by Justin Scott
Sure enough, after lunch, ragged wisps of grass stood around the high-intensity security lights embedded at strategic points around the lawn. He called again from the door. “Hey, trim those lights!”
“Yo, boss.”
The one driving the big winged Lock mower swung it around and started mowing a six-foot swatch toward the nearest light.
“Not with that, for Christ’s sake! Use the weed eater.” He gestured at their truck where the trimmer was kept. The dumb fuck waved and kept going.
“Oh, shit. No! You’re going to hit—”
The machine ran over the light, mangling the fixture and exploding the bulb with a vaporous bang. The Lock mower kept going, yanking the wires right out of the ground. Before it finally stopped, thirty feet of Romex cable was tangled in the blades and Imperiale’s lawn was gouged like some monster mole had gone berserk.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
Imperiale leaped off the back step and ran across his new-mown lawn. The blacks were walking toward their truck, shaking their heads. The ripped-up earth smelled richer and wetter than the cut grass. New seed would never sprout before winter. It would be mud all winter and frozen ruts.
“You dumb fucks!”
All four turned to face him—crouching, hands extended, cocking the slides on little pistols. They fired in unison.
“I’m told,” Reggie Rand reported with a smile, “that Mikey beat up the capo who brought the news. At any rate, his people are asking to buy from ours again.”
“Not until he agrees to no more attacks against the Rizzolos.”
“He agrees.”
“Good. Raise the price again.”
“I already have. They asked for five hundred kilos. I think they were just a little surprised we had that much.”
“Do we?”
“Barely. We agreed to give it to them at two hundred fifty thousand a kilo, on consignment. Twenty percent down and two percent interest a week, with a month’s grace. Next month Mikey Cirillo will owe you one hundred million dollars plus five hundred thousand dollars interest.”
“Half a million interest a week? That makes me the biggest shylock in the country.”
“Soon you’ll have to be the biggest enforcer.”
“Unless he pays me back.”
Reggie smiled again. “Which isn’t likely.”
17
CHAPTER
Uncle Vinnie’s annual contractors’ party was going full blast when Christopher Taggart rushed in late. Thirty men in tuxedos were grouped around the spacious Waldorf-Astoria suite, laughing, trading jokes and gossip, drinking at the well-stocked bar, and ignoring the elaborate crabmeat, smoked salmon, and caviar hors d’oeuvres. Pier glasses reflected towering arrangements of autumn flowers—chrysanthemums, asters, and purple anemones that stood on consoles at either end of the main room, while the hotel windows offered splendid scenes of night advancing on the city. Bedrooms were available down a long hall—a dozen barelegged girls in T-shirts and high heels circulated—and the party was, traditionally, a mostly Italian and strictly-no-wives affair. When Taggart entered, a group of men near the door pounced on him as if they had stationed themselves there for his arrival.
“Chris! Hey, Chris!”
A cement supplier who had slugged it out with his father pumped his hand; and an electrical contractor who had tried to stiff him in the early days seized his arms, still begging forgiveness for a slight ten years old. Other contractors, suppliers, bankers, and fellow developers crowded around, slapping his back, as if by bouncing their hands off his flesh some of the Taggart touch might stick to them.
Uncle Vinnie bounded across the suite, his bulging chest and belly resplendent in a ruffled white shirt and jet-black cummerbund. His round face was alight with a proud smile because his star nephew had come. “Hey!” They embraced.
“Sorry, I got held up. Fucking Board of Estimate. I’m going to kill the mayor one of these days.”
“Nice a ya to come. I know you’re busy.”
“Would I miss this?”
“Have a drink. Sweetheart, bring my nephew a drink. Whatcha gonna have, Chris?”
“Perrier.”
She started toward the bar, but Uncle Vinnie grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, baring her taut behind. “Bullshit. Bring him a CC on the rocks.” He let her go with a pat. “That’s what your old man drank.”
“My pop drank red wine like any decent guinea.”
“Yeah, but he knew to drink CC in the Waldorf. Wanna meet some of the guys?”
As Uncle Vinnie led him to an expectant group, Chris experienced again the eerie sensation of having men twice his age hang on his every word. Were he to suggest dynamiting the Empire State Building to build a new one with bigger windows, they would nod sagely, and one or two would probably offer their servicies. “Hey, what’s the matter?” Uncle Vinnie asked, as he herded him toward the next group.
“At these things I think of Pop. He’d still be younger than a lot of these guys.”
“I know. Me, too. I think about him all the time. Ten years? Like yesterday. What are you gonna do?”
Uncle Vinnie beckoned a pretty girl. She hurried over, her nipples pointing through thin cotton. Uncle Vinnie handed her a room key and nodded at a man standing alone. “Sweetie, there’s a fellow there who’d love to talk to you.”
She gave Uncle Vinnie a stoned smile, Chris another, looped the key ring over her little finger, and pranced off. Uncle Vinnie watched until the connection looked secure, then turned back to Chris. “Funny thing about your pop. He wouldn’t go with the girls. Never when your mother was alive.”
“Really?”
“Only guy I knew never had girl friends. How about you? Want some? There’s a blonde with legs right up to her tongue.”
“Naw. I’m fine.” He averted his gaze from a dark girl with a pretty body who looked a little like Helen Rizzolo. Uncle Vinnie noticed and said, “See how ya feel later. Here’s Alphonse.”
Chris shook the ancient Sicilian’s hand and bowed his head with respect. “Hello, Alphonse. We did good with your trucks.”
Alphonse beamed. “Howsa repairs? Like I promise?”
“My people say, no problem.”
“Listen, Chris.” Alphonse took his elbow and lowered his voice. Uncle Vinnie stepped closer and Chris encircled his shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. A concrete man did not fill a Waldorf suite with naif-naked women purely for the pleasure of getting his friends laid. Alphonse had trucks, Vinnie had cement, and the big jobs Taggart Construction did these days often required more cement than Taglione Concrete produced in house. “What is this talk about a stadium in Manhattan?”
“Well, there’s still some spaces around.”
“Who owns them?”
Chris shrugged. “People who control that kind of property tend to keep quiet until they’re ready to build.”
He winked at Uncle Vinnie because the city was suddenly giving him serious resistance, and a little optimistic rumor in the business couldn’t hurt.
Alphonse smiled happily, his sleepy old eyes alight “I was thinking that if someday somebody built such a stadium—and it happened to be near some old railroad tracks—we put the concrete trucks on trains.”
“That would certainly eliminate access problems,” Chris agreed, confirming Alphonse’s guess, and wondering how in hell he had found out the location. “As usual, Alphonse, it is profitable to see you. How is your grandson?”
“Aggh. Another goddamned studente. Shit on the business.”
“Hey, hey! The food!”
The company mobbed the door as four of Uncle Vinnie’s sons bustled in with giant suitcases of food they had smuggled by the Waldorf staff. They spread it out on the conference table: garlic, tomatoes, onions, pork, veal, and Gorgonzola filled the air with a pungency no hotel caterer would dare permit.
Chris sat on a couch surrounded by contractors and devoured a plate of calves’ brains, sausage, and eggplant. A very pretty redhead ke
pt leaning over the back of the couch, refilling their wineglasses and brushing her breasts against his cheek. “Can I get you anything else? More pasta?”
A cool voice beside her said, “Pasta’s a New York Times word. My brother eats macaroni.”
“Jesus Christ,” Uncle Vinnie blurted, sounding equally astonished and embarrassed. “It’s Tony.”
When Chris finally got his head disconnected from the girl’s breast, he saw his brother standing there in a dark suit, briefcase in hand, surveying the party with a fathomless gaze.
“I hope I’m not interrupting, Uncle Vinnie.”
“What do ya mean, interrupting? You’re my nephew.” Uncle Vinnie barreled around the couch, kissed Tony’s cheeks, and embraced him. “Hey, everybody. My nephew Tony’s here.”
There was a moment’s startled silence before the men put their plates aside and stepped over and shook hands, mumbling pleasantries. Tony looked each in the eye and replied with a word for each that implied he remembered not only their names, but their businesses.
“Hey, it’s really great to see you,” Uncle Vinnie repeated when the parade had ended.
Chris pulled Tony down beside him. “You killed this party faster than herpes.”
“Hungry?” asked Uncle Vinnie. “Honey. Get him some—”
“I’ll get it.” Tony went to the table and filled a plate with small portions from each dish, while the others conversed quietly and pretended not to watch an Assistant United States Attorney in their midst. He returned to the couch and picked at the food.
“I was looking for you, Chris. Gotta talk. I didn’t realize you were having this kind of party, Uncle Vinnie. I might not have come.”
Uncle Vinnie grinned. “Hey, can I tell ’em you’re off duty?”
Tony looked his uncle in the face. “No. But I will leave— Chris, when you’re ready.”
“Hey, you don’t gotta run.”
Tony Taglione said, “I don’t patronize hookers and nobody in this room will talk to me without a lawyer. So I don’t see much point in staying.”
“Now wait a minute, these are legit businessmen.”
“So why do they freak when I walk in?”
“You got a rep. But these are straight guys your father worked with.”
“As they’ll be the first to remind me. Chris, let’s go.”
Chris stood up and embraced his uncle. “I’m sorry. Tell the blonde with the legs to her tongue that I feel I know her even though we’ve never met.”
Uncle Vinnie laughed, smacked them each affectionately on the back of the head, and walked them to the front door. Chris waited until they were alone in the elevator.
“Was that necessary?”
“I’ve saved you a lot of trouble,” Tony replied with a thin smile. “They’ll think twice before they ask for kickbacks and payoffs from Taggart Construction.”
“Was it necessary to fuck up Uncle Vinnie’s party?”
“I need to see you. I called your office and Sylvia said you were here. I didn’t realize what was going on till I got inside. Once in, there’s no way I’m pretending I don’t have eyes.”
“It’s just a party, for crissake.”
“Chris, do you think those girls come from the Nightingale-Bamford School?”
“What’s the big deal if a girl wants to pick up a couple of C-notes blowing businessmen? They’re home by ten o’clock.”
“They are supplied by the Mafia. You think Vinnie calls up twelve girls he happens to know?”
“Yeah, or his secretary does. Who knows?”
“The hell he does. He pays a guy with a regular circuit and the guy brings them in from upstate, Atlantic City, New England. The guy is either connected or pays connected people for protection. The Mafia gets the money. The girls get drugs and tips.”
“What you want to see me about?”
“Your new girlfriend.”
“What girlfriend?”
“Are you aware you’re involved with a Mafia person?”
Taggart laughed. This had to happen sometime, but he had himself to blame for accelerating events by blundering into the hospital. “A Mafia ‘person’? Hey, listen, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about Helen Rizzolo.”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“My agents keep track of criminals.”
“I’ll bet they were afraid to tell you they saw me.”
“Chris, are you fucking crazy? You know damn well that Helen Rizzolo’s brothers are two of the most vicious bonebreak-ers in Brooklyn.”
Taggart tried another small joke, while he gauged how much else Tony knew. He would be himself and needle his brother for being so serious, but that resolve lasted for only the briefest exchange.
“Isn’t Brooklyn out of your territory?”
“Not anymore. You plan to keep seeing her?”
“Hey, what is this?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“It’s partly up to her. I’m not that sure she likes me. As a matter of fact, since the hospital she’s been avoiding me.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“It’s already rolling, man. What happens happens.”
“What about Pop?”
“Get off my back.”
“Chris, take it to its logical conclusion. You going to bring her home to the family?” Like many trial lawyers, Tony was a great mimic and could paint a scene with his voice. “‘Uncle Vinnie, I want you to meet my Mafia girlfriend. You remember the Mafia, they killed my father. And Helen, meet my brother Tony—he sent your father to jail and is hoping to do the same to your scumbag brothers.’”
“Am I supposed to laugh?”
“You’re supposed to think, you asshole.”
Silent, they walked through the lobby and onto the sidewalk.
“Cab, sir?” asked the doorman, signaling the empty street.
“Two,” Chris snapped, angry that Tony had put him into the false position of pretending he didn’t care about his father, when it was his father who lay behind everything he was doing.
It was about eight-thirty and the evening rush for the theater had ended, but cabs were sparse. They waited in stiff silence. Finally the doorman got one, but as they argued who would wait for the next, a couple raced out of the hotel, screaming at each other in Texas accents that they were goddamned late.
“Ah told you you should of called the theater to hold the show.”
Chris stepped back from the cab. “Be our guest.”
“That’s right nice of you boys,” the man said. “You all have a good evening—”
“Get in!” his wife yelled, and the cab raced off.
They looked at each other and couldn’t help smiling. Chris nodded up Park Avenue where the Taggart Spire sent a lonely line of work lights straight into the sky. “Want to see the job?”
Tony hesitated. “Okay.”
Silent still, they walked up Park Avenue and onto the site. Chris waved off a superintendent, who was still working with some subs and who looked alarmed that the boss had appeared, and made directly for the elevator. Tony stopped him and pointed at a spindly pipe frame outside the building. “How about the hoist?”
“You got it! Hey,” he called to the watchman, “send us up.”
They climbed onto the platform. The lift engine roared and the open material hoist climbed up the side of the building, high above the amber lights of Park Avenue.
Chris saw a grin dance on the ridges of Tony’s face. “You miss this, don’t you?”
“Don’t you? When’s the last time you worked the iron? God, look at it—....
“How you been?”
“Working my ass off. Double eights six days a week. You?”
“Same. It gets more every day.... Hey, Tony?”
“What?” They had climbed to the point where they were looking down on the lower building’s roof. The noise from the hoist engine grew soft and a cool breeze si
ghed in the frame.
“My offers still stand. Offer number one is if you want to be a lawyer, be my general counsel.”
“I told you general counsel’s like an employment agent. You end up hiring real lawyers to do your work.”
“Offer number two—and my favorite—is if you prefer to really work hard for living, be my partner.”
“I already have a job.”
“You’re not going to be a prosecutor your whole life.”
“It is my life.”
“Ever peek at your blind trust?”
“You know damned well I don’t.”
“You’re doing good.”
“You push me on that and I’ll contribute the whole thing to curing the common cold.”
“Okay, okay. Forget it. But the offers stand, anytime. What was I up to last time? Six hundred thousand and hot and cold running secretaries?”
“I got a job. And that’s what I want to talk to you about. Very seriously. What is going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You visited her in the hospital. You hired three specialists for a bump on her gorgeous head. Sounds more than nothing to me.”
“What can I say? I flipped, man.”
“But you know who she is.”
“I know about her family. But she’s not a hood.”
“But Pop... ”
“Whatever her brothers are doesn’t make her a criminal.”
Was it a setup? he wondered. Was Tony onto his Shadow Mafia? Or had surveillance just made the connection at the hospital?
The hoist stopped and Tony swung onto the plank floor. Chris watched him wrap an arm around a column and gaze up at Manhattan’s pink-black night sky. A forest of columns rose two stories above the wooden floor, boxed by headers and beams, and dwarfed by three enormous stiff-legged derricks. Their vertical masts and slanting booms, which were jointed at the floor, veered apart as they soared twenty-five stories above the building to cast V-shaped shadows, as if the Spire herself were flashing jubilant victory signs at the stars.
