Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  My visitors finally turned the corner of the hallway and I opened the door before they drew close enough to ring the bell. I forced a steady smile. “Come in, make yourselves at home.” Reassembling in the living room, Karst and Ready quickly moved to shake my hand, and Karst pointed at the stranger. “Michael, meet Paul Roman, the third agent assigned to our team for the investigation. He’s our electronics genius and he’s brought some of his more sophisticated toys for tonight.”

  Nodding my head at Roman and motioning for the standing group to take seats around the large green-and-black marble dining room table, I asked, “I take it you’ve heard Andrew’s gonna be a bit late.”

  “This view is incredible, Michael,” Ready said, ignoring me as he took a seat, stretching his neck to continue gazing.

  “Thanks. Every once in a while I rent the place out to movie producers for panoramic shots of the city. For some reason, the oval shape of the room makes it especially desirable.”

  Returning to the issue of the absent Andrew, Karst took the lead. “I’m going to have to talk to him later tonight about the whole wife thing; it can’t continue. Anyway, we’re not waiting for him to get things started. Michael, we’re expecting you to run tonight’s show with Sergio. You’re much friendlier with him so we’ll need you to get him comfortable, to start him talking.”

  Early that morning, at Karst’s instructions, I’d invited Sergio to join Andrew and me for dinner. He was viewed by the FBI as the most fruitful potential initial target, as he was both knowledgeable and loose-tongued after a few drinks. Initially suspicious that some new problem had popped up at the club, Sergio pressed to know what the invitation was “really” about. Satisfied it was nothing more than a social gesture, he happily accepted, suggesting a restaurant in Westchester specializing in a mix of Italian and African foods.

  Karst now enlightened me as to the goal of the night’s adventure: to bring Sergio around into talking about the Kaplan sit-down: the new mafia representation by the DePalmas which resulted in Willie Marshall’s selection as a new mafia presence at Scores in addition to the Sergios, and the physical mechanics of the one hundred thousand dollar payment delivered to Gotti after the sit-down.

  “At this point,” Karst explained, “we’ve only your word any of this actually happened. We need to start things off by getting Sergio to confirm these events on tape so we can begin building extortion counts for a racketeering case—a RICO. Understand?”

  I smiled in response.

  The initial discussion came to an abrupt end when Paul Roman hoisted his briefcase onto the dining room table, snapped it open, and started removing electronic gadgets. The first item was a perfectly normal-looking beeper. “We want you to wear this on your belt tonight, Michael,” Roman opened. “Not only is it a fully functioning pager, it’s also a very powerful transmitter. We’ll be sitting outside the restaurant in a van and we’ll be able to hear everything that’s being said. It’s really for your own protection because if we hear anything sounding like you’re in danger, we’ll come busting in. I recommend you leave your own pager at home or in the car so you won’t have to explain why you have two of them. If we need to talk to you for some reason while all this is going down, we’ll send a message to the beeper with a phone number followed by ‘911.’ If you get a beep, find a way to call us back.”

  The next item for “show and tell” was a large and bulky cell phone. “The phone,” Roman continued, “is both a fully operational phone and a highly sensitive recording device. Just put the phone on the table and it’ll record every word.”

  Staring at the phone, I became worried. “Wait a minute. Sergio knows I use a little flip-top Motorola, why would I suddenly be carrying this big bulky monstrosity?”

  “Look,” Karst answered, “he probably won’t even notice. But if he does, tell him your phone is being repaired, you dropped it or something, and the repair place loaned you this one. Make a joke about it being an old piece of shit.”

  I nodded in concession, but I didn’t like the vibes running through me. Sergio is fully equipped with sophisticated street-smarts radar, I thought to myself. If his defenses are up, this could prove problematic.

  “So I just put it anywhere on the table?”

  “Yeah, anywhere is fine, it’s a real sensitive unit. You just have to dial a number I’ll give you before you walk into the restaurant. When you hear four short tones, it means the phone is activated and recording. It has about six hours of taping capacity, so we have the whole night covered.”

  For the next half hour, we discussed various possible ways to induce Sergio into talking about the sit-down. “And there’s just one more thing.” Karst’s tone grew serious. “We want you to have an emergency code phrase, something you would never say in normal conversation. If we hear you or Andrew say the code, we’ll know your lives are in immediate danger and we’re coming in—guns drawn—to protect you. So, if you’re in jeopardy, real trouble, loudly say, ‘I think I’m going to puke.’”

  My head snapped up. “What kind of code is that? That’s something someone might inadvertently say. Are you kidding?”

  “Nope, that’s our code: ‘I think I’m going to puke.’”

  You know what, I mused to myself, I may really puke.

  As our car crossed the border into Westchester County, Andrew and I were silent, lost in our individual thoughts. We were only a handful of moments away from our first undercover assignment, and the sudden reality of our decisions was pressing upon us, making it difficult to concentrate. The ride had started out as all business. I reviewed the high points of the pre-briefing he’d missed, repeated the list of items on the government’s agenda for the evening, showed Andrew the phone-recorder and beeper-transmitter, and revealed the “puke” code in case of perceived imminent destruction.

  Following Sergio’s detailed directions to the restaurant, the freestanding structure with its own parking area finally came into view. I parked and, grabbing the phone and checking for the beeper on my belt, jumped out of the car. Andrew was already heading to the front door when I called after him. “Whoa, come back a second. We’re not ready.”

  As Andrew retraced his steps, I removed a tiny piece of paper from my pocket, dialed the number written on it into the phone’s keypad, and waited. After several rings, the call was answered with the four short promised tones.

  I put the phone away, satisfied I had made the connection. “Now we’re ready.”

  The restaurant entrance folded into a darkened corridor, which emptied into a bar area. We checked our coats and went searching for Sergio through the busy crowd of obviously affluent patrons at the bar. Andrew discovered our prey first, finding him seated alone on a bar stool at the far left end of the crowd. As I maneuvered for my approach, I took in Andrew and Sergio exchanging a friendly hug. Mike repeated the identical greeting with me and then picked up the drink he’d been nursing. “Let’s go on into the dining room, they’ve been holding a table.”

  With Sergio leading the way, our trio passed through the press of customers toward the better-lit main dining area. As we walked, Andrew dropped back and whispered to me, “I think we’re in good shape, he’s halfway loaded already.”

  Instantly greeted by the maître d’, we were escorted to a large round table in the left rear of the room. As I walked, I became flustered by the surprising décor, steeped in African tribal masks, totem-like carvings, and stuffed wild animal heads. It was all so out of character with my notions of mafia dining preferences.

  After we were seated and menus were distributed, Andrew and Sergio immediately ordered martinis. As always, my predisposition to kidney stones precluded intake of alcohol, so I settled on a bottle of imported Italian sparkling water, a brand recommended by Sergio as an Old World surefire cure for those bothersome pebbles.

  After a few minutes of idle gossip and a second round of drinks, I began the “script,” which had been carefully concocted in the car to get matters rolling in the “right�
�� direction. “Mike,” I said to Sergio, “whatever happened to our friend Tori Locascio?”

  “Didn’t he go to jail with Gotti Sr.?” Andrew interrupted, right on cue.

  “No, Andrew,” I responded patiently, “you’re thinking of the father; I was talking about the son, Tori, our onetime Scores captain.”

  As Sergio hadn’t yet jumped in, I nodded toward him. “Is Tori still with us or what?”

  Sergio frowned, revealing wide, injured eyes. Shaking his head slowly, wearing a sour grimace, he croaked back, “Whatta you think? For years this guy picks up cash every week to be the family’s representative at the club, my boss. Then the first time we need him, the first time we have real trouble, he runs away. He don’t want no part of no sit-down, he’s too legit now, too rich, just walks away without looking back.”

  Keeping to plan and playing stupid, I turned to Andrew. “That’s how we wound up with the DePalmas, you remember.”

  Before Andrew could render his next rehearsed line, my beeper went off. Pulling it from my belt, I pressed the incoming button, and a telephone number, followed by 911, lit up the small screen.

  “Who is it?” Sergio asked.

  “It’s Mark Pastore. He’s been sick all day today. I’m gonna call him back.”

  Picking up the cell phone from the table, I walked into the front vestibule of the restaurant and dialed the number on the beeper. It answered on the first ring.

  “Michael, it’s Paul. We’ve lost the connection on the phone; it’s not recording. Hang up, and dial the hookup number again. After the four tones, go back to the table.”

  “Paul, can you hear us on the beeper transmitter?”

  “It’s a bit rough, probably a lot of metal in the ceiling, but we’re getting most of it.”

  Having followed the instructions, I walked slowly back to the table, replacing the phone on the table between Sergio and myself. As I sat down, the waiter arrived with yet another round of drinks, and another bottle of water for me.

  “Everything all right with Mark?” Sergio inquired. “I like him.”

  “He’s feeling a little better. He just wanted me to put some people on the guest list at Scores tonight. Don’t tell Andrew,” I winked, “but I gave his friends a generous tab.”

  Trying to get matters back on track, I turned to Andrew. “Have you ever met this DePalma fellow, has he ever been to the club?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. What’s his first name, Greg or Craig, I can never get it straight.”

  As anticipated, Sergio took the bait. “Greg is the father, the real captain—he’s in jail. You know the father was friendly with Frank Sinatra when he was one of the owners of the Westchester Premier Theatre in Tarrytown.”

  Playing “Gracie Allen” for my own amusement, I broke in. “I didn’t know Sinatra owned a theatre club in Westchester.”

  Thoroughly annoyed, and missing the humor completely, Sergio barked back, “Sinatra didn’t own the club, Greg DePalma did. Anyway, the son, Craig, is the acting captain.”

  Stopping for dramatic effect and sipping slowly from his glass, Sergio added, “And both of you have met Craig, you just didn’t know it was him.”

  Sergio was laughing now, so we joined in. “When the hell did that happen?” Andrew pressed.

  “When we picked up the hundred grand in cash from you guys after the sit-down. There was me and Steve, Willie Marshall, and Craig DePalma. He ordered us not to introduce him, wanted to remain a faceless name to youse two.”

  My mind went off in furious search of memories from that day. I did recall a medium-sized, fierce-looking young man who’d appeared with the others to transport the cash. I remembered thinking at the time the stranger looked to be a man on the edge of sanity.

  My thoughts were broken by the beeper on my belt singing out once again. Same number. Same 911.

  “Mark again?” Andrew smirked.

  I stood up, grabbing the cell phone. “I’ll be right back.”

  Returning to the now-familiar vestibule, the play was reenacted. Called the number, spoke with Paul: no connection, need to dial and hook up again. This time I stepped outside, redialed, and heard the frustrating four short beeps.

  By the time I returned to the party, the waiter had delivered the ordered entrees as well as another round. “I’ll be up pissing all night,” I half-joked.

  Sergio had now begun slurring his words, and Andrew wasn’t looking that much more in control. Convinced these “loose tongues” could be used to advantage, I started probing Sergio about the sit-down, pushing for an explanation of how the process really worked, what role each participant had played. Sergio’s inhibitions were gone and he now talked expansively, easily covering every item on the FBI’s menu of wishes.

  Listening to Sergio pontificate, implicating himself and others in past and ongoing crimes, there came a point when I felt myself tinged with a modicum of guilt. I really loved this man, or at least I’d always thought so. I felt abashed at betraying him to save my own skin, but lectured myself I was being ridiculous. Our bond with the mafia was exclusively woven out of dollars, and the Sergios had apparently been prepared to let Andrew die at the hands of their cohorts for a bigger percentage of the club’s profits. The writing was on the wall: my friendships with the Sergios were not deeply heartfelt and, in the end, their loyalty to “the family” trumped our relationships.

  Continuing to expound about the Kaplan sit-down and everyone’s role in saving the club, Sergio leaned into the table with an air of conspiracy. “I’m gonna tell you boys something, something you have no right to know. You would have lost Scores if it’d been left up to Junior Gotti and Kaplan; the only reason you kept the place was a man named Mikey Scars. He ran the whole sit-down, he really runs the family, and he wanted you to keep the club. Otherwise . . . I don’t even want to say any more.”

  As I gathered in the amazing significance of this important piece of previously hidden information, Sergio leaned in yet again. “And one more thing. Forget that name you just heard. If you want to go on living your happy lives, forget that name. You hear me, Michael?”

  “What name was that?” I answered, as the whole table uneasily chuckled in unison.

  I sat back, feeling truly satisfied. Cha-ching! Cha-ching! The night was clearly an unmitigated success. Sergio. Locascio. Junior. DePalmas. Marshall. Kaplan. Scars. Extortion. Money laundering. Tax evasion. RICO. All in the bank; all in a night’s work.

  Finishing up the dessert I swore I wouldn’t order, I heard Andrew declare without prompt, “You know what, I ate too much. I’m so full I think I’m going to puke.”

  In the flash of an instant, pure white anxiety streaked through my entire body, my heart hammering relentlessly. In a rush of understanding, I looked up in an effort to discern the immediate threat we must be facing. Where was the gun, the knife, the terror-inducing act that compelled Andrew to call out the emergency code?

  But as my senses gathered, and my heartbeat slowed, there appeared to be nothing afoul. Sergio was happily imbibing his dessert wine, and Andrew was leaning back in his chair, arms akimbo, eyes closed.

  Oh my God, Andrew’s just drunk. He’s forgotten the fucking code and probably really feels nauseated from overeating. Who would believe this shit? The code probably acted like some kind of a subconscious cue in his brain. The FBI is about to come crashing in, ending our cooperation, and our ticket out of trouble with it.

  With my brain firing on overdrive, I pleaded with Andrew to recant. “You’re not going to puke, Andrew. Right? I hate when people say things like that when there’s NOTHING WRONG! Nothing at all.”

  Sergio took no notice of the odd exchange, but Andrew was having fun. He leaned over and said, “No, Michael, believe me, I’m serious, you know when you eat too much and you feel like you’re going to puke! What are you worried about, your new car?”

  Realizing it was a waste of time trying to awaken Andrew’s alcohol-repressed memory, I pushed my chair away from
the table and leaned into the tabletop, my face next to the secretly transmitting beeper and six inches above my crotch. I whispered, “He’s drunk, guys. Ignore him, please.”

  “What are you doing?” Sergio roared. “Talking to your dick, Michael? Does it talk back?”

  Now Sergio and Pearlstein were uproariously laughing at the jibe. On the other hand, I was desperately trying to appear unfazed, feverishly looking from the doors to the windows and back, hoping not to see three armed FBI agents crashing through the restaurant to save me from two harmless drunks.

  As the minutes passed and the restaurant remained eerily normal, I finally relaxed, cradling my head on the table in my arms.

  “Are you OK?” Andrew inquired.

  Lifting my head, I glared back at Andrew as if he were nuts. “I’m all right now, but I feel like I’m the one who’s gonna puke.”

  Realizing what I had just said, I ducked back to my crotch and whispered, “I didn’t mean it either. Sorry.”

  Walking out of the restaurant after exchanging good-byes with Sergio and paying the tab as always, into the freezing cold New York winter winds, I was covered from head to toe in clammy sweat. I felt a mixture of elation, at having accomplished all that was asked, and anger, at the repeated equipment failures and Andrew’s amazing faux pas. I just wanted to get Andrew alone.

  When we reached the car, Andrew was stumbling, having a problem holding his balance. With my partner standing helplessly at the passenger door, I strolled up behind him. “Tell me just one thing. What was the code tonight to alert the FBI we were about to die and needed their immediate help?”

  It took Andrew a few moments of thought, but when he remembered, a look of abject horror filled his face.

  “Do you realize you almost blew the whole thing for us over nothing? Imagine the agents crashing in and blowing our covers?”

  Andrew looked back and burst out laughing. He draped his arm around me as his laughs reached even greater uncontrolled heights. Finally he slipped, sprawled out on the car’s hood, and bounced to the ground, his legs shaking in the air and his arms flaying above his head.