Charlie shrugged. “Why should we care if one hood wants to bump off another hood? As long as innocent people don’t get hurt, I personally don’t care if they all kill each other.” He almost laughed as he parroted McLeod’s sentiment.
“That’s a pretty cold way of looking at things,” Mandellori declared indignantly, exuding the feeling that he had just been insulted somehow but not sure why.
“I guess some of my boss’ character has rubbed off on me.”
Mandellori leaned back and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “The families in question are the Cantinelli and the Tanelli families. Two young protégés have just ascended the mantle, so to speak. They’re both hot-headed and too ambitious for their own good.”
“You have dealings with either of these families?”
He shook his head. “That’s privileged information, Mr. Gonty.”
“Fair enough. I withdraw the question. What’s the beef over?”
Mandellori picked up his iced tea and took a long drink. He watched himself purposely set it down on the table and leaned forward as if to impart confidentiality. “Turf. Pure and simple.”
“In New York? I didn’t think the Council would allow a restructuring of the territories allotted to each family.”
“There’s a whole wide world outside of New York, Mr. Gonty. You remember your history? The Pope tried to divide the world between the Spanish and the Portuguese, and look what it got him? The Council would be just as ineffective if they tried to adjudicate the division of the world’s markets. If you don’t take lessons from history, you’ll be doomed to make the same mistakes.”
“You mean the drug trafficking.”
“Privileged information.”
“Okay. But can you tell me which part of the world they are fighting over?”
Mandellori thought for a moment, his face betraying an internal struggle within his mind. “Let me put a hypothetical case in front of you,” he said at length. “Suppose you have a third-world country that has a propensity for producing a certain crop that not only has a great demand world-wide but can elicit an astronomical price through a minimum of turnovers. Now suppose you have two buyers that are interested in controlling this product in the States, but they have to negotiate with a stubborn producer that controls a good deal of the crop. Now this producer is a greedy baron. He figures that he shouldn’t have to deal with two buyers, because that would limit his asking price. So he tells both buyers that he only wants to deal with one of them. He is also so arrogant to the point that he wants to control the market price.
“The buyers, naturally, aren’t too happy with the situation. The producer did talk about the possibility of collaboration, but like I insinuated, these buyers aren’t thinking with a lot of experience. This unusual crop can mean more money in their pockets and accrue at a faster pace than all of their other interests combined. The idea of sharing, even though half of the market would make each of them richer beyond imagination, doesn’t sit well. Not when there is a whole world to be gained.
“Now this producer is not as secure in his little part of the world as he believes. The smaller plantations that border on his expansive property are hungry, too, and their predilections don’t obviate the use of subterfuge or even overt action to expand their own territories. The only thing they lack is the muscle to go with their will. An advantage in firepower can make up for smaller or weaker forces. The producer employs a small army to protect his fief, but if he faces a smaller army equipped with force-enhancing weapons, well, you can pretty well understand that he either has to capitulate in his demands or risk being eliminated for good. So, to make a hasty summary of affairs, let’s just say there’s an arms race going on in that part of the world, and a number of people are getting killed each day as each faction tests its capacity and its opposition’s willingness to wage war.”
“How about a name? Certainly you could give me a name to fit this hypothetical land baron.”
Mandellori fidgeted, struggling with his thoughts as to how much more he could reveal without compromising his tenuous position. “Sorry. That’s something you’ll have to figure out on your own.”
“Anything else?”
“There are at least two other players in this deadly game. I recommend you start considering the Mendendez family out of Miami. They’ve considered South America as their territory for decades, and they don’t care much for outside interference. They’re not stupid, Mr. Gonty. They know who is arming the smaller rivals, and they are countering with supplying arms to the producer I was talking about. If you want to talk about a war between the families, you might want to consider the consequences of a cross-State conflict.”
“Who’s the other player?”
“I’m getting to that. Let me finish on the Mendendez family. Something you should know is that they have some deep ties with Havana. They’re still pretty upset at the Bay of Pigs fiasco, and they have never forgiven the President for withholding his support to take back Cuba. The mobs lost a lot of their holdings and lucrative sources of their trade when Castro booted them out and confiscated their property. The loss of Cuba put a major crimp in their operations. Then, the blockade almost shut down their operations completely for a while, and they haven’t forgiven Kennedy for the loss in that revenue either. If I were the President, I wouldn’t feel too secure in my own bed.”
“Maybe I should pass that along to the Secret Service.”
Mandellori choked a snide laugh. “Just make sure you tell the right person. If you knew how many of them have been bought—well, I don’t want to go into that subject.
“Now, let me tell you something that’s going to roll your socks up and down a few times. That other player I mentioned: it’s the gawd-damned CIA itself!”
“Say what?” Gonty did not believe his own ears.
“You don’t really think that our nation’s finest secret agents are all lily-white, clean and honest people, do you? You are really naïve if you think you can brainwash a man—or a woman, for that matter—into becoming a cold-blooded killer, trained with all kinds of techniques to commit sabotage and mayhem, and told to carry a cyanide pill with them to extricate themselves out of an impossible situation to avoid capture, and then believe that these people can return to society one day with a clear conscience, unaffected by what they had done and by what they had witnessed all in the name of freedom and national security. What’s the purpose of the CIA anyway?”
“To protect the interests of the United States overseas,” Charlie quipped as if he had memorized and regurgitated a part of the Catechism.
“Right,” Mandellori commented sarcastically. “And those interests include the ability to maintain stability or foment instability in countries where the stakes run high, whichever course promotes the so-called ‘greater good.’ And I don’t have to educate you on the world’s state of affairs for you to figure out which two nations are clutching each other’s throats and balls for ultimate supremacy.”
“Okay. I think I have a fairly accurate picture of what’s going on. I thank you for your candor.” Gonty did not realize that he was beginning to sweat until a salty bead dropped down from his eyebrow into his right eye. He wiped his forehead with one of the napkins that had been thrown at him from before.
“Just one more thing. This’ll put a bug in McLeod’s ear. I’d wager that he is going to be investigating more than just the families I told you about. You’re just running down one tangent of the case you’re working on. He’s probably going to want to investigate the Seriglio family as well. They didn’t just position themselves in Nevada to turn legit. The whole west coast is ripe for staking a claim. Their move had made a lot of Dons—young, inexperienced Dons, remember—very nervous to the point of committing a rash act of retribution, all in the name of survival.
“Tell McLeod that the situation is very unstable at the moment. The New York families are unhappy at the ‘defection’ of one of their own. It made the Council uneasy that Don Antoni
o made the unilateral decision to leave New York, no matter what excuses he made to support his actions. There is also a lot of dissatisfaction in the rank and file of all the families. The new order hasn’t been set in concrete yet—forgive the pun. There are a number of sleepers within the families that need only the word to create the unthinkable I just summarized. And should that happen, Mr. Gonty, there’s going to be a lot of blood spilled on both sides of the law before it’s over.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Mandellori.”
Looking at his watch, the lawyer started gathering up his coat and hat. “I can’t spare much more time. I’m rarely out of the office for more than an hour without Ms. Robinson knowing the reason why. I also think it prudent that we leave separately.”
“Agreed.”
“Hope you don’t mind me sticking you with the bill. Like I said, information always comes with a price.”
“I think the public would understand if I put this lunch on my voucher,” Charlie commented, “should they learn the truth.”
“Sometimes, the public doesn’t need to know the whole truth, Mr. Gonty. Please remember that when your boss decides to go public.” He stood up and prepared to go. “Oh, and tell McLeod that I’ve repaid the favor. Don’t ask for any more. I don’t like owing or having others owe me favors. I live a fine line as it is without mucking it up with trying to keep score.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Mandellori,” Gonty rose in turn. “For your sake, I hope we don’t have to cross paths again.”
Mandellori was not sure if Charlie had just insulted him, warned him, or agreed with him that there would be no future contacts. He pulled on his overcoat and left the restaurant, setting his hat on his head as he exited the restaurant.
Charlie watched the lawyer leave, the supplied information still mulling in his head. He witnessed a long black sedan pull up to the curb just as Mandellori stepped out of the doorway. A slender thug of medium height, wearing a pin-striped suit and a black homburg lowered over his eyes stepped out of the backseat and held it open for Mandellori to step inside.
“Mr. Callini wants to talk to you,” Charlie lip-read the man.
Mandellori half-turned towards the restaurant and then thought better of it. He entered the car without offering resistance. Like a lamb to slaughter, Charlie could not help thinking sadly.
Who cares if one hood bumps off another? he heard McLeod’s voice in the back of his mind.
Still, he argued, a man’s life does have value.
Then he stopped feeling sorry for the lawyer and started thinking about his own method of extricating himself from the establishment without having to resort to violence and mayhem that would involve local people in the middle. He purposely avoided the term “innocent.”
Hide in plain sight! came to him. He nursed the remaining dregs of his beer and waited until the regulars were ready to leave. Paying his bill, he naturally joined them in sauntering out onto the sidewalk where there were always fellow pedestrians constantly moving in an ebb and flow motion, a self-propelling machine that fed industry to a city that never slept. In this manner, Gonty was soon lost to sight and whoever was tailing him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MARY’S TASK
MARY GONZALEZ PUT a lot of thought into her manner of approach when she entered the Colombian Consulate. She figured the last person they would welcome would be a representative from the U.S. District Attorney’s Office. Even if the Colombians did talk to her, she doubted they would be willing to share or reveal any information that might damage their own government’s credibility on the world stage or their shaky relations with the United States. No, she would have to approach them incognito.
She decided to present herself as a news reporter from one of the more liberal and leftist newspapers in town. To give character to her part and make her more believable, she chose a short, mid-thigh long, tight-fitting skirt that would reveal most of her long, shapely legs and show off her small ass. She complimented this with a see-through bra and a one-size-too small blouse. To complete her make over, she bound her shoulder-length, silky hair up in a bun to give her that “feminist” look.
She left her apartment shortly after ten. She accepted the appreciative stares by some of her male neighbors, counterbalanced by a few icy disapprovals by the females of the apartment complex. She felt more confident in her disguise and that she could pull this charade off without too much of a hitch. She walked down the block to the bus stop, which she took downtown. Then she hailed a taxi, which then delivered her to the entrance of the Colombian Consulate.
The guard sitting in the small guard shack in front of the gate was listening to a popular Latin music station on the radio with his feet propped up and his chair pushed up against the back wall. His otherwise bored-out-of-his-mind attitude changed instantly to avid interest when he finally recognized her presence as she languorously leaned against the door jam with her right leg raised knee high to show off every curve and line. He became all business, in a lustful way, as he set the chair down on all four legs, and in a husky baritone voice asked in Spanish, “How can I be of service, Señorita?”
“I am from the Free Press,” she replied, matching his dialect. “I’d like to go inside, if I may.” She removed her bogus press credentials from her oversized handbag and flashed it at him.
“You have an appointment?” he asked. Mary almost laughed with the realization that his mind was completely obsessed with her.
“No, not really,” she answered demurely, replacing her credentials back into her bag. “You don’t really think I’ll need one, do you? I could make it up to you later, if you do me this one little favor.” She left the implication to his imagination.
“Sure, sure. You can go in. But, they probably won’t talk to you. I, on the other hand, will be glad to talk to you. You come back and see me, okay?”He waved her through the gate, watching her all the while as she ascended the front three steps and approached the front door, ogling at her long legs with a lust he reserved only for the best of the beauties in D.C. Then he pressed the button that unlocked the door to allow her access into the facility.
She found herself in a large foyer, its floors covered with thick wall-to-wall rugs with designs and symbols characteristic of the Colombian culture woven into its fibers. On her left she noticed two closed doors. A highly polished staircase to her right led upstairs to the second floor, and towards the back of the house there were three more doors that opened onto the hallway that was created by the support wall that held up the staircase. In the center of the foyer, a large flag flanked a small utility desk, behind which sat a small, bookish man. He looked up at her with an air of boredom, except that his eyes betrayed his interest in her physical attributes.
Men are so predictable, she thought to herself as she approached the man.
“How may I help you, Señorita,” the diplomatic secretary asked in Spanish.
She handed him her press credentials. “I am from the Free Press. I am interested in the illegal impounding of the Marta. The crew are Colombian, I believe.”
The secretary glanced at the credentials and then laid them carefully on the desk in front of him. “I do not understand why anyone from the American media would be interested in such an insignificant vessel.” His eyes were deviously perceptive, almost penetrating, and they positively shouted his suspicious nature.
“Exactly. That’s my angle. My paper believes that you have received a lot of negative press. If you are familiar with our paper’s premise, we decry the current administrations’ heavy handedness in dealing with the sovereign states of Central and South America. We believe you could use some friends, and we are very influential among those citizens who are like-minded.”
He steepled his hands in front of him, fingertips to fingertips pointed upwards. “You may be who you say you are. Then again, you may be someone altogether different.”
“Then I suggest you call my paper. They will vouch for me.” She fl
ashed him a charming smile.
The secretary was not swayed. Instead, he picked up a long-handled receiver from off the tree-like rocker and dialed the number displayed on her credentials. “This is the Colombian Consulate,” he said in near-perfect English. “I would like to verify the credentials of one of your reporters. A certain Maria Gonzalez.” He waited for the reply and then responded, “I see. Would you mind describing this woman to me?” He listened to the answer, appraising Mary as each detail was imparted. “Thank you very much.” He put the receiver back on the hook.
“Your newspaper vouches for you,” he concluded with a tone that was a bit more conciliatory, but the skepticism had not entirely faded away. He handed her back her credentials. “The Consulate General is currently indisposed. I am not sure that he would speak to you in any case. That only leaves me to assist you. I am quite familiar with your so-called newspaper. I also know that its readership could hardly be representative of the American people. What is it that you would like to know?”
Mary withdrew a notepad from her bag, flipped it open, and prepared to write. “I would appreciate it if you could tell me something about the ship, which companies it regularly ships for, and what kind of cargo it carries.”
“The Colombian Government, although it may not be as free as you Americans like to deplore, is not in the habit of interfering in the business affairs of honest, hard-working people,” he answered in a cold, clipped tone. “I am afraid that we would have no information of that sort to give you.”
“We understand that the Marta flies the Norwegian flag. Do you have any opinion on why that is?”
“Again, our Government has no concern in this matter. It is a common practice among ships of her type. As long as they pay their taxes and operate within the parameters of the law, we take no interference or interest in their commercial enterprises.”
White Wolf McLeod Page 8
