“Julie, if I could, I’d run the whole list. Not possible. Tell you what. Pick the ten that are giving you the most aggravation. I promise. I’ll get to them. Is Mr. Devlin in?”
“And if I say ‘yes, he is’, does that mean you finesse answering messages?”
“Julie. A promise is a promise. But I’ll take that as an affirmative.”
* * *
Mr. D. cut a phone call short when he saw me walk into his office.
“Michael, I’ve been worried about you. I heard you’ve been leaving a trail of bodies. First Jamaica Pond, then two at the track. Tom Burns told me about your morning. What the hell are you up to?”
I settled into my usual chair. “I wish I knew. It’s like whack-a-mole. Every time I knock down one problem, another one pops up. Have you heard from the D.A.’s office?”
“Billy called this morning. The Dragon Lady’s flustered about not being able to find our client. Are you any closer than she is?”
“Maybe yes. I have a meeting tonight with Ramon Garcia. I think he’s the head of the Nyetas around here. He called the meeting. It’s about Victor. I’d rather not tip it to the D.A.’s office until I hear what he says.”
“What’s the danger level, Michael? That was a hell of a risk you took this morning. I want no more of that.”
I told him about my deal with Paulie Caruso. His expression showed no great relief. “This is your life we’re talking about. You know who he is. How much faith can you put in his word?”
“I don’t know. For some reason, our so-called deal’s given me some peace on that front.”
The furrows remained on his forehead. “I don’t like it. I’m going to have Tom Burns put a man on you for protection.”
I shook my head. “Not necessary. It could even kill any chance of getting information from Garcia tonight. I do think we need to touch base with Billy Coyne. Very privately.”
Mr. D. dialed Billy’s private line and put us on speakerphone.
“Billy, I have Michael here. Can we talk?”
“Hold on, Lex.”
There were some muffled voices, a door closing, and Billy back on the line.
“We’re okay now. What the hell have you been up to, kid? People seem to be showing up shot wherever you’ve been.”
“Mr. Coyne, I’m going to level with you. As I promised. I just need to know for sure that it stays between the three of us. If your boss starts mucking around in this, there could be a lot more bodies, starting with mine.”
That brought Mr. D’s eyebrows up to full alert.
“Go ahead, kid. Lex knows it’ll stay between us.”
I filled him in on my escapades of the past few days, including the fact that I had a meeting scheduled for midnight that night.
“Who are you meeting with tonight?”
“That one I can’t give you. I gave my word. I can say this. I’ll let you know whatever I can after the meeting without breaking that confidence.”
There was a pause. “All right, kid. Hey, Lex, I hope you’ve got a leash on your junior partner.”
Mr. D. looked at me. “It’s my every wish, Billy. The trouble is he’s too much like me.”
That thought brought enough joy to my heart to re-fire my engine for the night ahead. I jumped in. “Mr. Coyne, I have to ask. Last time we talked, you mentioned a tinderbox about to erupt. Can you be more specific? I need to know which way to duck. Our only interest is Victor Mendosa. But I’m sensing threads from the Nyetas, maybe the insectos, and now, for the love of Pete, the North End mafia. Do you know of any connections?”
Billy’s voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Nothing specific. I’ve been getting the same vibes you are. The Puerto Ricans have never gone in for race fixing. Everything else, but not that. And yet I get the feeling they’re all over that race with the Mendosas. That business at Jamaica Pond. That smacks of the insectos. They’ve been at war with the Nyetas for decades. Does your Puerto Rican side agree with that?”
“Completely, but—”
“Hold on. Then we have the Italian mafia boys. That fixed race has their fingerprints all over it. Which leaves the question, what’s the connection? The P.R.s and the Italians have never been bed buddies. And if they are now, this thing jumps to a completely different level. And that scares the hell out of me.”
“On the Italian side, are you thinking of the same name I am?”
“You’re learning fast, kid. There’s only one I know who could handle that fix.”
“Fat Tony Cannucci.”
“The same. I heard he was operating in Florida. Last week he was spotted in the North End.”
“Anywhere near D’Angelo’s Restaurant on Prince Street?”
“No. He’s too smart for that. But your new friend, Paulie Caruso, was seen coming out the back door of Julio’s Pizza Shop on Hanover Street just after Fat Tony had dinner there. Two plus two, right?”
Mr. D. and I exchanged agreeing looks that said the dimensions of this thing had grown exponentially since we took on a relatively simple case of race fixing.
* * *
I left the office later that afternoon with a deep sense of the futility of doing anything until I heard whatever Ramon Garcia could tell me. With everything on hold, I took the luxury of admitting to myself that there was a complete other side of my existence that had been ignored far too long.
At six o’clock, I was weaving the fenders of my Corvette through a gaggle of Boston’s most aggressive motorists—which is saying a mouthful—in competition for entrance to the tunnel leading to Winthrop’s oceanside peninsula across from Boston Harbor. There was not a single Puerto Rican or Italian mobster on the radar screen of my mind. Every sensory cell was filled with the vision of the one who could turn my occasionally helter-skelter existence into a world I wouldn’t trade for Shangri-La.
By six thirty, I was on the doorstep of 2 Andrew Street, roses in hand, knowing what would happen when that door opened. And it did. It always did. Terry O’Brien opened the door, and I was almost struck dumb with disbelief that this smile, this radiance, this brilliance and beauty had agreed to marry this lawyer who seemed all too frequently to defy the rule that the lawyer always goes home.
By seven thirty, we were into cocktails before dinner at our favorite table in the majestic dining room of the stately and historic Parker House on School Street in the heart of Boston. That table had taken on special significance since our engagement. It was never out of my mind that it was next to the table at which Jack Kennedy proposed to his Jacqueline.
I was into the first of three fingers of Famous Grouse Scotch over four ice cubes, and Terry had begun to make inroads on a wine spritzer—lime, not lemon—when, like a gust of wind, our expected guest for dinner breezed in. Janet Reading was Terry’s wedding planner of choice, and once I had met her, mine too.
From that point on, dinner conversation covered everything from colors of bridesmaids’ dresses, to choice of flowers, to seating of guests at the head table, which would, of course, be at the Parker House. Ordinarily, discussions of these details would send my mind drifting into recollections of past Bruins games or concern over an injury to quarterback Tom Brady of the Patriots. I have to admit, after the previous three days, the serenity and nonthreatening calm of the subject matter actually caused me to pay attention.
After a dessert that only Chef Alexander could concoct, Janet left us in a similar whirlwind with a kiss for each of us. Within twenty minutes, Terry and I were cruising up the north shore coast to a spot that will always mark a major turning point in our lives, the Molly Waldo restaurant in Marblehead.
We took a table in the corner. John Kiley, the organist who played regularly for Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox games, and on weekends, for dancing at the Molly Waldo, was on break. We ordered two Black Russians. Within ten minutes, John was back behind the Hammond organ.
He spotted us and gave a courtly bow before beginning his own rendition of the exquisite “There Will Never Be Ano
ther You.” Again it cast a spell. We had been on that floor dancing a month previously when John worked his magic with that very song to produce the perfect moment to propose to my future bride. As always when I was with Terry, I could feel every eye in the house on her, and I had no idea how to thank God for putting her in my arms.
By the last touching phrase of the song, we had danced our way to a spot beside John.
“Michael, I see she hasn’t given up on you yet. In spite of the ridiculously dangerous situations you get yourself into, at least according to the Globe. Terry, dear, there’s still time to come to your senses.”
“How can I when you play that romantic music, John? I think it was your music that made Michael propose in the first place.”
“Ah, that’s a burden I’ll carry through life. Michael, I hope you’ve assumed a more placid life to share with this charming young lady?”
I flashed through the previous two days and changed the subject.
“We have a question, John. To ensure the right answer, I’ll let Terry ask it.”
Terry flashed him a smile that could melt the faces on Mount Rushmore. “Like it or not, John, you’re a part of our life. We’ve set the date. It will be June 28. Eight months from today. We want you there as our guest. But we’d be so happy if you’d play the song for our first dance at the wedding.”
I’ve known John for some years. He shows a suave, cultured, sophisticated persona to the world. But when Terry asked the question, there was a flush to his face, and something in his throat that he had to clear to answer. He took her hand and kissed it gently. He spoke directly to Terry.
“My dear, I believe I have just the selection.”
Now Terry began misting. “I’m sure you do, John.”
He turned to me. “And you, Michael. You keep this young lady out of danger or you’ll have me to deal with.”
“I understand, John. I will.”
I said, “I will,” but John’s words brought back the thought of the meeting I had at midnight to intrude on the spell of the evening. It was ten thirty, and time for just one more dance before taking Terry home and driving to the El Rey in Roslindale.
When we had arrived at the Molly Waldo, I had refused the valet parking service in order to park the Corvette myself in the rear of the lot. I admit to being somewhat compulsive about protecting her from the dings of car doors. In leaving, however, I handed the key and a ten dollar bill to induce caution to the young parking valet while I waited with Terry.
I was making the mental transition from the dream world we left to the reality of the meeting ahead. I had a foot in both worlds, while my eyes instinctively followed every move the valet made in approaching and entering the Corvette.
I can’t really explain this, but something moving in the trees at the back of the lot caught my notice, and every sensory nerve went into full-scale red alert. It was partly what I saw, and partly an intuitive leap. Whichever predominated, it propelled me into a sudden burst of the top speed I could reach across the parking lot.
I was screaming to the valet at the top of my lungs. The young man was just seated. He had the key in the starter and had just brought the engine into its full-throated rumble. He couldn’t make out what this lunatic was yelling. I could see him about to put it in gear, when I reached the driver’s side.
I jerked open the door, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and yanked him out of the car. I pulled him stumbling across the lot too fast for him to gain his footing.
I was still running on intuition. When we made it forty feet from the car, I forced him to the ground and draped my body over him. Fortunately, he froze under the weight of his insane attacker.
If nothing had happened at that point, I’d have forgiven him for having me committed. But in three seconds, in a burst of deafening sound and blazing light, what had been the second love of my life turned from a pristine blue gem into a ball of red, yellow, and orange flame, exploding out the open door and bursting vertically through the disintegrating convertible top.
When I managed to get my stunned senses out of complete lockdown, I could hear the boy gasping for breath beneath me. I rolled off him, but he seemed frozen to the ground. I pulled him to his feet and jerked his head around to look at me. I yelled, “Call 911!” and pushed him off in the direction of the restaurant.
Terry was still standing where I left her in a state of wide-eyed shock. I ran back and took her in my arms. People began pouring out of the restaurant. John Kiley was among them. He took in the scene in a glance and gave me a look of total concern and frustration. “Michael, what—”
“John, please call a cab. Right now.”
With cold rationality fighting for control, my first concern was getting Terry out of there. The figures I’d seen in the woods probably saw me park the Corvette myself and assumed I’d be picking it up myself. They had built just enough delay into the car bomb to let me buckle my seat belt and settle in before being incinerated.
I figured they could be some distance away, enjoying the apparent success of the explosion. On the other hand, they could have stayed close by. If they saw my escape, they might make a second attempt.
Within a couple of minutes, a taxi pulled in ahead of any police response. I could handle police questioning later. My first priority was to get Terry and me in the cab, heading south at full speed toward Winthrop. A twenty dollar bill over the shoulder of the driver accomplished that.
On the ride, I did what I could to calm Terry’s fears, but it was impossible. I could scarcely get control of my own. I kept a close check on the road behind us to be sure there was no immediate follow up.
When we pulled up at 2 Andrew Street, I told the cabbie to wait. I walked Terry to the door. She had regained most of her composure and was left primarily with an intense concern for me. I stayed a few minutes to give her what assurance I could that I’d set up protection for both of us. I left her with the promise, which unfortunately even I couldn’t believe, that our lives would soon return to peace and serenity. I knew that words couldn’t accomplish it, only actions.
On my double-time walk back to the cab, I speed-dialed Tom Burns. I gave him a flash update and asked him to put a protective detail around Terry. He asked about me, but I was still concerned about shutting down any flow of information from Ramon Garcia if he spotted a tail. The time of that meeting was approaching fast. But first, I had one essential errand.
I gave the cab driver the address of D’Angelo’s Restaurant in the North End. By now, his adrenaline was flowing almost as fast as my own. Another twenty over the shoulder spurred him into a speed that I’d bet he’d never reached before. By the time we were flying through the tunnel, I had morphed my initial panic into a blazing anger at what could have happened to Terry.
We pulled up directly in front of D’Angelo’s Restaurant in the North End. Again I had the cabbie wait. This could go either way in terms of survival, but there was only one way to get an answer to my most burning question.
I got a firm grip on every violent impulse that was raging for control and walked calmly through the door. It was well past eleven. There was practically no one there. I saw Paulie Caruso at a table in the back at a late dinner with his palace guard.
I stayed out of his vision as I approached the table. I needed a close-up look at his face when he first saw me. His head was down a few inches above a bowl of linguini as I moved closer. The two thugs beside him had been in the office that morning. They saw me first, but recognized me as being allowable at close range.
I was four feet from Caruso when he looked up. “Hey, Knight. What’s up? You want some dinner?”
I looked for any indication that he was in the slightest shocked to see me still alive. Not a trace. It said more clearly than any words that he was not the one who had sent the car bombers. It also left me floundering for some excuse for being there.
“Hi, Mr. Caruso. I was just in the neighborhood. I hear they make the best pizza in town here.”
I was out of one spot and into another. I had to be in Roslindale on the other side of the city in twenty minutes. I talked Caruso into just one slice of already made pizza for a take-out.
I was out the door and back in the cab in five minutes. I gave the cabbie the address of the El Rey in Roslindale and was holding another twenty over his shoulder. He pushed my hand away.
“Forget it, buddy, this one’s on me. I ain’t had a night like this in my whole life. Can’t wait to tell the wife. You better buckle up for this one.”
ELEVEN
THE CAB RIDE to El Rey de Lechón in Roslindale was almost as hair-raising as the bombing incident. Carlos—the name on his cab license—made good on his promise to get me there in the twenty minutes I had to the midnight meeting with Ramon Garcia.
I asked Carlos to wait for me. Even among cabbies, who engage in automotive combat with Boston drivers for a living, I doubted that I’d ever find his equal.
As requested, we parked two blocks from the restaurant. I took the alleyway to the back kitchen door. It was open to release the heat of the evening’s cooking—and with it, aromas of viands that could convert a committed vegan.
Through the screen, I caught the attention of the chef, Ben Capone. He dried his hands and swung open the door.
“You’re back, Michael. I knew you couldn’t stay away. Unfortunately, the hour . . .”
“Not a problem, Ben. Your lechón’ll have to wait. I have an appointment.”
“I know. Come on in. He’s inside.”
He led me through the kitchen into the small dining area. I noticed that the window shades were all drawn. It was empty, except for Ramon Garcia. He was seated at a table alone in the far corner. I hesitated to approach until I caught his attention.
Mr. Garcia saw me and stood. He had a warm smile, and more to the point, no trace of shock that I was still among the living. That was the second one passing the litmus test.
Fatal Odds Page 8