by JJ Partridge
“You or the University?”
Did the University care how Palagi died? It should, I decided. “The University.”
“Usual rates,” he replied dryly. “I’ll send you a retainer letter. Now, what about the recording?”
I promised he could listen to it but for now, I summarized it. I did a pretty good job of stringing the pieces together, although it was like a bowl of stale spaghetti. When I finished, staring at his shoes, he repeated the gist as though it was in writing in front of him.
“If I got this right, Palagi made the recording and gave it to the priest a few days before he was in the river. Said his secretary hated him, his successor was a fraud, and his criminal son scared him with a fifty-year-old vendetta revived by the ‘Ndrangheta. He was once a key player in a conspiracy to overthrow the Italian government and had been for years, against his will, laundering money for the ‘Ndrangheta. Got a scare from a copy of a funeral card for Maria Ruggieri mailed from New York, which by the way, he didn’t tell me. Thought he bought protection from the vendetta but maybe he hadn’t. When he died, someone got an insurance windfall. Not much is left in his estate because of the Ponzi. And you got this son, represented by the consigliore of the New York ‘Ndrangheta and locally by the Luccas and Puppy Dog, claiming whatever is left.” He cleared his throat. “That about right?”
Amazing! “You’ve got it. Now, who was the beneficiary?”
“Strange deal. You can’t get a policy like that in the US. It’s a five hundred thousand, second-to-die, policy. Not between husband and wife or other relatives or business partners that’s available here because they got what they call an ‘insurable interest,’ a reason to have insurance on someone else’s life. But, in Italy, you can buy a policy on someone unrelated that’s more like the medieval idea of a tontine. People put their money in a pot and the last one alive collects it all. Lots of motive to be the last man standing. The policy was bought and fully paid up over twenty years ago. Joint owners and beneficiaries were Palagi and his secretary, Claudia Cioffi. One or the other would get a half million, plus the interest earned, just for surviving. She won.”
I didn’t respond immediately, an apt aphorism came to mind: Palagi and Claudia Cioffi were like scorpions in a bottle, competing unto death.
Benno stood, his back to the railing, his sharp face shadowed from the orange-purple horizon. He said slowly, “Money, hatred, sex, envy, greed, all motives for murder. Okay. But, people die all the time without anybody being there, including people who someone might want to murder. You fall down a flight of stairs, they find you a week later. Accident. You ingest the wrong pills and if nobody’s keeping tabs on you, it’s the cleaning lady that finds you. Accident. But maybe you were pushed down the stairs or the pills stuffed down your throat. Murder. The difference is a witness. You need someone who can identify somebody with Palagi down by the river. Even if somebody’s got motive and opportunity and means and no alibi, you got nothing without a witness.”
“So, we don’t go there?” I asked.
Benno’s fingers created a steeple pointed at his nose. “The complete autopsy report could help. All kinds of stuff in there. Like to get my hands on that …”
“You’re the detective.”
He ignored me. “The only way to cut through the bullshit and privacy rules at the ME is if you know somebody. I used to have a snitch but he retired.”
Somewhat reluctantly, I admitted I knew a pathologist at the University’s medical school who was called in on occasion by the medical examiner. I said it was a long shot but I would give him a call.
“Do that. Meanwhile, I’ll check out that homeless camp across the river. Those bums are always down here at night looking for handouts. Maybe one of them saw Palagi.”
I told him that I now had access to Palagi’s condo through the pass and apartment key given to me by Claudia Cioffi and that the crime scene tape had been removed. He said, “So when do we go in?”
I thought about that. “We have no legal right to be there.”
“You’re the lawyer,” he replied.
Turnabout was fair play. We agreed on Saturday morning for our inspection of Palagi’s condo. As to Palagi’s office at the Institute, I had no access except through Brunotti and that would tip him off as to my interest.
“And the recording?”
“Saturday, after the condo.”
Benno’s left hand went to shade his eyes as a shaft of sunlight speared the clouds. His tone became introspective. “Gotta think on this Ruggieri connection, this vendetta. In the Boot, vengeance is the only true justice. If somebody in the ‘Ndrangheta took an oath to revenge Maria Ruggieri’s family, it would be kept, even decades later, especially if you can add a payday for the trouble. Palagi carried that Beretta because he was afraid he was gonna get whacked. And maybe he did. Without a witness, who knows?”
Benno added, “Poor bastard, he’s told he’s a target of an old country vendetta and who delivered the message? His son.”
23
THE UP ESCALATORS IN the cavernous foyer of the Convention Center were assembly lines of glossy leather jackets with metallic studs, doo rags and big hair, satin jackets over denim jeans, boots and spike heels.
My Commissioner badge got me into a reserved elevator to the second floor reception area where displays of pool tables, elegant custom-made cues, and other pool paraphernalia surrounded ice sculptures of nine-ball racks and pool ball pyramids and mountains of cheese, crackers, and grapes. Placards by three crowded bars advised players that tournament chits were good; all others apparently paid cash. A slew of sponsor banners covered walls; Miller Lite made sure it was the only beer served, ESPN focused on its schedule of pool events from Las Vegas and the finals of the Shoot-Out.
I cut the reception line and was quickly in the din of the Grand Ballroom’s tightly packed tables identified by balloons numbered in the style of classic pool balls and anchored by streamers of shiny Mylar. Huge projection screens on either side of the room and behind the podium on a stage flashed flattering images of Providence.
I snaked my way toward the stage, looking for any familiar face, and spotted Joe Laretta, a skilled, tough, criminal defense lawyer and former prosecutor I knew well, conversing with someone seated at a table. In a city where most of the criminal defense bar dressed like their clients, Laretta, tall and slim shouldered, stood out as elegant in his designer suits. His courtroom style and presence were sought after in high-profile cases and his success rate was enviable.
“Hey,” he greeted me genially, his handsome, swarthy, chiseled face in a wry grin, “just visiting. Table reserved for you mucky-mucks,” he said, pointing to a sign that read Commissioners and Guests. “You know Councilman Lucca? Bobby, meet Algy Temple.” And Laretta left us with a knowing, mischievous smile.
‘Bobby Flowers’ Lucca’s dark eyes took me in, mine did the same in reverse. He was ruggedly good looking, clean shaven, his curly hair screamed healthy and real; he wore a dark suit, snow white shirt with French cuffs, and subdued tie. He offered me a pliable hand; I shook it, aware that sitting next to him could be a major mistake. In my stubbornness, I pulled out a chair, leaving me cheek-to-jowl with the contingency lawyer and Tony Tramonti’s political rival.
Lucca gestured toward the exuberant crowd, his Providence accent belying his urbane appearance. “These guys suck up anything that’s free.” His eyes sought mine in agreement. “But they’ll spend a ton before they’re out of here. They …” A meaty hand smacked his back, he stood and was hugged by well-wishers and back-slappers. A rising pol in Providence wasn’t treated like his cologne was Lobster Bait Number 3 and his wasn’t; he had been doused with a fragrance only a little less subtle than Brut.
The four other Commission members at the table mostly ignored me, so I busied myself with the glossy Shoot-Out Inaugural Event program which included a page on Jimmy Hannigan. I was reading my friend’s bio when interrupted by a voice booming from the podium at stage right.
ESPN’s “Mr. Pool,” B.J. Seifert, the Gala’s emcee, resplendent in a white tuxedo, oversized scarlet bow tie, and frilly shirt, his styled reddish hair bobbing, warmed up the crowd. He engagingly mixed wisecracks about Rhode Island politicians in for a free feed with old jokes about pool players—what’s the difference between a pool player and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family—throwing in a couple of only-in-Rhode Island lines when he introduced politicians in attendance. Mayor Tramonti earned moderate applause and some isolated boos; Sonny Russo, the “Godfather” of the tournament according to Seifert, garnered sustained applause, appreciative whistles, and You-da-mans.
We regained our seats after a Pledge of Allegiance and white-gloved waitstaff served a choice of red or white wine and cold appetizers, followed by a mini Caesar salad, steak or chicken entrée, with Yukon mashies and green beans. Lucca was frequently pressed by visitors from other tables, a nearby quartet playing something vaguely discotheque-ish made table conversation difficult. As the entrée dishes were cleared, Lucca leaned into me. “Hey, I know this isn’t the time, but …” his lips edged closer to my left ear, “… this Columbus Day stuff …”
“Still under study,” and I rattled off the official line of the University.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said and ripped apart a dinner roll, “you try selling that in my ward, on the Hill. And right before Columbus Day Weekend? C’mon …!”
As dessert was delivered, a fanfare from the quartet returned Seifert to the podium who directed our attention to the projection screens as overhead lights dimmed. What followed was a video, narrated by Seifert, of seventy-five years of billiards and pool in five minutes, captured in newsreels, home movies, promotional materials from table companies and equipment manufacturers, with locales on five continents. Cute ball-boys smiled in a billiard room in Lagos, Nigeria in the thirties and Japanese players bowed to one another at a pre-war Tokyo venue. Next came well-known movie clips of Hollywood stars in pool playing scenes, then old news reel shots of the play of American pool legends Willie Mosconi and Willie Hoppe, quickly followed by a surprise: a casually dressed, relaxed, cue toting, smiling Bill Clinton.
“What y’all are going to hear in the next few minutes is of a proud son of Arkansas,” the former president said in his buttery soft, good ol’ boy accent. “Your honoree is the crème de la crème of pool. He’s like me, from Hope, Arkansas and with hope. I’m very pleased that he’s to receive the first Shoot-Out Legend Award. Harley, I’m proud of you. Arkansas is proud of you!”
The screen faded into an album of images of Harley Smoot, the Johnny Cash of pool, the first of many shooters to adopt an all black apparel style, an Ozarks boy who made it into the elite ranks of pool players, a living legend whose battles with booze and gambling cost him a year in prison and a couple of ex-wives.
When the lights came on, Smoot was at the podium, long faced, his smile showing dazzling teeth, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, in a black tuxedo, black shirt and white tie, accepting loud applause along with hoots and hollers from the less inhibited. Seifert made a short presenting speech, and then the teary-eyed honoree received a crystal nine-ball on a wooden base that he waved over his head as though he had just won a tournament. Given the mike, in a drawl as Southern as hog-fat biscuits, he disarmed the audience as he thanked Bill Clinton, the Shoot-Out promoters, friends from the pool world, and his family, and made the point that this award also meant a twenty-five thousand dollar donation to his favorite charity, a home for the down and out in Hope, Arkansas. “I’ve been there, ya know,” he added slowly and left the stage to a standing ovation, descending into a sea of well-wishers and huggers.
I admit to being caught up in the moment.
Seifert, arms stretched palms down to tame the clamor, announced a special tribute to Providence pool as the screens displayed Young Jimmy Hannigan in home movies and photographs shooting pool as a teenager at his father’s bookie, in an Army uniform, with a John Travolta Saturday Night Fever hairdo I recognized from his road days, one from his wedding to Maria Catarina and a recent image in front of his restaurant. The video ended to a loud welcome to Young Jimmy at the podium.
My friend fought back emotion, looked down at his notes, thanked Seifert, and introduced a thrilled Maria Catarina and her family at a table in front of the podium. He spoke of his admiration for Harley Smoot, a “love to play you sometime” got shouts and cheers of approval, and he finished a short, gracious acceptance by saying that he looked forward to lots of great shot-making during the Shoot-Out.
Seifert grabbed the microphone as the applause died and Young Jimmy left the parlor with a plaque. “Tomorrow,” Seifert declared, “we begin a new era in pool. Can you imagine? Largest purse ever for amateurs! Would-you-believe-it?” That line was his ESPN trademark and the crowd finished the ‘believe-it.’ “Players, check our website for where you’ll begin the journey. Refs, you gotta be here for our meeting tomorrow at, oh boy, seven-thirty. Mandatory! Players, get a good sleep,” … pause … and then with a knowing grin, “but there ain’t no curfews in Providence!”
The Gala was over. I intended to immediately congratulate Young Jimmy and his wife but Lucca grabbed my elbow. “On this estate thing, I don’t see Judge Cremasoli going out on a limb, not after we present the paternity acknowledgement. Look,” he continued, his face in my ear, “with this Columbus Day bull, you don’t need Palagi’s kid in the papers saying how he’s been screwed by the University. Nobody in Italy—or here—will want a son to lose out by mistake. The University needs peace, right? With everything else going on …?” His dark eyes shined in anticipation of a favorable response.
No insightful genius was necessary: if the University settled with Palagi’s son and the contingency lawyers got full measure at the fee trough, maybe the Columbus Day rhetoric would die down, maybe the door reopened to a tax treaty.
I had been offered the full Providence.
Nadie was in pajamas watching Bones, her favorite program, on the large screen Sony in the loft. At a commercial break, she smiled, tossed her silky black hair around her neck, and asked me about the Gala. The Columbus Day truce had apparently been extended so, shaking off my loafers to stretch on the bed, I described the successful event, particularly the awards to Harley Smoot and Young Jimmy. She nodded agreeably at Young Jimmy’s recognition but was otherwise disinterested. Then, Bones returned.
Later in bed, Nadie, a novel propped up before her, raised her reading glasses to her forehead. “You were right about the local reaction,” she said evenly. “I watched the news. Some people just want to fight about everything.”
She leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Okay, lawyer.” She was silent for a moment and then she rolled over to my side and said, “I love you, lawyer. Despite your antediluvian prejudices, make love to me.”
“My pleasure,” I replied. And it was.
I sweat profusely. But my claustrophobic reaction isn’t that bad. Maybe because of the tape over my eyes. Maybe the distant sounds of traffic from Route 295. What time is it? It must be close to ten. Matches at the Convention Center pretty much over? Then, the sound of tires on gravel. A car approaches very slowly, picking up speed as it passes by, its engine barely muffled. I hear it brake, reverse, and creep back. It stops, engine still running, and a door opens. Benno? He’ll be cautious in his approach.
“Maybe somebody got out to take a leak or somethin’?” The voice is of a teenage male.
The Charger’s driver side door opens. A second voice, closer than the first, yells, “Hey, it’s not locked! Keys on the seat!”
Time to communicate and I manage to make a sort of “wuuooohhh!” that stops the conversation. Trunk music.
“Did you hear that?”
“Yeah.”
“Wuuooohhh!”
“There it is again.”
“I heard it! It’s coming from the trunk.”
“Wha! The trunk?”
“Wuuooohhh!” I bang my heels against
the trunk’s lid. Thump! Thump!
“Somebody’s in the trunk!”
Silence.
“Some wise guys dumped somebody in there and he’s still alive. Like in Good Fellas …?”
“Wait a second, wait a second …”
“I’m not waitin’. Get in the car. We’re the fuck out of here …”
“We gotta see if the guy’s okay. If they shot him …?”
“I don’t wanna know and I’m not stayin’ around to find out.”
“Maybe we should call the cops?”
“Are you crazy? What’re we gonna say? We just happened to be down here, just drivin’ around? We’d have to ditch the stuff we got. C’mon, we’re outta here!”
“Wuuooohhh!” Thump, thump, bang, bang.
“Christsakes! We can’t just …”
“I’m leavin’.” A car door slams and the engine roars. “Are you comin’ or not?”
“I don’t know, Kevin, I …”
“Wuuooohhh!”
“Now!” The engine revs again. “Okay, okay.” A door closes angrily and the car peels off.
24 Thursday
NADIE HAD OPENED THE blinds before she left for the gym and a muted dawn light filled the loft, buffing up the shelves of mysteries and thrillers on my side of the bed, giving a luster to the black and gold varnished Japanese screens that separated the loft’s sleeping area from work and living areas. My hands were folded on my stomach like a knight on a medieval church tomb as I relived her body folded into mine. Slowly, I focused on this morning’s schedule; the refs orientation meeting at the Convention Center, followed by a meeting with Tony Tramonti at Tramonti Corporation’s apartment at the Residences high rise attached to the Omni Hotel. I had received his text during the Gala but I had failed to read it until I arrived home. Why didn’t Tony just seek me out? Too late? My seating next to Bobby Flowers? Had to be about Columbus Day.