Every Little Crook and Nanny

by Ed McBain

  “The deal is simple,” Truffatore said.

  “Yes, so explain it,” Ganucci said.

  “We have ten thousand six hundred and sixty-five silver-plated medallions,” Truffatore said. “Each weighing about three-eighths of an ounce.”

  “Fine,” Ganucci said. “So what?”

  “With a nice picture of the Virgin Mary stamped on each medallion, with her shawl done in blue enamel,” Truffatore said.

  “Very nice,” Ganucci said.

  “And we wish to ship these ten thousand six hundred and sixty-five medallions to the New York Novelty & Souvenir Company on Broadway and Forty-seventh Street.”

  “So ship them,” Ganucci said. “There’s nothing illegal about shipping silver-plated medallions to a novelty company. Moreover, the duty on such crap is probably very small. It’s an entirely legal operation, so what are you wasting my time?”

  “The medallions are gold,” Ladruncolo said, lowering his voice.

  “You said they were silver-plated.”

  “They are silver-plated, but underneath the silver plate is gold.”

  “That is a horse of another color,” Ganucci said. “How much are these ten thousand six hundred and sixty-five medallions worth?”

  “The going rate for gold is thirty-five dollars an ounce,” Truffatore said. “Of course, we would have to discount this particular gold.”

  “Of course,” Ganucci said. “How much are the medallions worth, after they’ve been discounted?”

  “We are figuring that for the four thousand ounces . . .”

  “Yes, yes,” Ganucci said impatiently.

  “Forty-nine million six hundred thousand lira, give or take.”

  “In American,” Ganucci said. “Give or take.”

  “Eighty thousand dollars.”

  “Where’d you get this particular gold?” Ganucci asked.

  “From the Banco di Napoli a month ago. We went there after twelve thousand dollars in cash, which we also got.” Truffatore shrugged. “But there were ten gold bars laying around on the floor of the vault; so we picked those up, too, before we left.”

  “And melted them down,” Ladruncolo said.

  “And had the medallions cast,” Truffatore said. “And now we want to send them to New York in payment.”

  “For what?”

  “For a shipment of paste pearls that the New York Novelty & Souvenir Company ordered for us from Japan.”

  “That’s a lot of money for a shipment of paste pearls.”

  “Inside the paste pearls, there is three and a half kilos of pure heroin which we plan to ship here and there after we bust them open.”

  “Where are the pearls now?”

  “They will be arriving in Naples this Saturday. On a ship from Tokyo.”

  “So then,” Ganucci said, “if I understand the deal correctly, you wish to ship some silver-plated medallions of the Virgin Mary inside of which . . .”

  “With nice blue enameled shawls, don’t forget,” Truffatore said.

  “. . . inside of which is eighty thousand dollars in melted-down gold bullion you withdrew from the Banco di Napoli, in payment for a shipment of paste pearls which are arriving Saturday on a ship from Tokyo, inside of which is three and a half kilos of pure heroin.”

  “That’s the picture,” Ladruncolo said.

  “What do you want from me?” Ganucci said.

  “We wish to lay this off on you.”

  “How?”

  “The New York Novelty & Souvenir Company is a little short of capital at the moment and can’t wait for our consignment of medallions to get there. They’re willing to discount the pearls, but they want cold cash or they won’t release the shipment when it gets here.”

  “How much cash?”

  “Sixty-two thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” Ganucci said.

  “Yes, but in return for that, we’ll send the shipment of Virgin Mary medallions to you, instead of the New York Novelty & Souvenir Company. You invest sixty-two, and when the medallions arrive in New York, you’ll get back eighty. That’s even better than loan sharking.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Ganucci said. “What’s today?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “And you need sixty-two by Saturday?”

  “You could raise that in a minute if you had to.”

  “I could raise it in a minute if I was in New York.”

  “Gold is very easy to dispose of,” Truffatore said. “Wash off the silver plate, melt the stuff down, and you get rid of it anyplace in the country. There ain’t a soul in the world could tell it was hot.”

  “That’s true,” Ganucci said.

  “And your profit is eighteen thousand dollars.”

  “True,” Ganucci said. “The deal is maybe all right. It’s raising the money that bothers me. I’m not right on the scene, you know. I’m here in Italy.”

  “Al Capone used to run things from Alcatraz.”

  “There are not many men like Al Capone left,” Ganucci said, and lowered his eyes in respect.

  “True, but the fellows say good things about you, too,” Ladruncolo said.

  “Sixty-two thousand dollars,” Ganucci said, and shook his head.

  “Look at it this way,” Truffatore said. “I understand that you have invested in Broadway shows on occasion. Well, this is safer than a Broadway show.”

  “I have invested in one or two Broadway shows,” Ganucci said, “but only because my wife Stella was once in show business and has a soft spot in her heart for the profession.”

  “What do you think?” Truffatore said.

  “I think I may be able to raise the money by Saturday morning.”

  “Good, then . . .”

  “Provided,” Ganucci said.

  Truffatore looked at Ladruncolo.

  “Provided what?” Ladruncolo asked.

  “The discount is improved.”

  “By how much?”

  “You mentioned that you also picked up twelve thousand dollars in cash when you knocked off the bank. Deduct that from the sixty-two thousand, and we’ve got a deal.”

  “That money is long since gone.”

  “When did you say the bank was kicked over?”

  “Last month.”

  “That money is still hot, and therefore it is not long since gone,” Ganucci said. “I’ll deliver fifty thousand dollars to you on Saturday morning, in return for your shipment of Virgin Mary medallions guaranteed to be worth eighty thousand dollars. That’s the deal. And I mean guaranteed. I don’t have to tell you what’ll happen if those medallions turn out to be really silver plate.”

  “They’re solid gold, don’t worry about that.”

  “Yes or no?” Ganucci said.

  “You’re asking for too big a profit,” Truffatore protested.

  “Yes or no?” Ganucci said. “Is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal,” Ladruncolo said.

  “It’s a deal,” Truffatore said glumly.

  Stella Ganucci loved the sun.

  She attributed this to the fact that during her show business days she had never been allowed to go out in the sun. Stella was a big lady, five feet nine inches tall, with blond hair and blue eyes and a fair complexion. She had been told time and again, back in the old show business days, that audiences did not appreciate looking at a big job who was lobster red from the sun. This, of course, was when she used to perform in Miami. She had insisted that she could cover herself all over with powder, which was what she did, anyway. But the edict had held: no sun for Stella.

  She had once asked Mr. Padrone, who ran the club on Collins Avenue, “Mr. Padrone, why can there never be sun for sun nor star for star?” and Mr. Padrone had said, “What the hell are you talking about?” and that had bee
n the end of the argument. Stella had known what she was talking about. Stella always knew what she was talking about. She had been talking about stella, which meant star, and star meant sun, and it seemed terribly unfair to her and not a little uncompromising that there could never be sun for sun nor star for star, that was what she’d been talking about, of course.

  She luxuriated now in the late afternoon sunshine at the pool of the Quisisana Hotel on Capri, and wondered why people never understood her. It seemed to Stella that she was perfectly understandable. Except here, of course, because she did not speak a word of Italian. Well, not here, exactly, not here poolside at the Quisisana because every person here was American, and the only ones who spoke Italian were beachboys and busboys and waiters, and Carmine would have busted her head if she’d opened her mouth to any of them. Carmine was very peculiar that way. Still, he did understand her. Most of the time.

  Nanny did not understand her most of the time. Nanny, in fact, never understood her, which made it difficult. The misunderstanding had started almost at once because Stella could not honestly see why they needed a governess for an eight-year-old child.

  “To teach him things,” Carmine had said.

  “What sort of things?”

  “Culture.”

  “I can teach him culture by myself.”

  “I know you can,” Carmine said, “but can you teach him English culture?”

  “Culture is culture,” Stella said.

  “She’s a good governess,” Carmine replied. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Nanny had moved into the house two years ago, to occupy what had once been a large storage room on the second floor, down the corridor from Carmine’s darkroom. To tell the truth, Stella couldn’t see much change in Lewis. To her, he looked about as cultured as he had always looked. She had to admit that Nanny added a certain tone to the household, what with her nice manners, and her pleasant English accent, but it was also a trial having her around all the time, like not being able to say “Shit” when she wanted to—things like that. Stella rarely used profanity (Carmine would have busted her head if she did), but occasionally she used a dirty word or two when she thought she was alone. With Nanny around the house all the time, she was hardly ever alone.

  She was hardly ever alone at the pool of the Quisisana, either, but that didn’t bother her too much, mainly because she would never dream of using profanity in public.

  “Did your husband take the helicopter to Naples?” Marcia Leavitt asked.

  Marcia was wearing a bikini she had bought in St. Tropez the week before. She was a trim little brunette with tiny breasts; she would never have made it in Miami, Stella thought, and then said, “Yes, he took the helicopter.”

  “Does he like that city?” Marcia asked.

  “No,” Stella said, “he doesn’t, really.”

  “I hate that city,” Marcia said.

  “I don’t believe Carmine cares for it too much, either,” Stella said.

  “That’s my least favorite city in the whole world,” Marcia said.

  “My husband doesn’t like it, either.”

  “I detest that city,” Marcia said. “‘See Naples and die’ is right. You could die from Naples.”

  “My husband . . .”

  “I abhor that city,” Marcia said. “What does your husband find so attractive in that damn city? Does he have business there?”

  “No, he’s retired,” Stella said.

  “Oh? What line did he used to be in?”

  “Soft drinks. He’s a retired soft drinks manufacturer,” Stella said.

  “Oh, really? Would I know the soft drink he manufactured?”

  “I don’t think so. It was sold only in the Midwest.”

  “It’s not Pepsi-Cola or anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “Or Coca-Cola?”

  “No.”

  “Where in the Midwest?”

  “Chicago mostly.”

  “I’m not too familiar with Chicago,” Marcia said, and rolled over on her belly. She undid the straps on her bikini top, closed her eyes, let out a deep sigh, and said, “I’m from Los Angeles myself.”

  Stella did not answer. She had once played Los Angeles on the same bill with Sandy Rowles, who at that time was living with a fellow named Dan Birraio. Birraio had been Carmine’s partner back in the old days in Chicago when they were both making beer. From what Stella understood, they had made very good beer, which was quite considerate of them since they really didn’t have to. But if there was one thing Carmine believed in, it was quality. Never mind the expense involved, he had always insisted on the best malts and hops, whatever they were. Sandy had once told Stella that Birraio wore a gun to bed. When Stella in turn reported this to Carmine, to whom she was not yet married, he had said simply, “That fellow has no manners.” Which was true. In all the time she had known Carmine, he had never once worn a gun to bed. Well, only once. But that was a special occasion following his sister’s wedding, when they were expecting trouble from the fellows in Brooklyn. And the gun had only been a tiny little one strapped to his leg just above his garter. And actually, he’d forgotten to take it off when he climbed into bed only because he had drunk too much at Theresa’s wedding when it was learned that the fellows in Brooklyn had met with an unfortunate accident after somebody threw a bomb in the candy store where they hung out.

  She missed little Lewis.

  Suddenly—with the scent of suntan lotion rising from Marcia Leavitt’s back, and the sound of muffled voices drifting over the sparkling water of the pool, the muted Italian of beachboys talking to busboys, the sound of silverware clinking, a jet droning overhead against the pristine sky—suddenly she missed her ten-year-old son with a desperation she had not felt since the first time she stepped onto the stage at the old Triboro Theater on 125th Street, a slip of a sixteen-year-old girl with enormous tits even then, and the lights went out on cue, and she discovered that her G-string wasn’t fluorescent as the manager had promised her, and nobody could see her spectacular grinds in the dark. Carmine had later visited the manager in the hospital and brought him a dozen roses after he had his terrible fall from the top of the second balcony.

  She sure missed her son.

  Maybe she could talk Carmine into cutting the trip short and taking her home.

  Like maybe tomorrow.

  3: Luther

  Luther Patterson talked out loud to himself much of the time, but that was only because his wife, Ida, was such a quiet woman. Ida was quiet because she was never quite certain whether Luther was addressing her or Simon or Levin. Luther’s admiration and respect for Simon and Levin knew no bounds, and most of his external monologues were addressed to one or both of those giants. Much of Luther’s waking day, in fact, was spent either in solitary dialogue with Simon and Levin or else in trying to figure out how either of them would react to any situation then confronting Luther.

  Simon and Levin were not male vocalists. (Once in a while, when Luther was feeling exceptionally musical, he did address a discourse or two to Simon and Garfunkel, but they were quite two different cups of tea.) Simon and Levin were only perhaps the two greatest living critics, dead or alive, in the United States of America.

  If there were two things Luther Patterson aspired to be, they were both Simon and Levin. Whenever he thought of the unique combination of bile and style that both men possessed, he felt totally inadequate in his chosen profession, and not a trifle envious besides. Several months back, he had begun two separate scrapbooks, one of The Collected Works of John Simon, and the other of The Collected Works of Martin Levin. He studied these scrapbooks for hours on end, trying to absorb the unique quality both men brought to their work, the essence of which spelled greatness. On occasion, he entertained the bizarre notion that Martin Levin and John Simon were actually one and the same person. Had they ever, for example, been
seen together on the same television show? If Martin Levin was not really a person inside John Simon clamoring to be let out, or vice versa, then how did one account for the identical precise, literate, informative, scrupulous, meticulous, painstaking, scholarly, incisive, penetrating, probing, resonant, intensely felt nature of their separate reviews and critical essays?

  “Tell me, John Simon, are you really Martin Levin?” Luther shouted.

  Ida, who knew right off he was not addressing her, did not answer him.

  “I thought not,” Luther said. “That would be the same as claiming Shakespeare and Marlowe were one and the same. Why can’t people accept the fact that two literary phenomena can be contemporaries, working and reacting to the same environment in equally beautiful and sensitive ways without each being the other or vice versa? I ask you, Martin Levin.”

  God, if only I could write like you, he thought, and went to his bookshelf and took down The Collected Works of Martin Levin, and scanned the clippings, trying to pick up little hints that might help him in his own critical forays. Expressions like “disappointingly tedious” sprang from the text, “has made his hero odious without making him interesting,” wonderful, wonderful. Or “The novel plods along at the same underpowered dramatic level,” oh God, to be able to put words together that way. In a near frenzy of ecstasy, Luther pulled down the companion volume of clippings, The Collected Works of John Simon, turning to a review at random (they were all so exquisitely composed, it hardly mattered where a person’s eye fell, the delight of absorbing true creativity was invariably his reward), and read aloud:

  Let our youthful rebels beware: social and political commitment without commitment to articulateness and poetry will do little for the world beyond transforming it into a monstrous discothèque, free and equally brutalizing to all.