But DiSalvi was throwing a monkey-wrench into his plans. He was advising caution, looking pointedly at Manny as he told him not to “go quitting his job” or making drastic changes. There was the matter of the funds transferring—this would take seventy-two hours—three full days, although verification could be confirmed today.
DiSalvi had legal documents in his briefcase, but he kept sending and receiving faxes to a paralegal he addressed on the phone as Holly. Again, looking at Manny, he said, “You are going to have to declare this as income and pay taxes on it. I’d like you to make an appointment with me for next week; we can start setting up your portfolio.”
Manny said, “Yeah sure.”
DiSalvi had IRS forms for Morgan to sign, including a notarized letter authorizing the transfer of funds. He said to Manny, “Do you have a banking preference?”
“Er … uh … I have an account at Bank of America.”
“Perfect.” He handed Manny a form, the top half showing the name of Mega Films, Incorporated, with a bank account number and the amount of ten million dollars. Manny had to pause and count the zeroes. The bottom portion of the form was for the recipient’s bank name and address, as well as personal information, including his social security number. Manny wrote his information in the required spaces, using Klein’s laptop to log onto his web banking site so he could get his routing numbers. He entered his password and pulled up his account. He had three hundred dollars and some change in it. Not for long, he thought.
At DiSalvi’s instruction Morgan called his bank, faxing the letter and another form immediately. Eighteen minutes later the request for transfer was confirmed. Morgan had signed everything, Manny nothing, and now DiSalvi gave Morgan copies of the documents he had signed. “For your accountant,” he said. “It’s all legitimate.”
Morgan snorted. “You mean laundered?”
DiSalvi smiled. “Well, you won’t have to worry about the IRS knocking on your door, that’s for sure.”
He said to Manny, “I’ll have Holly set an appointment for next week. She’ll call you in a day or two.”
DiSalvi got up to go and Klein said, “Billy, you’re the best. What do we owe you for this?”
DiSalvi said, “I’ll take the yellow-diamond engagement ring displayed in the front window.”
Klein didn’t look too happy. “Hah, we might have to renegotiate that one.”
Suddenly nervous about parting with the necklace, Manny said, “Are we done here? Everything’s all set—I mean, is the money really mine?”
DiSalvi smiled. “It’ll be in your account within the hour. You just won’t be able to access it for three days.” He offered Manny his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Bommarino. You’re a wealthy man.”
Chapter Forty-Two
After Anthony Morelli left Ari Klein’s shop with his leather attaché, Franco felt an immense relief. Looking at Nathan, who’d played his role as the Jewish merchant to perfection, he continued the charade by saying, “Thanks a lot, Ari.”
Nathan shook his hand. “I’m happy to have helped. I’ll call you next week, Franco. We’ll do lunch.”
Morgan, departing with them, said, “Manny, I think you can afford to buy us lunch,” and right then Franco was relegated to another hour of make-believe. He was shocked at how easily they’d pulled it off, and wondered just exactly who it was who’d been advising Anthony in his role as attorney. The forms had been legit—they were moving money, just not in the direction Manny or Morgan had been given to believe. Anthony was a fabrication, but DiSalvi’s law firm did exist. Franco had questioned Louie about this. “Do you have somebody on the inside?”
Louie had smiled mysteriously, refusing to reveal the far-reaching tentacles of his plan. It was enough that he had Franco on board. They’d met last night at Runway 84. The Fort Lauderdale restaurant was close to Franco and one of his favorites, but he had hardly eaten a bite, watching Victor shovel it in. It had been Louie and Anthony, Victor, Nathan, and the other guy, the ex-con whom Manny had known in the joint. Obviously, Louie had provided incentive for Chucky to renounce his friendship because he was certainly a player, responsible for hacking into Manny’s computer and conjuring millions that would never exist.
Initially, Louie had planned to impersonate Ari, but there was no doubt Manny would recognize him. So Louie tapped Nathan, a guy Franco knew nothing about, but from the respectful way Louie treated him, Franco deduced his importance. They were all battle-hardened, excited about putting their boots on the ground, and with a warm camaraderie between them. Even Chucky seemed at ease, excited in his nervous, nerdy way. But Franco understood they were all on the payroll, with Louie and Nathan commanding top billing and Anthony a close second. Chucky and Victor, who was doing nothing, were also on the take for an undisclosed sum. Only Franco, who had set up Manny and Morgan, remained unmentioned in the distribution process. Yet, of them all, Franco was the only one who was flat busted and broke.
It was understood Franco was the weak link, the one who would have to be propped up. At the end of the evening, Louie put his arm around Franco and said, “I don’t want you worrying tomorrow. You worry too much. This is going to come out all right, and then I’m going to take care of you. I give you my word. You don’t doubt me, do you?”
* * *
Louie’s plan had gone off beautifully, and now they were all victorious and rich. Franco had played his part perfectly, reeling Morgan in and telling Manny that Louie was paying him good money to manage the night shift, for what other explanation could he have for being at the Walker the night they showed Morgan the diamond?
Louie had told Franco the diamond was a fake. Ari Klein, the real Ari Klein, had evaluated it. “All those years, and it’s worthless,” he said. “A fraud.”
Franco wondered about this. Looking at the necklace, he certainly couldn’t tell. But it no longer mattered to him because with Louie involved, he had no claim to it. He would do as he was told and hope for the best. Now, with the big scam having been played out, Franco accompanied Manny and Morgan to Renato’s for his final act.
Exiting Klein’s jewelry store, Franco observed a police cruiser parked at the curb, and his heart kicked up a notch. It was high noon and a well-heeled lunch crowd was mingling with the shoppers on Worth Avenue. The day was perfect, cloudless and sunshiny, with temps in the high seventies.
At Renato’s Franco would have preferred a Jack and Coke, but Morgan ordered a bottle of California white. He was talkative, bullshitting Manny about his movies.
Manny said, “Now that I’ve got some money, I’m thinking of going into the business myself. A man’s gotta do something worthwhile.”
The lunch that followed, pleasant enough, turned out to be the longest hour of Franco’s life. He just couldn’t wait to get away from Palm Beach—he’d almost had a heart attack seeing the cop, despite having been told that Ari had informed his security company that he was having a meeting at the store today. The company would log this with the Palm Beach police department; thus, they could come and go without being disturbed.
Franco was exhausted, glad when the salads and pasta were cleared from the table. Manny paid for the lunch with his credit card, leaving a generous tip. Morgan, who had no desire to wait any longer for his treasure, allowed Manny to use his i-Pad to check his bank balance. When Manny let out a loud whoopee, startling nearby diners, Franco knew the final act had been played. He did his part, whistling at the obscene sum that showed in Manny’s account, with the words: “As per Federal regulation, a seventy-two hour hold is mandated before funds can be accessed.”
Manny did the decent thing and slipped the Blue Diamond into Morgan’s hands.
Chapter Forty-Three
Franco’s lack of appreciation for Manny’s generosity had Manny bristling. At first, Manny thought Franco didn’t believe him when he promised him a million dollars. “I
couldn’t have done it without you, Franco,” he’d told him in Klein’s office. “I’m going to take care of you.”
Franco should have been thrilled about receiving this bounty, but he was distant and preoccupied. Maybe he thought Manny was going to stiff him, and on the drive home, Manny repeated his offer. “Don’t worry, Franco. I owe you,” he said. “One million smackeroos coming your way, baby.”
“Sure,” said Franco tiredly.
“What’s the matter, you don’t think it’s enough?”
“It’s plenty, Manny. I appreciate you thinking of me. But I’ve got a bad headache, that’s all. A migraine.”
Manny had never heard of Franco having migraines, but he was too absorbed in his own happiness to be suspicious. Transferring to his Tacoma in front of Franco’s Fort Lauderdale rental, Manny looked at the cracked concrete walkway and said, “Man, you’ll be able to buy your house back from the bank.”
“I can’t wait,” said Franco, getting out of the car. He headed up to the house, not bothering to ask Manny in. “I’ll call you in the morning, bro.”
In the morning Manny was tempted to tell Edward to fuck off. But he remembered DiSalvi’s advice: “Don’t do anything drastic—no quitting your job.” So Manny went to work. Down to his last days as a slave laborer, he breezed through the first couple of hours. At nine o’clock he checked his bank balance, savoring the sight of all the zeroes. Then, just before noon, twenty-four hours since he’d become a rich man, he checked in and saw that the zeroes had vanished. They had simply disappeared, wiped away. A dreadful, sinking feeling came over him, and he rushed to his Bank of America branch near Hialeah. He was apprehensive going in and, handing his account number to the teller, he asked her to let him know how much was in it. She clicked a few buttons on her terminal, yawned, and said, “Three hundred eighty three dollars and twenty-two cents.”
This was the paltry amount he’d had before the transfer. Manny said sharply, “What happened to the rest of it?”
She frowned, returned to her monitor. “There is no rest of it.”
“But … but … I had more—”
She said, “Just a moment. I’ll have you talk to the manager.”
The manager was a middle-aged black woman. She said, “Mr. Bommarino, I understand you think you should have more money in your account. But there has been no activity since your last withdrawal five days ago. I’ve printed your transactions for the past month.”
“I was expecting a transfer—”
“Nothing’s arrived today. You can always check later.”
Something cold bit down hard in Manny’s belly, he felt like he’d swallowed a block of ice. Forcing himself to stay calm, he said, “But I saw this amount earlier, when I checked my balance online.”
“Hmm,” said the manager. She used her computer to check Manny’s online balance; it matched the banks. Manny’s millions—if they had ever really existed—were gone. The woman said, “Everything looks to be in order. Perhaps you misread your earlier balance? I know that can happen—we all have our days. Your account is intact, but you may wish to change your password—”
Password—he’d given DiSalvi his password yesterday. Standing in front of the bank manager, Manny’s brain stirred to life as he considered how smoothly the transaction had gone. Not lost on Manny was the knowledge that Franco had set him up with Morgan and Klein. No wonder Franco hadn’t been excited about getting his cut; he knew Manny had nothing to give. And now Morgan had the Blue Diamond and Manny was penniless, robbed of his precious inheritance, swindled.
Without saying another word to the manager, Manny turned on his heels and walked out. He knew he’d been had, set up by the traitor, Franco. He tried to make sense of what DiSalvi had told him—the lawyer was real, wasn’t he? Suddenly sick to his stomach, Manny vomited into a trash bin like a wino. A woman entering the bank stared at him, asking if he was okay. Manny got into his laundry truck and took off.
Ironically, as soon as Manny turned into traffic, an ad for Ari Klein Jewelers came over the radio. The ad mentioned three locations, and Manny blindly turned toward the one closest to him: Bal Harbour. He’d start with Ari, even though it was Franco he was planning to kill.
Chapter Forty-Four
For some reason Franco’s kids were off school this week. The boys, aged six and eight, entered the house with their overnight bags and electronic gizmos, the oldest boy, Brent, hooking his Xbox to the television in the living room.
Franco hadn’t been happy when Kathy called him last night and told him she’d bring them by today. He was too tired and depressed, too down on himself, to be an effective parent, but the sight of his children cheered him considerably. Kathy was another matter. She looked okay, a little thinner. She was younger than Franco, thirty-five, with shoulder-length blond hair, narrow hips, and a pair of double D-implants that had cost him a bundle. Years of sunbathing was starting to take a toll on her skin, with fine lines showing around her blue eyes.
Kathy had once been his hairdresser. He’d rescued her from the salon by marrying her, although he knew she’d returned to her former occupation. She and his kids were now living in his in-laws’ house, a fact which Franco lamented. He wanted to apologize for being such a fuck-up, but Kathy was all business. She said, “They didn’t eat breakfast. You’ll have to give them a good lunch.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t starve.”
She looked disdainfully at his counter, her mouth turning down at the sight of the empty bottle of Jack. “Do you even have food in the house?”
“Enough.” Franco shrugged. “I’ll take them to McDonald’s.”
She was watching him. “You don’t look good. You’ve lost weight.”
“So have you.”
“You look sad, Franco. Are you?”
Sad. She’d pegged him perfectly, but then she always did know him best. It’s why he had married her. “Yeah, I guess I am sad. I’ve made a mess of things, Kathy.”
“Huh. You said it.”
“Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking—” he had to stop, tears springing to his eyes, but she, thankfully, took no notice. She called to her kids. “Be good for Daddy,” adding a reminder to Franco to give Alex his Ritalin at three. That got Franco thinking about his kid having ADHD and being pissed off that the pediatrician was drugging him.
Still, Alex was hyper, and after a couple of hours Franco was ready to kiss the pediatrician. He had the boys out on the front lawn, tossing a football around when Manny’s laundry van came to a screeching halt at the foot of the drive. Fear bubbled up in his throat, and he put the football in Brent’s hands and turned him toward the house. “Take your brother inside,” he ordered.
But the kids stood stock-still, staring, open-mouthed, at the maniac who jumped out of the van and charged their father, swinging wildly. Franco dodged and ducked, and Manny said, “You dirty motherfucker. I was going to take care of you—”
Franco parried a punch, got a strong foothold, and shoved Manny against the van. “Come on, Manny,” he said. “Be cool. I got my kids here.”
Manny struggled to break free, but Franco held firm: “You bastard. You set me up—”
“I didn’t get anything out of it, either, Manny. They swindled me too.”
This calmed Manny considerably; he quit fighting Franco. “But you knew about it. You knew they were going to do this to me?”
“Some of it,” Franco admitted.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I was your friend—”
“Yeah, well,” Franco stepped back, releasing his hold on Manny. “I didn’t have a choice—they put a gun to my head.”
“Who did this to me?”
Franco hesitated. Manny’s hand went to his pocket. He seized the butt of a small caliber pistol, a .22, Franco guessed. Manny held it—not quite aiming it at Franco, wh
o said, “Jesus, Manny, put the fucking gun away.”
“Tell me who did this to me.”
“Morelli: But he didn’t really do it to you, Manny. You’re not out any money—”
“The fuck I ain’t. Bo’s diamond—”
“It’s a fake. Morelli told me he had Klein—the real Klein, evaluate it.”
Manny eyes narrowed. His face looked pinched and fearful; the gun in his hand shaking. “You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“You lied about everything else.”
“Yeah, well you’re so smart. How come you couldn’t figure it out? Do you think I’d go back to my hotel and work for Morelli after he kicked me out? You swallowed that one, no questions asked.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I told you: they didn’t give me a chance to say no. It’s their way or no way. And he’s pissed at you for taking a dump on Tara’s carpet.”
“Motherfucker. I don’t know who to kill first, you or him.” Raising the gun, he pointed it at Franco’s chest.
Franco held his breath, but he wasn’t really afraid. He saw Manny’s nerve was faltering, much as his own nerve had failed the day he turned a gun on Morelli. Still, Manny was clearly distraught. His eyes were wild and glazed, he looked drunk or insane. Then Manny’s gaze darted beyond Franco to where his kids stood watching, eyes round with fear, and he said, “Fuck,” jamming the pistol back into his pocket. “I’ll get you, motherfucker,” he muttered. “I will. You’ll see—”
Again, his eyes grazed the kids, the peaceful neighborhood—one man coming down the sidewalk with a black Lab in tow—and he said, “This ain’t over, Franco. I’ll be back, and when I do, it’s over for you.”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 22
