Book of Nathan

by Curt Weeden

  Five messages were stored in the answering machine when I drifted into my office around four o’clock. Three were from Abraham Arcontius who asked, then demanded, and then commanded that I call him. I was now long past due in getting back to Silverstein’s scrawny sentry who wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. Finding ways to aggravate Arcontius was a pleasure, which is why I didn’t dial his number.

  The fourth message was from Judith Russet who also insisted I call her. Unlike Arcontius, her voice was level, but intense, which told me she had something important on her mind. Yigal Rosenblatt left the fifth message that ended with a callback number. Twyla’s room at the Hyatt, where Yigal was apparently spending his last day and night in New Brunswick before heading south to Florida. I called him first.

  “Morty Margolis just called,” Yigal proclaimed.

  “And?”

  “The paint samples matched.”

  “He’s sure?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  Morty Margolis’s lab results would probably never hold up in court. Nevertheless, the information still might help save Zeus’s hide. The burned-out sedan the cops found in Kissimmee was the same car Zeus saw the night it ran a white van off the road and into an Orlando bridge abutment. Juan Perez, the well-cooked Venezuelan discovered inside the car, was probably one of the men who battled it out under the overpass where Benjamin Kurios died.

  I finished with Yigal and dialed Russet.

  “What didn’t you understand when we met in Princeton?” Russet asked. “If you value your safety, give us the computer disk.”

  I came back with a counterpunch. “I’ll tell you what I value. I value not having some fanatic turn into my shadow.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of your Quia Vita faithful. The man you paid to keep me in his video camera viewfinder.”

  Russet hesitated. It wasn’t a long pause but long enough to tell me I had struck a vein. “As I said, I don’t know—”

  “People who have a foot in the grave don’t tend to lie. A couple of Conway Kyzwoski’s last words were Quia and Vita.”

  “Kyzwoski? I had nothing to do with Mr. Kyzwoski.”

  “But your organization did?”

  “As difficult as this may be for you to grasp, I’m trying to do you a favor. So let me be as clear as I can. Kyzwoski wasn’t directly connected to Quia Vita. But he was involved with a pro-life fringe element that is extremely dangerous—a fringe group that’s not happy with what you’re up to.”

  Trying to make sure a homeless man accused of murder got a fair shake is what I was up to. That fact seemed to have been buried under the misimpression that I was hawking Henri Le Campion’s computer disk. Of course, I could have done more to let the “fringes” know I didn’t belong at the top of their hate list. But proving that I was being wrongly accused would mean an end to the information people like Russet and Arcontius were feeding to me. Information that could prove weighty enough to convince the law enforcement community to apologize to Zeusenoerdorf for his wrongful detention.

  “What do you know about a Venezuelan named Juan Perez?” I asked.

  “Damnit, Bullock. You’re not getting it. You’ve stepped over the line, and now you’re in deep trouble. So much so that your life may be in jeopardy.”

  “I do get it. Who’s Juan Perez?”

  “I don’t know anyone named Juan Perez,” said Russet and I believed her.

  I jumped to a different question. “Who’s involved with this ultraradical fringe group you’re talking about?”

  “That’s not something I’m going to discuss. Just know that your problem isn’t Quia Vita.”

  “Maybe my problem’s with the Order of Visio Dei. Isn’t that the dangerous fringe group you’re talking about?”

  Russet laughed. “Hardly. Visio Dei is a part of Quia Vita. A very important and morally sound part of our organization.”

  “At the Visio Dei meeting the other night, you warned that Quia Vita was going to be challenged like never before,” I reminded her.

  “If it falls into the wrong hands, the Book of Nathan disk might be used to discredit us. We need Visio Dei’s financial help to beat back those attacks. We’re not signing up thugs to help us do battle.”

  “Juan Perez was a thug. Seems he was paid to steal the Book of Nathan disk and apparently Benjamin Kurios got killed in the process. You’re telling me none of Visio Dei’s money was used to buy Perez’s time and services?”

  That stopped Russet for a few seconds. When she resumed, her tone was sharper than ever. “Visio Dei’s members are decent people. If you knew them, you’d realize what you’re saying is not only absurd but insulting.”

  “You want Le Campion’s disk, but you’re worried it might end up someplace else. Besides Quia Vita, who do you think has made an offer for the CD?”

  “You, of all people, know the answer.”

  “Do I?”

  “I told you—auctioning off the disk would be a mistake. Possibly even a lethal one. By playing Quia Vita against another party, you’ve infuriated a lot of people.”

  I decided to lay down my cards. All of them. “Time out. I don’t have the disk. I never did. If I’ve led you to believe otherwise, it’s because I’m trying to help a poor schmuck locked up in an Orlando cell block.”

  Dead silence. Then: “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can understand why you wouldn’t. Truth is, I’ve been leading you on.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said—to get as much information as possible that could help Miklos Zeusenoerdorf.”

  Russet chewed on what I said. “Are you telling me you know absolutely nothing about the disk?”

  Since Russet had given me a lot more information than I’d expected, I had an odd urge to reciprocate. “I know a little. The disk was found beneath an overpass where Kurios was killed.”

  “Who found it? Who has it?” Russet was breathless.

  “I’m not going to say anything more until you tell me who’s on the fringe in the pro-life world.”

  “I want to remind you that even if you’re telling the truth, there are those who think it’s you who’s brokering the sale of the Book of Nathan. As long as that disk is in play, your life is in danger. If you work with us—cooperate fully with us—Quia Vita can help you locate the CD. We have a large and influential constituency.”

  “Some of those constituents could be over-the-edge extremists who’d love to see me cremated. So thanks, but no thanks.”

  Judith Russet growled—actually growled. “Think about the benefit of joining forces, Mr. Bullock. Then think about what will happen to you if you don’t.”

  I tried to sort out whether Russet was handing me an opportunity or sending me a warning. Maybe she was sincere. The events of the last few days proved I could use backup and a lot of it. Then again, maybe she was telling me that if I didn’t get in line with her organization, she’d unleash holy hell. Either way, I wasn’t going to board her train. Quia Vita and its fuzzy “fringes” still came with a label that read “danger.”

  Just after six, the phone rang again. Thinking it might be Arcontius, I let the answering machine collect the call. When I heard Doug’s voice, I picked up.

  “You’re in,” he said.

  “Meaning what?”

  “You have a seat at the Silverstein testimonial dinner.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What about Doc Waters and Maurice Tyson?”

  Doug coughed out the news like a piece of gristle. “They’ll be working as bus boys. Remember—if either of them gets out of line, the United Way’s going to feed me my family jewels.”

  “Beats the crap you usually eat.”

  “Hilarious. By the way, everyone on the island wears a tux. That includes the worker bees. So get a couple for One Nut Waters and Mike Tyson.”

  “Maurice. It’s Maurice Tyson.”

  “He still has to wear a tux.”

/>   “That could be a budgetary problem.”

  “Why aren’t I surprised? Call Hinkle’s in Edison. They owe me a favor.”

  “No charge?”

  I could practically hear Doug compressing his lips. “I’ll put a call in to Hinkle. I can’t believe how much I do for you.”

  “Or to me,” I said. “What about Ruth Silverstein’s doc?”

  “His name is Meseck. I’m working on him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re not welcome. By the way, Maglio wants Twyla on her way to Florida by Friday.”

  “Friday? Are you nuts? I can’t move her until Sunday—the day after the Ellis Island dinner.”

  “Not good enough. She has to be in Florida by Friday. If she isn’t, plan on moving to Bosnia.”

  “I’ve got a job, for godsakes. I need to find a stand-in and I’ve got to—”

  “I’ve done my bit,” Doug broke in. “Now do yours. Oh, yeah, something else. Maglio wants to see you tomorrow afternoon. Any time before five at his office in Edison.”

  “Not a chance.” I wasn’t about to consort with an organized crime icon unless such a meeting came with a monstrous payoff.

  Doug understood what kind of carrot he needed to wave in front of my nose. “Manny has something to tell you in person. He wouldn’t give me any specifics. Only that it’s very important and it’s not about Twyla. Something to do with what happened at the Orlando airport and the New Brunswick Hyatt.”

  Chapter 18

  Manny Maglio ran his seedy empire from a four-room office tacked on to Climax—a stucco, windowless nudie bar that fronted on one of Edison’s busiest streets. At two in the afternoon, there were only a few vehicles in the parking lot—mostly pickups and a couple of beat-up sedans. I pulled my Buick to the rear of the building and looked for a back door employee entrance.

  I had tried calling Maglio earlier in the day, thinking I could take care of business via the phone. Maglio’s assistant, who sounded like Marilyn Monroe with asthma, told me her boss had to see me in person. So here I was, face-to-face with a guard the size of the Statue of Liberty who conducted a full-body pat down before he let me through the door.

  Maglio’s office was surprisingly conservative. Dark paneling dotted with framed certificates and awards from the Chamber of Commerce, Rotary Club, Knights of Columbus, and United Way. I expected calendars with naked women and lamps that looked like sex organs. Instead, there were pictures of a dark-haired woman in her fifties and two girls, each a little on the heavy side, who looked to be in their teens.

  The woman who had answered the phone earlier in the day walked into the room. She didn’t fit my mental profile of a porno king’s personal assistant. The lady was plump, unattractive, and chewed gum with a vengeance. She told me Maglio was handling a situation in another part of the building and should be finished shortly. I wondered what the situation looked like and which parts were being handled.

  Maglio charged into his office a few minutes later. Twyla’s uncle was fifty pounds overweight and wore what little hair he had in a shaggy dark semicircle around a gleaming pink dome. His gray suit was wrinkled and a pair of half-rim glasses hung by a black cord around his neck. In a lineup, he’d be the last person picked as a mob boss and first as a CPA.

  “Sorry.” Maglio was breathing heavily and the collar of his white shirt looked damp. “Wednesday’s when we audition. Every man’s fantasy, right? Twenty women takin’ their clothes off.”

  Maglio gulped down a quarter can of Red Bull, licked his puffy lips, and plopped into a high-back leather desk chair.

  “Here’s the thing,” he went on. “I’d pay nineteen of them broads to keep their clothes on.”

  I threw back a smile, but I sensed Maglio wasn’t trolling for laughs. He was looking for commiseration. “Hard job,” I said.

  “It’s a bitch, is what. I got places from Tampa to Boston, and it’s the same shit all over. Not enough talent. Top of that, you got cops lookin’ up your ass twenty four seven.”

  “Has to be tough.”

  “Tough? You don’t wanna know. The thing of it is, I’m runnin’ an entertainment business, is all. Like Disney, MGM, or Universal, for chrissakes. But think I get respect for givin’ the public what it wants? Not a chance.”

  I had opened up a wound, and Maglio was bleeding self-pity. I nodded to the framed photo of the woman and two teenage girls. “At least your family appreciates what you do.”

  “Them? They could give a crap what I do as long as I pay the bills and stay outta the news.”

  I doubted he was exaggerating. Mrs. Maglio and her two spoiled offspring were probably sitting comfortably a safe distance from Edison, where friends and neighbors pretended Mr. Maglio was just another run-of-the-mill businessman. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah,” Maglio said and shifted his large buttocks the way people do when they either have hemorrhoids or are about to dive into an awkward conversation. “The thing is, I can’t use the phone when I wanna talk private. Which is why I had to set up this here meetin’. I got more people tapping me than a hooker on Saturday night.”

  Maglio would know.

  “I couldn’t figure how to handle this exactly,” Maglio continued. “So, I thought I’d lay it out to you. Man to man and all that shit.”

  Wife and daughters excluded, how many people had ever seen Maglio looking this ill at ease? Those who had were probably parked under a headstone.

  “The thing is, the two hit men who got the contract—”

  Maglio’s chunky assistant broke into the room. “Baltimore’s on the phone. Pasties never showed up.”

  “Jesus, Mildred, can’t you see I’m in a meetin’ here?”

  Mildred? The emperor of smut and God knows what else had an assistant named Mildred?

  “It’s Wednesday, remember?” the lady croaked. “You know, Wednesday. Cop night?”

  “See, this is what I gotta deal with,” Maglio said, his face tight with stress. “This dancer, Bambi—she’s got nipples as big as manhole covers. Every Wednesday, Baltimore sends in its inspectors, right? If Bambi doesn’t have them things covered, I get fined. Know how many times I had to pay off that goddamned city just because they don’t make pasties the size of paper plates?”

  I checked my watch. “About why you wanted to see me—”

  “Oh, yeah. Well the thing is, I din’t know nothin’ about the contract until the two a-holes blew up the airport terminal in Orlando.” Maglio’s eyes pointed to the floor as he talked.

  “What contract?”

  Maglio talked over my question. “Ten or fifteen years ago, this wouldn’t-a happened. I mean, everybody knew where the lines were and you din’t cross ’em.”

  I had no idea where Maglio was heading but wherever it was, he was taking the long way around.

  “Let me make sure I have this right,” I said. “Two men were hired to set off a bomb—”

  Maglio shook his head. “No, no! Nobody told ’em to bomb nothin’. See, that’s the thing. Most of the people ya hire today are worth shit.”

  “But the two are hit men, right?”

  Manny nodded. “Imports. That’s the thing these days. Bring a couple of illegals in for a hit and then ship ’em out when the job’s over. Trouble is, you never know what these bastards are gonna do.”

  The cloud was slowly lifting. The Hispanics brought in to take care of business had used a bulldozer to squash a gnat. Decimating the Continental ticket counter was a case of overkill that still missed the target. So what about the incident that turned the Hyatt parking deck into a shooting gallery?” I asked Maglio.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Jesus, can you believe it?” Manny took a deep breath and whistled. “They said Four Putt Gonzales wasn’t supposed to get popped. An accident. But that don’t matter. The thing of it is, they put a bullet in somebody I know. Even worse, they did it on my turf!”

  Two uncontrollable, incompetent wild men were on the loose and at least one of them w
as still healthy enough to do more damage. Find out who hired the Hispanics and maybe there was a way of calling off the dogs. “Who put out the contract?” I asked.

  “Yeah, well the thing is, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that. It was the Orlando family.” Maglio waved his left hand like he was wiping a countertop. “No, no, that’s not right. Orlando was fine until the Philly boys moved south. It’s them bastards from Philadelphia, who don’t give a squat about nothin’ or nobody.”

  Maglio seemed to be drifting toward a discourse on the ethical erosion of America’s organized crime movement. Not what I wanted to hear. “You know the Hispanics almost took out your niece.”

  Maglio dabbed his brow. “I know. I know. Jesus—my brother must be floppin’ around in his coffin. I’m supposed to be his kid’s guardian, for chrissakes.”

  “So how does this thing get fixed?”

  Maglio pulled at his collar. “It’s done. Taken care of. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “The two Latin guys are finished. The contract’s off the table. It’s over.”

  Maglio had a reputation for being the alpha boss among the mob set. Although he looked more like a government bureaucrat than a gangster, he obviously had underworld pull. “Going to tell me how you worked this out?”

  “Me and the old Philly family reached an understanding. That’s all you need to know. ’Cept that I wouldn’t be doin’ this if it wasn’t for my brother’s crazy daughter. I don’ want her getting’ whacked, which is why I got this whole thing put back in the drawer.”

  Maglio began fumbling with some papers on his desk that I took as a signal that the meeting was over. But I wasn’t about to leave until a couple of other issues were resolved.

  “There’s a kid in jail who’s charged with the Orlando airport bombing,” I said.