“You expect me to believe he walked into that meeting, knowing it might be a trap?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything but what you want to believe. If you want to know why he made this choice, I can make an educated guess. He was tired, Nick. Of all of it. Just as you’ve obviously been living a double life, so has he. Maybe he loved one part of his life and hated the other. Maybe that’s why he made his choice.”
She had so much information, so much knowledge of how things worked, how men’s minds worked.
“If anyone else, anyone, told me what you’ve just told me, I wouldn’t believe one single word. I’d be positive that person was up to her neck in all of it—the money laundering, drug distribution. Right in the middle of everything.”
She held her wrists up in front of him, surrendering. He clutched them in his hands. Shook his head. “Laura, Christ, Laura, I’ll never understand you.”
“That’s part of my charm, isn’t it? We had fun with each other. And by the way, your grandfather—I know you haven’t asked, but remember, I can read you—never asked me to get close to you. When he realized it, he just said that I should be very careful with you. That you are very vulnerable. I hope I haven’t hurt you, Nick.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me.” He sighed deeply, ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “At least I had a chance to talk to my grandfather. I’m going to see how he’s doing.”
She blocked his way. “Too late, Nick. He’s gone. I was holding his hand and he smiled at me and just let go. Just like that. He had a long life. I know he was very pleased that you came to see him.”
Nick turned away. He paced back and forth, leaned against the window frame. His voice was husky. “God. I’m glad I came. It would have haunted me all my life if I hadn’t. I’d never have learned the truth. About my father’s death. I finally got to ask him about what happened that day. Up on the structure.”
“And what did he tell you?”
It was the way she said it. Softly. Almost sadly. The same tone of voice she had used when she said to him, “My God, Nick, are you still so gullible?”
She took his hand. “Don’t say a word for a minute, okay? Listen. And think. Why would Vincent—not the brightest guy in the world, or the bravest—why would he go against an order from Papa? Why? Nick, Vincent Ventura wouldn’t go up and down a staircase without his father’s permission.”
She nudged his shoulder lightly. “The only person your mother loved as much as you and your father was Papa. He was her personal god. He showed her only wonderful things in life; protected her; cherished her. But your mother was bright, smart, knew how to listen and to read people. After your father’s death, she had one ten-minute conversation with Papa. And then she knew. To the depths of her soul, she knew. There was no way she would accept his lie. She had so many losses all at once: her husband, her father. Her heart was fragile, but what happened and how it happened, the terrible, unforgivable betrayal by her father, all contributed to her early death.”
Nick dug his hand into his trouser pockets; he clenched and opened his fists, could feel his fingernails digging into his flesh.
“Your grandfather died a happy man, Nick. He knew you’d consider a deathbed statement practically sacred. That’s a cop thing, isn’t it?”
Of course, she was right. Everything she said made sense. His original motivation in all of this, his double-triple life, all these months living practically on the edge of paranoia, all his actions to avenge the long-ago murder of his father, the loss of his mother, and the painfully recent death of his son—they hadn’t been misdirected.
Why in God’s name, Nick thought, wouldn’t a murderer also be a deathbed liar?
CHAPTER 49
NICK STOPPED AT HIS grandfather’s bedside for a moment, stared at the empty dead face, said a prayer, and left. He planned to go back to his apartment to sleep for a while.
Tom Caruso intercepted Nick in the parking lot. “Let’s get in the car and talk. We’ve got a slight problem.”
One look at Caruso’s face convinced Nick the problem wasn’t slight. It was major. The first part of Nick’s tape was loud and clear: names of those attending, carefully articulated by Nicholas Ventura, were the highlight. Then the tape became garbled. Statements were disconnected to anything said before or after.
“When we tried to enhance it, all we came up with were sounds like clicking, chair-scraping, paper rattling, a humming sound. They could have been guys at a meeting anywhere, any time. At the end, we got you saying goodnight to your grandfather, I assume by the car. The pictures were excellent, Nick. We’ve had DEA experts ID almost everybody. But we are in the Dumpster with the rest of it.” He stopped speaking and looked closely at Nick, who seemed to have blanked out. “Hey, you with me or what? You hear what I’m saying?”
Nick held his hand up. “Wait. Just wait a minute.” He stared at Caruso, then asked, “Where’ve you got Joe Menucci? My grandfather’s driver?”
Menucci, held as a material witness, was at Papa Ventura’s home, trying to keep the old woman, Aunt Ursula, out of the way. Agents had come with an assortment of search warrants and were ripping through the house, room by room. Papa’s sister was under the impression that they were dinner guests and she was upset. No one was in the kitchen cooking.
She didn’t really recognize Nick, but he told her quietly that her brother Nicholas had sent him to tell her to get some rest. She seemed relieved, nodded, and disappeared.
Nick led Joe Menucci by the arm into the hallway. Through open doors, he could see men methodically going through all the papers, file cabinets, shaking books, dumping them on the floor. They were filling large corrugated cartons they had brought with them.
Joe the Brain stared hard at Nick, who leaned forward and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Joe, I gotta talk to you.”
“How come you’re here? Everybody else got picked up. I’m being held—material witness or some shit like that.”
Nick said, “Me, I’m just the grandson that worked in the real estate office, capisci? So far. I helped them go through the files at the office. They closed it down for now. I’m nothing to them. Yet.”
“Is it true, Nick? Is … is Papa dead? I heard it but …”
“That’s why I’m here, Joey. To pick out a suit and clothes for him. Help me, you know what he liked best.”
The intelligent black eyes blinked rapidly. Joe the Brain smeared the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Nick knew how much pain the man was holding. Papa Ventura had been his world.
One of the DEA agents called them into the office.
“How come there’s nothing on this computer? Not a damn thing.”
“Papa Ventura never used it. He kept it here for when kids came to visit. They liked to play games with it.”
“Yeah? Well, somebody knew what to do. It’s been swept absolutely clean. I don’t think kids did that.”
Menucci shrugged. He told the agent why he and Nick had to go upstairs. The agent consulted his immediate boss. It was okay; there were agents in Ventura’s bedroom.
They stopped at the top of the sweeping staircase and Nick drew close. “I’ve gotta ask you something, Joey. You never had a chance to go back to Ingram Street last night, right?”
Joe raised his chin; his eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Look, Joe. I know all about the bug you put in for Papa. See, when they find that, they got everybody real tight. Including me.” It was obvious that Joe was suspicious. The bugging had been strictly between Papa. and himself. Nick needed to convince him. “Look, I know Papa had you bug Chen’s house …”
“He never trusted them chinks.”
“I know that. And I know he wanted to have a tape of the meeting, to make sure, later, that all commitments were met by everyone. Christ, tell me where it is before these gloms get an idea and rip the place apart. Or Augie the Butcher’s kid finds it and—”
“The kid
wouldn’t do nothing.”
“But the feds would.”
Joey leaned close, looked around, and whispered the details, and they entered Papa Ventura’s bedroom.
Joe the Brain swept the wide bed free of various items the feds had tossed haphazardly. Stoically, he selected from Papa’s wardrobe a handsome midnight blue suit, shirt, tie, socks, pocket handkerchief, shining black shoes. They pulled down one of Papa’s smooth calfskin suitcases. The agent checked it out carefully, then let them pack up the clothes. Joe folded, caressed each item, his large hands smoothing wrinkles, fingertips lingering for a moment.
“You talk to a lawyer?” Nick asked him, as they went downstairs.
“Not to worry. Taken care of; they can hold me a while, then I’m gone.” His eyes filled with tears and his voice was husky. “Nicky, tell them to get Georgie the barber to fix Papa’s hair, okay?”
CHAPTER 50
JOE THE BRAIN HAD installed two state-of-the-art bugging devices in the basement of the Ingram Street house: one directly under the flimsy table around which the meeting was held, and one in the ceiling. Both tapes were perfect. Recorded on hair-thin filaments, the sound was loud and clean. Carefully, experts deleted Nick O’Hara’s name during Papa’s introduction. From both tapes.
Each voice had its own definition. Once identified by the DEA men, voice was matched to photograph. Everyone breathed a little easier.
CHAPTER 51
IT WAS NEARLY A year between the indictments and the various trials. During that time, five men from the Ventura and other families associated with them were killed in what appeared to be unfortunate accidents. Three others were left in luxury cars, motors running, with bullet holes to the head in the classic style. These events more than justified the no-bail policy for most of the top people and their close associates. Including and especially Richie Ventura.
From the Chen Triad, people “disappeared” in alarming numbers. Presumably legitimate businessmen, conducting presumably legitimate businesses, from Queens, New York, to Hong Kong, via Chicago, Detroit, Miami, Las Vegas, San Francisco, L.A., and other cities around the world, simply went missing. Along with records, bank accounts, the voluminous data that outlined and detailed the relationship of one company to another. No one knew where they went. They were just gone.
Dennis Chen reportedly went to a sanitarium in Switzerland to recuperate from his difficult leg surgery. He was reportedly seen in France, Italy, the Bahamas, Hong Kong, and London. There was no hard evidence of his participation in the China White deal, but he moved around. Just in case. His many legitimate businesses ran smoothly without him, just as he had always planned.
Joe Menucci was dropped as a material witness and retired to New Jersey.
The law of omertà—the vow of silence—depends on two things: The honor of the man taking the vow. And his understanding of the word “honor.” The idea of self-sacrifice for the benefit of abiding by some words spoken at a ceremony, where small pieces of paper are burned in the palm of one’s hand, kisses and hugs exchanged, promises asked and given: All that by now has changed drastically. When one man tries to live by his solemn vow only to find out his best friend plans to betray him, a reevaluation usually follows. When faced with life in prison, no chance of parole, many factors have to be considered. There were many deals made during the windup of the China White case.
Because of Menucci’s tape, Nick’s photographs, and tremendous amounts of other evidence, Nick never had to testify. He turned down a promotion to first grade detective. He banked the salary he had earned but never collected for all the months he worked on the case, and retired with a good pension. His uncle Frank O’Hara also retired to spend his years playing golf down in Florida.
Kathy called Nick one night. The old dog, Woof, Peter’s favorite, had died. Would Nick meet her at Peter’s grave? Together they scattered the ashes so that boy and dog would be reunited. Though somber, of course, Kathy looked radiant as she introduced Nick to the man she was to marry.
Nick stayed on for a while, communing with Peter, remembering their open, trusting, hopeful, loving boy. He knew the kid would have been proud that his father had received a scholarship to Berkeley for graduate study. He wished to God it had been Peter who was going west to find a new life.
Despite the fact that billions of dollars’ worth of China White was confiscated, and billions seized in money and merchandise, many more billions of heroin were held back by other dealers until things calmed down. Holding it back would only make the product that much more valuable. New resources for distribution, laundering, investment, and profit were on the horizon.
The Ventura-Chen connection was over, of course. Richie Ventura and many of his closest cohorts were convicted of a series of felony crimes and sent to Marion, Illinois, home of the toughest federal prison in the country. Numbers of other “family” members entered the Witness Protection Program and found themselves, after their usefulness was over, condemned to a life of lower-middle-class anonymity, boredom, and loneliness. Not to mention the terror of possibly being discovered by some very angry and ruthless former colleagues.
Members of families up and down the coast, headed by aging, not-quite-with-the-times old men, were convicted of further crimes. Younger family members began restlessly looking around for new leadership. They would find it, after a period of time.
Some law enforcement personnel in various agencies were promoted; shifted; retired; wrote books; joined private firms.
The word “honor” rarely crossed anyone’s lips.
EPILOGUE
1997
NICK O’HARA PACED ACROSS his hotel room, glancing at his notes, biting into a large peach. He had never tasted fruit this marvelous. It was brought in daily from outlying farms some twenty miles from Rome. He had asked room service for a light breakfast: coffee, a little fresh fruit. The waiter brought him a platter of grapes, peaches, apricots, cantaloupe slices, honeydew melon wedges, and he just kept eating.
The thesis for Nick’s master’s degree from Berkeley had been “America’s Late Introduction to Worldwide Terrorism.” As a graduate student, he had taught some basic courses in criminology and police science. He brought something to the classroom that most instructors could never acquire: street experience. And that teaching experience was good preparation for his current employment with a government agency convened to combat the growth of international terrorism.
One of the things that unnerved him when he first delivered a paper in a foreign country was the time delay for translation. When he made a remark meant to be amusing, he felt sweat on his upper lip as a response to the stony silence that came back at him. After a delay, laughter exploded and he could relax.
Nick was winding up a three-week tour of participation in a series of international seminars. Rome was is last stop, then home. To Berkeley. He took a quick shower, put on a fresh white shirt, lightweight beige garbardine suit, comfortable but handsome shoes, a good silk tie. He had come to enjoy fine clothing, and discovered at the same time that he had excellent taste. He carried himself differently now.
Nick brushed his dark hair quickly; ran fingers over his smooth face; splashed a little very-low-key aftershave on his cheeks. He glanced at his watch, picked up his thin leather case and checked that his notes were in place. Not that he needed them; he had become very good at speaking and thinking on his feet.
As he started for the door, his telephone rang that strange, loud, double European ring. Probably someone he’d see at the seminar. He opened the door, then stopped. He always found it hard to ignore a ringing phone.
Nick picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
The voice in his ear, unheard for a few years, was whispery, playful, challenging, and as familiar as his own reflection in the mirror.
“Hi, Nick. Guess who’s in Rome?”
A Biography of Dorothy Uhnak
Dorothy Uhnak (1930–2006) was the bestselling, award-winning author of nine novels and one wor
k of nonfiction.
Uhnak was born in New York City, where she attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Before she turned to writing, Uhnak spent fourteen years as a detective with the New York City Transit Police Department, where she was decorated for bravery twice. Her memoir, Policewoman (1964), chronicles her career in law enforcement, and was written while she was still on the force.
The Bait (1968), Uhnak’s first novel, won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel, and introduced NYPD detective Christie Opara, who appeared in Uhnak’s next two novels, The Witness (1969) and The Ledger (1970). All three novels were adapted for television and eventually became the series “Get Christie Love!” starring Teresa Graves. Uhnak followed the Opara trilogy with Law and Order (1973)—a novel about three generations of Irish American police officers—which earned critical praise and was considered her breakout novel. Next came The Investigation (1977), another blockbuster. Both of these were also adapted for television.
Uhnak has been credited with paving the way for authors such as Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Patricia Cornwell, and many others who write crime novels and police procedurals with strong heroines. Additionally, she was hailed by George N. Dove as “an experimental writer who … tried new approaches with each undertaking.” Her books have been translated into fifteen languages. Uhnak died on Long Island in 2006.
Dorothy Uhnak, around age one.
Uhnak, age four, holding a childhood pet.
A teenage Uhnak pictured with Mildred Goldstein, her only sister. Throughout her youth, Uhnak enjoyed doing odd jobs at the 46th Precinct station house on Ryer Avenue in the Bronx, near her family’s home.
Codes of Betrayal Page 24