by JJ Partridge
“That’s fraud against anyone who signed a burial contract. In New York, I’m told that means ten years upstate. At least.”
“Fraud! No way! All we tell the family is that we are going to guarantee x number of dollars for the funeral. So, Grandpa Stein dies and maybe the family wants something a little fancier for the coffin. There’s always discussion, you know, salesmanship, every time somebody dies.” Salesmanship? “Don’t forget our expenses go up, too; some of these accounts were started years ago. The rabbi charges more for the service, the caterer has a higher fee, flowers aren’t cheap, Caddies don’t go down in cost, the kids want more of everything at the house, who knows? And inflation, right? This is not science, this is death!”
The family’s way of doing business was pretty simple: make up the books as you go along, keep cash handy.
“My brother Nick said bringing in other investors is a federal offense, could bring in the FBI, the SEC …”
Silence. I had been muted again.
“Arnie …!”
His reply came over too loudly. “Back when the market broke in 2008, all the burial trusts lost money. Except us. We were with Bernie Sugarman. Mortie was the president of the Brooklyn Funeral Directors’ Association and couldn’t help himself in letting everyone know that we came through okay. After a while, every home in Brooklyn and Queens—out to the Island—was after us. ‘How did you do it?’ they wanted to know, they wanted in. Mortie knew that Bernie wouldn’t take them in as clients because he didn’t know them and they didn’t have enough to invest. But, collectively? So, Mortie put their money in under our name, in account B, charged five percent to cover his expenses. When they needed funds for a funeral, Mortie would get a pay down from Bernie. He was only doing it for his friends.”
“They don’t know the money was invested with Bernie Sugarman?”
“No. Mortie made up a name: Charon Private Fund.”
Charon, the ferryman of Greek myth who conveyed the souls of the dead across the River Styx? Did that late Mortie Gershowitz have a poetic streak?
“And you didn’t tell Nick?”
“I … didn’t think it was important.”
“Simon, if you’re still listening, talk to your brother. You could be going to jail with him.” I heard the intake of collective breaths. “Here’s where we are. Your records are worthless, you’re caught in a fraud …” Arnie started to sputter but I kept talking, “… you have a case of the shorts. And …”
“We’ll do anything, Algy.” I heard Simon’s thin voice for the first time. “Anything!”
“Nick had found a lender, someone that owes our family a favor, before he learned your books had been cooked. Now, to go forward, the loan terms are more stringent.”
“Algy, we need the money!” Simon again.
“Alright, this is what Nick will recommend to the lender. The burial trust is first. You deliver every burial contract to an accountant the lender selects, with all the details. And, a complete list of all investors, how much they put in, how much they think they’ve got in. Send that list of investors to me by e-mail. Tonight.” That was only to get the ball rolling; I didn’t much care who the investors were.
“But …!” Arnie was back.
“Everyone. Got it? Every single one.”
“Okay, okay, no problem.”
“Subject to further due diligence,” I continued, “the lender will fund a line of credit for two million for the burial trust, advancing cash for payoffs to investors and obligations under your existing burial trust contracts. Tell the investors that Charon Private Fund has closed, will pay off the investors, one hundred cents on the dollar, plus whatever gains they think they have. Understand?”
“How’s that going to work? What are we gonna say? How do we figure what is owed. All we did was take Bernie’s gross number and apply it across the board.”
I didn’t respond until Arnie said, with heavy reluctance, “Okay, so they get paid off a hundred percent.”
“Anytime you draw down on the trust fund for a funeral or make a payment to an investor, you and your brother will sign an affidavit as to the draw and where the funds are going.”
“We can do that,” Simon chimed in.
“You pay six percent interest on money advanced and that loan is outstanding for five years. Demand loan.”
Arnie squealed, “Six percent? Five years? Demand loan? That’s squeezing us dry!”
“Meanwhile, you get the burial trust in balance, pay down the debt, anyway you have to, from operations, selling real estate, from wherever, until it balances. Any deviations, Nick says, and his lender will call the loan.”
“My mother, she told me …?”
“Arnie, if you can do better, call me.”
Simon jumped in. “Don’t worry. We’ll do it.”
“As for security on the loan, the lender requires only personal guarantees from you both.”
Their silence evidenced their surprise. They clearly expected harsher terms for security and waited for the other shoe to drop. Hearing nothing else from me, in a weak voice, Simon ventured, “So, what about the money for operations?”
“The homes will get a line of credit of one million.”
Relieved sighs came over clearly.
“The lender wants to be fully secured, mortgages on the real estate, security interests on personal property, plus your guarantees. Interest rate is three over prime. Five year term for the loan, but it can be pulled at any time by the lender, for any or no reason, as a demand obligation. Monthly financial statements signed by both of you going to the accountant. Any screw up, any miscue, and the lender will foreclose.” Then, I added the ball breaker. “Your mother will also guarantee the loan.”
I heard choking. “What?” Arnie cried. “Ida will never agree. It’s too much. It’s a hold up!”
“Now, let me have that again: you don’t want these loans?”
It must have been Simon who hit the mute button. Thirty seconds later, Arnie was caught telling his brother, “I didn’t say that, I didn’t say that! It’s as hard as a rock, though …”
“My mother …” Simon’s voice quivered with the thought of approaching Ida. “Does she have to sign …?”
I paused for dramatic effect. This was my opportunity.
“Maybe I can get her off the guarantee if there is a show of appreciation.”
“How so?” they chorused.
“Your Aunt Zelda lives very modestly on her teacher’s pension and Social Security. Nothing really to spare. From now on, anytime Zelda gets a whim to go out, Ida insists a Cadillac man drives her door to door. If she wants to shop down the block, a Cadillac man waits for her, carries the groceries, whatever. And, it would be nice for Ida to buy her sister an ensemble of clothes for the wedding. And it would be great if this winter your mother takes Zelda to spas, treats her to a vacation in Palm Beach, buys her a fur coat, one that Zelda picks out. Gives Ida the chance to say that for years, she wanted to buy her sister things, take care of her, and now she feels she can because the finances of the homes are secure. And, she’s so happy about the marriage!”
“Well, she is, of course, she is. We all are! We’re family.” They were a duet.
“But,” I countered, “our trust in you, the deal, would be diminished if Zelda was not well-treated. A demand loan, remember, can be pulled anytime, for no reason.”
“I don’t know how Ida’s going to react to that,” Arnie said, sourly.
“Okay, she signs personally.”
Their reactions were gurgles before the mute button was pressed.
“Nadie’s in New York this weekend and likely to call her mother. Maybe Zelda will be overwhelmed with Ida’s affection and support by the time Nadie calls.”
I ignored their groans.
I left a message on Nadie’s cell phone to enjoy herself at her bachelorette events, that I would call in the morning, that I missed her, and that I was making progress on the loan to the Gershowitzs. I couldn’t help wondering wh
at plans she had for the evening.
At eight thirty, I began to change into more casual clothes for Young Jimmy’s exhibition. But, a nagging thought stopped me. I should go, I had promised to be there but our discussions on the Zito loan might be time-consuming and require returning with him to the Billiard Club where the betting action would be bubbling like a champagne fountain at a wedding reception. No place for a Commission member. Better to wait until tomorrow, catch him at the Dunk after Benno and I inspected Palagi’s condo.
About half way through Ripley’s Game on Netflix with John Malkovich as the raffish, reclusive, and murderous Ripley, the loft’s fax-printer beeped. I had forgotten my directive to Arnie and Simon to send me the list of investors in Charon Private Fund. I didn’t need it for any purpose and was about to toss it into the waste paper basket when among the twenty or so names on the list, I spotted an address in Babylon Beach. Tucci Funeral Home.
I quickly found its website on my iMac. Tucci Funeral Home was a Long Island Tara in brick with white columns; the Tucci family operated a third-generation home, had earned a National Funeral Home Director’s Certificate of Approval, and I noted, offered a discrete invitation for inquiries concerning pre-paid funeral services. For those interested, the earthly remains of Joseph Santoro could be viewed in Parlor #1.
Despite the hour, I called Benno who answered after several rings. I asked him what it might give us if we had an ‘in’ with the funeral home that took care of Maria Ruggieri. He said he might learn more about Maria Ruggieri and the funeral card. “You want a face to face?”
In that moment, I knew that all accused by Italo Palagi in his recording, the University defending Palagi’s estate from the putative son, and the inquiry of Brunotti’s alleged perfidy deserved boots-on-the-ground, eye-to-eye contact with all the players, in all the locales. Not just Babylon Beach. Italy as well. Was that a crazy idea? For the University, in Rome, I could directly confront Brunotti, question the halt in remittances of Palagi’s royalties from the Italian bank that collected them, maybe even confront the son’s lawyer in Rome. For me, and this was so speculative, a quick trip down into the Boot to confirm Palagi’s account of the vendetta. But how and through whom? Had to be Benno with his years of experience in organized crime and background on all things criminal emanating from Southern Italy. A man of many contacts. Benno’s interest quickened as I told him more of what was on the recording he would hear tomorrow, my desire to come to resolution as to the manner of Palagi’s death, what could I learn if a visit to the family of Maria Ruggieri could be arranged. He didn’t respond immediately and I added my ante to his hesitation. “Do you have a passport?”
Then he said almost reluctantly, “Maybe, I know somebody.”
So, has Chrysler engineering framed the rear seat of the Charger to prevent pushing through from the trunk?
A shoulder hit doesn’t work. All right, how about those legs, those wiry muscular legs of which I am privately proud? Could I brace myself against the trunk lid and push out the back seat? My first try produced only grunts. Second try, only a quiver. Apparently, it is annoyingly well made. Then, a thought! “Brilliant!” I mouth. If I could get my arm through the slot from the back seat to the trunk, where the cross country skis fit through, I’d pull my jacket to me, use the cell phone in its pocket to call Benno, and get the hell out of here.
My fingers scrape for purchase on the edges of the slot, work so hard my wrist bones make clicking sounds. Finally, it opens. I thrust my arm through but can’t come up with the goddamn jacket. Too far down the seat? Did it fall on the floor? I’d never reach it there. Was there anything in the trunk I could squeeze through the slot and use to fish around?
What had been jabbing my behind? An emergency auto fix kit. I find the clasp to the kit, flip it up, the top opens, and I feel screwdrivers, wrenches, and heaven help us, a flashlight the size of a cigar. When was the last time I checked its batteries? Ever? I click it on and a tiny, weak beam of light discovers a set of jumper cables still in a plastic casing tucked under the seat partition. With the flashlight in my teeth, using a screwdriver from the kit to punch through the casing, I rip off the packaging, squeeze a jumper close, thread it through the slot, and release it so that the handle could hook my jacket if it remains on the seat.
I whip the jumper around and it bangs off the side of the rear door on to the floor. I pull it in, get it back on the seat, this time it catches on the door handle. I shake it off the handle, retrieve it, get it up on the seat, where it snags on a seat belt. Where’s the goddamn jacket! I jiggle it loose, that takes over a minute, and the jumper hits the floor. Once again, I retrieve the cable, whip it around on the seat, and it snares something. Hopefully not a seat belt. Please be the jacket! Can’t let the jacket, or its precious cell phone, fall to the floor where I’d never get to it!
36 Saturday
DAWN WAS GRAY, RAINY, and windy. At six, I left Congdon Street. Leaves pasted themselves to the Mini as I drove down tree-lined Hope Street, over the Pawtucket line where Hope Street became East Avenue. The traffic was light but as mean as the weather: a turn signal was ignored by a car in front of mine pulling into a CVS, another blew through a stop sign at Rochambeau Avenue, and I got a horn blast for not moving three milliseconds after a signal change. I recollected a bumper strip I recently spotted that boasted I’m from Providence and not that nice. Welcome, pool players!
A mile farther into Pawtucket brought me to the Modern Diner, an authentic road diner with a classic Air Stream lozenge shape, a metal skin painted brown and yellow-cream accented by aluminum striping, and dining car shaped windows. I entered and found Young Jimmy Hannigan slouched at the counter, a spoon exploring his coffee mug.
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
No reply except raised eyes to the mirror facing him. His hair was uncombed, a stubble marred his pale cheeks, purple patches were pockets under his eyes. He said, “Club didn’t close until four when we got everybody out and cleaned up.” His head tilted toward me as I sat next to him. “Took in more at the restaurant than any night … ever!”
A guy in a denim jacket and Red Sox cap pulled down over his ears sat at the far end of the counter and began scratching at a pile of Lotto instant game cards. At the curved rear of the diner three guys needing shaves, who might have been boozing all night, were finishing eggs and coffee. “How about breakfast?” I asked. “My treat.”
A waitress appeared with a coffee pot and a mug. I waved off the coffee and she refilled Young Jimmy’s. “What’ll it be?” she asked and Young Jimmy ordered two eggs over easy, bacon, home fries, and wheat toast. I opened a menu that reflected the neighborhood, half up-scale, half blue collar, and I went for a caloric charge with the diner’s linguiça, onion, peppers and three scrambled eggs special. “Skip the home fries,” I said with reluctance. Our orders were called in through an opening in the wall to the kitchen, forks and knives wrapped in paper napkins were delivered along with glasses of water and an upside down ketchup bottle.
“Went home,” Young Jimmy said, “couldn’t get to sleep. So, I came down here.”
He and Maria Catarina own a large colonial in the nearby elegant Oak Hill section of Pawtucket. I also knew that Young Jimmy could sleep through WWIII.
“Something’s up, right?”
“Nothin’,” he replied grumpily. His face gave his lie away.
I edged closer. “Are you pissed at me because I wasn’t at your exhibition …?”
His long-fingered hands supported his chin. “I got to tell you. Thursday night, I played so-so but I won. Nothing much. George Mikos. He played like shit. I could have beat him one-handed. But last night, I should have lost to Stevey Romero. You heard of him? Ranked pro. And I beat him! Big crowd, almost as many watching us as the Shoot-Out matches upstairs. He made some good shots but some dumb ones too. It was like … I don’t know … like he didn’t want to win. Couple of times he should have put me away. In the third game, I left him with a hanger, all
he had to do is nudge the two ball into the nine and it was over! He looked at it, went around the table to look at it again, looked it over one more time, and screwed it up by scratching. What the hell is going on here?”
“You tell me. What the hell is going on here?”
Heaping plates of breakfast arrived with a clatter. Young Jimmy splattered ketchup over his eggs and his fork became a machine while I took my time cutting up the linguiça, spooning the fried onions and peppers and ketchup on my eggs, waiting for him to resume his saga. He used his fingers for the bacon, mopped up yolk with toast, and finally opened up. His voice lowered to almost inaudible.
“What’s bothering me is not how I’m playing, but the guys I’m playing against.” He balled up his napkin and dropped it on his plate. “Then, I beat Salazar,” he said slowly. He stared across the counter, his eyes catching mine in the mirror facing us. “At the Club, I mean.”
My face squeezed into a squint. “Geezus, Jimmy …” Immediately, I felt guilty for not being there last night. Emilio Salazar was a good player, but a first-class shark who could be part of any scheme that fluttered about c-notes. He once hustled me, big time, when I was suckered into a match at the Billiard Club.
Young Jimmy’s voice rose, defensively. “Played to nine. Gave me the eight ball. How did I ever get that?”
“Who staked you? Ginger?”
It took fifteen seconds for a yes nod.
“How much?”
“Usual fifty-fifty. I got five grand.”
“Are you nuts? Tell me something’s not going on?”
“I figured the odds are pretty good I’m gonna get knocked out by a name, like a Salazar. I was an underdog against Romero and I won, but against Salazar? Why give me the eight? Had to be his ego, right? He had some decent runs but every time he’s got some ‘mo,’ he died. Lots of noise from him, complaining about the table, the lights, bullshit like that, from him. So how come these guys are playing shitty and … making bad bets?”