"Wherever the truth lies," Nick continued, slouching down in the seat and rubbing his left eye with the knuckle of his left forefinger, "John and Ted once on these shores proved to be industrious greenhorns who found gainful employment and worked diligently at it. And, when Prohibition ended, they were made law-abiding in their chosen trade. By then, of course, they were fairly prosperous, and had been able to send for their loved ones back in Galway. John sent for his sweetheart, Mary Shea, and married her, but for some reason or another they never had any children. Unkind persons said that this was because Mary failed to conceive on John's first night of conjugal bliss, and that because John on that occasion was so rough with her, he never got another crack at her. Mary ran that roost.
"The result was that John Keating after Mary's death had no children of his own to whom to leave his fine three-decker he had worked so hard to build at 27 Boswell Street. Therefore he left it to his only and beloved grandniece, Kathy. Who is the daughter of the daughter that Ted Keating and his bride conceived soon after she came from Ireland after Ted got prosperous. Which was Rosemary.
"Soon after that conception, Ted Keating died. Peacefully in bed, for which the Lord be praised, but still a young man, as they say. Made a good living while he lasted, but died before he really managed to pile up much of an estate. His widow, Annie, went to work, and John of course helped out. But then she died when Rosemary was about sixteen. The girl moved in with her uncle, John, and his good wife, Mary. So naturally, when she got married, she got the second floor for herself and her new husband, the up-and-coming young State Rep, Edmund Brennan. And they had Kathy. Then they got killed. So it was only natural, when old John died, Kathy got the house. He had nobody else. And the house came complete, course, with the vacant owner's apartment on the third floor, where old Sean lives today.
"Ted Keating's bride was Annie Geogan. She was Kathy's grandmother. Annie Geogan was Sean Geogan's sister. Him you know about. Sean was on his uppers back on the old sod, too old to fight much more. Kathy brought him over here, about nine years ago.
"Now, let me ask you this, John," Nick said, grinning at him. "What you think your chances are, of putting this together using Kathy Dolan's help?"
"Not too good," Lynch said. "Not too good at all."
"That's what I think, too," Ernie said meditatively, staring past Lynch's right shoulder through the back window. Lynch wrenched his body around so that he could rest his left arm on the top of the backseat and look back across the street.
He saw an old black Oldsmobile sedan pull slowly into the space next to his green Ford. A man about forty, wearing a black suit coat and trousers and a white shirt with no tie, got out of the driver's side and opened the left rear passenger door, carefully preventing it from touching the flank of the Ford. Lynch saw a man's right hand emerge from the backseat and grasp the top of the door. Then the left hand and the left leg emerged, the hand grasping a blackthorn walking stick and the foot in a black shoe groping for the pavement. The head came next, a few white hairs trailing over the mottled scalp, and then the short and frail torso in the dull green suit. Lynch saw several decorations pinned to the left lapel of the coat. "Son of a bitch," he said.
"The very same," Nick said. He was opening the car door.
"Where the hell're you going?" Lynch said, as the old man headed lamely toward the door of the variety store.
"Well," Nick said, "we started this. Man has to finish it. Finish what he starts. I'm going to buy a paper and I'm going to say hello."
"You want me to come with you?" Lynch said.
"I think you should," Nick said.
"What do you think he'll say to us?" Lynch said, leaving the car.
"He'll say," Nick said, "'Top of the morning.' That's what I would say."
"And what do we say back to him?" Lynch said across the car.
"The same thing he'd say back to us, if he came on our turf, and we had caught him there. 'And the balance of the day to yourself, sir.' A man should show some class."
BAIT (excerpt)
BY KENNETH ABEL
South Boston
(Originally published in 1994)
From his office window, Johnny D'Angelo looks down upon the back lot of South Boston Auto Repair, James P. Gallo, Prop., a business in which he has no documented interest. At one end of the lot, a row of crumpled cars stands behind a wall of melting snow. During the last year, each car has been sold at least four times, the names on the transfers drawn from residents of nursing homes in the western part of the state. Only days after each sale, accident reports are submitted to the insurance companies, with damage listed a few hundred dollars below the car's value. It is a very profitable business, which, by virtue of its three employees' vast appetites, deposits a large percentage of its income at the end of each week into the cash registers of its neighbor, D'Angelo's Pizza.
Johnny D'Angelo shakes his head.
Stupid, he thinks. They should push that snow out of the way. Some insurance guy has a slow afternoon, comes down here to look at the car. Maybe he remembers there hasn't been any snow in the last three weeks, starts thinking about how that car could get wrecked when it hasn't moved.
He swivels his chair to face his desk. Across from him, Jackie Mullen from the South End leans forward, tapping one finger on the desk as he talks. Johnny shifts in his chair, not looking at him. Fat Jackie. Like a meatball in that cheap suit.
"This guy, he's into me for thirty-two hundred this month alone. Over fifteen thousand for the year. I got two guys in the hospital. He tried to run 'em down with a fuckin' Buick."
Fat Jackie settles back in his chair, one hand raised like he's trying to stop a bus.
"You and me, we've had our problems over the years. But we always worked it out. But this guy, he's way outta line. I'm supporting him and his whole family here. Don't get me wrong, it's not the money, Johnny. I got money. You hear what I say? Fuck the money. It's the lack of respect. I'm supposed to let him walk away from this, just 'cause he's gonna marry your daughter? I ask you."
He spends too much time staring out the window lately, his stomach twisted with pain. Jimmy's a good guy. He doesn't think, is all. Lets things slide, I gotta send someone down there to get him to move that snow. Can't figure it out for himself.
And yet, as he reaches for the phone, raising one finger to silence Fat Jackie, he knows it isn't the snow that bothers him. Nor the letter dangling from the sign for the last three weeks. (Sout Boston Auto Repair, just like you say it, Jimmy'd said, trying to get him to laugh.)
Even Russo can figure it out, standing with Jimmy while a kid drags a shovel out of the garage.
"You gotta think," he tells Jimmy. "He sits up there staring at that oil spot on the pavement over by the fence. Only he doesn't want to look at it, so he looks at the sign, or the snow, or whatever." He shakes his head. "It's gonna take him awhile, Jimmy. He's gonna be on you about something until then."
And as he says it, they can see him in the window, one hand smoothing his tie with a practiced gesture, silver hair combed straight back, his face expressionless. Russo lets a hand fall on Jimmy's shoulder, gives it a shake.
"You want my advice, Jimmy?" Russo sweeps his arm across the parking lot. "You get some black paint, get a truck in here during the night to move the cars for a couple hours, and do the whole lot. He doesn't see the oil every day, maybe it won't bother him so much."
"I don't know, Tommy. Used to be, he had a gripe 'bout me, he told me. I didn't have to hear it from you."
"What d'ya want, Jimmy? It's like when we gotta go up to the North End, up by where Vinnie got killed. He makes me drive all the way down Hanover through all the traffic, so we don't have to pass the street. He doesn't want to see it, you know? We get where we're going, he's in a bad mood. Tells me the shocks need work. Or he's in a restaurant, I can see him through the window yelling at the waiter. Poor guy didn't do nothing, but he's angry. Like with you."
"You think he's angry at me?"
/>
Russo shrugs, tugs his collar up against the wind. Not my problem, he thinks. Some guy over at the police yard wants the car off his lot, has it towed over to Jimmy's, dumps it in the back. And Jimmy, he gets shook at the police truck pulling up in back, so he lets 'em. Leaves it sitting out there, what, six weeks? He's looking at it every day, seeing Vinnie's face like he was on the table, bits of glass in a little dish next to his head.
When he glances back at the window, it is empty.
* * *
As Johnny settles into his chair, Fat Jackie leans forward once more. He doesn't like waiting, staring at D'Angelo's back while he watches some fucking kid shovel snow. He can feel the anger on his face, his skin hot. But he holds his temper, knowing if he walks out he'll get no satisfaction. He plays along with it, waiting his chance. Now, as Johnny's eyes meet his own, he leans into him, keeps his voice quiet, takes his best shot.
"He's not your kid, Johnny. I known him since he was stealing cigarettes out of the machine down at the Trailways. He's a punk, and he's done violence to my people."
He raises one finger, same as Johnny did, holds it there for a moment to make the point.
"Where I come from," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "we don't let that slide."
Johnny looks at him, his eyes tired. "I'll take care of it," he says.
* * *
According to papers filed with a grand jury convened by the United States Attorney for the District of Massachusetts, D'Angelo's Pizza, Inc. employs thirty-two people at six retail outlets, another twelve at a central warehouse, and an administrative staff of seven, including its president and sole stockholder, John Anthony D'Angelo. The company employs an additional seven people at two subsidiaries, D'Angelo Restaurant Supply and DRS Farms, Inc.
After an evening slogging through the financial records, Haggerty had to admit she was impressed. The restaurants offered a documented cash source, with register receipts to support the entire operation. The trick was that some of the sales were legitimate—a fact, Haggerty saw from the file, that had sunk Riccioli's last indictment. The restaurants sold pizza (By the Slice! By the Pie!) from an outlet two blocks from the federal courthouse. Haggerty smiled, shook her head. Try telling a juror the place is a front when he's just eaten lunch there.
Yet, a former employee had testified—reluctantly, Haggerty noted—to false receipts, a night manager who kept the cash registers chattering until dawn, recording sales that never took place. A good system, Haggerty thought. No way to prove the money's dirty. On the other end, the company bought all its supplies—flour, tomato sauce, cheese, kitchen equipment—from the two subsidiaries, leaving a hazy trail of invoices and checks that hid the fact that no money was spent. From one pocket to the other, Haggerty thought. Lots of cash comes in, but nothing going out. Pure profit.
The way Riccioli figured it, the money—from drugs, truck hijacking, insurance fraud, kickbacks—was laundered through local banks as receipts from the pizza joints. For decades, criminal prosecutions had failed as witnesses, under the stares of mob lawyers, grew forgetful. In recent years, the prosecutors had turned to accountants where the police had failed. The guys on the federal organized crime task force had a joke: The mob has a retirement plan, death and taxes. By selling a few pizzas, D'Angelo could avoid the tax weasels. Haggerty had heard that during the last audit the IRS boys had come away shaking their heads, claiming that the restaurants showed a documented profit. On the books, the income from the six pizza joints scattered across the city was larger than the combined sales of the two largest burger chains, statewide. A lot of pizzas.
Haggerty pushed the records aside, stretched. She needed a run, a shower, more sleep. Too many hours in the office, chasing leads that had been checked dozens of times. For over a year, the D'Angelo file had remained in her files, unopened. A week of surveillance during the funeral of D'Angelo's son had produced nothing, and Riccioli had abruptly pulled her from the case. As a last gesture, to satisfy her own mania for order, she had scribbled a note to a file clerk she was cultivating at the Department of Corrections, requesting—along with the name of her hair stylist—notice of the disposition of the charges against the police officer, sentence imposed, and estimated date of release. The clerk's note returned a few days later, and she dropped it into the file and forgot it.
When, almost a year later, she found on her desk a Notice of Release for "Walsh, John D., Vehicular Homicide," it took her a moment to make the connection. She set her briefcase on the floor, slipped off her shoes, and slumped into her chair. It was late, and she was tired. The streetlights shimmered through a thin rain beyond the window. The tiny office was strewn with files, stacks of papers, exhibit boxes. The ancient leather chair was cracked, the stuffing spilling out in several places. She had draped it with a Navajo shawl, held in place by strips of masking tape. At idle moments, her fingers sought the fringes taped to the base of the chair, twirling them into elaborate knots. She picked up the paper, tapped it with one finger. Footsteps receded down the dark hall. The cop!
She pushed back from the desk with one foot, tugging at a heavy file drawer. The folder was covered with a thin layer of dust. At the back of the file, she found three sheets, captioned in boldface, "Update to Main File," that Janice, her secretary, had slipped into the folder when she was out. The sheets were dated in the last four months.
Someone's been working the file, Haggerty thought. Funny no one mentioned it.
She shrugged. It wasn't her case. If Riccioli wanted to reassign it, that was his business. She had too much work as it was, too little time off, no life beyond the walls of this tiny office.
She stuffed the release form into the file, and shoved it into the drawer. She hooked the edge of the metal drawer with her toes to shove it closed, then paused. If the file was active, she should keep up with it. Riccioli knew she had done the background; if he assigned it to her, there would be no time to catch up. She sighed, lifted the file back onto her lap.
The tax reports took hours. When she found her mind drifting, she got up, switched off the office light. In the darkness, she fumbled for the desk lamp, feeling her senses grow alert. She bent the lamp down, so the only light in the room was the glare that reflected off the pages. An old law school trick: eliminate the distractions.
Confused by the details of corporate structure, she sketched a series of boxes on a legal pad, marking one "Pizzas," the next "Supplier," which she linked by a dotted line to "Farms." Below that, she drew a series of arrows, charting the flow of money from the restaurants to the subsidiary companies, and, by a complicated series of transfers, back into the main company. A very clever boy, our Johnny.
When she felt that she had glimpsed the faint trail of money from the cash registers in the restaurants to the private accounts at the bank, she stuffed the reports back into the file. Again, as she slid the thick folder into the drawer, she hesitated. The updates. She pushed the chair back to her desk, noted the dates from the forms on her legal pad. She bit her lip for a moment, then retrieved the release form on the cop.
All right, maybe it means nothing. Maybe you're obsessive. Disappointed it never came to anything. That's what Riccioli will think. Still, it can't hurt to get it in the file.
She gathered her papers, glancing at her watch. Nine fifty. The file room closed at ten o'clock. She would have to sign the file out and get it back first thing in the morning. Another late night.
When she got home, she spread the file on her couch, flicked on the television to chase the silence from the tiny apartment. The furniture—a battered couch, an oak coffee table painted an unspeakable brown, and her father's old leather recliner—had emerged from her parents' attic when she left for college, following her to law school. She kicked off her shoes, scratched the soles of her feet on the edge of the table. One day . . .
Taking up the file, she added the release notice to the jumble of papers at the back of the file and initialed the change on the file log, alerting the file cl
erk to send out update notices. Next, she flipped through her own reports on the surveillance two years before, looking for comments in Riccioli's cramped hand. A red marker had noted D'Angelo's spotting the surveillance van, an exclamation mark in the margin. So do it better, asshole.
She flipped to the back of the file. There were only two new entries. She consulted the dates on her legal pad, confirmed that a third update notice had gone out only three weeks before. She sorted through the clipped pages more slowly, found nothing more recent than January.
"Well, shit." She would have to ask the file clerk, a silent woman who loathed disorder in her files. Haggerty could imagine her scowling, glaring at her with suspicion. She shrugged. "Not my fault."
She set the file aside, stretched out on the couch with the new entries—a recent IRS report concluding that there was insufficient evidence for prosecution on tax fraud charges, and, stapled to a blank sheet of paper, an embossed wedding invitation, folded once, addressed to Thomas Riccioli, United States Attorney. Inside, in a flowing script:
Mr. and Mrs. John A. D'Angelo
request the pleasure of your company
at the wedding of their daughter
Maria D'Angelo
and
Francis Anthony Defeo
Sunday, February 10, 1991
at 2:00 p.m.
St. Vincent's Church, Boston
"That's balls!" she laughed. "Good for you, Johnny."
Attached to the sheet was a news clipping, "Assault Charges Dropped," and a photograph of a young man pushing through a crowd of reporters. Beside the photograph, Riccioli had scrawled, "Frankie Defeo meets the press." She glanced at the clipping, a fight in a bar in Revere spilled out into the parking lot. Frankie had taken an axe handle from his car and broken three ribs on some kid from Saugus. The kid filed charges, then refused to testify when the case came to trial. Little league stuff, Haggerty thought. Must be ambitious, though, marrying Johnny's girl. She remembered a photograph of the daughter from the cop's sentencing, clutching her mother's arm, shouting at the press. Pretty girl, small, with angry eyes, a cascade of black hair across her shoulders.
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