“Put that away,” said Geraghty, glancing around. Castoro’s eyes stayed right on the money. Hardie never took money out when Mulvehill was around; when he did, however, Geraghty was always apprehensive; Castoro always intrigued.
“What do you think about electric blankets for all of us?” Hardie said to Geraghty.
“Not a bad thought. We’ll have to see if we can get it past Pete.”
“Not for nothing,” said Castoro, “but I’m really freezing. I really could use an electric blanket. Fuck, it’s not like the Government has to pay for it.”
“We still have to see if we can get it past Pete”, said Geraghty.
“Maybe he’d like to sleep comfortable,” said Red.
“If the cold makes you uncomfortable, I’m sure he prefers to suffer,” Castoro said to Red.
“Maybe he’ll warm to the idea.” Geraghty laughed at his own cleverness.
“Cheers,” said Hardie, raising his glass of California white, clinking it against Castoro’s beer bottle. He grimaced after taking a sip. “This is like piss.”
“Yeah, but whose?” Geraghty laughed at the punch line of an old joke. “They don’t have hundred dollar bottles of wine in this joint,” he added.
“At least it’s wine,” said Castoro.
“Man, when we get ourselves to some civilization, I’ll buy you guys some wine that’ll knock your socks off. Two hundred dollars a bottle.”
“As long as you’re paying, I’ll drink to that,” said Castoro. They all clinked glasses again.
When Mulvehill came out of the men’s room and started back toward the table, the other two Agents assumed a sterner air. Hardie sipped his wine pensively. He wondered, as Mulvehill sat, if the cold he felt at night was really from the cold air, or whether that which kept him shivering in the dark through most of the night was the feeling of apprehension and danger engendered by Mulvehill’s hostility. Red realized that the Government had selected this isolated place in order to make him look like an informant in the eyes of the people in the street. That knowledge, however, although uncomfortable, wasn’t what was keeping him up all night. There was something more, something sinister about the set-up and the Agents. Not about Geraghty and Castoro; they were all right. It was Mulvehill. His dislike of Hardie was palpable, manifested in his curtailment of anything and everything that seemed to give Red solace or pleasure within the barracks.
Red was also acutely aware that Mulvehill’s antipathy was nothing compared to Supervisor Becker’s, whose venom was all the more concentrated since Red Hardie was a drug dealer, but was not a drug-user. And to make matters worse, Hardie was enormously wealthy. Yet, more than that, Red felt there was something else driving Becker. Red didn’t know what it was, but he was acutely apprehensive. Despite the antipathy, the contempt, which Mulvehill hardly contained, Mulvehill permitted Red extremely loose rein while he was outside the barracks. He permitted Red to walk around by himself, didn’t assign an Agent to watch him, took him to town without handcuffs or restraint of any sort. Red was sure that Mulvehill was too much a company man to allow such freedoms without direct permission from Becker. That thought made Red even more leery of the unusual flow of generosity from so poisonous a well. Was Becker, through Mulvehill, tempting Red, inviting him, wanting him, to flee? And if he accepted the invitation, what then? Red was sure the temptation offered to him was a superficial prelude to death. Becker and Mulvehill wanted Red dead.
What Red didn’t know was how bad, how uncomfortable Mulvehill was going to make his existence in an attempt to force him into the desired reaction. And if Red were able to tolerate the initial discomforts Mulvehill created, how much harder would Mulvehill make living conditions, in order to force Red into an attempt to flee, thus triggering his own death?
“Your pizza will be here in a minute,” the waitress said, returning to the table. “Does anybody need anything else?”
“Another beer for me,” said Mulvehill. “You guys?” he said to Castoro and Geraghty.
“Yeah, I’ll have another wine,” said Geraghty.
“Mine’s beer,” said Castoro.
“I’m fine,” Red added.
“Say, Pete,” said Castoro after finishing his drink. “What would you think about us getting some electric blankets?”
“Fat chance the quartermaster has electric blankets.”
Red busied himself twirling the wine inside his glass.
“No, but we could probably pick some up at that mall.”
Mulvehill’s eyes slid from Castoro to Red Hardie. “Bullshit! We may have to babysit, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be an errand boy for this freaking drug-dealer. Can’t take the cold?” he said to Hardie.
“Me? I’m fine,” Red said calmly. “No complaints from me.”
“It had to be your idea. These two cheap bastards aren’t going to go for electric blankets.” He glanced at the two Agents and snickered.
“Can I use a cell phone?” Hardie said.
“Are you kidding, or what? What do you think we are, room service at the Hotel Theresa?”
“There’s no phone at the barracks,” said Hardie. “The United States Attorney said I would be provided access to cell phones to make occasional phone calls to my lawyer, right? We don’t have to be in the barracks for me to call my lawyer, do we?”
“Leppard won’t be in his office at this hour,” said Mulvehill.
“Leppard’s not my lawyer. Sandro Luca’s my lawyer. Leppard was just a paper tiger you guys had stand up for me so I could be knocked down.”
Mulvehill grinned. “Let him have a phone,” he said to Castoro. “All call’s have to go through the switchboard, even if it’s your lawyer you’re calling.”
“I don’t want anyone at your headquarters, or wherever, to be monitoring my calls,” said Hardie. “I want a direct line.”
“You can’t have one,” Mulvehill said harshly. “It’s got to be that way, not only to monitor your calls, keep you from selling poison in the streets, but also so no one who has one of those gizmos that tell what number is calling will know what number is calling. We don’t want any electronics expert tri-angulate where we are so they can help you escape.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. You shouldn’t take Star Trek so seriously,” said Red.
“Never you mind what the hell I watch on TV,” said Mulvehill.
“I won’t. I just want to make a lawyer/client call. And I am allowed to talk privately with my Counsel. It’s a privileged call,” said Hardie.
“That’s not the way it works,” said Mulvehill.
“I believe that is the way it works,” said Hardie. “Lawyer/client privilege. Do I need to have my lawyer call the United States Attorney to straighten this out?”
“Christ. Why do we have to listen to this kind of bullshit every day,” Mulvehill said to Geraghty, his jaw muscles flexing. “We ought to go out and kill all the fucking drug-dealers and druggies, in one fell swoop. Then it’d be over.”
“You don’t really want it to be over,” said Hardie. “Then you and the D.E.A., and most of the Justice System, would be out of a job.”
“Wise-ass prick,” Mulvehill grimaced. He made a motion with his head to Geraghty. “Call the office. We’ll run this past the Boss.”
Geraghty took a cellular phone from a holder attached to his belt.
“Tell him I want a lawyer/client call,” said Hardie. “I just want them to dial the number, but not monitor my call.”
Geraghty pushed buttons on the phone. “Hello, Oswald? This is Geraghty. Let me speak to Supervisor Becker.”
“Let me have the phone,” Mulvehill said, reaching out to take Geraghty’s phone. He put the phone to his ear, waiting. He began speaking with Supervisor Becker at the D.E.A. Office. He explained Hardie’s request for a lawyer/client call without anyone on the line monitoring or recording the conversation.
As Mulvehill was speaking, the pizza arrived. Castoro immediately snared a slice. Geraghty put a slice on
his paper plate and pulled a nibble of cheese from the top as he listened to Mulvehill.
There were some exchanges between Mulvehill and Becker. Hardie listened intently. Mulvehill’s face soured into a grimace. “Supervisor Becker said okay, you’re entitled. Shit!” he said, standing up abruptly. “I’ll be outside for some fresh air. The atmosphere stinks in here. You take care of this,” he said to Geraghty, handing him the cell phone.
“Roger,” said Geraghty. “What’s Luca’s number?”
“Don’t dial it directly,” cautioned Mulvehill.
“No, but I need the number to give it to the people in the office.”
“It’s going to be privileged?” said Hardie.
“That’s what the man said,” said Mulvehill. “I’ll be outside.”
“The number is 212-227-1011.” As Hardie spoke, Geraghty repeated the number into the phone. He handed the phone to Hardie. Red listened to the phone ring on the other end.
“Mr. Luca’s office,” said a female voice.
“Are you the answering service?” said Red.
“Yes.”
“This is an emergency. My name is Red Hardie. I need to talk to Mr. Luca. Can you call him on another phone and ask him to take this call? This is a real emergency.”
In the D.E.A. office, Supervisor Becker sat at his desk, listening to his phone. He had a special device on the mouth-piece which muted any sound from being picked up during an overheard conversation.
“The Red Hardie?” The voice of the woman operator. Her inflection made obvious to Hardie—and Becker—that the woman was black.
“The very one,” Red said.
“Just a minute. Hey, you know who I have on the phone …?” he heard the woman say, just as she put the call on Hold. Becker frowned with displeasure as he listened.
In a few moments, Hardie heard a voice say: “Hello?” It was Sandro Luca.
“Sandro? Red. How you doing?”
“Fine, Red, fine. Where are you calling from?”
“Damned if I know. I’m calling from my lock-up over a Government cell phone, you dig?”
“Okay,” said Sandro. “Everything all right?”
“Can I get up and have a little confidentiality?” Hardie said to the two Agents.
Geraghty looked at Castoro, who was already into his second slice. Castoro shrugged. “You sit, we’ll get up. But don’t make it long,” said Geraghty. “I don’t want to listen to him, either.” Geraghty made a head motion toward the front door.
“Thanks.”
The two Agents stood and walked over to the jukebox, glancing at the available selections.
“They said they wouldn’t listen in—but you never know, you know?” Red said into the phone.
“I understand. You don’t sound right, Red.”
“Everything’s kind of all right. I mean, this isn’t the greatest place in the world, wherever in the world I am. Actually, I’m freezing here. It’s cold as anything at night, and they have the air conditioning on. I want you to call the Assistant, Dineen. I’ve got to get out of this place as soon as possible.”
“We’re going through a cold spell here, too,” said Sandro.
“It’s not a cold spell,” said Red. “It’s this place. And things are not about to warm up anytime soon here. I could catch my death here. You know how I’m susceptible to cold?”
“Oh?” said Sandro hesitantly. “Yes, yes, I understand,” Sandro picked up that Red was trying to convey more meaning in his words.
Becker’s eyes narrowed as he listened quietly.
“Is it that cold where you are?” said Sandro.
“Yeah, man, it’s dangerously cold. I need you to call Dineen and convince him somehow to get me out of here. If he won’t agree, you better arrange to go before the Judge.”
“Is it that serious?”
“I don’t have much time on the phone. I’d like you to find out where I am and arrange to come out here to see me as soon as possible, so I can explain the whole thing. Meanwhile, see if you can do anything about getting me transferred to a regular prison. Even if it’s that maximum security place in Wisconsin. I think this place is dangerous to my health. Real dangerous.”
“Really? I’ll see what I can do with Dineen. I’ll find out where you are so I can come to see you.”
“Maybe you’ve got to go over Dineen’s head. I think he’s probably part of the deal. They’re all looking to better themselves on my ass.”
“I’ll figure something out. I’ll come down to see you.”
“A.S.A.P.”
“Okay. Be careful.”
“I’m trying.”
As Hardie snapped the cell phone closed, Supervisor Becker hung up the receiver on his desk phone.
Geraghty and Castoro came back to the table. Geraghty glanced at the front window. Mulvehill was still outside, smoking a cigar. Geraghty saw him take his cell phone in hand and appear to be answering a call. Mulvehill glanced abstractly, pensively, at the table through the window. Seeing the three men inside watching him, Mulvehill turned his back to them, continuing to talk on the cell phone. The Agents at the table were eating pizza. Red continued to watch Mulvehill talk on his cell phone. In a minute or two, Mulvehill flipped the cell phone closed, and re-entered the restaurant.
“I was just on the phone with the boss about that electric blanket idea of yours,” Mulvehill said to Hardie.
Red, not saying a word, listened to Mulvehill.
“What’d he say?” said Castoro.
“Get this—the Boss must be getting soft—he said, if you want to buy blankets for everybody, buy blankets. He approved a trip to the mall to buy them.”
“Hey, beautiful,” smiled Castoro.
“You got your way again, Mr. Hardie,” said Mulvehill.
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” said Hardie.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Mulvehill.
“Nothin’. Nothin’ at all.”
“When are we going to the mall?” said Castoro. “Oh, baby, sleeping warm.”
“The Boss said probably in a couple of days.”
“It’s going to be cold tonight, and again tomorrow night,” said Castoro.
“Hey, Lou,” said Geraghty. “This is your Government at work. Take it easy.”
Bay Ridge : August 6, 1996 : 11:50 P.M.
“Bobby Red. You’re a pisser,” Tony Balls exploded, shaking with laughter as he stood at the bar in Moscarella’s. Robert D’Onofrio, known as ‘Bobby Red’, was a shorter man, with reddish hair and bright, slightly bulging eyes that were now watering as he laughed. He was seated on a bar stool. Tony Balls’ hilarity, which had been abating, exploded again. He slapped the bar. “Oh Madon,” he repeated the punch line of the joke Bobby Red had just told him about the horse that only understood commands in Italian.
Bobby Red, a Union Official, had come directly from a fancy dinner. He was in a tuxedo. His black bow-tie, now undone, hung loosely in his winged collar.
“Salute,” said Tony Balls, clinking his glass against Bobby Red’s martini glass. “Where’d ya go in the head waiter’s suit?”
“The Waldorf, in the City, one of those chicken a la king jobs, a benefit for one of the people from 813.”
“Teamsters?”
“Yeah.”
“That Judge—what the fuck’s his name?—he still running the Union?”
“Lacey? Yeah.”
After the Government brought a RICO Action against the Teamsters Union, the case was assigned to Federal Judge David Edelstein. Eventually, the RICO action was settled by an agreement that a former Federal Judge, Frederick Lacey, would oversee the running of the Teamsters Union, As part of the settlement agreement, everybody who was a member of Organized Crime, or even a friend of anyone associated with Organized Crime, was to be called in front of Lacey and banned from the Union.
“Lacey still breaking everybody’s balls?”
“Yeah, him and Edelstein—”
“That’
s a real prick,” said Tony Balls. “Madon,” exclaimed Tony Balls, re-visiting Bobby Red’s joke. His laughter erupted again. “That is some joke, Bobby. I wish I could tell jokes. That’s a good one.”
A car rolled slowly to a stop at the curb outside the restaurant. Both men looked through the panes of the French doors that formed the front wall of Moscarella’s.
“Who’s that?” said Tony Balls, squinting into the dark at the figure of a young man now exiting the car.
“Looks like Billy Legs’ kid.”
“Hey, Sally,” Tony Balls greeted as he unlocked the front door of the restaurant. Sally Cantelupo’s shirt was open down to the middle of his chest, displaying a conspicuous gold medallion on a thick gold chain.
Sally embraced Tony Balls, kissing him on the cheek. “Hey, Bobby Red,” Sally said, walking over to the second man, kissing him on the cheek.
“You want a drink?” asked Tony Balls. “Hey, Enzo,” he called toward the interior of the restaurant.
“No, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” said Sally.
“I’m gonna get going,” said Bobby Red, sipping the last of his drink.
“No, no, I don’t want to chase you,” said Sally. “I’m only going to be a minute—not even.”
“Yeah, stay,” said Tony Balls, “we’ll have another drink. I don’t get to see none of the old crew lately.”
“You sure?” Bobby Red said to Tony Balls and Sally.
“Sure. Hey, Enzo. Get Bobby Red another of whatever he’s drinking in the martooni glass. Come on, Sally. I’ll walk you to your car.”
Tony Balls and Sally walked out to the street. They drifted into the shadows just beyond the front of the restaurant.
“You got something for me?” Sally said to Tony Balls.
“What the fuck you talking about?” said Tony Balls. He put his arm around Sally’s shoulders and walked further away from the restaurant. “You got something from me just a couple of days ago.”
“It was last week.”
“Same fuckin’ thing. What the fuck are you doing, becoming a hop-head on me?”
“What hop-head?” said Sally. “A bag here, a bag there, that’s all,” he whispered softly.
“A bag here a bag there, my ass,” said Tony Balls. “You’re using too much of this shit. I shouldn’t be doing none of this in the first place. Especially with you. Your Old Man ever finds out, I’m in a lot of fuckin’ trouble. I mean it, a lot of fuckin’ trouble.”
Condemned Page 35