After that, capos lined up to seek Carlo’s help. They came from Detroit and Cleveland and St. Louis and Kansas City. Two called all the way from New Orleans. He went there for three days to explain his system and set up the books, then sent down one of his teams to follow through.
His excess fund grew overnight to ten million dollars. By the entry of the United States into World War II, it was fifty million. When the Federation of Mafia Families finally took place, Carlo had gained control not only of huge amounts of Mafia money, but also of funds provided by Syndicate Lieutenants, who, being non-Sicilian, were not permitted in the society, but who coordinated closely with it.
His position was unique. He answered to no one, except for periodic status reports to his ‘stockholders’. He removed himself from any contact with gambling or drug distribution. He was a financial manager and the excess fund was his power. Before long, Mafia Dons and Syndicate Chieftains also called upon his services. These were not the kind of people who joined funds with their capos or lieutenants, or who blindly allowed another man, even with Carlo’s reputation, to handle their monies. With them Carlo suggested direction, goals, percentages, corporate structure, tax advantages, management. When some of them suggested that Carlo establish a separate fund for them, he agreed, but only under the condition that it be linked to his operating corporation. Massive sums were soon at his disposal. They were sent to Switzerland, then came back to the United States to build casinos, racetracks, plush resort areas, to buy automobile agencies, electronic firms, hotels, and scores of other ventures.
On his sixtieth birthday, Carlo drank a toast to the sixty millions of dollars he had accumulated for himself.
He walked out of his huge, stone mansion situated on a twelve acre estate directly across from a private golf course. Ralph, his personal assistant, was waiting at the door with Francisco, his brother. Both were the finest bodyguards in the business. Francisco, wearing a chauffeur’s cap and uniform, held open the rear door to the Silver Cloud Rolls Royce for Carlo to step inside, then he and Ralph took seats up front.
Carlo watched a news report over the built-in television set, then shut it off and read the Wall Street Journal. Forty minutes from his mansion, the car stopped in front of his office building, a glass and steel edifice rising twenty-two stories high. The Universal Investment Corporation, managing 1.2 billions of dollars of assets, occupied ten of the floors.
The doorman held open the door and saluted as Carlo entered the coolness of the pleasantly air-conditioned building. The elevator starter drew out a key and unlocked his private car as he and Ralph approached. Ralph pressed the button to his suite on the twenty-second floor, the executive section. A willowy, immaculately-groomed receptionist rose from behind a large, semi-circular desk to greet him. Ralph unlocked a recessed door which allowed him entry into his office without passing through the central executive area. The twenty-second story had been built circular instead of square like the other floors. At the far end of Carlo’s office were a series of four picture windows, each ten feet wide. In the center, sliding doors opened upon a private patio.
Carlo sat down behind his long, neat Louis XVI leather topped desk and reached for the mail book. The first page contained a cable from a firm in Düsseldorf, Germany agreeing to his offer to purchase controlling stock. Attached to the cable was a brief review by his legal section concerning the transaction. Carlo initialed the cable and turned the page. The matter of the Düsseldorf firm had been negotiated almost a year now, so no action on his part was required. The inclusion of the cable in his mail book was simply to keep him informed.
He worked steadily, calling executives over the intercom to clarify a point or having one of his secretaries set up a time for them to come over whenever he felt a discussion was necessary. All went smoothly since most of his senior executives had been with him for two decades now.
Near the end of his mail book he came upon a sealed envelope marked confidential. Inside was a report on the Bucci case. He flicked the switch for his Chief of Security.
“Yes, Carlo,” came the deep voice of Mickey Giannotti.
“Drop over for coffee, Mickey.”
“Okay, right away.”
Ralph held open the door to admit Mickey, wheeled over a coffee wagon, then left the room. Mickey lowered his six feet six, two hundred and forty pounds of hard muscled fighting man into the chair. He was thirty-eight years of age, so powerful that he refused to use his hands for anything unless he first told them to be careful. He had an IQ of 136. He had been an enforcer for a New York Mafia family for twelve years, and the Don had sighed with relief when Carlo had asked for Mickey’s services, as his strength made those around him uncomfortable. He possessed one of the most methodical, well organized, intelligent minds Carlo had encountered in years. Had he the gift for finance, Carlo would be grooming him as his heir. As it was, he bossed the twenty man security section of the Universal Investment Corporation.
Carlo tapped the report in the mail book. “Spell it out, Mickey.”
“There seems to be little doubt that Dominic and Michael DiStephano hit Bucci. Both were in London at the time of his death. And they worked him over good before they killed him.” He filled their cups with coffee and sipped from his own.
“But burning off his balls! What kind of shit is that?” exclaimed Carlo.
“I know. It surprised me too. But there’s no question about it. I looked over the body myself when we got it back here, and a lot of the skin was charred. I’d give odds Dominic did it. From the reports, he’s a wild bastard.”
“But, Jesus, how did they get Bucci? He’s a top boy.”
Mickey shrugged. “I’d pay a pretty penny to know the answer to that one. George wasn’t the kind of soldier to be surprised. It had to be in the hotel room, though.”
“I wish to God he hadn’t hit that kid in France.”
“Chet said it couldn’t be helped. It was Bucci or the kid.”
“That’s hard to believe. Bucci could have shot the trigger off the rifle, he was so good. He didn’t have to lay it between the eyes.”
“Well, it’s done, Carlo.” He motioned his head towards the report. “I know you’ve read my recommendation. What’s your decision?”
Carlo wheeled round in his chair and looked out of the windows at the Chicago skyline. Heat waves could be seen rising on the other side of the glass. “You’re not going to scare old man DiStephano off,” he finally said. “The report says he rules that family with an iron hand. So hitting Dominic isn’t going to stop that bastard from prying.”
“I also recommended hitting both the old man and Dominic. That should take the guts out of the family.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Carlo, whirling back to face Mickey. “Vito Donini is his son-in-law. If he decides to push back, this can become an international incident.”
“Does he have that much muscle?”
“He sure does. I manage one point two billion. He owns almost that amount.”
“Who is he going to get, some Viet Nam veterans?”
“I don’t know, Mickey. None of the families would hire out soldiers against us, but his kind of money generates a tremendous pressure.”
“Okay. What do you suggest doing?”
Carlo turned back to the windows. Usually he savored the view, the realization that he was far above the rest of mankind here. But today, all he felt was bile in his craw. He took a deep breath. “Get old man DiStephano up here. I want to talk with him.”
CHAPTER 11
Ettore and Bob were in a car backing out of the driveway when Mario took the call from Mickey. He said to hold the line a minute, then shouted out of an open window to Ettore.
Ettore walked into the entry of the house and lifted the phone.
“Mr. DiStephano?” said a deep, harsh voice.
“Yes.”
“I am Mickey Giannotti, Chief of Security of Mr. Carlo Bonazzi’s company, Universal Investment Corporation. Mr. Bonazzi would be
grateful if you came to his office at your earliest convenience for what he feels is a necessary discussion.”
Surprised as he was, Ettore did not hesitate answering. “Tell Mr. Bonazzi that I have an office in the Walthon Building.”
The reply took Mickey aback - it had been a very long time since anyone had refused to come at Bonazzi’s beck and call. “Mr. Bonazzi would be pleased to meet wherever you wish, but he has appointments almost continually. He is willing to put at your disposal whatever time is necessary, but traveling to and from a meeting elsewhere would consume much important time. So please accept our most respectful request that you join him here in the office. We would be happy to send a limousine for you.”
“I have a car. I also have my own work to do. If Mr. Bonazzi wants to see me, it will be where I say. Give him that message. Goodbye.” Without waiting for a reply, he hung up.
Mickey sighed as he dropped the phone on the frame. These old wops are all alike. You can reason with a block of cement better than you can with them. They all have this phony facade of pride which a fist in the face turns into jelly. He flipped a switch on the intercom.
“Carlo, Mickey here. DiStephano said you can meet him at his office. I used a few flowery phrases, but he told me to shove them up my ass.”
Carlo chuckled. “Those old bastards never change. Incidentally, what kind of person is he?”
“A first class civilian. The word downtown is that he’s smart and tough. He’s worth six, seven millions, most of it in real estate. We had dealings with him a few years ago over some property. He wanted top dollar, so we dropped it. No skeletons in the closet. All of his kids are heavyweights, except that hellion, Dominic. The best way to describe him is stubborn. With some people you can scare that crap out of them, but I’m wondering about this one.”
“Okay. Check out his office. We’ll have the talk there. Set it up as soon as possible.”
That afternoon, when Louise Flori, Ettore’s bookkeeper for over thirty years, picked up the phone to make a call, she was annoyed at static on the line which made speaking difficult. She made another call a few minutes later, and found the static gone. An hour or so afterwards, a small man dressed in work clothes and carrying a tool box entered the office.
He flipped open a pad. “Is your number here 386-4300?”
Louise nodded. “Yes. Why?”
“I’m from the phone company. We had reports of static on the lines. Are yours okay?”
“They are fine now, but I did hear static a few calls back.”
“I’ll check them out.” He lifted the phone in Louise’s office, jiggled the receiver to test the signal, then unscrewed the receiver and looked inside. “Seems okay,” he said. “Any other phones?”
She got up. “In here,” she said, leading him into Ettore’s bright, comfortable office.
The man checked the phone on Ettore’s desk. “Here it is,” he said. “In the line. Must be a short. I’ll fix it right away.”
“All right, but don’t disturb anything.” She walked back to her desk and continued typing a letter.
The moment Louise was out of sight, the man opened his tool box to take out an anti-bugging meter, a tube fourteen inches long and three inches in diameter. He pressed a signal button, then aimed the meter around the room. Nothing registered. Quickly he looked about for any wires leading to the desk or bookcases. There were none. He checked the voltage on the phone connector box, then the four electric plugs. All registered normal. He took from his pocket a round unit the diameter and twice the thickness of a silver dollar with an adhesive on one side and affixed it under a shelf of a bookcase.
Closing his tool box, he walked into the outer office. “Nothing much,” he said to Louise. “Just a connection that needed tightening.” With a brief wave, he walked out.
Down the street he stepped into a parked car and sat next to a fat, perspiring man. “His office is clean,” he said.
The fat man wiped his forehead. “Fine. How are you going to tap the conversation? Will you bug the office tonight?”
“No need to. I have a transmitter already in place. The battery is good for only thirty-six hours. When’s the meeting?”
“Tomorrow at ten.”
“No sweat. I’ll check it now to make sure.” He took a case from the back seat and opened it on his lap. Inside was a transistorized recording machine with several dials and a microphone shaped like an overblown pistol. He switched on the recorder, then picked up the gun and aimed it at the windows of Ettore’s office. Immediately the two men heard the tapping of a typewriter. It stopped, then came the sound of a drawer being opened. The man shut off the set. “Works great. The noise was from the outer office. The door will probably be closed during the meeting so all those sounds will be cut out.”
Ettore and Vincent entered the office at half past nine. Vincent looked round with fond memories of the many times he had visited here with his father. The solid walnut desk still gleamed with polishing, and barely appeared its thirty years of age, the matching swivel chair, two arm chairs, and two straight backs were also in fine condition. The horsehair sofa along one wall had given up its ghost and been replaced by a soft leather one. Two bookcases, each as high as the ceiling, were filled with old records.
Mickey had phoned back an hour later to say that Bonazzi was prepared to meet him at his office, and to ask courteously if ten o’clock the following morning would be convenient. When Ettore agreed, Mickey said he would be accompanying Mr. Bonazzi and could Mr. DiStephano please tell him who would be along with him. Ettore stated that his son, Vincent, would attend the meeting.
The family discussed this unexpected turn of events for hours. All reached the same conclusion that Bonazzi wanted to settle the affair peacefully. What consumed hours of talk was what he had to offer.
Vincent sat in one of the armchairs, watching his father rustle through some papers on his desk. This was a ritual of Ettore, although he always left his papers in perfect order before leaving the office. Louise, in her thirty years of working for Ettore, had straightened up his desk but once, and had not done it since. The cleaning woman dusted, vacuumed and washed Ettore’s office only when he was in the room. He would lift the items on his desk, she would clean the vacated spots swiftly, then he would replace the items on their previous locations.
“Papa, who is Mickey Giannotti?”
Ettore paused in fingering papers. “I’ve never heard of him. If he looks anything like he sounds over the phone, he must be a tough one.”
Bonazzi and Mickey, in the gleaming Rolls Royce moving rapidly across central city, listened carefully to Ettore and Vincent on a receiver linked to the transistorized recorder now being operated by the bug-man.
“He must be a close confident of Bonazzi,” said Vincent.
Ettore stopped rattling the papers and peered at Vincent. “All right, Vince, you’ve never made a casual remark in your life. What are you thinking?”
“Vito received a call late last night from one of his people back east. He reported that the Universal Investment Corporation is a front for Mafia money. You were asleep when he took the message and we decided not to wake you up.”
“It’s good you didn’t because that’s not earth shattering news.”
“Well, if so, and if what Giannotti said is correct, that he is Chief of Security, then his presence at the meeting can have two interpretations; one, that Giannotti is Bonazzi’s trigger man and is coming here to size us up for an out and out fight if Bonazzi doesn’t get what he wants, or two, the Mafia Dons have placed him with Bonazzi to make sure he doesn’t do anything which could affect their investments.”
“I see what you mean. If Bonazzi does something which gets his name in the newspapers, the Dons might become disturbed.”
“Exactly.”
Carlo glanced over at Mickey. “Good reasoning. The Judge thinks clearly. But did you get that remark about Donini? He’s the dangerous one.”
They heard a door open an
d footsteps.
Ettore looked up as Louise came in. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“You know I always go out at nine thirty for coffee and a Danish. Maybe you’ll remember after another thirty years.” She turned to Vincent. “Hi, Judge. How’s the head?”
“Still ringing.” He eyed her stocky form. “You’ve lost weight lately.”
Louise laughed. “Vince, you’re the world’s biggest liar, but I love it.” She turned back to Ettore. “How’s the phone now?”
“I don’t know. Was something wrong with it?”
“Yes. There was static during a call, then the telephone serviceman came by and said it was a loose connection.”
“If he showed up the same day, you’re lucky,” said Vincent dryly. “In New York you faint if he drops by within a week.”
“I didn’t call for him, he just walked in. He said other phones in the vicinity were also having static.”
“That’s service...... “ Vincent stopped talking at Ettore’s motions to be quiet.
Ettore signaled Louise out of the room. “Okay, Louise, glad everything was taken care of. Vince, Louise has some papers I’d like you to look over.” He motioned for Vincent to leave and come back noiselessly.
“Okay, Papa,” said Vincent, leaving the outer office with Louise, then returning stealthily.
In the interim Ettore was searching the room. He checked under his desk, the chairs, sofa, then the bookcases. He spotted the transmitter at once and pointed it out to Vincent.
In the Rolls Royce, Mickey shook his head. “I think they’ve found the bug.”
“Perhaps not,” said Carlo.
“I bet you won’t hear anything but the local news from now on.”
Carlo shrugged.
For the few minutes remaining before Bonazzi’s car arrived at Ettore’s office building, it was exactly as Mickey had said. The two DiStephanos spoke, but it was nothing talk.
Ettore and Vincent remained seated as Louise showed Bonazzi and Mickey into the office and closed the door. Mickey was an eyeful and the DiStephanos scrutinized him carefully before turning their attention to Bonazzi.
I Contadini (The Peasants) Page 20
