Sweetheart

by Andrew Coburn

  “I was feeling shitty, so I slept,” he told her.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Better,” he said, watching her rummage inside her book bag and finally come up with a comb, which she ran roughly through brown hair that was graying ungracefully. She was in her early thirties. The books that had tumbled out of her bag were dog-eared Penguins. She taught English literature and occasionally pushed marijuana at Miami-Dade Community College. “If it stops raining,” he said, “I’ll take you out to eat.”

  “I can make something here,” she said. “You think about it for a while and tell me what you want.”

  She went into the bathroom, which was a tiny compartment, barely big enough to squeeze into, and closed the door, and he pondered supper in a leisurely way, glad that they would be sharing it. She was the first woman he had ever truly felt comfortable with and the first he had felt lonely without. He got up and spoke through the bathroom door. “Did you miss me?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I always miss you.”

  “I feel lucky, do you know that? I feel for the first time in my life everything’s going right.” He wiped his white hair from his eyes and smiled cautiously. He had money in the bank, a joint account, his name and hers, both signatures required for withdrawals. “Sara,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the door.

  “What is it, Ty?”

  “I love you.”

  “Good,” she said, “because I think I’m pregnant.”

  He beamed, all of a sudden, and for a full moment closed his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope you are.”

  “Do you want it, Ty?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a kid. If it’s a boy, I’d like him to be Tyrone O’Dea Junior, do you mind?”

  “No, Ty. I don’t mind.”

  Nor did he mind that the child would not be his. Years ago, at Rita O’Dea’s suggestion and then insistence, he had gotten a vasectomy. He said with zest, “Tomorrow we look for a better place to live.”

  • • •

  As soon as he got back from Miami, Victor Scandura reported to Anthony Gardella, who listened carefully and without interruption. When Scandura finished, Gardella evinced no sign of wounded feelings and said, “Only one way to figure it. Sal’s using money doesn’t belong to him.”

  “Stuff we give him to wash?”

  “He’s washing it all right, he’s not that stupid, but he’s playing with it first. That’s the only way he could bankroll big scores on his own. Wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have a penny.”

  “Wasn’t for you, Anthony, he wouldn’t even be down there. He’d still be up here stealing razor blades from Gillette. I still got some he gave me.”

  Gardella said, “He’s got something going with this Miguel, it means what he’s got going with me isn’t enough for him. Maybe he wants me out altogether.”

  “Something to consider. He ever get back to you on what you asked him about? Rita’s friend, Alvarez.”

  “Alvaro. Yeah, he told me this guy’s a piece of slime, a two-bit hustler, and it’s a wonder nobody’s broken his legs and maybe I should do it, advice I don’t need.”

  Scandura let a second pass. “About time Rita grew up, don’t you think?”

  “That’s not for you to say,” Gardella said, narrowing his eyes.

  “Sorry, Anthony, I was out of line.”

  “Too many things hitting on me, Victor. I still haven’t got over what happened to the folks. Neither has Rita. I look at her the wrong way, she’s hurt to the core. Thinks nobody loves her. I love her, I almost got to put it in writing.” Gardella sighed. “Then there’s the thing with Ferlito’s nephew Augie, which I haven’t forgotten. What d’you think about that, Victor?”

  “I talked to him like you asked. I say we watch him, see how it goes.”

  “What about the other thing? Wade. I don’t want any surprises.”

  “He’s set up in an office in the Saltonstall Building, twentieth floor, nothing on the door except Private. They tell me it looks real hush-hush.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “Checks out. She’s playing footsie with her boss, John Benson, Benson Tours. They’ve been away together on trips. Guess where? Key Biscayne.”

  Gardella was thoughtful, even a little pained. “A guy separated from his wife still expects her to behave. Depending on the guy, it can tear him up. What d’you think?”

  “I don’t know, Anthony. I can’t get in the guy’s skull.”

  “I think he and I should talk. Minute he did me a favor, he said something to me. He’s smart enough to know that.”

  “Long as we go easy on it. You know how I am about cops. Even Scat rubs me the wrong way. I still don’t forget the time in the fifth grade he ratted on my brother about who picked the priest’s pocket. Father D’Agostino, you remember him?”

  “Scatamacchia is one of us,” Gardella said dryly. “Wade isn’t. I get the idea he’s the kind of guy you don’t embarrass with an offer.”

  “What kinda guy gets embarrassed? Mad maybe, not embarrassed.”

  “I just told you. His kind of guy. He doesn’t want to come right out and say he’ll take. Maybe he wants to fool himself.”

  “Somebody should tell him everybody takes.”

  “We can feel him out and do him little favors. He’s lonely, we get him a woman.” Gardella’s voice rippled. “Money can come later. Gradually, naturally. But first I want to talk to him face to face. You set it up.”

  Scandura nodded. He had a small glass of beer in front of him. Scattered salt on the table stuck to the edge of his hand. “What are you going to do about Sal?”

  “I got a choice, Victor? You tell me.”

  “You got to clear it first?”

  “This is my business, nobody else’s.”

  “Then the only question is whether taking Sal out is going to be enough.”

  “Make your point, Victor.”

  “If Sal has a contract on you, he must’ve done it through the half-breed. Miguel.”

  “He goes too.”

  “Be nice to know who his shooter is.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” Gardella said with a lethargic movement, some sadness in it, as if from a premonition. Scandura straightened his spectacles and lifted his beer glass.

  “Then there’s the matter of your brother-in-law.”

  “That I got to think about,” Gardella said.

  • • •

  The district attorney did not know Lieutenant Christopher Wade and did not want to know him. One of his bright young assistants, magna cum laude from Suffolk Law, said, “What the hell’s going on?” and the DA told him to mind his own business. The DA had been vaguely briefed by the FBI, sworn to secrecy on the little he’d been told, and promised some of the credit if the scam worked and none of the responsibility if it didn’t. In his conversation with Supervisor Russell Thurston, he said, “I don’t want him anywhere near me,” and Thurston told him not to worry. “If he’s found floating in the harbor,” the DA said, “I don’t want the heat.”

  “You have my word,” Thurston said.

  Lieutenant Wade was installed in a two-room office in the Saltonstall Building, where he could look out a window at the Post Office, Kennedy Building, and City Hall across the way in Government Center. The first room in Wade’s office was furnished with steel desks and empty file cabinets. Wade used the top drawer of one cabinet to stash personal belongings, which included a shaving kit and a spare Beretta 9mm semiautomatic, a twin to the one he carried. Atop each desk was a telephone and a pad of paper. Mug shots of local organized crime figures adorned a bulletin board. The inner room was vacant except for a cot with bedding, in case Wade ever wanted to spend the night there, which he considered unlikely. There was a small sink but no toilet. For that, he would need to go down the hall.

  His second day there, he rang up Thurston and said, “Where’s my staff?”

  “I’m working on it.”

&nbs
p; “I’ve got nothing to do.”

  “Pretty soon you’ll have plenty to do. Right now people don’t know what you’re up to. It creates tension.”

  “So I just sit here on my ass.”

  “Till I say move it.”

  Wade clunked the phone down. He locked the office, rode an elevator to the lobby, and strode out of the building. It was the noon hour, a mild, blowy day. He stood against the percussion of traffic that surged up Cambridge Street, God help anyone in the way. He crossed the street when the lights let him. The plaza of Government Center swarmed with office workers out for the warmth, the men in shirt sleeves, the women bare-armed, tourists among them, also peddlers and vendors, the food smoking from their pushcarts. A ravaged old man, death warmed over, rattled a cup of coins, and Wade, who could never walk by a beggar without giving something, stuffed a fast dollar into the cup. A Chinese youth glided by on roller skates, skillfully, like a spirit.

  With a sidelong glance Wade noticed that the beggar was trying to follow him, perhaps to thank him, or perhaps to ask for a little more. Then the beggar seemed to lose his way, to vanish, a wraith like the youth on skates.

  Wade queued up to buy a hot dog at a busy pushcart. In front of him was an assemblage of City Hall types, Cro-Magnons in Arrow shirts, their conversation carnal. Suddenly they all wheeled around, their eyes darting past Wade to a sudden commotion. Wade pivoted.

  He elbowed through a crowd that did not want to move, its fascination too great. “Look out!” he said and shoved people aside. The beggar was sprawled on his back, coins spilled around him, somebody stepping on the dollar. Wade crouched over him. There was dried blood on his face, not from shaving but from picking, and a yellow fringe of foam on his lips. His eyes were sightless, his fingers curled into claws. Wade listened for a beat and felt for a pulse and then, wincing, the crowd gasping, he gave the man mouth-to-mouth.

  It was in vain.

  He staggered to his feet as two uniformed policemen wended toward him. “The guy’s gone,” he said and stumbled away, again using an elbow, more emphatically this time. He bought a can of Coca-Cola, gargled a mouthful, and spat it into the gutter as his stomach turned. Somebody in passing brushed close to him.

  “That’s no way to make a living,” Victor Scandura said from behind glaring spectacles and continued on. Then he stopped and looked back.

  “You got something to say?” Wade asked.

  “Another time,” Scandura said. “When you’re feeling better. ”

  8

  FLOWN UP from the New York office were four federal agents with newly contrived credentials that bore the seal of Suffolk County, Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Agent Blodgett met them at the airport, provided them with rented cars, introduced them into the lava flow of early Boston traffic, and escorted them to the Saltonstall Building, where they gathered into Christopher Wade’s outer office and stood stiffly in look-alike suits. Each had a background in accounting. Each looked dry, distant, and difficult — perfect for the task, Wade mused. He glanced at Blodgett and said, “I assume Thurston has briefed them.”

  “They know their objective.”

  “Which is?”

  “To harass, to scare.”

  Wade looked skeptical. “They can harass Gardella, but they won’t scare him.”

  “They’ll make him uneasy,” Blodgett said in a tone low and authoritative. “That’s good enough for your purposes.”

  “You hope.”

  “You worry too much.”

  “My nature.”

  “Change it.”

  “You sound like Thurston.”

  Blodgett smiled, as if he had gotten a compliment.

  Within the hour Wade and two of the four agents arrived at the drab premises of G&B Toxic Waste Disposal Company in East Boston. A tank truck was parked behind a chain fence that was warped in places. A no trespassing sign clung unsteadily to an unlocked gate that swayed open when Wade touched it. The three of them strode into a cinder-block building, followed a dim corridor to its end, and made a commanding entrance into a surprisingly neat and bright office, the furniture chrome and leather. Two women stared from their desks, and a small man with lank hair and a Givenchy necktie leaped up from his.

  “Who the hell let you guys in?”

  Wade seemed to smile. “You’re Rizzo, right? You’re the manager.”

  “I’m the owner.”

  “No, you’re the manager. You answer to Rita O’Dea, and she answers to her brother.”

  The man instantly went on guard, eyes narrowing. His tie hung past his fly. His shirt was silk. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”

  “Then you know why I’m here,” Wade said and glanced at the women, who averted their eyes. Both were attractive in hard, uneven ways. Wade noticeably admired each.

  “This is bullshit,” the man said, and Wade returned his gaze to him.

  “I saw only one tanker out there. Where’re the rest?”

  “Hauling waste.”

  “I heard they don’t go anywhere. They just drive out of state and leak a lot.”

  “You hear wrong.”

  Wade assumed a virtuous expression. “These are two of my assistants. This is Mr. Holly, that’s Mr. Haynes. They’re going to check your shipment records for the past year and audit your books. Figure them being here at least a month.”

  The man’s eyes radiated contempt. “This is bullshit.”

  “Don’t you believe it, Mr. Rizzo.”

  “You got anything to show?”

  Wade flashed a court order.

  A half hour later, back in Boston’s business core, he left his car in a private lot and walked around the corner to an imposing office building of darkened glass, where on an upper floor Aceway Development Association had a suite, Anthony Gardella one of the principal owners, though not of record. The two other agents from New York were waiting outside the building for him. Their bogus names were Danley and Dane. The one named Danley glided forward, the dark glass reflecting his movement. “We just saw Gardella go up,” he said and looked pleased. Wade wasn’t. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?”

  Wade glanced at the traffic, which honked and fumed. “Let’s not go in yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t feel like facing him.”

  The agent made a face. “You afraid of him?”

  “Yes,” said Wade. “I’m afraid of him.”

  • • •

  From a dormer window in Rita O’Dea’s bedroom, Alvaro had a full view of the driveway leading to Anthony Gardella’s house. When he saw the flash and sweep of headlights, he noted the time and later the fact that, as usual, Gardella entered his house through the three-stall garage, the doors of which moved electrically. He also observed that, of the two men who had arrived with Gardella, only one stayed, Ralph Roselli, who presumably would spend the night in a downstairs guest room. The other man, Victor Scandura, left in another car, his own.

  Alvaro further noted that the grounds were well lit, as usual.

  He moved swiftly from the window when Rita O’Dea called from the bathroom. Clad only in magenta Jockey briefs, he pattered to the door and peered through the vapors. Half out of the shower stall, she looked like a big baby picture that had burst out of its frame.

  “No towels!” she cried.

  He found one, terry cloth, monogrammed, one that he had used earlier, but was dry now. He spread it wide and rubbed her down, her flesh quivering. Gently he raked his fingernails down her back and gave her a shiver. She snatched off her shower cap, her hair jumping loose, and gazed at him over her shoulder.

  “Sometimes you know just what to do,” she said and sought his lips. The kiss was vigorous on her part, expert on his. He helped her into a massive robe and tied it for her. She reached for a brush as the telephone rang in the bedroom. “Get it,” she said.

  He fetched it for her. It was cordless. He stepped back to listen to her talk and immediately knew from her voice that the caller was her
brother. She threw a look at him.

  “This is private.”

  He retreated into the bedroom, but it wasn’t far enough. She told him to go downstairs, which he did after squeezing into a pair of pants. He made his way into the kitchen, where polished pots and pans hung from a wall like weaponry. A knife gleamed from the butcher’s block. Opening a side door, he peered out into the chill darkness. Only a couple of lights glowed inside Anthony Gardella’s house. He had never been in it, but he knew it was laid out more or less like Rita’s. He also knew that Gardella never lingered more than a moment near a lit window, even with the shade pulled.

  He went back up to the bedroom, where Rita O’Dea was moving about with a heavy step. She was dressing and doing it hurriedly, giving only scant attention to how she looked, which was uncharacteristic. “What’s the matter?” he asked and received no answer, not even a look. “Why you so quiet?”

  “I’m quiet, you should be too.” She shook her shoulders. “Button me.”

  He lifted her hair and did up the back of her dress while breathing on her neck. “Where you going?”

  “My brother wants to see me.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t ask. It was for you to know, I’d tell you.”

  He stepped around her, forced her to look at him. His beard had a sleek look and smelled of bay rum. “What’s the matter, you afraid I keep a notebook on things you tell me?”

  “No, only the things I don’t tell you.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means my brother and I only trust each other.” Then she smiled thinly. “It’s how we stay in business, kiddo.”