“Holy shit,” I replied in a low monotone. “Poker just went up.”
“Sit tight. The ivory tower is trying to figure out which end is up. For now you’re supposed to change nothing. But you’d better get a handle on the Duplessis contract before this securities thing takes on a life of its own.”
“Check. Get back to me soon. And Lyle, get me a new license plate.”
“For what?”
“This one may be hot. I’ll explain later.”
“Later, later, later. I can fill a book with things you’ll explain later. I hope you know how much I’m covering for you.”
“It all goes toward a twenty year pension. Besides, we’re even. Remember the Holiday Inn?”
“I’m trying to forget,” he laughed. “I’ll get a cool plate that matches your car and leave it in the drop spot tonight.”
Lyle went on to explain how the FBI and NOPD had a task force working on the bank robbery/homicide but were unable to come up with much other than the shooter, James Bratton, who was a common street thug with enough bravado to pull a bank robbery and execute a cop. Otherwise he was a mope, but they suspected more intricate involvement by higher-level criminals. The silence of the man in custody wasn’t unusual, but the theory that he was low on the food chain in this job was bolstered by his obvious fear of talking. After eight months of interrogation supervised by his attorney, he was a dead end. ATF kept its hand in the investigation by tracing the gun used in the robbery. The trail ended when it was traced back to a local pediatrician who had it stolen in a Garden District house burglary a few days before the robbery.
Lyle seemed in a hurry and said, “Later, brother. I’ve got to get busy on your license plate and get to New Orleans for a meeting with the SAC on this thing. The stakes are higher now, watch your back.”
His statement about the special agent in charge reassured me. Jim King would be involved in calling the shots. His extensive undercover background before rising through the ranks would bode well in protecting me and the investigation from the bureaucratic squabbling that would surely ensue. ATF had to decide how much, if anything, we would let the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Interpol, and the New Orleans Police Department in on. Things would get sticky at the upper level, and Jim King would be only one voice in the internal strategy meetings with ATF command in Washington.
My plate was filling up quickly. I had to deal with the T-Red situation, keep negotiations open with Ritmo and Cliff about the securities without pushing too hard, and get to the bottom of the Duplessis contract murder. I freshened up, and picked up the former contents of my coat pocket off the dresser, and transferred them to my jacket for the evening. The note from Lyle with Ernie Chinn’s phone number was lying on top the small pile of pocket change. I decided to try calling him, although chances were always remote that our schedules coincided enough to make contact. I was pleasantly surprised when his familiar voice answered, but wasn’t quite ready for the greeting.
“Chang’s delicatessen.”
I hesitated momentarily, then answered, “I want two corned-beefs on rye. Hold the mustard.”
Ernie responded in his boyish chuckle, “Hello, Muss. How’s things in wherever the hell you are?”
“Getting a little hairy, but under control. What’s with this Chang’s Delicatessen?”
“You think ATF is the only outfit that does sneaky shit? It’s our undercover phone line, the cool number.”
“I got your messages Ernie, but...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know how it is. Glad you got to make this call. Besides making sure you’re still around to buy me that lunch you owe, I wanted to let you know that Big Mo is dropping out of the presidential race. He’ll officially announce tomorrow. I’m already off his detail, playing office boy. Tomorrow I’ll be sipping evening martinis with Rocky.”
“Great. Too bad you’ll still be on the campaign trail, but Air Force Two is quite a step up from the piece of crap we flew with Mo. Thanks for the heads-up, Ernie. I don’t know when we’ll talk again, but stay in touch with Lyle. He’s ace.”
“I can tell, Muss. Glad he’s your contact. Take care.”
Senator Morris Udall, my former protectee, was throwing in the towel in the Democratic presidential campaign. Ernie Chinn was being assigned to the protection detail of vice-president Nelson Rockefeller, who was campaigning hard with his running mate, president Gerald Ford. The call to Ernie reminded me that just weeks before, I wore a three-piece suit every day, stood among powerful government officials and elite politicians on the national scene while on protection detail. Now I was an accomplice to grand larceny and an accepted member of a sleazy underworld. All for the same paycheck. I finished dressing and headed to the track. As I joined the small crowd waiting for the escalator up to the clubhouse, I felt a large, powerful hand clutch my shoulder from behind. It felt like vice grip pliers, and as I turned around the pressure from the stubby fingers released as quickly as it had come. It was the hand of Luke Trombatore. He was clutching the Daily Racing Form in his other hand, and was accompanied by a nattily attired, steely-eyed younger man who was picking up the valet parking ticket for Trombatore’s Eldorado. The shoulder grab was a greeting. As he let go of my shoulder, his raspy voice addressed me, “Buona sera, paesano.”
* * *
CHAPTER 15
“Buona sera. Come' stai ?” I replied to Trombatore as we rode the escalator to the second floor clubhouse.
“Not bad, except I need a winner. Any information?”
“I get a hot horse once in a while, but I’m mostly picking my nose.”
Trombatore gave an understanding grunt and walked to a table where he was seated with his younger companion. I took a seat at what was by now my regular table, which faced theirs only twenty feet away. As the waiter set up my table I studied the man with Trombatore. He had an intense look and seemed to be more interested in Trombatore’s needs than in betting the horses. He was dressed in a suit that looked like the standard uniform of a Las Vegas pit boss - expensive, well-tailored, charcoal gray suit, with a matching monotone shirt and tie, and Italian leather shoes. He was somewhat taller than Trombatore, about thirty-five years old, medium build, with neatly styled dark hair and a medium-dark complexion. He sported a gold bracelet on one wrist and on the opposite hand, a diamond pinky ring.
A few minutes after I was seated, the waiter delivered a bloody Mary to my table and nodded in the direction of Trombatore, indicating that it was with his compliments. I looked over at him and the charcoal suit, and they were both holding drinks. I picked up the cocktail, held it up in a gesture of thanks and the three of us toasted as Trombatore bellowed “Saluta.” During the evening we passed each other’s tables to and from the betting windows and traded small talk about the horses, except for the charcoal suit who didn’t say a word to me, as if he didn’t have permission or was being dismissive. He ran bets to the windows and was coming into focus as Trombatore’s driver-bodyguard.
After the first race, the waiter brought a telephone to my table. I took the call and T-Red’s voice was on the other end.
“You still love me?”
“I shouldn’t even talk to you, asshole, but what do you want?"
“I’m gonna make things up to you right quick. There’s a five-to-one shot in the next race that can’t blow. He’s been running blistering times in the morning workouts and the clocker has kept these times out of the official publications. Unload on the six horse.”
“I’m not betting a dime for you, Red.”
“Don’t want you to. This is a ta-ta,” he chirped as the phone clicked dead.
I glanced at the program and Daily Racing Form to discover that the horse indeed had no fast published workouts and appeared as if he was only running to round out the field. After handicapping the other horses I decided that if T-Red’s information was correct this would be an easy score. More importantly, it gave me a reason to approach Trombatore’s table. I walked over deliberately and sat down acr
oss the table from him. He peered over his racing form with the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lip.
“Six horse. It’s a clocker’s special. Tie him up with exactas so the win odds won’t shorten up.”
He knew better than to ask me for more information about the tip, but I was sure that he noticed me take the phone call at my table. I got up as quickly as I sat down, but not before getting a good look at the pinky ring on the charcoal suit’s finger. The initials “P T” were laid out in small diamonds on a gold band. This was easy enough to remember. I went to the betting window with the charcoal suit following behind, and bet a hundred dollars across the board on number six, laying three one hundred-dollar bills in the window. I couldn’t see how much he bet without being noticed, so I returned to my table.
As the horses lined up in the post parade, the black colt bearing the number six saddle cloth pranced his way to the starting gate along with the rest of the field. The infield tote board showed his odds at four to one and holding, so the information had not leaked enough to pull the odds down. The horses were soon in the starting gate as the customary “Il sont partis” came from the track announcer. Since the race was at a distance of a flat mile, the early pace of the race was slower than the sprints, and our horse was galloping easily in the middle of the ten starters around the first turn. He remained in that position down the backstretch, and as the horses went into the final turn, he began to drag the jockey to the lead, despite the rider’s efforts to pace him. The jock then went with the horse’s power, guided him to the outside around the field, and then from there the black horse drew away on auto-pilot to an easy five length victory. The jockey never used his whip. It was a textbook score, and what made it sweeter was that the even-money favorite finished second, which made winners out of the exacta bets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the results are official.”
The track announcer’s words gave us the green light to cash the winning tickets. I purposely wound up in line at the cashier’s window behind P.T. and looked around his shoulder to see the clerk counting out a large stack of one-hundred dollar bills. The total came to an odd amount and he left a twenty on the counter for the clerk. He scooped up the rest and delivered them to Trombatore, who peeled off the first two large bills and shoved them across the table to P.T. I returned to my table to find a fresh drink waiting, compliments of Trombatore. As before, I raised my glass simultaneously with Trombatore and his bodyguard, who were both smiling for the first time that night.
This time the toast came from P.T., who murmured, “Cent'anni” in my direction.
After the races I went directly to my room. I figured that Trombatore would show up at The Gallop, and I didn’t want to go there and rush my acquaintance with him. The phone rang as I entered the room. I picked up and said, “Well, if it isn’t T-Red.”
“Yeah, who loves ya, baby?”
“You said this was a ta-ta, Red. What do you want?”
“Well kinda, Tony. I don’t want anything from whatever you scored tonight, although you must admit the information was primo. But, I was wondering what you’re gonna do with all those cashmere sweaters?”
“You’re un-fucking-believable!”
While I listened to T-Red hustling me for the swag from Abdalla’s, I jotted down a description of Trombatore’s clothes-horse companion and the initials “P.T.” for the notes Lyle would retrieve in the morning. I then diverted my attention back to the phone call and told T-Red. “Be here in fifteen minutes.” A few nights later at the track, I was surprised to see the parking valet pick up my car wearing a peach-colored, pullover cashmere sweater. I immediately recognized it from the stack I had returned to T-Red. As I exchanged my keys and usual tip for the parking ticket I told the valet, “Nice threads.” He plopped behind the wheel, and I reached over and turned up the back of the sweater behind the neck to see if there was a store label sewn inside. T-Red had neatly removed the tag. The boy gave me a strange look for a second, then drove off to park the car in the reserved lot.
From my seat in the clubhouse that night, I saw a dozen or so trainers, grooms, and tote clerks wearing the same style sweaters, in a lovely array of pastel colors. At first, as I noticed each one my temper rose, but after a while it became amusing. By the end of the night I saw the porter sweeping up discarded bet tickets from the floor wearing one in mint green. T-Red had wasted no time unloading the swag, and I hoped the men’s department salesman from Abdalla’s did not frequent the track. I was also pleased that T-Red now had a few bucks and wouldn’t be hitting me up for money, at least for a while.
Luke Trombatore and P.T. hadn’t shown up in the clubhouse for a few nights, including this one. For the first time, I saw Ritmo Angelle at the track, standing by the clubhouse bar studying a racing form. I caught his attention and waved him over to my table.
“Let me buy you one for a change, Ritmo. Are you off tonight?”
“Yeah, just killing a few hours before the graveyard shift. What’s happening on the deal with Cliff, Tony? I’d sure like to see this thing happen.”
I was glad to hear the question because it meant that Cliff Dubroc still had the securities. I lowered my voice and told Ritmo, “Sure, I know you’ve got a piece of it for brokering the deal, but business is business. I made an offer, he turned it down. I’m sure Cliff knows that the value of those notes depends on how hot they are.”
Ritmo was working on Cliff as hard as on me to put the deal together. I wanted him to bring this information back to Cliff. I didn’t know if Ritmo knew the history of the notes, but surely Cliff did. If I paid his price I’d be a double sucker in his book, first for paying more than they were worth on the black market, and secondly for taking the hottest paper in America off his hands.
“Come by the club tonight,” Ritmo said as he left for his job at The Gallop.
“Think I’ll pass tonight, not feeling well.”
I wanted him to bring the information back to Cliff without my being there. I also didn’t want to run into Trombatore and his bodyguard until I knew more about P.T. If they were still in town, they would show up at the track soon enough.
The waiter brought a phone to my table and set it down. Expecting T-Red to be on the other end, I picked up and said, “Abdalla’s men’s department.”
“What the hell is that all about?” Lyle Melancon shot back. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. Call me from a pay phone.”
I left before the last race finished and headed for the pay phone in the lobby of the Plantation Inn. Lyle was his usual, efficient self and he got to the point.
“P.T. is a guy named Phil Tanzini. Connected, a few busts. His rap sheet shows a fall for narcotics, which makes him a convicted felon. The brass would love to catch him holding a piece. ATF is hot to trot on felons with firearms, especially mob guys.”
“We’ve got lots of time on that, Lyle. It shouldn’t be tough to catch him holding. Any moves right now will chill whatever is happening with Trombatore. Tell the brass to be patient.”
Lyle went on, “Tanzini has turned up frequently in Trombatore’s company in surveillance reports. He’s a rising star in the mob, known as the Ice Pick, a little nickname he got from carrying one concealed.”
“This guy carries a fucking ice pick?”
The thought of this somehow made Tanzini more dangerous than if he carried a gun, although I’m sure he was no stranger to that. I had seen two separate murders with ice picks when I was a cop. In both cases not even a drop of blood came from the wound, yet vital organs or lungs were punctured, causing death from internal bleeding.
I deadpanned, “Check the ATF regulations and see if we can bust him for being a convicted felon in possession of an ice pick.”
Lyle gave out one of his deep chuckles and finished by saying, “He’s being groomed, no telling what kind of finer points he’s learning from Trombatore. That’s it for now, Tony. By the way, when are you going to call home? You’re at a pay phone right now.”
“Hey, babe, what’s so funny?”
“Watching the Tonight Show,” she said matter-of-factly as if we had just spoken to each other the day before.
“Sorry I haven’t called, but . . .”
“Hold on.” I heard the television click off and Gina’s voice was now louder and softer over the phone.
“I miss you. Nick asks for you every day.”
“Tell him when I get back we’re going to Disneyworld.”
“Hell, no.”
“No?”
“No. When you get back we’re just going to catch up and do normal things like normal families around here – work in the yard, go to the park, take Nick to a baseball game. Got it, hot shot?”
“Yeah, sounds great.”
“Did Lyle tell you about the checks?”
“What checks?”
“ATF didn’t send your paychecks here for a month. I had to put everything on credit cards.”
“What?”
“It was embarrassing, Tony. I had to get cash advances on the credit cards just to have money in my purse.”
I was so angry at hearing this I clenched a fist and pushed it against the glass of the phone booth. I was out here exposing my ass for the government, and my wife and kid had to scrounge around for money because the agency couldn’t handle its business right.
“Wait till I get those bastards on the phone!”
“Calm down, Tony. It’s all straightened out, thanks to Lyle. He now picks up the checks and sends them to me. You’ve got a great pinch hitter in that guy. He’s done everything I’ve asked except fix the kitchen faucet, and I think he’d do that if he wasn’t a thousand miles away.”
Assassin Hunter Page 11
