The Vulture's Game (Short Story)

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “Nothing’s changed. You gave me a job and I’m going to see it through,” I said. “I know how to get to him. Me and Jimmy have it all figured out.”

  “You’re going to end him?” Uncle Carlo asked. “Is that what I’m hearing? You and Jimmy, the two of you?”

  I nodded. “We’re going to take care of it,” I said.

  Uncle Carlo pulled back a chair and sat down. He looked at me and at Jimmy and then leaned across the table and reached for a hot pot of espresso and poured himself a cup. He drank it down in three quick gulps. “I’m giving you two weeks,” he said, holding the empty cup in his hand. “That’s enough time for it to work or flame out. After that, if there’s no resolution, then you’re off the job and Scanlon comes back under my radar. Is that clear enough for the two of you?”

  Jimmy and I both nodded.

  “It won’t come to that,” I said.

  Uncle Carlo stared at me and smiled. “One time this guy puts his eight-year-old kid up on top of a park fence,” he said. “Kid is scared, shaking. His father tells him to jump, not to worry, that he’ll catch him before he hits the hard ground. The kid’s still not sure, his fingers clutching the top of the fence so hard they’re drawing blood. Father insists, swears nothing’s going to happen. He’s the boy’s father and he loves him and he needs for him to trust him. The kid, tears running down his face now, closes his eyes and makes the jump. The father steps out of the way. The kid lands hard on the concrete, scraping his knees, arms, and face. He looks up at his father, his eyes wide open and his mouth barely able to toss out a few words. You know what the father tells his kid?”

  I shook my head.

  “He leans over, holds his son’s face in the palm of his right hand and he tells him, ‘If you remember anything, remember this—in this world, never trust anybody.’ ” Uncle Carlo then pushed back his chair, stood, and began to walk toward the library. “I never forgot that story, Vincent,” he said. “And neither should you. You’re about to jump off a fence and there’s going to be nobody there to catch you. Make sure you land on your feet.”

  I glanced over at Jimmy. He was looking at me in a way I had never seen before. His eyes, normally bright and alert, were now hard and distant.

  “What?” I said. “You have a story to tell me, too?”

  Jimmy held the look for a few more seconds and then reached for his pen and scribbled a few words on a notepad. He stripped off the paper and handed it to me. I glanced down at it and looked back at him.

  “You’re in this with me,” I said. “We’re going to get him and we’re going to do it together. You good with that?”

  Jimmy smiled, the harsh look fading away.

  “Let’s get to it,” I said.

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, AUGUST 21, 2002

  7:25 A.M.

  I was in the middle of a construction site on West 57th Street, Jimmy next to me, two hard hats standing across from us. “We can talk in the trailer if you like,” one of them said, “a lot cooler in there and the air’s better.”

  “This will do fine,” I said.

  “What is it you need?” the younger of the two asked.

  “Scanlon’s got a new building on the Upper West Side,” I said. “Just opened, I hear. Or about to.”

  “It’s occupied,” the older man said. “But officially next week is when all the gears swing into motion.”

  “Those condos go for a couple of million, easy, I would imagine,” I said.

  “Higher the floor, higher the freight,” the older one said. “Penthouse sold for over six million. Guy who bought it paid it off in cash, gives you an idea the kind of crowd it’s drawing in.”

  “Any problems in the building?”

  “No,” the younger man said. “Came out pretty solid and clean. A white glove building without a doubt.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” I told them. “I think that building has quite a few problems.”

  “Such as what?” the older man asked.

  “It’s over by the river, right?” I asked. “I read where practically every apartment comes with a water view.”

  “Yeah, and?” the older man asked.

  “Where there’s a river, there’s sure to be rats,” I said. “Lots of them. Especially in a city as big and as dirty as this one. You know, what are there, about nine million people living here, right? They tell me there’s two million more rats than there are people.”

  Jimmy wrote down a few lines and handed me the slip of paper. I glanced at it and smiled. “My friend here is right,” I said. “You see a rat in a walk-up, that’s enough to piss you off. But see a rat in a place that put a seven figure dent in your back account, that’s going to be all it takes for you to call a lawyer if not the mayor himself.”

  “What are you saying?” the younger man asked. “Just so we’re clear.”

  “I want that building overrun with rats,” I said. “And I want you to make it happen. Sometime next week, say around the grand opening would be an ideal time.”

  The two men stared at me and then slowly nodded.

  “An infestation like that, do they shut the building down, relocate the tenants?” I asked.

  “Depends on how severe,” the older man said. “But yeah, if the inspectors decide it’s not safe to be in there, the owner is obligated to find them temporary shelter until the problem’s solved.”

  “Make sure that happens,” I said. “And make sure it doesn’t open again until we give the go-ahead.”

  “That it?” the older man asked.

  “No,” I said. “This building here, how deep into it are you?”

  “Just a few months,” the younger man said. “Barely got three floors done, not supposed to be finished until spring of next year.”

  “Then it won’t take much to bring it down,” I said.

  “What?” the older man asked.

  “Blow it,” I said. “Late at night, bring it all down to rubble. And make sure no one gets hurt. This is strictly a pocketbook job.”

  “How soon?”

  “Best case,” I said, “I would like it to happen at the same time as the rat festival on the West Side. Cover both ends of town.”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect,” the older man said, looking from me to Jimmy. “But I think before we make either one of these two moves, it would be best if we got your uncle to sign off on them first.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “Want to guess how much my uncle likes it when people get in the way of one of his projects by not trusting the guy he sent?”

  I grabbed the handles of Jimmy’s wheelchair and began a slow walk out of the construction site.

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, AUGUST 24, 2002

  1:10 P.M.

  The restaurant was crowded, the lunchtime patrons giving off the whiff of money and power. It was one of those East Side places where the seating arrangements meant more than what was on the menu. I didn’t care much for such places, not then and certainly not now. I slipped the maître d’ a note and a fifty along with my handshake, and still he gave me the once-over before glancing at the name I had written down. I was in a Brioni suit but the bruises on my face along with the stitches did not help. Then again, the fact my uncle owned a silent fifteen percent share in the place more than made up for that minor issue.

  I wedged myself past the numerous tables, each filled with patrons, the talk blending into one low buzz. A few of them were separated just enough to let a thin waiter through. Eventually I was led to Frank Scanlon’s table. It was in a corner by a window that looked out onto Park Avenue traffic. Frank was sitting with his back to the window, the sun highlighting his overtanned features and hand-tailored suit. He was halfway through a large platter of shrimp scampi, three large glasses of ice water lined up to his right. There were four other men and a woman at the table, each of them wedged in tight, Scanlon alone spreading out as if he were at a picnic in the park.

  He looked up at me and smiled. “I hope you at least got the plate number o
f the car that hit you,” he said, smiling, waiting as the others looked up at me, either smiling or chuckling at the remark.

  “I didn’t need to,” I said. “I know who was driving it.”

  “You should take him to court, then,” he said, still holding the smile. “Get a few dollars out of it at the very least.”

  “I won’t need a courtroom to get this settled,” I said. “And I’ll end up with more than a few dollars. Maybe even a building or two.”

  “I’m in the middle of lunch,” Scanlon said, “with friends. Now, you got anything else to say to me, College Boy, call my office and make an appointment. Don’t make me call the maître d’ and have you tossed out on your ass.”

  I eased past two of the men at the table and stood standing over Scanlon. “What I have to say to you won’t take long,” I said. “All you have to do is listen.”

  “Then get to it.”

  “Your time is up,” I said. “Before this is over, everything you have will belong to me. But I will do you one favor.”

  “And what’s that?” he said, smirking.

  “I’ll let you eat here for free, every day if you want,” I said. “My treat. You’ll probably be eating alone, is my guess. None of your crowd likes to chow down with a guy whose pockets have been picked clean.”

  “See that beating you got, it might have been the first,” Scanlon said. “But you keep this up, I guarantee it won’t be the last.”

  “A beating I can shake off,” I said. “But what happened to Anthony Contorti needs to be made right. And I’ll make sure it will. The man led a decent life and deserved better than to be burned to death. One day, that chit will be cashed in.”

  “You finished yet?” He pushed his chair back and stood, glaring at me, his face as red as the wallpaper behind him.

  “No,” I said. “But you are.”

  I turned away from Scanlon, eased past his lunch guests, and walked quietly out of the restaurant.

  EAST HAMPTON, NEW YORK, AUGUST 26, 2002

  7:20 P.M.

  I stared out the window of my uncle’s study, Jimmy next to me. Behind us, sitting at his desk, my uncle was immersed in reading the half-dozen folders I had given him less than an hour earlier. He didn’t look up but waved his hand in the air to get our attention. “The two of you,” he said, “come over on the side where I can see you better.”

  We moved from the window and stopped by the large globe next to the front of his desk.

  “He owes all this money?” Uncle Carlo asked. “To all these banks? You sure on that?”

  “We pulled all his financials,” I said. “I didn’t use any of your bank connections to do it. I wanted to keep you as clear of this as I could. Jimmy dug up some information I would never have been able to find on my own.”

  Uncle Carlo smiled at his son and then looked up at me. “So, run it by me one more time. I want to be clear before I give you my answer.”

  “Scanlon’s maxed out on six buildings and six mortgages,” I said. “The new sites he’s got going up are being funded off borrowed investor money. He’s living the large life, but he’s way behind the ball.”

  “His worst case scenario, then, is he defaults on the mortgages and the banks take his buildings,” Uncle Carlo said. “The construction sites freeze up and his investors are left holding their asses. Guy like him has been at a rodeo like this before. He’ll sit it out a year or two, then come back and hit up a fresh bank and a new crew of investors.”

  “Unless someone comes along and makes a deal with the banks,” I said, looking over at Jimmy and watching him nod in approval. “All of Scanlon’s mortgages get paid off, including the ones he has on two of the buildings his dad left him. In return, the banks freeze him out. No more loans. With his past track record, they would have ample justification to turn him down.”

  “What about the construction sites?” Uncle Carlo asked.

  “An approach is made to each investor,” I said. “They’ll be told that Scanlon’s been using shoddy equipment and skimming off the top, causing his buildings to be unsafe and a potential menace.”

  “Why would they believe any of that?”

  “They might not today,” I said. “But they will after what happens to two of his places next week.”

  “Do I want to know any of that now?”

  “You’ll be happier reading about it in the papers,” I said.

  “Keep going.”

  “The investors are offered three dollars for every one they put in, so long as they walk away from the project and never mention their involvement,” I said. “Once that happens, it leaves whoever has approached the banks and the investors holding all of Scanlon’s properties.”

  “And I’m pretty sure once that happens, our friends in the casino, racetrack, and airline businesses will steer clear of him as well,” Uncle Carlo said.

  “Especially if they are each offered a cut of the New York real estate action,” I said.

  “That still leaves Scanlon access to the drug route,” Uncle Carlo said.

  “It’s the least of our concerns,” I said. “First, you need money to get into that game, and he’ll be pinned in so tight he’ll fall way short. And anyway, that’s a dangerous racket. How long you figure a guy like Scanlon can survive with the machete crowd?”

  Jimmy handed me a note. I read it and handed it back. “Scanlon’s call-girl operations will be the last to go. They can be made to disappear overnight. That’s just a phone call to the right person.”

  Uncle Carlo sat back in his thick leather chair and glanced from me to Jimmy and smiled. “The two of you work this up?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, you seem to have touched all the bases,” he said. “Except for one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Where’s all this money going to come from?” Uncle Carlo asked. “And what’s the gain for the person or persons taking care of these banks and investors?”

  I smiled at Jimmy; this we had seen coming. “You get seventy-five percent of all profits generated by the buildings—existing as well as new ones. That’s for run of show. The remaining twenty-five percent goes to the two of us. Out of that, we pay all expenses and put in our guy to manage the buildings and the site. Same deal holds for the call-girl operations and any casino, racetrack, and airport action Scanlon had already managed to set up.”

  “You got somebody in mind to run those buildings?” Uncle Carlo asked.

  “We haven’t talked to him yet,” I said. “But I have a good feeling he’ll be open to our offer.”

  My uncle sat silently for several moments, running the plan over in his head, looking for loose ends. “Want to know what I like about all this?” he finally asked. “That the two of you worked it out together. That pleases me no end. And it’s a good plan. No bloodshed, money coming in our way, and a major pain in the ass tossed aside. Guys like Scanlon live and breathe for attention. He’ll get plenty of that now, only it won’t be the kind he likes.”

  “We’re not out of the woods just yet,” I said. “He’s in a corner and he might still try to make a move.”

  “Against you, no doubt,” my uncle said. “He caught you off guard with that beating. Truth is, he caught us all off guard. Next time won’t be so easy. I’ll make sure of that.”

  MIDTOWN MANHATTAN, SEPTEMBER 8, 2002

  11:37 P.M.

  “He’s got to go, Al,” Scanlon said. He was shouting now but could barely be heard above the din of the fire engines, the crowds milling as close to the destroyed construction site as they could get. “I let you talk me out of it one time. I’m not going to make that mistake a second time.”

  “Let’s take care of what’s in front of us first,” Collins said in as calm a voice as he could manage. “This and the fiasco on the West Side.”

  “And you think these two situations, both happening on the same night, are what? A coincidence?” Scanlon shouted, not caring who overheard him. “You don’t think
that punk bastard’s fingerprints are all over this mess? And I do what now? Stand here and start over, act like it never happened? That bastard dies, I’m telling you, even if I have to pull the trigger myself. Have I made my point clear?”

  “Let’s take a walk, Frank,” Collins said. “We need to talk. Maybe someplace that has fewer than twenty-five potential witnesses listening to our conversation.”

  Scanlon nodded, noting the change in Collins’s demeanor, figuring it meant he was now willing to go along with the idea of taking out Vincent Marelli. They stayed quiet until they turned right on to Madison Avenue, bustling during the day, but practically deserted after eleven in the evening.

  “Okay,” Scanlon said, “what have you got for me?”

  “You’re busted, Frank,” Collins told him. “There was more to today than the fire and the evacuation. A lot more.”

  “Such as what?”

  “The banks cashed out on your mortgages,” Collins said. “All of them. They extended you as far as they could. Somebody came along and bought them all out. The loans on the site, too. They’re gone as well.”

  “The investors asked for their money back?”

  “They didn’t have to ask,” Collins said. “They were paid—and paid well, I might add—to walk away. All of them did. Every single one of them.”

  “Who paid them?”

  “Marelli,” Collins said. “The old man owns your buildings and your construction sites, and who knows? Before the night is out he might have taken over your shares of the casino, racetrack, airport operations, and the call-girl companies.”

  “How did this happen?” Scanlon said, grabbing Collins by the front of his shirt and tossing him hard against the side of a parked car. “And the how the hell did you let it happen?”

  “How?” Collins asked. “Let me tell you how, Frank. You tried to pretend you were tough. Only you were up against guys who don’t need to pretend. The old man and the college boy. In this match, you were the kid up against the pros.”

  Scanlon glared at Collins. “How do you know all this?” he asked. “Have you been talking to them?”