by Otho Eskin
“That might not be practical,” Mel observes. “Profaci’s not available these days. He was last seen at the bottom of the East River. I could arrange a personal appointment with him if you want.”
“I believe, in the past, Mr. Profaci, on behalf of the people he represented, made use of the services of a certain individual.”
“Understand,” Gloria says firmly, “we do not acknowledge that Mr. Profaci was ever a client of the Gifford and Sullivan law firm or that we have ever had any dealings with that individual. Or that he ever existed. And, in addition, Mr. Profaci was a beloved member of the community and a respected businessman, involved in construction, and he has an unblemished record. Check the Better Business Bureau. You’ll see.”
“This Profaci character was known as a consigliore to the Commission.” I say.
Gloria actually smiles at that. Gloria is easily amused. “The Commission?” she asks. “What Commission?”
“I understand the Commission is a group of men who coordinate the activities of the Five Mafia Families in New York and in Chicago.”
“Then you understand wrong,” she fires back. “There is no such thing as the Commission. There is no such thing as the Five Families. There is no such thing as the Mafia. It’s all a myth concocted by the New York Post.”
“I have reason to believe your client Guido Profaci, over the years, transferred large sums of money to a numbered account at the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago.”
“Who is the account holder?” Mel asks. He’s getting worried now.
Mel knows me well enough by now to drop the charade that he’s never heard of Profaci. He knows that will only irritate me. Gloria, on the other hand, is new to the game, and she hasn’t yet learned not to screw around with me.
“I don’t know the real name of the account holder. But I believe he’s known to some as Domino.”
Mel’s hand jerks and he spills half his Manhattan. He snatches a paper napkin from the table and dabs at his wrist and jacket cuff.
Gloria’s reaction is one of sudden anxiety. She studies me through squinted eyes.
“I thought dominoes was a game people played with little tiles with dots on them.” Gloria smiles sweetly at me. “We don’t play games.”
“I don’t play games either,” I say.
“Why should we or our clients care about this man, Domino?” Mel asks.
Mel wants me to say more. Gloria, I think, wants me to shut up and stop talking. One of them knows more than the other. One of them may even know who Domino is. One has at least heard of him. Which is which? And who’s in charge of this conversation?
I decide I’ll be the one in charge. “I thought you and your clients should know that this man, known to some as Domino, may be going through some kind of a midlife crisis.”
They both look puzzled.
“What’s a midlife crisis?” Gloria asks.
“And why should we care?” Mel asks, still dabbing at his jacket cuff.
“Because one or more of your clients has, over the years, paid Domino large sums of money through Mr. Profaci, for services rendered. For highly irregular services.”
“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gloria says, without much conviction. “What has this got to do with us or our clients?”
“Within the last few days,” I say, “Domino’s secret numbered account at the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago has been emptied out. The entire amount, $3,420,000, is gone.”
“What happened to the money?” Mel asks.
I’ve got his full attention now. No more games.
“The entire amount has been deposited to an account in the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York.”
For the first time since we sat down, Gloria looks worried. “Why should we be concerned?” Her voice is shaky.
“I think you and your clients should be concerned because it sounds to me like Domino might be going through some kind of crisis of conscience.”
I might as well be speaking Urdu. Maybe they’re unfamiliar with the “conscience” concept.
“Maybe he’s got religion,” I say. “Maybe he’s gone a little gaga. That can happen to people in his profession. People in his line of work are often unstable. As you know.”
“We don’t know anything of the sort,” Gloria murmurs.
I have them both hooked. Time to draw them in.
“Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf,” I say. “Maybe he deeply regrets his life of crime and the things he’s done for your clients. Maybe he wants to make amends for his past evil deeds. Who knows?”
“Why should I believe you?” Mel asks, hitching his chair even closer to the table and leaning into me so our faces are inches apart.
“Why would I lie?”
“You’re a cop. Cops lie. That’s what cops do.”
“How do we know you’re not just making all this up?” Gloria asks. “Maybe there was never an account in this Trinidad bank.”
Gloria doesn’t know me or she wouldn’t ask me that question.
“You or your clients can easily check out what I’m saying. Somebody in the organization has Domino’s secret account number so he can make deposits. Somebody who’s taken over Mr. Profaci’s responsibilities. He can call the bank and ask.”
Mel sits back in his chair and looks at his now empty Manhattan. His eyebrows droop.
“All he has to do is make a phone call to the bank,” I say encouragingly. “He can confirm in a couple of minutes what I’ve been saying—that Domino’s account has been emptied.”
“Where did he put the funds he withdrew?” Mel asks.
“That’s the interesting part,” I say. “A real surprise.”
“Go ahead, surprise me.”
“Domino has made a very generous gift to charity.”
“Are you kidding me?” Mel asks. He’s abandoned the pretense he’s never heard of Domino. “Get to the point. Who gets the money?” Mel’s fidgety as the enormity of the problem begins to sink in.
“Domino has created a scholarship fund for the University of Notre Dame.”
“Jesus,” Mel blurts. “No way.”
“Is Domino even Catholic?” Gloria asks.
“Let me show you something.” I remove a folded sheet of paper from my jacket pocket. It’s the FAX I received this morning at the café. I spread it out on the table in front of Mel and Gloria.
Mel puts on a pair of bifocal glasses and leans over the table to study the paper. “What’s this?”
“It’s a press release from somebody called the Reverend Timothy Sullivan on behalf of the Board of Fellows of the University of Notre Dame. It’s announcing the pledge of a gift to the University of $3,000,000 to establish a scholarship endowment for ex-felons and people with problems with the law in their youth. It’s to be called the Domino Scholarship.”
Mel is sweating visibly now.
“The Reverend Sullivan says the donor wishes to remain anonymous,” I explain. “He then bangs on about forgiveness, mercy, and redemption. It’s very inspirational.”
Mel and Gloria look at me open-mouthed. The fish is caught. Time to pull it in and gut it.
“Is Notre Dame’s going along with this?” Mel asks at last. “Seeing as how Domino is what he is?”
“The University knows nothing about Domino. As far as they’re concerned, Domino is just a name. All they know is that some generous donor who wants to remain anonymous has made a substantial pledge to the University. From what I hear, the University is delighted with the gift and with the program. They may even name a chapel in Domino’s honor.”
“Oh, my God.” Gloria buries her head in her hands.
“Why would Domino do such a crazy thing?” Mel asks.
“I can’t answer that. I’ve never met this Domino and I know nothing about him. But it sounds to me like Domino may have become a new man. Admirable, don’t you think?”
“You think maybe Domino’s gone crazy?” Gloria asks.
“I can’t say what his men
tal condition is. And I certainly have no idea what else he’s going to do. Maybe he still observes omertà, the code of silence, in which case your clients have nothing to worry about. But personally, I wouldn’t count on that.”
It’s time for the gutting knife.
“What if Domino decides,” I ask, “to talk to the US Attorney? Or the Manhattan DA’s office about contracts he’s carried out for one or more of the Five Families. To clear his conscience. That would be a major headache for some people.”
“Gotta make a phone call,” Mel says suddenly, then, to Gloria: “Book us on the next flight to New York.” He looks a bit frantic. “Send copies of that press release thing to everyone on the Commission. Tell them to set up a meeting for tonight.”
Mel rushes out of the bar and onto the sidewalk. Gloria gets on her phone and makes flight arrangements. I watch Mel through the dirty front window as he talks into his cell phone, reading from the press release. His face is red.
Gloria puts away her cell phone. “Who the fuck are you?” she asks.
“I’m an officer with the Metropolitan DC Police Department.”
“Let me rephrase that question: Why are you giving us this information? Why is a police officer offering us a warning, and through us, to our clients? That raises all kinds of red flags for me.”
“Maybe I’m just being a good citizen.”
“In our business, there’s no such thing as a good citizen. Do you know Domino? Did he tell you about giving his money to charity?”
“I’ve never spoken with Domino and never met him … not that I know of. I don’t even know what he looks like.
“The truth is, I sense that Domino has been close to me. I feel certain he’s been watching me. We may even have met. Maybe even have talked. He could be that lone man sitting at the bar drinking a Coors. How would I know?”
“What’s in this for you?” Gloria asks. “I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a free lunch. What’s your angle?”
“Domino has become something of a personal problem for me. I’d like to see him closed down. Or, at least, forced to take cover for a few days.”
“If what you told Mel about Domino turns out to be true,’” Gloria says, “some of Mel’s clients will be happy to close Domino down. Disloyalty is frowned upon in their world.”
I get to my feet. “Understand, I never asked you or your clients to do anything about Domino. I hope that’s clear.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
As I leave the bar, I wave at Mel, who’s still on his phone. He’s preoccupied and doesn’t wave back. I’m pretty sure that within minutes somebody in his organization will be on the phone to the Bank of Trinidad and Tobago to confirm what I told him. And probably about the Notre Dame scholarship, as well. That will be a dead end, of course. They will never find out who anonymously pledged the funds to create the Domino scholarship.
The next step will be an emergency meeting of the Commission to decide what to do about Domino. Finding Domino will not be easy. The mob has never had direct contact with the man, probably has no description of him and doesn’t know where he’s hiding. But at least the word will be out on the street that the mob is after him. Domino will know he’s a hunted man. Even if he avoids the mob’s clutches in the short term, he’s going to have to hunker down and stay out of sight. At least for a time. That should cramp his style.
I hope.
And give me the time. I now know the only way to guarantee Nina’s safety is to eliminate Domino. Even if I get Nina out of the country, Domino, and his masters, will be waiting for her when she returns to Montenegro where they will certainly try to kill her.
Domino must be stopped here in Washington before she gets on that plane.
For the moment she’s safe in the embassy with Janet and her security team, but I know her safety won’t last long.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE LINCOLN MEMORIAL is getting ready to party.
The last thing I did before leaving home for the reception was to go to my office and open the Mosler safe. From there I selected a weapon appropriate for a diplomatic reception—a black oxide Ruger SR40c 9 mm automatic. It’s small and light and won’t ruin the drape of my Brioni tuxedo jacket but it carries a big punch. I only hope I won’t need to use it. I don’t normally carry a gun and I went through some soul-searching before deciding to arm myself this evening. A gunfight in a crowded reception like this would be a disaster. But the risk of an attack against Nina tonight is great. Not to mention me. After what I learned from the decoded message, I knew I had to be armed.
Lieutenant Bonifacio picks me up promptly at my home to take me to the reception at the Lincoln Memorial. I don’t mention to him that this evening I’m armed and his presence is not strictly required. I figure an additional police officer may prove an advantage.
The State Department security teams are in place when I arrive: some have bomb-sniffing dogs, and several men and one woman, using high-powered flashlights, are crawling around and under the tables set up to hold food and drinks, looking for explosives. There are several security teams weaving through the area inspecting everything. People from the National Park Service are stationed around the periphery of the Memorial.
The scene is cheerful. Tables have been set out with bunting in the colors of the United States and the Republic of Montenegro. Waiters in tuxedos arrive and lay out plates and flatware and crystal glasses along with buckets of ice and bottles of wine wrapped in colored cloths. A music stage has been set up.
Lincoln and his memorial have never looked so festive.
It’s twilight when the caterers appear with their Styrofoam containers and lay out food. There seems to be a lot of grilled meat on skewers, which I assume is some specialty from Montenegro and smells delicious. Chafing dishes are fired up and large platters are heaped with stuffed grape leaves and shrimp dishes.
Waiters prepare to circulate with trays filled with food and drink.
There will be armed security men and women who will move discreetly among the guests. Fat lot of good that will do, I think. This is the worst possible place for security. Janet is deploying her troops as best she can. She does not look happy. It’s beginning to get dark and lights are turning on, bathing the reception area in a warm glow. The caterers are followed soon after by a group of men and women carrying musical instruments.
Lucy and several of the more presentable members of the DC homicide squad arrive to serve as backups to Janet’s main security team.
“Are you armed?” I ask Lucy. She opens her blue linen jacket, revealing her Glock 26 9 mm. Her appearance is smart and professional and she looks calm, but I’m not fooled. She’s tense and uneasy. I hadn’t intended to ask her to join the protection detail this evening, but she insisted on taking part. Of course, from her perspective, tonight is a test. She needs to prove to me and to her fellow detectives she’s up to the job. Most of all, she needs to prove this to herself.
Janet was at first not pleased with my idea of using police officers to provide extra security. She’s convinced the police are cowboys who will shoot anything that moves, particularly anything that looks different or funny. I expect she has nightmares of my guys arresting the ambassador of Nigeria or shooting the foreign minister of Nepal. After once again surveying the reception site, she has reluctantly agreed to a police presence—at a distance.
I did not include Hanna in our police contingent. She’s not qualified in small arms, and her Orioles cap would not have fit in with the high-fashion couture favored by the rich and famous invited here this evening. But Bonifacio is a real addition.
The Ruger is comfortably tucked in a holster under my left arm.
I confer with Janet and we agree my people will help control the periphery, taking their positions at the bottom of the grand steps leading up to the Memorial and at the VIP entrances. Janet has had wooden barriers set up at the foot of the steps so no wayward tourist will wander in.
I stand near t
he bandstand and listen to musicians tuning up. Some are dressed in conventional musician getups for events such as this—black suits and white shirts and black bow ties for the men, the women in long, ankle-length, black gowns. They’ll be the ones to perform familiar show tunes and dance standards. A separate group of musicians are dressed in what look to be some eastern European or Balkan outfits, with shiny, knee-length boots and puffy-sleeve blouses.
I stand next to one of the musicians, who’s smoking a joint held in his curled fist, to keep it invisible.
“Did they fly you in from Montenegro for this event?” I ask.
The man shakes his head. “We all come from around here. I’m from Baltimore.”
“There’s a Montenegrin community there?”
“Big enough to support a small music group like ours. We play mostly at weddings. You know, the old folks eat food from the old country, dance some of the old dances, embarrass the teenage kids by making them dress in traditional costumes. The old folks love it.” He drags on his invisible joint.
“You’re from Montenegro?”
“My mom and dad were. They came to this country to escape the Drach regime.”
A tall, young man carrying an accordion case on his shoulder stops beside us. He’s costumed in the ethnic getup: black jodhpur-like pants, a white shirt, and maroon vest. “Are you the guy who’s supposed to get the music parts?” he asks, holding up a fistful of music sheets.
“Where’s Georgi?” the man with the joint asks.
“Couldn’t make it,” the accordion guy says. “Took a bar mitzvah gig. Asked me to sub tonight. Where do I go?”
“Join the others on the stand. I’ll take one sheet. Give the rest to the others; I’ll join you in a minute.”
The man nods and hurries away to join the other musicians on the bandstand.
“We’re supposed to play the national anthem of Montenegro tonight. None of us know it; it changes every few years. The embassy supplied us with copies of the new scores.”