Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series)

by Smith, Christopher

  “I can do it,” he said. “At least, I think I can. Let me get back to you. The only issue is timing. I’ve got to do promotion for the movie, which might make things tricky. And friends might be working on their own projects.”

  “If you can do it, I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “I’ll email you the particulars. I appreciate it, Michael.”

  “What are brothers/ex-husbands for?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  At his father’s Todt Hill mansion, the sun went behind a cloud, a shadow stretched across the grounds and Mario’s face was left gray in the wake of the diffused light.

  He rolled down the window of his Ferrari 458 Italia, pressed a button on the box beside him and looked ahead at the massive iron gates that separated him from his father’s house.

  On top of those gates, a camera was pointed down at him. A few seconds passed before the gates opened to expose a cobblestone drive that led to a mansion no one could see from the street. His father’s house was a mile from the entrance, at the end of winding curves that cut through a canopy of trees, which rustled now in the late-summer breeze.

  As he drove to the house, he counted four armed guards either standing beside trees or walking alongside the road. They nodded at him as he passed. He nodded back, knowing that he was missing others, but nevertheless sensing their presence. His father, capo di capi of the New York syndicate, left nothing to chance when it came to his own safety.

  Welcome home, he thought.

  He crested a hill and the house came into view. It was obnoxiously large, a Tuscan-style mansion with massive casement windows, flowers that cascaded from several balconies and a large fountain at the center of a circular driveway that winked and twinkled as if in an effort to maintain the illusion that this was a warm, inviting place to be admired and not a common meeting ground for members of the Mob.

  Mario rounded the driveway before he came to a stop near the front doors, which opened when he turned off the car. His nephew Christian, who was just sixteen and now learning what there was to learn about the Family, rushed down the steps.

  Mario stepped out of the car.

  “How’s it going, Christian?”

  “Great, Uncle Mario.”

  The boy looked only fleetingly at his uncle. Instead, he was consumed by the fiery red car with the sloping hood, the bi-xenon headlights and the black leather interior.

  “When did you get this?”

  “Leana bought it for me.”

  “It’s killer. Where do I meet someone like Leana?”

  “You don’t,” Mario said. “I’ve got the only model. But one day, I hope you’ll come close.”

  “I thought you’d replace your old Taurus with something similar.”

  His wife, Lucia, died from the explosives attached to that car and Mario could see by the concerned look on Christian’s face that he regretted his words.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Mario.”

  “It’s fine, Christian.”

  “I miss Aunt Lucia. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “It’s OK. Leana intervened before I could buy something simpler, which I would have. You know me. It’s never been about the money or the things, and I hope it never is for you.”

  “Are you glad she bought it?”

  Mario admired the car, which he knew she bought him out of love, but what he’d never tell Leana is that the car wasn’t for him. It was too showy. He’d prefer another Ford to this. “I’m happy with most anything Leana does.” He tossed Christian the keys. “Feel like parking it for me?”

  The boy’s face lit up. “Are you kidding? You’re the best, Uncle Mario.”

  “Just keep it in one piece. I’m warning you, it’s fast.”

  “No shit. It’s a goddamned Ferrari.”

  “And watch your mouth.”

  “Sorry. Can I take it for a drive?”

  “Next time. With me. And a helmet. Is my father inside?”

  “Papa’s on the back deck reading the papers.” He screwed up his face at Mario. “Why is Leana all over them?”

  “Be careful with the car,” Mario said.

  * * *

  Dressed in a gray suit and seated in the sun at a table topped with an umbrella, Antonio Gionelli De Cicco blew a plume of cigar smoke into the air just as his eldest son, Mario, started to walk the distance between them.

  He paid Mario no attention as he crossed the expansive deck. Instead, he just smoked and drank his orange juice while thumbing through all of the New York newspapers that featured stories about Leana Redman and what happened to two guests on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht the night before.

  As he came closer, Mario studied him. Ashamed of his meager beginnings in Sicily—and as vain as any person could be, even at seventy-two, or especially at seventy-two as he never would allow himself to look anything less than formidable regardless of his age—Antonio De Cicco made a daily effort to look as professional and as educated as the bulls who ran Wall Street. In repose, the illusion worked. Antonio himself was an old bull, tough and strong, thickly built, and still in shape. Unfortunately, when he spoke, his fifth-grade education became embarrassingly apparent.

  “They’re saying a lot of shit about Leana, Mario. Been reading and hearing about her since morning. They’re calling her a murdering cunt. What the fuck is that all about?”

  “I don’t know why, other than that it’s not true. Let the papers say what they want. I would, however, prefer it if you didn’t say it. At least not while I’m around.”

  De Cicco shrugged. “Don’t be so touchy. It’s the papers that are sayin’ it. So is the television, the radio and probably most of Manhattan.”

  “She’s going to be my wife.”

  “You think that’s a surprise to me? It isn’t.”

  “One day, she’ll have your grandchildren.”

  De Cicco didn’t respond. He turned the page with a shake of his head and without inviting his son to sit down. “I haven’t seen or heard from you in years. You’ve gone out of your way to ignore me. Care to tell me why?”

  “To make certain Leana was safe, we spent a year in Europe. We’ve been busy since. I haven’t heard from you, either.”

  “Europe for a year. Quite a life you live. What happened to giving back to the poor?”

  “I haven’t stopped.”

  “Well, that’s great, Mario. I’m glad you’re good to the poor. They need you. I wonder how they feel when you deliver their groceries in your Ferrari? I know about that, too. I haven’t exactly fallen out of touch. But whatever. Enjoy the car. When you’re dead, you’ll still be at God’s feet. Your mother would be proud.” He shot his son a glance. “I knew when you returned to the States.”

  “If you knew, why didn’t you invite us to one of the family dinners?”

  De Cicco sucked on his cigar and turned another page. “Didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “How about the truth? I think it’s because you don’t like Leana.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. Three years is a long time, Mario. I know things weren’t working out between you and Lucia.”

  “And yet you were determined to keep us together.”

  “For the kids’ sake. And also because Lucia loved you.”

  “That isn’t true. You and her father arranged for that marriage to happen when we were eighteen. You cut a deal with Giovanni to bring the two Families together through our marriage. You worked with him to seal the union and you used us as the bridge to make it happen. In her own way, Lucia may have loved me, but she loved money and power more. That’s what she really wanted. She grew close to you because she knew you’d protect her when I said I wanted out. I never loved her.”

  “You see. That’s what I don’t get. That’s not the Lucia I knew. She was a good woman. Never missed a step with you. Faithful to the end. And you stand here saying you never loved her? Why do you shit on the dead like that? What’s the point?”


  This from a man who was responsible for taking dozens of lives. Mario remained silent.

  “What are you here for, anyway?”

  “I need your help.”

  “You mean you didn’t come to see your old man because you missed him?”

  “Actually, I have missed you.”

  “What about your brothers? Miko and Tony. Missed them?”

  “Of course, I have.”

  “You better tell them that, because the way I see it—the way we all see it—you abandoned us.”

  “I’m sorry that you see it that way. I think we can agree that we needed time to cool off. Three years is enough time, but obviously there’s still a wall between us.”

  “That’s because you fucked up.”

  “That’s your interpretation.”

  “Be careful the way you talk to me, Mario.”

  “Are we going to move forward? Or is that wall going to be there forever?”

  “Who knows?”

  Mario withdrew, put his hands in his pockets and looked out over the deck to where the grass stretched as far as he could see, interrupted only by the estate’s many perennial gardens. His father sighed, put down the Post with its photo of Leana facing up so that Mario could see it, and stubbed his cigar in an ashtray not far from her face. He nodded at one of the chairs opposite him. “Sit the hell down, for Christ’s sake. You look like an idiot standing there.”

  Mario took one of the chairs and sat.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I’ve eaten.”

  “You look like shit. She been feeding you? Lucia used to make you a proper meal every night.”

  “Actually, she didn’t, but that’s what she probably told you. I did the cooking. I always have. It’s one of the reasons I bought the restaurant. It’s also one of the things Ma left me.”

  “Your mother was a good woman.”

  And you cheated on her for years. “She was the best.”

  “You don’t find them like that anymore.”

  “I agree.”

  “Why do you like this Redman bitch so much?”

  “Don’t call her a bitch.”

  A beat passed, their eyes met, then Antonio sighed.

  “Why do you like the girl?”

  “Because you don’t find them like that anymore.”

  “You’re comparing her to your mother?”

  “She’s nothing like Ma. But she’s a good person. She’s good to me. And I love her. I wish you’d be happy for me. I know you blame me for Lucia’s death, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You and I both know that’s bullshit. If you hadn’t gotten involved with that Redman girl, Lucia would be alive today. Your car wouldn’t have been rigged with explosives, and she’d be alive.” He looked at his son. “But you’re happy that she isn’t alive.”

  Mario felt his face flush with anger. “My children have no mother. They talk about her every day and they miss her. I don’t take any pleasure in what happened to Lucia. Did I want to divorce her? Yes. Did I want her dead so I could be with Leana? No. That’s ridiculous. I just wanted out of a marriage you were determined to keep me in.”

  “What do you want from me, Mario?”

  “You’ve read the papers. You saw what was written on the tarp. I need you and the rest of my family behind me. I need to protect her because something is happening. First the tarp, then two people associated with Louis Ryan are murdered on Fondaras’ yacht. Given what’s happened before, that’s a coincidence we can’t ignore.”

  “Do I need to remind you that Louis Ryan is dead? Do you think he’s working this shit from the grave or something? This is something else.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It sure as shit ain’t Ryan.”

  “I’m asking for your help to figure out what it is before it’s too late.”

  “I’m not comfortable helping out Leana Redman, Mario.”

  “Then how about helping me out? And the woman who will bear your grandchildren? How about that?”

  Antonio De Cicco reached for his juice. He sipped it and looked stone-cold out at his estate. Mario had seen that face before. His father was making a decision, weighing his options, considering the angles and what was most important to him. After a moment, his face softened and he finished his juice.

  “The Family has connections that can get to the bottom of this quicker than the police,” Mario said.

  “I know that.”

  “We used to be close, Dad.”

  “‘Used to be’s don’t count anymore’.”

  His father actually sang the line. It was so unexpected that Mario turned to him in surprise. What he saw on his father’s face was the smirk he remembered as a child, and with it, the tension between them started to evaporate.

  “Really?” he said. “Neil Diamond?”

  “‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.’ One of your mother’s favorites, God rest her soul. She loved that fuckin’ song. Even Streisand was on it. She played it over and over when you was a kid.”

  “You think I forgot? That song used to chase me out of the house. Ma had weird taste in music.”

  “Your mother was world-class.”

  “No argument there.”

  “You were her favorite.”

  “I used to be yours.”

  “You were. But it’s complicated now.”

  “We need to get beyond this.”

  His father didn’t answer.

  “Will you help me?”

  “I’ll do what I can, Mario. I’ll see what I can find out. That’s all I’m offering. That’s as far as I’m willing to go for now. I’ll have the boys look into it and see what they can find.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “You should.”

  “I think if you gave Leana a chance, you’d like her.”

  “Don’t push it. I don’t plan on seeing her anytime soon. Last time I saw her was at the hospital where you were fighting for your life. It didn’t go so well between us. In fact, it got ugly. If the time comes and we should meet again, I’ll decide then what I think of her. But there’s a lot of baggage, Mario.”

  “Understood.”

  “You really gonna marry her?”

  “I am.”

  “What do the kids think about that?”

  “They don’t know, but I think they suspect. They like Leana.”

  “Good luck with that. And by the way, for a couple of Jews, you gotta hand it to Diamond and Streisand. Right now, that song is stuck in my head. It’s like an endless loop. ‘I learned how to love and I learned how to lie’,” Antonio De Cicco sang. “That’s my life. Right there. Lovin’ and lyin’. Served with a fuckin’ side of schnitzel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  When Spocatti returned to the apartment in Tribeca the day after the Fondaras party, it was five a.m. and the streets were just starting to come to life.

  He’d spent his evening evading the police, which involved getting out of the Hudson unseen and onto dry land at Nelson A. Rockefeller Park. He watched the helicopters as they circled the region with spotlights and checked the streets for police cars even though he knew some would be unmarked.

  Soaking wet but exhilarated by the swim and what took place on the ship, he removed his dinner jacket and his shirt, tossed them in the water and walked casually to Warren Street in a T-shirt, his dress pants and his ruined shoes.

  Knowing he needed to get off the street as quickly as possible, he caught a cab on West Street and asked the driver to take him uptown as police cars with their flashing lights and piercing sirens roared past him toward the marina.

  In an attempt to dry off, he rolled down his window, but in spite of the rush of air, the smell of the river nevertheless made the cab smell to the point that the driver asked him if he was all right.

  Spocatti didn’t speak. He only met the man’s eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded. Best not to engage him, especially since he knew that the police would reach out and ask the Taxi a
nd Limousine Commission, which controlled the private companies that owned the cabs in the city, to report if any driver picked up anyone unusual during the night near the marina, such as a soaking-wet man who smelled of the river.

  Although he was frustratingly close to the apartment he rented for him and Carmen, he decided to wait for morning before returning there. Best to be safe. Best to throw off the driver with a stop farther uptown. If asked, the man would report that stop, not one outside his apartment building. He’d be able to identify him as a bald man in wet clothing. Otherwise, it was too dark in the cab for specifics.

  When they approached West Fourteenth Street, Spocatti asked him to pull over, handed him a damp twenty, told him to keep the change and left the car.

  He walked to St. Francis Xavier Church just off West Sixteenth Street, found the little nook to the left of the building, which he had used before, years ago, to kill a priest known for molesting children, and crouched down for the rest of the night.

  When morning broke, his clothes were dry, but he smelled like shit. He walked to the Textile Building on Leonard Street and chose the Church Street entrance. He nodded at the doorman who recognized him, and went for the elevator. Their apartment was a corner unit on the eighth floor. His keys must have fallen out during the swim. He knocked on the door and Carmen answered.

  “Glad you could make it,” she said. She was wearing jeans and a faded-blue T-shirt. Her dark hair was pulled away from her face and hung down her back. She wore no makeup, but with her olive complexion and virtually poreless skin, she didn’t need any. “Shower first; then we’ll debrief.”

  When he was clean and changed, he was surprised to find that she’d made coffee, scrambled eggs and toast for him. “You look as if you could use something to eat,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “So, eat, grab your coffee, and meet me in the living room when you’re finished. After we discuss last night, I want to know who else is on Ryan’s list, what our plans are and when we act upon them.”

  “You won’t be waiting long,” he said. “We do the next one tonight.”