The Carducci Convergence

by Nicolas Olano

  The Carducci Convergence

  Book One of the Carducci Trilogy

  Nicolas Olano

  House of Wonders Publishing

  © Copyright 2018 House of Wonders Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Beginning

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  About the Author

  Also by Nicolas Olano

  For my love Lilita

  Beginning

  The massive, six-foot-long tarpon jumped nearly its length out of the water, every inch of the spectacular fish alive with battle and fury. It would not be taken, not now, not ever. With strength that was commensurate to its girth and weight the silver king stretched the 16-pound line-class tippet to its limit; but somehow it held. At the other end, grasping the 9-foot, 12-weight fly rod and hanging on with all he had, Uncle Sal was enthralled by the combativeness of the tarpon – a larger specimen typical of the Sarasota coast in western Florida, but not a record by far. Huge fish have been caught here and much bigger ones have escaped heartbroken anglers who for few fleeting seconds believed they were about to make saltwater fly-fishing history.

  In a dramatic occurrence not unheard of by veteran saltwater anglers the tarpon jumped again, flying into the boat in a chaos of clattering scales and copious slime, catching Uncle Sal and his guide totally by surprise. With one swipe of its powerful tail the fish broke Sal’s left femur and shards of the bone tore through his femoral artery, opening it like a faucet and covering the bottom of the skiff in blood. Within two minutes Salvatore di Dio Carducci was dead.

  Semi-retired head of one of New York’s most prominent Mafia families, Sal had met his end in a battle of his choosing. The king of fish had dealt the king of crime a fatal blow. The tarpon, quivering on the deck of the skiff, flopped itself back into the water, leaving its destruction to the mobster’s guide/bodyguard whose desperate calls over the marine emergency frequency brought the Sarasota shore patrol and a Coast Guard boat that were nearby, but only to be witnesses to a pathetic scene: a grown man crying over the bloody body of his friend as he rocked back and forth, talking in Italian to the corpse whose head he cradled with filial concern.

  No one knew it yet, but this death would send shock waves throughout organized crime around the world. Yet for now the only waves in motion were small ones that lapped against the skiff’s hull replacing with their rhythmic thumping the now-silent heart of Uncle Sal.

  Uncle Sal, as Salvatore di Dio Carducci was universally known, lay on the medical examiner’s table while the physician filled out the papers that confirmed his death had come about by misfortune and no foul play was contemplated. A terrified and bereaved bodyguard told a story that had been confirmed by another angler who witnessed the tragedy from another boat a couple of hundred feet away. The body, now washed clean of fish slime and blood, would be released to a local mortuary to prepare it for shipment via private jet to New York.

  On the flight down in Sal’s G5, Ernie Goldman, Sal’s long time attorney and trusted friend, was talking to Marco Carducci, Salvatore’s bereaved nephew and one of the two men who managed all of the Carducci family business. The other one, who by necessity stayed in New York, was Ian Carlo de la Rosa, Salvatore’s other nephew.

  The older man was deferential to Marco, a handsome man in his late thirties with a full head of brown hair that already had snow over the ears. He had soulful eyes that could go from soft to granite in a flash, and signs of an easy smile. The lawyer leaned forward in his seat and spoke in a low voice even though they were the only ones in the passenger cabin.

  “We’ll get him home by tonight. His wife understands what has to be done and is cooperating. We’ll talk about her later but for now we have to prepare a press release, because if they don’t have something soon they’ll make up all sorts of junk and we don’t need that.”

  “I just have a couple of things that I believe should be included. Other than that I think someone from your office should prepare a statement and we’ll look at it.”

  “Sure, what do you want said?”

  “That Sal died doing something he truly loved. Fly fishing had become his passion and he died at his game. Then say something that indicates that Sal was retired so that people believe it’s business as usual for the family and that Ian Carlo and I are at the helm. No need for somebody trying to take over what they might think is an empty seat.”

  “The first part for sure, but the part about you and Ian Carlo has already been communicated through the right channels and doesn’t need to go into the press release.”

  “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. This really caught me off guard, Ernie…Let’s get Sal home and then all three of us can sit down and talk this through.”

  They both leaned back in their chairs and became lost in their private memories of Uncle Sal. For Ernie Goldman it was a long flight back in time. Forty-some years ago he was fighting tooth and nail for the underprivileged and indefensible as a public defender in Rochester New York. For a Jew in those days it was a battle to get ahead in life if you didn’t have a rabbi to whose coattails one could hitch his fortunes. Unfortunately Ernie, thin, short, and somewhat mousy looking with red hair, did not inspire much in the Jewish community of Rochester and thus lacked the opportunities others had. He was not considered a good catch for the wealthier girls of influential fathers, and his law degree was from a community college that did not bring with it influence or stature among peers. On the other hand, Ernie had a mind as sharp as a razor and read between the lines of the law, a quality that allowed him to win case after case without the need to mesmerize juries with presence and eloquence.

  One such case was that of a young Salvatore, whose misfortune had brought him before the judge with a charge of aggravated assault upon another man from whom he was trying to collect on a bet. Research showed that the victim of the assault had been before the courts on exactly the same charge on more than one occasion and Ernie finagled for Sal a self-defense plea that stuck. Two weeks later he was called by a prestigious firm in New York City and offered a job he could not refuse. Soon after he established himself in the city, Ernie was invited to lunch with an important client. The client turned out to be Salvatore’s father Giacomo, who, accompanied by his son, explained to Ernie that he would be working almost exclusively for their family. Ernie, who had no reason to be manacled by a moral compass, fell into the family with ease and became Sal’s close advisor, teaching him how the law was written to accommodate the powerful, and how to avoid the pitfalls threatening anyone who wanted to operate marginal to that law.

  When it was time to make
his bones, Sal was thoroughly prepared and the day he shot and killed his father’s main rival he did so with absolute sangfroid by walking up to the man as he got out of his limo and firing two bullets into him and two into his bodyguard. He dropped the gun from his gloved hand and walked twenty feet to the subway entrance where he disappeared into a panicked crowd. Later, witnesses contradicted themselves as to the size, color, demeanor, and posture of the assailant, as well as to his clothing. On the other hand, five witnesses, including Ernie, testified that Sal was at the other side of town at a charity function for the Benevolent Police and Firefighters Association, whose director backed the statement. Ernie never doubted for a second that his loyalty was with Salvatore di Dio Carducci and no one else. He had acted accordingly during forty years watching his friend’s legal back and building a bulletproof corporate structure that kept Sal far away from the courts of law. Now he was on his way to say a last goodbye to his friend and mentor. Then it would be time to carry out the very explicit instructions as to the succession of Sal’s empire, a daunting but necessary and, to a degree, satisfying task, because he would be rendering this one last service to his friend.

  CHAPTER ONE

  From the moment that he heard of Uncle Sal’s death from Marco, Ian Carlo tightened the reins on the crews and the multiple operations that were beholden to the Carducci family in order to avoid confrontation with the law or, worse, from violent gangs that were always trying to capture turf. He made it known that the slightest disrespect during the mourning period would be taken as a personal offense and everyone knew what that meant. Ian Carlo made himself visible all over the place. He visited madams and loan sharks, underground betting establishments and rendering warehouses where stolen goods piled up for later sale and distribution. He made it a point to let competitors know that this was not the moment to pull a fast one…and then he went into a few hours of deep mourning for his beloved uncle. He sat quietly at the Church of the Transfiguration on Mulberry Street and wept for the father figure he had lost. The Chinese who are today’s more frequent parishioners were politely told to come back later by several large men at the door.

  It was late that night as the G5 cruised at 41,000 feet with five mourners and the simple casket that held the body of Salvatore di Dio Carducci. Patricia, his widow, sat next to the coffin while Marco and Ernie stayed up front, leaving her to her thoughts and private mourning. She was a mystery to both men. Sal had made a point of keeping her away from his nephews. They had only met her twice in ten years, once at a wedding and once at a funeral. They knew that Sal adored her and once when Ernie insinuated to Sal that she might be a gold digger he had smiled and then burst out laughing but made no further comment other than to tell Ernie to “forget about it.”

  Three days later the viewing began at Giovanni Morelia’s funeral home. The undertaker had rendered a masterful job and Uncle Sal looked better than he had in years. Marco or Ian Carlo was always present with him, but rarely together; someone had to mind the business at all times. His widow, a beautiful woman from Peru, was well dressed in black and received the condolences with quiet politeness but deferred to Marco or Ian Carlo when it came to family protocol.

  Salvatore’s wake and funeral were a solemn affair. The families from New York, as well as the rest of the country, and some delegates from overseas sent their top people to honor the big man…and have a look at the heirs. Then there were the business associates of the legitimate world – lawyers, bankers, brokers, tailors, physicians, and last but not least, government personnel from three-letter agencies who, over the years, had tried and tried, and failed and failed, to pin something on Sal; not even the taxman had any luck.

  The funeral was a parade. Twelve flower wagons followed the hearse and the limos with the principal mourners, one with the widow and her father Francisco Lujan, one with Ian Carlo, his wife, and his daughter, and one with Marco, Ernie, Ernie’s wife Sara, and his son Samuel. Father Cellini talked about Salvatore’s generosity and his gracious attitude towards all. He almost blew it lapsing into a soliloquy about Sal as the good thief until he saw faces in the pews scowling in disapproval. Visibly shaken over his indiscretion, he rapidly steered his oratory to safer ground

  Salvatore was planted in style and after the interment most in attendance went to the house on Third Avenue, where caterers had set up a generous buffet and two well-appointed bars awaited the thirsty.

  The widow, Patricia Lujan, a Latin beauty who had just turned forty and looked just thirty, was dressed in a very simple black Valentino and walked on Fratelli Rossetti shoes, also black but with a very slight gold rim. She played unconsciously with a strand of black pearls around her neck, which were large and fine enough to balance the budget of the small island nation from which they came. Her ring, a three-carat D class, was not a gift from Sal but rather had belonged to her mother. It split the scarce light that filtered through the veils and sent out flashes of dampened fire impossible to miss. Patricia and her father were engaged in conversation with the President of the Barbados Investment Bank, whom they appeared to know quite well. The man, who did significant business for the Carducci family, was respectful but very comfortable with Sal’s widow. Marco, who together with Ian Carlo was observing her from a distance, made a mental note of this. It could be important down the line.

  “What do you think of her?” murmured Marco.

  “What would I know,” shrugged Ian Carlo. “I’ve only seen her once or twice. Uncle Sal was pretty cagey when it came to Patricia. Once he told me she was his ticket to a better world, whatever that meant.”

  Ernie caught Ian Carlo’s and Marco’s eyes and signaled them towards Sal’s old studio. Once inside he locked the door and activated an interference device just in case there were eavesdroppers using the windows as sounding boards to listen in. The room was constantly swept for bugs and was as safe as modern technology offered, but one could never be too careful. He got straight to the point.

  “You two are going to have a lot on your plate for the next couple of weeks. Times change, people don’t. Your right to keep Sal’s businesses is going to be challenged. I believe that between the two of you any of these threats can be successfully dealt with, but you have to count on each other, depend on each other, and above all trust each other. After this is all sorted out you’ll have other matters to confront, but for now we all have to be on our toes. There will be takeover attempts on all fronts and there will be renewed law enforcement efforts to seize properties if they can find any way to get RICO into the picture. I’ll deal with the latter; you have to deal with the others. You can count on a week or ten days at most before someone makes a move.” There was silence. They all knew what was coming; it was just a question of time. “Now let’s get back to this wake, as you two have to be seen.”

  The day ended on a quiet note. Patricia and her father left for the Plaza Hotel where Ernie had secured them a suite. A few mourners that had sampled the bar’s offerings once too frequently tended to linger but were politely escorted to waiting courtesy cars that would take them safely to wherever they were going. None were allowed to drive. Marco was the last to leave. He took a long look at the old familiar house where he had spent many days of his adolescence and young adulthood. He then said goodbye to the help and thanked them with a generous tip, and walked out.

  The first goombah to try his luck at usurping more power and territory for himself was Tony Kisses. Tony ran scams out of JFK and Grand Central Terminal. His crew was mostly Jamaicans and a few Puerto Ricans with some paesano muscle to help with enforcement. Tony made a move on several pimps and some dealers in Jamaica, NY near JFK. Two days later Marco had most of Tony’s vehicles impounded and ICE officers rounded up his crew. No blood, no news. Tony got the message and backed off. Problem solved.

  Next up was Lorenzo Harvey Batista, a half-breed Irish-Italian who sold enforcement to several outfits. He was tough, quiet, and efficient – so he was appreciated for his services by most of the familie
s. A.K.A. Lori Baba, he decided to visit Rochester and lay claim to Salvatore’s action there. He made it known that his presence was a permanent feature and that Sal’s people had to report to him. He underlined that claim by beating the pulp out of a couple of Sal’s runners and a pimp who wanted confirmation from someone else. The pimp didn’t make it. This case was taken up by Ian Carlo. Within 24 hours Lori Baba and his two main enforcers were buried in a landfill with enough witnesses present to get the word out. There was even a police lieutenant invited to the junkyard internment.

  The word spread rapidly throughout the players and the law. Marco and Ian Carlo were working as one and the pressure was off for now. But everyone wondered how long that honeymoon could last. There has to be one boss, il capo, the man, and one of the two had to surface above the other. But who would it be. Both men were capable and proven ruthless. Marco and Ian Carlo had made their bones cleaning out a Russian mob that tried to muscle into the prostitution business bringing in some sweet from Estonia and peddling it to high rollers. The Russians were heavies who used their fists and guns but not their brains. Within a month the girls were integrated into friendly stables and all six bosses of that crew were dead. Ian Carlo was said to have strangled three of them with his bare hands in front of others who might follow suit. Marco just shot them. Uncle Sal was so proud of his two nephews that he gave each of them a brand-new Cadillac Escalade – just like his – to show that they were his main capos. Other people in the organization were encouraged not to use Escalades.