by Tom Turner
“Yeah. So fucked we’d be looking for a new job in the sanitation department up in Palatka County somewhere.”
Crawford looked out his window as a hard rain pelted down. Then he turned to Ott and smiled. “I gotta tell you, Mort, this whole Squat Tony thing…I’m buying it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Thanks, man. You see any holes?” Ott said. “Going to Polk and selling him?”
“Not if you play it right. I remember reading an article a while back about the Italian mafia in Miami and how they’re still going strong there. ‘Course they got competition from the Russians and Colombians and God-knows-who-else, but the story was about the bust of forty guys from the Genovese, Gambino, and Bonnano families.”
“Really? Those old families are still around?”
“Yeah, article mentioned this one guy, Skinny Joey from Philly, who just got out on a $5 million bond.”
“What did he do?”
“Oh, you know, the usual—racketeering, RICO, gambling, extortion, weapons charges. Article said he fancied himself the John Gotti of Philly.”
“So it’s not a big leap—Skinny Joey to Squat Tony?”
“Not at all, and if I’m Robert Polk and you show up with that story, you got me sold.”
“I just need to smooth out a few rough edges,” Ott said.
“I’ve been thinking about something else to throw at him,” Crawford said.
“What’s that?”
“You tell him you saw Duke’s Day-Timer, and on the night of his murder his calendar says, ‘R. Polk – lot on Reef’ or something like that.”
A smile appeared on Ott’s face. It started out small, then ended up ear to ear. “I like it, but it’s risky as hell.”
“I know,” Crawford said. “But look at it this way: If Polk says it’s bullshit and that the meeting never existed, then he didn’t kill Duke. If he doesn’t deny it, then he’s definitely our boy.”
Thirty-Seven
Ott walked into Crawford’s office at 8:00 a.m. wearing a wide-collar burgundy shirt and dark pants.
He pointed his two forefingers at his chest. “Who am I?”
Crawford cocked his head, “Ah…my barber, maybe? He’s got a shirt as ugly as that.”
“Come on, Charlie…don’t you remember Scarface?” he said referring to the old Al Pacino movie about the Mafia.
Crawford laughed as he remembered it. “You forgot the gold chain.”
“I had a field day last night,” Ott said. “Watched Godfather I and II and Scarface.” He shook his head and smiled. “I’ve seen enough Al Pacino to last me a lifetime.”
“You didn’t catch Godfather III?”
“Nah, I just remember it really sucked,” Ott said. “George Hamilton was in it…need I say more?”
“So now you’re Italian? Or Cuban, like Tony Montana?”
“Italian, man. I even thought about coming up with an accent, but decided that might be pushing it,” Ott said, standing up. “Well, might as well get the show on the road. Think I should just bust right into his office?”
“Worked for me. No guarantee that he’ll be there, though.”
“If not, I’ll just come back.”
“Give him hell, Tony,” Crawford said.
Ott walked to the door of Crawford’s office and turned around. “My favorite line was when Michael Corleone explains how the Godfather bought back Johnny Fontane’s contract from the bandleader. Michael says, ‘Luca Brasi held a gun to his head and my father assured him that either his brains or his signature would be on the contract.’”
Crawford smiled. “Yeah, right up there with Clemenza’s immortal line to Rocco right after they popped Paulie: ‘Leave the gun—’”
“‘Take the cannoli.’”
* * *
In the elevator up to Polk’s office, Ott called Crawford. “Okay, Charlie, I’m putting my cell phone in my pocket with the line open. You’ll be able to hear every word.”
“Got it. I’m recording as we speak.”
“Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck.”
A few moments later Ott walked into Polk’s office.
He could have been Italian. Or Greek, French, Spanish, Slavic, Russian, pretty much anything but Swedish or Far Eastern.
Robert Polk’s receptionist did not throw out the welcome mat for Ott, who introduced himself as Tony Colangelo. She said Polk was going to be in meetings all day long.
“Tell him it’s about Alex,” was all Ott said.
“Alex who?”
“He’ll know.”
The receptionist seemed to deem the murky reference worth bringing to Polk’s attention and walked toward his office.
She came back out a few minutes later. “He’ll see you after this appointment,” she said. “But he won’t have long.”
Ott picked up a business magazine and turned the pages. Ten minutes later, a man in a suit came out and frowned at the sight of Ott in his burgundy shirt with the six-inch collar.
Ott nodded at him. He didn’t nod back.
“Okay, Mr. Colangelo, please follow me,” said the receptionist.
Ott followed her back to Polk’s office.
Polk, unsmiling, waited behind his desk.
The receptionist walked out.
“Miss Rockwell said you mentioned a name,” Polk began.
Ott smiled and held up a hand. “Let’s start this all over again, Bob.”
Polk frowned, apparently unsettled at being called a nickname no one used with him.
“I’m Tony Colangelo,” Ott said, thrusting his hand across Polk’s desk. “Pleased to meetcha.”
Polk gave him a limp shake that was all fingers.
“Call that a handshake?” Ott said. “All right, let’s get down to business.”
“And just what business is that, Mr. Colangelo?”
Ott wondered what Carla Carton had seen in this humorless, little man. Did he somehow blossom in the presence of beautiful women?
No, it was just the checkbook, stupid.
“I gotta lot of businesses,” Ott said. “Probably not nearly as many as you, but a piece here and a piece there…you know how it is.”
Polk kept a solid poker face in place.
“Anyway, the business I came to talk to you about today is a business I was in with my late partner, Xavier Duke.”
Polk’s expression didn’t change.
“You do know, Xavier, right?”
“We spoke once,” Polk said.
“Recently. Correct?’
“Within the last month.”
Ott nodded and let the silence hang for several moments. He’d noticed how Michael Corleone used the long-pause technique so effectively. “So,” he said in a confiding manner, “you know that our business was to film couples in…intimate moments. In the heat of passion, you might say.”
For the first time, Polk looked uncomfortable. He raised his hand to his forehead and rubbed it lightly a few times. “What’s your point?”
“I came here for two reasons. One, to express my gratitude to you for something and the other is…well, a little different.”
Polk fidgeted with a shirt button. “Okay, so go ahead,” he said after a pause of his own. “Express your gratitude.”
Ott reached into his battered briefcase. “Before I do, I’d like to show you two things. Let’s call them Exhibit A and Exhibit B.” He held up a DVD case and a Day-Timer. “Exhibit A is a recording of your son at Xavier’s house. I’m sure Xavier told you what’s on it, so I don’t need to. Suffice it to say, it’s something that couldn’t be good for Alex. I don’t know whether you’ve seen it but I am more than happy to make this copy available to you.”
Ott held it out to Polk, who didn’t put out his hand.
Ott dropped the DVD on the desk and leaned across. “I don’t know what Xavier asked you to pay for the film and I don’t care, but my price is twenty million dollars. And it is not negotiable.”
Polk rolled his eyes.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”
“I think it is a fair price,” Ott said.
“Duke tried to extort me for $5 million dollars and I laughed at him.”
Ott wasn’t surprised that Duke had tried to get five times more than what the other fathers had paid. After all, Polk was worth more than five times as much as all of them put together.
Ott narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “See, the difference is Xavier didn’t have a fourteen-year-old girl ready to testify about what she and Alex did. ‘Cause the girl disappeared after that night with Alex and Xavier couldn’t find her”—a big grin—“but I found her.”
That knocked the color out of Polk’s face.
Ott reached for the Day-Timer. “And now I’d like to express my gratitude to you,” Ott said. “You saved me from doing a task I wasn’t much looking forward to doing.”
“Oh, yeah, what was that?”
“Putting an end to my partnership with Xavier,” Ott said with a pause, “by putting an end to Xavier.”
Ott watched Polk closely, but his expression didn’t change. “Your gratitude is misplaced, Mr. Colangelo. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Ott played it the way he and Crawford had rehearsed it. “Well, of course, I expected you to deny it,” he said. “Which is why I brought along Exhibit B”—he held up the Day-Timer—“This is Xavier’s Day-Timer. He was a pretty meticulous man about appointments and meetings.”
Ott thought he detected a slight change in Polk’s demeanor. Like he was frantically trying to figure out where Ott was going next.
“And guess what?” Ott said. “Turns out four days ago Xavier had a date with you”—Ott held up the Day-Timer and went all-in—“says right here, ‘R. Polk - Reef Road.’”
Polk was stone-faced. Dead silent.
Ott wanted to do cartwheels. “Which is exactly when and where Xavier got shot. So again, I would like to express my gratitude for you taking care of that messy job I would have had to attend to.”
“No way I’m paying you twenty million dollars.”
Which meant Polk had a number in mind.
Ott gave him a broad grin. “Do you think I’m fuckin’ with you, Bob?”
“Don’t call me Bob.”
“Okay, then…do you think I’m fuckin’ with you, Robert?” Ott scanned a wall of photos and saw a framed photo of Polk with a high-powered rifle slung over his shoulder. “Looks like you were quite the hunter.”
“Still am,” Polk said. “What of it?”
Ott shrugged. “Just curious,” he said. “I went to Africa on a hunting trip once. Got a lion with a machine gun.” Ott was winging it now.
Polk shook his head derisively. “That was really sporting of you.”
Ott shrugged. “What can I tell ya, I tried getting him with a regular hunting rifle but kept missing.”
“Why not use a bazooka?”
“Didn’t have one,” Ott said. “But what I do have is a package deal for you. I call it the Make Tony Go Away Forever package.”
“I can’t wait to hear about it.”
“You pay me twenty million and I give you both the Day-Timer and the DVD”—he snapped his fingers—“Just like that, I become a bad memory. You don’t take my package deal, the Palm Beach cops get the DVD and Duke’s calendar dropped on their doorstep. They might not be the brightest guys around, but I think they’d figure it out.”
Polk straightened up in his chair and pointed his finger. “I have been patiently listening to you and it occurred to me that there’s another Make Tony Go Away Forever option.”
Ott laughed. “Why, Bob, I do believe you’re threatening me.”
“I guess you could take it that way.”
Ott leaned closer and did his version of the godfather’s finger-point. “Just to let you know, I’m fourth-generation Bonanno on my mother’s side. I have three psychopaths for brothers and a bunch of semi-violent uncles and cousins…you really sure you want to go there?”
Thirty-Eight
The way Squat Tony and Polk left it was inconclusive.
Ott walked out leaving his last line hanging in the air like a foul odor. “I’ll be back tomorrow and if I don’t get what I want you’re gonna be in a world of hurt.”
Crawford and Ott had spent the last thirty-five minutes listening to the recording of Ott’s meeting with Robert Polk, neither of them saying a word.
At the end of it was more silence.
Ott was trying to gauge Crawford’s face.
“It ain’t a dagger through the heart,” Crawford said finally.
Ott sighed. He’d obviously been hoping Crawford would hear something in it that he had missed.
“You did a hell of a job, though,” Crawford said. “I mean, Oscar material. A little Michael Corleone, a little Sonny, even a little Tom Hagan thrown in. But there was no admission of him actually killing Duke.”
“I know. I was trying. But isn’t it clear he did it?”
“Oh yeah, absolutely. The fact that he didn’t dispute meeting Duke that night on Reef Road. That was the one thing that could have sunk us.”
“Yeah, I was holding my breath.”
“So, bottom line, not enough to convict.” Crawford picked up a pen, tapped it on his desk, and smiled. “I’ll tell you one thing, if we wanted to really go rogue, retire early and head down to Rio, I guarantee we could get at least 10 mil out of him.”
“No question about it,” Ott said. “So, what do we do?”
“I don’t know.” Crawford looked out his window. “He’s expecting you tomorrow?”
“Yup.”
“Well, the good news is he’s thinking about what he’s gonna have to pay or else he would have shut the door when you were there. Which gives you another crack at getting him to say he did it.”
“Or maybe he’s thinking about popping me?”
Crawford laughed. “Nah, not after your Bonanno thing. No way. That was brilliant.”
“Yeah, I was pretty proud of it,” Ott said. “You know, it’s funny when you start coming up with shit like that, it kinda turns into a competition with yourself to top what you said the sentence before.”
“You’re a natural, man.”
“Swell. A natural-born bullshitter. What a skill to be proud of.” Ott shook his head and smiled, but the smile faded quickly. “There’s gotta be some way to get him to cop.”
They were silent for a few moments.
“I need a beer,” Crawford said.
“I need several,” Ott said.
* * *
There was a regular at Mookie’s who hadn’t missed a day there since his retirement as a detective five years back. His name was Don Scarpa and he was called “the Shoe.” Crawford didn’t know why they called him that, so he’d asked him one day.
Scarpa had answered, “Because Scarpa’s the guinea word for shoe, numbnuts.”
Scarpa had a Winston hanging off his lower lip when Crawford and Ott sat down on either side of him on bar stools at the far end of the bar. Scarpa was seated on what was called the Donald Bruce Scarpa Memorial Barstool, even though he remained very much alive. He was chain-smoking Winstons in open defiance of the no-smoking laws for all bars in Florida. The owner, an ex-cop and fellow paisan named Jack Scarsiola, had upbraided Scarpa on numerous occasions for breaking the law. “As a guy with thirty-five years in law enforcement you of all people oughta obey the damn laws.” To which Scarpa always replied, “Why? I ain’t in it no more,” and kept on puffing.
Fact was, Scarpa had been one of the best and most respected detectives in Palm Beach and a man Crawford went to if he needed another perspective. In this case, Crawford and Ott had decided on the way over, they weren’t going to give Scarpa all the details of the Polk case. They figured that if word ever leaked about what they were doing, even though Scarpa was as tight-lipped as they came, they might blow their cover, not to mention land them in big trouble with Norm Rutledge.
So they talked hypothetically, ‘thi
s guy’ being Ott, ‘the rich guy’ or ‘the suspect’ being Polk.
At the end of the explanation of Ott’s 35-minute meeting with Polk, Scarpa took a long pull on his beer. “Gotta up the ante, for one thing,” he said, lighting another Winston off the butt of the one he had just smoked.
“What do you mean?” Crawford asked.
“Tell him you’re gonna up it another twenty mil at five o’clock. Means ya ain’t fuckin’ around.”
Crawford and Ott both nodded.
Scarpa smiled. “I like the way you used my Italian brothers to intimidate this asshole,” he said, stubbing the cigarette butt out in an ashtray.
“Names that end in vowels always do the trick,” Ott said.
“You gotta get under this guy’s skin some more—” Scarpa exhaled a plume of smoke— “get the fucker out of his comfort zone. What’s he like anyway? Besides being rich.”
“An asshole,” Ott said.
Scarpa chuckled. “Come on, Mort, you can do better than that. Details, man.”
“A short guy with a big ego,” Ott said.
“Lotta them around,” Scarpa said.
“Almost a stereotype,” Crawford chimed in. “Short guy making up for his size by being a big-game hunter, scoring the movie actress—though he couldn’t hold onto her. Even has pictures all over his office walls of him on the Yale football team.”
“Back in the days when Ivy League football sucked even worse that when you played,” Ott said.
“You played college ball, Charlie?” Scarpa stubbed out his Winston.
Crawford chuckled. “Yeah, but way different from what’s on TV today,” he said. “So the guy’s got everything, but having a cradle-robbing son—even though he wasn’t—definitely wasn’t part of the game plan.”
Scarpa nodded, then turned to Ott. “Gotta get under his skin, Mort.”
“I heard you the first time. How you suggesting I do that?”
“Gotta piss him off,” Scarpa said. “I bet you’re no slouch at that.”
“Thanks, I take that as a compliment,” Ott said.