Scratched

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Scratched Page 7

by JJ Partridge


  I didn’t get past the drinks cabinet in the dining room. With a splash of Jameson in an Old Fashioned glass, I went upstairs to the loft, a combination work space, library, and bedroom that took up most of the second floor. I snapped on my iMac at my end of our shared work table, pushed back in my comfortable Alerion chair, and Googled ‘Ndrangheta.

  The crime family had hundreds of links, mostly in Italian, from newspapers and sites specializing in organized crime. Once again, Wikipedia was helpful. “Ndrangheta,” I learned, was derived from the Greek word andragathia meaning courage or loyalty. The gang, based in Calabria and dominant in Basilicata, consisted of almost two hundred cells with as many as six thousand members throughout Italy engaged in labor racketeering, loan sharking, illegal immigration, toxic waste dumping, kidnapping, extortion, and drug trafficking. Each cell was closely knit, based on blood relationships and marriages. While not as widely known in the United States as the Mafia or Camorra, the ‘Ndrangheta had become the most powerful crime syndicate in Italy by the late 1990s and early 2000s and was thought to be responsible for up to eighty percent of the cocaine traffic in Europe. Cells were also active in New York City and Florida. The latest update noted that Pope Francis had condemned the wanton cruelty, the viciousness, the greed of the ‘Ndrangheta in a vigorous, courageous speech in the gang’s heartland in the Boot.

  I logged off, sat back, and considered Palagi’s situation before his death. These were very bad guys who had Italo Palagi by the balls.

  I finished the Jameson, then went downstairs to the kitchen, microwaved a bowl of turkey-and-barley soup prepared during the day by our housekeeper, cut two slices from an Olga’s Crusty Loaf, and took my supper out to the table in the den off the kitchen. I had a spoon in hand when I heard the front door unlock, followed by marching steps clicking down the central hall. The swinging door opened and Nadie breezed into the kitchen, was quickly down three steps to the den, and plumped her trim bottom on the divan. She looked like an academic in a comfortable looking Eileen Fisher ensemble of blouse, long cardigan, and slacks in varied gray shades. She shook her head vigorously, loosening raven tresses that emphasized her regally long neck, and turned her head to face me, her large, emerald eyes and natural pink lips contrasted with her Mediterranean complexion. She took a deep breath. “I have something to tell you that you won’t like.”

  I readied for another last minute change in wedding plans.

  “The faculty senate voted tonight to change the University calendar and rename Columbus Day. It’s now Native American Day. And the weekend is now Fall Weekend instead of Columbus Day Weekend.”

  My spoon dropped with a clatter. I was speechless. I stood slowly to gain composure and returned to the drinks cabinet for more Jameson. Renaming Columbus Day was a campus cause so long in the tooth that College Hall had relegated it to the bottom of a very long list. Only true believers, those ready as always to impose their views on the rest of the feckless world, kept the idea alive. And where better than the Carter University faculty senate, where campus causes go for ignition, where righteous indignation can become viral in a nano-second. I returned to the den, glass in hand, as Nadie said with a touch of satisfaction, “Packed the room with supporters, and bing, bam, bong, done.”

  “You were there?” As a progressive activist, she had to have been briefed, if not a participant.

  She stood, her eyes widening, and approached me, hands on hips, going into defensive mode. My waif-like fiancée, open-hearted, loving, caring, a defender of the poor and downtrodden wherever, became hard-nosed and rigid in defense of any progressive cause was marshaling her arguments as she did twenty years ago as a champion debater at Brooklyn’s Benjamin Cardozo High School. “In deference to you, I was not there…”

  I tried mightily to avoid confrontation. Maybe I would have but exasperation grew when Nadie mounted a spiel, likely rehearsed, of what she knew I would consider sanctimonious clap-trap: “Columbus is a symbol to millions of indigenous people of European brutality and destruction of their cultures … We should be apologizing to them for their centuries of agony, the tragic death of civilizations instead of giving him a holiday…. He was a gold-seeking slaver, bringing with him an epidemic of syphilis and small pox…. We know what evils he did, never mind those who came after him …!”

  I interrupted her. “Why now, why just before Columbus Day?”

  A morally certain Nadie responded not with an answer but with her list of persecutors, a cast of horribles that includes conquistadores, missionaries, Puritans in New England, Andrew Jackson, Kit Carson, right up to Wounded Knee. I was half listening; such a proclamation by a university somewhere else might only be a blip of news but in Providence, Rhode Island? A city populated by thousands of Italo-Americans? Where, Columbus Day Weekend on Federal Hill, the epicenter of Italian culture in Rhode Island, would be celebrated a molto importante festa, ricca di tradizione that competes with festas in Manhattan’s Little Italy, the North End of Boston, and San Francisco’s North Beach. Over a hundred thousand visitors would eat, shop, and participate in three days and nights of weekend festivities—at which, the faculty senate of Carter University in its wisdom was giving a middle finger Rhode Island salute. Nadie was still going strong when I again interrupted. “Even if you are correct in everything you say—and you’re not—the ramifications…”

  “Ramifications?” she exclaimed, her hands stretching toward me for an explanation.

  “Half the City Council is Italo-American…”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I decided it would be pointless to explain how Italo-Americans would react to the trashing of Columbus, especially just before Columbus Day, what it would do to frayed ‘town-and-gown’ relations between City Hall and the University. Nadie had a head of steam and my arguments would be heard as a litany of excuses. Her response would be a deconstructive You judge the entire world by your experience, as if there is no other measure of human behavior. Summarized: Algy, get with it!

  The Charger bounces one more time and I hear a scrape of its muffler on the road surface as it slows to a stop. A door opens and slams as a second car, something with a straining four cylinders, brakes noisily nearby.

  The driver whacks the lid of the trunk. “How you doin’ in there, eh? Eh?” His laugh is a donkey’s ‘hee-haw-ay.’ He whacks the lid again. Harder. “Listen, afta awhile, somebody calls somebody, they come and letcha out.” I refuse to be trunk music. “Look, fuck-off, you shouldn’t have taken a whack at me.” Pause. “Take a nap. You know what I’m saying? Relax.”

  ‘Relax?’ I’ve been sucker punched, stuffed into my car’s trunk, thighs pressed against my chest, hands tied behind my back, tape over my eyes and mouth, cheeks sporting carpet burn, something poking into my rear end. ‘Relax?’

  “Oh,” he adds, “don’t bother looking for that little gizmo, that release thing. I cut it off.” Hee-haw-ay.

  “Fuck ’im!” another voice, almost falsetto.

  “Nice car,” the first voice bellows as he bangs the trunk lid one more time. “Love the sound of that fuckin’ Hemi!” He walks away; I hear the crunch of heavy feet on gravel. “Where’d ya get this piece of shit?” he complains loudly as car doors creak open.

  “You breakin’ my balls? Broad Street. Some greaser’s shit-mobile. Nobody’s gonna report it. Where’s the keys to his car?”

  “Front seat. Don’t fuckin’ worry, I wiped everythin’ down including the keys.” Don’t forget to stop at Caserta’s for take-out. I’m fuckin’ starving.”

  Doors slammed, tires screeched, an engine whine trailed away into silence.

  13 Tuesday

  NADIE AND I BOARDED the seven-ten Acela within the water-seeping cavern beneath the Amtrak station, the gloomiest, chilliest place in all of Providence. Only the stalactites were missing. Fitting for our frosty co-existence since last night. We did manage to agree not to discuss Columbus Day for twenty-four hours. Could we?

  I hadn’t
slept well, and it had nothing to do with Columbus Day. The dream that had dogged me for years after Beirut returned: I’m in a dark, compressed place, immobile with dust carpeting me, filling my mouth, my nose, smothering me, my lungs refusing to clear, hacking coughs in fits. I resist the urge to gulp in air for fear of more dust, and from close by, comes the first death rattle … . I awoke in a sweat to be restless through early morning hours.

  The train’s quiet car had been packed by Boston passengers and we settled for cross-aisle seats in the following business class car. I had my laptop and this month’s Car and Driver and Automobile; Nadie had a Vera Bradley carryall filled by her iPad and books. We were barely out of the station when she began to send and receive texts and tweets that resulted in occasional aha’s and even giggles.

  I logged on, e-mailed Marcie to be watchful for the expected Columbus Day fallout, and read her e-mail to me to check this morning’s Political Notes on ProJo.com. Under the heading Changes at the Shoot-Out Commission, I was astonished by a ten year old photo of myself under In, next to a singularly unflattering photograph of Francisco ‘Frannie’ Zito, a cigarette stuck in the side of his mouth emphasizing a sneer across his darkly handsome face, under Out. Apparently, I was replacing Zito, an appointee of our mendacious former mayor Angelo “Sonny” Russo. Zito resigned after a complaint from Mayor Tramonti that Zito had failed to report a decades old assault arrest, with a baseball bat no less, on his required state Ethics Form. The article went on to note that “flamboyant” Zito, the President of Heritage Finance Company on the Hill, had been tagged as the “Bentley Banker” because he was chauffeured nightly in a Bentley sedan around town to restaurants, bars, and clubs he financed. I winced; had my buddy the Mayor forgotten to tell me the circumstance of my appointment? Would it have made a difference? “Geezus,” I murmured, loud enough to get Nadie’s attention, which led me to show her the screen.

  She had been irritated when I took the appointment, not being enamored by what she had seen and heard about the sleazy aspects of pool tournaments, but particularly because the tournament’s second weekend—the pro event—would coincide with our wedding; now she was wide-eyed and had real concern in her voice when she said, “You’re replacing a Mafia guy?”

  “I don’t know that …”

  “Well, he looks the part,” and he did. She said, “Can’t you get out of it? Didn’t Tony tell you who he was?”

  “No, wasn’t relevant, I guess. Anyway, it’s too late.” Was it? Probably. “Don’t worry. I’m a big boy.”

  Unfortunately, that drew out further apprehension that dissolved into her take on the nastiness and Byzantine ways of Providence politics, its nudge-nudge baseline of governance. At least, we were off Columbus Day.

  Her receipt of a text took her back to messaging and I found the file holding Palagi’s estate plan documents which I had loaded on my lap top to review before today’s conference. His will consisted of seven pages, executed with due formality, his signature a scrawl, with two of Pine’s assistants acting as witness and notary, replete with stilted provisos and whereas’s and grants, with the Institute as a residuary beneficiary. His trust, a more complicated document of thirty pages with the same signature, same two witnesses, designated Palagi as a lifetime trustee; upon his death, the assets in the trust also went to the Institute. The last document was a Royalty and License Fee Sharing Agreement which assigned one-half of the income from Palagi’s royalties and licenses to the Institute during his lifetime, all coming to the Institute upon his death.

  Scanning the documents, I recalled the Provost’s explanation of their origin. Palagi was outed as the author of the Forza thrillers a year or two after he arrived at Carter University, allowing campus enmities as to the Institute to be rehashed and questions raised as to Palagi’s credentials, apparently, an academic writing thrillers was no more respectable in democratic America than in tradition-bound Italy. That reaction triggered Palagi’s well-publicized gift to the Institute of an income stream from royalties and license fees from his thrillers and an estate plan that bequeathed substantial assets upon his death to the Institute, quieting and out-maneuvering his Pecksniff critics. His generosity was likely not unalloyed; it was, it now seemed to me, to be an expensive attempt to tamp down any interest in his past life.

  I logged off, and yawned, and gave into drowsiness brought on by a lack of sleep, the legalese of the documents, the muted clackety-clack of the rails, the gentle sway of the car, and a comfortable seat. Somewhere past Bridgeport, Nadie touched my shoulder and brought me back to consciousness. “I don’t … suppose … that you’d have time to come out to Brooklyn with me? I was going to ask you last night but … .” Nadie always used her widowed mother’s given name for reasons inexplicable to me.

  “Nadie…”

  “For moral support. You know she wears me down.”

  The intimate Providence ceremony we planned months ago with a few close friends and relatives hadn’t survived pushbacks from Zelda Winokur along the lines of ‘I’ve only got one daughter,’ ‘your father, he’d want,’ ‘well, I don’t know,’ ‘I suppose we could,’ ‘but don’t you think that,’ and ‘we’ll just have to see.’ Eventually, we compromised, the ceremony became more formal and, surprise, surprise, Nadie had become enamored with wedding details and froufrou she previously dismissed.

  “Please …?” she said softly and reached across the aisle to take my hand in hers. Her engagement ring, a large, yellow diamond chosen from among my mother’s jewelry, flashed in the overhead lights.

  Sensing the opportunity to thaw our relationship, I said, “If I’m through in time with the lawyers, I’ll call you.” That was not completely honest; I was already thinking how to stretch out my appointment to avoid more wedding planning.

  14

  IT WAS RAINING AS a cab left me at Champlin & Burrill’s mid-town address; Nadie stayed in the cab for the remaining few blocks on Madison Avenue to Vera Wang. The receptionist ushered me into a small conference room set up with vacuum dispensers of coffee, bone china cups and saucers, and pastries. A securities litigation partner, a smartly dressed woman, joined me and said there had been a positive development: another Champlin & Burrill partner had been approached the prior week by a recently dismissed stock trader at Ravensford Capital to handle his wrongful termination and whistleblower suit.

  “Since the firm only represents employers in HR matters, the partner referred him to a boutique plaintiff litigation firm. Late yesterday, after our partner became aware of the University’s interest in Ravensford Capital, he called the referred firm and inquired if its new client might talk to us.”

  “This morning they called back and we’ve got a meeting set up with the trader, one Joseph P. Civittolo,” she said. “One o’clock, in his lawyer’s office. I looked him up,” she continued. “He’s got all of the securities licenses you need for a place like Ravensford. Lives out in Hempstead on the Island, St. John’s graduate, worked out there for fifteen years, then came into the city. Can’t for the life of me figure why he’s willing to talk unless he’s just bitter. But there’s an issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We were told an hour ago that the deal is that only you will be permitted to interview him.”

  “What? I’m the client!” The University pays Champlin & Burrill over a million a year.

  “We’ve already made and lost the argument. It’s up to you. Go or no go.”

  “Of course, I’ll go. Have to,” I said, extremely annoyed to be placed in such a role.

  After being thoroughly briefed on questions I should ask Civittolo and a sandwich lunch, I walked to the nearby Park Avenue office of Civittolo’s counsel. Its sleekly modern reception area was the domain of a young woman whose makeup, hair, and smile would not be out of place on Jewelry TV. She took my name, made a call, and pointed to a couch. The firm must be doing well if I could measure success in terms of thickness of carpeting.

  I sat and read the morning’s
Times until I sensed, more than heard, someone approach. I looked up and saw, in this order, black high heel shoes, good legs, a black skirt, a black silky jacket opened to a red silky blouse, and the fabulous face … of my ex-wife.

  “Algy,” Jocelyn said in a voice combining liquid chocolate with a hint of huskiness. “It is so-o-o good to see you.”

  I took in a beautiful face that exuded intelligence and seemed not to have aged except for a character line or two at the corners of her brown eyes. She remained a thin, tapering, California girl with a wide smile showing perfect teeth. So, what was the protocol for an ex-husband taken unawares by an ex-wife he hadn’t seen in six or seven years? Shake the ex’s hand, or give her a quick buss on the cheek? Tell her she looked great, or say something non-committal?

  “I hope this isn’t too much of a shock,” Jocelyn said, obviously relishing that it was.

  “A nice surprise,” I lied and stood, bringing us close to eye level because she was five-eleven in her expensive heels. I immediately recalled her need for spatial domination over clients, colleagues, and, especially, female associates, opponents, and competitors.

  “When the request came in from Champlin & Burrill and you were mentioned as sitting in as counsel to the University, I thought it best, under the circumstances, if it was just you who interviewed our client. Reduces some knowing looks. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all,” I said with some false warmth because I knew Jocelyn had to have planned this ambush when the serendipitous opportunity arose, reminding me of moments in our marriage when she sought to gain an edge with surprise.

  She sat, as did I, responding to my questions as to her recent career, while I recalled a marriage with more ups and downs than the Appalachian Trail, a nightly scrum in SoHo, mistaking lust for love. We had met and married after I left the Marines when I joined the Manhattan District Attorney’s office, hoping to learn the ropes and become a good government, public integrity prosecutor. Instead, I was mired in the trenches as a lowly night court assistant DA learning a life lesson or two, while she was the gifted, always available Stanford Law Review litigation associate at Cadwalader Wickersham & Taft. Within months, our disparate work schedule created a cavern of lonely nights and wasted weekends. Our communication became loaded with innuendoes and hurt feelings. It might have gone on longer but in moments of uncommon good sense, we recognized it would have been emotionally draining and futile. Since our divorce, she had remarried and divorced again, became a player in Democratic Party and an intimate of Hillary Clinton.

 

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