Joe explained that it was her smurfing of money that had initially caught the attention of the Colonel and his team. They had staked the house out, hoping to rope in a few more confederates in what they saw as a scheme to launder dope proceeds. The intervention of Heather was inexplicable to everyone there, although Joe had encountered her earlier, up in Montana.
It was Humphrey’s turn to explain. He swore he’d had nothing to do with Heather. He had explained it all to Helen, much earlier. It had been a faction of the mob that was working against him. This problem had been resolved, more or less, although there were some aspects of it he wanted to discuss further with both of them. The main item for discussion, though, was Joe’s relationship with the Colonel and Schwind.
“Basically,” Joe said, “they want me to take you out. But they don’t put it that way. Not yet. They’re a careful bunch. They want me to re-establish myself within your organization. I’m supposed to be some kind of spy. Now, I can tell you I’m not a spy and you can believe me or not, it’s up to you. I come to you as a friend. You were always straight with me, F—, er …” Joe hesitated.
“You can call me Fat, Joe,” Humphrey said amiably. “But only you.”
“I’ll call you Slim,” Joe said. “That’s what popped out before, without thinking. Anyway, you and I never had any problems. It was always Carmine. I understood that. But Schwind and the colonel don’t know that. They think I’ve got a real beef with you, but it’s something we can work out. Plus they think they have a hold on me, because I’m a fugitive, or maybe they think they can hang the Salt Lake City thing on me. Who knows, if we’re talking about convincing a jury, they probably could. They’ll have fingerprints on rocket launchers, cars, that sort of thing. They could make a case that I was seeking revenge against Echeverria. The point is: they think they’ve got leverage here, that I’m their man. They seem to be able to delude themselves, about that and a lot of things. They think they’re lonely crusaders against crime, something like that. Me, I don’t have any illusions. I’m just Joe Service, at yo’ service.”
He paused, looking from one to the other of them. When they didn’t say anything, he went on: “See, their theory is that beef or no beef, I can get back in with you. I figure they’re not so far out in that.”
Helen and Humphrey both signaled their acceptance of this assessment.
Joe went on: “Once I’m inside, I’m supposed to feed them info and maybe, ultimately, I take you down.” He pointed to Humphrey. “They didn’t say anything about you, honey,” he told Helen, with a smile. “They’re very vague about this. But that’s their style. On the one hand they’re running this rogue-agent show, but then they’re like any bureaucratic operation—it’s in their genes, or something. Sometimes, I wonder if they even know what they want. It looks to me like they’re trying to be the cowboys and the Indians. But here I am. So, what’s the situation? How do we get out of this one?”
“It’s amazing,” Humphrey said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t have asked for better.”
“Really?” Joe said.
“These people are a gift from the gods,” Humphrey said. “Let me explain. I already told Helen a lot a this, but not all of it.” He told them he had concluded that the day of the old mob was over. He found it ironic, that he had worked to achieve something, to become someone, only to find upon attaining his goal that the game had irrevocably changed. It was a natural progression of events, he had decided. Times had changed. New people come in, new opportunities arise. New problems arise. If the old organization doesn’t address these problems, these opportunities, it gets pushed aside.
“I got nobody to blame but myself,” he said. “Well, maybe Carmine, too.” He had not been shrewd enough, and Carmine had refused to change. Nowadays, most of the organization’s income was derived from essentially legitimate enterprises—with a little of the old scamming and chiseling and muscle applied as part of the new business technique. Nowadays, he claimed, the regular business world had absorbed the mob’s techniques, their hard policies. Whatever, he’d had enough of it.
“I’m too old to start over,” he said. “But I ain’t exactly old. I’m glad I’m still able to enjoy life. What I want is to step out, to pursue my own private interests. I’m outta here, as the kids say. But you guys, you’re young, full of drive. You can take this show in any direction you want. Now, I’ve made some plans, and you can help … if you wanta.”
Joe didn’t seem very comfortable with this. He’d never envisioned himself as a mobster. He wasn’t interested in running rackets. Helen wasn’t either, not in that sense. She was interested in business, however. They wanted to hear more.
Humphrey looked at them, as if sizing them up, then plunged right in: “First, some old business. I ain’t interested in that money Big Sid took. I don’t wanta hear no more about it. I got plenty of my own. I made my arrangements. That’s all I can say about that, for now. I could use your help, both a you, on a couple details. But you can tell your new friends, Joe, that you seen me and I said we could let bygones be bygones. Maybe that’ll satisfy them for now. I think I got it set up, pretty much, so that Helen can step in and run things. It won’t be much trouble, for a little while, and then you can figure out whether you wanta go on with it.”
Their noncommital stance didn’t seem to bother him. He shrugged and continued. “The thing is, when I say I’m outta here, I mean outta here. There ain’t no quiet retirements in this game. I been working out a way so it looks like I copped it. This business with the feds could be a big help. You guys could make it work, if you’re willing.”
Joe smiled. “Like you say, Slim: ‘How can I help?’”
The three men arrived at Humphrey’s compound separately, a few minutes apart. The first man was Kenny Malateste. He was thirty years old, a nice-looking fellow with a heavy beard that reappeared within an hour of shaving. He was smiling and flirtatious with Helen, familiar even, although they had met only a couple of times. Already he was holding her arm, talking her ear off. She got him a shot of Humphrey’s favorite single malt, from a bottle that had a brown paper label that was hand-lettered—only a few hundred gallons of this whiskey were made in a year, and then put to age for twenty years or more. Helen couldn’t pronounce the name. She told Kenny not to tell anyone: Humphrey would kill her if he knew it wasn’t Glenfiddich in that glass.
The second man was older, a stocky middle-aged man who looked like a pile of rocks in a blue suit. The broad collar of his yellow sport shirt was spread on his suit-coat lapels, and he wore dully brushed brogans. He had a belligerent face and the manner to match. His name was Leonardo, but he was called Nardo. He stood by himself, rubbing his hands, not nervously but in a habitual manner, flexing his hand, forearm, and upper-arm muscles. He watched everybody, his eyes glittering. He refused whiskey, but asked for a Stroh’s. “Bottle,” he stipulated.
The third man was also middle-aged, but looked more youthful. He was a smooth, friendly man, well-dressed in a quiet way—a good suit, well cut, and deeply burnished cordovan shoes that could have been made for him. He was called Aldo Soteri. He happily settled for a Scotch and soda.
They stood around chatting for fifteen minutes with Helen and Humphrey and one another, although Nardo barely nodded to the other two guests. The talk was about the Red Wings, the Tigers, the weather, the traffic. Soteri and Helen talked about golf. But soon enough a young male servant, a Filipino, came to the living room and announced that dinner was served.
Dinner was prime rib, a crown roast. The guests looked relieved. They had fearfully anticipated another of Humphrey’s peppery preferences. Nothing to fear with prime rib. It was delicious. The Yorkshire pudding was superb, the roast potatoes beautifully caramelized, the carrots done to the very edge of softness, but not quite. The wines were robust, not pretentious, very drinkable. For dessert, there was a delicious puff pastry filled with custard and drenched in chocolate syrup, but Helen and Humphrey did not eat theirs, so neither did the
three guests. They all drank the good black coffee, however.
Afterward, back in the living room, they tasted Humphrey’s excellent cognac and they seemed delighted with the LaDonna cigars that Helen offered around. She explained that they were, in fact, Cuban in everything but place of manufacture. Nardo, in fact, asked for and promptly received a box to take home. He liked a good Cuban cigar, he said. He was almost amiable.
Business. Humphrey said it was a shame, after a fine evening with friends, but, without business, what did you have? The news was generally good, except for this trouble with the sanitation contracts. Nardo was the garbage man, he should know who was behind these lost contracts. No? Well, Humphrey knew. It was an Armenian bandit named Pelodian, moving in from Cleveland, of all places. This could not stand: Pelodian had to go. If Nardo saw it Humphrey’s way, he would take care of it. Nardo saw it just that way. He would take care of it.
“Good man,” Humphrey said. “I gotta tell you, it was Helen who figured out who was behind this. The guy’s been underbidding our contracts under a dozen names. Here’s where you can find him.” Humphrey gave Nardo a piece of paper with a couple of addresses on it, one of them circled. Helen said that if those didn’t find Pelodian, give her a call, she had a couple of other leads, maybe she could even pinpoint when he would be at one of them.
“Don’t worry, lady,” Nardo rasped, “I can find the bastard.” But then he remembered his manners and said, “Thanks anyway.”
On to what Humphrey called “auto reclamation.” That after-hours enterprise was booming, they should all emulate Aldo. His new acid technique was amazing. It took a number off the block like Ajax, and the new number was on in a matter of minutes. No muss, no fuss. A little hand for Aldo. They knew it was in fun, so only Humphrey, Helen, and Aldo applauded. Humphrey wanted a word with Aldo, later, so stick around, he said—and to Helen, “Remind me, in case I forget.”
Kenny’s security service was very productive. Humphrey and Helen wanted to take this opportunity to thank him for increasing his numbers. Just a super piece of work. Only, they’d heard vague reports of problems in the Eight Mile area. What about that? Kenny said, offhandedly, that they’d run into a thing with some Arabs, can you believe it?
Humphrey noted that the world was changing. These Arabs— he’d heard they were Palestinians—they don’t got enough trouble in their own country, they gotta come over here and raise hell. Did Kenny know the outfit? Kenny didn’t, but he was working on it, don’t worry, it’ll be taken care of.
So, that was that. Business was good. Humphrey and Helen thanked the guys for coming. The guys thanked them for dinner. Helen reminded Humphrey that he needed to talk to Aldo. The other two left and Aldo joined them in the study. Over a glass of the unpronounceable single malt (could it really be “Choigaloigach”?), Humphrey confided to Aldo that he was not as happy about Kenny’s work as he’d let on.
“These Arabs are tougher than he thinks,” Humphrey said.
“And they’ve got a lot of money behind them,” Helen added. “This could just be the spearhead of a new invasion. The guy to watch is Hassan. He lives in Dearborn.”
“Does Kenny know that?” Aldo asked.
She shrugged. “You know Kenny, if he knew he’d have said so. But he’s not like Nardo—you don’t hand him a piece of paper. He’ll figure it out.”
Aldo was clearly pleased to be let in on this inner-circle discussion. But he had little to contribute. He didn’t know much about Kenny’s field of expertise. It sounded serious. Did Kenny have any input on Humphrey’s—and Helen’s, he added, with a graceful gesture—personal security?
No, Humphrey assured him. Kenny wasn’t really into “security,” as such. His work was protection, which you could say was “security”—you had to protect the guys you collected from, but in the way of things, the problem almost never arose. Mainly, Kenny protected his clients from Kenny.
Anyway, that wasn’t what they wanted to talk to Aldo about. Did he know there was a chop shop down on—Humphrey turned to Helen—“Where is it? Shoemaker?”
Yes, she confirmed. She gave an address on Shoemaker. Aldo was surprised. He hadn’t known. But he’d check on it. Did they know who was running it?
They didn’t. They were sure he’d take care of it. Just another encroachment. They were getting a lot of encroachment, these days. They hadn’t mentioned it in front of the other guys, because they hadn’t been able to check it out, and anyway, they didn’t want to interfere. They knew Aldo would want to handle this his way. Maybe it was nothing.
Aldo appreciated their confidentiality. He hated being shown up in front of the guys. A guy like Nardo, his skin was so thick, nothing bothered him. While a Kenny, you couldn’t tell him anything.
“Well, just between us,” Humphrey confided, “I’m not so sure Nardo isn’t slipping. This Armenian, he never coulda made any inroads in the old days. He’s smart, too, which you can’t exactly say about Nardo. Nardo’s a tough cookie, but so is the Armenian. They eat rocks, you know. An Armenian told me that. They can live on rocks! I hope Nardo don’t have no trouble.”
Aldo was sure he wouldn’t. And he’d be on this outlaw chop shop like … well, like frosting on a cake.
When he left, Humphrey shrugged. “Well, we warned them. I hope all that wasn’t too much of a bringdown, baby,” he said to Helen. “I know you’re not into all this racket stuff.”
No, she’d rather enjoyed it. It was amusing, all the posturing and grandstanding. She found Soteri a pain in the butt, but she thought Kenny was a kick, for all his strutting. She sat on the arm of Humphrey’s chair and stroked his hair. She told him he was masterful, very suave. But she wondered if it was wise to take Soteri into their confidence?
“Oh, he might let it get around that we aren’t so happy with Kenny and Nardo,” Humphrey said, “but that’s the point—he’ll pass on the information. They need to know, and they ain’t exactly the kind of guys you can tell to their face. They get all puffed up and belligerent. Plus, the rest of the guys need to know that we ain’t sittin’ on our hands, we’re a little annoyed. This will put them on edge. Maybe they’ll sharpen up.”
Helen didn’t comment, but she wasn’t so sure of the strategy. “Where’s Joe?” she asked. She’d held off asking all night.
“I can’t have Joe coming here,” Humphrey reminded her. “It don’t look good. When I’m outta the picture, you can bring in Joe. That’s your business. But that’s how it’s gotta be. I thought you understood that. Say, they liked your cigars.”
Helen was pleased. “They’re good cigars,” she said. “You’ll see, this thing will work out.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he conceded. “The operation going all right?”
“Except for Strom,” she said. “We should do something about him.”
“Okay,” Humphrey said. “We’ll find something for Strom.” He got up. “I’m headin’ down to the bunker, play around on the Net.”
“The bunker? Where did you get that?” Helen asked.
“I don’t know,” Humphrey said, thinking. “Well, you know what it is, that’s what we called those underground hideouts we had when we were kids: bunkers. Sometimes, we called ’em forts. Pleasant dreams.”
Humphrey’s bunker was not as modern as one might expect, given the electronic gear installed there. It really was much like a bunker. The house had a perfectly modern full basement, providing more than enough room for the so-called command post. Presently, it housed a small gym, complete with a weight room, a sauna, and another exercise room, where Helen often worked out. There were the usual furnace, laundry, and storage rooms, but they were discreetly partitioned off, along with a temperature- and humidity-controlled wine cellar. Space was given over to a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, and a recreation room for servants, with a large television. And still there would have been room.
For reasons of his own, Humphrey had decided that additional excavation was needed. At the far end of the basement, t
oward the lake, he’d had a tunnel dug, slanting deeper into the earth. The tunnel was secured by a heavy steel door, practically a vault door, with a locking system to match. The tunnel itself was not the standard eight feet in height but, rather, a mere six feet, which induced at least a slight stooping by most persons who used it. Few did use it. It was also merely thirty inches across, not really wide enough for two people abreast, and it wasn’t well lit.
The walls of the tunnel were roughly finished reinforced concrete. The room at the end of this ten-foot-long tunnel, beyond yet another steel door with a heavy lock, was again no more than six feet high, a twenty-by-twenty chamber, a concrete box complete with air-conditioning and venting and fully plumbed with a neatly partitioned shower and bathroom. The walls were concrete sheathed with painted Sheetrock on studs. The floor was covered with an industrial-type indoor/outdoor carpet. The computer equipment was housed in steel racks. There was a queen-sized bed in a partitioned alcove, a refrigerator, a microwave oven, a table and a couple of chairs, a number of television monitors, plus a large TV for recreational viewing. It gave an impression of functionality. The lighting was more than adequate, but was usually kept fairly dim. The whole effect was definitely that of a bunker.
Yet another steel door provided an emergency exit, served by a roughly finished tunnel, less cramped than the house entry— this was how the various appliances and equipment were brought in—leading to a set of steps and another locked steel door that opened on the lawn, discreetly shielded by shrubbery. From this exit to the dock was only a hundred feet.
Humphrey punched in the combination to the lock and let himself in. He went immediately to the long metal desk-counter and dialed a telephone. “That you?” he said. “It’s me, yeah. All right, I told him. He’ll be coming your way. It’s up to you. Okay, I can do the job, but if I do it, you don’t get the franchise. We talked about this. You want me to do it, I got no trouble with that. All right, then. What are you bitching about? You do it.”
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