by JJ Partridge
“Sorry about that,” Zito sneered, his face wrinkled in mock surprise, “I left it to Sal. Anyway, all the guy wanted to do was apologize for being such an asshole. Right, Sal?”
Sal snickered, “Yeah, and …”
Laretta’s anger was palpable. “I got used for a goddamn setup! My client got stuffed into his car’s trunk and taken out to the dump. Pretty goddamn over the top.”
Zito replied flatly, “You got nothing to prove I had anything to do with that.” He sat on the arm of a scruffy sofa at the right of Scuiglie’s desk, his pose theatrical as he lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke, and leaned into Scuiglie who muttered to him. Zito waved off Sal, and Ditto and No-Neck were dismissed with a flit of Scuiglie’s wrist. An ancient air conditioner’s compressor kicked on and blew fetid air.
After they left, Scuiglie said to Laretta, “You got a beef with Frannie, I understand that. So how does it affect me?” and he pushed back in his chair as his large fingers interlaced across his thick belly.
Laretta replied that he represented the University in the estate of Italo Palagi. Scuiglie interrupted. “Only Palagi around here ran ice cream trucks around North P and Pawtucket …”
Zito said, “An old fuck who borrowed from me. What’s that got to do with—”
Laretta held up his hand. “Let my client finish this.”
And I did. Like a well-rehearsed witness, I recounted Palagi’s death, the Basilicata vendetta, and the saga of Maria Ruggieri who worked for the Giambazzi family on Long Island. Although Scuiglie avoided my eyes like I was the Gorgon who would enter and destroy his soul, the name Giambazzi got his attention. Laretta added, “Weeks before he died, Palagi borrowed two hundred fifty grand from Heritage that was to pay the Giambazzis.”
Scuiglie’s eyebrow, the one with the slice, rose a tick.
“Here’s why you should know,” Laretta said. “Before Palagi died, he hired Benno Bacigalupi ...”
“Bacigalupi?” Scuiglie interrupted. “That son of a bitch! Spent a career trying to nail me. He’s retired and he’s still a pain in my butt!”
Laretta shook his head. “Not through me. You know he’s a dog with a bone when he’s got a case. Palagi hired him to figure out where the money he borrowed went, because it didn’t get to Italy to end the vendetta.” Not exactly true, Joe, but ingenious. “Palagi died before Bacigalupi got far into it but he’s got Palagi’s bank statements, which didn’t show the loan proceeds deposited. He figured the arrangement had to be that Palagi was never to see the money, it would never be traced to him, it would be paid out by Heritage to a front for the Giambazzis, from there to Basilicata.”
Scuiglie’s bulging forehead had furrowed in impatience as he followed Laretta’s narrative.
“Bacigalupi confirmed that the money never reached Basilicata. Last Monday, he was there, in the family’s village, with the local don through some connection he had in the Boot. Four months after the loan, according to the don, the family was still waiting for the money. Very angry.”
Zito forced a smile, shaking his head as though Laretta’s spiel was absurd. “Hey, it was a good loan. Not my fault if Palagi got screwed.” He thrust his hands forward and cracked his knuckles as Scuiglie’s steely stare left Laretta for Zito. The intelligence in his eyes confirmed everything I had heard about Scuiglie was true: he was a smart bad one.
“Either the Giambazzis didn’t get the loan proceeds from Heritage,” Laretta continued coolly, “or they got them and didn’t turn them over to the family. Somehow, I can’t see them not taking care of family. Imagine how pissed they would be if it turned out somebody used them. Which means to me, the loan proceeds weren’t paid out by Heritage even though Palagi was paying interest on the loan. Over three g’s a month. If the loan wasn’t paid out, Heritage owes Palagi’s estate the loan proceeds because he signed the note, and I’ve got a copy, and Palagi paid the vigorish on it. His estate has to make a demand for the proceeds. And even if the loan was paid out and it went to the Giambazzis, you see the problem. It’s all public. The estate is in probate, Rudy and Bobby Lucca are in the case representing the Italian government and Puppy Dog represents a son in Italy, and the proceeds have to be accounted for. Who got the money? Lots of messy questions. Journal will be on it, the Department of Banking likely notified, maybe the AG …”
The expected eruption from Zito didn’t happen; instead, his lips were pursed like he was thinking something over.
“So, to protect people, that’s why I arranged the meet between my client and this asshole who scammed Palagi. My client came with a proposition to negotiate.”
“Bullshit,” Zito shouted at Laretta. “He only came to plead for Hannigan.”
Laretta came half out of his chair. “Are you calling me a liar, you piece of …”
Scuiglie pounded the desk with a thick fist. “Shut the fuck up! Both of you!” But his angry stare went to Zito.
My turn. I addressed Scuiglie. “My offer was that the University as the estate beneficiary wouldn’t press for Palagi’s loan proceeds if he agreed Heritage wouldn’t bring a claim against Palagi’s estate, and that I’d personally guarantee repayment of Hannigan’s loan in return for his dropping the pressure in Hannigan’s match with Harley Smoot. Fair deal. After being car-jacked, that’s off the table.”
“You don’t learn, do you?” Zito growled at me, his dark face filled with hatred. “Take your fucking guarantee and shove it up your ass! Joe, get ’im out of here before I …”
This next part, I had not previewed for Laretta. Could I pull it off?
My right hand went to my shirt pocket. Very slowly, I took out a cartridge, not the one I had just taken out of the Bentley—that remained in Laretta’s Mercedes—but the one I bought in Rome from the military antiques dealer. I had planned to spin the same story, if my courage held up, with this one from Rome. I held the cartridge in three fingers, twirling it in the dim light. Its brass casing caught the light and reflected it on the dingy walls.
“A bullet?” Zito said. “I hear it doesn’t do anything without a gun.” He laughed thinly, and all by himself.
Anger welled up within me. I had the absurd urge to grab Zito by the shirt to pummel him. In the emotion of the moment, my voice slipped into an archy Waspishness. “A cartridge like this was between the seat and console in your Bentley when you invited me into your car and pushed my fingers into the carpet. Fits a World War II Beretta, an Italian officer’s side arm. Beretta stopped making the gun, and its ammo, after the war. Palagi threw a handful of Beretta cartridges inside your car the night he died. When he was fished out of the river, he had a Berretta in a trouser pocket, loaded with an identical cartridge. What’s the odds on that?” I stuck out my chin. “You should fire whomever vacuums your car.”
Zito’s face reflected his recollection of Palagi’s rage, the old man emptying his pocket, and flinging a handful of cartridges inside the Bentley. His jaw pressed into his chest, his eyes bulged as he coughed out, “Million fuckin’ bullets in the world!”
“Yeah, that’s true, but is there another dark green Bentley Flying Spur in Rhode Island? When Palagi was rousted out of the Bentley, he scraped its door with the knob of his walking stick. Paint got caught on its knob. Dark green paint. Been identified as paint from a Bentley.”
“Who says?”
“Bacigalupi. He’s got the cartridge …” a white lie, “… and the walking stick, and he’s working the case for me. Getting witnesses. Ever notice those fishermen, all those little Asian guys that are always there. Watching what’s going on, minding their business. They get to be like background. Like the night Palagi got into your car and then was rousted out by Sal.”
“Fuckin’ bullshit!” Zito turned to Scuiglie. “The old fuck committed suicide!”
“You know,” I said evenly, “you could be right.” I sat back, like I was about to concede the point. “But Bacigalupi’s relentless when he thinks he’s got a case …”
Zito began to interrupt but Scuig
lie shut him up with the palm of his right hand raised to Zito’s mouth. For the first time, he addressed me, “What’s your deal with that fuck-off Hannigan. Lotta people spent last night in the tank.” The scar pulsated faster as his voice rose. “And now I think maybe you’re the fuck that caused the problem.”
“No, I’m the guy hustled out of Hard Core’s parking lot by two guys who came out of nowhere, who dropped me in the trunk of my car, and took me to the landfill.”
Although Scuiglie’s face never changed, I knew I hit home when his malevolent eyes became even more shaded and shifted to Zito.
Before Zito responded, I said, “No one wanted that match last night more than Hannigan. Against Harley Smoot? Dream match? Sure, I didn’t want him to play, I tried to convince him not to, but he wanted to make enough to pay down his debt. Nothing was going to stop that match if he had his way. So, he’s my friend and I agreed to be his backer, behind every wager he made, and he made a bunch. The bust screwed up a lot of people but especially him, he still owes Heritage over two hundred grand, and you are pissed. Think about it. Why would he bring in Tuttle?”
“Tuttle got a tip …”
“With the number of pool junkies who knew about the match, could have come from anyone, there or not. Anyway, nobody figured on Hannigan’s wife. She wasn’t going to let him fall back into the action. Not rocket science for her to guess where he was going to play. She probably had no idea what or who might be involved, what danger her husband might be in.”
I stood as did Laretta. Zito responded by lurching up from the sofa’s arm and taking a step toward me. We were toe-to-toe, my fingers went to fists, and I braced that long jaw of mine to put it to Zito. “Cancel Palagi’s note,” I said, “or deliver the cash. All two hundred and fifty thousand. Hannigan gets no pressure from you before he pays off his loan. Which I guarantee he will. And, between us, you back off. We’re done. I’ll call off Benno when Joe tells me we have a deal.”
Laretta was as terse when he spoke to Scuiglie. “You do what you think best, but I wouldn’t want Bacigalupi on my ass with that bullet and walking stick and a witness or with all this shit in the probate court. And why screw around with the Giambazzi family?”
“Fuck you,” Zito said and it was my turn.
To his surprise, I grabbed his hand and pressed the cartridge into it. “All or nothing.”
He threw it to the floor.
57
BIG BALLS? AN OFFER he couldn’t refuse? Right then, I was focused on getting out of the tomb alive. No-Neck, Ditto, and Sal lined the hallway as we filed past, Laretta in the lead; I half expected to be yanked aside and pummeled.
Laretta didn’t say anything until we were in his Mercedes. “You blindsided me,” he complained. He was angry and I couldn’t blame him. I reached under my seat and picked up the cartridge.
“This is the one, Joe. I took it out of the Bentley this morning. Stroke of luck it was still there. I lied about Benno having it. He has the walking stick and it does have Bentley paint on it. The Beretta’s magazine holds eight cartridges, one was in the chamber, seven for a clip, and we know that Palagi threw something into the Bentley. If Zito hadn’t pushed my arm down … if I hadn’t felt it … never would have gotten the idea that it was the rest of the clip of cartridges or to buy one like it in Rome. Still not sure why I did that. And this morning, Sal left the Bentley unlocked and I found the cartridge still there between the seats on its floor.”
“Any ten-cent lawyer could blow your case away in court. You know that. So,” he said slowly, “you didn’t have to do this. Scuiglie never heard of Palagi and likely didn’t okay the scam or your carnap, you could have raised the defense against paying the loan at any time, and he doesn’t need a problem with the Giambazzis and have Heritage shut down. All you did was get him pissed at Zito, make him back down. That’s what this is about. Zito. You wanted that, didn’t you?”
I did. Zito humbled me, threatened me, destroyed my car, stood me up when I was ready to eat humble pie, and scared the shit out of me. I had to even the score, and get some protection for Nadie. “Think it will work?”
“If Zito screwed him, or if he caused a problem or if you went through with your threats, maybe. How does he know that you will drop it?”
“Because I said I would. You know and Benno knows, that’s my protection. That’s got to be enough, Joe.”
“So did Sal do it?”
I remembered what Benno said of the ‘Ndrangheta when I asked the same question: “Not when there was still money to be had.”
58 Wedding
THE PRENUPTIAL DINNER, DESPITE Nadie’s apprehension, was a success, a wine-soaked affair, smiles all around and good-natured conversation, although the hugs and kisses didn’t cross family lines. Some loudness from Arnie was lost in the hubbub.
As for Sunday and the wedding itself, the good Lord took a liking to us, Sylvia said. At four o’clock, the temperature was in the low seventies, the sun brilliant, the sky cloudless, with only a whisper of wind. We took our vows in the pergola in Temple House’s rear garden, in front of sixty relatives and close friends. Nadie was radiantly beautiful in her Vera Wang gown. Tony Tramonti presided and kept to the sentimental script that Nadie had carefully composed.
After the ceremony, under a spacious tent, we were toasted with prosecco from Antonio’s after limited but witty remarks from my brother as best man, and enjoyed the beautifully presented, sophisticated food catered by Russell Morin. As we greeted guests at their tables, I picked up bits of news and gossip. From Marco Antonio, I learned yesterday’s Columbus Theatre event was crowded, the harangue against Carter University was hot and heavy, but the celebrities seemed more interested in selling books, CDs, and DVDs than defending Columbus or willing to take on Carter University. Today, at the Columbus Day parade, Italo-American girls in white party dresses and boys dressed up in what they thought were Columbus-like costumes marched with placards and banners in front of bands and floats honoring the Admiral of the Ocean Sea. The Knights of Columbus in full regalia were loudly cheered, as was a float depicting Columbus arriving in the New World being greeted by kneeling natives. Another float from the Sons of Italy was festooned with ‘Go Columbus’ balloons and floral arrangements; still another berated Carter University for its foolishness. Some adult placard carriers—Marco thought they were paid by the Brow—lined the parade route with anti-Carter signs and attracted media attention. Tony Tramonti took some booing and Sonny Russo, marching with the Luccas, was cheered boisterously. But no incidents, thank God.
At the Gershowitz table, Aunt Ida, Arnie, Simon, and their families—Zelda being at the head table—were overtly enthusiastic about our marriage. It went well until Arnie, incorrigibly, whispered in my ear, “Joe Tucci’s really unhappy that he’s going to get his money back. Maybe, we ought to …”
I squashed his gambit with a frown.
As dishes and glassware were collected, the guests entered the Temple House’s ballroom for dessert and dancing. Nadie and I were particularly pleased that some friends, as suggested, had brought along their children to eat dessert. The dancing was fun and robust, lasting for another two hours, fueled by an open bar and a platoon of waitstaff. The guests began to leave around nine, Nadie and I stood by the door with my mother and her mother, and we exchanged hugs, handshakes, goodbyes and thank-yous.
Before ten, Aunt Ida and Zelda were whisked back to the Renaissance, my mother and Sylvia supervised the staff at clean-up, and Nadie and I went upstairs to the mansion’s guest suite.
Let me put it this way: she was worth waiting for.
59 Rome
WE LANDED AT FIUMICINO at six thirty on a sun lit morning. After immigration, luggage collection and customs, Enzo welcomed Nadie with a huge bouquet of flowers and escorted us to a longer, sleeker, black Lancia, the Italian version of ‘limo.’
Nadie had slept soundly on the plane and, excitedly, was looking for anything Roman. From behind new Lacoste tortoise-shell sunglass
es, she followed our course into the city with a Garmin video map as Enzo enthusiastically provided local references and corrected pronunciations through Ostiense and Trastevere, over the Tiber, into city traffic. At the Piazza Trinità dei Monti, we were greeted by two doormen in ruritanian black and gold braid uniforms and escorted into a lobby sumptuous in marble, silk hangings, paintings, gilt, and thick carpet, reminding arriving guests that this was the Hassler, Rome’s classic five-star hotel, close by the Spanish Steps, the shops of the Via Condotti and the Via Borgonona. My parents honeymooned at the hotel more than fifty years earlier and I had been able to reserve the same spacious, top-floor suite.
In its sitting room, she opened double glass doors to a terrazzo balcony to the ancient city’s panorama. The hotel had iced a bottle of our wedding prosecco; I opened it and brought two glasses to the balcony. “How many hills can we see?” she asked. “Quirinal, Palatine …” She pointed, the colorful Judith Ripka bracelet I gave her for the trip sliding down her wrist, and said, “Saint Peter’s!” She took her glass, kissed her unshaven husband, sat on a lounge, her guide book in front of her, my happy, beautiful wife. I kissed her and said, “So mo davai tutti i bacci saranno sempire pochi,” then translated, “If you give me all the kisses in the world, they will be too few.”
The next morning, after Enzo drove Nadie to the Villa Borghese gardens for a morning jog, and a sometimes argumentative telephone call with Father Pietro, I dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, and took a ten minute cab ride to a nursing home, a casa di cura, hidden behind a brick wall in the upper-middle class residential area of Caracalla near the Celian Hill. A brass plate below a pull bell stated visiting hours began at eleven o’clock; nevertheless, I pulled the bell cord and the door was opened by a wizened male portiere accompanied by a tiny, dark-skinned woman in starched white uniform. In Italian, I asked for Signora Claudia Cioffi, using the polite term for an elderly Italian woman even if unmarried. The nurse pointed to the plaque but said she would inquire as to whether her superior would permit my visit. She stepped back and allowed me into a sun-filled courtyard, flowers everywhere, climbing roses in particular, providing a powerfully sweet scent in the still air. In the shade of a tiled loggia, three elderly women in wheelchairs, another on a bench, watched me as we crossed by them. One murmured ‘Dottore’ as I walked by; I smiled and shook my head at her mistake. Inside the ochre colored main building, the nurse left me at a reception desk where the acidic smell of antiseptic wasn’t completely concealed by floral spray; she disappeared down a corridor to return shortly with an imposing, wide-shouldered woman in a severe black suit. “Yes?” she asked in impatient English.