by Neil Turner
“I’m a little surprised he was willing to wait on us regarding the settlement.”
“We shook him up earlier today, partner. He’s running a little scared right now.”
“He should be,” I grumble, thinking about the crooked bastard screwing his client.
“He’s prepared to withdraw his insistence that R & B accept responsibility for the crash.”
“You’re a magician,” I say. “How did you manage that?”
“I believe he’s come to the erroneous conclusion that I won’t file a complaint about him playing both sides of the client fence if he makes that concession.”
It’s hard to believe the guy worked with Penelope all that time without learning a thing about her. If he’s counting on her doing anything other than the right thing, he’s a damned fool. Cumming is an arrogant asshole, but he’s not a fool, so something must have led him to make that error in judgment.
“Why do I suspect there’s more to the story?” I ask.
“One might say that I didn’t forcefully disabuse him of the notion when he pitched it,” she replies with a trace of humor in her voice.
“Didn’t forcefully disabuse him, huh?” I say with a chuckle.
“Well, I didn’t disagree, but I certainly didn’t agree. I had Mom sit in on the call as a witness.”
“Well done, partner. Next steps?”
“I’ll draft a complaint to the Illinois bar over the weekend and tuck it away in my desk drawer until we get what we’re after,” she replies. “If anyone questions the delay, I’ll just say that it took me several days to put it together.”
I chuckle again. Penelope can draft a complete brief and craft complicated trial motions in the time it takes most of us to have a cup of coffee. “Sounds like you’ve had a productive day,” I say. “Why don’t you go relax for the rest of the evening? Hell, take the weekend off, too!”
She laughs softly. “I just may take you up on that generous offer, partner. Have yourself a good weekend.”
I pour myself a glass of bourbon, plop my ass back into the La-Z-Boy, and take stock of the R & B case. Penelope, as always, has done outstanding work. We might actually be on the way to justifying the trust Billy showed in us when he put this case in our hands. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Yes, but it won’t bring Brittany home.
The doorbell rings. I don’t think I’m expecting anyone, but my muddled mind wonders if I’m wrong as I peer through the peep hole and see an urbane man standing on the front porch. I initially mistake him for Mr. Rosetti, a retired community bank manager who was a fixture on Liberty Street until recently moving to Florida. Perhaps the resemblance to Mr. Rosetti causes me to let down my guard, or maybe it’s just my incomprehensible level of emotional and mental exhaustion that leads me to crack open the door. The man already has the screen door open and pushes past me into the house. I catch a whiff of cologne while I try to process what is happening. When I turn to look at him, the stranger lifts the butt of a handgun an inch or so out of a shoulder holster inside a perfectly tailored, gray pinstriped suit jacket, holds a finger to his lips, and reaches past me to close the door.
“Sorry to invite myself in so rudely, Mr. Valenti,” he says in an odd mixture of Italian- and British-accented English. “I have not come to harm you, but to discuss matters of mutual interest.”
Anger is stirring within me as I realize that I’m probably speaking to another mobster who feels welcome in my home. “Who the hell are you?”
“All in good time,” my visitor assures me as he walks into the living room. “It may be that I am a friend and ally. Perhaps not. Please, let us sit and discover which it will be, no?”
He sounds so reasonable and I’m so weary that I simply shrug and fall into Papa’s La-Z-Boy. He settles into Mama’s easy chair, sitting very straight and proper while he crosses his legs primly and straightens the blue ascot at his throat. He’s a handsome man I guess to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a full head of immaculately styled gray hair. His nails are impeccably manicured. When he smiles at me, his snowy-white teeth are straight and even. I hope to hell I look this good at his age.
“Who are you?” I repeat.
He steeples his fingers and studies me for a long, unsettling minute before he speaks. “I have come all the way from Italy to speak with you, Mr. Valenti. I hope we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“Will it bring my daughter home?” I ask harshly.
He appears genuinely distressed when he softly says, “I pray for the safe return of your daughter, Mr. Valenti. Please understand that I am not involved in that unfortunate situation.”
Damned if I don’t believe him.
“The situation with Brittany is, however, indirectly related to my visit this evening.”
My patience, never the greatest at the best of times, is sorely lacking tonight. “Get to the point,” I direct Mr.—did he even give me a name? “What’s your name?” I ask in a tone meant to discourage argument or dissembling.
His eyes settle on my glass of bourbon. “What are you drinking, Mr. Valenti?”
Is this guy for real? Yet his manner is so studiously courteous that it’s hard to take offense. I give him a tired smile. “I’ll tell you as soon as you give me your name.”
His smile widens as a full-throated chuckle escapes him. “And so you open the negotiations. My name is Matteo Giordano.”
I nod and raise my glass an inch off the armrest. “Bourbon.”
He tilts his head sideways an inch or two in. “This is an American whiskey, no?”
I nod again. This guy really isn’t from around these parts. Too urbane. Too gentlemanly. Doesn’t know his whiskey. Then there’s the ascot. Yeah, I can see him at home in an Italian villa on the shores of the Mediterranean.
“Would you be so kind as to offer me a glass?” he asks. “I should like to try it. I have heard it is a sweet variation on Scotch whisky. Which sounds just about exactly how I would set about making Scotch potable,” he adds with a smile.
Potable whisky? I laugh and hoist myself out of my seat. “Where the hell did you go to school?” I ask him as I make my way to the side table where we keep the booze. Am I really joshing with an Italian mobster? I am. Christ, I must be tired.
“I assume you are really asking where I learned to speak English?”
I nod while unscrewing the top from a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Didn’t I just open this last night? I wonder as I upend it and realize it’s already three-quarters empty. “I guess I am asking that. Somewhere in the UK?”
“University of Rome and Cambridge,” he replies, then adds with a chuckle, “which is where I learned terms such as potable.”
I hand him his bourbon and take mine—which I topped off, of course—back to my seat. I settle back and study my guest as he samples my whiskey, swishing it around his mouth with a thoughtful look on his face. Perhaps I was overly hasty in concluding that Matteo Giordano is a gangster. He looks across at me as he swallows, then delivers his verdict on the booze.
“Quite nice.” He rests his glass on the armrest with his long, elegant fingers wrapped around it and says, “So.”
“You came to me,” I remind him. “What’s this about?”
“Your FBI is making certain inquiries in my country concerning matters we prefer not to have attention drawn to.”
I stare back at him without comment. He’ll have to get a touch more specific if he hopes to enlighten me.
“I am a businessman, Mr. Valenti. A portion of my business is done somewhat outside the law, if you will.”
A spark of anger flares to life deep within me. So, he’s a fucking gangster, after all, one who fancies himself a businessman. The guy has apparently gotten his hands on a legitimate business venture or two and thinks he’s civilized. Bullshit. He’s just a sanitized version of fucking Joe. I ease forward in my chair and growl, “Have you come here to threaten my family?”
He actually looks a litt
le pained at the harshness of my outburst. “Perhaps you will allow me a few minutes to explain myself?”
I decide to accommodate him. After all, the guy forced his way into my house with a gun, which he still has. I managed to lose sight of that while we were talking whiskey a minute ago.
“If it will make sense out of your visit, what the hell?” I mutter.
“Thank you,” he says courteously, then sips at his whisky again.
With this demeanor, the guy can’t be much of a gangster. He proves me wrong within seconds.
“My brother is a senior leader of Ndrangheta in Italy, Mr. Valenti. I have come to see you at his request. Have you heard of us?”
I nod. After learning last year of Papa’s run-in with a local offshoot of Ndrangheta when he was a young man in Italy, I did a little research. “You’re the even more murderous group of thugs that oversees the Cosche bastards who kidnapped and raped my aunt in Calabria, right?”
“That unfortunate incident is the basis for your father’s recent difficulties,” Giordano says without responding to my insult. “Rest assured that the rape of your aunt is unacceptable to us.”
“But kidnapping her and holding her for ransom was just business?”
I catch my first glance of the gangster lurking beneath the urbane veneer. “We will make no progress if you insist on being argumentative, Mr. Valenti.”
I stare back at him, wondering about the difference between business and criminality in his world. Kidnapping a young teenage girl for ransom is merely “business,” but brutally raping her for the gratification of some horny bastard is criminal. Granted, the second is more reprehensible than the first, but how am I supposed to deal with someone whose moral code is this twisted? But deal with him I must, or so it appears. “So, your people wish to kill my father?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all, Mr. Valenti. The truth is that a small circle of us knows that Francesco is staying with his sister in Penne. We do not wish him harm and will not share his whereabouts with his hunters at this time.”
I feel the blood drain from my face as my heart rate skyrockets. These people know where Papa is? And what does “at this time” mean?
“I tell you this to demonstrate that I am not your enemy, Mr. Valenti,” Giordano says in a reassuring tone while I revisit the bourbon bottle. He waves off my offer of a refill. “We would like the attention of American law enforcement diverted away from our affairs. Things have been somewhat difficult for us of late. Too much police scrutiny, if you will. Some of our associates have become, shall we say, too greedy. Too bold. Perhaps not unlike your former colleague at Sphinx Financial, Mr. Hank Fraser.”
I can’t even begin to imagine where this is leading, although the suggestion that the practices of my old employer are in any way akin to how the Mafia goes about business hits a little too close to home. I lift my glass to my lips with one hand and circle my other in a “go on” gesture.
“Let us speak of Francesco first,” he says after adjusting himself in his seat. He takes another tiny sip of bourbon, all but smacks his lips in approval, and settles his gaze on mine. “When we first began to hear rumblings that American police were making inquiries via Interpol about old events in Orsomarso, we were concerned enough to do a little research. This is how I learned about the kidnapping and rape of Francesco’s sister and the retribution he took.”
I recall Jake telling me that he was exploring the Italian angle through Interpol. I assume that’s what Giordano is referring to.
He continues, “In one respect, the killing of the rapist is honorable and admirable.”
“In one respect?”
Giordano nods. “On a personal level, very much so. On an organizational level, it is not helpful for people to believe they can defy us and prosper from doing so. In Francesco’s case, the brother of the man he killed is now determined to avenge his long-lost sibling.”
“So, killing my father for an incident fifty years ago is an organizational imperative?”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand what I wish to convey. I’m sorry to be unclear.”
Jesus, it’s all I can do not to apologize for misunderstanding. “Try again,” I mutter.
“We would prefer that this man not pursue his personal vendetta and are prepared to take the necessary steps to ensure that he stops.”
I like the sound of that but suspect there’s a catch.
“As I say, we are businessmen, Mr. Valenti. So there is a cost to all things.”
And there’s the catch. “And what is the price of my father’s life, Mr. Giordano?”
“The whereabouts of your father is information of value, don’t you agree?”
I stare back at him with a face of stone.
“Someone will prove willing to pay for that information, Mr. Valenti… either to harm your father or to put an end to the contract hanging over his head. Will it be you who pays or the man who seeks vengeance?”
In my current state, I have limited tolerance for bullshit, apparently even when it comes from an armed gangster. I blow out an exasperated sigh. “Jesus Christ, just name your fucking price, will you?”
Giordano’s eyes widen and an ember of flame flares in them but quickly dies. “We can make that problem go away and guarantee your father’s safety for two hundred and fifty thousand American dollars.”
In other words, it’s going to cost me $250,000 to have Giordano and his people do whatever they are planning to do in order to end an inconvenience to themselves. I sag back in my seat and drink off a healthy slug of booze. Where do they expect me to find a quarter million dollars?
“We know you can raise those funds, Mr. Valenti.”
You do, do you? Maybe I can, but I have neither the time nor inclination to work that out just now. I’ll find the bloody money somewhere. Somehow. Of course, there’s the minor detail of whether Papa is even alive.
“How do I know you haven’t already killed Papa?”
“His sister would tell you of his death, no?”
“We’re not in touch.”
Giordano seems surprised by the answer. He studies me for a moment. “Operational security, I assume?”
I nod.
“Perhaps a wise precaution,” he allows. “You have no way to contact him?”
“No.”
“Interesting,” he muses. “Would I be here to guarantee his safety if he were dead?”
How would I know? He’s a fucking gangster, for God’s sake. I stare back and counter with, “You want me to accept the word of an extortionist?”
He sighs. “We do have honor, Mr. Valenti.”
“Can you send me a picture or something?”
He shakes his head. “We know where he is. We don’t have him under surveillance. You will simply have to take my word that he is safe.”
I guess I don’t have much choice. I’m hardly going to throw Papa to the wolves for the sake of playing a weak hand. Oddly enough, I believe the man. Then again, I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. I nod, then decide to push the conversation in another direction. “What about my daughter? Can you help me with that?”
“As I said before, Mr. Valenti, kidnapping for ransom is a business transaction.”
“She’s fifteen fucking years old!”
He nods sympathetically. “Were it my daughter, I would feel as you do. I must tell you, however, that your daughter is not our concern.”
I glare at him. There’s really nothing I can say to that.
He tilts his head an inch or two to the side and studies me. “Unless you’re a reasonable man, Mr. Valenti?”
A jolt of adrenaline surges through me. Is he suggesting he can help? If so, it will definitely come at a cost. I’m willing to pay anything to get my daughter back. Unfortunately, the $250,000 demand for Papa’s safety will undoubtedly tap me out—assuming I can raise even that much. Then again, we’re talking about my daughter. Who takes priority? Her or Papa? What an impossible situation.
Giordano continues to study me as I wrestle with the problem of how to prioritize the survival of the most important people in my life. We both know I have limited options and few cards to play. The bastard looks as if he’s intrigued by my quandary and is curious to see which way I’ll jump. Desperate I may be, but I succeed in clearing my head long enough to recall a primary tenet of Negotiating 101: Don’t appear overeager to accept what’s on offer.
“What the hell does that mean?” I shoot back.
“I may, perhaps, be in a position to assist in the safe return of your daughter.”
I feel a surge of hope as he ponders whatever thought has occurred to him.
“Of course, I am a businessman,” he reminds me.
I know he’s a respectable fucking businessman, so long as one accepts the premise that extortion is properly classified as business. “How much?” I ask impatiently.
He tents his fingers and smiles. The prick seems to take perverse pleasure in placing a price on lives. “I have a healthy cash flow, Mr. Valenti. You do not.”
Tell me something I don’t know, asshole.
“The truth is that you don’t have enough money to be of interest to us,” he says thoughtfully. “No, I think perhaps a favor is best.”
“A favor,” I say flatly. What the hell kind of favor can I do for this guy?
He nods and uncrosses his legs to sit forward. “While most of my business is in Italy, I do have some interests here in America. Perhaps a day will come when I encounter a problem that can be resolved only by someone with your talents and status as a lawyer. Having you on standby to assist in resolving such a problem would be of value to me, Mr. Valenti.”
I can’t believe I’m entering into a negotiation with a mobster about how I might be of future service, but here I am. I set my glass aside. I’m starting to feel the booze and can’t afford impaired judgment while dealing with this man.
“A question?” I ask.
He nods.
“I know the Luciano family is mixed up in all this. I’m also at least somewhat aware of what their ‘business interests’ entail. To put it mildly, these are not people I wish to be associated with in any way, at any time.”