Marco gave an astonishing summary of the business that he managed for the family, not including the very successful Carducci Enterprises that would be presented by Leon Goddard. Then he dropped the bomb…
“I propose that we as a family retire from all criminal activity in the New York area.”
“What have you done to this guy,” Ian Carlo asked Patricia, “He lost his marbles?”
“Take it easy, I think I know where this is going,” said Ernie.
“It’s really a numbers game, Ian Carlo. How much of your time and how much risk do you incur by managing betting, hookers, dope and protection which compared to the figures I gave you and the ones Leon will bring, is absurdly insignificant. I know that a bushel of people take care of the day-to-day, but the string invariably leads to you. I just think it’s a waste of you.”
“I’m listening,” said Ian Carlo, intrigued by the line of thought.
“You have two fronts that are by nature contentious to our family. Law enforcement, which sooner or later turns around and bites you, no matter how many of them are on your payroll, and then the other families. What happened to you with that nut Wilkins is just one of many that are potentially out there. Also, if we give up the local business it puts you a rung above everybody else and nothing that’s indictable touches you.”
“I’d love it,” said Ian Carlo to everybody’s surprise. They all thought that he was going to fight the idea tooth and claw but he added, “I want a life for my children away from this all this shit.”
“Children?” they all asked in unison.
“Yes, Helena is pregnant with a boy!”
“Congratulations,” said Marco, to the agreement of the group. “So this comes at the right time for all of us.”
“All very nice, but I don’t see how we give this up and not create a war within the families,” doubted Ian Carlo.
“I think we can do this,” said Samuel Goldman, speaking for the first time. “It has to be set up and presented like a business plan showing, in numbers that nobody is getting more or less than anybody else. The reason we give is that Ian Carlo de la Rosa, outstanding citizen, wants to run for office and has to divest himself of all activity that could mar his image. We can lay it out as a four year campaign plan, which makes sense and gives you time to maneuver any which way you want. Whether the others think it’s crazy or brilliant, it doesn’t matter; they will buy it. The only way they can see someone leaving the mob alive is if he’s joining a bigger mob and they’re getting their pound of flesh. Your immediate subordinates have to get compensated in some way because they would expect to become heads of their own families but I don’t see that happening. The structure of the New York organization has stayed stable since the beginning of last century and it’s not going to change without major upheaval so think of something to make them happy.”
They all watched Samuel, who until now was Ernie’s shadow, walk confidently into the light, much to his father’s satisfaction. They discussed the idea for a couple of hours but found nothing that could derail it; they all agreed it was a one chance deal. There could be no errors, the numbers had to be backed up with significant information and the work on the plan had to be airtight confidential. The presentation was crucial. All the families would have to sign off on this at the same time and a bulletproof pact had to be reached. They also knew that their ace up their sleeve was the pipelines across the Mexican-American border. Everybody needed Ian Carlo for that and as long as the secret was safe, so were they.
Leon Goddard made his presentation and blew everybody away with the returns obtained for the Carducci Enterprises businesses. One company that while not being very large, had produced amazing results was the Industrial Laundry Services headed by Matilde Torres, who not only made profits off a marginal business but was hugely creative. She decided it was a good deal to go into the uniform-rental business for the hospitality clients that they served and so went vertical, manufacturing the uniforms in owned factories in Honduras and renting them with laundry service included. The business had doubled in size and quintuplicated in profits. Goddard wanted to promote her to VP of Carducci Enterprises. Marco had some questions but Patricia thought it was a great idea and pushed Marco towards giving his okay. A poor immigrant woman was now a powerful New York executive with a seven-figure salary. The multiple franchises of McDonald’s, Pizza Hut, KFC and other minor ones had developed by acquisition and the parking lots had grown by constructing over and under existing lots. The Canadian branch was successfully producing plywood and compressed wood in new, less poisonous versions, and companies in Mexico and the Caribbean were doing fine, but the greatest success was Scorpio Multimodal Brokers. The rationalization of the cargo had saved their clients hundreds of millions of dollars, not to mention the environmental impact of so much less fuel spent and savings in road and railway infrastructure. Even the Secretary of Transportation had taken notice and several universities were doing studies based on the unique method of profiling and responding to the client’s needs that the Scorpio software presented. The investment in graphene was far from paying off and was a risky move, but indications so far were encouraging. Leon insisted on the benefits of going public with Carducci Enterprises but Marco and Ian Carlo still weren’t convinced and postponed decisions on that issue. Otherwise all the projects presented were approved and funded. One drawback was the recently acquired hedge fund that was having management problems. An audit of the fund had raised some questions and a group of managers felt personally scrutinized. This had given the VP of Finance some headaches but he appeared to be resolving the situation; he had fired about half the top echelon of the fund and replaced them with younger, hungrier, and more dynamic people that came from lesser markets but could bring fresh bread to the table. The results would soon be seen.
The meeting finished and only Marco, Ian Carlo and Patricia stayed on.
“You do realize that if we can’t pull this off we’re in for a turf war that will make the twenties a picnic. There may be more than one of these families that think they’re entitled to the whole shebang and believe they can enforce it.”
“I was thinking about that,” said Marco, “and the solution might come from a much unexpected quarter. Maybe our friend Special Agent Joseph Delany, who owes his bright star to all the information we feed him, might serve the purpose of preempting any greedy thoughts among the families.”
“Well, the Federales can really stifle any street war if they set their mind to it, especially if their interest in the matter is high,” answered Ian Carlo. “I remember when John Gotti went to prison and then when he died, there was supposed to be some serious take-over efforts, but the Feds made it pretty clear that the roof would come down on everyone if there was even one shooting. As you know, Uncle Sal took off for someplace until the waters cleared and so did many others. Nothing significant happened and it was business as usual. But this is different. Our family as an organization in greater New York would disappear. Spreading out what we have built over the years is going to be difficult if not impossible. Someone is going to feel shortchanged no matter how we split it.”
“Well, that’s where the FBI can play a role,” said Patricia. “They don’t want a war and they will impede it at all cost, particularly if we keep them informed of how things are turning out. If someone dissents they can come down on them fast and hard. That will dissuade anyone from following suit. Besides, nowadays being notorious like it was with Gotti and before him is just not fashionable. You have held a low profile and even Delany accepts that they could never pin anything on you. That pretty much goes for the other gentlemen who head the families.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Enrico Testa looked at himself in the mirror. Who he saw reflected there was very different from who he had been a few weeks back. The tuff of white hair was the perfect touch. People could not avoid looking at it and ignoring the rest of the face. His ears, which still hurt, looked bigger, flatter against his head,
and carried full earlobes that were not there before. His eyes were wider and nose thinner. The butcher had done a good job.
Testa wondered if it was enough to fool the biometrics software but he had no intention of testing it yet. He was going to the USA via Cuba and his entry to Florida would go undetected. He would be an illegal alien, he laughed. His Monaco passport was enough to get him a temporary entrance but better not tempt fate. He had transferred and converted 120,000 euros into diamonds and gold. He would carry only about $20,000 in cash. That should get him to the States and then in Miami he had a banker that could get him half a million more in dollars if necessary.
Enrico spent the day buying several airline tickets that would take him to Medellin, then to Panama and from there to Cuba. Apart from his Claude Petit identity he had bought a Colombian passport under the name Enrique Cabezas, which he found humorous as it translated to Enrico Testa. A credit and a debit card from Banco de Occidente together with a driver’s license issued in Usaquen, a town adjacent to Bogotá, completed his acquired fifth or sixth persona…he had lost count. He went out and sat in a café in the 93rd Street park and enjoyed a balmy day. He was thinking how to stake out the Sarasota home of Marco Carducci without being suspected by the tight security that surrounded the house. It would be tricky, but apparently the beach or the water would be the only viable approach locations. He thought long and hard but had only a reference of the sight and Google satellite view. He would have to do the survey personally. So until then he would just live, pray, and hope to complete his mission to God’s satisfaction.
The Chicago PD had conducted a full investigation into the death of one Luis McBride, attorney-at-law and all around scumbag. He had been found beaten to death in a vacant lot close to Mercy Hospital. When they went through his computer files, apart from all the dirty deals and services rendered to the Chicago Outfit they found a most interesting folder that sent them into high gear. Apparently Mr. McBride was brokering hits for several clients all over the USA. They resolved at least ten cold cases and derailed a couple of corporate hits, but the one that really made them sit up and pay attention was a hit contracted by a code name “Washington,” the target being Special Agent Joseph Delany, Jr. of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The sum agreed upon was one hundred thousand dollars, paid in advance, and the hit man who took the job was Ted Wilkins, whose garroted bloody body had been found in the alley next to a Burger King just one day before Mr. McBride’s. Could this possibly be a coincidence? Ha! Both men worked for known mobster Toledano but that would be a dead end. Nobody was gonna talk to the cops. That was for sure. Naturally a case like this disturbed the wasp nest and the place was swarming with FBI agents from the local office and from Washington. Feds are very protective of their own and strongly detest the idea of some dumbass hoodlum going after an agent. Unfortunately there were no clues as to who Washington was.
Washington, a.k.a. Congressman Terry Taylor of the great state of Texas, was blind with ire. He had paid more than double what he expected the bastard’s life was worth. It took the bracelet and a string of pearls to raise the money and he knew that he had been cheated on the deal. They had to be worth at least twice that but the shyster wouldn’t budge. It had been more than two weeks and that meddling creep was still alive. The Delany had not even called to thank him for the dinner after his wife spent good money to wine and dine them. He was so distraught that he had missed two vital votes on the hill and the whip was after his ass.
So, brilliant as he was, Terry called the attorney to find out what was holding things up. The voice that answered was not the lawyer’s and the man insisted on finding out who wanted to talk to him in spite of having been told it was personal. Terry hung up and called again. Same voice, same insistence on knowing who was calling.
“Damn it!” He thought it was just his luck. Now he was going to get ripped off by his friend’s contact. “Well, today the office can go suck. I need to calm down and get my shit together.”
Lucky was Terry, because his office was occupied by at least five FBI agents, several capitol police officers, and his nervous secretary who honestly did not know where he was. Terry’s call had been traced and when Delany saw who the caller was the dime dropped and he knew immediately that it was his miserable brother in law who had put out the contract on him. Terry had managed to get himself half tanked at the bar of the Marriott by the time the law descended on him. They dragged him out like a common criminal in spite of the tantrum that he put on about being a congressman of high standing, etc. etc.
When Joseph Delany showed up at the FBI operations office interrogation room the Honorable Congressman Terry Taylor was reduced to a blubbering ball of tears and snot. If there was circumstantial proof before, now it was overwhelming. Taylor talked non-stop, blaming everyone from his father-in-law down to the officers that arrested him and with a long diatribe about the shyster McBride who had accepted the jewelry and hadn’t come through with killing that son of a bitch Joey who made his life impossible. All his wife did was talk about Joey, day in day out; and if that wasn’t enough Joey’s wife and kid and blah, blah, blah. When Terry saw Joseph Delany enter the interrogation room he would have literally tried to strangle him if it wasn’t for the restraints and an officer who sat him back on his fat ass.
Joseph just looked at him and turned to leave without a word when Taylor shouted at him. “Uncle Archie‘ll take care of you. He said you were no better than that shithead father of yours, and others have it out for you too. I’ll see you rot in hell you son of a bitch! As soon as Marla bails me out you’ll see.”
“Marla isn’t bailing you out. She never wants to see your sorry ass again and believe me, the charges against you will not allow for bail,” said Joseph calmly.
“Charges…What charges? I’m a sitting congressman, you can’t touch me.”
This elicited a good laugh from everybody and on that note of humor Delany left the room.
M&M was thoroughly amused at the turn of events for Francisco Lujan. His daughter was going to marry the nephew of her dead husband, who as predicted by their opponents had turned out to be a star for The Board and a pain in the ass for Dupree and company. Dupree was smart and managed to get back in the grace of Edward Meredith, who was bathing him in glory within the IOR. Money was flowing in as before, but without having to share much with the senators and congressmen that had facilitated that relationship. Dupree made sure that Edward threw them a bone once in a while just to keep them quiet. A senator on the warpath can be a real nuisance but as long as they believed more money was coming, they kept their peace. The relationship between the senators and Lord Humphrey had petered out and he was playing doctor with that ravenous Sheik Faruk who thought he had a tab on The Board but was getting fed a red herring for breakfast and a load of bull for dinner – all of it laced with enough truth to keep him going.
Brilliant, M&M thought to himself; brilliant! The crumbs he had tossed to Special Agent Joseph Delany had flourished and the man was the first candidate for Deputy Director when the job came up for grabs. It was time that Marco Carducci told Delany who his benefactor was so that in the future he could collect on his investment. He and Marco were to meet in the latter’s Sarasota home and he was tantalized by the idea of a few days of fishing where some of the biggest tarpon in the world lived – the 16-pound line-class fly rod record being just over 200 pounds; and surely there were much bigger fish there that had never been caught. What a great investment it had been to cast his lot in with Francisco Lujan and not the cardinal. A “cardinal move” he smiled!
Allen Security had done a thorough re-evaluation of the security measures at the Carducci home in Sarasota and at Patricia Lujan’s apartment. More CCTV cameras were added and high-tech movement, heat variation, and sound detectors of the latest technological advances surrounded the properties. The docks were covered and a large section of the beach was being monitored discreetly from the roof of the house and the whole area surveyed by drone
s that rotated with the life of their batteries. The Carducci would be back in a couple of days and from past experience Major Allen knew that the enemies were extremely resourceful and highly dangerous. He had the hard experience of telling the families of the guards that perished on the Toscana and paid high bonuses to them; not that it would in any way diminish their pain or his.
Across the water of the artificial harbor that had been home to the Toscana, and nested among the red and black mangroves that knitted a thick barrier to the next property, Enrico Testa, camouflaged in such a perfect manner that he was invisible even a few feet from where he perched on the nylon “hammock” that held him slightly above the tea-colored water, observed the work of the security experts with total attention to detail. He had arrived from Cuba on a vessel headed for Canada.
A small motorboat had picked him up at the border of international waters and in the dead of night brought him to the small fishing village of Chokoloskee just outside of Everglades City, once famous for its “Square Grouper” bonanza that ended with most of the male citizens doing time for contraband. True to their past some of them still dabbled in all types of smuggling and getting Testa in without notice was a piece of cake. Ten grand had changed hands and Lefty Noland delivered his care to a bus station in Naples. The reason he survived this day was that, being an old hand at contraband, and with a scar to remind him of the danger of this kind of deal, he didn’t take his eyes off the guy and made him travel in the back of his pickup, not stopping to see him get off.
Testa was planning on six to eight hours of surveillance per day using a dark green kayak to travel from a nearby boat launch and paddling close to the shore and out of sight of the Carducci house. To anyone looking he was just another sea kayaker doing his thing.
The Carducci Convergence Page 29