‘I do not appreciate the facetious attitude, Agent Schaeffer. I am here because my daughter has been kidnapped, and I am in personal communication not only with the attorney general himself, but also the director of the FBI. I can assure you that there will be no quarter given if it is discovered that any aspect of this operation has been mishandled by yourself or the men under your command—’
‘And I can assure you, Governor Ducane, that every single thing that can be done is being done.’
Hartmann, his fists clenched, his teeth gritted, took three steps forward and appeared in the doorway of the hotel room where Schaeffer, Woodroffe and Ducane had been talking.
Ducane was standing facing Schaeffer. Woodroffe was seated. Schaeffer appeared more vexed and agitated than Hartmann had ever seen him. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his hair was uncombed. Ducane, however, seemed the epitome of composure. He possessed the air of a man who always achieved his own ends and never had to explain either what he did or why he did it. His eyes were sharp and unforgiving. His hair – silver-gray and full – his tailored suit and overcoat, even the deep burgundy scarf around his neck: these things spoke of a man who had never envisioned the idea of going without. He did not, in Hartmann’s estimation, appear to be a man deeply disturbed and distressed by the absence of his only child.
He turned as Hartmann entered the room. ‘Mr Hartmann,’ he said slowly.
Hartmann nodded. ‘Governor Ducane.’
‘I have come to ensure that all progress that can be made is being made—’
‘I understand,’ Hartmann interjected. The last thing he wanted was a lecture.
Ducane shook his head. ‘I am afraid, Mr Hartmann, that I am not sure you do understand.’
Hartmann opened his mouth to speak but Ducane raised his hand.
‘You have a daughter, do you not, Mr Hartmann?’
Hartmann nodded.
‘How old is she? Eleven? Twelve?’
Ducane looked at Hartmann for an answer but continued speaking without waiting for it.
‘Then you perhaps understand some small aspect of how this must feel for someone like me. My daughter is nineteen years old. She is barely more than a child herself. This man—’ Ducane glanced up towards the ceiling; he knew Perez was in the building on an upper floor. ‘This animal . . . this insane criminal psychopath that you have secured inside this hotel . . . he has taken my daughter. My daughter, Mr Hartmann, and I am in a position where I can do nothing but wait while you people fall over your own feet trying to find out what he has done with her. How would you feel if it was your child, Mr Hartmann? How would you feel then? I am sure that there would have been an awful lot more progress in finding her. Where is she? No-one knows but this man. Is she alive or dead? Huh? Is she dead, Mr Hartmann? Well, whaddya know . . . the only person that knows is this man Perez.’
Ducane glared at Hartmann, and then he turned and fixed Schaeffer and Woodroffe in turn with his gaze.
‘To hell with this!’ he suddenly said. ‘I am going up there to deal with this man myself!’
He made for the door.
Hartmann backed up a step, closed the door and stood in front of it.
‘Out of my way, Hartmann!’ Ducane snapped.
Hartmann said nothing.
Schaeffer looked like he was ready to implode. Woodroffe rose from his chair and joined Hartmann at the door.
‘You cannot go up there, Governor,’ Hartmann said quietly.
Ducane grimaced. ‘I can do any goddam thing I goddam well please. Now out of the way.’
Schaeffer stepped up behind Ducane and took his arm by the elbow.
Ducane turned suddenly. He wrenched his arm free and pushed Schaeffer back against the edge of the desk.
He started shouting, spittle flying from his lips. ‘You people!’ he screamed. ‘You people think you can come down here and play with my daughter’s life as if it holds no importance at all? You think you can do this to me? I am Charles Ducane, Governor of Louisiana . . .’
Ducane stopped suddenly. He turned back towards Hartmann. ‘You . . . you get out of my way right now!’
Hartmann shook his head. ‘No, Governor. I am not going to get out of your way. You are not going anywhere except back to Shreveport. You are going to leave us to handle this with the correct protocol and procedure. The director of the FBI has sent the people he considers best fit for this task, and they have done everything they are capable of doing, and will continue to do everything they can, until they have found your daughter and returned her safe to you. We have sixty men down here. Honest and capable men. They have spent every waking hour searching for any clue that might indicate where your daughter is being held. Already we have seen four men die as a result of this investigation, and we have no intention of adding your daughter’s name to the roster of dead. I am not familiar with standard FBI procedure in these matters, I am not in a position to judge whether everything has been done to the letter, but I can guarantee that in all my years working in such situations as this I have never seen a more dedicated and committed group of people. These people have given up their own lives for the duration of this investigation, and nothing, absolutely nothing, has dissuaded them from doing what they believe to be right. Now you have to leave, because if I let you go up there then I can guarantee that Ernesto Perez will say nothing further and he will let your daughter die.’
Ducane was silent for a moment, and then he backed up a step and looked down at the floor.
He turned and looked at Schaeffer. Was there a flicker of something apologetic in his expression? Hartmann could not be certain. He doubted Charles Ducane would ever allow himself to stoop so low as to apologize.
Clear in Hartmann’s mind were the things Perez had said regarding Ducane. The young New Orleans old-money compatriot of Antoine Feraud. Did Charles Ducane have any inkling of who Perez really was, and why he had done this? Did Governor Charles Ducane in fact know exactly why Perez had abducted his daughter? Was he here for the reason he stated – to ensure that everything was being done to find her – or was he here to ensure that the things he did not want known stayed unknown?
Hartmann was exhausted – mentally, emotionally, spiritually. He did not want to fight this man, and even as he thought those words Ducane spoke again. His voice was cold and direct. There was nothing human within it whatsoever, and in that moment Hartmann understood that what Perez had told them about this man could very well be the truth.
‘I will do as I wish, Mr Hartmann, and what I wish is to see this man—’
Hartmann closed his eyes. He clenched his fists. ‘Governor Ducane,’ he said quietly. He looked up and opened his eyes. ‘There are a great many things we do not know about this man. There have been a great many things he has spoken about, and your name has been uttered on numerous occasions.’
Ducane’s eyes flashed. Was there a flicker of anxiety there?
‘He has spoken of things that happened many years ago, in Florida and Havana, things that involved some of the most significant organized crime families in the country during the last fifty years. There has been talk of a man called Antoine Feraud—’
Again the flash of anxiety in Ducane’s eyes.
‘—and the killing of Jimmy Hoffa—’
Hartmann sensed Schaeffer go rigid. Woodroffe stepped forward. ‘Hartmann—’ he began, but Hartmann raised his hand and Woodroffe fell silent.
‘The killing of Jimmy Hoffa—’
Ducane raised his right hand and pointed at Hartmann.
Hartmann went cool and loose inside, like something had suddenly released the tension of every muscle in his body. What if he was wrong? What if everything Perez had told them was a complete fabrication?
‘Don’t you even consider threatening me,’ Ducane said.
Hartmann willed himself to keep it together. Ducane seemed to take another step forward, despite the fact that there was almost no distance between them. ‘I don’t know who you people th
ink you are,’ he hissed, his voice growing more insistent and angered, ‘but—’
‘But nothing,’ Hartmann interjected. His heart was trip-hammering in his chest. A thin film of sweat had broken out along his hairline. He felt nauseous and afraid. ‘We are doing our job, Governor, and our job is to listen to everything this man tells us and see if there isn’t some clue, some thread of something that will lead us to your daughter. And if that means asking questions about Hoffa and Feraud and this Gemini thing—’
Hartmann was still talking, but even he did not register what he was saying, for the change in Ducane’s color and demeanor was startling. The man seemed to step back completely without moving an inch. He stepped down, more accurately, and Hartmann knew that there were going to be no further challenges from this man. Governor Charles Ducane would not be visiting with Ernesto Perez today.
There was silence for some moments after Hartmann had finished talking, and Charles Ducane – his whole body tense, his face pale, his eyes wide like a man in shock – nodded slowly and said, ‘Find my daughter, gentlemen . . . find her and bring her back to me, and when that is done find some way to kill this animal for what he has done to me.’
Hartmann wanted to say something but no words seemed appropriate. He watched as Ducane turned to look at Schaeffer and Woodroffe in turn, and then he stepped aside as Ducane came towards him.
Ducane left the room. Schaeffer went after him to ensure he did not try to go upstairs.
Hartmann walked forwards and sat down at the desk. His hands were shaking. His whole body was covered in sweat. He looked at Woodroffe. Woodroffe looked back. Neither of them said a word.
Schaeffer returned within moments. He was breathless, red-faced; looked like a man on the verge of collapse. ‘I didn’t know . . . didn’t have any idea he was going to come down here,’ he started, but Hartmann raised his hand and Schaeffer fell silent.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Hartmann said, the tension and fear audible in his voice. ‘It is what it is.’ He said nothing regarding his additional thoughts about Ducane’s real motive for coming to New Orleans. He didn’t say a word regarding his belief that Ducane seemed less like a grieving and distressed father than any distressed father he’d seen before. Such things were for himself alone, and no purpose would be served by voicing them.
Hartmann looked at both Woodroffe and Schaeffer in turn; neither of them were going to say a word about what had actually happened in that room.
An agent appeared in the doorway and nodded at Schaeffer.
Schaeffer nodded back. ‘He’s gone,’ he said, the relief evident in his tone. ‘Let’s get this done, okay?’
Hartmann rose from where he was seated and left the room. They went upstairs together – all three of them – and there was a moment’s silence when they reached Perez’s room.
Hartmann knocked on the door, identified himself, and the door was unlocked. Hartmann passed inside and waited for the outer door to be locked. He crossed the carpet, and without hesitating, opened the inner door and went inside.
‘Mr Hartmann,’ Perez said. He rose from a chair near the window. The room was hazy with smoke, and Hartmann noticed how tired Perez seemed to be.
‘We are coming to a close,’ Perez said as Hartmann walked towards him. ‘Today I will tell you about New York, tomorrow how I came home to New Orleans, and then we will be done.’
Hartmann did not reply. He merely nodded and sat down at the table facing Perez.
‘It has been a long journey for both of us, no? And we have nearly come to an end that you might not have heard had the attempt on my life been successful. I have upset some people, it seems.’
Hartmann tried to smile. He could barely manage any facial expression. He felt as if everything meaningful had been torn out of him and was being held in suspension somewhere. He might get it back, he might not: no-one had told him yet.
‘It has been a life of sorts,’ Perez said, and he laughed gently. ‘It has not been the life I perhaps imagined for myself, but then I imagine that this is the way it is for most of us, wouldn’t you say, Mr Hartmann?’
‘I guess so,’ Hartmann replied. He reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. He lit one, set the box on the table, and leaned back in his chair. He wanted to tell Perez that Ducane had been downstairs only minutes before, but he did not. Every muscle in his body ached. His head felt like an overripe pumpkin, swollen with acidic fluid, ready to burst at the slightest provocation.
‘You are not well, Mr Hartmann?’ Perez asked.
‘Tired,’ Hartmann said.
‘And this difficulty with your wife and daughter?’
‘In limbo,’ Hartmann replied.
‘It will go well, I am sure,’ Perez said encouragingly.
‘There is always a way through these things, of that I am certain.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘So we shall begin,’ Perez stated, and he too lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
From the other side of the room they would have looked like two friends sharing old times, perhaps having seen little of each other for years they were reminiscing, nostalgic half-memories creeping back towards the present as they talked through the years of their very different lives. Perhaps, despite everything, they could have been father and son, for their ages were a generation or so apart, and in the dimly-lit hotel room it was difficult to distinguish their features clearly.
The last thing they appeared to be was interrogator and subject, for their manner appeared too relaxed, too friendly, too familiar altogether.
That was it surely. They were old, old friends, and after all this time they had collided in some unknown corner of the world, and for a few hours, no more, they had the chance to share their lives with one another and walk away enriched.
‘Returning to New York after all those years,’ Ernesto Perez said quietly, ‘was like going back in time.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Everything had changed, and yet everything had stayed the same.
The house on Mulberry, the Blue Flame on Kenmare Street, Salvatore’s Diner on the corner of Elizabeth and Hester. All these places were familiar to me, but the atmosphere was different. I had gained as many years as the city, but the city had lost its spirit.
It was October of 1996. I had left this place in November of 1982, with a wife and two small babies, almost fourteen years before; left this place for another city called Los Angeles believing that what I had found here in New York would always be mine.
Desire and reality could not have been more distant.
The people I knew here were gone also. Angelo Cova, Don Alessandro’s boy Giovanni, Matteo Rossi and Michael Luciano. Carlo Gambino was gone, as were Frank Tieri and Anthony Corallo. Thomas DiBella, head of the Colombo family, had been deposed by Carmine Persico, and Caesar Bonaventre, the youngest head of the Bonanno family, had been replaced by Philip Rastelli after Rastelli’s release from jail. Stefano Cagnotto was gone of course, because I had been the one to kill him.
Ten Cent was there to meet us at the train station, and I introduced him to Victor as Uncle Sammy. Ten Cent grinned and hugged me and kissed my cheeks, and then he did the same to Victor. Ten Cent had brought a toy bear with him, and when he saw the size of Victor and realized that he was no longer a child he laughed at himself. We all laughed, and for a moment I believed everything would be alright.
The Mulberry Street house was still there, and Ten Cent drove us down to meet with Don Calligaris. While his housekeeper fed Victor in the kitchen, Don Calligaris took me aside and sat with me near the window in the front room.
‘We have become old men,’ he said, and in his voice I could hear the fatigue and broken promises. ‘I have come back to America. I cannot die alone away from my family. And this thing . . . this thing that happened with Angelina and Lucia—’
I raised my hand. ‘These things belong to the past,’ I said, and said it merely because I could not face talking of it. Despite th
e years that had intervened, it was still something that hung over me like a black shadow.
‘It is the past, yes, Ernesto, but all these years you have been away I have carried a weight of guilt about that night. We still, to this day, have nothing more than rumors about what happened. It is clear that whoever killed your wife and daughter intended to kill me. Some men have died in our attempts to find out, and we are still looking. This thing was more than five years ago, but people like us never forget the wrongs that have been done to us. Now you are back we can work on this together, we can find out who was behind it and take our vengeance.’
‘I have come here as an old man, to have my son see America,’ I said. ‘I will take him places, show him some of the things that I saw, and then, more than likely, I will return to Cuba to die.’
Don Calligaris laughed. He seemed out of breath for a moment and took some seconds to clear his throat. The lines and wrinkles in his face said everything that needed to be said. He was older than me by some years, and where a regular man would have retired – moved to Florida and spent his months fishing and walking and having his grandchildren visit him in the sunshine – Fabio Calligaris held onto his life with a vice-like grip. This territory was all he had, and to let it go would have seen him welcome the end of all that mattered. He was a tough man, always had been, and he would rather have died right there in the house on Mulberry Street than see his life’s work passed over to someone younger.
‘We do not talk of dying,’ he said quietly, and he smiled. ‘We do not talk of dying, and we do not talk of giving up. These are the subjects of conversation for weak and spineless men. We may be old, but we can still take what we want from this world for the years we have remaining to us. You have a boy, and he needs his father to be there for him until he is himself a man. He has lost a mother and a sister, and to lose you would break him before he has had a chance.’
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