by Sam O'Brien
“Can I have permission to release Callaghan, or tape his mouth shut? He’s a pain in the ass,” she said.
Rosen smiled into his coffee. Huntley looked at her, unsure if she was making a joke.
“We’ll process him in the morning and get him a lawyer. He’ll have to go into custody somewhere. That kid Cathal can go – Monica, find him a hotel and a flight home, but make sure they both sign a gag order or they can stay in jail till the end of the goddamn trial.”
A smile cracked the young agent’s face.
“Oliver and the girl will have to stay locked up. We’ll move them to a secure location in a few hours and assign a team to guard them. The others can sweat for the rest of the night; we’ll get to them at our leisure tomorrow.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Rosen, we’ll start with the guards. They’ll probably be useless, but we’ll take one each, then I’ll interview old Luigi after that.”
Rosen and Monica nodded in unison.
“Then we’ll take our time on the other two. Rosen and I will double-team on the Gent. Monica, you’ll take Junior. Smile at him, be nice, and wear something revealing.”
Monica gave her boss a suspicious look.
“Oh, come on, you know you’re young and pretty. Use that; put him at ease, dazzle him a bit.”
“If you insist,” she said acidly.
Huntley threw his eyes to heaven. “Jesus, I’m not asking you to show him your tits or suck his dick. Just . . . Flirt with him a bit. He may have nothing of any use, but on the other hand, he may give us something without realising. Get it?”
“Oh, I get it alright.” She had always thought there was more to her selection than met the eye. It was something about the way Rosen kept eyeing her up and down when they had first met.
Huntley could see she wasn’t happy. “Monica, be professional. What do you want me to say? We’ve got a rich kid in his early twenties to coax information out of. I need someone who looks like you do. It’s not discrimination, it’s nothing personal. It’s putting the best man or woman on the job. It’s business. So, appreciate the fact that you’ve been given a chance to be part of a massive bust, and take that sour look off your face.”
She did her best, but wanted to tape another mouth shut.
Huntley and his colleagues simultaneously spent about half an hour trying to get Luigi’s three men to say anything apart from can I have a cigarette? and fuck you, cocksucker. Huntley was the first to abandon the effort. He left his room and called the others to do the same. The guards were taken back to the cells, and Luigi, Marco and Robert were placed in the interview rooms.
Huntley began with Luigi, as planned. The old man sat opposite the agent for forty minutes without uttering a single word. He let Huntley bounce questions and abuse off him as if he were a stone pillar. He was not abusive or demanding, he neither smiled nor frowned. He just sat there.
Huntley gave up and joined Rosen behind the two-way mirror to observe Marco before they went in for the kill.
The Mafia man sat in his chair with a straight back; his hands were clasped in his lap and he had a pleasant expression on his face. His chin was showing greying stubble, but he had managed to comb and slick back his hair. His shirt collar was crumpled, but his jacket still looked freshly pressed. He had the air of a deposed President awaiting judgment, convinced that it was all a terrible mistake.
Rosen shook his head. “Usually gangsters like him threaten all round them and try to intimidate the cops. By all accounts, this guy’s been no trouble at all. Got the cops here eating out of his hand already. One of them even called him Sir when he brought him coffee and a sandwich.”
“Sneaky fucker. The Gent, remember? Come on, here goes.”
They went into the next room, and Marco stood as they entered.
“Sit down,” said Huntley curtly.
Marco did so with a smile. Rosen eyed him with intense curiosity. Huntley made a show of letting the thick file under his arm crash onto the table.
Marco give it a darting glance.
Huntley cleared his throat. “The suspect will state his name for the record.”
Marco nodded politely. “Marco Giuseppe Romano.”
“How many racehorses do you own, Romano?"
"Actually, I don’t own any. My son has some in partnership with an Irish guy, Oliver McMahon. I take a passing interest in them, having given my son the initial investment money from the profits of one of my businesses.”
Huntley and Rosen glanced at each other.
“You’re telling me you don’t own them?”
“That’s correct.”
“So how come you gave an order to use the horses as drug mules?”
Marco wore a perplexed expression, as if Huntley had spoken in Chinese. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Huntley repeated the question. Marco sat still, then after a few moments, he said, “Let’s dispense with the formalities here. You and I both know that I have nothing to do with narcotics, I despise them. So your allegations . . . They’re false. I’ll say one thing, though.” He paused, momentarily opened his mouth as if to continue, then closed it again.
“Go on,” said Huntley.
“No, it’s nothing. Forget it.” He attempted to make a dismissive gesture, but was impeded by his handcuffs.
“Spit it out, or I’ll take you back to your cell and powerhose you down.”
“OK, OK. There’s no need to issue threats. I was going to say that I cannot speak for whatever my son might have chosen to do with his horses. I believe he despises drugs as much as I do, but the young can be stupid. I hope he hasn’t done anything stupid.” He looked at his hands briefly. “Has he done anything stupid, Officer?”
Huntley discreetly scribbled on his pad and passed it to his partner.
Rosen took the pad. He’s trying to finger his own son for this. Rosen wrote unfuckingbelievable and returned it.
Marco took in the exchange, but kept his affable demeanour.
“Romano, we have a recording of you giving a direct order to Michelangelo Cassoto, outlining a business plan to use your – excuse me – your son’s horses as drug mules, and to instruct one Oliver McMahon to make sure the job got done. Do you deny this?”
Marco’s brain processed the information and calculated the possibilities in an instant. “Gentleman, I’m sorry, but your line of questioning is so bizarre that I’m going to have to decline to answer. I will not give further comment until I have consulted with my lawyers and have them present.”
“We’ll get to all that. But first, why don’t you tell us about your suppliers and the chain of command. If you give us the structure of the organisation, we can guarantee you a deal.”
“Chain of command? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugged. “But if you want to find out about the drug trade, why don’t you call your buddies in Langley?”
Huntley began to turn red.
“I’m really sorry.” Marco stifled a grin and continued. “But if you’re going to make these kind of wild allegations, then clearly, I need legal counsel. Otherwise, the situation is unacceptable. I’m so sorry.” Marco had a soft look in his eyes and a tight smile.
Rosen put a hand on Huntley’s shoulder to steady him. “You will be taken back to your cell now, Mr. Romano. Thank you for your co-operation,” he said.
Huntley kept his mouth shut, for fear he would not be so rational.
Rosen summoned the cop from the hallway and Marco was escorted out, leaving them sitting there in frustration.
“You must have expected that?” said Rosen.
“I thought we’d get more. I can’t believe he’s trying to finger his son. Where does he think this’ll go?”
Chapter 62
Robert hadn’t said a word since his incarceration, not that he was following family etiquette, he was simply unable to get himself together. He spent the first few hours pacing back and forth, fighting back the tears. He desperately wanted to break down and hold onto
someone, but at first he steeled himself and refused to let the cops see him shed a tear.
Over the course of the night and the next day, his mind boiled like a pressure cooker. He went through a short stage of denial, refusing to believe the last conversation with his father was real. He punched the wall until his knuckles were raw, hoping the pain would wake him from the nightmare. In the end, the sobbing started and the tears flowed out of him in torrents. He stopped caring what anybody thought of him. The only important thing was to get away from his father once and for all; something he wished he had been strong enough to do a few years before.
After he was served a sandwich for lunch, he composed himself and, for the first time in his life, he said a prayer and asked his mother for inspiration.
An hour later, he knew what had to be done. Eventually, a cop came, cuffed him, and led him to an interview room. He sat in the chair and took deep breaths. When the door opened and he saw the pretty, flame-haired agent walk in and take off her jacket with a flourish, his concentration simply lapsed.
* * *
Monica slung her navy suit jacket over the chair and sat opposite Robert with her pad and a thin file on the table in front of her. Her low-cut, fitted white T-shirt revealed her athletic frame. Robert couldn’t stop staring at her. He sat up in his chair and flicked his fringe out of his eyes with his cuffed hands.
He managed to pry his eyes away from her cleavage when she subconsciously folded her arms across her chest.
“Please state your name for the record,” said Monica.
“Robert Giuseppe Romano.”
“How many racehorses do you own?”
“Er . . . None.”
“So these horses which run in your name . . .” She flipped open the file and tossed him a sheet with the details of Painter Girl, Shadows of Jersey and Concrete Boot. “They’re not yours?”
“Er, no. Well, they’re in my name but they’re my dad’s.”
She gave him a warm smile, not the icy stare she wanted to. “So why are they in your name?”
“It’s like, normal in horseracing for guys to run the horses in their wives’ or sons’ names, or something like that. According to Oliver, anyway.”
“So . . .”
“Look,” he interrupted. “Save your questions. I’m going to tell you the whole thing from beginning to end.”
Monica dropped her pen and stared at him in surprise. Maybe Huntley was right, after all.
Robert started from the beginning. The very beginning, from that day when he saw his father stand over his mother. The tears flowed freely; he was past caring what anybody thought of him.
When he had finished, she couldn’t think of anything to say. She stood and darted out of the room to find Rosen and Huntley.
They were still fuming over Marco’s little act when Monica burst in looking flustered.
“What the fuck? We could be conducting an interview here,” said Huntley.
“I checked first,” she said, pointing at the glass.
“What’s so important?” asked Rosen, in a softer voice.
“Junior Romano’s just spilled a whole truckload of beans.”
Chapter 63
The atmosphere in the small grey room began to crackle.
“What did he say?” said Huntley.
“Basically, he said his father would try to pin all this on him. And he’s willing to testify that his father told him to take the rap, along with two others he knows as the terriers. But you should really watch the tape.”
Huntley and Rosen looked at each other, before leaping to their feet.
“See, Monica, I knew your charm would work,” said Huntley, moving for the door.
“My ‘charm’ had nothing to do with it.”
Huntley could barely contain himself as he watched the footage, keeping one eye on Robert through the glass. He nudged Rosen with his elbow. “This is fucking brilliant. With the bug transcript and his testimony, and the Irish guy, we’ll get the fucker.”
“You think he’s on the level? This could be a game.”
“I doubt it. Jesus, look at him – he’s falling to bits.”
They both looked from the small screen to the large glass. Robert was slumped in his chair, staring blankly at the table. The tears had dried onto his face.
* * *
Robert watched the two men sit opposite him.
“I’m Huntley, this is Rosen,” the thin one said.
Robert nodded.
“So, tell us what you told our colleague,”" said Huntley.
“Why? You must have it on tape,” said Robert, cocking his head towards the glass.
“We’d like to hear you say it all again. Come on, humour us,”" said Rosen, in a jovial tone.
Robert shrugged. “Like I said, when you guys came to bust him, he told me to go up to the top of the house with him.”
“Why the top of the house?” said Huntley.
“To buy time, I guess. Anyway, he like, told me that he had done some business with Oliver, using the horses to ship ‘product’ to Ireland.”
“Product?” said Huntley.
“That’s what I said, too. He told me product was the white powder, no, the South American powder that I liked so much . . . that kind of shocked me to actually hear him say it.”
“You use cocaine?” asked Huntley.
Robert looked ashamed. “I do a line or two sometimes.”
“And where do you get it?”
“Mike usually throws me a bag whenever I want.”
“Who’s Mike?”
“Mike is Mike. My father’s assistant.”
“And it didn’t occur to you that your father was a trafficker?”
“No. Fuck, man, there’s coke everywhere. I just always figured Mike had a contact or something.”
“Oh, he had a contact alright.” Huntley let out a chuckle.
Robert looked hurt. Rosen shot a dirty look at his partner. “Please go on,” he said to Robert.
“Anyway, it was like, a total shock to hear him admit he was a drug dealer. Then he hits me with the bomb that I have to take the rap. He told me to say I’d done it with two guys called Tomo and Tito, but he used to call them the terriers. They used to drive me around sometimes. Anyway, that was fucking it for me. I mean, he totally expected me to go to jail for him, just so he could stay out here and keep the business running. He said he’d have me out in eight-to-ten. So I figure I’d tell you all this, then he goes inside where he deserves, and I go free.”
“Who said anything about going free?” snapped Huntley.
A look of horror and panic contorted Robert’s face. “What? It’s him you want. You can’t lock me up. You can’t. We have a deal.”
“What deal? You told us a bunch of things, we have the information now. You have nothing to bargain with.”
Robert looked from Huntley to Rosen; he was terrified. “Fuck you. F-U-C-K you! You’re just like he is. You don’t give a fuck about me. Well, here’s the deal: I testify, then I go free. I disappear into my own world. You get to put my father away and I get to live my own life. I don’t want your protection, I’ll take my chances on my own, but I’m not going to prison just for being a gangster’s son.” He looked indignant.
Huntley and Rosen were astounded. They froze for a moment.
“OK, so supposing we do use your testimony – and we can back it up. Then, with the tapes and your buddy Oliver’s testimony, we should have enough to put your dad away. If that were the case, we would be willing to . . .”
“What the..? What tapes? What would Oliver say?”
Huntley stifled a chuckle. “We have your father on tape. We also have a guarantee from Oliver that he’ll say your father told him to put the drugs in the horses, and that he assaulted him in your house.” He consulted his notes for dramatic effect. “In the den, I believe.”
Robert’s mind turned over quickly, just like his father’s. “I can testify about that, too. I was listening at the door that
day. That’s when I first had the flashback of my mother being attacked by him. You can use me and the tapes, I don’t want Oliver or Rebecca to give evidence.”
Huntley actually burst out laughing. “You arrogant little shit, you’re like your Irish buddy – think you can call the fucking shots?”
Robert stared at the agent in his best attempt to mimic his father’s icy gaze. “Look, it’s a long story, but I owe Oliver my life. I’m doing this for him, too. So, like, make up your goddamn mind, ‘cause I’m not going to say shit unless you guarantee they don’t testify.”
Rosen scribbled a note in his pad.
“Aren’t you worried your dad will have you killed for ratting him out?” asked Huntley.
“You know what? I’m not, I’ll take my chances. I don’t give a fuck anymore.” Robert liked to think that his father wouldn’t be able to bring himself to do it. At least, he hoped so.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” said Huntley sarcastically.
“No, that’s all thanks.”
“Oh, that’s all? Hah! You don’t expect much for your story, do you? We’ll have to see what we can do. In the meantime, tell me more about listening at doors.”
He looked at the ceiling and gathered his thoughts. Then he told them about that afternoon and the memories it had brought back. His throat went dry.
“So, what’s the deal about your mother’s death?” said Rosen.
“I always figured she had a heart attack, until yesterday when he told me that I was weak like her. She took an overdose . . . He faked the . . . Does it really matter?”
“We’ll get to it later,” said Rosen. Huntley shot him a surprised look.
Rosen tapped his pad with his pen. “So tell me why you owe your life to Oliver McMahon.”
Robert cast his mind back and told them what he could remember about that day in New York.
The two agents were fascinated, unaware exactly how Oliver had got involved with someone like Marco.
“That’s a hell of a story,” said Rosen.
