Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (16 page)

they had offered, when they called from the MGM Grand, to drop by.

They arrived wearing sandals, florid short-sleeved shirts, and slacks, which had somewhat eased Woods’s anxiety about their sudden appearance.

“Last time I was in Detroit, your name came up,” Lozzi said. He was a stocky, muscular man, and, when he pulled his arms back to rest them on top of the booth, his bulging biceps nearly ripped his shirt sleeve. “You know Victor Pasaro?”

“I was out there a few months ago, but we never met,” Woods said.

“Had to go to Warren on some business with Napolini’s outfit, so I drove up to the Motor City. Not bad, not at all, but a few too many molleres for my taste. Know what I mean?”

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“Damn right,” Lozzi laughed, “motherfuckers multiply like rab-bits.”

“Yeah, but you got to use ’em these days if you wanna do business,”

Marintino laughed. “They got some heavy shit goin’ on and we need to get our share. Fact is, we’re thinkin’ about settin’ up our own record company in New York. There’s a lotta money in this rap shit, and it don’t cost nothin’ to turn it out. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how you listen to that bullshit,” Woods said. “But it don’t matter, the guys out there got it under control. I was treated like a prince over at the Roma Café in the East Market district.

No trouble, none at all. Whenever I travel, I try to pay my respects to the guys that already got their buttons. I know soldiers in Dallas, Chicago, Boston, New Orleans—all over the globe, even Brussels, Amsterdam, and Milano. Yeah, like I say, it’s all good!”

Anfuso smiled and nodded in appreciation. The patronizing expression on Lozzi’s face signaled that he was not impressed, and, when Marintino glanced at him, he averted his eyes and swirled his fork in the pasta marinara that accompanied his veal parmigiana. A moment later the buxom waitress arrived with shots of Jack Daniel’s for Lozzi and Anfuso, and another double Grand Marnier for Woods. When she left, Lozzi turned and watched as she leaned over a nearby table to take an order. “Not bad,” he said, half smiling. “Not bad at all.”

“You want, cugine?” Woods said. “Just say the word, she’s yours.”

Lozzi turned back to the table. His smile faded as he shook his head and declined the invitation. Woods turned to Marintino.

“Tony, have some more vino,” he gushed, picking up the bottle.

“It’s from my private stock, Brunello di Montalcino, 1989. Not like that swill they serve at the Grand.”

Marintino smiled and nodded yes.

“Word is you brought some heavy action to Napolini,” he said, after Woods filled his glass.

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“Yeah, we’re doin’ some business,” Woods said, beaming, “and it’s just the beginning. I got plenty more—”

“How in the hell does an Italian get a name like Brian Woods?”

Lozzi interrupted, a sarcastic grin on his face.

“Sono italiano!” Woods said emphatically.

“Sei sicuro?”

“Damn right I’m sure! I changed my name.”

Lozzi’s grin widened as Woods dabbed at his forehead with a cocktail napkin. He was enjoying every minute of the cocky upstart’s dis-comfort.

“So, why’d you change your name?” Marintino asked.

“Lemme tell you,” Woods said. “You know why I changed my name . . . I, ah, I used to work for a collection agency. I’d call these poor bastards—”

“Watch out, the bullshit’s starting to fly,” Lozzi laughed. He grabbed Marintino, winking as he hugged him. “This motherfucker’s squirmin’ like a stuck pig,” he whispered.

“No! Wait a minute. Wait a minute! This is a true story,” Woods said, anxious to save face.

“Yeah, like the Atlantic City story,” Marintino said. “Atlantic City all over again.”

“No, God’s honest truth,” Woods said. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”

Anfuso laughed, and for the first time during the evening spoke up.

“Not for nothing, Brian, but your mother’s not dead.”

“Then on my grandmother’s grave,” Woods continued, without a hitch. “See, I’d call these mothers and tell them they better pay up—

their phone bills, cable bills, whatever—if they knew what was good for them. You know, I’d suggest that if they didn’t get the money immediately they might develop a serious knee problem—some crap like that. Anything to scare the fuck outta them. So this guy panics and 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 115

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takes me to court, I swear to God. Motherfucker took me to court. He tells the judge that I was threatening him—and, get this, trying to intimidate him by using an Italian name and pretending to be in the mob. . . . I swear to God. And the fucking Irish judge believed him.

Cocksucker said that if I wanted to stay in the collection business I had to stop using my real name.”

“So what happened to the pussy who complained,” Marintino asked.

“I found him and busted his fucking knees—both of them,” Woods laughed. “What the hell did you think I’d do?”

All four men were laughing now. In fact, Lozzi was holding his stomach trying to restrain himself, and Marintino, a huge, squat man who weighed nearly 250 pounds, was coughing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.

“So, what the hell is your real name?” Marintino finally asked.

Woods finished his drink and was about to answer when he stopped short. A tall graying man in sunglasses, impeccably dressed in shirt and tie and blue Brooks Brothers suit, was approaching them. Lozzi recognized him immediately and didn’t seem surprised that he was there. He stood up, and the others followed his lead. When the man reached the table, Lozzi stepped forward to embrace him and kiss him on the cheek.

“Hi’ya doin’, cugine,” Lozzi said.

“You don’t wanna know,” the man said with a straight face, then he and Lozzi stepped back and laughed.

“Lemme introduce a friend of ours,” Lozzi said.

It was Victor Pasaro, part of the Detroit outfit that shared control of the midwestern area, which included Michigan and Ohio. Marintino hugged and kissed Pasaro next and then Woods and Anfuso went through the ritual before the men sat back down.

“Seems like you guys were having a great time back here,” Pasaro said. “What’s so funny?”

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“Ah, just bullshitting with Brian—talking about the old days,” Marintino said.

“And what brings you to the bowels of Las Vegas?” Woods asked.

“Don’t you usually hang with the heavyweights over at The Sahara?”

He picked up the Montalcino bottle and gestured toward the new arrival, silently offering him a drink. Pasaro nodded yes, then stopped him when the glass was half filled.

“That’s good,” he said, picking up the glass. “Grazie. It’s early and I don’t want to overdo it. I’m here on business. Napolini’s crew sent me to assist you with the show that begins next week.”

“What! Nobody said anything about it to me.”

“Contact Riccardo if you want. He’ll tell you himself.”

“What the fuck is he thinking? This was my deal. I brought it to them, and I don’t appreciate anyone stepping in and interfering!”

“Hey, paesan, calm down,” Marintino said. “Don’t get your dick hard when there’s nothing to fuck. Listen to the man, it don’t sound like nobody’s taking anything away from you to me.”

“Hell, no! This is mine. I took it to Riccardo because I knew him as a kid. I set up the whole diamond—”

Pasaro slammed his wineglass onto the table, nearly breaking it. “I’d be more careful about what the fuck I said if I was you,” he growled.

“Yeah, I don’t want no details,” Marintino said.

Lozzi shook his head in disgust, pinning Woods with an icy gaze.

Anfuso shrunk back in his seat, visibly shaken. He was amazed that his friend had the balls to challenge a guy who’d already been straightened out. His eyes darted from Woods to Pasaro. Finally, Woods threw up his hands and called the waitress. He ordered another Grand Marnier.

“Yeah, you’re right, cugine,” he said to Pasaro. “We can talk later.

It’s six-thirty. I got time for one more drink before I start working tonight.”

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about that fuck-up in Miami, when you guys popped the wrong Cuban chick and had to run for your lives from that gang of spics?”

“Hey, they all look alike, you know that. Well, maybe you don’t.

You New York guys are trying to be too . . . what’s it called, politically correct. And anyway, we didn’t run, we retreated until the next day and them came back and kicked ass.”

“That ain’t what I heard,” Marintino laughed.

Woods had gotten his drink, and, after gulping it down, he sat glar-ing at Pasaro, visibly upset. The alcohol was taking its effect; he was not only high, he was stewing. Pasaro noticed and glared back at him for a minute, then stood up.

“Maybe we should talk now,” he said.

“You know, I don’t think we should talk at all,” Woods said. “I was warned that something like this might happen. It’s bullshit. I can take this deal somewhere else, you know. You’re not the only family interested in making a fortune off diamonds. It’s my deal.”

“You know, Brian,” Pasaro began. He paused and looked around the room. “Tu serai un problemo. Tu parli troppo.”

“Che dici?”

Pasaro turned and started to walk away.

“Fuck you, Victor!” Woods yelled.

“Sono lava le mani,” Pasaro said before leaving the table and walking to the bar.

Lozzi and Marintino immediately stood up. Marintino hugged Anfuso and, smiling, whispered something in his ear. Then both he and Lozzi hugged Woods before joining Pasaro, who had stopped at the bar and ordered a drink. They spoke for a few minutes before leaving.

“What the hell’s goin’ on,” Anfuso asked Woods.

“Nothing . . . nient!”

Woods brushed pass Anfuso, heading for the casino floor. He paused briefly at Pasaro’s side. “Look, don’t you understand, it’s my deal. I can handle it.”

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When Pasaro ignored him, he turned abruptly and walked away.

Just as he stepped through the casino door, he heard the call from the bar. “Tu sai nuotare?” Pasaro shouted, before walking back toward the booth where Anfuso stood.

Woods made one run through the casino then started upstairs to the third-floor offices. He had decided to call Ohio and find out exactly why Pasaro was here. “Do you know how to swim?” was the last thing Pasaro had said to him. It was a clear threat, but Woods was fairly certain that Pasaro wouldn’t try anything in the casino. There was too much security, and, besides, his boss Sal Palomo had big-time connections in Vegas and L.A., and he was upstairs. No, they wouldn’t fuck with him in the casino, he assured himself.

Forty-five minutes after he left Pasaro in the bar, he stepped off the elevator on the third floor. The two security guards outside the elevator were at their stations. They nodded as he walked down the hallway past the counting room where three more heavily armed guards stood.

When he reached Palomo’s office, he paused outside, considering whether to confide in him. The old man was like a father to him.

He knocked and, when no one answered, pushed the door open and stepped inside. Palomo was slumped over his desk in the dimly lit room. A trickle of blood could be seen flowing onto the desk mat.

Woods immediately reached inside his jacket and started to turn back toward the door. He never saw the gun and silencer that was shoved into the back of his head and, after the muted pop, hardly felt the bullet that ripped through the back of his skull.

New York

Kim Carlyle sat on her sofa with several pages of notes spread out on the coffee table. Both her telephone and cell lay beside her on the 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 119

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couch. For the last three hours she had intermittently paced nervously about the room or pored over the random notes she had made the previous night and earlier this morning while on the plane. Primarily she’d been waiting on a return call from the London reporter Mariana Blair. It was now almost ten o’clock—4:00 A.M. in England—and she had nearly given up hope of receiving the call. Still, she reminded herself, the woman had called and left a message at 5:00 A.M. New York time. It wasn’t completely out of the question. The problem for Kim was her ten o’clock meeting with Lt. Jackson at the Sugar Bar.

At five minutes of ten, Kim gave up; she’d have to wait until the next morning to talk with the reporter. She slipped into designer jeans and a teal V-neck T-shirt, pushed her notes into a slim leather briefcase, and rushed out to get a cab. She quickly found one on West End Avenue and ten minutes later arrived at the 72nd Street restaurant. Lt.

Jackson was just inside the door, sitting at the long bar that paralleled the narrow passageway leading to the downstairs restaurant. He was sipping a vodka and tonic and idly paging through the Daily News when she entered.

“Hi Maurice,” she said as she sat down on the adjacent stool.

“Thanks for meeting with me.”

“You knew I couldn’t turn down a beautiful woman in distress,” he laughed, “even if she was once my biggest headache.”

“Hey, if it wasn’t for me, you would never have been promoted,”