Linda listened without interruption. A long silence. Bill poured himself a scotch. “Does it record everything, or did you turn it off when we were screwing?”
Bill answered with a hushed exhale.
“Bill, you’re a fucking idiot.” Linda ranted for minutes, every sentence a curse. Bill cursed himself. Another long silence. Linda’s subdued voice finally reached the inevitable conclusion: “We’re screwed. We’ll lose our jobs and maybe go to prison. Goodbye Grand Caymans. Goodbye millions.” Just when she seemed calmer, Linda screamed across the Atlantic, “You’re a fucking idiot, Barrington! We’re done.”
Linda’s rancor was beyond anything she’d ever displayed in her life. She was so angry she was afraid she might cry.
But Bill had stopped listening; he had started to scheme.
“Maybe not,” he said. Bill explained the elaborate encoding and encryption system, including the one saving grace: the copied audio files had an automatic safeguard password, which was not the same as the master password. The NSA might break the code after two months, but short of that, no one except DV&N’s IT department could open the file. “I’ll alert Rodney to the possibility of a pirated recording. He’ll know what to do if one crosses his desk.”
Linda knew another problem remained: the intruder could have already listened to the recordings at Bill’s desk. “Do you know who it might have been?” she asked.
“Oh yeah. It was the little queer, Vinnie Briggs. I’ll have his ass for this. He’ll be out of here so fast that even if he listened it won’t matter. It’s his word against mine, ours… and if he can’t produce the audio, he has no evidence.”
“It doesn’t matter if he has proof, Bill. Just the allegation will screw us. We’ll be watched. I’ll be watched. The whole project in Europe is a bust. Goodbye millions. Goodbye dreams. I’ll be stuck slaving in Paris on a boring project. You’ll be the good hubby commuting to work from New Jersey with no new life.”
Linda’s despondency crept in through her panting cries. But Bill did not accept defeat—he would not be blocked from his millions. He told Linda he’d find a solution to the Vinnie Briggs problem. The call ended with Bill pouring another drink, reclining, and staring at the ceiling, just as Vinnie had done hours before.
Fucking faggot. Well, Mister Vinnie Briggs, I hope you enjoyed yourself.
When Bill left his office at last, it was to gamble, but not at cards. Fuck the lucky chair—the stakes had just gone up.
Chapter 22
Cappuccino to Go
Ristorante Roma was halfway along Stillwell Avenue in Gravesend, Brooklyn. The taxi dropped Bill at the front door, and he walked to the desk to inform the maître d’ he’d arrived for a meeting with Carmine. Carmine Aquafreddo was at the back of the restaurant, in a small side room with the door open. Across from him at the table was a big man—a very big man—Sal Friscollo. Sal stood up to take Bill’s overcoat, which he then handed to the maître d’.
“Hi Sal, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Barrington. How about youze?” Bill was startled by Sal Friscollo’s Brooklyn accent even though he’d heard it many times. Was this guy from central casting? What a fucking bozo. Bill never said these thoughts out loud to Sal, to the staff at Ristorante Roma, or to anyone in Brooklyn.
Bill turned from Sal and walked over to offer his hand to Carmine. “Hi, Carmine. Thanks for seeing me on short notice.”
Carmine took Bill’s hand and gave it a limp shake. “Sit down. What would you like to drink? Anything to eat?”
“Cappuccino, and nothing to eat. I’m fine.”
“You sure? The Pasta alla Norma special tonight is very good. How about a small plate?”
“Thanks, Carmine, but I’m fine. To tell the truth, I’d rather talk.”
Carmine shook his head and gestured to Sal for a cappuccino.
“What’s on your mind?” he said. “I’ve saved you a place at tonight’s game. I know you’re anxious for the chance to regain your losses. The cards didn’t go your way… everyone has a night of bad hands. Don’t worry, you’ll find your streak soon. And I hope to organize another table in two weeks—takes me that long. It’s old age. This will be the last table before Christmas though… people are too busy with families over the holidays. You’ll get details next week.”
He thinks I’m here about my loss, fuckin’ ginzo. Bill had dropped twenty thousand at the last game. He’d been upset and had showed his displeasure with abuses at the table, which was a big no-no at Carmine’s games. Excuses had been made, but the croupier had raised his eyebrows.
“Thanks, Carmine. I’m not here about that. I have a bigger problem, one that could cost me a lot more. And I mean more than money… my freedom.”
Bill paused, and Carmine nodded.
“It’s like this. A colleague and me had worked out a plan.”
Carmine shook his head. He doesn’t want to know.
“Okay, forget the details. Let’s say my colleague, a female, and myself have something that will yield a big payoff if all goes well. Sometimes we celebrate, in my office.”
Carmine’s head looked down to the table, his finger moving in a circular motion on the tablecloth.
“Right, not important. So the tricky part is that I… well, this is unrelated, but I make recordings in my office. It’s a business management thing. There’s the stuff with me and my woman colleague and there’s sensitive information about our plan. And anyway, someone broke into my office today and found out about the recording. They made a copy on a USB flash drive. Do you know what that is?” Bill paused and thought, That’s a stupid question. Of course even Carmine knows. I’m rambling.
“If anyone hears what’s on the recording, then my colleague and I, well, we’re fucked royally.”
For a second Carmine’s finger stopped circling and he tapped the table.
“I need that USB flash drive, and soon. The consequences are big.”
With a turn of his head, Carmine mumbled to Sal, “Che cazzo.” Then in Sicilian, so Bill couldn’t understand, he expressed his opinion to Sal: “Who the fuck tapes their conversations? It’s bad enough the Feds listen in and bug everywhere, but to do it to yourself. Che cazzo…”
Carmine turned back to Bill. His demeanor, facial expression, and tone had not changed one iota. “Interesting story. Sorry to hear about your troubles.”
Bill knew—from past experience with taking loans from Carmine—that help was not offered, it had to be asked for. Carmine moved three fingers across the table, scraping invisible crumbs.
“Look, Carmine, I know who took it. I can’t do this. I need help to retrieve the USB flash drive for me? This faggot—”
Carmine’s hand went up like a traffic warden at a pedestrian crossing. He turned to Sal, who leaned in like before, with more whispers.
“Bill, I don’t know what you mean. I think you should talk to Sal. I’m an old man, and I don’t understand what you’re saying or how I can help. I’m too old, and I get confused. My dinner’s about to be served.”
A large hand pulled on Bill’s arm, and the half-finished cappuccino was left on the table.
Sal escorted Bill into a back office, then motioned for Bill to raise his arms. With an agility that startled Bill, Sal removed Bill’s jacket and unbuttoned Bill’s shirt, sliding his hand around Bill’s chest.
Sal gave Bill his jacket back. “Sorry, Mister Barrington. You know we gotta be careful. Carmine likes to do it by the book.”
“Yeah, I understand. Not a problem.”
“Would youse likes your cappuch brought in?”
“No, thanks.” Bill thought Sal’s voice had the sizzling crackle of butter in a hot frying pan.
Sal took a pad and pen from the desk and handed it to Bill. Bill understood, and he wrote down Vinnie’s address. Sal read it, then took out a lighter and burnt the paper in an ashtray.
“Sal, I want to be clear. Do whatever needs to be done to persuade Vinnie to go no further. There can’
t be any doubt he’ll reveal what he knows.”
“We know our business. Don’t worry, Mr. Barrington.”
“Sure. I didn’t mean to imply anything. You’re professionals.” Bill looked at Sal’s face and wished he hadn’t said the last part.
Then he added, “How much will this cost? Not that it matters, but I’d like to be prepared. I assume we’re talking cash.”
“This would normally run to fifty. But Carmine says given you’re a good customer, and with your recent losses at the table this’ll be discounted to twenty-five grand. Carmine’s doing you a good deal. He must like you.”
Bill thought he was at a Macy’s sale. All shirts are priced two for one.
Right on cue, the maître d’ entered, handed Bill his overcoat, then turned and left.
“One more thing, Mr. Barrington. It might be a good idea for you to forget the card game tonight. Walk to the Sheepshead Bay BMT to go back to the City. Forget tonight’s game. No trail from here, and stay away for a while. I’ll collect later tonight.” Sal opened a drawer, retrieved a cell phone, waited for the phone to turn on, and read out a number. “Call me with your location.”
Bill made a point to stop by the front desk at the Hawthorne Building and say a few words to the night watchman. From his office, he called Linda using his cell phone, even though it was three a.m. Paris time. When she picked up, he said simply, “Send me an email to meet you at the airport.”
“What the fuck, Bill? Do you know the time? I’m due at Charles de Gaulle at six-thirty, which means I can’t go back to sleep.”
“Stop the bitchin’ and do it now. I need the email. Do as you’re fucking told and don’t ask questions.”
Bill’s reply to Linda’s email confirmed that he would meet her outside JFK international arrivals.
He waited a few minutes before he called Bel Jour France, a restaurant in the East Village. Reservations were needed weeks in advance, but Bill knew as a frequent customer an open table would be “found” for ten p.m.
Bill informed Sal, who told him to have a long meal, and to make no further calls. Twenty-five thousand in petty cash came out of Bill’s office safe with no record made of the withdrawal. The money would be replaced in full by tomorrow afternoon.
****
Halfway through dessert, the Bel Jour France maitre’ d informed Bill that someone outside in the parking lot had requested to talk to him, but refused to come into the restaurant. Bill nodded and stepped outside. Without a word spoken, Bill handed an envelope to the big man standing next to a late-model black Caddy.
Bill checked into the JFK Hilton around midnight. He called his wife to see if she had arrived safely with the children. The call caught Mrs. Barrington by surprise.
“Is everything okay, Bill?”
“Yeah, fine. I didn’t want you to worry you as I’m staying at the airport and can’t be home tomorrow morning. I’m just concerned for you and the kids. Goodnight.”
The bitch will make a good alibi.
Bill opened his laptop and composed an email to Blanca for another alibi.
Chapter 23
Frutti di Mare
As he stepped out of the front door of the Hawthorne Building, Vinnie saw a cab pull up to the curb. He didn’t give it much thought, of course—it was a normal occurrence on a weekday, if not necessarily so on a Sunday—as he was concentrating instead on his Brighton Beach train journey home. He always avoided the Coney Island line, as it reminded him of his brother in Bensonhurst, even though Jack Briggs was an upstate Attica prison resident. When he surfaced at the Brighton Beach Third Street and Sixth Avenue exit, Vinnie had a ten-minute walk to the West Village, and he pushed his key into the front door a few minutes after five-thirty.
Vinnie Briggs, PI, repeated out loud what he had been thinking all the way home: “Fuckin’ rush! Better than coke. I’m on an adrenaline high. I’d better look out for low-flying aircraft.”
He took a long, hot shower, omitting his normal masturbation. He was too tense. He would try to take a short nap and would then make supper—spaghetti ai frutti di mare—before going uptown to Dan’s condo. Dan needed to hear about this, but surely it could wait a couple of hours.
****
Vinnie put on blue and yellow sweat pants and a matching gay pride sweatshirt. His short nap had lasted two hours, and it was now just after seven-thirty p.m. Still on a high from his earlier escapades, Vinnie created a new playlist on his iPod to help him cook. He meticulously chose the songs and labeled this new playlist Spy. By the time he’d finished it was past eight o’clock. I’m not going to make it to Dan’s tonight, Vinnie thought as he filled the pot to boil water.
****
Sal stepped quietly through Vinnie’s front door with a crosstown bus behind him. His companion had muscles in all directions. His street moniker was Mister Clean, and no one ever doubted what he cleaned.
Sal turned to Mister Clean. “Smells like spaghetti alle vongole.” Mister Clean’s pebble head nodded on his boulder shoulders.
At that moment Vinnie stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a plate and utensils on his way to the dining table—and stopped when he saw the two tons of muscle in his home. The plate fell from his hand and smashed to the floor, the only sound in the room. No cry. No scream. Vinnie had opened his mouth, unsure whether to breathe in or out; he did neither.
“Oops. Dropped your dinner, Vinnie. Not to worry.”
Although Vinnie didn’t know Sal’s name, the man’s voice and appearance told him two things: this man was from Brooklyn and he was mob.
Mister Clean stepped over to Vinnie, his sideway sashay giving the appearance of an ocean liner approaching a pier. Similarity in height was their only common measurement. A shovel-sized hand clamped Vinnie’s shoulder; the little sputtering of Vinnie’s bones signaled the first phase of cracking.
“Don’t be shy, Vinnie, Mister Clean’s just being friendly. Now, imagine him unfriendly, which will happen pretty quickly if you don’t hand over that USB stick. Capisce?”
Vinnie nodded, and tears filled his eyes. He pointed to his laptop on a small desk. Sal walked over. “In the laptop?”
Vinnie shook his head. No.
Mister Clean pushed Vinnie forward the way a pitcher throws a fastball across home plate.
Vinnie opened the desk drawer and pulled out the USB stick. Without hesitation he handed it to Sal. Mister Clean’s jackhammer hand tightened on Vinnie’s shoulder—more cracking. Vinnie winced and gave a high-pitched wail, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You sure this is it?” Sal said. “This is what I want?”
Vinnie spoke in toddler tones. “Yes, yes, yes, please. It’s the only one. Look around if you don’t believe me. Please, mister, ask him to let go. Please. That’s what you want. My shoulder’s hurting. Please, please. Tell him to let me go.” Tears were flooding down Vinnie’s face. Crybaby. My father and brother were right. I’m a crybaby.
With a nod from Sal, Mister Clean unclenched his lobster-claw, removing the pressure but not the pain. Vinnie rubbed his eyes, sobbing. Sal had looked around, showing no interest in anything except the plate on the floor.
“Is that spaghetti alle vongole?”
“What?” Vinnie sobbed.
“What you cookin’? Spaghetti alle vongole?”
“No… it’s… it’s…” A pause for more sobs. “… frutti di mare.”
“Ah, love that. Don’t you?” Sal looked to Mister Clean. Mister Clean’s pebble head nodded a few times.
“Now Vinnie, there’s one more thing. You see, we know you heard the recording on this thing, and we need to know you can keep it a secret. Capisce? Otherwise Mister Clean will have to give your other shoulder a massage—and a neck rub, too. Imagine Mister Clean’s two hands massaging your neck. Actually, I think he could manage with one hand ’cause your neck’s not too big. Do you know Mister Clean bench presses four hundred and fifty pounds? Isn’t that right, Mister Clean?”
The giant nodde
d and flexed, his shirtsleeves fashioned for stock cars.
Vinnie sobbed again.
“Come on, Vinnie. Mister Clean’s playing with you. He thought someone of your persuasion might like to see a real man. Ain’t that right, Mister Clean?”
Those last sentences upset Vinnie in ways Sal could not have appreciated. Vinnie’s Gay-Lesbian Alliance Training sessions had been designed to confront homophobic taunting; in fact, he’d been preparing himself against just this kind of taunting for a long time. His training kicked in, and he ignored Mister Clean’s intimidation flex; he ignored his shoulder pain. Vinnie’s reaction ignored reality.
“Fuck you. I’m gay and I’m proud. I’m better than Shithead Bill Barrington and his whore Linda. Wait until you hear the recordings. I know it all, and they’re not going to get away with this, even if you denigrate my sexuality. And I don’t like big-assed musclemen with pea brains.”
****
The prime location to dump Vinnie’s body was in the apartment building’s back alley. Sal and Mister Clean staged the scene: Vinnie’s pants and jockey shorts were down to his ankles, his ass exposed, and a dildo was sticking out of his anal crack.
“Let’s see how long it takes the dumb cops to figure this out.” Sal neither smiled nor frowned; he never did. But Mister Clean grinned, as he’d been the one to shove the dildo up Vinnie’s ass, his specialty. His dresser contained a selection of colorful dildos in various sizes. On solo jobs, Mister Clean would first stick his own dick into a fully awake victim’s ass before he inserted a dildo, which proved he was a dedicated professional; and no one ever suggested otherwise.
The USB flash drive was in Sal’s possession, as was Vinnie’s laptop; Sal never left anything behind that was remotely relevant to the job. And Vinnie was left for dead, as far as Sal and Mister Clean were concerned. He looked dead, but Mister Clean turned to Sal. “Yeah, good enough. He looks gone to me.”
“Want me to keep at it?”
Sal might have said yes, but he heard a commotion at the alley entrance, a barking dog. Having to deal with a pooch and owner would be an unnecessary complication.
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