by Landon Beach
Words were spoken, and Gervasi took them all in: You will kill one of your brothers if commanded by one of your bosses; you will keep omerta; you will not have relations with or desire another made member’s wife or gumar; you will not physically assault or verbally insult another made man; the organization is supreme, parts like you are replaceable—a spoke in the wheel. Then, the final law was given: There is no retirement—you have a lifetime obligation. Don De Luca remembered when he had gone through this same ceremony. After the final directive had been given, his uncle had whispered to him the words of Lucky Luciano, “The only way out is in a box.”
At this point, Gervasi’s trigger finger was cut with a dagger, and he watched as his crimson blood dripped onto the picture of a saint he was holding. Then, the picture was set on fire, and Gervasi held it in his hand. While the blood, picture, and the tissue on the inside of his hand burned, he vowed to burn like the saint if he ever broke the commandments he had been given, betraying Cosa Nostra. Then, he took in more of the ceremony: You live by the gun and the knife and you die by the gun and the knife; this is your boss; this is your underboss; this is your capo; this family comes before your family.
Finally, he pressed his pin-pricked trigger finger to the trigger finger of Capo Andrea “Handy Andy” Casale, who would be his godfather.
Don De Luca embraced Gervasi and said, “You are born today.”
As other members embraced Gervasi and the celebration started, GiGi Rizzo took the Don aside.
“We’ve got him downstairs,” GiGi said.
Fabian looked over GiGi’s shoulder at the crowd moving toward the bar and tables set up with hors d’oeuvres. “And?”
“He drove Stansie and her boyfriend to a garage where they loaded the bags of money into a green pickup truck. He didn’t know where they were headed.”
“Do you believe him?”
“We’ve already tried our usual methods of persuasion, and he would have told us by now. Yes, I believe him.”
Fabian trusted his bodyguard. Damn. He had hoped for more information. After Stansie and her boyfriend are taken care of, I’ll be in the clear. What to do with the plumber? Kill him? No. Make him yours. How much of a goodwill payment? A nickel ($500.00)? A dime ($1000.00)? He looked at the happy faces around the room, including his son Leo. I’m feeling generous today. He turned to GiGi and said, “Release him quietly, and give him a dime. He’s my plumber now, if he wants to live.”
GiGi said, “Understood.”
“They would have checked in at some point,” Fabian said.
“But we’ve already checked Ciro’s and Big Joey’s cell phones. There was nothing.”
“There has to be another phone. My uncle is going to visit Angela again tonight to comfort her. Go with him. Search the house.” Fabian thought for a moment. “Has everyone checked in who was not able to be at the Red Robin yesterday?”
“Yes. Miami Marino, Sunshine Paulie, and River Nicky all called.”
This was crucial. If one of them had not checked in, then there would be a possible threat vector, forcing him to initiate inquiries. And that usually meant bodies were about to start piling up. However, he was still unsure about Nico because he had been close to the old Don. His special agent acquaintance was trying to find Nico at this moment. “I’m still a little worried about—”
“Nico,” GiGi said, cutting him off.
“Yes. Who took the call yesterday?”
GiGi searched his memory. “It was Street Sal.”
“I’m wondering if I should call him back at the number he called us from?”
GiGi shook his head. “You know he dumps those phones as soon as he uses them. He’s always been shifty.”
“Probably why he’s stayed alive so long,” Fabian said. “What about tracing the call? It would give us his location.”
“He changes that immediately too. He’s been very good at playing the game of, ‘I’ll check in with you; you don’t check in with me.’”
“Then it is time for that game to change.”
“It never bothered you when you were underboss.”
His bodyguard was right. It was because Nico Colombo was one of the few old-school-mentality types left in The Association—did his job, avoided law enforcement, avoided the press, and, as far as he knew, wasn’t hooked on the product they were pushing. That had been Nico’s grandfather’s mistake: falling in love with the white powder. “I know.”
Papa Pete gave him a look from across the room that said, ‘Everything all right?’
Fabian grinned his reply, and Papa Pete went back to his Strega. “What would he advise me to do right now?” Fabian said, motioning to his uncle.
“He’d tell you to focus on finding Stansie and her boyfriend. Worry about Nico later.”
Fabian gave GiGi a kiss on the cheek. “That’s exactly what he would tell me. Now, after a drink, I’m heading upstairs to see Solange.” He became serious. “Find the phone.”
✽✽✽
Lake Erie
The fifty-foot Hunter, Apollonia’s Ashes, glided through Lake Erie toward the eastern coast of Michigan. Nico “River Nicky” Colombo stood behind the helm as Conrad Cranston and Stansie Russo relaxed on the starboard cockpit bench, drinking from glass bottles of Evian. What in the hell is up with those bottles anyway? After they had loaded the bags of cash onboard a few days ago, they had brought onboard another bag full of Evians. He hadn’t seen them without one since he had picked them up, which was where he was about to drop them back off at—not during the transit to South Bass, not during the loading of the cash into the fifty dry boxes at his house, not during the diving operation (each time their heads had broken the surface of the water aft of the swim step, Stansie had handed Conrad a bottle, and he had taken a few chugs before submerging with another large dry box) and not on the return trip. He had heard the rumors that she was a recovering drug addict and assumed Conrad was too, but Evian bottles? Weird. Whatever works, he thought. Out of respect, he had done his lines of coke in the privacy of his bedroom, while they stayed at his house overnight. He did not want to face the Don’s wrath for causing a relapse.
He watched as they cuddled and sipped their water. Looking back, he shouldn’t have let them go exploring on South Bass, but they had asked after he had sniffed a few morning lines and was making coffee in the kitchen. He was still surprised that he had made it to The Roundhouse on time. They were supposed to have lunch there, but the two had run into trouble with his favorite bartender, and they all decided to leave before their presence became more noticeable than they wanted it to be. Why in the hell had they had agreed to meet him in a bar was beyond him. Well, who in the fuck knows why people do what they do? Humans are predictable and unpredictable. There. That was your philosopher moment of the day. Anyhow, on the way back to his house in the golf cart, they had drunk from their Evian bottles and had snuggled like they were doing right now on his boat.
They had asked him nothing about events back home. He wouldn’t have told them anyway. What good would it do to inform Stansie that her father and brother were both dead. She’d freak, probably shatter a few of her water bottles. His contact in Canada had called him with the news. Immediately, he initiated his emergency protocol for checking in. His contact, who sounded just like him, used a throwaway phone and placed a short call to Salvatore “Street Sal” Gallo, the new underboss, and pledged his loyalty to the new Don. As he had foreseen, Street Sal accepted his call with grace, told him he would pass on the news, but that he had a lot of business to attend to and had to end the short call. Nico’s contact had then dumped the phone and called Nico back with the news. This is what Nico wanted to hear; he knew he would not be suspected of anything. He had maintained the routine for years, and it had worked because it had never been necessary for him to come in and meet anyone in person. As long as the product got delivered, then he was fine driving the ghost ship. Speaking of ghost ships, he was reminded of a complaint about the final years of Don
Russo’s leadership. One of his other contacts had said that the organization operated like a ghost ship; every now and then, you might see a crew member on deck, but no one knew who in the hell was actually steering the vessel. None of that mattered to him. He was fine being alone and preferred it that way. No one knew about his place on South Bass except for the now-deceased Don Ilario Russo, his now-deceased son Ciro, and these two posers seated in his cockpit.
He had a revolver tucked into his cut-off shorts that was hidden by his untucked Tommy Bahama collared shirt. Since there were now only three living people who knew about the cave, himself and the Evian twins there on the bench, he had contemplated killing them on the way over and dumping their bodies. The old saying, ‘Three can keep a secret if two are dead,’ had come to mind. Then it would only be him, and he could control the narrative if Don De Luca ever made a visit, which would mean that he would have to find Nico’s place first. It wouldn’t be because of his slip at Park Place because he’d registered under the name Nick Collins. But then again, there were holes in the overall theory. There were people who had seen him pick them up at the Sterling State dock, the truck was still there, and he figured the Don’s men would be able to put two and two together and figure out one—that he had helped, and two—where he lived. When they found that out and didn’t find Conrad and Stansie, they’d pin their disappearance on him and would either torture him to find out more, and, of course, he would break, and then the whole thing would come out. Hence, he had decided that the best option was to drop these two off, head back to South Bass and wait. He knew that Stansie and Conrad didn’t have a prayer of living once they were found. So what if they talked? He’d explain that he was protecting the money for Don Fabian, and, of course, he would show the Don where it was. Better yet, a huge shipment of heroin was to arrive in Canada in a week, and he would pick it up on Apollonia’s Ashes and show it to the Don at his house to prove how reliable he was. Then, he would help the Don’s men bring the boxes up from the cave, probably take a small cut, and all would be well. He was willing to risk the location of his safe house being discovered if it meant staying alive—or at least staying alive long enough to enjoy some more of the wonderful white powder—stuff was insanely good! Plus, maybe he’d invite the Don to summer at his house. An A-plus idea. He’d show Don Fabian the best time he’d ever had. He might even get promoted. Yeah, then someone else could worry about getting the product from Canada to Detroit. He’d served his time in the trenches. Now, it was time to par-tay.
He smiled at his reflection in the stainless-steel wheel. He knew how to play both sides in the big game. In fact, he was pretty sure he had a trump card on Don Fabian that no one else knew about. Five years ago, he had taken his boat on a nighttime sail in Lake St. Clair after a delivery. And as he passed by Don Fabian De Luca’s waterfront mansion, he’d seen the strangest thing through his night-vision goggles. Just before 2 a.m., a scuba diver emerged from the water and climbed up the ladder bolted to Fabian’s sea wall. Nico had grabbed his cell phone, ready to call and say there was an intruder, but didn’t get the chance as he saw Fabian’s bodyguard, GiGi Rizzo, jog across the immaculately cut backyard grass and shake hands with the man as they both stood on the sea wall. Nico had focused his night-vision goggles on the man and saw his profile perfectly when the man turned toward Lake St. Clair and set the rest of his gear down on the sea wall. Then, he had watched as the men headed toward the pool house. After an hour of waiting for them to emerge, he had gotten bored and sailed away. He told no one what he had seen. That’s a sure way to lose the big game. For months, he had no idea who the man was—definitely not a member of The Detroit Association. Then, while watching the news before making a delivery, which had become a superstition, he had seen the man on the television screen. Special Agent Terrance Nolan. A Fed. Why in the hell was The Association’s underboss meeting with a federal agent? There had been no major arrests lately. And now he remembered how it had come to him halfway across the Detroit river later than night: Fabian De Luca was an informer who had bought himself some immunity if things ever got bad. He had thought of bringing it to the attention of Don Russo but decided that he had no proof, and, because of that, he would soon go poof! No, it was better to hang on to that information and use it when the time came. And now it had. He reached a hand in both of his shorts pockets and felt his own cell phone in one pocket and the one that Don Russo had given him in the other. No need to keep that one anymore. A few miles out, and he’d drop it into the depths of Lake Erie.
He lowered the mainsail and motored toward Sandy Creek, which would take them to the public boat launch.
“Almost there,” he said to them. “Nice and easy like I said it would be.”
Stansie twisted her head back and smiled at him.
Damn, if I wasn’t sure that Conrad could take me, I would have already been hittin’ that. When she had first turned away from him the other day, his mind had shouted, Mamma Mia! Look at that upside-down heart of an ass! He smiled back and shook his body as if he had just gotten a shiver.
Banish those thoughts from your mind right now.
Stansie had seen him shake. “Okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, just keepin’ active. Easy to zone out when you’ve been at the helm for a while.”
Her smile returned, and she turned around.
Man, that was close.
His passengers both finished off their bottles of water and headed below to use the head and change. Good. Would give him a chance to concentrate. Didn’t need to see any more of her in that swimsuit.
A few minutes later, they emerged. Stansie was wearing a coverup, and Conrad had put his white t-shirt back on. They each had a fresh water bottle, and Conrad carried the bag with the rest of their stuff.
Good. Let’s get you two off to your death sentence.
He swung the wheel to port, and they were soon at the dock.
There were no other boats waiting at the launch. In fact, the area was so quiet, all that could be heard was the water gently lapping against the hull and the occasional rubbing of the port rail against the two fenders he had thrown over to protect the boat from the dock. Perfect. They sat in the cockpit, and he went over the plan again.
“Now, go back to your tent, relax, stay a few days, and then head home. We’re all set.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t call my brother and check in?” Stansie said.
Nico raised his hands in a questioning gesture. “I am in no position to tell you what to do or what not to do, Madame Russo. I just know that I am responsible for your safety and that your brother has told me that you should have no contact with him while you wait here for a few days. As we know, he did say that if anything went wrong, he would contact you and let you know what to do. Having served your family for many years, I know enough not to go against those orders.”
Conrad spoke to Stansie. “That sounds reasonable, sweetie.”
She nodded. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Of course, of course,” Nico said, patting her shoulder. “No one is getting to you or the family money.”
Conrad turned to Nico and extended his hand. “Thanks for taking care of us. I liked working with you—good diver.”
“It was a pleasure.” He looked at Stansie. “I’ll do anything for my godfather.”
They disembarked, and Conrad cast off the lines. Nico motored aft and, when he had cleared the end of the dock by enough, put a starboard twist on and then headed back out to sea. He looked back and watched as they walked down the pier toward the campground and their unhappy destiny.
20
FBI Detroit Field Office
3 Days Ago . . .
Special Agents Terrance Nolan and Patrick Bruno were seated in Nolan’s office as they had been yesterday—before everything went haywire. Patrick felt like he was in a crypt. The overhead light was off, and the drapes were half-closed, allowing a single shaft of bright sunlight into the room that hit the floor to the left of
Nolan’s desk. To the right, a small green-shaded lamp by the wet bar was turned on, which bathed the area around the bar in an emerald glow, like a traffic signal hanging over an intersection at night. Patrick could see the hard outline of Nolan’s features, but the weathered veteran agent’s clothes and face and hands all seemed to blend together into a dull gray color, similar to the late morning’s mood. The initial musty smell of the office—like entering a back room of an ancient library or a confessional booth at church—had been replaced with the aroma from the coffee in the pot on the wet bar. After sucking down a mug of coffee at home and a travel mug of it on the way in, Patrick had switched to a bottle of water and had been popping spearmint Tic Tacs for the last hour. Nolan’s mug was on his desk, but he hadn’t touched it since Patrick had entered the office. The greetings to each other had been short, and the men now sat in silence. Yesterday had been tough.
The scene Patrick had witnessed when they showed up outside the Red Robin Lounge had been unlike anything he had seen before. The forensics team was already taking pictures, taping off the area, collecting evidence, and making measurements. Blood was still pooled on the pavement where Ciro Russo and his driver Giuseppe Manetti had been mowed down. It was splattered all over the hood of the limousine from where John Conti had been shot by one of the rushing assassins; John had died of his wounds as had the three assassins, Jack Kurzweil, Billy Beadle, and Steve Cook. Cook had gotten close enough to wound Conti, which had made Conti’s weapon jerk up and fire the rounds that had hit and killed poor Nancy Murphy. By the time they had arrived, the girl had been pronounced dead, and the mother and father had been taken away. The bloodstains on the sidewalk in front of Five Guys were like red tentacles extending out from a central blob. Nolan had flown into a rage, running across the street and kicking the limousine until he had put a huge dent in the middle of the rear passenger’s side door. One of the forensics team members had yelled, “Hey, get the hell out of here. You’re tampering with the evidence!” About to hit the man, Nolan had seen the front door to the lounge open up. He then walked into the Red Robin and threatened to arrest every one of the patrons. After being restrained by a host of Detroit police officers, he steamed out the front door and headed down Monroe Street. Patrick had thought of going after Nolan but decided to let him cool off. Then, the Detroit Police chief had arrived. He was shown the scene in front of the Red Robin Lounge and then escorted across the street. His special assistant couldn’t catch him in time as the old veteran dropped to his knees by the bloodstain in front of Five Guys and wept.