Rampage

by Justin Scott

  “That’s what I’m trying to teach you. If you don’t keep track of details, all you got is empty dreams. I want to know everything. Guys know that. They ain’t afraid to tell me what they think I should hear. They know Don Richard doesn’t shoot the messenger.”

  Mikey looked away, out the window, across the water where the city waited to test him again and again. “I really fucked up, didn’t I?” he asked at last.

  Don Richard returned a kindly smile; Mikey flinched. It meant his father was resigned to the fact that his kid was not as smart as he had hoped. Don Richard confirmed Mikey’s fear with an airy “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Order your people to find new suppliers. But you stay clear, because the Strikeforce’ll be all over them. Tony Taglione has tasted blood.”

  Mikey hung his head. “You’re coming back in, aren’t you?” You’re going to run the business.”

  Don Richard shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “Maybe I retired too soon. Maybe I’m tired of sitting around.”

  “What about this guy I owe?”

  “I’ll get a line on him.”

  Don Richard ordered Consigliere Salvatore Ponte, “Sally Smarts,” to the Staten Island house. He had recruited the handsome middle-aged attorney while Ponte was still a college student and had made him his protege, eventually his counselor, and finally, when he retired, mentor to his children. Ponte’s fortunes had risen with the family’s, and as he was so much younger than the Don, he had stayed on as adviser, first with Nicky and then with Crazy Mikey. If he was disturbed that Don Richard was back, he did not show it, although he took any opportunity he discovered to defend Mikey, for Crazy Mikey was still his best shot at the future. But, as the Don put it so well, if they didn’t resolve Mikey’s screwup there would be no future.

  Summonses were issued and a stream of taxis and unremarkable automobiles began decanting visitors who were ushered into the library with the view of the harbor. There Ponte greeted them with the degree of cordiality their station deserved and presented them to the Don, who sat behind a huge desk and peppered them with questions. Strikeforce agents, alert to the traffic, parked outside Don Richard’s fence and wondered what was going on. But the visitors kept their counsel, so no one beyond Don Richard’s circle knew that the Cirillo family leader was asking precisely the same question: What’s going on?

  Unlike Crazy Mikey, who had come of age after the Cirillos had seized control of New York narcotics and knew little beyond the fabulously profitable heroin trade, Don Richard had an overview acquired in fifty years of profiting at a great variety of violent, illegal enterprises. He saw the rackets in the broader sense of a second government. He saw the unions as concentrations of money and power, and the gambling public as his own taxpayers. He understood loansharking as the foot in the door of legitimate business. He saw where he fit into the society in ways Mikey could not, and saw himself as a wily servant, whereas Mikey, subconsciously at least, was a marauder. Thus Don Richard’s visitors hailed from many regions.

  His questions, too, were couched in broader terms. To Ponte’s surprise, he seemed to ignore the heroin bust. He was much more curious about the Rizzolo rebellion in Brooklyn. Why, he asked a bookmaker, are the Rizzolos daring to take over South Broooklyn numbers? Why, he asked a Bronx loan shark, have the loans you’ve written since the summer dropped by half? Why, he demanded of a union treasurer, haven’t you pressed certain builders to open their payrolls to more Cirillo soldiers? He inquired in detail about the recent killings of Joe Reina, Vito Imperiale, and Harry Bono. And he astonished Consigliere Ponte with his knowledge of seemingly trivial events—shootouts in the Bronx, street attacks, a firebombing.

  Because he confined his questions to loyal associates, the answers were as blunt as they were disturbing. Finally, he confided to Ponte that he was considering demanding a meeting with the Rizzolo brothers, but hated the thought that even the coldest demand would elevate those two cafone to higher planes than they deserved.

  “Perhaps,” he mused, “I could send someone to see Don Eddie in prison.”

  Consigliere Ponte objected vehemently. “Don Eddie’s as bad as his sons. Where do you think they learned it?”

  “Maybe they’re beyond his control. Maybe he doesn’t know what they’re doing. Maybe it’s a simple matter of telling Don Eddie what they’re doing. He can stop them with a word.”

  “But the Rizzolo brothers aren’t smart enough to set this up themselves. Don Eddie’s got to be behind it.”

  “I’m not sure how smart this all is,” Cirillo mused. “All these attacks—while the Strikeforce is hitting too—are kind of stupid, when you think about it. Who wins? Taglione and his Feds. I don’t think Don Eddie’s stupid. I think these sons of his got a crazy idea while their old man was locked up.”

  “Don Eddie betrayed you years ago,” Ponte objected.

  Don Richard brushed the air with a bony hand. “Less betrayal than wanting to be on his own. I can understand that. I can’t forgive, but I can understand... Look into it.”

  Consigliere Ponte knew the difference between a discussion and an order. He shut his mouth and assigned people to look into the best way to make contact with the imprisoned Don Eddie Rizzolo. It had to be somebody who could get past the government, get permission to visit the Don, yet of high enough rank so Rizzolo would listen. This was no time for insult, perceived or real; a prisoner’s perception would be rutted with suspicion.

  The government couldn’t deny Don Eddie a visit by a lawyer. Ponte considered going himself, but it seemed foolish to bring such attention to the Cirillos. Besides, Don Eddie knew Ponte hated him for betraying Don Richard and might not see him. That would be a joke, going all the way upstate nearly to Canada, to be told by smirking guards that Mr. Rizzolo wouldn’t see him. Then he got an idea and went back to Don Richard to propose it.

  “His daughter.”

  “Helen?”

  “Why not? Invite her here. Treat her respectfully; ask her to carry your message.”

  Don Richard thought about it. The last contact he had had with Helen Rizzolo was arranging her marriage to a Conforti Las Vegas casino owner’s son some ten years ago, when she was only sixteen. He had tried to enhance his own power by stopping a war between the Confortis and the Rizzolos. But the marriage hadn’t worked, which had made him look the fool.

  “She won’t come. Even if she would, I doubt her brothers would let her. They probably blame us for the kidnapping."

  “No. They’ve told people it was something in their own family.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  When Ponte returned the next day, he was astonished to see a black man in Don Richard’s library pacing before the windows and staring at the view as if he were a guest on a space station. He was a hard-looking man in his thirties; he wore a suit without a tie, and his hands glittered with heavy rings. Ponte was sure he was the first black man to ever set foot in the house; another reminder that Don Richard was always unpredictable. Don Richard made no introductions, saying to the black man merely, “Tell him what you told me.”

  “He’s crazy as a bedbug.”

  “Who?” asked Ponte.

  “Old man Eddie Rizzolo. He’s flipped out.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Ponte that Eddie Rizzolo was operating irrationally. “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “Mr. Cirillo asked me to see how he’s doing in the pen. My people checked him out. He’s nuts. Like his brain’s gone, like he’s senile.” The black pointed at a large manila envelope on Don Richard’s desk. “My people stole a copy of Rizzolo’s medical report. It’s all there.”

  Don Richard gave the envelope a grim smile. “Read it.”

  Ponte couldn’t believe his eyes. “Alzheimer’s disease!”

  “He’s gone, man. There’s no one home.”

  Don Richard ushered the black man out personally, with a gnarled hand on his big arm and a warm nod as they shook hands. Ponte t
urned away to keep from staring. Seventy-five years old and reluctantly back from retirement, Don Richard was adapting to the changing world better than his sons. And he seemed to thrive on it: his appetite was enormous, beaming servants had confided.

  The door closed and they were alone again. Don Richard hummed a tune he remembered from the Glen Island Casino. His first job was breaking fingers when musicians welshed on bets and loans; a neighborhood kid named Oxie held the guy, whose replacement had to cough up initiation fees and dues to the union local. A nice little racket.

  “So who’s behind it?” Ponte asked.

  “The brothers aren’t smart enough,” Don Richard answered.

  “Then who’s running the Rizzolos?”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  Taggart tracked the Cirillo visits through Reggie’s spies in the family, his own friendships with cops and federal agents, and his contacts on the President’s Organized Crime Commission. Everyone in law enforcement was intrigued by the meetings. Their subject remained a mystery, however, though a lucky break offered a confusing hint when a retired Brooklyn capo limped into the Don’s house, leaning on a cane in the silver head of which an enterprising FBI agent had secreted a bug; all they discussed, however, was the Rizzolo takeover of some candy store books on Ocean Parkway.

  But Taggart noted that old Don Richard was conducting the meetings himself. While Cirillo soldiers and allies were Staten Island bound on the Verrazano Bridge, Crazy Mikey, supposedly the acting boss of the family, was scouring the scummier sections of the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Manhattan for narcotics importers. Taggart concluded that Don Richard was resuming command.

  He met Reggie atop the Spire and Reggie agreed, warning, “He’ll attack.”

  “No. Crazy Mikey would attack. But the old man will be more careful. He’s old and he’s tired.”

  “But what if he’s old and vicious?”

  Taggart walked away from Reggie and looked down at the city. It was evening, the night still at bay, and a late-autumn haze was drifting into the streets. It carried a cold bite and a memory of football practice after school, pumping up for the Thanksgiving Day game.

  “No, Reg. First of all, he doesn’t know who to attack. Second, he knows damned well that when Tony and the Strikeforce find out he’s back in control, they’ll come gunning for him.”

  “He may simply attack the nearest irritant,” Reggie countered. “The Rizzolos. Very well, that’s what we recruited them for, after all. As for your brother and the law, don’t forget that the Strikeforce is merely one of Don Richard’s concerns. He’s the last of the old dons and he’s regained control of the last of the old Mafia empires. And you’ve attacked it.”

  19

  CHAPTER

  Helen couldn’t get Taggart out of her thoughts.

  Tax deductible or not, the man had spent a hundred thousand dollars to sit beside her at the musicale. And he didn’t even act resentful when she left early, though a deeply disappointed smile had showed how much he liked her. She liked him too, she had to admit; when she tried to talk about the music, he had listened. And despite his blond looks and Manhattan-businessman clothes, he was Italian through and through; how had her Uncle Frank described a guy for an Italian girl? Strong where he should be, but a pussycat inside? She touched the heart-shaped diamond ring she had put on her finger this morning. Taggart was making her a little crazy.

  Suddenly, alerted by a familiar clanging noise in the backyard, she ran to the window. Old Mario, her mother’s great-uncle, had come to bury the fig tree. Every November he arrived wearing his blue suit and heavy shoes, with a shovel, a rope, and a big iron stake. He drove the stake into the ground with the shovel. Then he tied the rope as high up the trunk as he could reach, and bent the tree to the ground. It seemed a miracle it didn’t snap. Tying it to the stake, he started digging earth out of the lawn, which he threw on the tree.

  She watched proudly. In a city where poor people slept in the street, her family had room for a simple old man who would never fear or want for anything simply because her parents had reared her and her brothers to take responsibility. When they were children the old man’s presence had made them feel secure. Now it was his turn. By the same token, when her lawyers finally convinced the government that her father was truly sick, she would bring him home and they would care for him here, in his own bed, until he died.

  The old man worked for an hour—unhurried, heedless of the bodyguards passing between the houses. He worked until the fig tree’s branches were buried under a blanket of soil which would protect it through the winter. Come spring he would return, unearth the tree, and straighten it up. Every summer it bore fruit.

  Taggart riddled her thoughts. Could she have it all with him—a guy and her business? He was no ordinary rackets guy out to rip her off. But what about that other thing she had seen— Taggart’s hatred? Combined with his strength, it could make him a dangerous opponent.

  She went to the kitchen. Uncle Mario’s muddy shoes were at the back door. Her mother was serving him coffee and cheesecake. Helen greeted him in Sicilian, his only language, and he grunted a reply. Her own Sicilian was good, polished when she had gone to Italy to help with the earthquake relief. Thousands of peasants had died in the wreckage of ancient walls. The disaster had marked her with a powerful fear of chaos, and left her with few illusions about the primitive life; there, in the morning a woman milked the cow, cleaned the stable, and cooked breakfast before she woke her husband, which Helen saw as proof that women with no better means to serve their families served them as slaves.

  Her mother poured her coffee. “That guy Chris called again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Same. Wants to talk to you. Who is he?”

  A guy.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Helen shrugged.

  “He sounds really nice.”

  “You’d love him, Mom. He’s a builder.”

  “A real builder?” she asked sharply. Helen looked at her. Occasionally her mother dropped her pretenses and admitted that they lived in a world where men who called themselves builders needed a front.

  “Yeah. In the city.”

  “So what’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s great-looking. Real nice manners.”

  “So what’s wrong?” she repeated.

  Helen turned away and engaged Mario in Sicilian. The old man was convinced a cold winter was coming. He wanted to wrap the rhododendron with burlap. She shared a smile with her mother; what Uncle Mario really wanted was to turn the front lawn into a zucchini patch. She half listened, thinking of Taggart, fantasizing that maybe at last she had found a way to have a guy without jeopardizing her empire.

  The telephone rang. It was the listed line so her mother answered. She thrust the receiver at Helen.

  “It’s him again.”

  “I’m not here.”

  “Yes, you are.” She put the receiver on the table in front of Helen and retreated to the coffeepot.

  Helen picked it up with a black look for her mother. “Hello?”

  “It’s Chris. The guys get you home okay the other night?”

  “No problem.”

  “Hey, listen, you want to go to the Governor’s Ball?”

  “The what?”

  “The Governor’s Ball. It’s a big fundraiser at the Waldorf. They’ll have a good band.”

  “That sounds a little heavy-duty. You know?”

  “Let me talk you into it at lunch. Are you free tomorrow?”

  He’s asking me for a date, she thought. Like we’re two real people. She held the phone, shaking her head, and wondering what Taggart wanted.

  “Go on,” whispered her mother. “What do you got to lose?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said, and hung up.

  Her mother looked dismayed. “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with him?”

  “Bad timing.”

  “What, do you think God delive
rs everything perfect the day you want it?”

  Helen cupped her mother’s soft cheek in her palm, an unusual gesture because the mother and daughter rarely touched. “Mom. Take my word for it. God didn’t make this delivery.”

  Tony Taglione’s expanded joint Strikeforce hit again, raiding a Kennedy Airport hotel room where a big Sicilian smuggler was concluding a sale. They seized forty keys of heroin and millions in cash, arrested the Sicilian and, remarkably, one of Crazy Mikey’s crew leaders. Taggart tracked the U.S. Attorney’s press conference on the evening news in his office, which Chryl and Victoria had moved to the third floor of the partially completed Spire. Reggie sat beside him, sipping a neat whiskey.

  “Mikey is desperate. That man shouldn’t have been there.”

  Taggart flipped the sound from channel to channel as he hunted for shots of his brother. Tony, as usual, dodged the camera, sitting quietly at the press conference, while Arthur Finch did the talking and introduced the agent supervisors who had led the sweep. When he introduced Tony, Tony’s expression said he couldn’t wait to get back to his office.

  “Come on,” Taggart urged the image on the screen. “Sell yourself a little. Hey, hey, look at Tony!” He turned up the sound. A Channel Four minicam crew had cornered him in an elevator and the reporter was asking with concern, “As Strikeforce chief, are you aware there is a heroin panic in the streets?”

  “I’m aware that methadone and detox programs are serving double the clientele of a year ago. I am aware that school-children don’t shoot dope that isn’t readily available. I am aware that availability is a major factor in drug abuse.”

  “What does it mean in terms of the Mafia?”

  “They’re losing.”

  Taggart clapped his hands. “Go for it, Tony!”

  “He certainly has a way with words,” Reggie observed dryly.

  “Is it true your office is preparing indictments against the leadership of the Cirillo family?”

  Taggart looked at Reggie, whose narrow shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug.