“Spell it out, Frank.”
“Taste that, Nick, is that good or what? Well, you’ll bring whatever Papa Ventura gives you to Coleman. Nothing else. Remember, Ventura’s got a leak in that squad and he’ll be checking you out. Your grandfather will give you real information, but only stuff damaging to his enemies. As far as Coleman and his team are concerned—that’s all they get. Now, Professor Caruso, you give him all the information you find: names, locations, meetings, company organizations, officers, deals, whatever. Only to Caruso. And he’ll give you some tips to give your grandfather.”
“But, if there’s a mole in Coleman’s squad, won’t my grandfather wonder where I’m getting my stuff from? He’ll know it wasn’t from them.”
Frank shrugged. “You got a lotta connections in the department, right? So, what does that make you, a triple agent?”
“It makes me a sitting duck.”
“Not if you’re careful. And I know you,. Nick. You know how to play whatever game you gotta play.”
“Right. I’m a natural-born gambler.”
“No gamble, Nick. You’re a team player. One other thing. You and me—we won’t have any contact. Assume your phone is tapped and you’re being followed. You reach me only through Caruso. Until this is over.”
“And when will that be?”
“You gonna leave that big chunk of Boston cream? That waitress will trip us on the way out.”
Nick leveled a cold stare at his uncle and deliberately plunged his fork into the cake, stuffed it into his mouth.
“Jeez, you’re a selfish little bastard, aren’t you?”
CHAPTER 23
VENTURA REAL ESTATE WAS housed in a storefront on Metropolitan Avenue, just beyond the fancy Forest Hills streets. The man there was Marty Tortelli, a mid-sixties, skinny guy who chewed on an unlit cigar that smelled terrible. No one would talk into a telephone after him: ashtray breath. He wore smudged glasses that needed cleaning and updating badly. He held everything he read at arm’s length. He was out of the office more than in. He introduced Nick to Tessie Tortuga—“someone’s aunt,” Marty whispered.
Tessie was a slender woman, anywhere from mid-fifties to mid-seventies. With her dyed black hair, and carefully applied makeup, impeccable grooming, attractive clothing, and high heels, Tessie had a sparkle. She trailed a whiff of light, pleasant perfume as she showed Nick around the office.
She set him up at a steel desk in the front window, so he could gaze over Metropolitan Avenue. Across the street were a collection of taxpayers: small shops at street level, small apartments upstairs. The neighborhood was clean and orderly. No troublemakers allowed. Nick took an armload of file folders, fanned them out on his desk. There were properties recently sold, recently rented, on the market. There were client lists—potentials to buy, sell, or rent. Tessie kept the files. Anything you needed to know was in Tessie’s head, if not in her files. She scorned the computer—so call her old-fashioned.
Nick spent a week or so studying the files, concentrating on houses and apartments. There was another large section of information on industrial properties handled by Ventura Real Estate.
He was driven around Forest Hills, then Forest Hills Gardens, by Salvy Grosso, a hulking man who looked fatter than he actually was. His face was very broad and featured a solid block of black eyebrows straight across his forehead. He had the wheeze of a smoker, although he had never been one. He was a toucher—your arm, your shoulder, your sleeve. When he knew you better, he might loop an arm around you.
Salvy spoke in a soft, confidential voice, occasionally cupping his hand around his mouth, just in case someone, somewhere, was curious about what he was saying. He drove through the Gardens like a tour guide. He had grown up in Woodside, Queens, and he felt that gave him, somehow, an insider’s view. He stopped in front of a large house, mostly hidden behind bushes, trees, random plantings. Home of the first woman vice-presidential candidate. Neighbors went crazy when she was running: all the Secret Service, P.D., and media. If just for that reason, everyone was glad she lost. After all, Forest Hills Gardens was not happy with intruders. He pointed, vaguely, at what he said had been the home of a Transit Authority commissioner, “before your time, Nick.” And you couldn’t see it from here, but some older dame, a movie character actress, raised her kids here. And that actor from NYPD Blue, who claimed he came from hard times, he lived right in the heart of the Gardens. Some hard times.
It was a very quaint, self-contained old English Tudor village with an inn and a square and its own stop on the Long Island Railroad line. Salvy pointed out where the serial killer, Son of Sam, had murdered women on two separate occasions.
“Imagine a bum like that?” Salvy seemed to take the violation personally. “Ya know, Nick, I figured the guy to be a cop, ya know?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, he hit his targets at all hours. I figured he must have worked different tours. He turns out to be just another post office nuthead. Do they get like that on their job, or does the P.O. attract them? What?”
They visited several of the newer high-rises on Queens Boulevard, a futuristic collection of glass and steel buildings that would fit right in with any newly reconstructed section of Manhattan: all the same, without character or distinctiveness.
“When I was a kid living in Woodside, I worked for a garbage collection company. We’d pick up from restaurants, and some real nice private homes around here. Most of this section was empty lots—some parking lots for car sales agencies. Ya see the Kennedy House over there? Christ, I remember when there used to be a big mansion; with beautiful lawns and gardens, and a three-car garage in back. Must have been more than an acre. I guess the old folks died and the next in line sold out. Probably got a fortune. The developers just leveled the house. Guy I worked for, he got some of the woodwork—doors, shutters, and stained glass. He had an in with the construction guys. Shame, though, huh?”
When Nick got back to the office, Tessie, with a big smile, jingled some keys at him, then, with a jerk of her head, indicated a dark blue Cadillac parked across the street.
“Company rented it for you, Nick. Can’t have you representing us in an old station wagon.”
He checked the papers. Long-term lease. On the company. As he walked out, a shiny black Jaguar blocked his way. The window slid down and there was Laura Santalvo.
“Nick. Come for a ride with me. I have something I want you to see.”
She handled the Jag with great authority, as she did everything else. She cut across Queens Boulevard swiftly, pulled into the U-shaped driveway in front of one of the newer thirty-story co-ops Nick had seen earlier. She left the car where she had stopped. The doorman hurried to help her, bobbed his head up and down.
On the twelfth floor, Laura led him to a door at the far end of the hallway, which she opened.
“Never live next to an elevator. I don’t care how quiet they are, you can still hear them. Or feel them.”
She flipped on a series of switches that lit up a large entrance hall, a huge living room, connected to a good-sized dining room, with adjoining eat-in kitchen. She preceded him rapidly, opening a door to a dark bedroom: even with the lights the room was dim.
“Master bathroom,” she pointed out. “There’s another bedroom, a little smaller; can be a den or office or whatever. Has its own bathroom, plus there’s a small lavatory next to a closet in the entrance hall. There’s a well-stocked bar. TV built in; music system—” She stopped speaking and watched him closely.
“Very nice. Laura, you have a very nice place.”
She started to laugh. It was the hearty, honest sound that brought back childhood. She flopped sideways onto a soft beige armchair, letting her long legs dangle. Her head fell back and she pressed her hands over her mouth.
“I’m sorry, Nick. My God, didn’t Tessie tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Laura stood up, came close to him, ran her fingers lightly over his lips; puckered her lips and be
gan to laugh again.
“Did you think I brought you up here to seduce you?”
“You wouldn’t have to …”
“This is yours, Nicky. Papa put you on hold over by the tennis courts because I had a customer from France over for a couple of weeks. We put him up here. He moved out two days ago. I had a cleaning service give the place a good workout. It’s all yours.”
“Like hell. I couldn’t afford …”
“Ventura Real Estate owns this place. We use it for various clients. Sometimes I have European models stay here. Sometimes there are business conventions. Papa puts people up here. He’s got a couple other apartments just like it in the building.” She walked to the floor-to-ceiling, apartment-wide windows and pushed a button that slid the drapes open.
“Not exactly the Manhattan skyline, but not bad. If you don’t like the location, there are others, all up and down the boulevard. You didn’t want a house, did you?”
Nick stood beside her and stared at the panoramic view: Forest Hills at night. Across the wide boulevard were thirty- and forty-story buildings.
“This is not exactly my style, Laura.”
She glanced at her watch just as the security phone rang. “Speaking of style.” She grabbed the phone. “Good, yes, send him up.”
She looked Nick up and down and shook her head. He was wearing a slightly shoddy sports jacket and wrinkled dark gray slacks.
“You look like a cop, Nick. We have to fix you up.” The tailor—Papa’s tailor—was a tiny man with a bald head, except for a thick white fringe around the neckline. He had heavy white brows and a thick yellowish, mustache. He arrived with a suitcase of samples; measuring tapes; pins; men’s fashion magazines.
Nick motioned Laura into the modern, glistening kitchen: it was all silky brushed steel counters and appliances.
“What the hell is this, Laura? I don’t want …” Laura leaned back and smiled. He had a good look at her; he had been so busy trying to absorb his surroundings that this was his first chance. She wore a gray, almost black pants suit and a very white shirt and shiny black flat shoes. There was a gold ornament on her lapel in the shape of a small cat. Without realizing it, he reached out and followed the curves of the cat with his fingertip, then looked at her eyes.
Nick, with all his police training, wouldn’t have been able to describe Laura accurately. It would be like trying to describe a color or the sound of a wave or the smell of rain. He could describe the oval shape of her face; the smoky quality of her dark gray eyes; her straight nose and wide mouth and thick black brows. He could describe the short-cropped hair that clung to her head, leaving her face clean and untouched. He could estimate her height and weight. He could describe everything he knew to a police sketch artist, and no one, not the best in the world, would be able to capture the essence and quality of Laura. There was something so hidden and concealed and mysterious. Even when she laughed, for a split second letting her guard down, she drew on strong inner resources. No one could ever take Laura by surprise.
She explained that his grandfather sent the tailor. After all, Nick was going to represent one of Papa’s businesses. And he wasn’t going to be spending all his time in the small Queens office. He would eventually do … well, whatever Papa Ventura wanted him to do. She shrugged; none of this had anything to do with her.
The tailor fussed and sighed; stretched and measured; slapped Nick’s arm down when he needed to be sure of sleeve length.
He showed material samples to Laura, ignoring Nick as someone who wouldn’t know anything. He flipped through some pages of magazines; a Sunday New York Times supplement on men’s clothing. Stopped; took a signal from Laura; marked a page.
“Ralph Lauren. Yes. I think so,” Laura said. “This gets priority, right?”
He glared his annoyance. She didn’t have to tell him anything. He reached out without apology, the privilege of a very old man. He pulled her toward the light. His bony fingers ran up and down the edge of her jacket, examined seams and buttonholes.
Grudgingly, he said, “Good work. Yes.” As he packed his battered leather sample case, he muttered, “But you stay away from men’s clothing, yes?”
Laura hugged him from behind, which he acknowledged with a shrug and a sigh. He left without another word to either of them.
Nick hadn’t seen her since the funeral mass for Peter. In fact, it just occurred to him that she had been there. And had left a card in his son’s name. He thanked her now, apologized for not having acknowledged …
“Kathy sent me a lovely thank-you note. I heard about you two. Should I say sorry or what?”
“Don’t say anything.”
“You got it.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Watch carefully. So one day you can make espresso for me.”
Nick loved watching her face as he teased her. The little girl appeared, mock angry. “Hey, that’s woman’s work. There are some things in this world that are—”
“Nicky, Nicky. You’re still such a Bensonhurst boy. You still think like a Bensonhurst boy. It’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone remotely like you.”
Impulsively, he asked her, “Are you happy, Laura?”
There was a split second of sadness over her face: eyes blinking, lower lip sliding between her teeth. And then it was gone and the mocking Laura was back.
“Bensonhurst boy.”
“Bensonhurst brat.”
CHAPTER 24
NICK STUDIED THE MANUAL that came with the Apple computer. User-friendly? Tessie had tried it and lost five hours of work by tapping one wrong button. Or not tapping one right button. She told him he could play with it anytime.
He had some small knowledge: Peter had shown Nick a few basics. He placed the stack of folders into two piles and two-finger-typed, just like doing a police report, watching the letters appear on the blue screen. He entered all the data on each property: location, ownership, registration, history, size of property, number of rooms, special features, price, taxes, possible negotiations, problems re: mortgage, cash only, whatever.
As he reached across the desk for another file, he suddenly felt a cold round object dig into his neck. He froze.
“What the hell do you think ya doin’, cuz?”
He whirled around, smacked the pen from Richie’s hand. Richie took a step back, held his hands, palms up.
“Easy, Nick. I just really wanna ask you.” He ran his hand over his thick black, graying hair, lightly skimming it. He pointed at the folders, then at the computer. His lips were pulled back into a tight grin that resembled the expression of a dog’s face just before an attack. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?”
“I’m supposed to tell you what my job is? You wanna know, ask Papa.”
Nick clicked off the computer; collected the folders, and slammed them into the old steel filing cases.
“Papa know you making a record of all the holdings here?”
“Richie, I told you. Ask Papa what you want to know. What I do has nothing to do with you.”
Nick had been working right out in the open; it was during working hours. Richie decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.
“Old Tessie’s afraid of that damn thing.”
“I don’t think Tessie’s afraid of anything in this world,” Nick said. He looked his cousin over: cashmere coat; dark brown suit and tie; pale yellow shirt; gold tie clip. He shot his cuffs so Nick could see his gold links.
No matter what he wore, Richie still didn’t have it. Something gave him away.
“Well, I see they got ya wearin’ some decent clothes. Christ, what are you trying for, the Ivy League look?”
“Just trying to avoid the rich thug look.”
Richie drew his breath in sharply, glanced over his shoulder, making sure none of his men were close enough to hear the insult.
He snapped his fingers. “Close up shop, Nick. Papa wants to see you.”
Nick followed Richie’s black Mercedes, not quite keepin
g up as it cut in and out of traffic and ran red lights. They were waiting for him as he pulled into Papa Ventura’s driveway.
There were more than the usual number, of cars parked around the house. There was a gleaming black limo off to one side. A small man dressed in a black uniform leaned beside it, smoking a cigarette.
Richie put his hand on Nick’s shoulder and said softly, “Papa got some chink he wants you to meet.”
It was difficult to determine the age of Dennis Chen. His face was smooth except for a collection of crinkles at his eyes when he smiled, which was often, but it was not sincere. He was a handsome, soft-spoken man, meticulously styled by a good British tailor. There was an intelligence about his expression. His eyes seemed to see things not readily apparent to others. While at first glance he seemed Chinese, his face was longer, narrower. He had the healthy color of a man who spent time outdoors; no yellow-pale undertones. His nose was narrow and straight; his lips thin over sparkling white teeth. There was a blend of ethnicities. He was not purely one thing or another. He could be intensely Chinese when he wanted to be, but there was something of the British effete about him. More than just his Oxford education; the way he spoke, the slightly superior pull at the corners of his mouth, suggested he considered many about him to be in some way inferior. Or unintentionally amusing.
He gave Nick a cursory examination, but did not treat him with the warm respect given to his grandfather.
His handshake was weak—in the Chinese way, not from lack of strength. Though he was tall and slender, it was obvious, from the way his clothes fit, that he had a muscular, well-defined body. He wore no jewelry, no sign of his tremendous wealth. You either knew or did not know about him.
The three men sat near the fireplace, watched the play of orange and yellow flames. No smoke entered the room. It was sucked straight up the chimney without a whiff of pollution getting into the den.
“Your grandfather assures me you will be able to find me a very comfortable house in”—he glanced at Nicholas Ventura to make sure he had it right—“Forest Hills Gardens.”
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