Mob Rules

by Marc Rainer

  “What’s that?” Barrett asked.

  “No sit-downs. For a couple of reasons. One—as everyone here knows—we’re probably closing in on Little Dom for slinging heroin. We’d like to catch him red-handed with that; he’ll do a helluva lot more time on that charge than on another gun beef. Second—if I have a say in this, since it was my house that got shot up—I’d like to object to conferring any status—unofficial or otherwise—on these assholes by sitting down with them for any reason.”

  Trask’s comment was stiff enough to cause Supervisory Special Agent Furay to do a double-take.

  “That may be our best bet to insure your safety,” Furay told Trask. “Our Mafia don can be harder on his people than we can. We have to follow the law. If we tell him our concerns—”

  “Then we’re possibly burning our case on the problem child who is also one of his family princes, and we’re giving him more credit than he deserves for his status,” Trask reiterated. “I have another suggestion.”

  “What’s that?” Barrett asked.

  “Go directly to Mike’s last option—the full court press—but skip the sit-down. Everyone here agrees that it was very probably Little Dom who fired the shots. If we don’t name him, but—pardon the expression—squeeze the juice bars, we may force Minelli and his goons to come crawling to us for the reason, and the pressure mounts on them to figure this out themselves. We still don’t name Dom, but the extra pressure might make Dom or one of his crew do something stupid. At worst, it will amplify the pressure the whole local family is under after the hit on Minelli’s sister and her husband, and we think Little Dom may have been good for those, too; we just can’t say so. Anyhow, we get to the same point without giving Minelli any appearance of legitimacy or strength.”

  Barrett nodded. “I like that idea. What do you think, Mike?”

  Furay shrugged. “We can go that way. We haven’t jerked their chains hard for a while, and it’s probably overdue. I’ll call our friends in the city and county governments. We’ll be seeing a lot of inspections at the juice joints in the near future.”

  Trask and Cam got up and walked out with Furay.

  Outside Barrett’s office, Furay stopped Trask in the hallway.

  “You’ve never dealt with the mob here before, Jeff. You have to understand their structure, give them a little credit for having one.”

  Trask shook his head. The rage he’d been keeping under control was starting to boil to the top of his head. He had buried it to get through the meeting, but he had been thinking about what could have happened if one of Little Dom’s rounds had come through a window and hit Lynn or one of the pups.

  “I just have to understand them,” Trask said. “I don’t have to give them credit for a damned thing.”

  Gladstone, Missouri

  “You’re sure about that?” Paul Beretta fixed his sternest gaze on Collavito. Beretta’s eyes warned his subordinate that this was a matter of the gravest importance. They were in Beretta’s office in his home. Beretta leaned against his desk. Sammy sat in a chair in front of his capo.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Collavito squirmed a little in his chair. He knew what his information could mean. “We were at your club, and he’d had a couple of drinks, but he wasn’t stupid drunk or anything. Dom told me that Big John was a rat, and that he was proud of it.”

  “Tell me what the ‘it’ was again, please, as exactly as you can remember it.”

  “We were talkin’ about that gal who Dom had to shoot inside his bar—you know, the one that came lookin’ for him with her own gun—and I asked him how it felt to actually kill somebody. Dom kinda hinted that he’d done it before, then he asked me if I heard about Big John. I asked Dom if that was him, and he smiled. I mean, he didn’t actually come out and say he’d done it; in fact, as best as I can remember, he said that he wasn’t sayin’ it was him, but he was sayin’ that Big John was a rat.”

  “Be sure about this, Sam. Did you feel like he was admitting that he killed Big John?”

  “Yeah. I’m pretty sure about that.”

  “How about Marge, the don’s sister?”

  “We didn’t talk about her.”

  “They were killed together.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Exactly. In fact, Fat Tony told both me and Big Dom that if we found out who killed them, we were supposed to bring the shooter to Fat Tony so that he could kill the guy himself. Slowly.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Yeah. You said that already.”

  “Yeah, I know. So, we’re supposed to take Little Dom to the don now?”

  Beretta frowned at him.

  “Think through this, Sammy. If you’re gonna be runnin’ one of my crews, I need to know that you can think ahead. If we took Little Dom to Fat Tony, what do you think would happen?”

  “The don would kill him slow?”

  Beretta shook his head, getting frustrated.

  “C’mon, Sammy, think!” he shouted in disgust. “Do you think that Little Dom—or Big Dom for that matter—is just going to sit there all mousy and quiet-like while the don works him over?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You’re damn straight. Put yourself in Little Dom’s place. You get hauled on the carpet for whacking a made guy and Fat Tony’s little sister at the same time, all without permission. What are you gonna do?”

  “Try and pin it on somebody else?”

  “Now you’re thinkin’ a little, at least. How’re you gonna do that? Who’re gonna point the finger at to save yourself?”

  Collavito shook his head. “I dunno.”

  “Think, Sammy, dammit.” Beretta was getting angry. “Who does Dom have any dirt on that he could offer up to the don as a sacrifice? Somebody who’s been violating one of Fat Tony’s rules?”

  Collavito tried to collect himself. “Well, we’ve been selling dope, and that violates Fat Tony’s rules, but Dom’s been right in the middle of that with us.”

  “And do you think that would stop Dom from lying about that if his ass was on the line, or do you think that he just might throw us under the bus to save that ass? Who have the last couple of dope deliveries been going to, anyway?’

  “I see what you’re sayin’ now.” Collavito nodded. “They’ve been comin’ to me.”

  “Exactly. Still want to take Little Dom to see the don?”

  “No.” Collavito looked up, bewildered. “So, what do we do?”

  “We take care of this ourselves, and we tell the don we had no choice. We’re sorry he couldn’t have had the pleasure of doing it himself, but it had to be done.”

  “Do we stop sellin’ the dope?”

  Beretta shook his head. “Why would we do that, Sammy? Do you hate the money it’s bringing in?”

  “No. It’s good money for the work. But what about the don’s rule?”

  Beretta held his hands up as if telling Collavito to pause.

  “Fat Tony is old school,” Beretta explained. “He thinks he’s a damned corporate CEO or something. You remember Big Paul Castellano?”

  “Sure. Gotti and Sammy Gravano took him out.”

  “Do you know why that happened?”

  “Gotti wanted to be the don?” Collavito guessed.

  “Of course, but there was another reason. Big Paul forgot who he was, and who was feeding him. He was just like Fat Tony. He thought he was running a corporation, that he was always the smartest guy in the room, and that all of old Carlo Gambino’s ancient rules had to be followed, like no selling dope. Big Paul had already cut his capos’ shares down to almost nuthin’ anyway, and the only way Gotti and the other capos could stay afloat was to sell some dope on the side.”

  “What were they sellin’?” Collavito asked.

  “Heroin.” Beretta nodded knowingly. “Just like us, and just like Luciano back in the early days. Heroin. A good cash crop that—like you said—doesn’t take a lot of work.

  “Anyway, Gotti heard that Big Paul had found out that Gotti’s crew
was moving heroin, and Gotti knew that it was either him or Castellano, so he and Gravano—now there’s a rat for you; he gave it all up to the feds—gunned down Big Paul and Tommy Bilotti outside a steak house when they showed up to eat dinner. I think it would have happened anyway, sooner or later, because Gotti did want to be the don, but the heroin thing moved the timetable way up.”

  Collavito sat quietly, wanting to speak, but afraid to do so. Finally, he collected his courage. “Are we gonna hit Fat Tony?”

  Beretta laughed. He shook his head. “No. Not for now, anyway, but at least you’re thinkin’ ahead for once.” He laughed again. “Does Minelli know that we’ve been moving heroin?”

  “No.”

  “Are we gonna let Dom tell him that we’ve been moving heroin?”

  “No.”

  “Then do we need to worry about Fat Tony now?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Right. He’s a lot like Big Paul Castellano, you know, but he hasn’t paid much attention to the history of our thing, and he’s making the same mistakes. As long as our juice bars are cutting him in for his share, he’s all high on the hog with no worries. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care if we have a bad month if he’s gettin’ his cuts, and if we have to work on the side and we don’t cut him in, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. At least for now, everything’s good. You have the Texas guy’s contact info, right?”

  “Yeah, he pretty much deals directly with me now, anyway. Dom was tryin’ to lay low after the shooting at his bar.”

  “Good. You didn’t know this before, but the New York guys are the Texas driver’s other customers. That’s who he delivers to after he leaves your place.”

  “Which New York guys? I thought Dom was the only hook into them, anyway.”

  “It’s actually what’s left of Gotti’s old crew, and they’re still moving heroin. Our heroin. Who do you think set them up with Dom and his supplier, anyway?”

  “You did?”

  “Now you’re puttin’ it together. Anyhow, Dom is no longer essential to our business. We can cut him out any time and keep rolling, and—given what we now know about the don’s sister—we better move quick on that.”

  Collavito nodded. “There’s somethin’ else I better tell you then. Dom told me that he took a couple of shots at his prosecutor’s house. I don’t think he hit anything but the house, but he was pissed about having to spend the weekend in Cass County when the thing at the bar was self-defense.”

  Beretta folded his arms and thought for a moment.

  “It’s good you told me. We can use that, too, when the time comes, and I bet it’s coming soon.

  Kansas City, Missouri

  The manager of the Bottoms night club held the cell phone a few inches from his head, expecting a volcanic reaction from the club’s owner as he relayed the news.

  “It’s the state health inspector, Mr. B,” he told Beretta. “He said he found a bunch of code violations in the kitchen, and that he’s shutting us down until we fix them. I don’t know what he thinks he found back there. I looked everything over before I left last night, and again this morning when I came in. Everything was great. I just—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Geno,” Beretta said in an even tone. “I actually expected this. It’s got nothing to do with you or the kitchen. Something else is going on. We’ll be back up and running soon.”

  “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  Yes, I am, Beretta told himself as he hit another contact icon on his phone.

  “What ya got, Paulie?” Minelli asked him.

  “The state health inspection goons just closed down my club for a bunch of fake violations,” Beretta said. “I talked to the guys at the other bars, and they’re gettin’ written up, too. We’re gonna be losin’ some business for a few days.”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on there?” Minelli voice exploded into the phone.

  “I think I may know,” Beretta answered. “Some of my guys are tight with Dom’s kid. Little Dom whispered in somebody’s ear that he took a couple of shots at his prosecutor’s house—the one who locked him up for that gun beef. It’s probably the feds retaliating. They don’t like it when one of their guys gets a target on him.”

  “That stupid little asshole!” Minelli raged. “Does he have any idea what this is going to cost us? I’ll take it out of his hide!”

  “I have a suggestion, boss,” Beretta said. “Let me call Little Dom in with his dad. I’ll tell Big Dom you asked me to handle it. That way you don’t have to embarrass one of your captains face to face in front of his stupid kid. Big Dom’s pride doesn’t take quite as big a hit, and he may even help us collect our losses from his punk kid.”

  “He better if he knows what’s good for him,” Minelli fumed. “I like it, Paulie. Do it.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  “Thank you, Denise. Your shift is almost up. Better get back to work. I’ll make sure the bonus is in your check.”

  Beretta pulled his pants up and zipped his fly closed while the naked stripper climbed off his desk and grabbed her sweats. She was gone in seconds. There would be no post-coital cuddling. It was all business. It always was.

  Beretta stole a glance at her as she left.

  What a job, he thought. The perks sure beat anything else he’d ever done. His juice bar not only provided a steady income—almost tax free—but a steady variety of sexual adventures, and he never had to leave the office to experience them.

  He combed his hair in front of the mirror in his private half-bath before returning to his desk. He rearranged the items he’d shoved aside to make room for Denise, lit a cigar, and sat back in his swivel chair.

  The kid’s gotta go. There’s no way around that. But how do I do that without starting a war with Big Dom? The don hates conflict. No waves on his little lake.

  He turned on the TV across the room using the remote. A local weather gal was predicting the end of the world in a coming snow storm.

  Cathy Haller and the “we’re all going to die” weather report. Beretta thought, laughing out loud. The last time she pulled this, we got just a dusting and she almost got run outta town. That might happen this time if she’s wrong again.

  He muted the sound and just looked at the screen.

  She’s in the wrong profession. Pump that top up just a little and she could work here, for sure. I’d have to audition her, of course.

  He laughed again. Life was good. The money from the dope was a welcome supplement to his cut from the club, he had the goods on Little Dom for the hit on Marge and Big John, and that also meant that he would no longer have a rival in Little Dom’s father, not one on an equal footing, anyway. The don would not be able to help himself for blaming the hits on Big Dom as well.

  His kid, his crew. Beretta chuckled some more. If he only knew. The kid’s been working for me for months. Keep your friends close and your enemies—or their kids—closer. Especially if they’re dumb as a post. There was never any downside to it. He works for me and I get paid. He screws up and I’m the first to know. He screws up big and I’ve got both him and his dad by the short hairs.

  He closed his eyes and thought about what had to come next.

  I’ll just tell Fat Tony that the kid admitted the hits, and we were going to bring him in like the don wanted, but he gave us no choice. I can have Sam tell Fat Tony what Dom told him.

  Beretta’s eyes flew open.

  What if that’s not enough? What if the don thinks I’m just playing him just to bury Dom and his dad?

  He opened the top left drawer of the desk and pulled the thumb drive out of the back of the drawer.

  This little show I got from Benny will back me up, but how do I explain to the don why I sat on this for so long?

  He sat back and closed his eyes again. He opened them seconds later at the same instant a smile crossed his face.

  I won’t have to explain that at all.

  Lee’s Summit, Missouri

  On
e more time and that’s it. It’s getting late. I’ll need to get some sleep.

  Trask thumbed through the files again, making an additional note on a tablet when a thought came to him.

  Trial starts tomorrow. Just one defendant: Papi himself. What am I missing? Anything? Is there a reason he’s not pleading out other than what we’ve heard? He’s not going back to prison without putting up every fight he can.

  Trask leaned back in the chair in front of his home office desk—one of those put it together yourself discount pieces—and stared at the ceiling as he remembered what his mentor Lassiter had told him in D.C.: “Never underestimate your opposition, Jeff. Even the proverbial blind pig of a defense counsel can find an acorn of evidence that hurts you, and once they do, they’ll ride that point all the way through if you can’t explain it. They don’t have to be perfect, but you do.”

  Trask looked at his notes again. He’d been through all the reports and interview notes four times already.

  I don’t think I’ve overlooked anything. We’re solid. This is just going to be one of those very long guilty pleas. The defense will ask a question here or there while the cops are on the stand, they’ll try and attack our snitches, the cooperators will back each other up and Papi’s own surveillance tapes will corroborate everything they’ve testified about. What else was it that Bob Lassiter said? Oh, yeah. “The other side of preparation is to never OVERestimate your opposition. You have to be able to take advantages of any stupid mistakes they make. Plant a few land mines and see if they’re careless enough to step on them.”

  A smile started to form on his face, but it was interrupted by Lynn’s voice.

  “Jeff, look at Boo’s eye!”

  He sat up and looked across the den to where the big dog was lying, a few feet from where Lynn was sitting on the sofa. The sclera of the eye surrounding Boo’s ice-blue iris was not its normal pure white. It was red. Blood red.

  Trask stood and walked toward Boo. As he neared her, bending down to check her eye, Boo sneezed, spraying red droplets of blood across the tiled floor.