To Save a Son

by Brian Freemantle

  Waldo turned a page. “And Herbert Wilkinson, James Partridge, and Eric de Falco?”

  Wilkinson and Partridge were in the Bahamas development office. De Falco was a deputy in the tourist section. “Those are men with whom I dealt in the establishment of the hotels in Nassau and elsewhere,” said Franks.

  “Men who helped you in establishing your hotels in Bermuda and the Bahamas?” It was Schultz, coming into the questioning for the first time.

  “Government officials whom I met in the course of establishing hotels in Bermuda and the Bahamas,” said Franks, responding to pedantry with pedantry, hoping his unease wasn’t showing and waiting for the inevitable question.

  It came at once. “Men whom you bribed, for permission to set up your company?” said Waldo, back at his files. “Peter Armitrage, twenty thousand dollars, Winston Graham, a total of fifteen thousand dollars, and Richard Blackstaff three payments, a total of ten thousand dollars?”

  Did the FBI have jurisdiction in the Bahamas? thought Franks worriedly. Surely that was a British possession? He said, “The audited and publicly available accounts of the company record those figures as commission payments.”

  “Did you pay twenty-five thousand dollars to Herbert Wilkinson, fifteen thousand dollars to James Partridge, and make two separate payments of ten thousand dollars to Eric de Falco?”

  “Those sums are also listed in the audited and publicly available accounts of the company as commission,” said Franks.

  “We know they are, Mr. Franks,” came in Schultz again. “We’ve checked. Carried out our own audit in fact. As far as we’ve been able. We know the sums are listed as commission but the beneficiaries of that commission, either in the Bahamas or Bermuda, are not named.”

  “The companies are incorporated in Delaware,” said Franks. “There’s no requirement under the state law of Delaware for commission payments to be itemized to named recipients.” Poppa Scargo had made him and Nicky go climbing, during that pup-tent trip to the Catskill mountains when they were children, challenging them to reach a certain promontory. Nicky had won because Franks had tried to take a shortcut across a shale slurry that began to move and shift with him, so badly that at one stage he actually felt that it was going to overwhelm and engulf him. He’d experienced the feeling of choking suffocation and he felt it now, the sensation of nothing firm or steady being underfoot.

  “We’ve done a lot of reading of the company records,” took up Waldo. “Are you familiar with a man named William Snarsbrook?”

  “If you’ve done a lot of reading of the company records you know full well that I am,” said Franks, irritated despite himself at the mocking condescension. “He was the Bahamian official with whom I negotiated the setting up of the casino.”

  “Yes,” smiled Waldo. “He was. The first reference to that casino idea was entered into the company records on August sixteenth, according to what we’ve discovered.”

  “Yes,” said Franks shortly. A problem he’d already isolated, he thought.

  “Yet according to our information from William Snarsbrook, you visited the Bahamas to discuss the establishment of such a casino on June tenth. There were, in fact, three meetings. June tenth, eleventh, and again on the fourteenth. There were also visits, from what we’ve been able to discover, to Bermuda. Discussions with officials there, as well.”

  “Yes,” conceded Franks. The slurry was still shifting, and the feeling of suffocation was worsening.

  “Is it your normal practice to make such inquiries in advance of any board discussion?” said Schultz, giving his partner a rest.

  “There was board discussion,” insisted Franks.

  “We couldn’t find any record of it,” said Schultz.

  “Informal discussion,” said Franks.

  “Ah!” said Waldo in exaggerated awareness. “Informal discussion it was not thought necessary to file in company records?”

  “That was exactly how it happened,” he said. Franks heard movement to his right and saw Tina at the bar. He held out his empty glass toward her. He didn’t give a damn whether they construed it as nervousness or not. With that thought came another. The demanding, unasked request was exactly the sort of gesture he had found so offensive from Poppa Scargo. “Please,” he said hurriedly to his wife.

  Waldo sat forward, on the edge of his already difficult seat, so that he could reach across the distance separating him from Franks. From the strained briefcase he took a bundle of photographs, shuffling them into the order he wanted. “Do you recognize these men?”

  Franks looked down at the publicity shots taken at the opening of the Bahamian and Bermuda hotels, clearly showing him with Dukes and Flamini. “Of course I do!” he said.

  “Whom do you recognize them to be?” insisted Schultz.

  “Dukes and Flamini.”

  “And these?” continued Waldo, dealing out a fresh print.

  The photograph had been taken at Nicky’s wedding, and this time he was captured not just with Dukes and Flamini, but with Pascara as well. “Dukes, Flamini, and Pascara,” acknowledged Franks dully.

  “And these?”

  Franks hadn’t been aware of any photography during his visit to Las Vegas to examine the viability of a casino operation, but there were a lot, of him alone by various tables and games and then with Dukes and Harry Greenberg. “I went to Las Vegas to see the sort of gambling setups that exist there.”

  “And these?”

  It was the opening of the Nassau casino. He was with everyone again, including Harry Greenberg this time. Tina was pictured, too, he saw. “I’m not amused by all this,” he said.

  “We’re not doing it for your amusement, Mr. Franks,” replied Schultz.

  “Who is this man, Mr. Franks?” demanded Waldo.

  Franks breathed deeply, feeling engulfed, looking at the person whom the FBI agent was indicating in a photograph taken at Nicky’s wedding. “David Dukes,” he said.

  “What do you know of him?”

  “He’s a financial investor. Made a lot of money in oil. Has interests in Las Vegas, too. It was he who set up the trip that I made … where the other photographs were taken,” said Franks.

  “Just that?” said Waldo.

  “Just that.”

  “Who is Tony Alberi?”

  “I don’t know anyone of that name.”

  “Georgio Alcante?”

  “I do not know a Georgio Alcante.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Waldo, moving his finger.

  “Roland Flamini.”

  “What about Frederick Dialcano?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Frederick Dialcano.”

  “Emanuel Calvo?”

  “No.”

  “This man?” The finger moved again.

  “Roberto Pascara.”

  “What about Arno Pellacio?”

  “I do not know any Arno Pellacio.”

  “Roberto Longurno?”

  “No.”

  “Luigi del Angelo?”

  “No.” Franks was sweating openly, knowing that they could see his reaction to the pressure. Not guilty, he thought, repeating the litany through his mind. No matter what all this meant and however bad it looked—and he didn’t know yet whether it looked bad or not—he wasn’t guilty, and if he wasn’t guilty of anything then he didn’t have anything to fear.

  “This man?” Waldo pressed on.

  “Harry Greenberg.”

  “Sam D’Amato?”

  “No.”

  “Marty Tannenbaum?”

  “No.”

  Waldo sat back, easing himself as much as he could into his chair. On cue, Schultz relieved him, taking up the questioning. “Do you consider yourself a good businessman, Mr. Franks?”

  Once, thought Franks, replying honestly to himself. Now he wasn’t so sure. “Yes,” he said.

  “You’ve businesses in Spain, France, and Italy? And you run a Caribbean cruise liner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Successful,
then?”

  “Yes.”

  Schultz held out his hand to his partner and Waldo passed across the briefcase. The neat man fumbled through, once pulling out a sheet of paper and then replacing it, walking his fingers on through the file. He searched unhurriedly, and Franks decided it was all part of the questioning technique. Schultz found at last what he was apparently looking for. He looked at Franks and said, “According to our information, you made several protracted visits to the Bahamas and to Bermuda before the formation date of the hotel company.”

  “Yes,” replied Franks.

  “Why?”

  “I thought that would have been obvious,” said Franks. “Before setting up a business I always make sure that it will be viable.”

  “Always?” demanded Schultz.

  “Always.”

  Schultz went briefly to his sheet of paper. “That’s why you visited Las Vegas before the official formation date of the casino company?”

  “Yes.”

  “And satisfied yourself from all those prior visits that both the hotels and the casino would be profitable, money-making enterprises?”

  “If I hadn’t been satisfied, I wouldn’t have proceeded.”

  “Tell us how you proceeded, after satisfying yourself on the islands?” It was Waldo, coming back into the questioning.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” said Franks. He heard Tina moving, slightly behind him. He looked to her, imagining she wanted his attention, but she was staring down fixedly at the floor, almost as if she weren’t listening to what was going on.

  “Tell us how you went about setting up the company.”

  “All my European enterprises are private companies, with boards composed—”

  “Of accountant and lawyer nonvoting directors,” interrupted Schultz, wanting him to know the depth of their inquiries. “We know, Mr. Franks!”

  “I intended the corporation in the Bahamas and Bermuda to be the same. I discussed it with my brother-in-law, Scargo. He told me there could be cheaper finance in New York than there was in England.” Franks paused, wondering if he were putting Nicky at risk. At once a rush of anger swept the reservation aside. Nicky had put him at risk, for Christ’s sake! All he was doing was telling the truth. “We made inquiries. I actually had meetings with bankers here in New York and with my normal financiers in London.”

  “Who were prepared to advance the capital necessary?” demanded Schultz.

  “Yes,” said Franks. “But the markets were unsettled. Money was very dear. Scargo then said he could introduce me to some private investors who might be interested in putting up the money.”

  “Why are all your other companies privately controlled?” asked Waldo.

  “Because I prefer it that way.”

  “But on this occasion you were prepared to change the system: take in outside stockholders?”

  “The holding was strictly agreed,” said Franks. “You know that, from the formation documents. You’ve already talked about it; with my wife’s holding, I retain control.”

  “Why did you change, just like that?” asked Waldo, snapping his fingers.

  “Because it was a sound business proposition; I was able to raise finance to set up a perfectly bona fide corporation with money costing less—far less—than the banks were offering, either here or in England.” Franks glanced sideways again to where Tina was still staring down, deep in thought. How would she react if he confessed how much he’d wanted Nicky in a position subservient to himself?

  “A sound business proposition?” echoed Schultz.

  “That’s what I said,” replied Franks.

  “Like the sound business propositions that already exist in Spain and France and Italy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Established by careful attention to the market? Commissioning market surveys and financial forecasts?” said Waldo.

  There didn’t seem to be anything they didn’t know about him, Franks thought. He said, “Yes, that’s exactly how I go about setting up a business.”

  “Carefully?” pressed Schultz.

  “Properly,” qualified Franks. “Making every inquiry before I commit myself.”

  Franks was conscious of the smiles of satisfaction that passed between the two FBI men, and sat waiting apprehensively.

  “So!” pounced Waldo. “Here you are, a successful, established businessman who always, quite properly, makes every inquiry before committing himself, committing himself in this case to a company formation different from any in which you’d ever before been involved, taking on investing stockholders. So tell us about the inquiries you made about David Dukes, Roland Flamini, and Roberto Pascara?”

  Franks remained silent. He’d fallen headlong into yet another trap. How bad it appeared! “I made no inquiries,” he admitted. Until now, he thought; when it seemed too late. He hoped to God it wasn’t.

  “You made no inquiries!” said Schultz with forced incredulity. “You’ve just told us what a careful, proper businessman you are, Mr. Franks. We know from our investigations of the surveys and the reports that you always commission …” The man allowed a theatrical pause. “Or always have commissioned until now …” There was another gap. “Shall I tell you something, Mr. Franks?”

  “What?” said Franks.

  “We find it very difficult to understand—to believe—that someone who behaves as you always behave would on this occasion not have bothered about even a casual inquiry concerning the background of men upon whom your company depended.”

  So did he, thought Franks. It was inconceivable—incomprehensible—that he could have done anything so stupid. Damn Nicky Scargo to every sort of hell that existed. He said, “My brother-in-law, Scargo, vouched for them. They were investors with whom he had done business in the past. He said they were reputable.”

  “On his say-so—just on his word—you were prepared to go ahead?” said Waldo.

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t seem like the action of a careful, responsible businessman. A good businessman,” said Schultz.

  “No,” said Franks. “It doesn’t, does it? Now I bitterly regret it.” It seemed to be the day for everyone to be humiliated, he thought.

  “Why?” Schultz asked at once.

  “Because I now know them to be what they are,” said Franks. “Because I now know how stupidly and easily I was tricked into creating a front for them.”

  “From your meeting tonight in Westchester with the Scargo family?” said Waldo.

  “You followed me?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Schultz. “We’ve been following you ever since our surveillance picked you up entering Nicky Scargo’s offices.”

  Franks felt a physical irritation—an itching discomfort on his back and across his shoulders—at the awareness that for more than forty-eight hours everything he had done had been witnessed and noted. He said, “I learned about it first yesterday, from my meeting with Nicky Scargo, here in New York.”

  Waldo took up one of his prompt files, not from the briefcase this time but from the floor, where he’d neatly arranged the papers to which he’d already referred in the earlier questioning. “So you know that David Dukes is also known by the name Tony Albert? And that Georgio Alcante is another Dukes alias, the one under which he has convictions for illegal gambling, loansharking, and organizing the passage of women across the state line, in the pursuance of prostitution?”

  Franks swallowed and for the briefest moment experienced dizziness, so that he had to squeeze his eyes tightly closed to clear his vision. “No,” he said hollowly.

  “And that Roland Flamini is also known by the aliases of Frederick Dialcano and Emanuel Calvo, and under all three names has been charged—but acquitted—of running illegal gambling operations and the organization of protection rackets?”

  “No,” said Franks, “I did not know that.”

  “Or that Roberto Pascara, whose real name is Pascaralino, is also known as Arno Pellacio and Roberto Longurno and Luigi
del Angelo, a man who has five times been arrested on charges of extortion, illegal gambling, prostitution, and loansharking?” persisted Waldo relentlessly.

  Franks sat shaking his head, punch-drunk with the facts that were being thrown at him. “No,” he said.

  “Or that Harry Greenberg is also Sam D’Amato and Marty Tannenbaum, and graduated into Las Vegas gambling after serving as a lieutenant in the Mafia family of Santos Trafficante in Florida. And under the name of Sam D’Amato was arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder, the prosecution of which could not proceed because of the disappearance of an eyewitness to the killing?”

  Franks held out his hands, beseechingly, as Enrico Scargo had beseeched him earlier that evening. “You know I don’t!” he said.

  “No, Mr. Franks,” said Schultz. “We don’t know that at all.” He nodded toward his partner. “Like Harry said a while back, it seems to us you set up the perfect washing operation knowing damned well what you were doing and who you were doing it for.”

  “That’s nonsense!” erupted Franks. “I told you I was tricked. Trapped by Nicky Scargo into going along with something without any idea what it was to be used for. I was stupid. Okay, I’ve admitted that. But I’m not a criminal. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You control a hotel company and a casino company in the Bahamas and Bermuda?” demanded Schultz.

  “What sort of question is that?” said Franks. “That’s what we’ve been talking about for the past hour!”

  “We’ve evidence that through that casino operation, through the credit linkup you approved—your signature is on the agreement—at least four million dollars has been moved, undeclared on any income tax return from Dukes, Flamini, Pascara, or Greenberg. We are satisfied—and we’re sure any grand jury and any court will be satisfied—that the actual figure is several times higher than that,” said Schultz. “The four-million-dollar figure is merely a sample, to list on the actual charges.…”

  “Charges!” cried Franks, but Schultz overrode him. “You controlled the companies through which those illegal transactions took place, Mr. Franks. Your name—your signature—is on the credit agreement. You did all the negotiations for the establishment, first of the hotels and then of the very necessary casino. Those negotiations were conducted in advance of any contractual agreement between yourself and any of the people we’ve been talking about here tonight. You expect us to believe you haven’t done anything wrong?”