by James Bruno
"Leave the kid alone. Can't you see he's got a lot on his mind? Cut him some slack," Al said.
"I admire his work, Uncle Al. Really, I do. He's initiated. We can make good use of him."
The wail of police sirens echoed through the neighborhood. More vehicles screeched to a halt, these 306 JAMES
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with spinning dome lights. Uniformed NYPD police converged like gathering shadows. Ambulances arrived as did various unmarked cars whose official nature was betrayed by their blackwall tires and the utilitarian men and women who debarked from them. The squawk of official radios filled the air.
A bevy of the city's finest stormed into Sal's and fanned out. "Who's the guy?" one of them asked. The small crowd of Malandrino men stepped away from the small table where Wentworth and Al sat sipping strega.
A plainclothes cop in a London Fog raincoat pulled his badge from his jacket and thrust it into Al's and then Wentworth's face. Two policemen, revolvers drawn, ordered the two to rise with their hands raised and legs spread against the wall and frisked them. "I'm lieutenant Menendez. You're the one?" he demanded of Wentworth.
Wentworth could see every pore, every hair on Menendez's angular face. He nodded faintly. Using his pen, a uniformed policeman carefully lifted Wentworth's Browning by the trigger guard and lowered it into a mylar bag.
"I'm bringing you in. And you…" he glared at Al. "I know you." A flash of recognition softened his face. "If it ain't Big Al Malandrino. Fancy this. Guess you can't stay away from us. You're coming with us too. And everybody else who was here!" he announced in a loud voice.
A phalanx of balding, bookish men with briefcases pushed its way in. Ernie Feinstein led the way.
He produced identification for Menendez and declared,
"I represent these two men as their legal counsel. Mr.
Wentworth is licensed to carry a firearm. He was acting in his lawful capacity of self-defense and as declared bodyguard, in accordance with the New York legal code, to protect my client, Mr. Malandrino. You may question PERMANENT INTERESTS
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these gentlemen, but you may not jail them without the issuance of an arrest warrant by a competent judge. Before requesting my clients to accompany you for questioning at police headquarters, you must read them their rights under the Miranda ruling should your intention be to keep them in custody." The other lawyers snapped open their attachés and produced reams of legal documents.
"Holy shit! Another Dream Team!" Menendez proclaimed.
"We are taking witness testimony to prove that my client, Mr. Wentworth, was acting in self-defense against two armed assailants--"
"Listen to me motor mouth! Shut up!!" Menendez ordered. "It's the police who take witness testimony. Got me?"
With a nod from Menendez, police slapped handcuffs on Al and Wentworth and hauled them outside. A barrage of flashes and cam lights blitzed them. A female TV reporter thrust a microphone into Wentworth's face. "Why did you kill those two men, Mr. Wentworth? Are you a mafia soldier, Mr. Wentworth?" The cops pushed Wentworth's head down and shoved him into the rear of a police van. Al was taken to a separate vehicle. Sal and other witnesses received gentler treatment, invited to enter police cars, the doors opened for them by other cops.
Wentworth's would-be killers were placed into body bags and loaded into an ambulance van. Police found no identification on the men. Neighborhood residents said they'd never seen them before.
Al and Wentworth were released after ninety minutes of questioning, and were ordered not to leave the country 308 JAMES
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pending the result of the investigation. Al again appeared resplendent before admiring and curious crowds on the steps of the courthouse, this time flanked by dour but alert bodyguards. Wentworth, still stunned by events, stood silently by Malandrino.
"Hey, Al! Guess you showed them!" yelled a hardhatter.
"Al! Who did it? Colombo Family, Genovese, or what?" bellowed a fat woman with tinted red hair.
"Is this the start of another mob war, Mr. Malandrino?"
asked the same female TV reporter from the scene at Sal's.
The Renaissance prince raised one hand, palm outward to signal quiet. With his other, he tugged at his tie and buttoned the jacket of his silver-gray, double-breasted Armani suit.
"I am not under arrest."
Applause erupted from the crowd.
"I repeat that I am not under arrest and neither is my security man here, Chuckie Wentworth." He wrapped an arm around Wentworth and hugged him. Photojournalists zoomed in on the younger man. Al again signaled the crowd to quiet down.
"What we have here is a case of how a breakdown of law and order is affecting innocent citizens in what were, up till now, safe neighborhoods."
"Tell it like it is, Al!!" shouted a uniformed deliveryman. Others whooped similar encouragement.
"Law and order!! Ladies and gentlemen, what this country needs is law and order! Tell the politicians to put their money where their mouths are! Protect the American people from crime! That's what I say!!"
Amid an uproar of acclamation, Malandrino, surrounded by his gunsels and with Wentworth at his side, made for the midnight blue Cadillac at the bottom of the steps. The PERMANENT INTERESTS
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specially armored vehicle -- thanks to Wentworth's security organizing -- was flanked by a car and a van in the front and a car and a van in the rear, each loaded with armed men. They sped off.
The newspapers were laid out on the large, round coffee table in Al's office at Al-Mac, which now resembled an armed camp. Wentworth stared at them unbelievingly. His face peered from the front pages of the Daily News and the New York Post. "MOB DECLARES WAR - Failed Hit on Mafia Boss Signals More to Come," trumpeted the former.
"BIG AL SHOOTS BACK - New York Braces for Mob War," ballyhooed the latter. Next to the photos of Al and Wentworth being taken away by police was an inset photo of the slain men. The Times, as usual, had a more staid presentation on page two of the Metro section:
"SHOOTING IN QUEENS - Italian-Russian Mob Tensions Lead to Violence."
Al picked up the Times and read aloud. "'Police investigating the incident report that the two dead men were members of the Russian mafia, whose influence has been growing in several North American cities, including Chicago, Toronto, Los Angeles and San Francisco. The failed attempt on Mr. Malandrino's life signals imminent hostilities between the two crime organizations, according to organized crime experts. Mr. Malandrino was tried and acquitted last year on a variety of charges involving…'
What is this bullshit? Here I draw hundreds to hear what I got to say and they don't write squat. But throw out the same old lies about me? Absolutely. That's what the press is good at. Recirculating old lies."
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"Uncle Al, word on the street is those two guys were Russians all right. But it's not clear whether they were Mogilevich's or Yakov's." Ricky leaned against a picture window overlooking the colorless industrial-officescape of northern New Jersey. He poked at his teeth with a toothpick. "And they're pissed at Quick Draw McGraw here. Lot of folks making contracts on our boy Chuckie.
You can be sure of that."
Al stared at Wentworth. In a concerned voice, he asked,
"Chuckie, how do you feel about that?"
Wentworth shrugged. "No love lost between me and Russians. Been fighting them for years in one capacity or another." He thought of his security and counterespionage work with the government and now his sheer hatred of Lydia's oppressor, Yakov. He wanted revenge. He wanted Yakov destroyed.
"It's Yakov," he said.
Al and Ricky both leaned forward. "How do you know it's Yakov?" Al asked.
"My sources. He also has government big shots in his pocket."
"Like
who?"
"The Secretary of State for one. Dennison."
Al and Ricky looked at each other. It all fit together now. Dennison had cut them of
f after Yakov had gotten to him.
"Horvath. Nicholas Horvath. The President National Security Adviser who went berserk a couple of weeks ago and shot all those people from inside the White House."
"You mean Yakov got him to do it?" Ricky asked.
"No. But Yakov does kill officials, Russian and American alike. I have reason to believe he put contracts out on the American ambassadors in Rome and Bangkok PERMANENT INTERESTS
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and at least a couple of Russian intel officers too. Senior officers."
"Chuckie T. Wentworth. I place you in Al-Mac Construction to put an end to goldbricking and petty theft and now you're my own personal CIA. I underestimated you."
"It's what I'm good at. It just takes time. Intel collection is part of a security officer's duties. Know what your enemies are up to before they can act on it. That's the name of the game."
"What do you know about my business? About me?"
"I know that you've had some scrapes with the law.
Serious scrapes. That the government watches you closely.
And that now the Russian mob is out to liquidate you. And it's my job to stop them from doing so."
"Like I said, Uncle Al. The kid's initiated. He's already made. Nothing to do now but to make it formal."
Al sat back, loosened his tie and contemplated Wentworth, assessing him, sizing him up. It foreshadowed an important decision that Al was about to make.
"Kid. You saved my life back there. I owe you my life."
"Just doing my job, sir."
"No. It's more than 'just a job.' You could've been killed. Easy. You waxed those two goons. Now everybody's got your number. 'Hit man,' they'll call you in the papers. A 'soldier' in the 'Malandrino Crime Family' --
whatever that is. The Feds will be sniffing around you.
Your friends won't want to know you. Your family won't know what to think. Your life will never be the same. You realize that?"
Wentworth pondered this. He glanced down at the newspapers bearing his face next to Al's on the front page.
He looked back up to Al. "Guess you're right."
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"You're part of my family now, Chuckie Wentworth.
For good or for bad, you're in. It's forged in blood. I'll protect you, guide you, reward you. You need anything.
Anything. You just ask. In return, I want your absolute loyalty. You understand?"
Ricky, still leaning against the plate glass window, added, "Kid, this is a lifetime membership. You don't resign. Ever."
Wentworth's head swirled. Images emerged and blended together. Of an idyllic childhood on the farm, sunny days at school, warm family holiday get-togethers, running on the high school track team, dating sweet southern girls, graduation, the Marines, adventures, hopes, dreams. Where would his life now lead to? Lydia, FBI, mobsters. So unpredictable, and perilous.
He bent forward, with his elbows perched on his knees and hands clasped. He looked up at Ricky, then to Al, and nodded, but said nothing.
Al got up and gestured Wentworth to rise. He took the younger man in his arms and embraced him on the left, then the right. Ricky followed suit. Benvenuto alla nostra famiglia, fratello, Al said.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The
S.S.
Garrison McGee had seen better days. In fact, it was now in the final years of useful service. Riven by rust, patched here and there and everywhere by spot welding and barely able to reach nine knots with its ancient, soot-spewing engine, the hulking WWII-era vessel plied from one lesser port to another, its creaking holds crammed at any given time with plywood from Peru, construction steel from Brazil, cocoa from Ghana, hardwoods from Indonesia. As a spanking new British merchantman in 1939 crewed largely with salts from Scotland and Wales, the ship bore the name HMS Harlech.
Now of Liberian registry, its latest changeable skipper was an aging Dane, Viktor Sigurdsen, with a drinking problem; its crew was Nigerian, Greek and Tongan, with a sprinkling of South Americans. The cargo was textiles from Thailand.
The port was Galveston, only three nautical miles due north. The ship would anchor for the night and await assignment of a berth the next morning.
For the pair of special ops veterans of the Soviet blue water fleet, it was an easy target. Four strategically placed cemtex charges at the water line was all that it would take to send the old freighter to the bottom with its clandestine 314 JAMES
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cargo of three tons of potent Thai marijuana. It would also send a clear message to Al Malandrino who would stand to lose a bundle on the deal, not to mention his credibility with the distributors who bought the stuff from him at hefty premiums. Yakov would see to it by this action.
The first explosion, more a muffled thud than a big bang, had no effect on the aquavit-sodden captain, who snored steadily in his quarters. Several of the Tongans, island fishermen who were constantly alert to nature's unpredictable actions, however, awoke in their bunks with their ears perked. The second and third detonations sent a shock wave jolting throughout the creaky structure of the ship. It awoke even the nonchalant Greeks. Rust-ridden steel beams snapped apart. Supplies toppled onto the decks. Fire extinguishers bolted from their metal harnesses and clanged down iron stairwells. The fourth charge sent a tremendous shiver through midship, causing it to give a deep and painful groan, as that of a fatally injured giant sea-beast. It seemed that the aged thing even welcomed this coup de grace, a quick, lethal blow to put it to rest finally. Crew members went flying through the air. The craft listed steeply to starboard, then aft, as the screw snapped apart. Sea water gushed into it from the four explosion points, then spread rapidly as strained steel plates came loose and cracked under the pressure.
Captain Sigurdsen lay prostrate in his cabin, having lost his balance twice in an alcoholic stupor. He shouted orders vainly from where he lay. Tongans, Greeks, Venezuelans, Africans ran to save their individual lives, some colliding into each other, others fighting over the few life boats that would release themselves from rusted moorings. Quickly the S.S. Garrison McGee sank, plunging eagerly into a deep, lightless ocean grave. And entombed with many of the crew within was several million dollars worth of a PERMANENT INTERESTS
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narcotic weed, the playstuff of a self-centered society that worshipped individual self-gratification.
Flora Dominguez was barely aware of her husband's stealthful sidling into bed. He reeked of liquor and cigarette smoke. She was fed up with Rick's nocturnal bar-hopping and carousing with other women. Maybe she would raise hell in the morning. But probably not. She'd threatened to seek a divorce before, but thus far had not acted on it. Her priest counseled her to try to bring her husband around through gentleness and patience -- "Jesus's weapons," he called them. Surely, the passage of time would reform Rick. But at this moment, in the twilight between consciousness and sleep, Flora had the distant urge to murder her wayward man. Just end it.
But there were the kids. And the surge in cash income in the Dominguez household over the past nine months made life much more comfortable for all. A new Cadillac Escalade, a boat, nice clothes, private schooling and, soon, a new house in the Galveston suburbs dampened thoughts of a divorce, at least for the time being. She was curious as to how a senior customs inspector could afford such luxuries on a GS-14's salary, but was afraid to ask. The good life sometimes had a way of dampening one's curiosity.
But the good life had just come to an end. Two ex-Spetznaz troopers, veterans of the Afghan war, saw to that.
They moved through the largely working class, Hispanic neighborhood, slithered effortlessly into the Dominguez home through the basement entrance, quietly shut the door to the children's bedroom, silently entered the master bedroom where Rick Dominguez lay in his underwear 316 JAMES
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snoring away, and expertly severed his jugulars and vocal cords while keeping
his mouth shut in a hand lock-grip.
One of many lethal skills learned from the Afghans. They vanished like spirits in the night.
The wetness of her husband's blood didn't jolt Flora out of her slumber until the whole bed was soaked. She felt clammy dampness in the sheets, moved on her other side, then began to sense that she was lying in a growing pool of sticky liquid. She opened her eyes, but looked straight ahead, afraid finally to awake fully and discover what she would discover. Her arm was immersed in blood. She turned abruptly toward Rick. His head was bent sharply back. The gaping eyes and mouth reflected the last fleeting awareness of his life -- that of terror. A crescent-like gash just under his mandible spanned from ear to ear.
Flora bolted upright and released a single loud scream, then leapt from the bed. She covered her eyes, smearing them with blood. Hysteria began to grip her, panic would drive her to lose her mind, lose control. Stop, Flora!
Think, Flora! The thought then struck her that it was over.
No more Rick. No more cheating. No more beatings.
Rick's shady dealings ultimately led to this. She thanked God that the killers spared her and prayed to Him that the government and life insurance would reward her and the kids with a lifelong income.
She flung herself out of the room and grasped the banister to get hold of herself. The kids! The kids!! With a burst of adrenaline into her heart, Flora threw herself down the hallway to the children's bedroom. Ricky, Jr. and Marta Luisa were sound asleep. Flora carefully shut the door.
She lifted the phone receiver with trembling hands and called the police. "Get here quick, my husband's been murdered," she breathed calmly and hung up after giving her street address. Flora looked at herself in the hallway PERMANENT INTERESTS
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mirror. Intent on keeping her dignity, with deliberation, she pushed back her blood-caked, jet-black hair, took another deep breath and slowly walked to the bathroom.
Flora climbed into the shower.
Yakov's humiliation of Malandrino on this dead deal was complete. One shipment of grass sunk and one port of entry scratched.