Richie was wearing a pair of good gray slacks, a bright red silk shirt, and a black leather vest. As always, he was meticulous, down to his shiny black shoes. He escorted Nick into the large living room. It didn’t seem possible that this was the same vacant house Nick had carefully checked out just a few days ago. He had received the Hong Kong Enterprises check renting the house for one year for Dennis Chen, through his corporation, which had sprawling offices on a high floor in a Queens Boulevard office building.
Nick glanced around. Everything looked as though it absolutely belonged where it was. The rooms were completely furnished, including drapes and rugs; books in the bookcases, wood stacked in the fireplace. Every room but the dining room had been totally empty when Nick sent cleaning service in.
“How the hell you get this done so fast?”
Richie was modest. “We got a coupla guys from the stagehands union. A set decorator checked the place out and they fixed it up like this. Nice, huh?”
All the furniture was rented through some company of Richie’s. There was a mellow, comfortable, old-money feel to the place.
Nick stopped at the open door of a room obviously intended as an office. Joe the Brain Menucci looked up from behind a table filled with computer parts.
“How ya doin’, Nicky?”
Nick nodded. Richie pulled him along by the arm and said in a low voice, “He’s got music piped into every room in this house, too. Ya know, Nick, I never believed all them stories about Joe the Brain. I never heard him say nothin’ too smart.” He shrugged. “Like, I know he’s good with electronics and all, but I don’t know about that other stuff people say. Wadda ya think?”
Nick said quietly, “I wouldn’t know, Richie. But I’d be careful. You know, just in case.”
“In case? In case a what?”
Richie sounded worried; he motioned Nick toward the dining room. It had been thoroughly cleaned. Centered beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier in the enormous room was an eighteen-foot mahogany dining table surrounded by twelve chairs. Other matching side chairs were placed around the room near various small serving tables, lamp and telephone tables.
“So, the kid said you got a problem. What’s up?”
Richie looked over his shoulder, motioned Nick closer. He didn’t want anyone to overhear their conversation.
“Well, I had the place checked out, ya know, for bugs. This room especially, because all this stuff was here for a while. This guy, the expert, come with a good recommendation, ya know? Like, he brings in all kindsa electronic equipment, sweep stuff and all. The guy finds this one device.” Richie dug in his pocket and brought out a small square recording device. “It was wedged under one of the chairs. Near the head of the table.”
Nick studied the device; it looked like a Cold War relic. “Anything else?”
“No, but ya know how ya get a feelin’? Like something just ain’t right? The guy who come here, Johnnie Cheech sent him. Cheech ain’t the smartest, ya know, but he said the guy’s okay. So I just wanted you to take a second look.” He wrinkled his brow. “Damn feeling I got, is all.”
Nick studied his cousin’s face. “Why the hell didn’t you ask Joe the Brain? He’s the expert.”
Richie glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, c’mon. Joey works directly for Papa. I wouldn’t never ask him to do nothing for me. And ya know, the chinks, they’re gonna check it out and they find something, how does that make me look? Not too fuckin’ good, right?”
“Uh-huh. Who’s had access to this place recently?”
“You.” Richie shrugged that away. “And the cleanin’ people you sent …”
“I didn’t send them. Tessie called the regular company that cleans up places for the agency. I didn’t even meet them.”
“So, okay. The bug guy checked, no signs of breakin’ and enterin’.”
“So just the moving guys and your people been in and out tonight, right?”
“They’re all my guys—my moving company, furniture company. I vouch for all of them. So I just wanted you to take a good look. Ya don’t got no equipment?”
Nick didn’t answer. He asked questions, got seemingly satisfactory answers. Yes, every chair had been turned over and examined carefully. The table had been checked, under and over. The walls had been scanned; the edging on the chair rail. Shelves where some china was set on display. But still, Richie had a feeling.
Nick also had a feeling. Something in the way his cousin watched him, narrowing his bright eyes, almost daring him.
He checked out the telephone on a small side table and one on a small desk under the window. He re-checked all the furniture; searched carefully for over an hour. Then he approached a heating vent set into one wall. Nick, using a flashlight and a penknife, pried the grate from the wall. As Richie hunched over him, he ran his hand inside and removed a device identical to the one Richie had earlier shown him.
Richie shook his head and began to curse. “That fuck, that dumb sonovabitch. Wait’ll I get my hands on Cheech and his shit of a friend, the dirtbag.”
Nick watched him carefully. There was something not quite straight in Richie’s anger. Nick had seen him go ballistic over small matters, and a hidden device was no small matter. His eyes locked on Richie’s, and for a split second they tried to read each other.
Finally, Richie put his hand on Nick’s arm, squeezing. “Christ, Nicky, ya saved the day. Jesus, am I glad I had that damn feeling, ya know?”
Nick said quietly, “I got a feeling now, Richie.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like if Cheech’s guy overlooked one device, maybe he overlooked another. They don’t all look like that, ya know.”
“Naw, I think …” His cousin stopped abruptly and nodded. “Yeah, okay, ya wanna search some more, go ahead, be my guest.”
It took Nick about fifteen minutes to examine the small leather-top desk in one corner carefully; each drawer was checked, and then finally, meticulously, he touched each item on the surface of the desk. The small tooled-leather letter holder had some heavy cream-colored stationery; next to it, a gold-colored stamp holder. A cup of sharpened pencils; a cup of pens.
Nick’s hand covered the porcelain cup that held the pens, then, carefully, his fingers moved and he held up an old-fashioned black Waterman fountain pen, laced with an intricate silver design. He examined it thoroughly, then turned to Richie.
“Say a few words to the listening public, cousin Richie.”
Richie stared, mouth open, as Nick removed the cap, then hooked a fingernail under the silver plunger used to fill the pen. Dark blue ink squirted, then dribbled down Richie’s bright red silk shirt.
“Oh, Jesus, Richie. I’m sorry. I made a mistake. It’s just an old pen. In fact, it’s my old pen. Must have fallen out of my pocket.” He slipped the pen into an inside jacket pocket and returned Richie’s glare with a smile and a shrug. “Hey, shit happens, right?”
Richie took a deep breath, and wordlessly the cousins acknowledged their wary dance. Richie had tested Nick to see if he would find, and reveal, the planted bug. Nick showed Richie he was wise to the test. Check. Checkmate.
Finally, softly, Richie said, “You playin’ with me, Nick?” The slight smile pulled his lips back into a grimace.
“Richie, even when we were little kids, I didn’t play with you. You know why? Because you cheated. All the time, Richie, you cheated.”
Richie Ventura snapped his fingers, slid his arms into the black leather coat held out to him, his eyes fastened on his cousin. Years fell away and they were the same two boys vying for their grandfather’s approval, the most important thing in their young lives. They should have finished with this shit years ago. Why the hell did Nick turn up in his life now?
“You take good care of yourself, Nick, ya hear me?”
“I always take good care of myself, Richie.”
CHAPTER 33
IT WAS A LITTLE past three in the morning when Nick let himself back into the Tudor. As with all
unoccupied houses carried on the Ventura books, lights were programmed to come on and turn off to give potential housebreakers the idea that people were living there. He had no trouble with the burglar alarm; Nick had coded it himself.
He had parked his car several blocks away. It was dead quiet in Forest Hills Gardens. Nick went directly to the office, and with a small-beamed flashlight he studied the computer and then the music system Joe Menucci had installed earlier in the day. The listening devices were inconspicuous. Voice-activated, they looked like no more than another tuner button or selection device. He thought for a moment, then headed for the kitchen, another usual gathering place. He ran his fingertips around the edges of the table, chairs, light fixtures, frames on various pictures. There was a large spice rack placed on the wall near the table as a unit in a decorative arrangement. Next to it was a wreath made of twigs, clumps of dried flowers, and small fruits. Among the dehydrated grapes was a tiny recording device. Completely unobtrusive.
Nick traced the arrangement of music speakers throughout the house. At least one in every room. Then, just out of curiosity, he went to the basement. There was an expensively furnished playroom, a pool table, gym equipment in one corner. Most unusual of all was the small lap pool, fifteen feet long and eight feet wide, about five feet deep. It was connected to a motor that, when turned on, provided a swimmer with a strong current to work against. Someone had put a few outdoor-type chairs and a bundle of white towels alongside the pool.
Nick didn’t worry about light showing. All the basement windows were shuttered. He poked and pried with his hand, then with a penknife. His arm entered the heating duct that led up to the dining room.
He felt around for a moment—and, as he withdrew his arm, his whole body froze in response to the cold circle of a gun barrel that pressed into the side of his neck. He held his breath as he heard the click of a hammer being drawn back, then turned in response to an angry voice.
“What the fuck ya doin’ here, Nicky?” Playboy Pilotti asked.
CHAPTER 34
PAULY THE PLAYBOY Pilotti was nicknamed for his spectacular failure to stay married. When he was a kid, he was Pauly Pill, always the strongman of the neighborhood. He grew up demonstrating how he could lift heavy objects and straight-arm them over his head. He made a serious mistake when he was in his early teens, but it was a mistake that ensured him a lifetime job with Richie Ventura.
A kid named Ba-Ba-Boom—which was descriptive of how he liked to punch people out—socked Richie Ventura in the eye. As he readied his fist for the follow-up to the mouth, he was grabbed, hoisted aloft, cursed at, and then dropped from a height of nearly six feet. The fractured jaw wasn’t the Pill’s fault. The kid should have had sense enough to roll when he landed, like cats do to break a fall instead of a bone. When Richie kicked the fallen Ba-Ba-Boom, the bully got a broken arm and three busted ribs. Pauly Pill took the rap for the whole thing and spent nine months in a juvenile detention house. Which didn’t bother his parents too much. They were small, nervous people, and between them they hadn’t been able to manage his behavior since he was four years old and began breaking his little sister’s toys and then his little sister’s fingers.
Pauly spent years perfecting his powerful body. He entered contests and won trophies. To other bodybuilders, he was a thing of beauty. To the uneducated eye, he was vastly misshapen, carrying a small bullet head on a thick neck, set on massive bulging shoulders. His chest was huge, waist narrow, legs much too short for the top part of his body. He had to have his clothing custom-made. He had custom-tailored shirts made by the brother of the guy who made his suits. When dropped on the floor, Pauly’s clothing looked like an outfit for a short, powerful ape.
He was a perfect man for Richie Ventura, who didn’t really like to do his own dirty work. He was good with a bat, a cleaver, a gun. His hands could get a lock on a guy’s neck that was a killer. Literally.
Wherever Richie went, Playboy Pilotti was either far ahead, for safety’s sake, or slightly behind for backup. He worked long erratic hours, took vacations whenever Richie wanted a change of scenery. He went through three marriages before he decided he didn’t really like having some woman asking when he was gonna come home. He had a nice apartment near Richie’s house in Massapequa, Long Island, a good car with a cellular phone. He loved to eat at all of Richie’s favorite restaurants, where no one would insult you with a menu. He also had a part ownership in a health and fitness club, and at times worked out for hours to the admiring gaze of club members. It all depended on Richie—his hours, his whereabouts, his activity.
He did a lot of different things for Richie. One of the main things was he kept his mouth shut. Whatever he knew, or thought he knew, was buried deep inside his closed mouth. Richie Ventura trusted him almost completely. After all, you have to trust someone in your life—and this guy had taken a rap for Richie when they were just kids. That kind of loyalty cannot be faked.
Nick turned and raised one hand toward Playboy’s gun, palm out in a pacifying gesture. He knew—Christ, he hoped—Pauly wouldn’t shoot him without Richie’s okay.
Playboy stepped back, admiring Nick’s cool.
“You doin’ a little plantin’ of your own, cop?”
The tough-guy smirk, the wide-legged stance, the chin thrust forward, eyes narrowed, were standard for someone in the Playboy’s line of work. He was known to have killed at least seven people, possibly as many as ten, for various reasons and on various orders. In his early days, he had occasionally strangled a guy to keep others in line. When Richie pointed, his man acted. He had been charged, but never convicted, of murder a few times; but aside from the open-dormitory time of his adolescence, the only slammer time he served—eighteen months—was for a botched burglary that was someone else’s fault.
It was recorded for future reference that Paul the Playboy Pilotti had nutted out in prison. He couldn’t handle confinement. He had slammed his head against concrete walls, steel bars, cement floors. He claimed he couldn’t breathe or swallow; couldn’t sleep; couldn’t eat. His time was spent mostly in the prison hospital for various self-inflicted injuries; for hysteria; for bizarre behavior.
Nick took a calculated risk. “Playboy, ya wanna call my cousin, call him. But I think I better tell ya what I’m gonna tell him.” Nick gestured to the open grille of the heating vent. “I don’t know who the fuck you guys got to check for bugs, but the guy was a real amateur. I bet no one ever checked out this basement, right? I asked Richie if every room in the house had been checked and he said no. Just the dining room and kitchen. Anybody with any sense would check the whole house. I figured I’d start at the bottom and work my way up. The guy he paid to check shoulda done all this.”
“Yeah? That’s your story?”
“Hey, you want to call Richie right now, three A.M., and tell him you found me here checking, go right ahead. But I don’t think he’d appreciate getting waked up for this little news flash.”
“You find anything?”
“I just started. But like Richie said to me, ‘I had a feeling.’ Hell with it. Maybe I was wrong. It’s none of my business anyway.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s Richie who decides, not you. Why didn’t you tell Richie about your feelin’?”
Nick shrugged. “The less my cousin and me have to say to each other the better. For both of us.” He studied the hulking thug, then thoughtfully asked him, “What about you, Pauly? What are you doing here? What the fuck you up to?”
The Playboy seemed uneasy; like a back-alley bully, he covered by getting very angry. “What the fuck that got to do with you?”
As they left the house, it hit Nick that Pauly must have been up to no good. Nick said, “You want I should tell Richie, I will. Maybe better neither one of us should say anything about being here.”
“Don’t try to pull any o’ your wise-ass shit on me, Nicky. I ain’t forgot you used to be a cop. Once a cop—”
“Like once a housebreaker? There are some pretty nice
things here. Who owns all the stuff, the pictures and the silverware and such?”
Playboy Pilotti kept walking. When he reached his car, he turned and the scowl seemed scarred on his face.
“You and me, we better have no more business together, you got that?”
Nick smiled. “Business? What business? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. I guess Richie don’t need you or me to tell him what to do. See you around, Playboy.”
The man with the short legs seemed to disappear as he slumped into the driver’s seat. Through the window, he looked to be about five feet tall, hat included.
Driving home, Nick thought about his grandfather. He was a man accustomed to dealing with colleagues face to face, either as friends or enemies. He found the Chinese unreadable. To him, everything about them was modulated: soft voices, quick, tight, meaningless smiles, slight head nods, controlled body movements. Obviously, he distrusted Chen and the men working with him. Joe Menucci was so good at what he did, it would take another electronics genius to discover all the hidden devices.
Richie clearly had no idea that Chen’s house was very expertly bugged. Papa Ventura trusted no one completely.
When he got back to his apartment, Nick punched the button on his answering machine.
“Guess who’s coming home? I’ll call you from JFK tomorrow night. Around eight. Go to school on the morning shift, okay?”
Even from across the world, she was calling the shots. What the hell, he’d take an office break, go to his class, come home and wait for her call. Just the way you want it, Laura, right?
CHAPTER 35
AT THE END OF the class, Professor Caruso handed his students their graded midterm exams. There were a few groans, a few sighs of relief—or resignation—as the students went through the blue books to see why they got the mark that was printed in red ink inside the cover. Nick stared at the B-. He flipped the pages; didn’t see many comments or checkmarks. He glanced at Caruso, who nodded slightly.
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