by Zev Chafets
Sesti entered his private office and sensed, before he actually saw, that something was awry. His gaze wandered around the large room, and rested on his gleaming desk. He saw something that hadn’t been there the night before—a white plastic dummy’s head, of the kind used to display wigs. Perched on the head was an unruly mop of yellowish hair.
Carlo moved closer, and saw that there was caked blood around the scalp. He also found a note, attached to his desk. Printed in neat block letters, it read: “Carlo had a little lamb, his fleece was dirty blond; and if he wants to look for him, he better drain the pond.” It was signed, “The Mishpocha.”
Sesti looked at the bloody scalp in horrified disbelief, and felt his stomach rise in a rush. “My God,” he said to the empty room, and vomited all over his two-thousand-dollar suit.
CHAPTER 28
The media war against the Spadafore Family reached a climax over the weekend. First, Saturday Night Live ran a skit called “Fat Luigi and the Spaghettifore Family” about a gang that stole food to feed their insatiable leader. Then, the following morning, on Meet the Press, Senator Danworthy announced the creation of a Senate subcommittee on organized crime to look into the Gordon Affair, as it was already being called on the national news.
Half an hour after Meet the Press, Carlo Sesti’s phone rang. “Be at my house at five this afternoon,” said Luigi Spadafore curtly.
Sesti took a Valium and put on a black business suit. He anticipated a rough session with the Don, and the worst of it was, he had no real solution to their problem. The media were like a swarm of vicious bees, and the consigliere had no idea of how to fight back. Given time, he was certain that he could find the answer; but Don Spadafore was manifestly running out of patience.
When Sesti arrived in Brooklyn, he noticed that the extra men were no longer on duty in front of the brownstone, and the sharpshooters had been removed from the roof. “Who gave the order to reduce the guard?” he demanded of Nestore Bertoia, who was waiting for him outside the house.
“I did, Carlo,” he said. There was an annoying familiarity in the capporegime’s voice.
“On what authority, may I ask?”
“You mean, who told me to? The Don. You got a beef, take it up with him.”
Sesti let himself into the mansion and went directly to the Don’s study. As usual, the old man was seated in his easy chair near the fireplace. Sitting next to him was John Flanagan.
The consigliere felt a stab of annoyance. Somehow Spadafore had captured Flanagan, succeeded where he himself had failed. Probably he had found the Irishman by dumb luck, but even so, it was a humiliating turn of events. Sesti gave the Don a warm, boyish smile. “I see, Don Spadafore, that you have caught one of our elusive butterflies,” he said in Sicilian. “There is still much a young man can learn from the master. Now we must decide how to dispose of him. I have some—”
“Speak English, Carlo,” the old man interrupted harshly. “Mr. Flanagan does not speak Sicilian.”
“Yes, of course,” said Sesti in a chastened voice. Obviously the Don planned to rub it in. “I was just going to offer a suggestion about what to do with him.”
“That decision has already been made,” said Spadafore. Flanagan, brazen as ever, nodded in affirmation.
“May I inquire what you have decided?” asked Sesti.
“You may. I have just appointed Mr. Flanagan to the position of counselor.”
Sesti looked at Spadafore with dumb amazement. “Counselor?” he stammered. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s the English word for consigliere,” said Flanagan, speaking for the first time. “You should get yourself a dictionary, Carlo.”
“Surely this is a joke,” Sesti said, trying to recover his poise. “You do not actually intend to appoint this, this lunatic, to the post of consigliere?”
The Don shook his large head slowly and allowed himself a smile. With his heavy eyelids and large, yellow teeth he looked to Sesti like a dull, malign mastiff. “Not consigliere,” he said. “Media counselor. I believe that is the appropriate term, is it not?”
“But I do not understand,” said Sesti. “Media counselor?”
“The last few days have taught me that we are living in the electronic age, Carlo, and a wise man adapts himself to the times. Mr. Flanagan and his friend, William Gordon, have given me a lesson in the power of the media; and I intend to harness that power for my own purposes. Now do you understand?”
Sesti threw his arms open in a Sicilian gesture of admiration. “It is a brilliant strategy, Don Spadafore. I am ashamed that I did not think of it myself, but, as I said before, there is much to learn from the master.” He turned to Flanagan and extended his hand. “Welcome to our Family,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to work together.”
Flanagan took the outstretched hand in his own, and tickled Sesti’s palm with his middle finger. The consigliere jumped in surprise, and Flanagan winked.
“Perhaps the reason that you did not think of this yourself is that you have been too busy with other matters recently,” said the Don. “Murder is a very time-consuming business.”
“Murder?” said Sesti, keeping his face expressionless by an act of will. “Ah, you mean Grossman. But of course, Don Spadafore, he is not dead. And, in any event, that was carried out on your orders.”
“I do not mean Grossman,” said Spadafore in a tight voice. “I mean the murder of my sons.”
Sesti felt a cold chill in the pit of his stomach. “Surely Don Spadafore, you don’t believe that I could have been involved with the murders of Mario and Pietro. Here is the murderer,” he exclaimed, pointing dramatically at Flanagan. “This man whom you wish to appoint counselor and his friend took the lives of your sons. You must believe that.”
“We have played that comedy long enough,” said Spadafore. “You are an analytical man, Carlo, and so I will explain my reasoning to you. That is,” he added with fine irony, “with your permission, consigliere.” Sesti, speechless, merely nodded.
“First, may I say that I never entirely believed that Gordon and Flanagan killed Mario. At my age you learn that people rarely act out of character, and murder is not in the character of two journalists. And so, from the beginning, my suspicions were aroused. That is the reason I accepted Albert Grossman’s assurance of his son’s innocence.”
“But Pietro,” said Sesti. “You yourself told me after Pietro’s death that Gordon and Flanagan were to be held accountable.”
“That is true,” said Spadafore. “At the time, it appeared the most probable explanation. But that was before Gordon’s article appeared. I had no idea that the girl, Jupiter Evans, was his fiancée. I asked myself, why would a man murder his own future bride, simply to kill my son. It seemed illogical.”
“That bothered me, too,” said Sesti quickly. “But of course, these men are amateurs. Perhaps it was simply an accident that the girl was there.”
“Possible, I grant you,” said the Don reasonably. “Unlikely, but still possible. On the other hand, I began to think—who is the true beneficiary of this string of murders? And to that there was only one answer—it was you, Carlo.”
“And on the basis of such reasoning, you accuse me of killing your sons?”
“I am a cautious man, consigliere, and, I hope, a just one. Certainty required more, and luckily, Mr. Flanagan has provided it.”
“Flanagan? What has he told you?”
“Carlo, do you know a man named Grady Rand?”
For a split second, Sesti considered lying, but he realized that the old man would not have asked if he did not already know the answer. “Rand was an assassin. I used him for the Grossman job,” he said.
“Yes, it is in here,” said Spadafore, producing a small leather notebook. “This belonged to Rand. On the day that Albert Grossman was shot there is a notation—‘A.G.’ It may interest you to know that ‘M.S.’ appears on the day that Mario was shot, and ‘P.S.’ on the day that Pietro was blown up. What is your exp
lanation for this, consigliere?”
“Where did you get that notebook?” Sesti demanded.
“Mr. Flanagan brought it to me early this morning,” said the Don.
“He could have written those initials himself,” Sesti sputtered. “This is a forgery. I’m certain of it.”
The Don shook his head. “I asked Arturo Pasterno to check the writing against the other notations in the book,” he said. “It is identical.”
“Dum de dum dum,” Flanagan sang the ominous first notes of the theme song to Dragnet. “He’s got you there, Carlo old chap.”
“You, bastard!” Sesti spit between clenched teeth. “You did this.”
Flanagan stared at him with ingenuous blue eyes and shook his head. He had to admire the consigliere’s fighting spirit and his quick, devious mind. Sesti had figured out right away that the initials were forged; whereas it had taken Flanagan himself half an hour to come up with the idea, and another hour for Sleepout Levine to actually copy Rand’s handwriting.
“Don Spadafore, this man is lying. I give you my most solemn assurances—”
The door opened and Sesti saw Bertoia and Rizzoli. “You may save your assurances for God,” said the old man. “Good-bye, Carlo. In many ways you were a good consigliere. Perhaps we will meet someday in heaven.” The pleasantry was insincere. Although Don Spadafore feared that it might be blasphemy, deep in his heart he believed that God had a special part of heaven reserved for Men of Respect.
CHAPTER 29
Gordon sat at the long table in the front of the wood-paneled private dining room in the Waldorf, and fiddled with his silver butter knife. It had been two days since Flanagan’s meeting with Spadafore, two days since Flanagan had reported on that meeting over drinks at O’Dwyer’s. Now, watching the lanky Irishman, resplendent in his shining black dinner jacket, greet his guests, Gordon still couldn’t believe that conversation.
“He offered you what?” Gordon had asked in an incredulous tone.
“You heard me, pal,” said Flanagan. “As of this morning, you’re looking at the new media consultant of the Spadafore Family. Of course, it’s really the consigliere job, but Luigi is too traditional to appoint an Irishman. But it amounts to the same thing.” Flanagan raised his glass of Jameson’s. “L’chayim, kid,” he toasted himself.
“Flanagan, of all the insane shit that’s happened the past few weeks, this has got to be the craziest. What the hell does Luigi Spadafore need with a media consultant?”
“Are you kidding? After the job we did on him, image is his biggest problem. He’s got a Senate committee on his ass, and Eddie Murphy doing bits on him on television. He figured that if I could get him into this, I can get him out. He’s right, too, that smart old bastard. By the time I’m finished, half the country’s going to be calling him Uncle Luigi.”
“What about Sesti? What’s Luigi going to do with him?”
Flanagan grinned broadly. “I think he’s already done it,” he said. “See, I explained to him that Carlo was the one who had his kids numbed. Which, by the way, happens to be true, not that it matters all that much. And you know how sentimental Luigi is about his boys. So, good-bye Carlo, hello Mad Dog.”
“We’re off the hook,” said Gordon, more to himself than to Flanagan. “I can hardly believe that this nightmare’s over.”
“One man’s nightmare is another man’s daydream,” said Flanagan, rubbing his stomach lightly; the scar was still tender. “I’m really sorry about your father, and Jupiter, but I’ve got to admit that from my point of view, this could have ended a lot worse.”
“You really think you can get good PR for Spadafore?” Gordon asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
“Well, not right away, not directly. See, the real problem is that people have the wrong idea about organized crime. They picture it as a bunch of, I guess you could say, criminals. The thing is to let them see the warm, human side of the underworld, the kind of things we’ve seen the last few weeks.”
“What I’ve seen are half a dozen murders and a bunch of crazed thugs combing the city with automatic weapons,” said Gordon. “I don’t think even you could make that play in Peoria.”
“Yeah, but you’ve seen some other things, too,” said Flanagan.
“Those old guys your dad rounded up are some of the most lovable characters around. When I told them the war was over, you should have seen how disappointed they were about going back to Florida. They still don’t know that old Mad Dog Flanagan has other plans for them—”
Suddenly a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw Mortie Zucker’s yellow-toothed smile. “This is a hell of a going-away party, Velvel,” he said, gesturing broadly toward Flanagan. “I’ll give that guy one thing, he’s got class.”
“You’re not just beating your gums,” said Handsome Harry, joining them. Millman gave his dinner jacket a fastidious tug and took a noisy sip of champagne. “Hell of an evening—black tie, bubbly, the whole shmeer. Reminds me of way back when.”
“Yeah,” said Zucker. “How’s Al doing, Velvel?”
“A lot better,” said Gordon. The mention of his father’s name made him uncomfortable. Ever since their reconciliation at the hospital, he had been feeling distinctly guilty about Bev, and uncertain what to do next. Not about Bev—he had no intention of seeing her again—but about his father. A part of him wanted to confess, apologize and gain absolution. But, Gordon realized, a part of that part wanted to do this just to see the look on the old man’s face when he found out.
Gordon heard the tinkle of silver on crystal; Flanagan was calling on the guests to take their seats. “Just look for your card,” he said.
Next to each plate was a formal place card inscribed with a nom de guerre: Sleepout Louie, Indian Joe, Pupik, Bad Abe, Handsome Harry, Zuckie the Rabbi, Kasha and Morgan the Magnificent. Gordon rose, found his own card and grinned in spite of himself. It read, “The Pulitzer Kid.”
“Gentlemen, before we begin the evening, I want to ask our spiritual leader, Rabbi Zucker, to lead us in prayer,” said Flanagan.
Zucker stood, fished a black yarmulke out of his pocket and placed it over his bald spot. He clenched and unclenched his powerful fists, and then placed his right hand over his heart, like a Boy Scout. “Um, Baruch ata Adonai, Elohaynu melech ha-olam, thanks for everything, God, amen,” he said, and sat down to appreciative cheers and laughter.
“Hey, that’s not supposed to be funny.” Zucker scowled, and the men laughed harder. Only Flanagan kept a straight face. He let the laughter go on for only a few seconds before tinkling the room back to silence.
“Thank you for those inspiring words, Zuckie,” he said. “And thank all of you for coming here tonight. Men of the Mishpocha,” he intoned solemnly, raising his glass and gesturing for them to raise theirs, “I salute you. You came, you saw and you conquered!” Flanagan gulped his champagne, and then threw his glass against the wall with a powerful gesture. The others did the same.
Flanagan faced them, legs spread, hands on his hips. “Men, it has been a pleasure to lead you in battle. Together, we have made history. Thanks to you, we have made the peace with the Spadafores.”
A cheer went up as the old men slapped each other on the back and pounded the table. Flanagan held up his hand for quiet. “You have fulfilled your part of our bargain, and I have some envelopes here,” he said, tapping his breast pocket. “Believe me, nobody ever earned their money more than you guys.”
“Yeah, you and Velvel weren’t so bad either,” said Sleepout Louie, and the others applauded. Gordon shook his head modestly, but Flanagan beamed.
“For some of you, tonight is a good-bye party,” said Flanagan. “But no party is complete without a few surprises. Bad Abe, will you get the door?”
A murmur went up as Abrams walked across the thick red carpet and opened the polished oak door. The murmur turned into a cheer as Al Grossman entered the room in a wheelchair, pushed by a blond nurse of ab
out thirty, dressed in a tight-fitting white uniform.
“Al, you look great,” hollered Handsome Harry.
“Look at him, just like FDR,” bellowed Indian Joe.
“Who’s the chippie, Al?” called out Kasha Weintraub, and the others, including the nurse, laughed appreciatively. Gordon noticed that his father’s color had returned; he looked as healthy as ever. He also noticed that the young blonde was gently stroking the back of Grossman’s neck.
“Behave yourselves, you galoots,” Grossman growled affectionately. “Say hello to Nancy the nurse. Velvel, come over here a minute.”
Gordon felt Flanagan gently pushing him to his feet. He walked over to the wheelchair, bent over and gave his father a kiss on his rough cheek. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Pop,” he said.
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “Wheel me over to the corner there, I want to talk to you. Nancy, sit next to Handsome Harry and have some bubbly. But no hanky-panky.”
Gordon pushed his father to the far end of the room, and pulled up a chair next to him. “Not bad, eh?” Grossman said, gesturing toward Nancy. “You know something? It’s true what they say about nurses.”
“Pop, don’t you think that it’s a little early—”
“Yeah, I got all the time in the world. Listen to me, boychik, I decided that I need a change. I’m moving to Florida. And I’m taking Nancy the nurse over there with me.”
“Florida? With her? What for?”
Grossman gave him an amused look. “A bedside romance, boychik, what’s the matter, you never saw General Hospital? Don’t worry, I’m not planning to marry her, I just want some hands-on health care while I’m recuperating.”
“What about Bev?” Gordon blurted, hoping that his voice didn’t betray any guilt.
“Yeah, Bev,” said Grossman, looking at his son steadily. “I was hoping you could help me out there.”