“Your dad shouldn’t plan things on our weekends together. He does that on purpose, Dusty, so you won’t want to come to my house. We have fun at my house too, don’t we?”
“Yeah, but you don’t got all the neat toys like at Dad’s house.”
When we arrived at my house, Richard called—as he normally did. He persistently worked at trying to turn Dustin against me.
“Put my son on the phone,” he demanded.
I gave Dustin the phone and went into the bedroom and picked up the extension.
“Someone wants to talk to you,” Richard said.
“Hi, Dustin, this is Patrick. I just got here with my father. Are you coming on the boat with us tomorrow?”
“No, I gotta stay at my mom’s house,” Dustin answered disappointedly.
“Okay, here’s your dad. . . .”
“Dust, is it okay if Patrick and his friend play with your Nintendo? They wish you could be here. It’s no fun for them when you’re not here, but we’re going to have a lot of fun tomorrow. If you didn’t have to stay with your mother, you could have fun, too.”
“I wanna go,” Dustin whined.
“Wish you could. Well, I gotta go now. I have to set up the Nintendo for the kids.”
After Dustin got off the phone, he had a temper tantrum. Exactly what his father had in mind. Damn Richard! He did this all the time, and each time he did it, Dustin’s resentment toward me grew. It was such a cruel thing to do a child’s mind—all for the sake of winning. I finally had to get a court order to keep him from calling the house when Dustin was with me.
On Dustin’s birthday, he wanted a go-cart that an acquaintance of mine had for sale. I offered to pay the fifty dollars she was asking. Richard found out, and when I went over to pick it up, it was gone. He had gotten there before me and offered to pay her $100. He didn’t want me to have anything that might be a lure. The sad thing was, Dustin couldn’t even ride the go-cart at Richard’s house. He lived on a hill, so Dustin was confined to the driveway.
My son would have to talk to the judge at some point and tell him with whom he preferred living. Richard had a whole year to work on my child’s gullible mind. He succeeded in making Dustin resent me in countless ways.
Richard claimed that I had relinquished custody of Dustin to him, then had changed my mind six months later. When I went to the school to ask them to verify what had really happened, they turned their backs and said they did not want to get involved. Involvement, of course, meant a loss of revenue.
All this turmoil took place while I was establishing my business. I was busier than I had ever been. I had the responsibility of sixteen drivers, their training, and putting together press kits in an effort to secure work for everyone. All this required my time—the endless phone calls, dinners with clients, and putting out the endless fires. I slept on a plane more than in my bed. Between bookings, I’d fly to Detroit, Chicago, and New York in an effort to promote my service. Business was booming, but the money was all going back into the company for advertising and promotional items. Between the business, the exorbitant upkeep of my home, and lawyers, nothing was left over.
My diligent efforts landed me the Oldsmobile account, bringing plenty of commercials to go around for the entire team. In the first spot in the series I doubled for Priscilla Presley, although her daughter, Lisa, was being featured. Oldsmobile went all-out on this new campaign, sparing no expense. They hired a Learjet to fly the talent to the shooting location in Washington State. I was used to being flown first-class, but this was a step above that.
Priscilla was a pain in the butt, refusing to fly in anything but a Gulfstream. They reluctantly gave in to her request. Being given an inch, she went for a foot—demanding the same top-of-the-line personal vehicle which Lisa Marie had been given.The advertising agency drew the line. They did part with a car, but a model of lesser value than her daughter received. I could never understand why stars had to act in such a manner, but even more unclear to me is why the people who pay the tab put up with it. Even so, the escape from my personal life’s irritants was refreshing.
I didn’t have to deal with Priscilla all that much. I worked mostly with Lisa in the car. We drove in and out of the surf with a helicopter filming closely behind, above, and in front. Beach driving can be tricky. Being where a chopper needs me to be and concentrating on not getting swallowed by a wave is a true test of ability. The surf was deceiving and unpredictable, causing me to make sudden changes in direction. In making those sudden moves, I was constantly cautious of the helicopter—just feet from the vehicle. Lisa was nervous at first, but after the first day she became more comfortable and began having fun.
When the job ended, I once again concentrated on the strategy of making my son a more permanent part of my everyday life.
It took about sixteen months to finally bring the custody case to trial. It was the most heartrending time of my life. I was cut off at every turn, as Richard always got there first with his wallet. With every day that passed, Dustin was being pushed farther and farther from me. My only weapon was to simply love him.
Toni and Jay had moved in together after she’d graduated. Toni and I hadn’t spoken, but Dustin told me he saw them at his father’s all the time. Richard had managed to steal both my children. Heartbroken, I put on my public face and went about my life like a robot.
A court date was finally settled on. That is, if Richard didn’t file for another continuance. I had lost a great deal of income turning down work, thinking each new date would be the real thing.
Before we were set to go to trial, I got a call from my past.
“Hello, Georgia. Recognize the voice?” he asked.
“Salvatore Reale! How’s it going?”
“Great. How’s your business doin’?” Sal asked.
“It’s doing well,” I answered.
“Good. Always knew that’d be your ticket; you’re pretty good behind the wheel—for a woman,” he added with a laugh.
“Still a chauvinist I see, Sal.”
“Not really. I’m calling because I need your driving expertise.”
“Oh?” I answered, wishing suddenly that I’d let my answering machine pick up.
“I need you to transport something from Vegas to New York for me. There’s fifty grand in it for you.”
“Reale, I stopped transporting bodies in the sixties.”
He laughed. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
“What else could be worth $50,000?”
“I’m sending you a ticket. Meet me in Vegas next Tuesday. The name of the hotel will be with the ticket. And you know the name I’ll be registered under.”
“Sal, I have a job next week. I—”
“Not one that pays fifty grand. Be there.” He hung up.
The ticket arrived the next day. I had to go. Resolving this over the phone was out of the question. $50,000 would make a pretty good dent in my attorney’s fees, but losing my son wasn’t worth the risk. Now, how do I convince Sal?
When I arrived at the designated place, I knocked on the door. I heard shuffling inside, then a gruff voice saying, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Georgia.”
The door opened slightly, enough for Jerry Pitzitello to peek his head out and look both ways down the hall. He was one of the guys from my old New York days. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his face was unshaven. He opened the door just enough for me to squeeze inside.
Armed with an Uzi and dressed in clothes that looked as if they’d been slept in, Jerry said, “The years haven’t hurt you a bit. You’re looking pretty damn good.”
“You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he answered, not sounding the least bit insulted.
“Jesus, Jerry, what are you guarding in here, Fort Knox?”
“Sal’s in the other room; he’s been waiting for you.”
When Jerry opened the door to the adjoining room, I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were guarding Fort Knox. $4.5 mil
lion, in stacks three feet high, covered two queen-size beds. The $100 bills were bound with rubber bands in $10,000 bundles.
Sal stood next to the bed, immaculately dressed, as usual, and enjoying the expression of awe on my face.
Knowing I was asking a stupid question, I blurted out, “Where did all this money come from?”
Sal raised a suspicious eyebrow and didn’t answer. “We rented a car for you. Tomorrow you—”
“Wait a minute, Sal. First tell me what the deal is with this money,” I interrupted.
“It’s clean. That’s all you need to know,” Sal answered.
“How clean can it be if you’re paying me fifty thousand to transport it? Come on, Sal.”
“Okay, the money’s mine. I need you to transport it because I can’t take the risk of gettin’ stopped. The IRS, you know the dance.”
“Yeah, but where’s the risk, Sal? For fifty grand, I know there has to be one.”
“You may have a problem getting through the checkpoints at the Texas border. But with your face, who’d ever suspect? We’ve already checked it out. At midnight they have a shift change. The guards are busy checking in and out and they wave all the cars through. The timing’s gotta be exact. But if you should have a problem . . . that’s where your driving ability comes in. This isn’t chicken feed, y’know. We’re trusting you.”
Sal was not your regular kind of wiseguy. He was voted Man of the Year for Queens County in 1978 and had served as campaign manager for Geraldine Ferraro when she ran for vice president of the United States. He had his hands in the pockets of many New York politicians, from the governor’s office on down. He possessed a smart business sense and had invested his money well over the years. It wasn’t inconceivable that this money was really his, but I smelled more to the story than he wanted to reveal. It was true that the less I knew, the better off I was, but this was not the old days. I was wiser now.
“I realize that, Sal. But there is a risk, and I can’t take that risk right now.” Sal’s face turned hard, sending a chill up my spine. He could be extremely treacherous if you crossed him. I’d made the mistake of calling on him a few times for a favor. Wrong thing to do with a guy like Sal. He was now calling in the debt and expected me to pay up.
I continued while I still had the momentum. “The timing is all wrong. I’m going to trial soon for custody of my son. If anything happens, it’ll cost me. Although I could really use it, no amount of money is worth it. I’m sorry, Salvatore. I just can’t take that chance.”
“That problem can be easily eliminated. Fuckin’ sand-nigger should be whacked—”
I cringed. Behind Sal’s gentlemanly facade was a heartless killer. “Yeah, well, there’s no one who hates that man more than I do, but he’s still my son’s father.”
Sal swore under his breath in Italian and paced around the room. “What happened to your balls? Has Hollywood softened you up?”
“C’mon, Sal, give me a break. Jesus, this is all I need right now.”
“I’m really not happy about this, Georgia. . . .” He thought for a moment. “Ehh, shit. Okay, you’re off the hook, but goddamn it, you’d better remember—you owe me one.”
I took a flight back to L.A. a few hours later, sighing with relief. The phone rang the following night, waking me from a deep, dreamless sleep. The green glow from my alarm clock read two twenty-three a.m.
Groping for the receiver, I mumbled a sleepy hello.
“Georgia . . . I got a serious problem,” Sal announced, sounding as if he’d just finished running a 10K.
“Oh, shit . . .” I sat up in bed and turned on the light. “What happened?”
“They got us at the Sierra Blanca checkpoint near El Paso.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yeah. We were a little early for the midnight shift change, so we stopped for coffee about twenty minutes from the checkpoint,” he explained, speaking rapidly. “When we pulled back on the highway, I opened the window a crack to let out the smoke. That’s when I heard the helicopter, but it didn’t register. As we approached the checkpoint, the border patrol stepped out in front of the car. It was pitch-black out there, but my headlights illuminated his face pretty good as he stood directly in front of the car. He looked down at my plate and then his eyes slowly rose up over the hood, lookin’ me square in the eye. I knew we were dead. My fuckin’ stomach fell out.”
“Oh, God, I know how you must have felt,” I said.
“No, you don’t. Anyway, I was thinkin’ about squashing him when outta nowhere, ten of ’em, DEA and customs agents, carrying shotguns and wearing bulletproof vests, surrounded the car. They already knew our names. How do you suppose they knew that, Georgia?” he questioned suspiciously.
Am I still asleep? Did he just say what I thought he said? My heart started racing. “What are you saying, Sal? You think I blew you in?”
“I hope not, for your sake. Only three people knew about this besides me, you, and Jerry. I do trust you, but right now you’re highly suspicious. I hope J.G. didn’t discuss this with anyone. Maybe it was bad phones; I don’t know. I can’t take a chance of making contact right now, so until we see how this thing washes, watch your back.”
“Where are you now, Sal?”
“At a gas station, about twenty miles down the road from the checkpoint.”
“Where’s the money?”
“They got it in a wooden shack back there at the checkpoint. Guy by the name of John Hopkins, some big shot with the DEA, gave me his card and told me to call him in a few days. Said they needed time to count it. Ha! They’ll be there a fuckin’ week. We’re lucky they didn’t take us in.”
“Sal, this isn’t making sense. They didn’t cuff you. They let you go. Where’s the crime? This is beginning to scare me. I have a feeling if you head down that road another ten miles there’s going to be a roadblock. And ya know what? You’re not gonna make it out of there alive. They’re going to say you tried to run. That’s $4.5 million you left back there. Now that they have their hands on it, do you really think you’re ever going see it again? I don’t know what’s clouding your brain, but you’d better get your ass back there—pronto!”
The dead sound of silence rang loudly in my ear, and then Sal said, “Jesus Christ, you’re not too dumb for a broad. I think you hit it right. I’ll call you back.” He hung up abruptly.
A mix of emotions surged through me. I felt exceedingly grateful that I had been able to get out of doing the job. I was also fearful for Sal and Jerry, and scared to death that I wouldn’t have the chance to be proven innocent. I wanted to run, but if I took off now, I’d only look guilty. I wiped the dust from my gun and slipped it under my pillow. How could I allow myself to think this chapter of my life could ever be over?
The next day I had visitors. The good guys, thank God. An FBI agent, a customs agent, and an IRS agent. Walking up to my front door, they looked as if the British were coming in their $39 suits from JCPenney and loafers that looked like they’d been resoled several times. Between the three of them, there was probably enough retread for a new tire.
By this time, I knew my rights. I didn’t have to talk to them. But they had done their homework. The first thing they said concerned my impending child custody trial. They threatened to subpoena me if I didn’t talk, not only making the judge in my case aware of my involvement, but also informing the rest of the country. All could be kept quiet, however, as long as I cooperated. I had nothing to hide, and I really didn’t know where the money came from. I let them in.
The IRS agent plopped down on my couch, and it sagged down five inches. The chalk-faced FBI agent sat beside me and laid a picture on the table.
“This look familiar?” He waited while I looked at it. Even in a photograph the money was an awesome sight. “What can you tell us about this money?”
“I can’t tell you anything. I know about as much as you do. Nothing.”
“We know you were offered fifty thousand to transport it. We’ve g
ot it on tape. We want to know where it came from, and the reason you didn’t do it, which, by the way, was a smart move. We had a beeper in Mr. Reale’s car, been tailing him ever since he and Pitzitello left New York.”
“I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to,” I answered flatly.
Playing good cop/bad cop all by himself, the FBI man thundered, “You know that’s the skim money from Vegas to John Gotti and the Gambino family! We have you tied to that family from the late sixties, so don’t try to bullshit us.”
“Is that a weekly or a monthly take?” inquired the IRS agent.
I shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Or maybe it’s the missing money from the Lufthansa heist? Your friend Salvatore organized the unions at the JFK airport during that time. You remember that, don’t you?” the FBI agent asked in a way that told me he had more pieces to the puzzle than he cared to divulge.
“That money was never recovered,” the customs agent added. I was wondering if he could speak. He had been sitting there the whole time, staring at me with a trained eye, studying my body language. He was getting under my skin.
I walked to the fridge and took out a can of soda. “Ya know what?” I said, irritated that I’d been dragged into this mess. “If you’ve been keeping tabs on me, you should know what my movements have been over the past ten years. Try investigating your own government agencies if you really want answers. I wish all you guys would just let me get on with my life.”
“Well, let’s see. . . . In 1985 we have pictures of you at Sparks Steak House on East 46th Street with John Gotti and two other captains of the Gambino crime family. That was during the week they were playing musical chairs and the pianist, Paul Castalano, was shot. Before that, we can place you at the infamous fourteen-hour lunch at Altadonna’s restaurant in Queens. They’re still writing about that in the New York Times. Your elusive presence in this world has long been a mystery to us. You may not get around too often, but when you do, it’s a pretty major event. And these are just a few of the things we know about.”
I remembered that night well. I was meeting Sal to go to an after-hours club. Upon my arrival at Altadonna’s around two a.m., I noticed a blue van with exhaust coming out of the muffler parked across the street. After I brought this to Sal’s attention, the meeting ended abruptly.
The Company She Keeps Page 44
