The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (31 page)

We found Kevin fiddling with some bogus Ma Bell
equipment and talking softly into his headset, looking very
professional. We told him he should get coffee now because there
wouldn't be time later.

"Mainly I want you to let Rizzo know we're still
here, Kev. Calm him down a little. If he sees me again he's going to
come all unglued."

So Kevin went and returned shortly with a steaming
cup of java, shaking his head sadly.

"Says DeLucca's gonna hit him,Joe. Says DeLucca
ain't coming at four. Says he was riding in a cab and saw you two in
the shop with him. He wants to go back to Deer Island where it's
safe. What about this guy inna cab, anyway?" . '

"Aw, bullshit. He's just spooked. I just hope he
doesn't screw up the drill and get some bystander killed. Now Doc,
listen: we want you to get in the back there. If I yell, you're to
fall flat on your face. Nothing should happen— our van is really
just a lookout. But we've got to be ready to pull out and block the
street if he's got friends with a car. If that happens, Mary would—
never forgive me for bringing you along. But I really expect it'll go
smoothly. And if, God forbid, any rough stuff starts, we've got the
gorillas in the milk truck."

I was not in a jolly mood. While I dearly hoped
Carmen DeLucca the mad-dog killer would be snagged, I had seen a lot
in the past hour that had me down. The town depressed me, with its
grimy, crowded streets, dilapidated buildings, and ragged, worn-out
people. Of course they were the victims, not the culprits, but it was
depressing nonetheless. The goon squad in the milk wagon depressed
me. Most of all, Johnny Rizzo the jailhouse punk depressed me. He was
a sad case, and frankly I didn't see much future for him no matter
what happened.

Kevin sat at the wheel. Joe sat in back just behind
me, with his legs stretched out on the floor and his headset on. Now
and then I listened to my phone receiver and heard the conversations.
There was none of the static crackle and buzz of the radio. Code
words like over weren't needed either. It was a conference call of
four parties, clear, subdued, conversational. And unlike talk on the
police radio, it was private.

At four DeLucca still hadn't shown. At four-thirty I
was surprised to see Rizzo leave the shop, fiddle with the awning
crank, and disappear. I heard Powers alert all of us from his
lookout. Right according to plan, Rizzo reappeared a second later,
pushing the two-wheeled cart loaded with empties.

"Did you see him?" Joe asked Powers via his
headset. "He must've come in the back way. Bill, get your guys
ready. Keller, you guys see anything inside from where you're
sitting?"

The answer was no. We waited, and pretty soon Bill
said that the milk truck had seen no sign of Johnny, who was supposed
to saunter down the alley in their direction after he stacked the—
bottles. Then a disgusted voice from van number two told us the
answer.

"Hey Joe, your prize snitch is here. The little
asshole is pounding on our van. You believe it?"

I hadn't seen Joe so mad in a long time. We unhitched
the line cables, started up, and tore up the block and around the
corner in less than half a minute. There he was, complete in
undershirt and white apron, whining and dancing around the telephone
crew of van number two and yelling that he wanted to go back to the
Big House. Talk about blowing the stakeout. I thought Joe was going
to kill him. The other guys thought so too, because they kept between
the two men. Finally we had a plainclothesman march Rizzo back to the
shop and we went back to our stations. But it wasn't any good; we all
knew it wouldn't work after that.

We waited till five-thirty, then decided that it
really looked fake to see all these workmen putting in overtime doing
nothing. To continue the stakeout now would only wreck our cover for
any future ones. Joe arranged to have a heavy surveillance of the
place and neighborhood for the next twenty-four hours and we all went
home. Kevin was to drive the van back to headquarters at Ten-Ten
Comm. Ave., where he and Joe would pick up their cars.

Joe and Kevin were irritable and glum. Joe's mood was
so dark it was dangerous. I went and bought them a pint of Johnny
Walker, some soda and ice, and some plastic glasses. I said I'd drive
the van for them, which I did. They sat stretched out in back and
grumbled, swore, and drank. I heard Joe say more than once that he
hoped DeLucca did catch up with Johnny Rizzo.

We stopped on the way for Joe to make a call to Mary,
and then I got on the line too. She was mad all right, but it could
have been worse. Joe promised to buy a big leg of lamb in the North
End before we started home.

"No, Joey. That means we won't eat until
midnight. Get loin chops. And hurry up, it's past six!"

We promised to be home by eight, and continued on our
way. At headquarters Joe didn't even go into his office; we got into
his car and headed over to Storrow Drive. In fifteen minutes we were
in the North End and, miraculously, parked right off Salem I Street.
We walked two blocks and then turned onto a little side street. I
mentioned that this wasn't the way to Toscana's, and Joe nodded. He
had a desperate look on his face. He said he had a little errand
before we bought the meat.

"But it's important, Doc. That's why I thought
of telling Mary we were going to Toscana's; there's something I just
have to do here. It won't take long."
 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Joe went into a candy store and pumped coins into a
pay phone, speaking into it softly and hunching into the alcove. I
was standing next to him and couldn't hear what he said. Then he
held, the phone and waited. Finally I heard him say, "I'm right
beneath you, in the store." Then he hung up and motioned me to
follow him. We went out into the street again, through a small door,
and up a flight of stairs to the office of a little realty company.
The office was closed, since it was almost seven. But we waited in
the hallway, looking in at the dark office through the glass door. I
was beginning to think Joe had lost his mind, that the strain of the
past week had been too much for him. But soon a young man appeared in
the dark office, turned on the lights, and unlocked the door for us.

"
Come this way, Mr. Brindelli," he said,
leading us through the thickly carpeted office to a solid oak door in
the back. This door was thick-paneled white oak mounted on heavy
brass hinges. It looked bullet-proof. I found out later it was. The
attendant heaved it open and it hissed against the hydraulic closer.

We found ourselves in a large, dimly lighted club
room that was plush indeed. Burgundy pile carpeting. Walnut
bookcases. Brass and pewter sconce lights. Leather club chairs.
Ten-man walnut conference table with club chairs neatly arranged.
Illuminated globe. It could have been the Harvard Club, except it was
newer.

"Gee Joe, this is really tweedy. Veddy British."

"Yeah. Too bad it's High Sicilian. Listen,
you're to be my man in, this little visit. My witness. My second.
Capish? Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut afterwards.
Capish?"

We sat down in two of the leather club chairs. The
guy who showed us in, the Sorcerer's Apprentice, asked us if we cared
for anything to drink. I asked him if he could fix me a dry Beefeater
on the rocks. He said no problem, took Joe's order, and oiled off. '

"He's not even Italian, Joe; he looks like a
Swede or somethin ."

"
Oh yeah. The big guys always hire WASPy help.
That peon's probably a Yaley."

"Uh, Joe? Would you mind explaining—"

"Not now. It'll be quick, I promise. just keep
your eyes and ears open, mouth shut."

I sipped my drink. A polished rosewood door swung
open and a tall, distinguished-looking man oozed forward on the thick
carpet.

"Mr. Brindelli?" he said in a silken voice.
"And Mr. Adams?"

We stood and shook hands with the man.

"I am Bernard Aldorfer, Mr. Tescione's personal
assistant. We are honored by your visit, gentlemen. Mr. Tescione is
in a brief meeting and will be with you shortly."

I had heard the name Tescione mentioned more than
once by Joe. I had also heard it on television, read it in the
papers.

"
Ehhh . . . Mr. Tescione wishes me to ascertain
the precise nature of your enquiry, Mr. Brindelli, so that, ehhh . .
. he may be of more service to you in the short time he has at his
disposal."

Joe leaned forward and looked into Aldorfer's eyes.

"Tell him it has to do with Carmen DeLucca,"
he said quietly.

Mr. Aldorfer's eyebrows went up; he slid the soles of
his wing-tip brogues nervously on the burgundy pile carpeting.

"I, ehh . . . see. Well, I shall go and inform
Mr. Tescione then. We won't keep you waiting much longer."

"You both are very kind," said Joe. I could
see he meant it sincerely. I leaned over and whispered to him. We
were alone in the big club room except for the flunky with the J.D.
from Yale, who was keeping an eye on us from the entrance hall. But I
thought the place might be bugged, so I whispered.

"But I thought you hated Tescione and all he
stands for. You keep saying he's a disgrace to Italian-Americans.
That he—"

"Yeah yeah, I know. But right now I need him; I
need to muddy my feet a little. just keep—"

"
I know: eyes and ears open, mouth shut."

He nodded in silence and the rosewood door swung open
again. Mr. Aldorfer came forward, making as much noise as a cat, and
requested that we accompany him. I set down the half-finished drink
(the way they poured them, it had to remain half-finished if I wanted
to walk) and followed Joe's wide form through I the rosewood door.

We entered a dark and narrow hall. Stairs rose at the
end of it. As we began to climb a faint beeper went off. Mr. Aldorfer
apologized and requested that we accompany him back into the club
room, which we did.

"I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen, but one of you—
perhaps you, Mr. Brindelli— seems to be in possession of, ehhh . .
. some sort of firearm. Correct?"

"Oh, I forgot," said Joe, drawing back his
coat and producing his nine-millimeter Beretta. "Was on a
stakeout; I don't usually carry a gun. Here." He removed the
magazine and snapped back the slide, flinging out the chambered
round, and then handed the empty gun to Aldorfer, who carried it over
to a cabinet with a look of fear and distaste, as if it were a black
mamba.

"Don't be fooled by that," whispered Joe.
"He's probably trained to pump the whole clip into a twelve-inch
circle at sixty feet."

We tried the stairway again and this time reached the
top. In the upstairs hall a man sat in a big leather chair. There was
none of the Ivy League about this fellow. He sat in a big chair
because he needed it. And he wasn't a WASP either. He looked like
Primo Camera. He glanced up at us as we walked by. His expression was
totally blank. Aldorfer knocked at the third and final door, and
opened it. We went in.

It was dark inside. The only illumination came from a
desk lamp that threw a small circle of yellow light down on the desk
top, and from the skyline of Boston and the harbor that was visible
as a panorama through the wide plate-glass windows that swept around
two sides of the spacious office. I was told later that the glass was
bullet-proof. The tall man sat silhouetted against the city lights.
The setting seemed appropriate, I thought, for a man of great power
and perhaps, metaphorically speaking, a man of darkness.

He rose and shook hands with us. His grip was firm;
the hand was wide, strong, and dry. I was looking dead level into the
face of Paul Tescione, fourteenth most powerful underworld figure in
America and the world. He was very handsome. If an Italian man can
keep his hair and stay thin, he is usually good-looking. Tescione was
as thin as Jacques Cousteau, with strong, sharp features, dark skin,
and snow-white hair. His suit was cut perfectly in the European
style, but not flashy. He looked like an ad out of GQ.

We sat down, Joe and Paul facing each other across
the wide desk, with me on Joe's right and Aldorfer on Tescione's
right. It was a little like a chess game. Joe and Paul would be the
caporegimes
, the
warlords, and Aldorfer and I were the
consiglieri
,
or counselors who were to sit in on any important meeting for
protection and to listen carefully so that afterward, in discussions
and decision making, we could clarify points, remember details. It
was very Old World. It seemed to me like a pretty good system.

Tescione broke into a wide grin that revealed perfect
teeth and a touch of gold work on his upper bicuspid. He slapped his
palms gently but decisively down on the desk.

"So! Carmen DeLucca. Tell us about Carmen
DeLucca, Mr. Brindelli."

"He's alive. You knew that didn't you?"
said Joe.

"I have heard that. Very, very recently I have
heard that."

"Okay," said Joe softly. "Well it's
true. He didn't die down in Jersey. He's alive and he's been up here.
Now I came here tonight to ask you something and to tell you
something, okay?"