Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

Salvatore Mosconi sat at the bar of the Gut Wrencher Comedy Club, chain-smoking cigarettes and laughing deep smoker-cough laughs as his forty-something son, Guido, performed on stage.

The Gut Wrencher is in the cellar of the Mosconi Hotel, one of the many second-rate real estate properties Mosconi bought, or coerced people into selling. The comedy club had been in business a year, after the jazz, blues, Reggae and rap clubs had all failed — the last two of which produced numerous fistfights and a couple of shootings.

According to the East edition of the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, it was Guido's idea to create the comedy club and nurture his lifelong ambition of becoming a comic.

Guido was dressed in a striped blue three-piece suit and dark sunglasses. Unlike his father, who was built like an aging linebacker, Guido was very slight of frame and couldn’t have weighed more than 135 pounds. His hair was graying at the temples. His face was pale, with bags under his eyes.

His shtick, as far as I could determine, was to portray himself as a faux mob character blended with Rodney Dangerfield and tell outdated Henny Youngman jokes.

“There was a girl knocking on my hotel room door all night,” he said. “Finally, I let her out.”

Salvatore laughed so hard, he nearly coughed up a lung — then he saw me and I walked up to him.

“What now?” he said, holding his hands out to his side.

I shook his hand.

“Just a few questions for you?” I said. 

“OK, then,” he said. You want something to drink?”

“No, thanks,” I said. 

He ordered a double scotch from the bartender.

“Have a seat,” he said.

I sat.

“I played golf yesterday and hit two good balls really hard,” continued Guido. “I stepped on a rake.”

Salvatore coughed out a laugh.

“My son kills me,” he said. “So what do you want?”

“I'm wondering if you've got back into the old business,” I said.

“What the hell you talking about? I been clean since you and your boys put me away — sent me up for 8 years.”

“I'm interested in an old manufacturing campus you used to own in Maryville,” I said.

“What about it?”

“What's going on there?”

“How the hell would I know? My daughter Sophia runs my businesses now.”

“You are telling me you are not in business with Victoria Hall?”

“Victoria who?”

“It is going to be a regrettable thing, this time,” I said. “The feds are finally beginning to crack down on the heroin epidemic. You will go away for life this time.”

“Heroin? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said. “I promised my wife on her death bed I’d never go back into the business — that I’d make sure our children would be legit. I swear of this on my wife’s soul, may she rest in peace.”

Salvatore was so convincing, I found it conceivable that he had no knowledge that his property had been sold to Victoria Hall. Then again, Salvatore had always been a sly fox throughout his productive criminal career.

“Besides, you know I never got involved in narcotics,” he said. “Drugs were never my style.”

“What do you know about the old campus in Maryville where Preston’s company is now located?” I said.

“I don’t know nothing,” he said. “We got a zillion old properties all the way up and down the Monongahela. You want information, talk to my daughter, Sophia.”

Salvatore pulled out his wallet and handed me a worn card.

“You better treat her good, too,” he said. “She’s the apple of my eye. Graduated cum lade with her MBA from Penn or Wharton or whatever it is called. She’s doing a hell of a job running our businesses since, but she ain’t well.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“She’s battling the big C, leukemia,” said Salvatore. “I hear you do anything to upset her, it’s gloves off.”

“I hope you’re telling me the truth, for once,” I said, smiling.

He raised his hands.

“Scout’s honor,” he said, laughing hard.

Guido began telling a joke about a guy he saw at the bar last week.

“This Gumbah is so drunk, he falls down, so I pick him up and set him on the bar. He falls down again, so I pick him up and set him on the bar and he falls down again. So I decide I better take him home. I bring him to his house, drag him to his door and he falls down. I pick him up, set him against the house and he falls down. His wife answers the door and said, 'Thanks for bringing my husband home, but where's his wheel chair?'“

Salvatore hacked up another lung.

“My son didn’t turn out like my daughter — he’s been a hell of a disappointment, if you want to know the truth — but he sure knows how to make me laugh,” said Salvatore.

“We sold the Maryville campus four years ago to Victoria Hall, Inc.” said Sophia Mosconi, sitting behind a large mahogany desk in the downtown Pittsburgh headquarters of Salvatore Mosconi Enterprises.

“I see,” I said, trying not to stare at her.

Sophia could have been a 40-something clone of stunning Italian actress Sophia Loren. Her jet black hair, hazel eyes, full red lips and natural curves were causing me to swoon. 

“Did you negotiate the sale contract with Victoria Hall?”

Sophia shook her head.

“No,” she said, reviewing the contract on her desk. “My brother was working for our company at the time and he arranged the sale — though we were not happy with the terms.” 

“What was the problem?” I said.

“Guido sold the property for significantly less than the property was valued. He was eager to get his commission. But what is worse is that he also agreed to hold the mortgage on the property over a five year term, rather than require cash payment, which is something we never do.”

“What do you mean hold the mortgage?” I said. “You owner-financed the property?”

“That’s correct,” said Sophia. “Instead of requiring Ms. Hall to pay cash or get a bank loan, he arranged the contract so that Hall would make five annual $20,000 payments. So long as she met the terms of the agreement, her company, Victoria Hall, Inc. would own the building free and clear after making the fifth and final annual payment. As a result of the poorly constructed contract, however — and many other problems we had with Guido’s inability to carry out our corporate mission — we encouraged him to leave the real estate business or my father’s business and focus his attentions on opening his comedy club.”

“What is your corporate mission?” I said.

“It’s been very clear the past five years,” she said. “We’re aggressively liquidating my father’s real estate portfolio to generate the funds we need to shore up his legacy.”

“His legacy?”

“It’s true that early in his career my father, like many children of immigrants from his generation, went outside of the law to make a living,” she said. “It’s also true that my father has done many good deeds for his community and for the underprivileged with the wealth he created. His reputation was tarnished when you sent him to jail. We wish to restore it by showcasing his many good deeds.”

I wanted to bring up her father’s many bad deeds — the ones that my Uncle Mick sent him to jail for — but I let it rest. 

“What is your plan to restore your father’s reputation?” I said.

“It is twofold,” said Sophia. “Our hope is to sell off our properties to the right people and organizations. Our goal is not to maximize the profits by making it affordable for organizations to buy and revitalize them. At the same time, our hope has been to help bring these old industrial towns along the Monongahela back to life by working with up-and-coming people and organizations. By buying and renovating the old campus and moving John Preston Enterprises to Maryville, Ms. Hall had has been a textbook example. She created hundreds of good jobs in Maryville.”

Yeah, I thought, for hired goons and drug couriers.

“I want my father to be remembered for improving the economies of these old steel towns and we are beginning to see some success,” she said. “But the second part of restoring his reputation is to ensure that he is remembered for his work supporting the country’s biggest charities for foster care.”

“Tell me more,” I said, feeling suddenly guilty that I hadn’t thought much about the plight of foster children. 

Sophia pointed to a picture hanging on the wall behind me in which she was surrounded by five young children of different ethnicities.

“That’s my young family,” she said, “all former foster children I was able to adopt in time. My father loves my children as if they were blood offspring. When he learned how difficult the adoption process was, however, he wanted to help not just me, but thousands of children who get stuck in the system, as well as thousands of foster parents who hope to adopt foster kids.”

“Your children are beautiful,” I said. “You and your husband must be very proud.

Sophia smiled.

“I have no husband,” she said. “My first fiancé left me for a waitress. My second fiancé left me for a hair stylist at a chain salon. Looking back, I’m glad they did. I always wanted to be a mother and, by breaking my heart, they unwittingly opened up the world of foster care to me. I threw myself into it. I was shocked that foster care in the world’s richest country is such a mess.”

“How so?” I said.

“For starters, there has been a notable increase in the number of children in foster care in recent years,” said Sophia. “The Department of Health and Human Services said there were some 415 thousand children in the foster care system last year. They come from all backgrounds. Twenty-two percent were Hispanic, 24 percent black and 42 percent white. Just under 100,000 of them were available for adoption in the United States, but only 20 percent were adopted. Thanks to my father’s charity, however, we are making it easier for foster parents to adopt.”

“It is admirable what you and your father are doing,” I said.

“We’re just getting warmed up,” she said. “Though the Salvatore Mosconi Foundation is the world’s largest single contributor to organizations that assist foster children, we must do more.” 

“What is your strategy?” I said.

“We are working to change the laws to make adoption easier for parents willing to share their love. And as foster children get into their teen years, they are far less likely to be adopted. We are working with public and private organizations to provide funds needed to educate these left-behind children and give them a better chance to prosper in their lives. Unfortunately, I have very little time to complete this important work due to some health issues.”

I nodded.

“Salvatore mentioned this to me,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

“I have good days and bad,” she said. “Unfortunately, the chemo I’m taking is gradually becoming ineffective against the chronic leukemia I’m battling. My doctors tell me it’s just a matter of time before it stops slowing the spread of my cancer. I hope to have all of our affairs in order before that happens.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I seek no one’s pity. I’ve been very blessed and I’m able to establish funds to give my children a fine education and the care they need to thrive as adults — when I’m gone. We’ll also be able to help thousands of other foster children with funding, which makes me very happy, but I have to sell off our real estate portfolio first.”

Sophia glanced at her watch.

“I have an important meeting to attend shortly,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I shook my head.

“I’ll be in touch if I have any other questions,” I said. “Again, I admire what you are doing and wish you the best.”

I stood, shook her hand and left.

In my experience, a little pressure properly applied, can sometimes cause bad people to overreact and to make mistakes – mistakes from which I have profited. So I paid another visit to Victoria Hall.

“What the hell do you want now?” she said, sitting behind her large mahogany desk.

“I figured you wanted to see me.”

And she did want to see me. The Maryville chief surely had told her I knew where Erin Miller was and that she was safe.  

“You called the meeting, dip ass, not me,” she said. “Now get to it.”

I leaned back in the chair and put my legs up on her desk. If I had a cigar, I would have taken my time lighting it.

“I want to know why you lied to me,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” she said.

“You told me you hadn’t spoken to John Preston in weeks. But I know that he met with you the day before he died. After he walked out the front door of this old building, nobody ever saw him again. Some people think you had him killed and then staged his suicide.”

She laughed out loud.

But I could see the intelligence in her eyes as she processed what I’d said. She was trying to determine how I discovered she had met with Preston that day. Maybe Rosie told me? Or maybe I had helped Erin Miller escape and she told me John met her that day?

At this point, after her hired hands rooted through Erin and John’s home, she likely knew who Erin was. But she still didn’t know what Erin knew — and she wondered if I knew what Erin knew. 

“Now, why would I want to do a thing like that?” she said, smiling. “He was my cash cow. I’ll go broke without the little twit pumping out books and DVDs.”

“You had him killed because he was going to hold a press conference at which he was going to accuse you of conducting illegal activities inside this facility,” I said. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Come, now, Vicky,” I said, smiling. “You’re running a sizable heroin distribution operation right here. I figure you’re moving as much product as you can to cash out before you finally shut the operation down.”

“You’re reading too many mystery novels, flat foot,” said Hall. 

“But you had him killed. You had Tony and Terry drown him along the banks of the river, then tossed him over the bridge later that night. Trouble is they scuffed the heck out of his shoes while dragging him to and from the car and tore off some buttons. Not to worry, though. Chief Sarafino is on your payroll. She’s helping you cover your tracks.”

Hall laughed again — a forced laugh.

“Then a woman named Erin Miller comes out of the woodwork,” I continued. “You had no knowledge of her existence prior to that day. Nobody did. Not even Elizabeth Preston knew of her existence. So when you whacked Preston you were unprepared for Erin Miller to go rushing to the authorities blabbing about having evidence that Preston had been murdered. The Maryville chief alerted you to her as soon as she left the chief’s office — or maybe your employees had something to do with that. Maybe the chief’s office is bugged, too, you being a clever lady. Whatever the case, you had your men shadow her to my pub. You had them abduct her and then imprison her in her own home. You had them drug her with heroin all week to make her a hardcore addict — with hopes of withholding the drug until she told you what she knows and helped you find John’s copy of your ledger. Bravo. Well played. Almost.”

“Stop it,” said Hall. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“The thing is I know what Erin Miller knows,” I said. “I have evidence that Preston was going to quit your company and go public about the illegalities that are taking place here. And I have your ledger and we will crack its code soon and you’re going to be in a world of hurt when we do.”

Hall’s face grew red. She said nothing.

“I dislike you very much,” I continue. “I dislike what you’ve done to people struggling with addiction. I dislike you for killing Preston and hurting Erin Miller. I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to have you prosecuted for murder, for drug distribution, for money laundering… oh, the sky’s the limit.”

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life,” she said, as she pressed a buzzer on her phone.

“Come,” she said into the loud speaker.

I jumped across Hall’s desk and stood behind her with my Glock out before Tony and Terry walked into the office, their pistols drawn. I pressed my Glock into the back of Hall’s noggin.

“Hiya, boys,” I said, smiling. “I know you’re a little sore for being so incompetent you were unable to keep a drug-addicted woman from escaping. However, if you want the lady here to keep writing your paychecks, you will put down the guns on the desk nice and slow and everyone will walk away happy.”

“Do as he says,” said Hall.

Tony and Terry set their guns on the desk. I picked up both and put them in my coat pocket.

“Ms. Hall here is going to escort me out of the building and we can arrange to chat another time,” I sad.

“Let him go,” said Hall. “The ass clown is too dumb to realize what he has got himself involved in.”

I kept the Glock pressed against her head as we walked down the hall and took the elevator down to the lobby. When Rosie saw my gun pressed against Hall’s head, she appeared startled, but fought a desire to smirk.

“Rosie, hold my calls,” I said, as Hall and I moved toward the front door.

I let Hall go at the entrance.  As I jogged to my truck, she shouted at me.

“You have no idea what hell you just unleashed on yourself, dumb ass,” she said.

She slammed the door.

I fired up my truck and got the heck out of there.