by William Wolf
Mouse stared at Catel o in what the consigliere mistook for awe. Then he said, “Bertoia’s one of us. He’s on our side.”
“Bertoia’s a loose end,” Catel o said. “Not to mention a traitor. He sold out Rel i and that’s his own cousin; imagine what he’d do to me.”
“Yeah, but—”
Catel o sti ened and said, “Hey, you fuckin’ mouse, I’m giving you a chance. You ain’t up to it, you can rot down here in this basement.”
“I’m sorry, Luigi,” said Mouse. “I wasn’t thinking.” That was a lie. Mouse was thinking. He was thinking that when Rel i and Bertoia were dead, he would be nothing but a loose end himself.
Chapter
Chapter
Eighteen
BOBBY OPENED HIS eyes and Til ie said, “You were mumbling in your sleep.”
“What’d I say?”
“Something about your mother. I hope you’re not developing an Oedipus complex.”
Bobby snorted and looked at his watch. “Speaking of mothers, what time are you meeting yours?”
“One-thirty.”
“I can drop you of .”
“I’l take the van and meet you later. She’s going downtown afterward.”
“Mendy?”
Til ie frowned. “I’m not so sure I like what’s going on,”
she said. “At rst it was a grunt, but it’s get ing a lit le sick. I mean, he’s old enough to be her father.”
“So?”
“I dreamed about them in bed together.” said Til ie with a smal shudder.
“You’re the one who’s get ing oedipal,” said Bobby. He slid out of bed, put Otis Redding on the stereo, and went into the bathroom to shower.
Til ie fol owed him in. “I wish you’d tel me what the Til ie fol owed him in. “I wish you’d tel me what the hel ’s going on,” she said.
“It’s bet er if I don’t,” said Bobby. “Mendy thinks so, too.”
“Next time you’re in the mood for sex, get it from Mendy,” said Til ie, and went back to bed.
Bobby made the drive from Ann Arbor to West Bloom-eld in forty- ve minutes. He went into Sav-on Drugs and bought the new Rol ing Stone. There was no sign of Rel i, so he sat in the Porsche reading about Eric Clapton and listening to a Falcons tape. He was so absorbed in Clapton’s problems that the sound of a heavy metal ring clinking against his window made him jump. He looked up and saw the dark, uneven features of Alberto Rel i grinning through the glass.
“Relax, kid,” said Rel i. “Hey, what kind of stereo you got?”
“Sony,” said Bobby.
“Is it any good? I can’t tel with that jig music you got playing.”
Bobby nodded. “But it’s not just the stereo, it’s the speakers. You have to get the whole system right.”
“That’s somethin’ to remember,” Rel i said. “You ready to rol ?”
“Are we taking my car?”
Rel i laughed. “I’d have to hack Ho a up like a fuckin’
Caesar salad just to get him in the backseat.”
Rel i led Bobby to his Cadil ac, where Bertoia was Rel i led Bobby to his Cadil ac, where Bertoia was waiting behind the wheel. Bobby knew him by sight and nodded. Rel i pointed to a building at the far end of the parking lot. The sign read: MACHUS RED FOX. “You know this place?” he asked.
“I’ve passed it,” said Bobby. “I’ve never eaten there, though.”
“It don’t cater to the col ege crowd,” said Bertoia.
“Okay, let’s run through this,” said Rel i. “Bertoia, you be Hof a.”
“Whaddya mean, be Hof a?”
“Be Ho a,” Rel i repeated in an exasperated tone. “You pul in, I’m waiting in the parking lot. I wave and come over. You open the window. Go ahead, open it.”
Bertoia opened his window. Rel i got out of the car, came around to the driver’s side and leaned in. “Hey, Jimmy, right on time.”
Bertoia looked blank. “Say something, dummy,” Rel i snapped.
“Like what?”
“Say, ‘How’s the wife and kids?’ Ho a’s always askin’
about the wife and kids.”
“Hey, how’s the wife and kids?” Bertoia said. He had a disgusted expression on his face.
“Good, Jimmy, how’s yours?”
“They’re al fuckin’ dead,” said Bertoia. “They got hit by fuckin’ lightning.”
“Hey, that’s good to hear, blah blah blah. Now I say,
“Hey, that’s good to hear, blah blah blah. Now I say,
‘Jimmy, there’s this piece of farmland out Inkster Road that’s about to get rezoned for a giant shopping mal .’
Ho a’s a sucker for real estate. Now you ask me, ‘Who else is in?’ ”
“Who else is in?”
“Just you, me, and Bobby.”
“Who the fuck is Bobby? Right?”
Rel i nodded. “Bobby Tucci, the don’s grandson. He’s a col ege boy, just get ing his feet wet, but he’s good people.” Rel i glanced at Bobby to make sure he was enjoying the show; he could imagine the kid describing it to Annet e later on. “Now I point to my car and say, ‘He’s sit ing right over there with Bertoia. Ride out with us, we can talk on the way’ ”
“What about his driver?” asked Bertoia.
“Ho a drives himself, and he don’t have a bodyguard.
It’s a tough-guy image thing with him.”
“Yeah, but it ain’t just RR.,” said Bertoia. “You know how many push-ups the guy does a day? I was readin’ in the Free Press.”
“Hey, I don’t know how many times he takes a dump, either,” said Rel i impatiently. “Listen to me. Ho a gets in the back, I get in back with him, we’re heading out into the country. We pul of at a certain spot, we get out, and I pop Ho a in the fuckin’ head. Then we stick him in a plastic bag and put him in the trunk. Bertoia, you drop me and Bobby o at the South eld Athletic Club. We me and Bobby o at the South eld Athletic Club. We spend the afternoon there with a mil ion witnesses while you dump the body at the farm.”
Bobby said, “If somebody sees you talking in the parking lot, and they determine the time of death, won’t the police put two and two together?”
“Hey, look at you, Perry Mason.” Rel i ru ed Bobby’s hair and said, “They can’t do that without the body. Come on, let’s take a run. Bertoia, drive nice and easy, just the regular speed. I wanna time the trip.”
The spot, o Inkster Road, was twenty minutes out and twenty-two back. When they returned to the parking lot Rel i said, “Bob, I’m gonna ask you to do me a personal favor. Come with me to Pontiac, help me pick out a good stereo for my car.”
“Sure,” said Bobby. A ride out to Pontiac would give him the opportunity he had been looking for.
“Good. How about you let me drive the Porsche and Bertoia can fol ow us?”
“Why not?”
Bertoia said, “Hey, Al, I got a make a phone cal .”
“Bul shit,” said Rel i. “You can cal your fuckin’ bookie from the warehouse. Let’s go.” He climbed into the sports car, turned the engine over, and said, “Smooth.” Then he reached into his jacket pocket and handed Bobby a casset e.
“What’s this?”
“Dino’s Greatest Hits,” said Rel i, wheeling the Porsche
“Dino’s Greatest Hits,” said Rel i, wheeling the Porsche onto Maple Road. “Something a white man can hum along to.”Bobby said, “I want to thank you for let ing me in on al this. It’s real y exciting.”
“Hey, a promise is a promise.” Rel i checked the rearview to make sure Bertoia was fol owing. “What’d you think of my plan?”
“I’m no expert, but it seems very realistic.”
“Bob, it don’t get more realistic than this,” Rel i said.
“That’s so cool. I can’t believe I’m going to get to see a real mafia hit. I’l bet Mario Puzo never did.”
“Puzo, the guy wrote The Godfather?”
“Right.”
“Why’dya mention him?�
�
“Just the name of another writer that came to mind.”
“Another writer? Who’s the other writer?” Rel i looked at Bobby sideways and said, “Don’t tel me it’s you.”
“I haven’t actual y published anything yet,” Bobby said modestly. “What I real y want to do is screenplays.”
Rel i made a sound in his throat like an electric dril boring into a cantaloupe. “You ain’t thinkin’ of writing about this,” he said. It was not a question.
“Course not,” said Bobby. “I mean, I might use some basic details, but I’d change everything around so that nobody would get into trouble. Like, I’d set it in, um, let’s say Bu alo or Pit sburgh. The victim could be in the Steelworkers Union, not the Teamsters. Maybe instead of Steelworkers Union, not the Teamsters. Maybe instead of the farm he gets dumped at sea. Trust me, nobody wil ever guess—”
Rel i glanced at the long-haired rich kid prat ling on in the passenger seat and silently cursed himself for agreeing to take him along. Bobby caught the look on Rel i’s face and smiled inwardly. So much for his career as a junior hit man. Rel i would never let him within a mil ion miles of the Hof a assassination now.
AS THEY PASSED the Miracle Mile shopping center on the outskirts of Pontiac, Alberto Rel i was already formulating a new plan. Bobby Tucci was going to die in the Ho a assassination. There was no other way to play it, even if he wanted to—the kid already knew way too much.
Annet e would probably be pissed and upset for a while, but she’d understand; these things happened.
Rel i checked the rearview once again and saw Bertoia two cars behind. He felt a twinge of regret that he’d have to whack Bertoia, too, but he couldn’t kil the don’s grandson and leave a witness. He turned down the music and said, “You ever catch any of Dino’s movies?”
Bobby shook his head.
“You should, he’s a hel of an actor. Okay, here’s the warehouse.” He pointed to a large redbrick building next to some railroad tracks. Rel i turned into the driveway, waited for Bertoia to pass him, and fol owed him around waited for Bertoia to pass him, and fol owed him around back. Bertoia opened the loading dock door with a remote and drove into the dark building. Rel i fol owed.
Bertoia’s hands were sweating as he switched o the engine. Catel o hadn’t said anything about Bobby Tucci coming along. He decided that he would shoot Rel i as planned and then he and the Mouse could tie up Bobby and bring him out to the farm. From there they would get in touch with Catel o and nd out what to do with the kid. He parked the Cadil ac and took his Magnum .357
from under the seat. The next step would be simple; just walk directly up to Rel i and shoot him in the face. He decided he’d wait until Rel i left the car. Bertoia didn’t want to accidental y hit Bobby or damage the Porsche.
Mouse Campanel a hid in the shadows in the rear of the warehouse and watched the scene unfold. He recognized Bobby Tucci’s Porsche and wondered what the hel he was doing here. Typical, Mouse decided: a fuckup. He was constantly amazed at the sheer incompetence of the Tucci Family’s operatives.
Mouse felt a ush of exasperation. Catel o should have let him hit Rel i instead of relegating him to the role of grave digger and second gun, simply because he had no hands-on experience. Bertoia’s fuckup showed how much so-cal ed experience was worth. It was something to remember when he became consigliere. For now, though, there was nothing to do but hunker down and observe.
Rel i honked loudly, but there was no response. “Where Rel i honked loudly, but there was no response. “Where the fuck is everybody?” he mut ered. “They were supposed to be here to show me fuckin’ stereos.”
Bobby sti ed a snort. One of the many things he disliked about wiseguys was their chronic cheapness. Rel i was probably a multimil ionaire, but he was wil ing to drive al the way out to Pontiac to save a couple hundred bucks on a hot car stereo. His old man had been the same way; he never paid for an appliance in his life.
Rel i opened the door and swung his legs out of the Porsche. Suddenly he swiveled and looked hard at Bobby, who said, “What the mat er?”
“It’s a trap,” said Rel i softly. “Bertoia’s a fuckin’ traitor.”
He pul ed a pistol from his shoulder holster as Bertoia walked quickly toward them with his arm outstretched.
There was a ash of light fol owed by a thunderous reverberation and the sound of a man screaming. The man, Bobby realized after a moment, was him. He opened his eyes and saw that Rel i was gone. He sat, frozen with fear, the voice of Dean Martin crooning in the background.
The keys were stil in the ignition.
Suddenly there were more explosions. Bobby jumped behind the wheel, backed out, put it in rst, and burned rubber onto Telegraph Road. He was shaking so badly that he was al the way to Twelve Mile Road before he was steady enough to eject Dean Martin and toss him out the window.
Mouse watched Bobby peel away. He waited a long Mouse watched Bobby peel away. He waited a long time in the dark, listening, but there were no sounds. The warehouse stank of cordite. He drew his pistol and walked tentatively toward the Cadil ac. Alberto Rel i and John Bertoia lay dead on the ground, not more than six feet from each other. Bertoia’s face was blown away, but Rel i’s was stil intact, his mouth formed in an O of childlike perplexity.
Mouse shook his head; Rel i was supposed to be the toughest guy in the Family. He closed the warehouse and walked to his car, a ’67 Mustang parked on the other side of the railroad tracks, next to a thirsty-looking elm. He was glad that disposing of the bodies—and deciding what to do with Bobby Tucci—would be Catel o’s problem. It left him free to concentrate his 152-megawat IQ on the thing that mat ered most: how to convince Catel o to let him make his bones on Jimmy Hof a.
Chapter
Chapter
Nineteen
THE FUNERAL OF Don Vit orio Tucci was the biggest event in the history of Detroit’s underworld. The cathedral was ooded with owers and packed with three thousand mourners: made members of the Tucci Family, hangers-on, assorted high rol ers, middlemen, and lowlifes. Delegates from crime families throughout the country and as far away as Sicily mixed uncomfortably with a large contingent of reporters and a few highly visible agents of the FBI.
Most of the mourners, though, were the lit le people whom Don Vit orio had touched in his seventy-four years on earth. Some, like the Sicilian sisters who cooked for the Great Man, rent the decorum of the mass with their sobbing. Others, bene ciaries of the don’s largesse who had never been al owed to forget it, sat dry-eyed, wondering who would take his place and inherit their markers. More than a few were there to silently celebrate the passing of the man who had visited some terrible injustice on them or their loved ones.
In the front pew sat Annet e and Bobby Tucci, Tommy the Neck, and Luigi Catel o. As consigliere, Catel o had presided over the funeral arrangements, taken care of the presided over the funeral arrangements, taken care of the out-of-town delegations, and seen to the details of the actual interment. There was no autopsy; everyone understood that the don had died in a coma induced by his advanced lymphoma. It was a sign of the Tuccis’
con dence in Dr. Joey Florio that he was seated with the next of kin in the front pew.
Usual y when Joey Florio at ended a funeral he came prepared for the possibility that he would be cal ed upon to treat some distraught, grief-stricken relative. Looking at the Tucci family, however, he was con dent that today his services would not be needed. Bobby was pale and somewhat glassy-eyed—Florio could tel from the aroma of marijuana coming o the kid’s black suit coat that he was stoned. Annet e seemed composed to the point of indi erence. Tommy the Neck stood facing the rear of the church, scanning the crowd for friends. Only Catel o seemed moved by the death of the don.
As he gazed at Vit orio Tucci’s co n, Joey Florio conceded that his course of treatment might have been ethical y questionable. Stil , in the larger scheme of things, he had no regrets. After al , the don was going to die anyway, and soon. Get ing h
imself thrown into a lime pit could not have helped the old man in any way. He had merely operated in accordance with his new mot o: Two deaths don’t make a life.
Florio had eased the old man out gently. Thirty mil igrams of liquid Valium in his evening cognac had put mil igrams of liquid Valium in his evening cognac had put him into an unarousable sleep. Twice-a-day pentobarbital and scopolamine-powder suppositories had kept him that way. Then, when Catel o had given him the word, he had sent the don to heaven with a triple dose. Even if there had been an autopsy, it would have revealed nothing.
Only a blood test could have disclosed the amount of barbiturates in Don Vit orio’s system, and no one administered postmortem blood tests to seventy-four-year-old lymphoma victims.
Actual y, Florio felt, he could congratulate himself on his humane treatment. Don Vit orio Tucci was a man who could have died a violent, brutal death in the streets or su ered a horrible, pain-wracked demise at the hands of his cancer. Instead, he lay in his casket with a beati c smile on his lipless, waxen countenence. The smile eased Dr. Florio’s conscience; that, and the knowledge that his medical skil s would soon be available to the sick and infirm of his new home, the Cayman Islands.
As the archbishop began the eulogy, Catel o craned his neck, looking for Carmine “Pat y Cakes” Pat i. The dignitaries from the various Families sat up front, but Pat i wasn’t among them. A young man, not yet thirty, he was a troubleshooter for the National Commission, in Detroit to make sure that the don’s death did not interfere with the Hof a contract.
Pat i was seated next to Mouse in the rear of the church.
He hadn’t known Don Vit orio, and he felt no sorrow at He hadn’t known Don Vit orio, and he felt no sorrow at his passing. The don’s death was merely a complication, and solving complications was his business. He spent most of his time gazing at the Ali MacGraw look-alike sit ing across the aisle next to an old man. He concentrated his stare on her neck, trying to make her turn around. Final y she did, and smiled.
Carmine Pat i was considered the most eligible bachelor in the American ma a. He was wel over six feet tal , blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a straight nose and strong chin. His father was a Bonanno Family al y in Arizona. In high school and at the University of Arizona, Pat i had been a footbal star. He got a law degree from the University of Nevada before coming east to work for the Commission. He had done such an outstanding job that he was already spoken of as a future national figure, a Frank Costel o, Al Capone, or Vit orio Tucci.