"I'll do what I can, Ricco. You want I should call our friend and tell him what I'm doing, in case my guy can't catch the van? Or will you do that?"
"He don't give a shit what you're doing. All he wants is the fucking markers. How you do that is your business."
"I tell my guy to take them right to our mutual friend?"
"You tell your guy to bring them to me, at the restaurant. When I got them, I'm to call our friend."
"Ricco, I would be very unhappy if I was to learn that you weren't telling me the whole truth about this."
"Anthony, get your guy on the way, for Christ's sake!"
"Yeah," Mr. Clark said, and hung up.
Mr. Clark took a pad of Oaks and Pines notepaper from his desk, and a pen from his desk set.
On one sheet of paper, he wrote, "Give Tommy the envelope I gave you, A.C." and on the other he wrote Ristorante Alfredo, Ricco Baltazari, and the address and telephone number.
Then Mr. Clark went down to the money room off the casino. There he found Mr. Thomas Dolbare sitting all alone on one of the stools in front of the money counting table, on which now sat a small stack of plastic bank envelopes. Mr. Dolbare, a very large and muscular twentyeight-year-old, was charged with the security of last night's take until the messenger arrived from Wilkes-Barre to take it for deposit into six different, innocently named bank accounts in Hazelton and Wilkes-Barre.
"Tommy," Mr. Clark said, "what I want you to do is take my car and chase down the van. He just left. He always goes down Route 611. Stop him, give him this, and he'll give you an envelope. You then take the envelope to Mr. Baltazari. I wrote down the address and phone number."
Mr. Clark gave Mr. Dolbare both notes.
"Right."
"As soon as you have it, go to a pay phone and call me. Or if you can't catch the van, call me and tell me that too."
"I'll catch it," Mr. Dolbare said confidently. He was pleased that he was being given greater responsibility than sitting around in a fucking windowless room watching money bags.
"Don't take a gun," Mr. Clark said. "You won't need it in Philadelphia."
"Right," Mr. Dolbare said, and took off his jacket and the.357 Magnum Colt Trooper in its shoulder holster, and then put his jacket back on.
"Don't drive like a fucking idiot and get arrested, or bang up my car," Mr. Clark said.
"Right," Mr. Dolbare said.
****
The van that Mr. Dolbare intercepted on Highway 611 between Delaware Water Gap and Mount Bethel was a year-old Ford, which had the Oaks and Pines Lodge logotype painted on both its doors and the sides. It made a daily, except Sunday, run to Philadelphia where it picked up seafood and beef and veal from M. Alcatore amp; Sons Quality Wholesale and Retail Meats in South Philadelphia.
M. Alcatore amp; Sons was a wholly owned subsidiary of Food Services, Inc., which was a wholly owned subsidiary of South Street Enterprises, Inc., in which, it was believed by various law enforcement agencies, Mr. Vincenzo Savarese held a substantial interest.
It was also believed by various law enforcement agencies that through some very creative accounting the interlocked corporations were both depriving the federal, state, and city governments of all sorts of taxes, and at the same time laundering through them profits from a rather long list of illegal enterprises.
So far, no law enforcement agency, city, state, or federal, had come up with anything any of the respective governmental attorneys believed would be worth taking to court.
Tommy Dolbare gave the van driver Mr. Clark's note, and the van driver gave him a sealed blank envelope.
Tommy got back in Mr. Clark's Cadillac Sedan de Ville, and continued down Highway 611 to Easton, where he had to take a piss, and stopped at a gas station. He decided, on his way back to the car, that Mr. Clark would probably like to hear that he had intercepted the van, so he went into a telephone booth and called Oaks and Pines Lodge.
Then he got back in the Sedan de Ville and continued down US Highway 611 toward Philadelphia. It is one of the oldest highways in the nation, and from Easton south for twenty miles or so parallels the Delaware Canal.
Shortly after Mr. Dolbare passed the turn off to Durham, a tiny village of historical significance because it was at Durham that Benjamin Franklin established the first stop of his new postal service, and from the canal at Durham that George Washington took the Durham Boats on which he floated across the Delaware to attack the British in Princeton, Mr. Dolbare took his eyes from the road a moment to locate the cigarette lighter.
When he looked out the windshield again, there was a dog on the road. Mr. Dolbare, although he did not have one himself, liked dogs, and did not wish to run over one. He applied his brakes as hard as he could, and simultaneously attempted to steer around the dog.
The Cadillac went out of control and skidded into the post-andcable fence that separates Highway 611 from the Delaware Canal.
The fence functioned as designed. The Cadillac did not go into the Delaware Canal. The cables held it from doing so. Only the front wheels left the road. Mr. Dolbare was able to back onto the road, but when he did so, one of the cables, which had become entangled with the grill of the car, did not become unentangled, and held. This caused the grill of the Cadillac, and the sheet metal that held the grill and the radiator in place, to pull loose from the Cadillac.
There was a scream of tortured metal as the fan blades struck something where the radiator had been, and then antifreeze erupted from the displaced radiator hose against the engine block.
"Oh, shit!" Mr. Dolbare said.
He got out of the car. He looked in both directions down the highway. He could see nothing but the narrow road in either direction. He did not recall what lay in the direction of Philadelphia, but he estimated that it was not more than a couple of miles back toward Easton where he had seen a gas station and a bar, which would have a telephone.
He slammed the door of Mr. Clark's Cadillac as hard as he could, and started walking back up Highway 611 toward Easton, his heart heavy with the knowledge that he had really fucked up, and that he was now in deep shit.
Mr. Dolbare had just passed a sign announcing that the Riegelsville Kiwanis met every Tuesday at the Riegelsville Inn and had just learned that the Riegelsville American Legion welcomed him to Riegelsville when he saw a familiar vehicle coming down Highway 611.
He stepped into the road and flagged it down.
"What the fuck are you doing walking down the highway?" the driver inquired of him.
"We have to find a phone," Mr. Dolbare said. "You see one back there?"
"What the hell happened?"
"Some asshole forced me off the road; I had an accident."
"You wrecked Clark's car?" the Oaks and Pines van driver replied, adding unnecessarily, "Boy, is your ass in deep shit."
"No shit? Get me to a fucking phone."
****
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Anthony Clark telephoned to Mr. Ricco Baltazari, at the Ristorante Alfredo, to inform him that there had been an accident, some asshole had forced his guy off the road in the sticks, but that the van had caught up with him, and those financial documents they had been talking about were at this very minute on their way to him.
Mr. Baltazari told Mr. Clark, unnecessarily, that he would pass the progress report along to their mutual friend, who wasn't going to like it one fucking bit.
"He's going to want to know, Anthony, if you didn't have somebody reliable to do this favor for him, why you didn't do it yourself."
"Accidents happen, Ricco, for Christ's sake!"
"Yeah," Mr. Baltazari said, and hung up.
He looked at his watch. It was quarter to twelve. He thought that although it wasn't his fault, Mr. S. was going to be pissed to hear that the goddamned markers were still somewhere the other side of Doylestown.
Somewhat reluctantly, he dialed Mr. S.'s number.
TWENTY-ONE
Chief Marchessi had ordered surveillance of Corporal Vito Lanza " startin
g right now." Captain Swede Olsen had done his best to comply with his orders, but Internal Affairs does not have a room full of investigators just sitting around with nothing else to do until summoned to duty, so it was twenty minutes after eleven before a nondescript four-year-old Pontiac turned down the 400 block of Ritner Street in South Philadelphia.
"There it is," Officer Howard Hansen said, pointing to Corporal Lanza's residence. "With the plumber's truck in front."
"Where the hell am I going to park?" Sergeant Bill Sanders responded. "Jesus, South Philly is unbelievable."
Officer Hansen and Sergeant Sanders were in civilian clothing. Hansen, who had been handling complaints from the public about police misbehavior, was wearing a suit and tie, and Sanders, who had been investigating a no-harm-done discharge of firearms involving two police officers and a married lady who had promised absolute fidelity to both of them, was wearing a cotton jacket and a plaid, tieless shirt.
"Go around the block, maybe something'll open up," Hansen said.
"I don't see a new Cadillac, either."
"If you had a new Cadillac, would you want to park it around here?"
"We don't even know if he's here," Sanders said as he drove slowly and carefully down Ritner Street, where cars were parked, half on the sidewalk, along both sides.
Suddenly he stopped.
"Go in the bar," he ordered, pointing. "See if you can get a seat where you can see his house. I'll find someplace to park."
Hansen got quickly out of the car and walked in the bar. He saw that if he sat at the end of the bar by the entrance, he could see over the curtain on the plate-glass window, and would have a view of most of the block, including the doorway to Lanza's house.
He ordered a beer and a piece of pickled sausage.
Sergeant Sanders walked in ten minutes later.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said. "Long time no see!"
They shook hands.
"Let me buy you a beer," Hansen said.
"I accept. Schaefers," he said to the bartender, and then to Hansen: "I got to make a call."
The bartender pointed to a phone, and then drew his beer.
Sanders consulted the inside of a matchbook, then dropped a coin in the slot and dialed a number.
On the fourth ring, a somewhat snappy female voice picked up.
"Hello?"
"Is Vito there, Mrs. Lanza?"
"Who's this?"
"Jerry, Mrs. Lanza. Can I talk to Vito?"
"If you can find him, you can talk to him. I don't know where he is. Nobody is here but me and the plumbers."
"I'll try him later, Mrs. Lanza, thank you."
"You see him, you tell him he's got to come home and talk to these plumbers."
"I'll do that, Mrs. Lanza," Sanders said, and hung up.
He walked back to the bar.
"His mother doesn't know where he is. She's all alone with the plumbers."
Hansen nodded, and took a small sip of his beer.
"Is there anything on the TV?" he called to the bartender.
"What do you want?"
"Anything but the soap opera. I have enough trouble with my own love life; I don't have to watch somebody else's trouble."
The bartender started flipping through the channels.
****
At five minutes to twelve, Marion Claude Wheatley left his office in the First Pennsylvania Bank amp; Trust Company, rode down in the elevator, and walked north on South Broad Street to the City Hall, and then east on Market Street toward the Delaware River.
He returned to the Super Drugstore on the corner of 1lth Street where he had previously purchased theSouvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. AWOL bag, and bought two more of them, anotherSouvenir of Asbury Park, N.J. and one with the same fish jumping out of the waves, but markedSouvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. He thought it would be interesting to know just how many different places were stamped on AWOL bags the Super Drugstore had in the back room.
And then he thought that Super Drugstore was really a misnomer. There was a place where one presumably could have a prescription filled, way in the back of the place, and there were rows of patent medicines, but he would have guessed that at least eighty percent of the available space in the Super Drugstore was given over to nonpharmaceutical items.
It was more of a Woolworth's Five and Dime, he thought, than a Super Drugstore. They really should not be allowed to call it a drugstore; it was deceptive, if not downright dishonest.
He had almost reached the entrance when he saw a display of flashlight batteries, under a flamboyantSALE! sign. He knew all that meant, of course, was that the items were available for sale, not on sale at a reduced price. But he headed for the display anyway, and saw that he was wrong.
The Eveready Battery Corporation, as opposed to the Super Drugstore itself, was having a promotional sale. He could tell that, because there were point-of-purchase promotional materials from Eveready, reading "As Advertised On TV!"
The philosophy behind the promotion, rather clever, he thought, wasAre you sureyour batteries are fresh? Be Sure With Eveready! "
This was tied in, Marion noticed, with a pricing policy that reduced the individual price of batteries in a sliding scale tied to how many total batteries one bought.
This triggered another thought. Certainly, there would be nothing suspicious if he acted as if he were someone taken in by Eveready's advertising and bought all the batteries he was going to need.
And then he had a sudden, entirely pleasing insight. There was more to his having come across this display than mere happenstance. The Lord had arranged for him to pass by this display. He had, of course, planned toBe Sure his batteries were fresh. But he had planned to buy four batteries here, and four batteries there, not all twentyfour at once.
The Lord had made it possible for him to buy everything he needed toBe Sure With Eveready at one place, and in such a manner that no one would wonder what he was doing with all those batteries.
He paid for the batteries, and then put them in theSouvenir of Asbury Park, N. J. AWOL bag, and then folded that and put it in theSouvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. AWOL bag, and then asked the girl at the cashier's counter for a bag to put everything in.
He didn't want to walk back to the office, much less into the office, carrying a bag withSouvenir of Panama City Beach, Fla. painted on it.
When he got back to the office, he got out the telephone book, and a map of Philadelphia, and carefully marked on the map the location of all hardware stores that could reasonably be expected to sell chain, which were located within a reasonable walking distance of the house.
He would, he decided, hurry home after work, leave the lunch-time purchases just inside the door, and see how much chain he could acquire before he really got hungry, and the headaches would come back, and he would have to eat.
****
At twenty-five minutes past one o'clock, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer telephoned to Mr. Ricco Baltazari at the Ristorante Alfredo and informed him that Corporal Vito Lanza had just left her apartment.
"Jesus Christ! I told you to keep him there!"
"Don't snap at me, Ricco, I did everything I could. He said he had to go by his house and see the plumbers."
"I didn't mean to snap at you, baby," Mr. Baltazari said, sounding very contrite. "But this was important. This was business. You sure he went to his house?"
"I'm not sure, that's what he said."
"Okay, I'll get back to you."
Mr. Baltazari was thoughtfully drumming his fingers on his desk, trying to phrase how he could most safely report this latest development to Mr. S. when there was a knock at the door.
"What?"
"Mr. Baltazari, it's Tommy Dolbare."
Mr. Baltazari jumped up and went to the door and jerked it open.
"I got this envelope for you," Tommy said.
Mr. Baltazari snatched the extended envelope from Mr. Dolbare's hand and looked into it.
"Where the fuck
have you been, asshole?" he inquired.
"I had a wreck. I got forced off the road," Tommy said, hoping that he sounded sincere and credible.
"Get the fuck out of here," Mr. Baltazari said, and closed the door in Mr. Dolbare's face.
Mr. Baltazari then telephoned Mr. S.'s home. Mr. Gian-Carlo Rosselli answered the telephone.
"I got those financial documents Mr. S. was interested in," Mr. Baltazari reported. "They just this minute got here. Our friend's guy got in a wreck on the way down. Or so he said."
"Fuck!" Mr. Rosselli said.
"I just talked to the broad. She says our other friend just left there to go home, to talk to the plumbers."
"She was supposed to keep him there," Mr. Rosselli said.
"She said she couldn't."
"I'll get back to you, Ricco," Mr. Rosselli said, and hung up.
"That was Ricco," Mr. Rosselli said to Mr. Savarese, who was readingThe Wall Street Journal. He waited until Mr. S. lowered the newspaper. "He's got the markers. That bimbo of his called him and said that the cop left her place; he had to go to his house and talk to the plumbers. What do you want me to do?"
Mr. Savarese, after a moment, asked, "Did he say why it took so long to get the markers?"
"He said something about Anthony Cagliari's guy…"
"Clark,"Mr. Savarese interrupted. "If Anthony wants to call himself Clark, we should respect that."
"…Anthony's guy getting in a wreck on the way down from the Poconos."
"This was important. I told Ricco to tell Anthony it was important. Either Ricco didn't do that, or he didn't make it clear to Anthony. Otherwise Anthony would have brought those markers himself."
"You're right."
"Maybe you had better say something to Ricco," Mr. Savarese said. "When things are important, they're important."
"I'll do that, Mr. S. Right now, if you want."
"What I want you to do right now is go get the markers from Ricco. Take the photographs and give them to Paulo. You know where this cop lives?"
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