Blood Money

by Laura M Rizio

  “And I still don’t know what you want from me,” Nick broke in impatiently.

  “Well, I want to know if there’s anything else you could tell me about Ms. Lopez that might be relevant to her case.” He paused. “You know, before we close the case.”

  Nick thought for a moment, wondering what the detective might be up to. What could he tell him? Nothing, except about the tape and the file which Celia was supposed to have had. Maybe Kirby was playing cat-and-mouse with him. Maybe the old detective knew about the tape and was setting him up. He decided to play the same game.

  “I don’t believe there’s anything I can tell you that you don’t already know, Detective.”

  “I didn’t think so. But,” he chuckled. Nick could hear him drawing on his cigarette and inhaling the smoke. “I thought I’d try.”

  “Is that all…?”

  “Ah,” Kirby inhaled again. “One more thing…”

  Nick sighed loudly, purposely, hoping Kirby would get the message that he was annoyed and at the end of his rope.

  “Would you have happened to have found a key?”

  “A key?”

  “Yes, a small key, like a luggage key. It was in Ms. Lopez’s safedeposit box. It was on my desk with other contents of the box. Now it’s gone I thought maybe I picked it up inadvertently with the film when I was bringing it to your apartment. Maybe it dropped out of my pocket when I took out the film.”

  “No, Detective. I haven’t seen any key” Nick didn’t like this. Kirby was asking too many questions, and Nick didn’t believe in coincidence.

  “Well, would you look for it? I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Detective Kirby. I would have come across it by now.”

  “Maybe so—but…”

  “I’ll look for it. OK?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ceratto. It was such a small key that it could be…”

  “Good-bye, Detective.”

  “Ah—good-bye Mr. Ceratto.” Kirby snuffed out the last inch of his cigarette, smiling. The kid knows more, he thought.

  Nick was five minutes into Nurse Doletov’s deposition when the phone rang again. He ignored the ringing and continued reading the deposition transcript:

  Q: Were you present at the surgery of plaintiff’s decedent, Sean Riley?

  A: Yes, I was.

  Q: And what was your position during that surgery?

  A: I was the chief operating room nurse.

  Q: And did you assist Dr. Manin throughout the course of the surgery?

  A: Yes, the entire procedure.

  Q: Including the closing of the incision?

  A: Yes, I was his assistant.

  “This is Nick Ceratto. Leave me a message.”

  “Nick, please pick up.” Maria’s voice was urgent. “I have something important to tell you.” She paused, waiting. She sighed. “Nick, I know we had a fight. I’m sorry—sorry for doubting you… Please, please answer the phone.”

  He was torn between Maria and his pride. His pride won and he went back to Nurse Doletov’s deposition:

  Q: And did you go into the recovery room with the patient?

  A: Yes, that was the procedure we always followed.

  Q: And did you follow that procedure with Sean Riley?…

  The receiver was put down. Nick went for the Glenfiddich and poured himself a double.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The giant mahogany doors to the conference room were locked and the phones were put on do not disturb. Harry Levin led the meeting. Marty Silvio sat at one end of the long table, shoeless feet propped up on the mirror like surface chewing on an unlit Cuban cigar. Levin paced as he spoke, occasionally glancing at his fuzzy image reflected in the table. Nick sat center and listened, as he was supposed to do.

  “Tort reform is killing us. Just like it is every other plaintiff’s firm in the city, the state…”

  “Commonwealth,” Nick corrected, still looking down at his notepad.

  “OK. Commonwealth. State, fucking country. Whatever, it’s killing us. That’s what I’m concerned about. I’m concerned about us. Our cases have dropped in number. Every case we win is appealed these days. We have to wait for our money and at the same time keep this monster of a law firm alive, and everybody paid. Health insurance, 401ks. It’s crazy. Expenses keep going up. As a matter of fact, they’re out of control.” Levin waved his arms wildly. “Juries are cheap as hell and getting cheaper by the year. Negative advertising is all over the place—TV and newspapers, never mind the billboards with pictures of plaintiffs behind bars,” he sneered. “The insurance companies’ message is sinking in. Every plaintiff is a phony. Every plaintiff’s lawyer is a crook. While all along the insurance companies are the real robber barons. They make us look like Orphan Annie. Raising premiums, not paying claims, scaring the shit out of everyone.”

  Silvio rocked back in his red leather, swivel armchair. Taking the cigar out of his mouth momentarily, “We all know this, Harry. Even Nicky here , as young as he is, knows all this. Now what?”

  “We have to fight fire with fire.”

  Levin pounded the table and quickly walked toward Nick. “If you’re going to be a partner, you should know that you have a heavy burden to carry here. Not only winning cases, but also bringing them in. You have to have your finger on this business, on building it. You just can’t take inventory for granted. It’s not always going to be there. You’ll have to think about creative ways of bringing in new clients, new contacts, new rainmaking talent. These political action committees and lobbyists aren’t enough to keep us going. We increase contributions, grease politicians and judges, and what good does it do us? They take our money and fuck us anyhow.”

  Levin paused, looking at the ceiling. His hair stuck out at the sides from putting his glasses on and removing them. “I’ll tell you.” He paced some more and walked back to Nick. “It doesn’t do us any good at all. So we have to go right to the horse’s mouth. Find more runners and pay them.”

  “Those whores take more than twenty percent of our fees as it is,” Silvio protested. “How can we pay them any more?”

  Nick hadn’t known the firm used runners. But he wasn’t surprised, not after having watched the tape. Silvio and Levin now obviously thought him worthy of receiving the knowledge. Now that he was big time—just as Joe had predicted. Before seeing the tape, he had thought this firm was immune from the problems facing the plaintiff’s bar. How naive, he thought, chuckling to himself. Joe had warned him about this, and now here it was.

  “If we don’t pay, we don’t play,” Levin continued, “Those bastards will just peddle the cases to another firm, that’s all. So we cut expenses somewhere else and pay them more.

  “Where are we supposed to cut expenses?” Silvio’s words were barely intelligible since his lips were wrapped around the huge cigar.

  “I guess we have to fire a few people,” Nick joked, laughing at his own suggestion.

  “That’s right. We need to get rid of the fluff,” agreed Levin enthusiastically. He folded his arms across his chest and nodded approvingly like a professor who had just gotten the answer he was looking for.

  “Like who?” Suddenly Silvio became alert and interested.

  “Like the translator we just hired. We can outsource all translations. There are plenty of companies out there that can provide us with court-certified translators for every language under the sun; Spanish, French, Nigerian…”

  Nick wrote two names on his pad, tore off the page, and handed it to Levin. “Pro Trans is one and Global Life Speak is another. I’m surprised that you guys don’t know about these firms. I see them at depositions and in court all the time.”

  “When was Harry last in court?” mocked Silvio.

  “And when were you? When did you ever have a bell ringer of a verdict?” Levin shot back.

  Silvio slid his feet off the table, put his cigar down, rose from his chair, and moved menacingly toward Levin. “At least I’ve tried a case, you fuzzy-headed Jew. You nev
er fucking darkened the steps of City Hall.”

  Nick stood, reaching to pull Silvio from Levin if necessary. “This is no time to get personal. Let’s have a civilized discussion and get on with business. I’ve got a case to try in ten days, and I need to get back to work.”

  Silvio moved back to his chair, loosening his tie. His neck was red and his forehead wet. “Sounds like Maglio. Must have rubbed off,” he said, spitting a piece of cigar into the ashtray. “So who else goes?”

  They decided each would prepare a list of five employees—all the most junior and none of them women, Hispanics, or black, since they were protected under federal employment laws—Title VII. The last thing Silvio and Levin, soon to be Levin, Silvio and Ceratto, wanted was the EEOC on its back.

  Giorgio Santangelo was first on Silvio’s list. He hated the way Margo looked at him. He knew lust when he saw it, and he didn’t need the greaser as competition. Nick protested, saying that the firm needed him not only for catering its parties,but also because he had quite a following. Giorgio was a fixture with the judges and politicians. He added class and refinement to the firm. And if he was fired, he’d go to the enemy; one of the defense firms, and the loyalties of certain powerful people might go with him. Like the Honorable Josephine Hanks and Joseph Barnes, not to mention the mayor, Jack Filbert.

  Levin was quick to agree. Silvio was outnumbered and sank deeper into his chair with his cigar, fantasizing about sending the bastard back to Italy, preferably in a box. Nick sat quietly listening to Levin carry on.

  “Your share of the draw depends on the percentage of cases you bring in. Don’t think you’re a prima donna because you try big cases and win some of them.” Levin pointed to Nick who understood the reference to Joe, although Joe’s name was never mentioned in this context. “You have to make contacts, develop your sources—instead of spending all your spare time with that Italian girl, whatever her name is…”

  “Maria Elena.” Nick sank down in his chair. How much more could he take without punching the asshole in the face? No wonder Joe had hated these bastards, he thought.

  “Whatever,” Levin said, ignoring her name, ignoring her humanity. “She bothers me, the way she hangs around here, in the library, in the file rooms. What the hell is she doing, anyway?”

  Nick felt the blood rush to his temples. He would have liked to kill Levin. But he kept his cool. “I don’t know how to answer that question, Harry. Except that she’s curious. She’s fascinated. And she likes the firm.”

  “Tell her to go down the street. There’s a thousand law firms down the block.”

  Silvio chuckled. “Now he’s picking on you, Nick. He’s always picking on somebody. One day he’s going to pick on the wrong guy, and wham!” Laughing, he smashed his hand on the table as though he were killing a bug. Then he abruptly stopped laughing and looked squarely at Levin. “I like her. She’s kinda cute. She adds that cosmopolitan air, that charm, that…” he mocked, laughing again. He stopped. “Why’re you so upset, Harry? She’s not bothering anybody.”

  “She makes me nervous, the way she snoops around here. She walks around like she owns the place.”

  “Look,” Nick said defensively, “I know I’m not a partner yet, but I am partnership material. I’ll be a partner in a month…” He hesitated. “Hopefully—so can we cool it with Maria? She’s only here for another month. She’s a law student, an exchange student. She’s studying at Temple, that’s all. No big deal. Cut her some slack.”

  “Tell her to stay at Temple.” Levin was dogged in his hate for her.

  Nick had just about had it when there was a light tap on the conference room door. He rose and opened it. Mary O’Donald, one of the older secretaries—one who could get away with interrupting a partners’ meeting—peeped into the room.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Ceratto. But it’s Ms. Nardo. She said it’s urgent. She’s called three times. I told her you were in an important meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. But she said you’d be very upset if I didn’t disturb you…should I tell her to call back?’

  “No. That’s fine, Mary. I’ll take it in my office.” It was a perfect excuse to escape, and he jumped at it. His nerves were shot, and his ability to control his temper was evaporating. He walked out without excusing himself.

  He had moved into Joe Maglio’s office. He had left Joe’s memorabilia intact, just as it had been: the photo of Joe with President Clinton at a five thousand dollar a plate fundraiser, Joe with the Pope at St. Peter’s Basilica, Joe with Frank Sinatra, the autographs, an engraving of Sir Thomas More, first editions of Pride and Prejudice, Tom Jones, and Pickwick Papers. It gave Nick a sense of continuity, a sense that Joe was still there, ready to help him, to protect him. Sometimes it felt eerie, but mostly it was comforting. Except when he thought about the tape. Then he felt guilty about doing nothing about Joe. But first things first. He had Riley to try, and that was in compartment number one. Joe was in compartment two, which he knew would require all his time and energy when he opened it.

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, Nick. I’m so sorry about last weekend, I…”

  “It’s OK,” he interrupted, coldly. “I was drunk.”

  “Nick, I need to see you. I have the information that we need,” she said in a triumphant tone.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Tel Aviv right now.”

  “Tel Aviv—what the hell are you doing there?”

  “I was examining records, bank records at Bank Naomi. And I struck gold. Yes, gold, Nick,” she laughed. “I’ll tell you all about it when I see you tomorrow night. I land at Philadelphia International at 10:30 p.m.

  “What airline?”

  “El Al, flight 1006.”

  “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “No, no. I can take a taxi. It’s easier for me. I won’t have to worry about you waiting if the flight is delayed. You have to work on your trial.”

  He could hear her breathe, almost see her as he closed his eyes. He imagined how she must look and smell, with her hair blowing softly around her face, her smile, her luminous hazel eyes, her full breasts, her soft hips, long legs. He felt himself getting hard. She excited him like no other woman.

  “I can’t wait, Nick. I can’t wait to tell you…”

  “And I can’t wait to see you , Maria. I’m sorry for my bad temper…”

  “No, no, I deserved it. My temper was terrible—is terrible. I can’t help it, it’s a Maglio trait. We make a great pair, no?”

  “We do make a great pair, yes,” he sank back into the well-worn leather desk chair.

  “I know,” she laughed. “Make me dinner. I’m going to be very hungry when I arrive.”

  “How about veal with pepperoni and Marsala.” He could feel his heart pounding. “We’ll eat, drink wine, and make love.”

  “All night?”

  “All night—and no fighting. Promise?”

  “No fighting,” she said. “Ti amo.”

  He wanted to respond, but he hesitated a second. Before he could say “I love you, too,” she said, “Ciao,” and hung up.

  Levin punched the button under the edge of the conference table, silencing the bug on the phone in Joe Maglio’s old office.

  “Comes in handy, doesn’t it? Aren’t you glad I talked you into putting it in?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But I really liked that girl. She had class.” Silvio shook his head. “It’s a fucking shame.” He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket and dialed. He waited for the familiar voice to answer.

  “What can I do for you today, Mr. Silvio?”

  “I have another job for you.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  It had been raining since six p.m. It was now ten o’clock at night, and the fog was dense. The air had warmed up to fifty degrees, a record for January thirtieth. He gnawed viciously on the steak and onion sandwich he had just purchased at Pat’s Steaks. He blended in with the other inner city cab drivers talking with full mout
hs, standing outside Pat’s eating steak sandwiches. The peppers he had plastered on the meat were hotter than he had expected. He choked and spit out a mouthful and disgustedly threw the rest of the still-wrapped sandwich into the trash barrel outside the corner establishment. The other drivers laughed. One of them pulled the uneaten portion from the barrel and gave it to the homeless man who hung out around the weirdly V-shaped outdoor diner.

  Rudi jumped back into his cab and headed toward I-95. His headlights flooded the murkiness, but all he could really see was the steam rising from the road surface just in front of him. He cursed the lack of visibility. Arriving at Philadelphia International Airport at 10:20, he pulled into the cab stand at the Overseas terminal to wait for his passenger. He had checked with El Al and was told that flight 1005 was due to arrive on schedule. He had ten minutes to get rid of the cabs ahead of him and the ground transportation dispatcher. They would fuck up his plans if allowed to remain. He went directly into the airport and up the nearest escalator. Two minutes later he emerged, waving his arms, cursing, shouting that all international flights had been canceled until tomorrow morning due to the weather. The other drivers began leaving one by one for greener fields.

  Rudi turned to the dispatcher, who had motioned him to move his cab. Speaking with a heavy Middle Eastern accent, “I need to stay, mister. I got to pick up a worker who’s sick, she works upstairs. She’s my sister…”

  The dispatcher shook his head no, but Rudi immediately laid a twenty dollar bill on top of his desk. “Please, she’s my sister and she’s pregnant.”

  The dispatcher took the twenty and without a word strolled into the airport.

  Rudi smiled, always amazed at his talent, as he reentered the cab. He checked his disguise in the rear view mirror. He looked the part—Middle Eastern, aquiline nose, dark complexion—dressed in neatly pressed khakis, jean jacket, and aviator glasses. He smiled approvingly. No Hollywood director or makeup artist could have done a better job. He thought of how he loved the challenge and artistry in his job. If he didn’t like the real thing so much, he could have been an actor, and a good one at that. But he loved real death and real blood. He checked his watch. He had less than five minutes. He pulled his cab to the other side of the road, away from the sidewalk in front of the glass exit doors, and backed as far away as possible, still keeping a clear view through the lighted doors into the terminal. The lighting was yellow and eerie. It made his heart race. He was excited. He turned his headlights off so as not to attract the wrong passenger.