoln’s driver.

Margarite had taken Francine into the bedroom herself, tucking her under the covers, propping Ryan against the wall within easy reach should her daughter turn over, looking for him in her sleep. Then she retired to the bedroom designated for her.

If she slept, she was not aware of it. Instead, she relived her waking death, her child’s blank stupor, her hegira down the open roads through which she had wound. She saw herself as if through a looking glass, already maimed beyond understanding, barely conscious, driven by the sole directive, an imperative from that primitive part of her that was still wholly functional, to keep her daughter safe from the evil that stalked her. In this malignant state, her dream-imagining took the place of sleep.

She awoke near noon, her eyes gluey, feeling as if she had just fallen asleep. The adrenaline of anxiety rushed through her like a sickening wave, and she hurtled into the bathroom, made it to the toilet barely in time, bent double, her mouth and eyes full of fluid.

Later, she looked in on Francine, who was still asleep, then showered and dressed. In the kitchen she dawdled over a silent breakfast made by one of the bodyguards, a large man with raccoon eyes and a kind smile. She spent the time moving her eggs from one side of the plate to the other and assessing the extent of her loathing for her husband.

Francine emerged at last, rumpled and bleary-eyed, and Margarite had to explain to her where they were and why they were there.

“Of course,” Francie said dully. “Tony.”

She wanted to go home; she missed her friends. Margarite did her best to console her daughter, but it was a losing proposition; she could find no way to get through to her. At least, she got her to eat some breakfast. The strange drugs Robert had ground up and administered to her to make her sleep appeared to have had no lasting effects.