The Predators

by Harold Robbins

  “Hoffa’s on our side. They set up all the arrangements for us in L.A.”

  “That’s what I want to hear,” I said. “If they are still on my side or not.”

  “What if they are out?” Buddy asked.

  “Then I’m out of business,” I said. “I’ll have to go back to Europe—to France, and then over to Sicily to find out where the problem is. I’ve always been straight with them. If there is a problem here they will have to straighten it out for me.”

  “And if they don’t?” Buddy asked.

  “I’m fucked,” I answered. “Then I’m back in the used-car business.”

  “That’s a long time ago. We ain’t done that since after the war,” Buddy said.

  “That’s right,” I said, and poured us both another drink.

  20

  It was seven in the morning when the telephone rang. I rolled over in my bed and picked up the phone. “Hello,” I growled.

  “Mr. Cooper?” It was a strange voice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Detective Schultz out of the West Side Station,” he said. “I’m one of the detectives who talked to you at Felder’s restaurant.”

  “I remember,” I said, still groggy.

  “The guy whose balls you popped off is still in the hospital. He ain’t very happy,” Detective Schultz said.

  “Fuck him,” I said. “I don’t give a shit about him.”

  “We found out who he is,” Detective Schultz said. “He’s a hood out from New York. Johnny Terrazano. A wiseguy from the Carlino family back there in the East.”

  “So, what about him?” I asked.

  “You know him?” the detective asked.

  “Never saw him in my life,” I said.

  “Did you ever have any business with the Carlino family?”

  “No,” I answered. “I’m in the bottled-water business. That’s got nothing to do with the rackets.”

  “You have any idea why he’d want to fire a bullet at you?” he asked.

  “None at all,” I answered.

  There was a long silence on the phone.

  “We still have your gun,” he said. “You’ll have to come down to the station house so that you can sign for it.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” I said. “I’ll come around for it in a day or so.”

  “You’re not worried that some other wiseguy might want to take a shot at you?” He laughed.

  “What the hell for?” I said. “I got nothing they want.”

  I put down the phone. I knew what they wanted, but it didn’t make any sense to me why they went after me with a gun. All they had to do was talk to me. We could always make a deal. I swung my feet off the bed and picked the phone back up and called Buddy.

  “The cop just called me and told me where the guy came from. He’s out of the Carlinos,” I said. “I still don’t understand why they want to take me out.”

  “I’ve been on the phone, too,” Buddy said. “I think I know why it’s all happening. Last night I called Cioffi in Scottsdale. He told me that the Carlinos were unhappy that you didn’t give them Plescassier when you brought it back into the States. They complained that you made the deal with Anastasia, and all they got from it was a lot of grief and they lost money. They say you’ve been making a lot of money out here with the water, and when you started you gave them nothing.”

  “That’s bullshit!” I said. “If anybody made any money out of it the first time, it was them. They sold everything out whether I liked it or not. I was just lucky enough to have enough to pay J. P. back. I used my own money to live on. I got nothing for all my work. Those greedy bastards.”

  “What the hell can you do about it? Argue with them?” he said. “They’re not in the business of arguments. They want the whole ball game.”

  “They still can’t own the name Plescassier unless they buy it from me. And that stupid wop water that they try to sell won’t make them a cent. Nobody even knows about it.”

  I thought for a little bit and then I had an idea. “Buddy, didn’t you hear that my Uncle Harry had a big bottling and distribution setup that covers the East?”

  “That’s right!” Buddy said. “Damn, I should have had this one figured out. Uncle Harry was always in with the Carlinos. Even years ago, when he gave them his betting and numbers business. Then they had to have backed him in his bottling business, after he ripped it off from you.”

  “The son of a bitch!” I said. “I bet he’s doing pretty good.”

  “He’s a millionaire, from what I hear,” Buddy said. “I know a lot of people that keep in touch with him. He and his wife are pretty big in Jewish society.”

  I sat there on the side of the bed, tapping my toe, while I thought. Finally I spoke again to Buddy. “You just get our bottles back on the shelves of the distributors. Hire bodyguards for every one of the places. Meanwhile, I’m going to get in touch with the Frenchman. I have an idea.”

  21

  The next morning I was in Paris. I checked into the George V and called Paul at his office. Fortunately, he was in town. We decided that we would have lunch in the hotel. It was easy for him. His office was just across the street. And it would give me a little extra time to rest; the nine-hour time difference had me exhausted.

  We sat down for lunch at noon. I didn’t waste any time. Quickly, I told him what had happened and the ideas that I had to keep me from losing my ass.

  Paul smiled. He was Corsican. There was nothing better for a Corsican than being able to screw someone who is getting ready to screw you. They call that justice.

  I asked him if he thought J. P. would give me the okay. Paul nodded. “All you can do is ask him,” he said. “Right now he will be in the Plescassier offices on the Champs-Elysées. I’ll call him immediately. I have his private number.”

  “Thank you, Paul,” I said. “Have you seen Giselle? I’ve always wanted to give her a call, but I didn’t know if that would have been the proper thing to do.”

  Paul looked at me for a moment. “You did right,” he said. “My niece is a very sensitive girl, and I know that her relationship with you was always on her mind.”

  “She never told me that she was your niece,” I said. “All she ever told me was that you were a friend of the family.”

  “Her mother is my sister,” he said. “But in Lyons nobody was supposed to know that she was Corsican. Because in Lyons, the Corsicans are not accepted.”

  “I can’t believe that. After all of these years, they still don’t like to talk about it?”

  Paul laughed. “My brother-in-law still does not even speak to me.” He lit a Gitane. “I can never even go into my sister’s home.”

  I lit up a Lucky. “Do you think we’ll be able to see J. P. this afternoon?”

  “Of course,” he said, then smiled. “It’s like you say in America. I have clout.” And he left the table to use the telephone.

  * * *

  I had never been in J. P.’s office in Paris. He had the same office that his father and grandfather had before him. The single large penthouse, nine stories above the Champs-Elysées, with large windows facing the Arc de Triomphe. The furnishings were cherry mahogany, with leather and glass. J. P. held out his hand and greeted me warmly. “Bienvenue” he said as we shook hands.

  I looked at him. He looked well, still a very handsome man, even though he had taken on a little weight. “How are you?” I asked. “And Giselle and the children?”

  “They are all very fine,” he said. “I’m sorry that they are not here to see you, but they are in Cannes. This winter has been terrible in Paris.”

  “I’m sorry, too, that I can’t see them. But maybe some other time,” I replied.

  He waved me to the chair opposite his desk. “Now, tell me what brings you back to Paris.”

  I told him succinctly what had happened. Then I gave him the picture as I saw it in the States. “The Mafia wants Plescassier out of the States. They think they can sell their own so-called Italian water
in its place.”

  “They’re never going to be able to do it!” J. P. said angrily. “They don’t know it yet, but even if they knock out Plescassier, that won’t be the end of their problems. All the French waters are already into the States. Perrier. Evian. Volvic. Contrex and many others. The French water already has the reputation that we have made for all of them.”

  “I won’t argue with that,” I said. “But Plescassier is still a large investment in America. It won’t be good for your company’s reputation if Plescassier falls out of the American market.”

  He leaned back in his chair and took a large cigar from the box on his desk. Carefully he snipped the end so that he could place it in his mouth; then he took out a Zippo lighter, probably a war souvenir. He rolled the cigar gently around until it was comfortably lit. Then he let out a large smoke ring and, through it, looked at me. “And what do you think we should do?”

  “The first thing I have to know is what you are planning to do. I heard that you would like to sell Plescassier to a Swiss company. True or false?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Yes and no. I am in negotiation with another company, but it is nowhere near being completed. But you are right. If we lose the States, part of the value of Plescassier will be less.”

  “I would like to sell Plescassier America to the Mafia. If you okay the sale, they would pay me and I’m out of their way. But, of course, they wind up fucked, because you have sixty-five percent of the company and you sell them the water. If you sell your complete company, then nobody has to sell them the water.”

  J. P. watched me as I spoke and I could see the wheels in his head turning. “You have a buyer?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “The man who wanted my life, whatever I did. If he thinks that I have to sell Plescassier to him, he’ll be in heaven.”

  “Who is he?” J. P. asked. “And does he have the money?”

  “He is my uncle, who screwed me out of my father’s life savings that he left for me,” I said. “He is a real millionaire and a partner in the biggest bottling plant on the East Coast of the United States with the Carlino family. One of the five important Sicilian Mafia families in the United States.”

  “And how do you know about all of this?” J. P. asked.

  “I started working for him selling carbonated water over the counter before the’ war,” I answered.

  He sat there silently again for a moment, then nodded. “You do it,” he said. “I will be behind you all the way.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He laughed. “Don’t thank me. Just have dinner tonight with the four musketeers. Jack, Paul, you, and me. And believe me, we’ll pour you on the plane for your return trip to the States in the morning. You still have a lot of work to do.”

  22

  It was snowing in New York when I landed at Idlewild Airport just before noon. I took a cab to the Plaza. I checked into a room and fell into bed and slept. I couldn’t handle the nightlife with the Frenchmen. I couldn’t keep up. J. P., Paul, Jack, and I had gone into every cabaret in Paris and Dom Pérignon never stopped being poured. J. P. was right, they did pour me onto my flight to New York. But I had to sleep now because I was supposed to meet Buddy at eight o’clock for dinner.

  I was rested, shaved, showered, and waiting for him when he arrived. “Let’s go to the Palms on Second Avenue for dinner,” I said. “I’ve been waiting for a good sirloin steak for a long time.”

  Buddy looked at me. “How can you be hungry with all the shit that’s flying around?”

  “We’ll make it,” I said. “Where’s Ulla and the kids?”

  “I left them in L.A. I put a blanket around the house,” he said. “Nobody’s going to get near them.”

  I called the Palms and we went downstairs to get a cab. On the way, I filled him in on my talk with J. P. and I leaned back in the dirty cab and looked at him. “Now you’ve got to make a connection that can take me to Uncle Harry and at the same time get me next to one of the capos in the Carlino family to straighten everything out.”

  Buddy looked at me. “And when do you expect me to do all that?”

  “By tomorrow morning,” I said as we walked into the restaurant.

  The steaks were great. You didn’t get steaks like this anywhere except New York. In California, they call them New Yorks, but they don’t compare. Charolais in France are too soft and mushy. Black Angus out of Scotland are not too bad. But this is New York. The sirloin top of the world.

  Buddy wiped his mouth when he finished his steak. “You’re right,” he said. “I really prefer barbecued ribs, but this is something else.”

  “Where are you staying?” I asked. “Just in case I have to get you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be in the St. Therese on St. Nicholas Avenue in Harlem. I’ll be getting up early in the morning. I have to catch some of my old policy books so they can give me all the lowdown on Uncle Harry.”

  I stared at him. “How will they know about him now? He’s a rich man.”

  “Your Uncle Harry may be seventy-two years old, but he’s never changed. He still likes a bit of black ass every now and then.” He laughed. “Still the same old prick.”

  I shook my head. “But what about Kitty?”

  “She’s running his business. She’s got him, not only by his balls, she’s also got him by his bank accounts.”

  We both laughed.

  * * *

  It was eleven in the morning that Buddy called me for the first meeting. He said it would be in an Italian restaurant on Lexington Avenue, not far from Bloomingdale’s. I didn’t know then, but that was the midtown meeting place for all the families. Our meeting was with a capo from the Carlino family and a wiseguy from the Colombo family.

  But this was not the important meeting. This was an “arrange the important meeting” meeting. It was decided at this meeting that I would meet with Frank Costello in the corner of the Norse Room of the Waldorf-Astoria for lunch at twelve-thirty the next day. Costello had his own table every day at lunch in the far corner from the entrance. There would be only one person seated at the table with him. Miss LaJunta White, a friend of Mr. Costello. And I was supposed to go alone. No Buddy, no niggers with me. I was also supposed to explain the deal in detail to Mr. Costello and show him the agreements, proving that I was legitimate.

  Lunch this time was linguine with fresh clams. Dessert was cannolis and espresso. And for the first time, I had the feeling that the whole deal was going to work, because the wiseguy picked up the check.

  The Norse Room in the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel was a very large, high-ceiling dining room whose thin tall windows looked onto Lexington Avenue. The maître d’ held a pen in his hand and pointed to me.

  “I’m Mr. Cooper,” I said. “I have an—”

  The maître d’ nodded quickly, interrupting me. “I know, sir,” he said. “Please follow me.”

  He took me to the table in the far corner. Costello was not a very tall man. He had a nice golden suntan and black hair with gray at the temples. Miss White was an attractive lady with platinum blond hair and a bright smile. She had a glass of champagne in front of her; he had red wine, and I ordered a beer. Mr. Costello came right to the point. “Miss White is my friend and a confidante. You can speak freely in front of her.”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Costello looked at me. “You are the president of Plescassier Water America,” he said. “You have the rights to sell Plescassier in the States by contracts and partnership with the original company in France.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Then, what do you want from me?” he asked directly.

  I looked at him. “A few days ago in Los Angeles, a man tried to shoot me, but he missed and lost one of his balls in consequence.”

  Mr. Costello and Miss White looked at each other and began to laugh. “I’ve heard about that,” Costello said.

  “On this same day, a number of goons entered my distributors’ businesses and remove
d Plescassier from their shelves and replaced them with another supposedly Italian water. Which we have since found out was simply Brooklyn tap water. I arranged immediately for my people to get rid of the phony water and put our water back in place.” I looked at him and took a breath. “This bullshit operation ended up costing me over one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Costello looked at me casually. “Do you know who was behind this?”

  “The police told me the wiseguy that shot at me came from the Carlino family in New York. I was able, by another source, to find out that the phony bottled water came from a bottling plant owned by a relative of mine who has a number of partnerships with the Carlino family.” I looked at Miss White. “May I smoke?”

  “Be my guest.” She smiled.

  I lit up a Lucky. Mr. Costello thought for a moment. “You haven’t ordered lunch yet.”

  “I was waiting for you, sir,” I answered.

  “Miss White and I usually have Caesar salads and that’s all,” he said.

  “Fine.” I smiled. “I’ll just have ham and eggs.”

  The service was special. Apparently everyone there knew Frank Costello. They didn’t want any problems. We ate quickly. He didn’t talk very much. She did most of the talking. She spoke mostly about President Kennedy and the First Lady, Jacqueline. By the time she finished I knew everything about the Kennedys. The only thing Costello said about the president was that he knew his father had been in the liquor business in Canada. I told them he was a Democrat and that was fine with me.

  Then lunch was over and Mr. Costello spoke up again. “I notice you have brought a briefcase.”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I have all the contracts and agreements we need to complete the deal. All I need is someone to take the papers and make the deal.”

  “How much are you asking for it?” he asked.

  “Two million dollars to me for Plescassier America,” I answered.

  “Does that include the contracts for the water from the French company?” he asked.

  “That, too, is signed and sealed,” I replied.