Permanent Interests

by James Bruno

  There was an awkward silence after the initial self-introductions and handshake. Yakov, intrusive and brash, was at this moment unusually tongue-tied. The U.S.

  Secretary of State's presence awed him just a little. This would be fleeting, however, as his sense of power over other men further swelled his ego.

  But it was Dennison who got down to business first.

  "Look. I don't know who you are or who you represent--"

  "I represent myself and myself only," Yakov interjected tartly.

  "I see. Anyway, I want to continue the deal Horvath had made with you. In return for…information, I demand cash, paid immediately and in strict conformance with my instructions. The other demand I make is that our relationship be kept absolutely confidential. And if you PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  think that you can blackmail me, you can forget it. I may not know much about you, but what I do know is that, without me and that which I can deliver, you're over a barrel, a virtual nobody."

  Yakov was struck by Dennison's bluntness. So were the FBI special agents monitoring the conversation from the tiny device they had planted inside the Lincoln's dashboard when Pyotr brought it to the "Inside Out Car Wash" in Brooklyn the previous day.

  Yakov remained unfazed. "I can assure all of what you ask. After all, I am a businessman who has become successful by being careful. Miss Lydia will be go-between. We need never to meet again. I think you will find that I am easy to deal with, Mr. Secretary. Not to worry. It will be a mutually beneficial relationship."

  "Good. That's exactly what I want to hear."

  "Thank you. And while we are being candid with each other, I will say this. Once the information flow is turned back on, it can never be turned back off, as long as you hold your present position. I can blackmail you, and worse. But such devices are extreme. I prefer not to resort to them."

  Dennison made no reply. His bluster, so effective when dealing with heads of state, ran up against a brick wall in this man. He made another try.

  "Another thing. I deplore violence. A couple of my people have gotten in harm's way because they…they were careless. Mind you, I wanted nothing bad to happen to them. But…they disobeyed and…well, since they didn't follow my, uh, guidelines, other people, I mean, people who they upset or threatened because of their actions, they…"

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  Dennison was dissembling. He stammered, he sweat.

  His lips trembled and his eyes shifted nervously. Yakov saw right through him.

  "Roy. May I call you Roy? You are responsible for the murder of the foolish Mortimer. You ordered the killing of your ambassador Wells. You demanded that Mr. Toby Wheeler be severely injured. And you signaled that you wanted Mr. Innes liquidated. I detest hypocrites. Perhaps it is second nature to diplomats and politicians to delude themselves and others when they destroy other men. I may not be an angel. But at least I am honest with myself.

  Don't attempt to deceive me, and don't pretend that you are a noble-hearted gentleman. I will not tolerate it. Our business relationship will go much smoother if we are honest with each other."

  Yakov's initial awe of his new business partner evaporated like dry ice. He turned away from Dennison and stared out the side window.

  The Lincoln dropped Dennison off near Fifth Avenue.

  Clad in his usual jogger's costume, the Secretary sprinted back home, unrecognized, except for the FBI zoom lenses trained on him.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  "The lousy prick had it comin'. Didn't have enough sense to keep his fly closed," Al whispered to Tony

  "Buckaroo" Musomecchio, sitting in the pew behind him.

  The priest swung the incense burner over the dead gangster's coffin and uttered the benediction for the dead.

  "Hey. The guy was doin' it for so long, he had a lotta husbands and boyfriends fooled. You got a wife like his, you'd be drillin' everything that moves too." Tony laughed hoarsely, causing the old Sicilian women weeping over the dear departed Carl Giovanezza to crane their necks and glare at the two men disapprovingly. A ten-foot crucifix of the tortured Jesus, his suffering face contorted, blood coursing from his stigmata, loomed ominously over the congregation.

  "Cut it out, Tony. You're pissin' off all of Carl's old girlfriends." Tony had to stifle a laugh in his coat sleeve.

  More reproving looks.

  "Hey, let's excuse ourselves. I gotta pee. Whadda 'bout you?" Al said.

  In mock solemnity, the two men genuflected, hastily made the sign of the cross and lumbered down the aisle to the rear of the stately St. Francis of Assisi church in the 298 JAMES

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  Italian section of Astoria. Ricky and another retainer were right behind. A hundred pairs of eyes followed them. The unmistakable thoughts behind them were that, yes, you too will follow old Carl to the grave in like ignominious fashion. Feared and fawned upon in life, thugs were spared of reverence in death, which as often as not was visited on them in shameful or sensational circumstances.

  They hovered next to the white marble holy water vessels at the entrance of the church. Candles for the dead flickered against the dank limestone interior. A dim bulb shone from a black wrought-iron and glass fixture hanging by a chain from the vaulted ceiling. The stolid edifice imbued in the worshiper a sense of something larger and more enduring than one's fleeting existence, something lost on these men.

  "Who the hell was he humpin' that'd give him a heart attack? Can I get an introduction? She must be some piece of culo," Tony continued.

  "Yeah, yeah. What?! You want a heart attack too?

  Better stick to what you got. But, look, let's cut the comedia for a moment. You said you had something you needed to tell me. What is it?"

  The 5'2" "Buckaroo," who got that moniker from having run cowboy-motif casinos in Reno in his early days, looked cautiously to each side, then stepped on his tippy-toes and placed a hand to the side of his mouth to whisper to his friend. Al bent down to listen.

  "Russians all over the place these days. They're in all our old neighborhoods, puttin' the arm on everybody we rely on. Even at Fulton and Javits. People are scared.

  Word on the street is that they're gonna declare war on the Italians. And these guys, they don't follow no rules, see?

  They'll kill women, kids. Not civilized like us. To them an

  infamia is just another tool to get what they want."

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  Al pondered a moment. "Where they gonna hit?"

  "Don't know. Could be our people -- the tenienti, our offices, our cars, our families. Who knows?"

  "What about names?"

  "This guy, Mogilevich, he's all over the place. But so's the other one, Yakov. Seems they're rivals. A bunch of Russians been getting smoked over in Brighton Beach last few weeks. Seems like they've got a guerrilla war goin'

  already. We're next. My sources tell me that the idea is, you knock out the top guineas, that stacks the deck in your favor in the war against the other guy."

  Al stood staring at the altar. The priest was leading the congregation in prayer. Al pondered, his hands reposed, thumbs outward in his jacket pockets, his eyes focused far away. He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet.

  "So, Al. Everybody knows you done business with them Russkis. What gives? How do we protect ourselves?"

  Al led his friend to the candles for the dead. "Look at all those little fires," he gestured to the hundred-odd small flames barely flashing their presence in the dim, expansive entrance area.

  Tony looked confused at Al's change of subject, but went along. He affected deep interest in Al's line of conversation.

  "Each one stands for a soul who's left this earth."

  "Yeah, I get it. Like my ol' man. After Don Cuornero done him in during the trash-hauling wars back in '68. But I hope it don't count for Don Cuornero after I greased the son of a bitch with a--
"

  "Ton'. We're in a house of God."

  "Huh? Yeah, right. Sure. I get it."

  "You ever heard of Quintus Fabius Maximus?"

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  "Was he that Puerto Rican Johnny "Blues" whacked when they was getting uppity and trying to muscle in on Johnny’s numbers business in Brooklyn?"

  "No, Ton'. He was a great Roman general. When the Carthaginians invaded Italy, the hotheads in Rome wanted to rush over and throw their legions against the Carthaginian general, Hannibal. But Hannibal had a reputation for being more clever than the Romans. They lost the first battles against him. But Fabius asked for time.

  He shadowed Hannibal, engaging in battle only when he had superior numbers and could pick off a few hundred here, a few hundred there. In the end, he exhausted and cornered Hannibal. Later, another Roman general, Scipio Africanus, surrounded the Carthaginians and slaughtered them on their home turf in Africa. These guys became great heroes to the Roman people. They helped make Rome into a great empire."

  "Al, you was always interested in that history shit.

  Always readin' them books and playing out battles on the playground with the other kids. Minghia! I remember Sister Francesca rapping your knuckles over that. By the way, we gotta worry about them Carta-virginians here? Lot of them comin' over now?"

  Al put his arm around his friend's shoulders.

  "Just like the Romans had to be smart in how to handle the Carthaginians, we got to be smart in how we deal with the Russians. We play our cards right, they'll be lighting lots of candles in the Russian churches."

  Wentworth worried constantly about Lydia. She told him that, for too long now, her destiny was completely in the hands of others. She had grand dreams of leaving PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  Russia, of creating a life for herself that was not scripted by the relentless denial of hope that her homeland offered in its troubled times. She had sought hope in the West, where she had always been told freedom to choose was limited only by the constraints of one's imagination. But since she left Russia, Lydia said she had been someone else's property, plaything or tool to exploit others. First Sasha and Borin, then Yakov and Horvath. Now the FBI. She burned to set herself free. Her soul ached for a normal life of raising babies and growing old with the man she loved.

  Wentworth made her quest his. He consoled her, comforted her and counseled patience. It was he who convinced her to cooperate with the FBI as their plant within the Russian mob. "Only by doing this can you destroy those who exploited you," he said. And it was the motivation for vengeance that made her cooperate.

  But Wentworth was feeling uneasy over his own circumstances. By now he knew all about Albert Joseph Malandrino. How naive could he be! But, the strange, paradoxical thing about it was that he could live with it. He liked Big Al. Malandrino never asked him to get involved in any shady business. Furthermore, he'd been acquitted on previous charges, hadn't he? It could be that Al had been involved in legally questionable activities in the past, but now followed a straight and narrow path. He didn't need to be a crook, after all. Al-Mac and his other legitimate businesses provided a lucrative income. This, of course, was self-delusion. Wentworth was there when Al met with Yakov at Pironi's. He even took care of the security for the meeting. Now he and Lydia were doing undercover work for the FBI. If Al were indeed a mobster, he would go ballistic. Certainly, Ricky would take things into his own hands. Life was becoming precarious for Wentworth and Lydia.

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  "You seein' anybody special?" Al asked with a smirk over espresso and almond biscotti at Sal and Vicki's.

  Wentworth stifled a jolt of insecurity. Al knew Lydia as Yakov's mistress. Wentworth was connected with the Russian mob as well as the FBI. Double jeopardy. The irony was that he was 100 percent loyal to Al. There would be triple jeopardy if the FBI knew, and peril in the extreme if Yakov was aware of all his and Lydia's connections.

  "You know how it is. A date here. A date there.

  Nothing special, Al," Wentworth answered with a shrug and a boyish blush.

  Al pinched and slapped Wentworth's cheek, a sign of affection among Italians. He pointed his index finger at his aide and warned, "You be careful now! Be safe. Also, watch out who you go out with. Lots of shady broads out there, not from good families. You can play with them, but when it comes to the real thing, you want a good girl from good family. Understand? I'll find you a nice Italian girl.

  The kind that'll look good, cook good and fuck your brains out every night!" Al guffawed. He wiped his mouth, then blew his nose into a napkin. "Hey. We gotta go." He plunked a twenty dollar bill on the table.

  "Al?" Wentworth spoke without forethought.

  "Yeah? What is it, Chuckie?"

  "There's something I have to tell you."

  "Okay. Sure."

  Wentworth wanted to tell his boss everything. Or maybe, just about Lydia. But a sixth sense got the better of him.

  "Chuck. I'm running late for a meeting with some suppliers. Can it wait?"

  "Uh, yep. No problem, Al. It's not important anyway."

  Sal came over to thank Al for the Florentine silver set he had given Sal's daughter for her wedding.

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  "Such silver I haven't seen since my grandmother's.

  Madonna! She came over with nothin' but some clothes and that set of silver. My older brother, Joey, got it though.

  She liked him best…" Sal's hands accentuated his every word, except when he wiped beef blood and grease on the stained white apron that draped over his protruding gut.

  Wentworth got up. He signaled to Al that he would summon Bags and the car over.

  "Yeah, so when my daughter opens this huge box from you, I couldn't believe my eyes! Just like my grandmother's. First thing I do is invite Joey over to my daughter's house. By the way, they went to Vegas for their honeymoon. Had a great time! They won $630. Can you believe that?…" Al was trying politely to break free.

  Wentworth sprinted out of Sal and Vicki's front door. In a split second, another instinct took over, one conditioned by his years as one of the Marines' elite. The familiar ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of an Uzi reached his ears before the bullets did and he plunged to the sidewalk, snatched the Browning 9mm from his shoulder holster, rolled over on his side and instantly lodged six rounds into the chest of a figure who was but a flash in Wentworth's eye. He turned and fired four shots at the getaway car, but it sped off. He rolled to the other side and emptied the remaining three rounds into the forehead of a second figure rushing in his direction.

  Wentworth dropped the empty magazine and slammed another in its place. There was no deliberation, no conscious thinking process involved. Another Wentworth took over, one steeled and ever prepared, with the automatic reflexes of a tiger on the prowl in unfriendly territory. It was over in a matter of seconds. Two strangers lay dead, one sprawled over a suburban station wagon filled with groceries, with a baby seat in the back; blood gushed from his chest, staining the car's hood and fenders in scarlet 304 JAMES

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  rivulets. The other assailant, half of his head blown away, lay askew garbage-filled plastic bags in front of the green grocer adjacent to Sal's.

  Wentworth jerked the Browning to another target. Both hands gripped tightly around the weapon, finger taut on the trigger. He was hyperventilating. His face and armpits streamed with sweat. Another instinct held him back this time. In his sights was the owner of the now-bloody stationwagon, a young, pregnant woman with a small girl holding her hand. The woman was screaming.

  Wentworth bent his elbows, raising the revolver above his head. He sat up looking frantically around him, ready to lower his arms in a nanosecond and resume firing.

  He was only now coming to, seeing people taking cover behind cars and lamp posts, dashing into buildings, or simply running away. Now the realization was beginning to sink in that he'd just shot dead two men
, that he himself had come precariously close to a violent death just, what was it, seconds, minutes, hours ago?

  He heard voices. "Chuckie. Chuck! You okay?" A hand shook him by the shoulder. He looked up at Al's concerned face and blinked. "Take it easy, kid." Cars arrived and screeched to a halt. Men rushed out. Ricky, Bags, beefy Herman "The German" and other Malandrino acolytes swept over the area with weapons drawn. Two men grabbed Wentworth under the shoulders and gently lifted him to his feet. He saw Herman and another man cautiously poke the lifeless bodies of the attackers. Ricky took charge, barking orders left and right.

  Wentworth was pulled back into Sal's. The garrulous Sal hovered speechless and quivering behind the meat and cheese case. Wentworth's handlers lowered him into the same chair at the same table where, minutes before, he and Al had bantered about sex and marriage. Someone found PERMANENT INTERESTS

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  Sal's liquor cache, poured strega into a sundae glass and plunked it down before Wentworth. Al lifted it to Wentworth's mouth. "Here kid. Drink this. It'll bring you back." Wentworth obliged. The potent Italian brandy burned as it coursed through his gullet, into his stomach.

  He shook his head as if to ward off mischievous ghosts.

  "You all right, kid? Talk to me." He tapped Wentworth lightly on both cheeks.

  "Yeah." Wentworth glanced down at his body to check visually whether he was still in one piece. "I'm fine. What happened anyway? Who…?"

  Ricky approached and just stared at Wentworth, a flicker of awe or admiration visible on his face. He surveyed the carnage. Bullets from the Uzi criss-crossed just inside the doorway that Wentworth had exited a mere second before.

  Glass shards from the shattered front window sparkled on the wood floor.

  "You do this?" he asked.

  Wentworth just blinked, still trying to comprehend what had happened.

  "And those two ciucciamochi," Ricky signaled toward the dead men. "You waxed those guys?"

  Wentworth rubbed his face slowly with one hand. A great fatigue was setting in.

  Ricky patted the younger man on a cheek. "I underestimated you, Wyatt Earp. You did good. Real good. Uncle Al, I think this boy deserves a new job description. 'Have gun, will massacre.'"