The second obstacle was the absence in the region of anything resembling the organized crime families of old, of traditional structures capable of absorbing or dividing most of Webb’s business without undue bloodshed. The death in 2015 of Frank Angiulo, the accountant for the Mafia crew led by his brother Jerry, had provoked in the Northeast waves of nostalgia more usually associated with the death of a beloved entertainer. Frank was the last of the Angiulo brothers, who had ruled Boston from an office in the North End for more than two decades until the actions of Whitey Bulger and a cabal of rogue FBI agents succeeded in royally screwing the pooch for venerable criminal conspiracies in New England. The Angiulos were the mobsters of legend, who greeted each other with kisses and savored espressos in the cafés of Hanover Street, who left bodies on sidewalks and in the trunks of cars out by Logan Airport, but were scrupulous about not killing women, civilians, or cops. They kept the North End free of crime – apart from their own criminality, obviously – just as fear of Whitey Bulger ensured that the streets of South Boston, and later the rest of the city, remained safe for anyone who didn’t cross him. But now all those old certainties were gone: Frank Angiulo had joined his brothers in the ground, and Whitey Bulger’s reign was over. Organized crime had been replaced by disorganized crime conducted in a Babel of languages, and the remnants of the old order could aspire only to survive in reduced circumstances, and reminisce about better times.
It was Erik Lastrade who made the initial approach, confirming to Philip that a channel of communication was open. The two men headed up to Boston in a car rented in the name of one of Erik’s girlfriends, but had to drive around for a while before they found a parking spot off Commonwealth Avenue. Philip didn’t want to leave the vehicle in a parking garage. Even the best of them were dark, and if everything went south he didn’t want to end up anywhere they could be hemmed in. Lastrade tried to reassure him that he had nothing to worry about, that this was just a chance to talk, but like all duplicitous, unreliable men, Philip saw his own moral imperfections reflected in every face he met.
The meeting was to take place in a tony bar and restaurant on Newbury Street, far from the North End or any of the usual haunts of the men they were meeting, who existed in a state of barely restrained paranoia about the surveillance capabilities of law enforcement. Lately, according to Lastrade, they had become obsessed with drones, to the extent of shooting one down with a pistol somewhere near Revere Beach, necessitating the payment of compensation to its owner once they’d confirmed his address and warned him against reporting the incident to anyone in uniform.
Three of them, all men, were seated at a table in back when Philip and Lastrade arrived. Two were in their early thirties and dressed in shirts and sweaters. No guinea chic for these guys, Philip thought. The third was in his late sixties and looked less comfortable than the others in these surroundings. He wore a wool jacket over a cardigan, and a red tie so wrinkled that it was beyond help from any iron. His head was mostly bald and blotched with psoriasis. An old cap lay on the chair beside him. Philip guessed he might have been happier keeping it on, but didn’t want to look like a – well, like what he was, which was the right guy in the wrong place.
Lastrade knew one of the younger men, Stefano – or Stevie. It was through him that the meeting had been arranged. Stefano made the introductions to Anthony, the second member of the youth wing, and Bernardo, the older man. He didn’t need to bother with any family names. The quintet made some polite small talk about the weather while half glancing at menus. The restaurant was new, with a vaguely Mediterranean edge to its food, so they ordered plates of appetizers to share, and Bernardo asked for a bowl of soup as well, because he was feeling the cold. Nobody wanted to drink wine, so they stuck to water and soda.
They didn’t begin speaking in earnest until the food came. Stevie did most of the talking, Anthony nodding along with him. Bernardo seemed more interested in slurping his soup, and barely looked up from it as the conversation went on around him. Philip wasn’t fooled, but he still wished that the old man would just dispense with the theatrics, or at least eat his fucking soup quietly.
‘Our understanding,’ said Stevie, ‘is that Caspar Webb’s operations are being wound down. In light of this, we’ve made alternative arrangements, although as a gesture of goodwill – a thank-you for our business and cooperation over the years – introductions to useful contacts were provided by Mr. Webb’s representatives.’
Philip hadn’t been aware of this, but didn’t react beyond a closing of his right fist under the table in a spasm of frustration. Mother must have authorized it. Jesus, she was handing over contacts worth a fortune to these people as a thank-you?
‘Crumbs from the table,’ said Philip.
‘Very good crumbs,’ said Stevie. ‘Potentially very lucrative.’
‘What I’m offering is more valuable.’
‘You say.’
Philip gave him the pitch. He could offer women from Eastern Europe and Africa to put out as whores, and access to desperate refugees from enough countries to fill half an atlas, because as far as Philip could tell, everyone everywhere wanted to be someplace else and was prepared to pay well for the trip. He threw in counterfeit clothing, perfume, liquor, and whatever else he could think of to pique the interest of these men.
‘All that we got,’ said Stevie.
‘I’m offering more, and better, at a cheaper price.’
Stevie looked skeptical. It was clear he wasn’t interested, or not enough.
‘You called it,’ he said. ‘These are crumbs, and we’re already full up on them.’
‘What about drugs? You full up on them, too?’
That caught their attention, and now that he had it, he wanted to keep it.
‘Here’s how I see it,’ said Philip. ‘You got cocaine, and you got marijuana, both through Sinaloa, but it all got fucked up with that fruit thing.’
The Mexicans had taken over operations in the Northeast from the Dominicans, who had long controlled the market. The ‘fruit thing’ referred to an elaborate FBI sting in 2012, in which feds posing as Italian gangsters offered to set up fake fruit distribution companies, ostensibly to ship Sinaloa cocaine from the Northeast to Spain in return for a twenty percent cut of the product. The sting led to arrests in Spain and Massachusetts, and the seizure of 760 pounds of cocaine. Sinaloa had been badly burned in the process, and relations with the Italians had suffered, all because of a bunch of feds wearing cheap leather jackets.
Meanwhile, the ’Ndrangheta in Calabria had overtaken the other criminal organizations, including Cosa Nostra, to become the dominant force in cocaine trafficking, extending its reach to Australia and the United States. Its locali in these countries answered to similar locali back home, creating a global cooperative network. The rumor was the ’Ndrangheta now had more money than it knew what to do with. These men sitting with Philip and Lastrade were not Calabrian. That was one of their biggest problems.
‘What are you offering instead?’ asked Stevie.
‘Heroin.’
Bernardo continued supping his soup, but his eyes flicked to Stevie. The nod, when it came, was barely perceptible.
‘Caspar Webb didn’t deal in heroin,’ said Stevie.
‘Because the network wasn’t in place when he started out, and he was too sick to take advantage of it by the time it was. But we have the means of transport, and the suppliers.’
‘When you say “we”, who do you mean?’ asked Anthony, giving up on nodding along. ‘Vincent Garronne is dead, and no one has seen Terry Nakem in months. Nobody expects to see him again, neither.’ He waited, realized that nobody was going to bite, then went on. ‘With them gone, and Webb dead, that just leaves a couple of lawyers, an old lady in Providence signing checks, and you two. No offense, but last time I looked, you were just spear carriers.’
Philip waited a beat or two.
‘I’m Caspar Webb’s son.’
Stevie laughed.
�
�The fuck you are. He didn’t have no sons.’
‘None that he acknowledged.’
‘And we’re supposed to take your word for this?’
‘There are people in Europe with blood ties to Caspar Webb, and they won’t deal with anyone from outside his circle, because that’s how they work. The truth of what I’ve told you will lie in my ability to supply you with product.’
Bernardo put down his spoon and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
‘And where will this heroin be coming from?’ he asked. His voice was a mixture of Boston and the old country, and he slurred a little, like he’d had some kind of stroke.
‘Afghanistan,’ said Philip. Where else did he think opium came from – Philly? The route was clear: Badakhshan-Doshi-Bamiyan-Herat, then through Iran and into Turkey.
‘And refined in Turkish labs?’
Philip nodded.
‘If it’s coming from Turkey, then it’s those ISIS motherfuckers who are supplying it.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘It will be when they fly a plane into a building over here, or go shooting up an office or a school.’
‘They’re not over here,’ said Philip. ‘They’re over there.’
Bernardo looked at him closely.
‘If you’re Caspar Webb’s son,’ he said, ‘how come you’re so fucking stupid?’
‘Hey, hey!’ said Lastrade. ‘Come on.’
Bernardo raised a finger, Stevie shook his head at Lastrade in warning, and the table went silent.
‘I only agreed to speak with you because my nephew vouched for your friend here, and your friend vouched for you, but we’re done now,’ said Bernardo. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, but you should listen to me, because this is free advice. I don’t care whose son you are, but you try bringing in heroin from Turkey and you’ll end up dead or in a federal jumpsuit. They won’t just try you on trafficking charges, but for aiding terrorists. You got some short memory if you don’t remember what happened here in 2013. In case you forgot, the Boston Marathon got blown up by Islamists. Now you want us to put our money into their pockets, just so you can live out some fucking fantasy about being a big-time drug dealer? Get the fuck out of here. Go back to Providence, and maybe I’ll forget I ever saw your face.’
Bernardo stood, grabbed his cap, jammed it on his scarred head, and started for the door. Anthony joined him, leaving Stevie to stare at Lastrade in disappointment.
‘Jesus, Erik,’ he said.
‘Hey,’ said Philip. ‘Don’t look at him, look at me.’
‘I don’t—’
Philip didn’t let him continue.
‘We’ll be talking again, whatever the old man thinks. I’m not going away.’
‘You ought to pay attention when people offer you advice,’ said Stevie. ‘Especially when it comes from someone like my uncle.’
He followed the others from the restaurant. Philip waited until they were gone, then tossed some bills on the table. His face burned with humiliation, but he hadn’t lied to Stevie. He wasn’t about to go away, and he wouldn’t forget what had just happened, or what had been said.
‘What now?’ said Lastrade.
Philip patted Lastrade on the back, to show that he wasn’t mad at him.
‘We make some calls.’
65
Rachel sat on the edge of the bed. All she could see of her daughter was the back of her head. Sam’s face was buried in the pillow, the way it would be when she pretended to be upset as part of a game, or wanted to hide her laughter, but neither was the case now.
Rachel felt worn out. She had been tired ever since Sam was abducted, and each day the exhaustion dug deeper and deeper, like a dampness seeping into her bones. She’d spoken about it with her therapist, and he’d suggested a course of medication, which she rejected. She was already experiencing life at one remove, distanced from her parents, her daughter, even her old self. A course of antidepressants wasn’t going to bring her any closer to them, and it wouldn’t solve the underlying problem, which was her rage at the damage that had been done to her world by the events of the previous year. Jesus, her daughter had almost died. The man who took her was maybe only minutes away from killing her when he—
When he what, exactly? That was the question. Technically, he’d suffered a series of massive hemorrhages, simultaneously yet independently occurring, as though unseen devices had exploded inside him, bursting blood vessels in his arms, legs, chest, face, and ultimately his brain. A full explanation was still not forthcoming; the best anyone could come up with was some form of systemic collapse, but Rachel understood enough about medspeak to know that this was the equivalent of a mass shrugging of shoulders, another great don’t-know added to the pyre.
Not that Rachel cared much either way. Her only regret was that the man who had abducted Sam didn’t appear to be in any pain, and was likely to remain in a persistent vegetative state until he finally died. What mattered was that her ex-lover, Charlie Parker, had brought this horror down on them all by participating in what amounted to a paramilitary assault on the abductor’s community, even if that community deserved everything that had befallen it, and certainly much worse. Parker had also done so mere months after their daughter watched a policewoman being shot and seriously injured, and the individual responsible die moments before he could turn the same weapon on her father. Twice his actions had put their daughter at risk. There wasn’t going to be a third time.
But how to explain the legal implications to the child before her, and how had she found out about them anyway, if that was what the current hysteria was about? Rachel didn’t think Sam had overheard any phone calls, but she couldn’t be sure. The child was beyond smart for her years, with a stillness and quietude to her, when she chose. She was the only kid Rachel knew who could vanish in a small room, yet she was still just a little girl, and she couldn’t protect herself. No matter how hard it might be, she’d have to be made to understand that her mother was only trying to do what was best for her. If anything happened to Sam, Rachel didn’t think she could go on living.
‘Are you going to talk to me?’ Rachel asked, but received no reply. ‘If you won’t talk to me, how I am supposed to know what’s wrong?’ She almost said ‘what I’ve done wrong’, but caught herself just in time. She wasn’t about to give that hostage to fortune.
The voice, when it came, was muffled by the pillow.
‘Why are you stopping me from seeing Dad?’
So that was it. Jesus.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it’s true.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I saw the letter, in your office.’
Again, Rachel stopped herself from asking what Sam thought she was doing going through her mother’s private papers. They could come back to it later. Also Sam, for all her quirks, was very conscious of boundaries, both her own and those of others. If she’d come across the letter, then it was certainly because she’d been looking for something else, something perfectly innocent. But how much of the lawyer’s letter could she have comprehended? Enough, apparently.
‘Did you understand everything the letter said?’
‘No. I understood a lot, though, and I looked some of the other words up online.’
Despite the awfulness of the situation, Rachel had to stop herself from laughing. God, this child! She reached out to stroke Sam’s head, and an odd detail muscled its way to the forefront of memory.
The bird.
When the police had arrived at the motel room, they found the man who’d abducted Sam lying on the bathroom floor. Someone had burned the remains of a bird in the sink. Sam said the man had done it, and the detectives ascribed some ritualistic element to the action, especially given what they’d learned about his community. But later, when Rachel brought Sam home from the hospital, she found a book of matches in the pocket of her daughter’s jacket, along with a couple of small brown feathers.
It’s no
t important, Rachel told herself. It doesn’t matter.
But another voice that sounded almost like her own said, Oh, but it does.
‘I want you to be able to see your father,’ said Rachel, ‘but we have to take precautions. There are people who would like to hurt him, and if they can, they’ll try to do it through you. That’s what the man who took you wanted. You’ll still be able to spend time with your dad. He can come here and see you at the house, just like he used to, and we can go visit him in Portland. It’s just that the two of you can’t hang out together in the same way you once did. It’s not possible, not after what almost happened. You know this, Sam. Your father does, too.’
‘You mean that Dad says it’s okay?’
Sam couldn’t help herself. She looked up. Her eyes were red from crying, and her face was desolate.
Rachel could have lied and said that, yes, her father agreed, but she had vowed never to lie to her daughter.
‘I haven’t spoken to him about it, but he’ll agree. He’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you safe from harm.’
‘Then why do you need a lawyer?’
It was like being in a boxing match. You never knew where the next jab was going to come from.
‘Because it has to be formal. It’s how these things work.’
‘Dad won’t let this happen.’
‘Sam—’
‘He won’t! I don’t want to live with you anymore. I hate you. I want to live with him. I want to be with my daddy!’
And with those words, the dam that Rachel had placed around all her sadness and anguish in order to keep functioning was breached. The sound she heard herself make was like the yelp of a wounded animal, its paw pierced by a spike or broken in a trap. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t move. Her stomach heaved, and she tasted stale coffee. She wanted to scream, but her throat seized up. An aspect small and fragile broke deep inside her, and she knew that it could never be repaired.
A Game of Ghosts Page 26
