He wheeled around fast and snatched it up, wondering if they had divined his wishes and even his unlisted number.
Russell Thurston said, “Hello, Sweetheart. Let’s meet.”
They met north of Boston at a rest stop on Route 93. Thurston climbed out of a nondescript Dodge and slipped into Wade’s five-year-old Chevy Camaro, his small conceit, purchased at the time he promised both daughters he’d teach them to drive but never did. Thurston gave him a lingering look.
“Why the long face?”
Wade said, “Let’s get on with it.”
“Sure,” Thurston said easily. “First of all, I want to make certain you know what Gardella’s into besides the gambling, sharking, prostitution, and pornography. He’s into state contracts with that development company of his, and he’s into chemical waste disposal. Every time it rains he poisons half of New Hampshire, running trucks up there to leak on the roads. He’s into — ”
“Thurston, I know what he’s into.”
“Hear me out, because you don’t know half what you think you do. Lately he’s been doing a lot of business in Miami. He and his cousin Sal Nardozza have been bankrolling drug deals, no personal risk, only financial, and they make sure they never get burnt. The profits, I understand, have been fantastic. He and Nardozza used to work with some middleman named Miguel, but they squeezed him out.” Thurston suddenly snapped his fingers, for Wade did not seem alert. “You with me?”
“I’m with you.”
“Gardella’s also washing a lot of money down there, most of it his own, some of it for friends, including politicians. He’s got his finger in everything.”
“What was that you were saying about a contract on him?”
“It could be a hundred percent horseshit, so forget it until I hear more.”
Wade gazed up through the windshield at a sky more milk than blue. “What makes you so confident Gardella will let me get close to him?”
“That’s the easy part,” Thurston said complacently. “Since you already did a favor for him, he’ll figure you want to do more, this time with your hand half out. Let him do little things for you, nothing big. And you do little things for him. Work it into something like friendship.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“I’ve got faith in you.”
“Gardella’s not stupid.”
“Neither are you.”
“He’s not going to confide in me, no matter how close I get to him.”
“Don’t be so sure of that. And even if he doesn’t, you’ve got eyes and ears.” Thurston reached inside his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper. “Here’s a list of names, politicians and businessmen Gardella’s close with and cops he gives more than just pocket money to. When this thing is over, I’m going to have all of them.”
Wade scanned the list. “Some of these names surprise me. ”
“Nothing should surprise you. Memorize them. One cop in particular I’m interested in. Scatamacchia. Know him?”
“We’ve met.”
A trailer truck swung in off the highway and rumbled past them, air brakes wheezing, the ground trembling. The driver pulled the truck to a stop some twenty yards away and hopped out of the cab. Before hustling into the woods, he gave the Camaro a curious look.
“He’s wondering what we’re doing,” Wade said with a smile. “I can imagine what he’s thinking.”
Thurston, not amused, said, “How do you like your apartment?”
“Fine.” Wade tightened his voice. “Who’s in the apartment above me?”
Thurston was impressed. “Didn’t take you long to figure that out.”
“It was easy. No carpet on the floor. Someone living there for real would’ve laid one. Who’s up there, Thurston?”
“Someone to look after you.”
“And, of course, after your interests.”
“Why not?” Thurston said in all reasonableness. When the truck driver emerged from the woods he cast another glance at the Camaro. Thurston gave him the finger.
Wade said, “You’ve made my day.”
• • •
Alvaro twitched the curtain back. From the dining room in Rita O’Dea’s house he had an unimpeded view of Anthony Gardella’s house and of the expansive backyard, where Gardella’s wife was roaming about, inspecting winter damage to shrubs, and intermittently gazing up at the mild sky. She had on a headband, a warmup jacket, and designer jeans stuffed into leather boots, all of which made her look even younger than her twenty-three years. Her hair was loose and curly. Alvaro adored blondes.
With a soft foot he made his way to a closed door and laid his ear to it. Rita O’Dea was on the phone, business, going over figures with somebody from G&B Toxic Waste Disposal. He knew she would be on the phone for a while yet, for she loved the sound of her own voice. Quietly he let himself out of the house.
Jane Gardella looked up sharply when he approached her and set herself imposingly. She was an inch taller than he, which in no way intimidated him. Rather, he put her on the defensive, his dark eyes edging over her, a smile creeping out of his neat beard, almost as if he knew more about her than he should. “We haven’t had a chance to meet,” he said slowly. “I’m Rita’s friend.”
Jane Gardella drew her elbows in, cupping them with her hands, and checked a smile. Some little warning told her to.
“Alvaro,” he said.
“What?”
“My name. That’s my first name. I got too many last names for you to remember.” He had sugar in his smile, more in his voice. “Rita said her brother had a young wife, but I didn’t know it was somebody looks like a movie star. She should’ve said, prepared me.”
She turned slightly away from him, her hair fluttering in a cool breeze, something nagging her, as if she’d seen him before, two years ago, three years ago, someone like him. “You’ll excuse me.”
“What’s your hurry?” he said, and his voice held her. It was that sudden and almost that familiar, and it frightened her for a reason she couldn’t fathom. His eyes danced. “How’d he meet someone gorgeous like you? Was it here, in Boston?”
She let her arms fall to her sides and watched his face, watched the way he moved his mouth, his teeth flashing inside the beard.
“Miami. Was it Miami?”
She looked through him, beyond him. Quietly she said, “I think you’re in trouble.”
“What?”
A shadow fell over him. He turned, but not in time to avoid Rita O’Dea’s lightning grip. She said, “You’ve got a lot of balls, Alvaro.”
He made amends many hours later, nightfall. In the master bathroom, in front of mirrors, he used oils on himself, cologne, polish. He deodorized and powdered his private places, minted his breath, and stroked his close beard until it gleamed like the pelt of the blackest animal. His eyes sparkled like the sweetest woman’s. He pattered over rugs to Rita O’Dea’s enormous bed, drew back the spread, and lay on the top blanket to wait for her, to surprise her. “You little whore,” she whispered moments later, leaning over him, gigantic in her tent dress. Parts of him received pondering glances.
“Do we need the light on, Rita?”
“Yes,” she said, “because you’re a fool and I’m a bigger one.” Eyes remaining on him, she reached up and loosened her luxurious hair, as black as his beard. The lamp was little and shadowed him nicely. “You don’t fool with my brother’s wife. You so silly you don’t know that?”
“You’re reading me wrong, Rita, always reading me wrong. Am I not supposed to talk to people?”
She did not trouble herself to reply. She removed her jewelry, then her dress, yanking it off over her head, and stood in a slip that looked like the better part of a parachute. “Aren’t you happy here?” she asked. “Don’t you like the money I put in your pocket, the credit card I let you carry around, the clothes I buy you? You really want to give all that up?”
“Come to me, Rita.”
She sat on the bed’s edge and propped an arm o
n the far side of him, her hair falling. He raised a hand and traced a finger over her full face. “Don’t give me any difficult decisions, Alvaro, or we both get hurt, you more than me.”
“I’ll be good.”
She said, starkly, “You’re lucky I love you.”
• • •
The first evening in his new apartment Christopher Wade listened carefully for sounds above him and heard none, which did not satisfy him that no one was up there. A few minutes later he quietly climbed the stairs and tapped lightly on the door. He waited more than a moment and tapped again. Then he tried the knob, but there was no give. He placed his mouth near the crack and said, “If you don’t open up, I’ll use my shoulder.”
The door opened.
The man who let him in was thickset, blondish, dour, and his voice was barely more than a whisper: “This is goddamned dumb of you.” Then, surprisingly, he extended a hand. “The name’s Blodgett.”
Wade shook the hand and then angled past him. The apartment was a duplicate of his but seemed larger because of the minimal furniture. He saw electronic equipment, which was what he was looking for. Two telephones were on the floor. He glanced into the bedroom, which contained only a cot, the bedding stacked on top. A card table and two metal chairs had been placed in the kitchenette. A coffee-maker, the kind Joe DiMaggio touted on TV, was set up on the counter space.
Blodgett said, “As long as you’re here, you want a cup?”
“No.” Wade lit a Merit Menthol. Smoke popped out of his mouth. “You could use a carpet.”
“We’re getting one. Take it easy, Lieutenant. You’re looking at me fierce.”
“I took it for granted my phone was tapped, but I didn’t realize you’ve got my whole apartment wired for sound.”
“Everywhere but the bathroom,” Blodgett said. “You want to talk private, you go in there.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay. You flush the toilet. Run the shower. We’re not going to hear you over that.”
“What about video?”
“That’s coming, if we feel we need it. You’ll know about it first.”
Wade moved into the kitchenette and poured himself a cup of coffee after all. The cup was Styrofoam, which he hated the feel of. He dropped in a sugar cube and peeled open a creamer, which was nondairy, not to his liking. He didn’t use it. “You’re going to look conspicuous moving in and out of this building. You look more like a cop than I do.”
“I won’t be here anymore,” Blodgett said in an easy tone. “A guy and a gal will be taking over, and you don’t have to worry, they won’t be here every minute. They’ll pass as young marrieds, a professional couple. That make you feel better?”
Wade sipped his coffee, disliking it, and drew on his cigarette, letting out a thread of smoke. He was not sure what he thought of Blodgett, whose smile was faintly porcine, otherwise relaxed and open.
“If you run into them on the stairs, nod like a neighbor, but don’t get friendly. Basically they know only what they have to about the operation. Let’s keep it that way. Meaning don’t come up here again.”
“What about the other agent I met? Blue.”
“Blue’s a good man. You can trust him a hundred percent. You can trust me a hundred and five.”
Wade dumped what remained of his coffee into the sink, his stomach queasy. He had not bothered with lunch or dinner. “Any other vital things you want to pass on?”
“Not really,” Blodgett said carelessly. “Though I hear Gardella’s got an interesting wife, half his age. Watch your step with her. I hear he’s jealous.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“One other thing.” The voice turned grave. “Be damned careful of his sister.”
7
VICTOR SCANDURA took a taxi out of Miami Airport in a rainstorm. The rain was heavy, voluble, and the windshield wipers flailed. Peering into the rearview, the driver said, “You don’t look the type. For where you’re going, I mean. It ain’t the ritziest place in the world. Take my advice. Watch your wallet.”
Scandura nodded slightly as he peered through a sodden window. The outside world churned, trees eddied in the rain, oncoming traffic ghosted by. Then the driver’s head turned for a second. “If you get my drift.”
“I do,” Scandura said.
When they reached the storm-darkened dock area, the taxi plowed slowly through puddles that linked up into black lakes. Tandem trailer trucks, which looked abandoned, reared up between buildings fronted by curbside sacks of uncollected rubbish. Some sacks had shattered into the gutter, the trash surging away. “Down there,” Scandura said, and the driver said, “I know where it is. I just don’t like going down there.” It was more of an alley than a street, the rain gusting through it. The taxi inched into it and stopped at a small, squat structure that looked like zinc. A half-lit sign read dinty’s. The driver said, “Don’t ask me to wait.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Scandura replied, peeling off a fifty and tearing it in half.
He hustled into Dinty’s before the rain could pin him in place or sweep him away but not before it soaked the back of him, and he shivered as the door shut behind him with a dull thud. He recoiled from the chill, stale air of the place, which in no way had changed since his last visit, maybe two years ago. The barkeep was obese, the waiter lame. Most of the patrons were lined up at the bar, and immediately he picked out the snitches, their faces secretive, even those who probably had no secrets. Only one interested him.
Suddenly he felt uncomfortable. He was standing in a shaft of light, and he pulled away from it and made his way to a chrome-stemmed table against the wall in a corner, where he felt the draft from an air conditioner. Five minutes passed before the waiter hobbled near. Without looking at him, Scandura said, “I’ve got a headache. Bring me a Bromo with ice.”
Nearly three minutes passed before the waiter returned, setting down the Bromo with a hard clunk, the tablet still fizzing. Scandura said, “The little guy down at the end of the bar, he called Skeeter?”
The waiter looked. “Yeah, that’s Skeeter.”
“I thought so. He’s changed some. You go by him, tell him to come over, I’ll buy him a drink.”
The waiter said, “Sure, I can do that.”
Skeeter appeared presently, carrying a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser, and joined Scandura with a nod. He was a nervous creature, skin and bones, bird-nosed, prick-eared, existing as if solely on his own nervous energy. From the depths of a sour-smelling suit two sizes too big for him, he said, “What’s this you told him I changed some? I look the same as the last time I seen you.”
“I had to tell him something, didn’t I, Skeeter?”
Skeeter was Boston-born, Prince Street, a boyhood friend of Anthony Gardella’s. Consumptive when he was a young man, he fled south to escape the New England weather and picked up pocket money doing odd jobs for friends of Meyer Lansky. In celebration of his regained health he began boozing and never stopped, which left him unreliable as a shooter for Lansky’s people. Gradually, between burglaries and racetrack scams, he became a snitch, one of the best. How he stayed alive was a curiosity, not least of all to Scandura, who had no use for him.
“Anthony sends you his best.”
“How is Anthony?”
“He’s fine.”
“He comes down here, he never looks me up. Only you look me up.”
Scandura’s elbows were damp, which sent a chill through him. His jacket stuck to his back. The last time he was here the barkeep cold-cocked a Hispanic customer for trying to pay for a drink with a peso.
Skeeter said, “You’re getting bald, Victor. I remember as a kid you had light hair. We all called you Victor the Kraut. Most guys get names like that, they stick for life. Yours didn’t.”
“Maybe because I didn’t like it.”
“That’s right. People didn’t fuck with you.”
“They still don’t.”
Skeeter s
miled slowly, a part of his face sagging as if it were missing a bone. “I should’ve sucked up to Anthony more. I’d’ve made it big too.”
“Now you’ve got that out of the way,” Scandura said, “maybe we can talk.”
“Sure, shoot.”
“What’s Sal Nardozza doing that’s different?”
“You’re asking the wrong question, you always do.” Skeeter wriggled inside his suit, as if climbing up in it. Then he downed his whiskey and shivered all over as he reached for his beer. “Ask me about Miguel Gilberto, him I know something about could surprise you. He’s dealing again.”
“Small stuff, we know. He’s got Ty O’Dea with him, which makes it real small.”
“He’s dealing big, believe me.”
“He’s got no money to deal big. We cut him off.”
“Sal didn’t.”
Scandura jerked his head back so that what little light fell his way wouldn’t touch his face. “You telling me Sal’s still banking him?”
Skeeter grinned triumphantly. “I gotta spell it out for you, you horse’s ass?”
A thrill shot through Scandura’s belly. Conspiracy, intrigue, betrayal always affected him a funny way, like someone brushing a finger just below his navel. Skeeter’s narrow head teetered at the top of his suit.
“How much, Victor? How much you giving me?”
Scandura already had the money out, a small moist wad, which he passed under the table. He was on his feet before Skeeter knew it was in his lap, and he was through the door before Skeeter counted it. The rain pelted him. He had to pound his fist against the taxi window to gain entry. The driver flung the door open and said, “Jesus Christ, I’ll never do this again!”
Scandura said, “It’s the only way to live.”
• • •
Ty O’Dea, who lived in a little metal trailer outside Miami, felt lousy and took a belt of bourbon to calm his stomach, which it didn’t do. Finally he lay down in his bunk and listened to the rain. He could feel the throb on all sides of the trailer, which put him to sleep. When he woke four hours later, it was raining even harder. Flannel-mouthed, he took another swig of bourbon and waited for a cramp to pass. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk when the woman who lived with him came home from work. She shook her umbrella and closed it with a flourish as he watched with a faint smile. He was always glad to see her and worried when she was late.
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