Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  “The car should be here,” I said when I could finally speak. “At the side entrance.”

  “I’ll find a wheelchair,” Anthony offered. “So she’ll look like a patient who’s just checked out.”

  I nodded but Anthony had already trotted away. Gulia opened her shopping bag and I could see her clothes and purse inside, along with a few extra items she had bought. She dug through the collection until she found a pair of pink sunglasses that matched the wig, then dropped those on her nose just as Anthony returned.

  “Right,” I said as Gulia thumped into the wheelchair. “This way.”

  We made our way to a side entrance that’s supposed to be reserved for staff, though no one really minds if a visitor uses the door to leave. I learned that after my marathon buddy tripped on a sidewalk after finishing the race. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he had insisted on coming to this hospital when there were several that were much closer. Of course, that was before I’d had my first deep look inside Bellevue Hospital and really understood what a difference existed in the world of ER’s.

  I peered through the glass door and spotted our ride just a few short feet away. No one was standing around or watching the hospital, at least not on this side. I signalled to Anthony, and then we stepped outside and walked quickly to the car. The driver got out when he saw us approaching with someone in a wheelchair and opened the backdoor. The balloons did a pretty good job of concealing Gulia’s face, just in case someone was looking for her, and were an even better shield once she was in the car. Anthony got in next and I handed him the rest of our bags.

  “I’ll just take the wheelchair back in,” I told the driver.

  The driver, a black man with a round head and a flat nose, nodded and trotted back to the driver’s side. I sprinted towards the side door when I saw a pair of nurses stepping outside and made it just in time. I smiled as one of the nurses grabbed the door and held it for me so I could slip back inside. I had no idea where Anthony had found the wheelchair, but I spotted a small herd of them gathering near the sign for radiology. I added mine to the collection, then trotted back to the side door. There was still no sign of trouble as I glanced outside, and I made it to the car without drawing anyone’s attention.

  The driver pulled away from the hospital just as one of the local news vans pulled up in front of the hospital. I looked back and saw one of the security guards step outside and approach the van, but the reporter and cameraman were already setting up on the street.

  “Somebody famous must have checked in,” our driver said.

  “Wonder who,” I replied as I turned towards the front.

  “Some big mob boss got shot today,” the driver mused. “Maybe it’s him.”

  “Hey, is the game on?” Anthony asked as his mother made a sound that could have been a cough or a sob. His own gray eyes flared with anger for a moment as he grabbed Gulia’s hand, but she squeezed back and his anger faded.

  “Sure,” the driver agreed as he switched on the radio.

  We didn’t really have that far to go, but the streets were filled with cars and pedestrians, not to mention the neverending work of Con Edison. I found myself staring at every person I thought took too long to cross the street, or anyone who ventured too close to the car. At one point, we were caught in a scrum of cars trying to get to the Holland Tunnel, and I started to gnash my teeth in frustration. Somehow, we made it through to the other side and we arrived at the hotel with any more serious delays.

  The three of us hopped out of the car as soon as the car came to a stop, and Anthony had his mother through the doors to the lobby while I was still thanking the driver and collecting our bags. I ran after them as the driver pulled away and found them at the front desk. Annie was there as well, with a bag from the drugstore as well as a collection from Macy’s and Saks.

  “You’re all checked in,” the clerk said as I joined the crowd. “If you decide to stay longer, you can call the desk in the morning and let them know.”

  “Thank you,” Gulia replied as she picked up the credit card and the keycards that the clerk slid across the desk.

  “That didn’t take long,” I whispered to Anthony.

  “Mom has that effect on people,” the younger Febbo replied.

  Gulia turned to look at her posse and gave us all a reassuring smile. Anthony offered her his arm, which she accepted, and the four of us walked casually towards the elevators. We joined a group of giggling young women who were debating which cast member on a streaming show was cuter. Fortunately, they got off two floors before us and we were able to make the rest of the trip in peace.

  Annie and I stepped off the elevator first, and I realized we were both scouting the floor. It seemed ridiculous on one level, but I was certain that Anthony, at least, was still a target. Apparently, Annie shared my concerns. The youngest Febbo daughter gave me a wry smile as Gulia swept past us and led the way to her suite.

  The room was nicer than my apartment, with its own compact kitchen, a long wooden dining table perfect for hosting a meal with your friends, a large screen TV that took up most of one wall, and a view of the city that people paid millions for. The bedroom was hidden behind a pair of sliding doors that opened to reveal a king-sized bed, another large screen TV, and a second bathroom.

  “You should be comfortable here tonight,” Annie noted as she studied the second bathroom. “There’s a tub, a walk-in shower and a separate hot tub in here.”

  “What the heck was in the bathroom by the hall door then?” Anthony asked.

  “Just a sink, a tub and toilet,” Annie laughed. “Standard hotel bathroom.”

  “You could live in this place,” Anthony noted as he looked around. “It’s nicer than my apartment.”

  “And it comes with room service,” Annie noted as she retreated towards the living room. “Which I think we should take full advantage of.”

  “I need to change first,” Gulia declared as she sorted through the bags that Annie had dropped on the bed. “Anthony, there are some clean clothes in here for you as well.”

  “I’m fine right now,” he said.

  “At least take them to your room,” she sniffed as she thrust a bag at him. “We’ll order dinner after you do that.”

  Anthony nodded as he accepted the bag, and he gave me a questioning look.

  “Well, looks like you’re settling in,” I announced. “And I’m meeting Liz tonight to go over what we’ve learned so far, so I’ll let you three enjoy your room service meal.”

  “We’ll see you in the morning?” Anthony asked.

  “I’ll need to go to the office for a bit,” I admitted. “But I’ll check in to see if there’s any news.”

  Anthony nodded and started back towards the door as I checked the bags and found my briefcase. I smiled at Gulia and was about to follow her son when she grabbed my arm.

  “A moment,” Gulia said quietly.

  I nodded, but Gulia didn’t say anything else until we heard the door close behind her son. Annie glanced towards us, but she read something in her mother’s eyes and she quickly busied herself out of sight in the kitchenette.

  “I’m glad you’ve been there for Anthony,” she said. “There aren’t many outside the family who have been willing to help him without expecting anything in return.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say in response to that observation, so I nodded and waited for the Febbo matriarch to continue. She studied me with those gray-green eyes that so resembled her son’s, and I caught a glimpse of her dimples when she graced me with a fleeting smile.

  “He wants to be a normal person,” she sighed. “He wants to work at this brewery, make his way up to management, and maybe even one day, start his own beer company.”

  “It’s not a bad dream,” I replied. “I understand you’ve always wanted to make wine.”

  Gulia gave me a fleeting smile and then nodded.

  “My father makes his own wine,” she replied. “Mostly from grapes that my great grandfa
ther planted. I used to help him until I married Salvatore and moved to Long Island.”

  “I think he’d be good at it,” I assured her, though I had no idea if her son was actually any good at making beer. Still, they seemed willing to keep him on at the brewery despite his current legal problems, so there had to be some sort of talent for it.

  “I would be happy for him if he achieved this dream,” she said. “But I am also realistic, more so, perhaps, then my son.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be a good brewer?” I asked in surprise.

  “It’s not that,” she said. “But sometimes fate pushes us towards a different path.”

  “Fate,” I murmured. “Or family?”

  “They are often the same,” she noted. “And there is much of Salvatore in Anthony, even if he tries to deny it. But you can only fight your nature for so long, and I think Anthony is near the point where he won’t be able to back away much longer.”

  “What are you suggesting?” I asked.

  “Be careful, Mr. Morgan,” she said quietly. “And ask yourself how far down this path you are willing to travel with my son. Because once you start down it, there is no way back.”

  She released my arm and slipped into the luxury bathroom. She closed the door, and I heard the sound of the shower spring to life. I managed to rouse myself after several moments and I walked quietly back towards the hall door. I nodded at Annie, who gave me a sympathetic look, but offered no words of wisdom. I paused in the hallway after the door closed behind me and thought about checking on Anthony. But Gulia’s warning was still too fresh, and I knew I had some choices to make.

  Chapter 14

  Tourists who venture into Brooklyn often visit a pizza joint called Patsy Grimaldi’s. Patsy’s sits on one of the old streets below the Brooklyn bridge, just a stone’s throw from the river. There’s always a line of people waiting to get in, though these days you can bet that it’s mostly tourists and not locals. The locals, on the other hand, are found nearby at a place called Juliana’s, which is the new home to the incredibly fresh and delicious pizza that made Patsy’s so famous in the first place.

  It’s a bit of a complicated tale, with the original owner deciding to retire and selling the business to fellow restaurateur Frank Ciolli for a hefty price. As part of the deal, Ciolli bought the name and most of the locations, including the original one in Brooklyn. Sadly, the new owner wasn’t as particular about the ingredients, and Patsy’s became a more ordinary pizza place. Meanwhile, Patsy’s original owner grew bored with retirement, and at the urging of many of his fans, decided to start another pizza place just a few doors away from Patsy Grimaldi’s. It’s been a mystery among local lawyers as to why the old man wasn’t asked to sign a non-compete agreement, but local pizza lovers rejoiced.

  Even though I knew Liz was waiting for me, I’d decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I needed time to consider Gulia’s warning and to ponder my options. I also needed to ask myself if I could stand McHale, Parrish for another five years, or however long it took me to pay off my loans. Which led to the even bigger question of how I would pay off my loans if I went off on my own.

  I hadn’t reached any life-changing decisions when I neared the two restaurants. There was the usual line at both of them, but I ignored the crowd at Patsy’s and joined the group at Juliana’s. I scanned the faces in the line and spotted Liz near the front. She was easy to spot, as she stood taller than most of the other people in the line, and her dusky blonde hair was one of only a handful of blonde manes in the crowd.

  “There you are,” she huffed when I sidled up next to her. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Sorry,” I replied, “I was busy.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said as she studied me. “You look like you’re having a crisis.”

  “I think I am,” I replied honestly.

  “I’ve learned that wine is very helpful in an existential crisis,” she noted with a wry smile that brightened her blue eyes.

  “I promise to fill you in,” I replied with a grin of my own as the line inched forward a few steps.

  “Oooh,” she murmured. “This sounds like an exciting dinner conversation.”

  We both laughed, though mine probably sounded more strained. After several minutes of mindless chatter, the hostess led us to a table for two with a view of the massive brick oven. We sat and watched the pizzas being made while we skimmed the menu, then ordered a bowl of the day’s soup for each of us, and the arugula salad and a large Margherita pizza with sausage to split.

  “So what’s this dilemma you’re facing?” Liz asked after the waitress left.

  “Gulia asked me how far I was willing to go with her son,” I mused.

  “Meaning?” Liz asked.

  “Meaning, I think, that she expects Anthony to pick up where his father left off,” I replied.

  “I thought you said Anthony was trying to avoid that,” she replied.

  “He has been,” I assured her. “But Gulia seems to believe that recent events may change that.”

  Liz took a sip of the Six Point Hootie IPA she’d ordered as she studied me over the foam. I didn’t say anything else as my own thoughts were still a swarming mass.

  “So, was she asking if you would become his mob lawyer?” she said as she set the glass down. “His consigliere?”

  “I think so,” I admitted.

  “And you’re actually considering this?” she pressed.

  “That I’m less certain about,” I replied. “But I am wondering if I really want to go back to doing contracts and mergers after this is over.”

  “Then you’re thinking about going out on your own,” she suggested.

  “I guess I am,” I agreed. “Maybe I have been for a while and Gulia’s question just forced me to admit it.”

  “Would you do it?” she asked curiously.

  “Go out on my own?” I mused. “That was always my plan.”

  “No,” she said as she shook her head, “I mean, work for Anthony.”

  I wanted to laugh and loudly declare ‘Of course not’ but I hesitated, and that was all Liz needed to hear.

  “Well, it probably pays well,” she murmured as she took another sip of beer.

  “Hazard pay,” I replied.

  Liz finally laughed, and after a moment, I joined in. I still had no idea what I would do, but at least Liz didn’t seem completely repulsed by the idea. When we finally settled down, she shook her head and gave me another long once-over.

  “I guess everything that happened today didn’t scare you away,” the long-legged blonde noted.

  “No,” I agreed. “If anything, I’m feeling more determined to protect my client.”

  “Something tells me you have more news than just a job offer and a mob war,” she mused.

  “There’s definitely a lot going on,” I replied. “And I’d like to get your take on it.”

  “Then you’d better start talking,” she said as the waitress placed a bowl of lentil soup in front of each of us. “Or we’ll be here all night, and they’ll ban us from ever dining here again.”

  Between spoonfuls of the warm and perfectly spiced soup, I laid out everything I had learned, from Marinello’s presence in the apartment building to his meeting with Anthony. I talked about Francie’s routines, Geraldine’s claims, and the creeper who had crashed the party. I was listing the questions I still had when the salad arrived, and by the time the pizza arrived, I was laying out every crazy theory I had about the whole convoluted mess.

  I only stopped talking when Liz placed a slice of pizza on my plate and I scooped it into my mouth without even checking the temperature first. As delicious as the soup and the salad had been, the pizza was clearly still the star. The crust was perfect, just doughy enough to be soft when you bit into it, but strong enough to hold the toppings without flopping around. The tomato sauce tasted like tomatoes that had just been plucked from the vine, the basil was so fresh that I could still taste that hint of sweetness, a
nd the mozzarella was creamy, briny and just the right degree of chewy. The fennel sausage was a thousand times better than any I’d had before, and I reminded myself yet again to find out where it came from.

  “Dessert?” Liz asked when we’d polished off the last two slices.

  “I need an espresso,” I noted. “Or I’ll fall asleep at the table.”

  We ended up ordering a pair of espressos and a Brookie Bridge with raspberry ice cream. The Brookie Bridge is a Juliana’s original, and is basically Brooklyn’s version of the ice cream sandwich. Thick, luscious local ice cream is served between a pair of brookies, a combination of chocolate chip cookies and brownies, and then topped with sprinkles and powdered sugar. It’s not huge, and if I hadn’t just eaten hefty portions of soup, salad and pizza, I could eat the thing on my own. But I was definitely feeling like I would have to roll home, so I gladly let Liz take her fair share of the dessert.

  “I think you’re right,” Liz mused as she watched me scoop up some of the ice cream. “There probably are at least two different plans in motion right now, and someone’s trying to take advantage of the other.”

  “All of this was triggered by Salvatore’s own plans to quit the business and strike out on his own,” I replied, and I almost laughed when I realized how similar that sounded to my own dilemma.

  “I thought he was keeping his plans quiet,” Liz replied. “It doesn’t sound like he was very successful at that.”

  “He only told a handful of people,” I said. “People he trusted not to talk to anyone.”

  “Someone obviously did,” Liz replied.

  “Maybe it’s not as straightforward as someone betraying Salvatore,” I said. “Maybe someone talked to a wife or a brother, something like that.”

  “I’m pretty sure anyone Salvatore would trust would know better than to discuss things with a relative,” Liz said wryly.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But the alternative…”

  “Means Salvatore has a mole in his operation,” Liz finished for me.

  “I’m not sure if we’re in a Mafia movie or a spy novel,” I sighed.