by Landon Beach
“What do you think happened?” Patrick asked.
“I stayed up most of the night reviewing all of the 209s and 302s, trying to see if there was something I had missed along the way from Nineteen.”
“You told me you were heading home. I wish you would have let me know that you had decided to stay. I could have helped.”
“Sorry. Old workaholic habits die hard. Plus, as you’ve noticed, I’m not the best collaborator. Yet another reason why it’s time for me to retire. All this cooperating, sharing, and groupthink bullshit is just another way for lazy agents to hide. ‘Oh, I’ll have to talk to my team about that,’ and, ‘I really couldn’t say, we’ll have to take a look at it together,’ and, ‘I might offend someone if I do a better job.’ What a crock. I’m glad I’m leaving when I am.”
“Well, if you’re going to work on anything related to this, I want in, okay?” Patrick said. He had to assert himself now. After yesterday, there was no more waiting. Nancy Murphy could have been one of his own kids.
Nolan put up his hands. “Got it. ‘Bout time someone stood up to me.”
“I’m not challenging you. I just want to move on this. We lost a kid yesterday.”
Nolan became somber and looked away from him. “I know.” He settled his gaze on something outside his office window. “The costs,” he said in a whisper, one that Patrick was not sure if Nolan meant Patrick to hear.
“What in the hell does that mean?”
Nolan’s eyes swiveled over to him. “I mean the costs of letting Cosa Nostra exist. Usually, we take the attitude of, ‘Let ‘em just cannibalize each other.’ And many times, it is that simple. But days like yesterday prove that it’s never just those guys who get axed. And that’s the toughest part of this whole business.”
“And all of the families that are affected by the sale of illegal drugs.”
“Still gotta play the long game. The short game will get you thinking that every loss is as big as yesterday’s.” Nolan leaned back, his face tilting up at the ceiling. “Our situation is like breaking the Japanese and German codes in World War II. If the allies would have suddenly started to win every battle, our enemies would have known that the codes were broken and changed them. The allies had to engineer the wins and losses so that they always came out ahead—like winning six out of every ten times—but also so that the axis powers still felt like their codes were safe. Working with Nineteen has been like that. We have to protect his identity, and, unfortunately, that means losing some battles that we know we could win.”
Patrick didn’t like it but knew it was true. Lose some short-term battles in order to one day win the war. He wondered what battles Nolan had watched law enforcement lose over the years to maintain the overall winning percentage. He wondered which ones he would purposely have to lose in the coming years.
Nolan rocked his chair back up; the noise took Patrick out of his thought.
Patrick’s eyes had now adjusted to the lack of light in the room, and he could make out Nolan’s eyes, staring at him. “Looks like you got your wish, though,” Patrick said.
For the first time, Nolan looked offended, like Patrick had just opened a private door that was private for a reason. “What do you mean?” His tone was stern and his eyes cold.
“Nineteen is now the boss, right?”
Nolan relaxed. “I guess if there is a silver lining to yesterday, then that is it.”
“How do we know he didn’t engineer it?”
“Not his style,” he said, but then backtracked. “I mean anything is possible, but I just don’t see it. Every time I have spoken with him recently, he hasn’t been short on complaints about the situation, but I never got the sense that he wanted to do anything about it.” Nolan swiveled in his chair, moving his thick legs from one corner of the desk to the other. “No, my money is on the old consigliere Silvio Verratti. He’s disappeared.”
“How long ago?”
Nolan took out a pack of cigarettes. Throw a cowboy hat on Nolan, and he could’ve been the Marlboro Man. Nolan shook out a cigarette then offered one to Patrick.
“Won’t the smoke alarm go—”
“Took out the battery. Screw the regulations.” He lit up.
The familiar scent reached Patrick’s nostrils. His father had been a Marlboro customer, and it had eventually killed him. Emphysema. Like breathing through a restaurant straw every day. No thanks.
“He was last seen a few days before Ciro’s assassination. He could be halfway to Tahiti by now for all we know.”
Did we talk about this yesterday? He searched his memory. No, we didn’t. Why not? “How come you didn’t bring that up yesterday?”
Nolan took a long drag and then blew two smoke rings toward the ceiling. His dad had done this too, but Patrick had never figured out how to do it in his brief stint as a smoker. “I thought I did,” Nolan said. “But maybe we got too caught up in the Nineteen business.”
“Still, how would you know that he was last seen a few days ago? Do we have a surveillance operation going on?”
Nolan smirked. “I’m impressed. You work fast, but not too fast.”
Patrick ignored the compliment, waiting for the answer.
“Nineteen called me last night.”
“Last night!”
“Don’t worry. I was going to tell you.” He took another drag. “Truth is, he got spooked by the whole thing and wanted me to know that he had nothing to do with it. I might add that he’s also a man of letters who is well-read. After all of our time together, we couldn’t avoid discussing the irony of the situation and how many times something like this has happened throughout the history of the world. Then, he told me about Silvio Verratti.”
Patrick’s face started to get red, and he loosened his collar, which was wet with the sweat from his neck as he felt his body start to heat.
“Don’t get all sore on me now,” said Nolan. “I trust you, but we’ve only worked together on this for a single day. I’ve been running this guy for years. I called headquarters immediately after I got off the phone with him last night. They want to see where he leads.”
“You should have told me first thing this morning.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. Like I said...old habits. Got some good info from him, though.”
His professionalism returned. Don’t be pissy right now. This guy’s been on the front lines for a lot longer than you have. Cut him some slack. “What did he have to say?”
“He said that even though the situation was not of his making, he intended to continue working with me. So, I pressed him for his organizational chart to see if he meant it or not.” He opened up a desk drawer and took out a piece of paper. “Typed it up last night. Take a look.”
Patrick took the paper from him as Nolan lit another cigarette. Sonofabitch sucked the first one down fast. He read.
THE DETROIT ASSOCIATION
BOSS
Fabian De Luca
Driver/Bodyguard
Gino Gregorio “GiGi” Rizzo
UNDERBOSS
Salvatore “Street Sal” Gallo
Driver/Bodyguard
TBA
CONSIGLIERE
Pietro “Papa Pete” De Luca
STREET BOSS
Leonardo “Leo” De Luca
CAPOREGIMES
Marco Greco
Dino Roselli
Andrea “Handy Andy” Casale
Anthony “Black Jack Tony” Scala
Roman Abruzzi
Giancarlo Abruzzi
FLORIDA
Dante “Miami” Marino
CANADA
Nico “River Nicky” Colombo
OHIO
Michael “Buckeye Mike” Romano
CALIFORNIA
Paolo “Sunshine Paulie” Esposito
“Promoted his son?”
“Perks of being on top. You want some coffee? I love coffee when I’m smoking.”
“No, thanks,” Patrick said and continued to study the chart. N
ineteen moved fast.
Is Nolan absolutely sure that Fabian didn’t order the hit on Ciro?
Nolan grabbed his mug and went over to the wet bar, where a half-full coffee pot sat on a burner. His cigarette hung from his lips as he poured and then added cream from the wet bar’s refrigerator. He finished the concoction by adding a heaping spoonful of sugar and stirred with the spoon. He toasted Patrick, “Here’s to the breezes that blow through the treeses, that lift the skirt above the kneeses, that reveals the spot that teases and pleases, oh what a snatch…down the hatch.” He drank; Patrick just stared at him.
Nolan was on his way back to the desk when Patrick asked, “But why would Silvio Verratti want to have Ciro killed?”
“Because maybe he thought he was getting passed over. I know one thing I did say yesterday was that many of these guys didn’t think Ciro was ready. They take seniority pretty seriously.”
“Except Nineteen, of course?”
Nolan coughed. “One giant shit soup. Trying to understand it all is like trying to separate the ingredients after it’s already been made.”
It might help if we knew who made the soup, Patrick thought. “Who is Pietro ‘Papa Pete’ De Luca?” Patrick asked.
“Fabian’s uncle.” Nolan inhaled; the end of his cigarette glowed crimson. Then, he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “The man is a legend in the Detroit mafia. Was semi-retired, but it’s a wise choice by Fabian—steadies the ship so to speak. Don Russo’s wife, Angela, is extremely close with him, so it will smooth the transition over. Papa Pete would never have taken the position if Fabian had ordered the execution of Ciro. Ilario, Pietro, Silvio, and Rudolpho Abruzzi—”
The last name rang a bell, and Patrick looked at the paper. Roman and Giancarlo Abruzzi were both capos for Fabian.
Nolan had seen him searching the document. “Yeah, Roman and Giancarlo are Rudolpho’s sons.”
“The old man still alive?”
“As far as I know,” said Nolan. Then, he continued. “Anyway, Ilario, Pietro, Silvio, and Rudolpho were the best of friends in the glory days of the seventies and eighties, when, from what Nineteen told me along with my own research, The Association basically did whatever it wanted to do. However, Silvio always thought he was smarter than Ilario, and those decades of resentment could have spilled over when Ilario passed away. Ciro was fair game.”
“Did Nineteen tell you that last bit?”
“That and also that Ciro had been badmouthing Silvio, which is tough to take because if you are the Don’s son, you get to say whatever you want, and no one can do anything about it. From what I hear, Ciro was a spoiled brat who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Patrick crossed his legs. “So, he makes his uncle consigliere, his son street boss, and,” Patrick ran his hand down the paper, “Salvatore ‘Street Sal’ Gallo his underboss.”
“Another solid move. Street Sal is universally respected by everyone. On one hand, he has no single loyalty to anyone, which is why everyone trusts him, and on the other hand, he is completely old school and devoted one hundred percent to The Association. He’s like a hybrid—half independent operator, half company man.”
“Does De Luca have any legitimate businesses?”
“For sure. Main one’s a pizza parlor called De Luca Pizza & Pasta. It’s a typical move by these guys. They have at least one legit biz so when they make a purchase, they can always say where the money came from. Also, if they’re ever on parole, one of the conditions is that they have to show regular and acceptable employment. His pizza joint is his major cover. Other interests include bakeries, funeral parlors, roofing companies, concrete suppliers, construction unions, garment shops, car dealerships…the sonsabitches are everywhere.”
He was beginning to see why the fight on organized crime had lasted so long. Taking out their gambling, loansharking, extortion, and theft would cripple them, but it was the mafia’s reach into the businesses Nolan had just listed that made it difficult to win absolutely. They couldn’t give the streets back to the criminals, but some of the criminals were legitimate business owners who didn’t want the streets.
Jesus. After Nolan retires and I shake the tree a little, what in the hell is going to fall out?
“Wondering why Cosa Nostra still survives?” Nolan asked.
His head felt like it was being squished like a grape—everything they had gone over turning to mush. He rubbed his temples, then said, “Yeah.”
“The main reason is because it mirrors American capitalism. It constantly adapts and finds new ways to make its business model work. It also has some guaranteed sources of revenue: gambling and construction. Always going to be people willing to risk their hard-earned dollars in an attempt to get more. Always going to have buildings going up.” Nolan took a tissue from a box on his desk and blew his nose. “If people are gambling, chances are they’re going to need a loan shark. You can almost hear the conversation now, can’t you? Loan shark to prospective client: ‘You know what you’re committing to, right? You can walk away right now.’ But we both know the gambler isn’t walking away. And so the Ferris wheel goes round and round. Highs and lows and highs again. And, remember, with construction, you have to think of it like a mob tax. Developers and real estate tycoons in every major city have to deal with Cosa Nostra. But the way they avoid prosecution for any possible collusion is they always claim that they have nothing to do with the construction unions. There’s never a direct connection. But the concrete, the windows—you name anything that goes into a building and, believe me, the mob is taking its cut.”
Patrick felt even worse, but he could not sulk now. Try to concentrate on the business at hand—figure out how to win later. “I see your lost drug runner is still listed as the Canadian point of contact,” he said.
Nolan tapped his cigarette, and the tip of ash fell onto a file folder on his desk. “What can I say, the guy must be getting the job done. We still need to find him, though, see what his routine is. No one’s been able to crack it yet.”
Patrick leaned back. “Well, now everyone in the building knows that I’m taking over for you.”
“Life happens. Maybe it’s better to get it out in front of everyone early. Talk to Maggie Schiff later today and see if she’s interested in helping you run Nineteen. I thought about it some more last night, and I’m even more certain than I was yesterday about your choice. You’re going to need a solid agent who is loyal going forward. Those parents are going to be out for blood after they put their daughter in the ground. We’re gonna take some heat, but there was no way to predict this. The Detroit Association had done away with this type of power move almost a century ago. We’ve got headquarters behind us too. I called this morning and gave them a run down. We’ll keep ‘em posted if there are any developments. Naturally, they want to know where Silvio Verratti is too.”
What little comfort he had with the turnover had evaporated after the shooting outside of the Red Robin Lounge. Now, he felt completely at the mercy of Nolan and how much the veteran agent decided to tell him. And even though Patrick thought that he had acquitted himself well in this meeting, he did not have an optimistic feeling going forward—at least not in the short term. “And me?” Patrick asked.
“I told them that we had started our turnover, but now that this has happened, I could see them extending me for another month until you’ve got a handle and the new regime is settled in. I’m actually envious of you.”
Great. “Why?”
“Because I worked years with Nineteen, thinking that if we got him installed as Don that we’d finally be in a place to take down the whole show. But now it’s going to be you who gets to pull the lever.”
“Easier said than done.”
Nolan was in stitches. “You see? That’s what I like about you. Always realistic. Probably going to keep you sane and alive.”
Or fired. “How about the press?”
“Ah, the fucking media. They’ll probably interview me later today. Blew �
��em off this morning, let the bigwigs at headquarters deal with those assholes.”
“What are you going to give them?”
“They’ll want some tough talk and probably start throwing around words from their Associated Press Style Guide,” Nolan mocked. “They’ll get all hot and bothered when I bring up task force and manhunt in regard to finding out who was responsible for the hit on Ciro Russo that, of course, led to the death of innocent little Nancy Murphy. I’ll get all serious, maybe point a finger or something. Twenty bucks says that right after I end my interview, there will be a few politicians in the wings waiting to duke it out over gun control.”
“I get that it’s a show,” Patrick said. “But yesterday...the kicking of the limousine and the threats inside the lounge...didn’t seem like you were putting on a show then.”
Nolan held his cigarette between his index finger and thumb. His hand was frozen a foot above the file folder he had been using as an ashtray, and, for a moment, they both watched the smoke rise.
Patrick had been wanting to talk about the episode since it had happened yesterday. He’d seen law enforcement officers come apart during a tragedy before, but Nolan’s anger seemed to be pointed at some distant object that was out of view for everyone except him. Patrick had told his wife about what had happened to Nancy Murphy, and they had both immediately gone into their children’s rooms and kissed them on the forehead while they slept. What was eating at Nolan? His answers and wisdom the previous day had seemed a bit curmudgeonly, but there had been nothing that even neared the intensity Patrick saw when Nolan arrived at the scene.