Rampage

by Justin Scott

  “I’m not besotted. I just feel I owe her something. Her brother and her father are dead because of me.”

  “They were racketeers.”

  “Tell her that. She blames me.”

  “Nothing happened that you did not initiate.”

  “None of this would have happened if they hadn’t killed my father.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Reggie rubbed his mustache and gazed out at the city. The winter sun was setting behind the Statue of Liberty, a red circle in a gray sky. “Do you recall the night on the boat Crazy Mikey’s bodyguard broke my ribs?”

  “I recall you pretending he hadn’t until you started coughing blood.”

  “My first reaction was to hurt him back. But he would have killed me if I had merely caused pain. I had to concentrate fully on the job at hand, which was to immobilize him. Which I did. The same applies to you on a much larger scale. You’ve simply got to get ahold of yourself, forget revenge for this attack, and stick to your original goal. You don’t really care what they did to the Rizzolos. It’s your father. Either find a meaningful way to attack the Cirillos or call the whole thing off.”

  “What’s your vote?”

  Reggie gave him a long look.

  “What’s your vote? Come on, man, give it to me.”

  “Get out while you can. It’s only a matter of time until either the Mafia or the authorities stumble upon us.”

  “The authorities? That sounds like a euphemism for my brother.”

  “Your brother is positioned to find out.”

  “I won’t stop.”

  “Then what are you going to do?”

  Taggart refused to meet Reggie’s cold eye. “We shylocked Mikey to smoke Don Richard out. I guess I sort of underestimated how the old bastard would react.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “Let me remind you of something,” Reggie shot back. “Their attack on the Rizzolos was originally allowed for in your plan. In fact, it was part of it. You created a Shadow Mafia, remember, to attack and absorb attacks. A buffer between you and your chosen enemy. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with its boss.”

  “Take your vacation,” Taggart answered coldly. “I’ll figure this out.”

  He had been too successful and the Mafia was the stronger for it. The result of his provoking Don Richard to resume command was that the powerfully led Cirillos were filling the vacuum left by Taggart’s devastation of the rival Mafia families.

  At the same time, Taggart had made Crazy Mikey more powerful than he would ever have become on his own. For in the course of luring Crazy Mikey into a now uncollectable debt, Taggart had created “The Man Who Can,” as the black heroin distributors had dubbed the younger Cirillo. Lost shipments notwithstanding, independent smugglers eagerly sought out Mikey’s buyers, who now controlled more New York distribution than ever before.

  Even worse, Taggart thought, was the long-term stability he had unwittingly helped the Cirillos establish. Having become such a money earner—and having his father’s own consigliere as his ally—gave Crazy Mikey a power base from which he could seize control of the family the instant that old Don Richard died. Thus, even if Taggart managed to find and kill Don Richard, Mikey’s immediate, orderly takeover would actually further strengthen the Cirillos.

  Taggart concluded that he had only one hope of wreaking final revenge: destroy all three of the ruling triumvirate at once. Destroy Don Richard, Crazy Mikey, and Consigliere Ponte in swift and rapid sequence so that their surviving underlings tore themselves apart battling to take control. Tony’s Strikeforce would finish the job.

  Mikey and Ponte were the most visible targets. While they might be safe from ordinary rivals and law enforcement, Reggie Rand’s assassins could eventually gun them down. But attacking Crazy Mikey and Consigliere Ponte would still leave Don Richard in firm control of the family. And he might easily live ten more years. It kept coming back to the old man. He had to find Don Richard.

  Taggart turned to his law-enforcement contacts. He talked to cops, FBI men, DEA agents, a Strikeforce criminal investigator, and his friend Barney from the President’s Commission. No one had the vaguest idea where Don Richard was hiding; even the rumors were halfhearted. Next he met Jack Warner. Forget it, Mr. Taggart,” Warner told him, nervously eyeing the city below the Spire. “The last time he went underground he was gone five years.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that, Jack. I expect more from you.”

  “I wish I knew where he was. I could make my career; and a fortune from you at the same time.”

  “Find out and you can retire.”

  “I’m trying, Mr. Taggart. But I’ll tell you honestly, it ain’t gonna happen.”

  He tried a different tack. Perhaps Crazy Mikey and Consigliere Ponte had confided in someone they trusted as to Don Richard’s whereabouts; or maybe someone in their circle had overheard, or guessed. Taggart was prepared to pay any amount for the information. He tried tapping some of Reggie’s spies who had access to Mikey and Ponte; three actually spent considerable time with Mikey—a bodyguard, a friend Mikey often had meals with, and a brothel manager who went whoring with him—but none was privy to Don Richard’s hiding place. Reggie had been right; only Crazy Mikey and Consigliere Ponte knew where Don Richard was.

  How could he penetrate the Cirillos at the very top—something neither Reggie nor the Strikeforce had ever managed to do? He considered the possibility of kidnapping Mikey or Ponte to force either to divulge Don Richard’s hiding place. But kidnapping was much more difficult than killing. Both men moved in a war-alert entourage. Ponte seemed the more likely target, yet although he was not a fighter like Mikey, the Consigliere was rarely alone. Bodyguards drove him between his Alpine, New Jersey, estate and his Fifth Avenue office. He lunched with associates at Cristo’s, a short, easily guarded ride to Lexington Avenue. Sundays he drove in convoy to the old neighborhood in Brooklyn to take his mother to church. The rest of the time he was indoors, his handsome tan apparently maintained under a sunlamp.

  Frustrated two Sundays in a row at the church, Taggart drove his rented car aimlessly about Brooklyn until he found himself, as if by accident, in Canarsie. He turned down Helen’s street, his pulse pounding.

  Her house looked bleak. Dark shades and curtains veiled the windows and black ribbons had been tied to the fading Christmas wreath on the door. He sensed his car was being watched, and when he slowed, men stepped from the neighboring houses, each with a hand still in the door as if holding a weapon. A van followed him out of the neighborhood.

  He went back an hour later. She was out on the front lawn warming up in a dark jogging suit, surrounded by bodyguards. Several cars were at the curb, engines running. Taggart kept going, a glimpse of her face seared in his mind. She had looked up when he passed; cold wind had whipped her silky black hair. Her eyes were sunken, her mouth sad and weary. He drove to Canarsie Park, walked to the shore, where Reggie had often met Helen. She appeared, running with long, beautiful strides, her breath sharp and white in the cold, her hair glinting in the sun. She was well ahead of her bodyguards and he could easily step into her path and fall in beside her. What could he say? What did he deserve to say? He turned away and hurried to his car.

  A third fruitless week passed and suddenly, when he didn’t know where to turn, an opportunity to force Consigliere Ponte to divulge Don Richard’s hiding place came from a totally unexpected source. Uncle Vinnie showed up at the Taggart Spire office carrying a big waxed bakery bag and a thermos. “Thought I’d come over for coffee.”

  “Coffee” meant talk. Taggart was hardly in the mood, but he could never deny his father’s favorite brother-in-law. “Hey, still working,” Vinnie said cheerily, but his big, round face was tight and he kept twisting the bakery bag in his fat hands.

  “Only way to get rich. How you doing?”

  They embr
aced. Taggart helped him off with his coat.

  “Great, great. Really good.... I brought some stuff from the bakery.”

  “What you got there?” Chris cleared his desk top.

  Uncle Vinnie laid out Napoleons, cannoli, and plump Italian cheesecake bursting with colored citrons. From his thermos he poured pungent espresso into Styrofoam cups. “I thought since your place got messed up you wouldn’t have coffee. How’s it going?”

  “Know anybody who needs an S-boom?”

  “What about the guy they found?”

  “Half a guy. Nobody knows.”

  “I hear sabotage.”

  “Was he gnawing the cable with his teeth?”

  “Lucky nobody else was hurt.”

  “Middle of the night.”

  “God’s on your shoulder.” Uncle Vinnie popped a cannoli in his mouth and made a face. “I hate these places that fill ’em ahead of time. The shell’s like macaroni.”

  Taggart bit into one and sipped the espresso. “So how you doing?”

  “Well, I got a problem.”

  “Sit down.”

  Uncle Vinnie settled, flicked another pastry into his mouth, and studied Taggart’s Chinese carpet. “It’s about your brother.”

  “Oh, shit. Is he coming down on you?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I ain’t done nothing.”

  “That’s good, because there I can’t help.”

  “Fix a case with Tony? You’d be in jail aheada me. No, Tony wants me to set up a sting.”

  “What kind of sting?”

  “You know, where you set up a phony company to sucker some wiseguy into doing something.”

  “Yeah, I know what a sting is. I’ve helped him with a couple. What’s Tony looking for?”

  “He was over to supper and he sort of mentioned a sting while your Aunt Marie was in the kitchen. Then he looked at me—you know how he looks at you? Like he knows everything bad you ever done and the stuff you’re thinking about doing?”

  “He looked at me like that when I was born.”

  “He expects me to offer to help. Like I’d be a supplier getting hassled by other guys for bidding low. But it means pissing off a lot of people. If it wasn’t Tony, I’d say, go fuck yourself. To him I don’t know how to say no. Can you talk to him?”

  Taggart stared. It was as if God had sent Vinnie, his father’s favorite, when he needed help most. For unbeknownst to his uncle, Vinnie had just offered him Sal Ponte on a silver platter.

  “Please, you talk to Tony?”

  “I can get him off your back so he won’t ask again,” Taggart answered slowly, his mind racing with thoughts of how best to use this opportunity. If he couldn’t kidnap Sal Ponte to make him divulge where Don Richard was, why not maneuver Tony’s Strikeforce into doing it for him?

  “Sure, I can get him off your back, but you know as well as me Tony won’t excuse you for not helping.”

  “Shit, I know,” Uncle Vinnie said miserably.

  “No, the thing is to get out with respect. Right?”

  “Right. But how the hell am I going to do that?”

  Taggart took the plastic knife the bakery had supplied and cut a wedge of cheesecake. Go slow, he told himself. Play this carefully. “Vinnie? You know who Sal Ponte is?”

  “The rackets lawyer?”

  “Old man Cirillo’s consigliere is the way I hear it.”

  “What about him?”

  “You ever hear of him messing around in our business?”

  “Sure. You know that.”

  Taggart knew, of course, but he asked, “Doing what?”

  Vinnie glanced around Taggart’s empty office and lowered his voice. “You know. They got the Teamsters mobbed up from Jersey to Westchester. They took a big piece of my Newark runway job. So I wouldn’t have driver trouble, I had to lease their mixers. Most of it went straight into Ponte’s pocket.”

  Westchester fell within the Southern District—Tony’s territory. Taggart cut another piece of cheesecake and passed it, balanced on the knife. “What you got going in Westchester?”

  “A store in White Plains; a little office building over in Armonk.”

  “Anything bigger?”

  “I’m bidding on a new parking garage at the county airport. What’s Ponte got to do with Tony?”

  “Tony would love to nail his ass to the wall.”

  “How’s he going to do that?”

  “How about extortion? How about bid rigging? How about featherbedding your drivers? How about false billing?”

  “Yeah? I don’t follow.”

  “What if I tell Tony you can’t do a sting with him because you’re already doing one with me?”

  “What do you mean, with you?”

  “I told you, I help Tony now and then. Couple of years ago I set the FBI up with a phony electrical contractor to get some wise guys in Chelsea. We’ll tell Tony you didn’t want to mention it without clearing it with me first.”

  “You think he’d believe you?”

  “I’ll say I was just getting it started and was going to tell him soon. But first, you and me will bid that airport garage to sucker Ponte into leaning on us. That’ll make Tony happy.... What’s wrong?”

  “Hey, I don’t need trouble with the Cirillos.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of it. Just make sure you bid low enough to get that job.”

  “You sure Tony’ll go for it?”

  Taggart wasn’t sure, but Uncle Vinnie could make it sound a lot better than if he alone brought the sting to Tony’s office. “Listen, just between us? Tony and me had it out a few weeks ago. Really bad stuff about Pop, and other stuff I don’t even want to talk about. I’ve been looking for a way to make it up to him. This is perfect. I’m really grateful you came to me.”

  Vinnie still looked dubious. “So what happens when I get the bid?”

  “Then you have lunch with Mr. Ponte. To pay respects and talk about making it a smooth job. Tony’s agents will wire you and record Ponte demanding payoffs.”

  Vinnie got up, pushing the cakes aside. “No way! You expect me to testify against the mob?”

  “No, no, not testify. Tony won’t go to trial for just extortion against a guy as connected as Ponte. He’ll use the evidence to force Ponte to build a bigger case against his bosses. Nobody will even know Ponte’s been arrested. The whole idea is the agents arrest him secretly so nobody knows he’s turned informant. They do it like a kidnapping.”

  “Ponte will know he’s been arrested and he’ll know why.”

  “I guarantee Ponte won’t be in a position to do anything about it. Listen, we’ll go partners. Who’s the general contractor?”

  Vinnie named Eastern Casting, a Westchester outfit.

  “I’ll buy the job.”

  “They won’t sell the job. They’re making out like bandits.”

  Taggart laughed. He was Chris Taggart of Taggart Construction, back on track and smokin’. “If Eastern won’t sell the job, I’ll buy them.”

  After Uncle Vinnie left, he wired a Paris hotel that took Reggie Rand’s messages: “Vacation’s over.”

  23

  CHAPTER

  Twelve weeks after Don Richard vanished, Reggie Rand summoned Jack Warner to a Connecticut car-pool parking lot near Interstate 84 which offered a clear view in all directions. The spring night air was cool. At the edge of the blacktop was a little marsh, in which peepers were shrilling sharp invitations to mate. The men walked out of the light and patted each other for wires.

  It was ten months since the Memorial Day weekend when Taggart had set his revenge in motion by simultaneously tipping the Strikeforce to Nicky Cirillo’s crew leader’s heroin deal and kidnapping Helen Rizzolo. Reggie imagined that he felt a gathering of forces; one way or another—he worried that he couldn’t predict which—Taggart’s revenge was about to explode.

  “I want to give you something,” he told Warner.

  Warner chuckled. “You want to give me something? I’m
supposed to give you the somethings. You give me the money.”

  The burly detective was the first agent to betray the Southern District in over eighty years, an achievement in which Reggie Rand, who admired that elite institution, took pride in engineering. Money was the key to this savvy product of New York’s Lower East Side and the elite Stuyvesant High School. Reggie had already deposited one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in his Swiss bank account, but he had calculated Warner’s magic number to be a half million, and he intended to keep him from that figure as long as he needed him. Warner was treacherous, but worth the risk. He knew the New York Mafia so intimately that he was regularly invited in on Strikeforce planning operations and had the confidence—to the extent that any human being could—of the Assistant U.S. Attorney and Strike-force chief, Tony Taglione.

  “Salvatore Ponte has a girlfriend.”

  Warner stopped laughing. “He does not.”

  “He’s extremely careful about her. Nobody knows, not even Don Richard.”

  “How the hell did you find out?”

  “Are you interested?”

  “Fucking-A.” This seemingly ordinary piece of information had enormous value because if Ponte sneaked off by himself he could be arrested secretly, without his friends knowing, and persuaded to cooperate. “What’s her name?”

  “Ask first why I’m telling you.”

  “You got it if I can give it. What do you want?”

  “When and if you use this against Ponte, I want the results immediately, within the hour. Do we understand each other?”

  “Do I get paid for those results?”

  “Of course.”

  Warner looked around, scrutinized the highway ramps, the empty shoulders, the few cars still in the lot, each of which he had inspected minutely while waiting for the Brit. A BMW came down the exit ramp and parked beside a Saab. Warner waited until both commuters had left in opposite directions.

  “I can see a problem. What if it works? We arrest him secretly when he’s shacked up with his girlfriend and we break him down. What if he spills something big? If I tell you and you tell the wrong people, he’s going to end up dead. When that happens, Taglione starts screaming, ‘Who leaked?’”