Judith looked at Cranston. She could not believe he was standing before her, that he’d tracked her down, that he was real. She’d dreamed about him many nights since those two weeks in December of ’44. He looked even more handsome and rugged now than he had then. Over the last year, since returning to the States, she had been thrown back into the cosmopolitan world of New York City high life, and she was good at playing the role of the young ingénue, heiress to the Steele financial empire. Suitors came and went: rich men, handsome men, successful and intelligent and arrogant men—albeit some sweet—but not one of them seemed relevant to her life. She remained unaffected by their attentions to the complete and total dismay of Mr. and Mrs. Steele, who began to wonder if their daughter’s war experience might have had a detrimental effect on her emotional health. Judith knew she was not emotionally unstable, but her time overseas had, in fact, had an irrevocable effect on her. Each time she entertained the possibility of a life with any of these men, the image of Cranston would appear in her mind, pushing all other thoughts aside. She would fantasize about having a life with him, about children, about sharing a family with the man who held her hand late into the night in the hinterlands of the French frontier and made her feel safe the only time during her entire tour on European soil. She had dismissed all these thoughts as nothing more than silly female fancy. Cranston had spent only fourteen days in her care, and she figured he had probably forgotten her once he went back to the front. He was nothing more than an innocent, unconsummated wartime fling, better left on the French-German border than brought back to the States. She believed her connection to Cranston was relevant only when it was tied to time and circumstance. A change in either, or both, of these essential components would render any existing feelings void of their original nature and leave the connection between them disappointingly less than worthy of future attention. But with Cranston standing there before her, Judith knew her fears were unfounded. Time and circumstance were two of the essential components for their initial love affair, but not the only two. The third and most essential component, which she had dismissed in his absence, was the spark between them that had started the fires burning in the first place. As she gazed at him, the spark reignited with such an unexpected ferocity that Judith had to freeze for fear she would lose complete control. She gazed at him, her feelings unbearably intense, sublime in their depth. Judith was unaware of everything and everyone around her except for the soldier standing across the lobby.
Cranston didn’t know what was going through Judith’s head. Neither did the attendant behind the desk. Nor the doorman standing outside. Nor did Mr. Henry Steele, who had just stepped out of the other elevator into the lobby to witness the scene unfolding before him. He also didn’t have a clue about Judith’s feelings for this soldier. All he knew was that Jimmy at the front desk had informed him there was a soldier standing in the lobby asking to see his daughter. Something in Jimmy’s tone had alerted Mr. Steele, so he came down to see for himself. His steely glance homed in on the soldier standing across the lobby staring at his daughter. The four men stood frozen in place, held by the power of this woman.
Judith saw the doubt creeping into Cranston’s eyes, but before it could grow any larger she whispered, though it sounded far louder in the silence of the lobby, “Cranston!”
Suddenly, the energy in the room shifted. Judith took a step and then another and another and ran into Cranston’s open arms. Jimmy’s mouth fell open, but he had enough sense to look down at his desk. Eddie the doorman turned back to the street, smiling wide, having just witnessed something he never thought he’d see in his lifetime. Mr. Steele looked on with disapproval bordering on horror at the impropriety of his daughter’s behavior. Cranston and Judith were oblivious. They were locked in a tight, loving embrace, both knowing without a word spoken that neither of them would ever let go.
Mr. Steele, Mrs. Steele, and the rest of the Steele clan had nothing good to say about him. Their twenty-two-year-old Judith could do far better. Cranston Thomas Jefferson was from Georgia. He was poor. He had no prospects. He carried the name of a slave owner. He was black. Judith didn’t care. She was madly in love. So she did what any rebellious, independent twenty-two-year-old woman in love would do. She ran away, leaving her family and her wealth behind.
That’s the Jefferson’s story, or at least part of it. I was brought in by the grandchildren to write their love story for their sixtieth wedding anniversary. I remember the day I presented the family with the finished product at the anniversary party. With six children, over thirty grandchildren, and eight great-grandchildren, they had a lot to be proud of. I developed a special affinity for Cranston, and the feeling seemed to be mutual. I stayed in touch with him after finishing the job, so it was easy to reach him after getting the call from Tony Vespucci, but his response to my questions provided little insight.
“Meet with him, Jon. No one ever got hurt from talking.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
“To hire you. To write.”
“Who for?”
Cranston had a coughing fit for a moment before answering. “I’m guessing his daughter. She’s getting married.”
“Is Tony Vespucci who the papers say he is?”
I heard Cranston’s concern through the wireless connection. “Even more so.”
“Cranston, how in the world do you know him?”
“The Italians are heavily involved in the textile industry.” “Italians” was clearly a euphemism for Mafia. “And I knew Tony’s father. We were good friends.”
“So, I should meet with him?” I asked.
“Jon, if Tony Vespucci wants to meet you, saying no is not an option.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
After getting off the phone, I scoured the Internet for everything I could find about Tony Vespucci. I discovered there was not much useful information available about him, though what I did read didn’t put me at ease. “Apparently” and “allegedly” cropped up often in the news articles I read about Vespucci. He was the unofficial boss of the New York Mafia. Since the fall of John Gotti and the media circus surrounding him, some members of the Mafia seemed to take on a new, heavily enforced code of silence. At least that’s what one reporter, Jim Mosconi, seemed to think was happening. He believed that Vespucci was better at enforcing omertà—the Mafia’s strictly enforced code of silence—than most of his colleagues, the key reason the FBI had next to no useful information about Vespucci and his actions inside the Mafia. I paid special attention to Mosconi’s articles because he seemed to be more in the know than any of his colleagues. He was the only reporter who thought Tony Vespucci was the mastermind, or the enforcer, behind the New York Mafia’s renewed code of brutally enforced silence. Even before I met with Vespucci, I knew that Jim Mosconi would be someone I’d be calling if I took the job. But I was getting ahead of myself. I didn’t want to work for this man. What if he was dissatisfied with what I wrote? Would he react like Nick Nickels Sr.? Or worse? I didn’t want to find out. I decided unequivocally I would turn him down when we met, regardless of what Cranston said.
The next day, during that first week in September, I found myself sitting across from Vespucci at a diner on Century Boulevard near LAX. Absurdly, I thought maybe if I did whatever Vespucci wanted me to do and he liked my work, I could get him to do something about Nick Nickels Sr. If I’d had any doubt about Tony Vespucci’s profession over the phone, those doubts disappeared as soon as I was sitting across from him, doing my best to keep eye contact with him.
“But, see, Mr. Vespucci, I have a very defined process when I write these stories. I generally take on only twelve stories a year, and I require a minimum of six months to give a guarantee that the job will be completed on time and to my client’s satisfaction.” But my girlfriend is wreaking havoc in my personal life right now, so I’m not sure it’s such a good time for me to be writing other people’s love
stories, I added silently.
Across the booth, Vespucci stared at me with intense coal-black eyes. I had trouble holding his look, but now was not the time to show any sign of weakness. I kept my eyes locked on his. He was and was not what I had expected. He had the dark features of southern Italian ancestry, the belly of a man comfortably moving into his mid-fifties, stood about five feet nine, and looked the part of a Mafia boss. But he didn’t sound it. He was extremely well spoken, charming, his nature disarming and persuasive.
“Jon, I understand your hesitancy,” Vespucci assured me. “If I’d known about you earlier, I would most definitely have called you sooner. But I only discovered your talents last week when I was in Cranston’s office. I came across the novella you did for them while I was discussing business with Cranston. It was superb.”
I gave him a slight nod, acknowledging the compliment. I was still having trouble understanding the connection between Cranston and Vespucci. Cranston, an above-board businessman who owned a large textile business, among other things, was not involved in organized crime. I got the impression Vespucci considered Cranston a friend first, but I had trouble wrapping my head around that as well. As far as I knew, Blacks and Italians didn’t run in the same circles.
“May I ask a question, Mr. Vespucci?”
“Please, call me Tony,” Vespucci said, flashing a magnificent smile at me. “What do you want to know?”
I heard a cough over my shoulder. My head swiveled around a little faster than I would have liked. Joey, Vespucci’s only companion and, I assumed, bodyguard, sat in the booth behind me staring at the back of my head. I guessed he was watching the door for possible hit men coming to do ill to his boss. Built like a wrecking ball, he was about my height, but must have weighed at least two hundred twenty, most of it muscle. If ever I forgot Vespucci’s background, I only needed to turn around and see Joey’s eyes on me to remind me who I was dealing with. I slowly turned back to Vespucci, wiping the sweat off my brow.
“How do you know Cranston?”
“Over the years we’ve done a lot of business together.”
My eyebrows must have shot up of their own accord because I was trying to keep my face as unreactive and neutral as possible, but I was having trouble doing so. Vespucci didn’t miss a thing.
“I own a business that sells fabric. As I’m sure you know, Cranston makes clothing. Sometimes, we supply him with the raw materials.”
I nodded. Oh, okay.
“But that’s not all,” Vespucci said. A faraway look crossed his face so quickly I almost missed it. “Cranston saved my papa’s life during World War II.”
“Really?” This was news to me. Cranston had never mentioned any of this the entire time I worked with him. Then again, he had no reason to. It wasn’t relevant to his and Judith’s story, and Cranston was far from a braggart, not one to highlight his own exploits.
“When my papa came to the States, one of the first things he did was track down Cranston Jefferson. When he found out he was married and living in New York City, he never let Cranston forget what he had done. I’ve known Cranston since the day I was born, you could say.”
I sat in the booth dumbfounded. I considered myself a good researcher, exceptional at times, able to uncover the most intimate details about my subject’s life. But this was all news to me. I suddenly felt like I’d been cheated, as if somehow Cranston had not been completely forthcoming. I made a mental note to call him first chance and give him a piece of my mind.
“Jon, my daughter Maggie will be getting married late in December. I’m sorry I’m not able to give you the normal amount of time you usually require, but Cranston speaks so highly of you I have no doubt you’ll be able to get it done in the time allotted. I’ll open my home to you, give you whatever you need, an open checkbook, if you will. And I’ll pay you twice your normal rate,” he said with a wink.
I put my hands up, palms out, in protest. “Mr. Vespucci, Tony, that’s not necessary. It’s not about the money.”
“I know that. I’m offering you more money because I know you’re short on time and will be forced to work outside your realm of comfort. I believe you should be reasonably compensated.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t turn this man down. He projected immense power. At the same time, I didn’t want to take this job. When I worked on a project, I had to complete numerous interviews with the family and friends of the groom and bride. In this case, I could only assume I’d be interviewing known thugs and felons and, dare I say, killers. Feeling Joey’s gaze on the back of my head, I nervously looked back over my shoulder. Joey was not smiling. I was sure he’d killed people. I turned back to Vespucci. “Why me, why now? I’m assuming your daughter has been engaged for some time? Don’t you think this is a bit late in the process?”
Vespucci nodded thoughtfully. “Good questions. As I said, I only discovered your talents last week. Cranston spoke so highly of you that it was impossible for me to ignore the opportunity. According to Cranston, you could have been a top investigative journalist with your sixth sense and your ability to uncover minute details about people, coupled with the discretion of a politician. My circumstances, shall we say, call for all of these talents. I need someone who will keep the whole story about my daughter and her fiancé inside the family, if you know what I mean.”
Yeah, I knew what he meant. As far as I was concerned, that was the first implicit threat I’d received. A friendly smile was planted on Vespucci’s face, but I read between the lines. The longer I sat across from him in the booth, the longer the distance between my thinking I would turn him down and actually doing so was growing. I sat silent, letting Vespucci’s words sink in. He said he wanted the whole story. That phrase stuck with me. What did that indicate? Something he was not aware of about his daughter and her fiancé? Were they hiding something from him? Vespucci was studying my face.
“Jon, look. My children are more important to me than anything. I would offer my life in place of theirs if it came down to that. My oldest, Michael, already has kids of his own. He’s married and settled down, on a clear track. Maggie, however, is my only daughter, and she’s still finding her way. She’s stubborn and she and I have not always seen eye to eye. I want to do something to let her know how much I care. I figured this would be one good way.”
With years of interviews behind me, I’d learned to read the many different signs of the parents of the bride and groom. Tony Vespucci was not telling me everything about his motivation. There was more to it. If I could be sure of one thing when I left the diner, this was it. Instinct led to my next question. “I’m assuming you approve of the marriage?”
Vespucci didn’t react. His facial muscles were frozen in place, but the look in his eye told me I was onto something. He answered my question with a question. “Jon, I’ve flown all the way to Los Angeles with one purpose—to meet you. Do you think I’d go to all this trouble if I didn’t approve of the marriage?”
I responded with a nod, a noncommittal acquiescence. We stared at each other for a moment. Within the first three minutes of meeting a client, a parent, a friend of the clients, I always knew whether I liked them or not, and rarely did I change my mind. Reluctantly, and with a great deal of trepidation, staring at Tony Vespucci, I had to admit I liked him because I knew it meant I would not be able to turn him down.
“Can I be frank?” I asked.
Vespucci nodded.
“Given your unique position . . .” I didn’t know how else to refer to it. I’d watched enough of The Godfather Trilogy and The Sopranos to know you just didn’t blurt out that someone was in the Mafia, so I tried to be as circumspect as I could be. “Can you guarantee my safety?”
For the first time during our fifteen-minute interview, Vespucci started chuckling. “What do you think I do, Jon?”
I was about to answer the question when I realized maybe the question would
be better handled as a rhetorical one. I shrugged my shoulders, an embarrassed look on my face.
Vespucci continued, the chuckle still in his voice. “Of course you’ll be safe, Jon. All you’ll be doing, for God’s sake, is writing a love story for my daughter and her fiancé. Nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before.”
Trying to make myself feel less foolish, I smiled. “Of course, of course. Well, okay.” Before I said it, I felt a tight, lightning-like sensation filling the lower half of my stomach, signaling that my actions were not at all in sync with my internal guidance system. “I’ll do it, Tony.”
A wide grin spread across Vespucci’s face. “That’s fantastic, Jon. I knew you’d agree.” Of course he did. Who ever turned this guy down? Especially with two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle sitting behind him? “Joey will give you anything you need. I’m looking forward to seeing you in New York. Now, remember, I’m only springing this on everybody tonight, so when you arrive tomorrow, it will be a bit of a surprise, but I’m sure everyone will welcome you with open arms.”
Tomorrow? What tomorrow? I was going tomorrow?!
“Tony, I’m not sure I can get a plane ticket for tomorrow.”
“Don’t worry, it’s already done.”
Oh, okay. “By the way, what is Maggie’s fiancé’s name?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? It’s Marco Balducci.”
The anxious, lightning-like feeling in my gut expanded considerably. Balducci. I’d come across that name in my research, a name allegedly involved in heavy mob activity. I hoped Vespucci would leave before I got sick all over the table. Vespucci stood up, looking down on me.
Jon Fixx Page 4
