Scores

by Blutrich, Michael D. ;

  Karst thankfully responded almost instantly. When he was apprised of Sergio’s call, he hesitated for just a moment. “What the hell,” broke the silence, “Bill and I will meet you in your office in an hour.”

  Despite a lack of sleep and waking with my wits discombobulated by Sergio’s call, I was inexplicably calm. When the agents arrived, Karst had a wry smile plastered on his face; something was afoot.

  Reaching into his bag, Karst pulled out and handed me my black boxer briefs with a flourish. Apparently having pondered the F-Bird leg burn catastrophes, and the obvious physical limits of duct-tape reliability, Karst had taken the underwear to a tailor and ordered a pouch sewn into the side. The pouch was the exact size necessary to house the F-Bird perfectly, and holes were provided for the mini microphone cables. Karst, it would seem, was not only a seasoned agent, he was a closet inventor as well.

  As I opened Sergio’s car door and jumped into the passenger seat, the recording device was safely and securely housed in the “Karst pouch,” so named for posterity by yours truly. For the first time, my movements with the F-Bird were fluid and uncompromised, my baggy jeans also adding to the undetectibility of the mechanism. Hopefully there’d be no more burns, slippages, or movements.

  “Morning,” was the only word of greeting I could manage.

  Looking straight ahead and obviously disturbed, Sergio pulled out of the driveway, onto the street, and parked on a deserted portion of East Thirty-Eighth Street between First Avenue and the FDR Drive. He reached for something at his side and fluidly placed a black revolver atop the storage unit separating our seats.

  At the sight of the gun, I swooned; so much for a calm demeanor—immediate and terrible urgency rippled through my body. This may be it, the jig may be up, my mind screamed in the silence of the car.

  “Are you afraid of me?” Sergio said, still looking straight ahead.

  “I wasn’t until now. Do we have a problem?”

  “Rats. Rats are the problem. I wish these were the old days, the days when we killed rats and their families. If you don’t set the right precedent, the next guy’s gonna rat too. Why the hell not? I for one wouldn’t hesitate to kill any rat with his family and his friends.”

  Paying very close attention, it became increasingly clear to me that Sergio’s tirade was not being directed at me in particular; it was somehow more diffuse.

  “According to my source, there’s a rat in DePalma’s crew. They had a wire in Greg’s house on the night I was worried about, and they got the whole fucking conversation on tape. I’m dead.”

  Still unsure why there was a gun sitting between us, I suggested we get something to eat and discuss the matter further.

  “I made reservations at The Water Club,” Sergio returned.

  The Water Club is a restaurant on a barge that sits on Manhattan’s East River. It’s chic, expensive, and frequented by the elite of New York City’s trendsetters. Reservations are certainly required for weekend champagne brunch, and Sergio tooled around the FDR Drive to find the restaurant’s entrance off the Thirty-Fourth Street ramp.

  Seated in a large booth in a quiet dining area, Sergio gave words to his worst fears. “You know that ‘affirmative act’ shit you were talking about last time, let me ask you this. If DePalma handed me a gun to kill the Albanians and I took it, is that one of those ‘acts’?”

  “Unless you took the gun and then actually tried to kill the Albanians with it, I’d say no,” I lied, and silently calculated, Strike one.

  “OK, well how about sending Steve and a friend to the police precinct to find out from a friendly cop if they had any leads on the Albanians’ whereabouts?”

  “Unless the inquiry was regarding a specific plan to do the job, again I’d say no. How would the rat possibly know about that anyway?” And to myself, Now we know! Strike two.

  “Good, I’m happy to hear you say that. And if we went out looking for them when we heard they were in town?”

  “Again, unless the rat was in the car with you, how would anyone know what you had done or what was in your mind? No way that’s a provable affirmative act.”

  Placing my elbow on the table and my head into my palm, I concluded my scorekeeping duties that morning. Strike three, game over.

  When the agents reviewed the tape, there was uniform agreement Sergio had confessed to participation in a murder conspiracy and had outlined three specific affirmative acts. And subsequent cherries on the cake followed. In an office conversation taped by ceiling cameras, I told Marshall that Sergio was frightened to death about DePalma’s order to kill the Albanians, and about his compulsive fear the government taped the conversation. Not only did Willie acknowledge the conversation, and repeat the orders issued, he mocked how frightened and distressed Sergio had been at the meeting and how stupid he considered his fears.

  At yet another taped session in the law firm’s conference room, Sergio and his son both described and repeated each of the affirmative acts they’d undertaken in furtherance of their intentions to execute the Albanians for the “honor” of their family.

  Mike Sergio. Steve Sergio. Willie Marshall. Greg DePalma. They were all undeniable participants in a confessed conspiracy to commit murder.

  Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Investigation Just Keeps on Expanding

  1997

  The agents called to announce a meeting at a small residential hotel on lower Fifth Avenue. Without revealing their agenda, they directed both Andrew and me to be there at 2 PM for what was described as an “important strategic planning session.”

  At the appointed hour, we arrived to discover Karst and Ready waiting for us in a shabby junior suite. A pathetic fruit bowl, obviously supplied on a complimentary basis by the hotel, sat atop a small glass coffee table, together with a half-eaten Domino’s pizza. The mood of the agents, as they pushed the rest of the pizza toward us, was relaxed and upbeat, immediately eliminating all the nervous energy that had accompanied us during our sojourn downtown.

  After some introductory matters, Karst revealed that, while the prosecutors were pleased and satisfied with the investigation’s progress so far, there was rapidly growing disappointment in the lack of recorded encounters with mobsters higher up the Gambino food chain.

  “We need to do better,” Karst opened. “We need to create a reason to get you guys talking directly with Craig DePalma. After all, he’s the acting captain, so he’s the next logical target.”

  We talked about pretending to take Scores into the public arena for expansion funding. “We’ve been considering the idea of doing either a private placement or an Initial Public Offering for years,” Andrew opened. “Willie already knows this and we could remind him of our plans, tell him we’re ready for an immediate launch, and suggest a meeting with DePalma.”

  The agents reacted as if they were confused, so Andrew went on to explain that one popular method utilized by successful businesses for raising additional capital from investors is an Initial Public Offering, or “IPO,” as it’s known on Wall Street. “We could tell Willie we intend to raise between one hundred fifty and two hundred million bucks from the public sector to open new Scores locations in new cities, and to buy existing clubs to be converted into Scores properties.”

  “Why would Willie react to that information by bringing DePalma to the table? Why would he be needed?” Karst asked.

  I smiled wryly. “We can tell Willie we want to acquire ten of the most successful strip clubs around, in Miami, Vegas, and Texas, for example. The Gambinos already have their fingers into strip clubs in all those locations. We could say we’re willing to pay up to ten million to the owners of each club we accept into the deal, and give them management contracts to run their own places as new Scores franchises. It’s too big a deal for Willie, he’ll recognize that, and he’ll need someone of DePalma’s stature to make appropriate introductions and ensure we avoid conflicts within organized crime elements. Willie w
ill be happy just to be the hero who brings this deal to his boss.”

  A chorus of approval for the concept erupted throughout the room. “Being able to parcel out ten-million-dollar bricks of cash all over the United States to mafia-affiliated club owners would instantly make Craig DePalma one of the most powerful captains in the country,” Ready opined.

  “Not only that, he would definitely look to grab 20 percent, or two million dollars, out of every ten-million-dollar payment as a secret finder’s fee,” I added, “and that’s twenty million in his pocket under the table.”

  “And the best part is,” Karst weighed in with a broad excited grin, “as soon as he hears about it from Willie, Craig will want to meet with you right away because he’ll know if either Junior Gotti or Mikey Scars gets wind of this, they’ll blow him right out of the way in a heartbeat, taking the deal for themselves. As I see it, Craig will want to become your new best friend.”

  Smiling broadly, I blurted out, “It’s all irresistible. And I can prepare papers to make it all look real. We tell DePalma we need to start interviewing owners of ‘friendly’ strip clubs; need his help in setting things up, bringing ‘applicants’ to the table; and safely steering us through national mafia waters without stubbing our toes. Greed will trump any possible reservations he might otherwise feel.”

  The meeting closed with a sense of accomplishment floating in the air, with definite articulated goals. Andrew was instructed to broach the issue with Willie at the first convenient moment, and then we’d all wait for our friends to swallow the enticing bait.

  As everyone was focused intently on tempting the Gambinos into participating in the nonexistent Scores IPO on Wall Street, Sergio casually dropped yet another explosion into the investigation’s lap. It all began innocently, with an invitation from him to share dinner at Rao’s Restaurant, a unique culinary oddity in Manhattan. Situated on a quiet unassuming corner of East 114th Street, the shabby-looking eatery sits on perhaps the only block in East Harlem with a zero percent crime rate; where limousines and chauffeurs comfortably line up to await their dining employers. It’s the only restaurant where politicians, police officials, movie stars, private detectives, and high-profile businesspersons mingle happily with mafia captains, soldiers, and associates. At Rao’s, all dining is conducted cordially under white flags of truce, and even local street felons are more than aware that criminal trespasses on restaurant customers or their property are acts of suicidal insanity.

  As gossip has it, reservations for dinner—which by the way is the only meal served at Rao’s—in this mafia-protected playground are made by the year. As a result, one who desires a reservation must make arrangements through the table’s annual “owner.” There are no menus for the Italian-style home-cooked cuisine, the place is “mom-and-pop” family run, and you simply take your chances on what’s being served on any given night.

  So, when Sergio called and extended an invitation for Andrew and I to share in, and to pay for, dinner that night at Rao’s, we quickly accepted the opportunity. When a call to Karst revealed there was insufficient lead time to set up recorded surveillance, it was agreed we’d attend nonetheless and just “sniff around” for useful information or leads. It was a “sacrifice” we stoically bore in the name of our cooperative endeavors.

  Entering the small, dark restaurant, we were pointed to a tiny standing bar to the right and advised our table would be ready shortly. While waiting, we espied Sergio sitting at a table, engaged in earnest conversation with a gruff-looking Italian fellow in his late seventies or early eighties. Sergio noticed us and waved us off.

  A short while later, our pleasant reverie was snapped when Sergio walked up and announced our table was ready. As we sat ourselves in a booth, Andrew excused himself to use the restroom.

  “You see the guy I was talking to?” Sergio leaned into me conspiratorially.

  I nodded in response. “His name is Angelo ‘Cheesecake’ Urgitano, he’s an old-time captain in the Lucchese family. We know each other for thirty years. Follow me, I have a reason for you to meet him.”

  Assuming nothing more to be lurking than a social interaction, I slid out of the booth and trailed Sergio the few steps back to a small cocktail table in the bar area where Urgitano was now seated alone. After introducing me, Mike motioned for me to sit.

  “Angelo, this here is my friend, Michael Blutrich, the lawyer I told you all about.” He then switched his gaze back to me. “Michael, tell Angelo the name of your famous law partner.”

  I positively hated when Sergio did this to me. He knew full well Andrew Cuomo was no longer a member of my firm, but he wanted me to brandish the relationship to impress his confederate. Playing along as always, I quietly answered, “Andrew Cuomo,” to Sergio’s obvious delight.

  “Not only that,” Sergio broke in, “Michael’s close to the governor himself and was appointed an administrative law judge at one time. Am I right, Michael?”

  “You’re right,” I responded.

  Throughout the banter, Urgitano had been coughing in deep spasms, unsuccessfully attempting to regularize his breathing. As the coughing finally quieted, Sergio again seized the floor.

  “Michael, listen to me. Angelo’s son is in jail on a murder rap. He’s a good kid, and he’s coming up for parole. Do you think maybe with a little help from your friends we could get him out?”

  Talk about being put on the spot, I had been wholly unprepared for this sudden turn of events. Unlike the usual bid for small political favors, I was now being recruited to conspire in a bit of illegal influence peddling, more properly termed “bribery,” to spring Urgitano’s son out of jail. Thank God this particular murderer was a “good kid,” I thought to myself.

  In normal times, my political seasoning would have led me to casually defer myself out of the conversation, telling Urgitano I would look into things, but later sharing I had little influence in such matters. I would have fallen back on common political strategy: do absolutely nothing, and hope to take credit if the kid actually managed to somehow get paroled.

  But these were no longer normal times and I decided not to come back with normal responses. “Is this his first parole hearing?”

  “No, he’s had them before and been denied. They treat him like scum because he’s got an ‘Organized Crime’ jacket on his prison file.”

  “That does make it tougher,” I confirmed in Sergio’s direction.

  “Do you think you can help?” Urgitano asked in a raspy voice before again breaking out in a coughing fit.

  Taking a moment’s respite and opting for the plunge, I directed my response to Sergio. “It just so happens a very close political ally of mine serves on the parole board.” (I actually knew no one on the board.) “And I have in the past been able to favorably influence parole decisions.” (I’d never known or represented anyone seeking parole.)

  Urgitano leaned in, bringing his face within inches of mine. “I’m not gonna live that long and I want to see my son out of jail. Cash money is no object; I’ll pay what’s necessary to get your friend behind us. See what you can do, please.”

  “I gotta be honest, Angelo, and I’m only saying this because of my close relationship with my friend here, it’ll cost big bucks to deliver this kind of result. Not a penny for me, mind you, but all for the man on the board taking the risk.”

  Sergio clapped his hands in patent joy. “This is great. Michael, do us some magic and let me know the price tag.”

  “I’ll check it out and get back to Mike,” I said to Angelo, rising from my chair. “No promises, there’s lots of factors, and you know that OC jacket is a problem.”

  I walked back to our table in the dining area while Sergio lingered for a few final words with his friend. Making my way, I was, as usual, filled with a bothersome mixture of elation and guilt. This is unbelievable, I thought, an attempt to bribe a public official—a major felony and something new to feel guilt over. Preying on a dying old man who foolishly loves his son too much to wor
ry about himself.

  I shuddered as I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder. Sergio squeezed hard and said, “Thanks for that, let me know what you find out. Angelo’s in his twilight now, but he was quite a killing machine in his youth, one wicked motherfucker.”

  That little gem of information made me feel much, much better about what I was going to do.

  When I phoned Karst and Ready on the following morning, the agents listened in silence as I recounted the introduction to Urgitano, the approach to orchestrate a bribe, and the offer to pay cash to obtain the son’s parole. Their silence continued as I detailed the lies I’d invented: I was a personal friend of a parole board member, I’d influenced parole decisions in the past, and the deal would cost “big bucks.”

  When the tale was told, Ready broke the ice. “This is unbelievable, you’re turning into a ‘fatal attraction’ for the mob.”

  “Michael,” Karst changed the conversation’s direction, “did Sergio identify which family Urgitano is with?”

  “He said he was an old-time member of the Lucchese family.”

  “I’ll be damned, they even told you the truth about that.”

  After going over the facts a second time, Karst instructed me to phone Sergio and tell him the “thing” was in the works. “Tell him you’ll have word on what’s up in about a week and it looks good. Let’s get Urgitano’s hopes flying. In the meantime, we’ll have to meet with Carol and Marjorie and contact state prosecutors. I’d say we’re gonna be running with this one big-time.”

  Exactly one week later, the agents called me. There was unmistakable excitement in their voices as they brought me up to speed. “You need to call Sergio,” Ready opened, “and tell him you have very positive news for Urgitano. Ask for a meeting as soon as possible. We’ll tell you all about it when we pre-brief. Meanwhile you’re authorized to tell Sergio you’ve been to Albany and there’s a chance you can get the favor done if they act quickly.”