Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  “You took some serious looking. after, bambino.” Pietro grinned. “Chased his ass all up and down the state fixing messes.”

  “God knows how many illegitimate babies he buried.” Dennis was enjoying the memory.

  “Hey, all I did was ditch the evidence.”

  They were both grinning and laughing. Shane pasted a smile on his face, but he really wanted to slug both of them.

  Suddenly, Dennis switched the subject. “How’s Uncle Carlo?”

  “Y’ know, I guess he’s doing good as can be expected. He’s through with his chemo, but with all the other stuff he takes he’s sick a lotta the time. He’s having lotsa trouble with his legs now, clots and shit. Doctor’s got him on blood thinners.” Shane wondered if the Don was getting enough flavonoids.

  They moved into the house and stood in the large entry hall. There were half a dozen fifteenth-century suits of armor lining the parquet floor. An arched window at the end of the hall looked out on the rolling hills and the Saddleback Mountains beyond.

  “Sorry, but we gotta check for bugs,” Pietro said to Shane. He motioned to another cugino standing nearby, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. He had short, dark hair and huge biceps. In his right hand was another 2300 Frequency Finder. The feds must have been having a sale on the damned things. Shane spread his arms and let the machine run over him.

  “Nothing,” the ‘cugino said. “He’s clean.”

  “I think we should take a closer look, Frankie,” Pietro cautioned.

  “Guy’s okay, Uncle Pete,” Dennis said, but the capo shook his head.

  “He’s still a cop, Denny. Is it okay, Mr. Scully? You don’t mind, do you?”

  Shane shrugged. “Fine with me.” But it wasn’t; it pissed him off.

  Frankie led the way to a bathroom off the entry hall. Once they were inside, the wannabe wiseguy closed the door. “Mind stripping down?”

  “Yeah, I mind. But I’ll do it.” Shane took the StarTAC phone off his belt and handed it to Frankie, then removed his coat, shirt, and pants. Finally, he was standing in his shoes, socks, and underwear, feeling ridiculous.

  “Turn around please,” Frankie said, holding the StarTAC, which contained the very thing he was searching for. Frankie inspected him for a wire and finally nodded. “Okay, thanks. You can get dressed.”

  Shane put on his clothes, then held out his hand for the phone.

  Frankie returned it, and as Shane clipped it on his belt, he turned it back on.

  “You don’t pack?” Frankie asked, referring to the fact that Shane had no weapon.

  “Not outta state. Besides, I figured you wouldn’t let me bring one in here anyway.”

  “Good thinking …”

  Shane followed Frankie into the entry hall, where they rejoined Dennis and Pietro.

  “My uncle is waiting to see you. Come on,” Dennis said.

  They walked down a beautiful flag-draped hail, passing under an ornate stone archway. Dennis stopped at a pair of carved oak doors and hesitated for a second before knocking. The doors opened immediately, and they were facing another steroid-fed side of beef in a painted-on suit.

  “How ya doin’, Kerry?” Dennis said.

  “Hangin’ in. You look good. L. A. must agree with ya.” “Yeah, but Lynette is breakin’ my chops out there. She shops all day.”

  “Broads.” Kerry smiled, motioning them inside a large dark den.

  It took Shane’s eyes a minute to adjust to the low light. The room was lined with bookshelves and was underfurnished. A huge antique desk and chair sat against one wall. An oxblood-colored sofa and two club chairs were positioned across the room. In several spaces on each book-lined wall, magnificent oil paintings hung in dimly lit alcoves. All were of elderly men in various kinds of period-dress. Two of the more recent paintings depicted stern-faced characters in expensive suits from the twenties and forties. Shane didn’t have to ask; he knew he was looking at the criminal bloodline of the DeCesare family. Seated by the window in a wheelchair, with his back to them, was a small, frail old man: Don Carlo DeCesare—Little Caesar.

  “Uncle Carlo, it’s Dennis.”

  The old man slowly pivoted the chair to face them. Shane tried not to gasp, but half the Don’s face had been surgically altered. Welts and scar tissue dominated everything below his nose.

  Dennis moved across the room to his uncle’s wheelchair and whispered something to him; the old man nodded. Then Dennis turned and motioned for Shane to approach.

  “He wants to meet you.”

  As Shane walked toward them he became aware that someone else was in the room; a slender, dark-haired young woman with glasses, who looked to be about twenty.

  “This is Don Carlo’s daughter, Celia,” Dennis said. “She talks for my uncle. He signs.”

  “She does what?”

  “My uncle lost most of his tongue and vocal cords to cancer.”

  Shane looked at the scarred face of the Don and tried to deal with this new fact. It appeared he would be forced to converse with this girl, instead of the Don, himself. Would recordings containing only Celia’s voice hold up in court?

  Shane crossed the room and stood in front of the wheelchair. Up close, Don DeCesare’s destroyed lower jaw and the deep scars on his neck were ghastly and disfiguring. Shane was trying to collect his thoughts. This changed everything.

  Arnac’s wisdom rang in his ear. As( es, asi sera . Just keep going, he told himself. He nodded to the old man, who returned the gesture.

  “Uncle Carlo, this is L. A. detective Shane Scully, who I told you about.”

  Suddenly, Don Carlo began signing with his fingers. Celia, who was sitting a few feet away, next to the window, translated for him.

  “He says he is glad to meet you.” Her voice was soft and whispery; echoing strangely in the high-ceilinged room. “It’s my pleasure,” Shane replied.

  The Don nodded. He looked at Shane with sharp, piercing eyes, while he signed at his daughter.

  “I am pleased that you and your wife have agreed to help my nephew with his new venture in Los Angeles,” Celia’s sweet voice translated.

  “Alexa is the head of Detective Services Group. DSG supervises all the detectives on the LAPD, so she’s in a terrific place to handle any investigation if someone in that union complains,” Shane replied.

  The Don signed again and Celia spoke:

  “What Dennis has accomplished in Los Angeles is remarkable. I have convinced the brotherhoods in D. C. to stand aside, and not make trouble once special deals are cut with the IATSE unions. I am pleased you and your wife have accepted my payment, and will guarantee that Dennis is never prosecuted.”

  What payment? Shane thought. We could sure use the rest of the fucking money. But rather than bring that up, he said, “Whatever happens, we’ll make certain that your nephew is safe.”

  The Don signed slowly, forcing them to stand patiently in silence.

  “It is important for you to understand that since money has changed hands, our deal is now sealed. It cannot be undone. Any failure to perform services as agreed will result in your death, and the death of your family.” It was strange to listen as this slender girl’s soft voice conveyed a death threat against his loved ones. Celia continued. “This is not only a threat, but a necessary part of the agreement. Dennis will soon be taking over for the family and all efforts must be made to protect him.”

  “I understand,” Shane replied.

  Don DeCesare held out a frail hand, palm down. It was a strange gesture and Shane wasn’t sure what the old man wanted.

  “He wants you to kiss his hand,” Celia said. “It is our custom to seal an agreement.”

  So, feeling foolish, Shane bowed his head and kissed the old man’s hand. As his lips brushed against the cold, papery skin, he wondered at the evil the Godfather had done in his lifetime. He stepped back and the Don made a few more trembling hand gestures.

  “Thank you. I must talk to my nephew alone,” Celia translated.


  Shane turned and left the room.

  He walked back to the entry hail where he stood alone, listening to voices coming from a side room. Shane wondered if the crafty old Don had really lost his vocal cords or if he had learned sign language just so he could hold sensitive meetings with a family interpreter doing the talking so as to avoid the risk of being caught on tape.

  The StarTAC unit had shot their conversation into space and back to the monitoring room at ESD in L. A. But could Shane prove that it had really been the Don who had said those things? He had only recorded his own voice and Celia’s. Hell, he probably couldn’t even prove Don Carlo had been there. It would be Shane’s word against theirs.

  He was angry and depressed as laughter swelled in the adjoining area, so he walked in that direction and soon entered a large living room with turn-of-the-century furniture and a fifteen-foot-high vaulted ceiling.

  Pete, Paulie, and Frank were seated around a marble-topped table, next to a large plate-glass window, playing some kind of European card game. On the other side of the glass, Shane could see more rolling lawns and even a few white-coated animals that, from a distance, looked like sheep or even llamas.

  Shane sat on the arm of a nearby chair, watching the game.

  “Is the Don gonna be okay?” he finally said, breaking the ice.

  “He’s not doin’ too hot, but he’s a tough old man. Surprises us all the time,” Pietro said.

  “This is beautiful here. I understand Dennis went to high school out in Teaneck.”

  “Yep, sure did,” Pietro said, smiling. “He was some kinda hot shit back then. Captain of the football team, good shortstop in baseball, pretty much had his way with the ladies.” Then he turned to another old capo whom Shane hadn’t noticed, sitting in a wing chair by the fireplace. “Hey, Norm, remember that girl from Trenton, came down here, camped out in front of the driveway? Jesus, she was so stuck on Denny, she slept there for two days …

  wouldn’t go away.” Norm laughed and just nodded. “I went down and threatened this bitch, but she still wouldn’t leave. She was willing to die to get in here and see him.”

  “Yeah,” Shane smiled. “Nicholas said Dennis always had lotsa girls.” Shane was fishing, hoping one of these goombas would hit the line.

  “Who’s Nicholas?” Pietro said as he laid down some cards and said “Banco.” Then scraped a pile of chips off the table.

  “Nicholas was a real good friend of Dennis’s in high school.”

  “I don’t think so. I spent mosta my time sweeping up after the kid back then. I don’t remember no friend named Nicholas. What’s his last name?”

  “Marcella.”

  Pietro was now shaking his head and smiling as he stacked his winnings.

  “Something funny?”

  “Ya mean Nicky? That pathetic little prick was never friends with Dennis. Who told you that? Dennis used to terrorize him, made him eat his lunch off the floor in the school cafeteria. Shit like that. They called him Nicky the Pooh ‘cause the guy was so pathetic. Denny fucked him over constantly while all the kids laughed. I told Dennis back then that he should cool it. You never know with people. You can push ‘em too far. Some little nothing guy will snap, come off hot, get a gun, ka-boom, you’re in the obits.”

  “Nicky wasn’t his friend?” Shane asked.

  “That little schmuck was so piss-in-his-pants scared a Dennis, he used to shake when he was around, y’ know? And Dennis just thought it was funny. Used t’ make him wash his car and shine his shoes. Sometimes forced Nicky t’ follow him around at school on his hands and knees barking like a dog. Everybody thought it was funny, but I seen the look in that little guy’s eyes. You should never push anybody that far ‘less you’re gonna clip him after. Course, Dennis, he was only seventeen then. He thought nothing could ever happen to him. You grow up, you learn.” Now Pietro was dealing again, flipping cards onto the table. “Last I heard, Nicky Marcella went out to L. A. to live with his married sister. Just goes t’ show ya. What kinda limp dick moves in with his sister?” The talkative capo took some chips and tossed them into the center of the table.

  Shane picked up a magazine and sat on the sofa a few feet away to wait for Dennis while the card game continued.

  Why was Nicholas Marcella out in L. A. throwing parties for a man who had once made him crawl on his hands and knees and bark like a dog? Shane tried to concentrate on the magazine, but his mind wouldn’t stop circling this strange new fact.

  Chapter 42.

  GUESSWORK

  They all slept on the flight back to the West Coast. When the jet touched down in Burbank, it was ten-thirty that same night. They deplaned and headed to their cars. Champagne Dennis Valentine paused by his blue Rolls and looked over at Shane. “That was good. Uncle Carlo is very happy you came.”

  “I’m very happy he’s very happy.”

  They agreed to talk in the morning.

  Shane called Alexa as soon as he pulled away from the airport.

  After expressing relief that he was back safely, she shifted to disappointment: “I listened to the tapes at ESD. All they had on them was you and some girl. That’s never gonna work in court.”

  “We have my sworn statement that the Don was there. I witnessed it.”

  “But Shane—”

  “What was I supposed to do? The guy’s claiming his tongue and vocal cords are gone.”

  “I know, but … It’s just … We can’t.” Her angry broken sentences snapped, like wet laundry on a backyard line.

  “I’ve gotta see you right away,” she finally said. “Everything is happening at once; it’s all gaining speed and the chief wants a meeting. He went to Santa Monica tonight—two Crip shooters are being interrogated out there— but he should be back soon.”

  “I’ll shut down the damn film deal, okay? But I can’t go through another meeting with Tony pounding on me.”

  “It’s not just about the film, Shane. Your print runs came back. Farrell is Danny Zelso. The prints on the shoe box top were Nicky’s.”

  “What about the Arizona cowboy?”

  “That’s where it gets confusing. The matchbox prints belong to General Miguel Fernando Ruiz, a Panamanian drug kingpin who disappeared after Zelso was arrested.”

  “Alexa, I told you these cases were interlocked.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what’s holding them together.”

  “I do,” Shane said. “Since Filosiani’s in Santa Monica, it’s closer if we all meet at our Venice house in twenty minutes.”

  “Good idea, I’ll call him,” she said, then hung up.

  When Shane opened the door, it was musty inside—the kind of thick atmosphere that only lives in a closed-up beach house. He walked through the place, opening windows and doors. Although he was back where he had once thought he belonged, now, after living in the big house on North Chalon, his little castle in Venice looked small. He had only been gone a few days, but it seemed as if he’d never really lived here at all, like he didn’t belong here any longer. He had always seen himself as a dedicated fighter for values he believed in. His goals were modest. He wanted good to prevail over evil; he wanted justice for victims; he longed for a society that valued fairness over profit. But his short stint in Hollywood had begun to convince him that their upside-down value system actually seemed to work better. In its own hedonistic way, it was more efficient. The system he had pledged his life to valued criminals over victims. Murderers were often portrayed as battered children in court, while rape victims were vilified. Tim McVeigh preached his madness from the cover of Time magazine. Even the Dennis Hopper Rule made sense. Why shouldn’t his family live in a house like the one on North Chalon Road? Shane looked around his small, threadbare home in Venice and wondered if these new ambitions were temporary, or if his values forged over a lifetime could change so quickly.

  Just then the phone rang.

  It was Alexa. “Shane, Nora just called. She’s hysterical. I’m going out to Malibu to pick her up.”
>
  “What’s wrong?”

  “I couldn’t get much of it. She was sobbing. Something about Farrell missing … getting forced into a boat during his nightly swim. I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”

  Tony Filosiani arrived twenty minutes later. He came through the door with his head down and shoulders hunched—a tired man dragging a huge weight. He trudged across the carpet in the entry hall.

  “This is nice,” he said with no particular enthusiasm. Shane led him out to the lawn, then gave him a beer, a rusting lawn chair, and a moonlit view of some stagnant water.

  “You look bushed,” Shane said.

  “Yeah, this is more frontline detective work than I like at one time.”

  They quickly ran through Shane’s trip to New Jersey. Filosiani hadn’t heard the StarTAC tapes, but Alexa had filled him in on what happened.

  “If the Don can talk, this is the best piece a mob bullshit since Vinnie ‘The Chin’ Gigante wandered the streets of New York in his bathrobe, mumbling, singing, and pretending to be insane,” Tony sighed.

  “He looked pretty cut up. I think it’s legit.”

  The disparate facts Shane had absorbed these last two days were rolling around in his head like marbles in a tin box, driving him crazy. He had a theory that strung them all together in a sequence that was logically possible, although somewhat far-fetched.

  “I think Nicky Marcella is at the center of this,” Shane said. Then he told Filosiani everything he knew about Nicky and his connection to Farrell Champion a. K. A. Danny Zelso and his connection to Dennis Valentine a. K. A. Dennis Valente. He briefed the chief thoroughly, including Nicky’s disappearance the previous day.

  “I read his yellow sheet,” Filosiani countered after Shane finished. “Marcella’s just a street barker … did a flat bit in county jail for block hustles on Sunset Boulevard. Guy is strictly a short-timer.”