And if it turned out that Minelli had a hand in this, if he was making moves across the river, to complement his earlier expansion in New York, then he was biting off a mouthful that would choke him.
The capo of New Jersey wasn't feeling generous this morning, and he wasn't giving anything away, not one thin dime or one square inch of territory to those hungry bastards in Manhattan.
They could have what they could take.
And anything they took from here on out would be across D'Antoni's dead body.
* * *
Giuseppe Reina was worried. It did not show beneath his calm exterior, the sunlamp tan and cultivated smile, but on the inside, Reina felt like he was going to explode.
The town was going up in smoke around him, and no one he talked to seemed to have the first idea of what was going on. There had been hits already on Aguirre, Bonadonna, Gregorio... and the city was holding its breath, anxiously waiting to see who was next.
So far, at least a dozen lives had been snuffed out, and Reina drew no consolation from the fact that they were all low-ranking buttons so far.
Sooner or later, the hit team's aim was likely to improve, and he did not intend to be standing around like a human target when that happened.
Reina was expected at Minelli's for the sit-down... was already late, in fact... but caution was his trademark when it came to dangerous situations. Let the soldiers take the risks, as they were paid to do. The capo's job, as an executive, was to protect himself at all times and keep the family running smoothly.
Minelli would be waiting for him.
So let him wait.
Survival was the top priority, and Joe Reina was a born survivor. He had come up from the streets, the hard way, having nothing handed to him like some other capos he could mention, who inherited their thrones and never knew what it was like to work for a living.
No matter what was coming down, he would be ready when the shit storm reached his doorstep.
Preparedness, he knew, was half the battle.
Downstairs, half a dozen of his soldiers would be finished bringing up the cars, securing the sidewalk for his speedy exit from the high rise. He would be exposed for only seconds, but he was not taking any chances. Four tall bodycocks would flank him, two of them with stout umbrellas raised... in case some smart-ass with a rifle might decide to bag himself a capo from the rooftops.
Once he reached the cars, it would be milk and honey all the way to Don Minelli's hideaway, and they would all be safer there.
Or would they?
A frown creased Reina's brow, his mind returning to the problem that had plagued him through the morning, as the battlefield reports came in from every corner of the city.
What was Don Minelli doing all this time, while his amici were taking it in the teeth? Presumably, he would be making ready for the sit-down, welcoming out-of-town guests at his home, but then again...
The Mafia mentality could not resist the obvious suspicion, putting two and two together in some new and unexpected ways. Was Don Minelli's meeting somehow linked to all the recent trouble?
And if not, then who?
There was a lengthy list of possibles, and Reina could be certain only of his personal innocence. It could be an aggressive move by troops from out of state or even by another of the New York capos.
Except that all of them had been hit so far.
Except Minelli. And Reina.
The process of elimination was a simple one. Reina knew that he was not involved; that left Minelli, or...
He gave it up. A lifetime in the brotherhood had taught him that there was no end to possibilities for treachery. It was a waiting game of watch and learn from here on in. Unfortunately, the price of knowledge was climbing all the time. In cash. In lives. In time away from paying business.
And it was time to go. The cars were ready, and Reina steeled himself for the short hike through open daylight, his moment in the sun. The tremor made him smile, and he chided himself silently, realizing that he was behaving as an old man might, afraid to walk downtown and cash his frigging welfare check because the little boys who hung around the corners might be waiting for him.
Bullshit.
Giuseppe Reina feared no man, no army. He had an army of his own, and they had proved themselves in battle more than once. If anyone should be afraid, it was the bastard who would dare to challenge Don Reina on his own home turf.
He rode the elevator down with gunners all around him taking up the space and forcing civilians on the other floors they passed to wait and catch a different car. No point in taking chances with the smiling girl-next-door type who might be carrying a pistol in her handbag or the faggy-looking character whose briefcase might contain explosives, a machine gun, anything.
If Reina recognized that he was paranoid, it did not bother him. His paranoia was no more than a survival tool, essential in the urban jungle that he called his home. The moment you relaxed your guard, the jackals made a meal of you.
Reina was nobody's meal, and when they came for him, they could expect to get their frigging teeth pushed down their throats. No matter who it was — Minelli, Aguirre, any of the others. He was not afraid of them. It was their place to be afraid, their place to watch their backs and hope he was not creeping up behind them in the dead of night. Or in broad daylight.
Ground floor, and one of Reina's hardmen stepped out of the elevator, looking both ways across the lobby like a scout preparing to convoy old ladies across the street. No sign of danger, and he gestured for the rest to follow, taking the point with one hand inside the open front of his suit coat.
Don Reina cleared the elevator, and the doors shut behind him. The gunners closed around him in a ring of flesh, preventing anyone from getting a clear view — or shot — at him. They walked in lock-step toward the tall revolving doors of the apartment house.
Outside, three Lincolns filled the curb as far as he could see through tinted doors and windows. Drivers standing by their cars, arms folded over jackets that concealed bolstered hardware. Other gunmen at the head and tail of the stationary convoy, eyeing pedestrians and rooftops from behind dark glasses, suspecting everyone, trusting no one.
Another fifty feet and they were clear. Now almost to the doors, the sidewalk, Don Reina knew that he was being overcautious, even foolish.
Still...
The lead car suddenly disintegrated, swallowed by a burst of oily flame that raced along its length, consuming car and startled driver, hurling bits of twisted steel high into the air. The shock wave shattered tinted windows and revolving doors drove Don Reina and his storm troopers to the carpet, cringing from the rain of splintered glass.
The second car went up immediately, rising on its rear wheels like a stallion fighting its tether, riding a mushroom of flame that blackened the sidewalk and crisped the chauffeur where he had fallen after the initial blast. A scorching hell wind raced across the lobby of the windowless apartment house, fierce heat baking into Don Reina where he lay, beneath a burly bodyguard.
And number three exploded almost as an afterthought, the secondary detonation of its fuel tank spewing gasoline in all directions.
Giuseppe Reina felt the burning dampness, knew that he had wet himself. He looked at his trousers before he scrambled to his feet, and saw the evidence firsthand. His face was livid with embarrassment and anger as he called his troops together for the brisk march upstairs.
To change his pants.
Police would be arriving shortly and there would be the questions, endless questions that he would not answer even if he could.
And Don Reina had some searching questions of his own, that would be asked in private, away from the bright lights and snooping damned reporters. He would continue asking until he got the necessary information. Then...
There was a score to settle.
But first he had to make himself presentable, destroy the evidence of sudden, aching fear that gripped him like an icy hand.
He had to gird
himself for war.
14
The delegates were in, except for Reina, who was clearly going to be late if he arrived at all. They had arrived throughout the morning and the early afternoon, parading past the burned-out hulks of limousines that had been moved but not concealed. In private, capos huddled with their underbosses and their consigiieri, checking rooms for listening devices, hidden cameras, ensuring that they were alone before they settled down to business.
They found no bugs, taps or cameras, perhaps because Minelli had not thought of it, perhaps because he still had faith in his own powers of persuasion. In any case, their talks were held in privacy before they ventured out to mingle with the others, renewing old friendships and making new acquaintances.
With the exception of New York's own bosses, most capos present did not know each other personally, and few had spoken on the phone, although their families may have been cooperating for generations in a wide variety of businesses. Telephones were unreliable, at best, and sheer attrition in the past few years had emptied local thrones as fast as they were occupied. Some regions had seen half a dozen dons within a year, as prosecution and assassination thinned the ranks, promoting those who otherwise would never have approached command rank in a lifetime.
Gradually the delegations came to know each other, forming cliques determined by geography, intermarriage, common interests. The largest and most secretive group included delegates from half a dozen jurisdictions drawn together by mutual distrust for Don Minelli.
The West Coast capos, Patriarcca and Cigliano, informally presided at the poolside gathering. Around them, slumped in deck chairs or reclining on chaise longues, alert despite appearances to the contrary, were Miami boss, Jerry Lazia, and two representatives of the New York families, Tom Gregorio and Frank Bonadonna. With their consigliere, the group numbered nine, and they kept wary eyes on roving sentries whom Minelli had on duty around the grounds.
"Look at them now," Jules Patriarcca sneered. "Where were they when we needed them this morning?"
L.A. Lester took the cue. 'That's right. We damn near get our asses fried in Ernie's own front yard, and where's his goddamn army, eh?"
The capo of Miami sipped his vodka Collins, cool eyes following the nearest sentry from behind his mirrored shades.
"You think it was a setup, then?" he asked.
"I couldn't tell you yes or no," Jules answered. "But I've got this feeling. Here." He rubbed his ample gut for emphasis.
"It don't make sense, Minelli tryin' to hit you here, when everybody else was due to show up any time."
"Who says it don't make sense?" Cigliano challenged. "Could be he wanted to be rid of us before you all got in."
"I'd say it was a sloppy job."
"You would, huh?"
Patriarcca raised a soothing hand. "Could be he didn't want to hit us, after all. It could have been a warning, like, to make us see things his way while we're on his turf."
Cigliano chimed in, adapting his tune to follow Patriarcca's lead.
"He's gonna need more votes than what he's got," the California capo said. "He wants to make it stick, he's gonna need a clear majority."
"We don't know what he wants yet."
"Bullshit."
"Lester..."
Tom Gregorio rocked forward on his chaise longue, motioning them all to silence.
"I know one thing," he informed them. "I got hit for half a mill today by some slick dude. The bastard laid a Black Ace on my banker up in Harlem, and the cretin let him have the whole day's take."
"An Ace?"
Patriarcca's voice was heavy with suspicion.
"That's what he said. No way to check it out, though."
"I hear Ernie's damn near got the Aces locked these days. You've seen the one he hangs around with? What's his name?"
"They call him Lazarus," Frank Bonadonna growled.
"Some say he's as good as Pat and Mike were in their prime," Gregorio put in.
"That right?"
"You think he put this thing together up in Harlem?"
Patriarcca spread his hands, frowning deeply. "I'm not saying that. There are Aces... and there are Aces. You follow?"
Gregorio looked puzzled, glancing from Patriarcca to Bonadonna, glowering in his confusion.
"That's right," Bonadonna put in. "Minelli's not the only one with Aces underneath his roof."
"But, say..." Gregorio was plainly loath to let go of a thought once he had finally come to grips with it. "Suppose the Aces were all getting back together, like the old days. Huh? If Ernie and this Lazarus could pull it all together..."
Lazia rattled the ice cubes in his glass.
"That takes a vote by the commission, Tom, remember?"
"Well..."
"It takes a vote if Ernie puts it to a vote," the capo of Seattle told them. "Now, if he should take it on himself to build a little private army out here in the country, quiet like... well, who's to know?"
"You think?"
"Goddamn it."
"Wait a sec', before you start to look for ghosts. Who says he's got an army, eh?"
"Why don't you look around here, Jerry?" L.A. Lester's voice was taut with anger. "All these suits ain't butlers, are they?"
"Whatsa matter, Les? You got no troops out on the coast?"
"I got enough. But I ain't got no friggin' Aces in the woodpile, that's for sure."
Frank Bonadonna cleared his throat, waiting until he had their full attention.
"Some smart-ass hit one of my powder factories earlier today," he said. "From what I put together so far, my man was a ringer for the one at Tommy's bank. I mean, he changes his clothes, but otherwise..."
"Uh-huh." The capo of Los Angeles sat back and rubbed his hands together, like a man who has just scored a telling point in some momentous argument.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Miami asked.
Gregorio jumped in.
"It means that everybody's getting hit around here, sudden like. Aguirre lost his downtown whorehouse. An' where the hell is Reina, anyway? I hear somebody bombed his place."
Lazia was chewing on his lower lip, deep in thought.
"You know," he said at last, "I have been getting rumbles down my way the past few weeks. Some kinda action with the Cubans and Colombians, like maybe someone's tryin' to go around behind my back, like, undercut my action."
"There it is," Cigliano said, triumphant.
"There what is, for cryin' out loud?"
"Your proof, man."
"Well, I don't..."
Jules Patriarcca's voice stilled them. "Let's all agree on this much, huh? Somebody has been taking liberties. We've all been touched. Somebody stands to gain if we lose out."
"Damn right," Gregorio snapped.
"Okay. I say we wait and see what happens here today, tomorrow. If anybody tries to grab the whole pie for himself, I say we chop his fingers off an' teach the bastard a lesson."
"I'll chop his fingers off, all right — at the goddamn throat," the California capo said.
A chorus of grumbled agreement ran around the circle, coming back to Patriarcca.
"Fine," he said at last. "We understand each other, then. No more, until we hear what Don Ernesto has to say."
"Agreed."
The little clique disintegrated, Lazia remaining poolside, while the rest retreated to their bungalows. Patriarcca walked slowly, L.A. Lester sticking to him like a shadow, counting Minelli's visible gunners for perhaps the hundredth time since they arrived.
It was an army of sorts. Enough to get the job done if Minelli should decide to round his guests up and dispose of them somewhere along the way. Perhaps, if the vote went against him...
Cigliano was saying something and Patriarcca shushed him, busy with his thoughts. His mind was occupied with the time zones now, and how long it would take to put another army in the air, to get it here in fighting form. A couple of hours, anyway, to gather in the troops and get them all aboard the plane. Another six or seven, m
inimum, to get them here.
They could be in by midnight if Patriarcca placed the call immediately.
They reached the adjoining bungalows and Patriarcca paused, turning to his shadow.
"I've got some calls to make now, Lester. I'd suggest you do the same."
It took an instant for the meaning to sink through, then Cigliano grinned.
"Hey, right. I get you. Sure. I'll call."
Jules nimbly retreated toward his cottage. He shook his head. The kid was damn near green as grass. It would be easy to reach out and pluck his territory like a ripe apple off the tree.
Later.
Right now the problem was survival, and Minelli was a green young punk, whatever might be said about his origins. He was a street-wise predator, and anyone who underestimated him could expect a grim surprise.
But Patriarcca had a few surprises of his own.
He let himself into the bungalow, frowning at the empty main room, lightening up as he heard woman sounds from the direction of the larger bedroom. It was a violation of tradition, bringing her along, but lately she had made Don Patriarcca feel so good, so young, he did not want to be without her. She was his lucky piece. His fountain of youth.
"Baby?"
She emerged from the bedroom, dressed in something frilly that he had not seen before. It instantly excited him, but Jules had other business on his mind right now.
"I gotta make a phone call, here," he told her, wondering why he felt this strange compulsion to explain himself. "I'll join you in a sec', and we can take a nap or somethin', 'kay?"
"You bet."
Her smile was hungry for him, and he felt the juices flowing, making him feel like a man. It had been years since Patriarcca had felt this way with any other woman, and he took it as an omen that his life was growing better, stronger, rather than declining with age.
The best years were ahead, and they could start tonight, if everything worked out as he had planned. If he could put an army in the field in time...
He dialed the long-distance operator, gave her the number in Seattle and told her to reverse the charges. No point in making Ernie cough up for the call that sealed his fate. Before the night was out he might be needing every dime he had to buy his life back.
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