by Mavis Kaye
Mariana stopped at her flat, made a few calls, and updated her notes before changing clothes and leaving for The Lollie. At the entrance, two burly black bouncers framed the door. The sound of funky house music blared behind them as they scanned the queue of about fifty people who stood outside the velvet ropes waving for their attention.
Every five minutes or so, they pointed to someone and, after patting them down, allowed them to enter. Mariana stood in line for about ten minutes before moving toward the ropes and flashing her sexiest Friends smile. She had changed into high heels, a red Lagerfeld miniskirt, and a sheer silk blouse that left little to the imagination. That was probably enough, but out of habit she flashed the press credentials that she carried in a small bag when one of the bouncers approached.
Without hesitation, he opened the ropes and, after inspecting her bag, escorted her through the doors.
Inside, the hallway leading to the main room was noisy and crowded with shadowy figures pressed against the walls in intimate embraces. The faint smell of ganja drifted in the air. She started down the stairs toward the dim main floor when someone grabbed at her arm. Startled, she pulled away, but it was only a hostess stopping her to stamp her hand with an invisible brand indicating that she was among the chosen few who had been admitted.
Before stepping down onto the main floor of the huge hall, she took a deep breath and told herself to relax. She had decided that when she saw Freesley she would play it by ear. If the opportunity arose, she would approach and confront him. But she wouldn’t press it, if she had to she would see whom he talked to and try to question them. She’d decided that if necessary she’d even follow Freesley home, find out where he lived, and use that information to step up her investigation.
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She was still relatively new at this, and her mind was racing with possibilities. Her heart was pounding nearly as fast—it was part fear but there was also the thrill of living on the edge.
The dim smoke-filled dance floor was jam-packed with silhouetted figures writhing to the sound of “Fallin’ ” by Alicia Keyes. Standing at the top of the winding stairs leading to the heart of the thumping mix, Mariana peered down at the crowd. Under the flashing colored lights, it was nearly impossible to recognize anyone. She decided to head toward the long bar at the side of the hall; if Freesley was looking for her, she’d be easier to find there.
As she descended the stairs, a young woman in purple leather cigarette pants, an embroidered strapless top, and calf-high stiletto Gucci boots reeled back and forth, clinging to the banister ahead of her. Her long straight hair spilled forward concealing most of her face, which was covered with bizarre purple makeup. Suddenly, when Mariana tried to pass, the woman emerged from her apparent stupor and lurched forward.
“Happy New Year, deary,” she muttered in a garbled Cockney-sounding accent as she embraced Mariana and tried to kiss her. Mariana quickly recoiled and, pushing her away, continued down the stairs. “Too good for me, you bloody bitch!” she heard from the stair-well as she elbowed her way onto the dance floor.
Despite her heels, she couldn’t see anything but the dancers surrounding her as she pressed forward through the mob of hip-hop fanatics who bumped and rubbed against her. Snoop Dog’s “Tha Last Meal” blared from the speakers, and, as she strained her neck to look for Freesley, she was also busy pushing away the sweaty hands that randomly swiped at her. When the song ended and the crowd slackened, she pushed ahead trying to make it to the bar before the lull ended.
She was ten feet away from it when she felt a hot, ripping pain in her lower back. A gloved hand closed over her mouth as she fell back into someone’s arms. The pain intensified, and she realized she was being 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 109
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dragged or carried backward toward the lounge chairs at the edge of the dance floor.
The room began to swim and the colored lights swirled above her as a curious calm settled over her. She tried to move her lips to speak but couldn’t utter a word as she was lowered into one of the soft chairs.
The old Naughty By Nature hit “O.P.P.” came on at full blast, then faded as the swirling lights gradually stilled, dimmed, and darkened.
It was three hours later when a waiter finally discovered that the young woman in the Lagerfeld miniskirt who had been reclining in the corner of the lounge area for most of the night had not passed out and spilled a glass of red wine on her silk blouse as they had assumed.
Mariana Blair was dead.
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NINE
Las Vegas / New York—Tuesday, July 31
Las Vegas
“ It ’s go od ! It’s all good!” Brian Woods laughed as he hoisted a double shot of Grand Marnier and gulped it down. “Broads, booze, all the money, and, ah, accessories any paesan could want.” He was sitting with three associates—Carmine “Linguini” Lozzi from Miami, Andy Anfuso from Los Angeles, and “Big Tony” Marintino from New York—in a large booth near the rear of the first floor bar at the Lucky Dragon Casino. Lozzi and Marintino watched with detached amusement as Woods flashed a broad, exaggerated smile and extended his hand out over the table to display manicured nails and a perfect two-and-a-half-carat diamond set in a platinum pinky ring.
“C’mon, drink up!” Woods urged. He waved for a red-haired waitress wearing a skimpy, low-cut outfit and net stockings, and reared back in his seat, fidgeting with the lapels of his slate-gray silk suit. As his eyes darted back and forth between the casino floor beyond the bar 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 112
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and the faces of the three men who sat with him, he drummed the fingers of his ringed hand on the table to the sound of the Al Martino bal-lad that filled the room. A rugged, good-looking thirty-nine-year-old, he had a reputation as a tough, fearlessly confident worker, but tonight his bravura seemed forced. Occasionally he dabbed at the small beads of sweat that uncharacteristically dripped from his dark, slicked-back hair onto the collar of his custom-made shirt.
He was the casino manager and second in command at The Dragon, a second-tier casino in Meadows Village about ten miles from the Las Vegas Strip. It was a run-down section of Vegas where you could rent a room in one of the seamy hotels for as little as $150
per month, less than the nightly rate at most of the plush casinos on the Strip. The Dragon masked its shoddy underside with glitzy accou-terments and lighting, but, despite the veneer, it was mostly frequented by an odd assortment of hustlers, dyed-in-the-wool gamblers, and wanna-be wise guys. Tonight was an exception. Woods and his friend Anfuso, who had grown up in L.A. together after Woods’s family moved from Ohio, were still trying to make their bones. But Marintino and Lozzi were made guys. In town “for a little recreation,”
they had offered, when they called from the MGM Grand, to drop by.
They arrived wearing sandals, florid short-sleeved shirts, and slacks, which had somewhat eased Woods’s anxiety about their sudden appearance.
“Last time I was in Detroit, your name came up,” Lozzi said. He was a stocky, muscular man, and, when he pulled his arms back to rest them on top of the booth, his bulging biceps nearly ripped his shirt sleeve. “You know Victor Pasaro?”
“I was out there a few months ago, but we never met,” Woods said.
“Had to go to Warren on some business with Napolini’s outfit, so I drove up to the Motor City. Not bad, not at all, but a few too many molleres for my taste. Know what I mean?”
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“Damn right,” Lozzi laughed, “motherfuc
kers multiply like rab-bits.”
“Yeah, but you got to use ’em these days if you wanna do business,”
Marintino laughed. “They got some heavy shit goin’ on and we need to get our share. Fact is, we’re thinkin’ about settin’ up our own record company in New York. There’s a lotta money in this rap shit, and it don’t cost nothin’ to turn it out. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know how you listen to that bullshit,” Woods said. “But it don’t matter, the guys out there got it under control. I was treated like a prince over at the Roma Café in the East Market district.
No trouble, none at all. Whenever I travel, I try to pay my respects to the guys that already got their buttons. I know soldiers in Dallas, Chicago, Boston, New Orleans—all over the globe, even Brussels, Amsterdam, and Milano. Yeah, like I say, it’s all good!”
Anfuso smiled and nodded in appreciation. The patronizing expression on Lozzi’s face signaled that he was not impressed, and, when Marintino glanced at him, he averted his eyes and swirled his fork in the pasta marinara that accompanied his veal parmigiana. A moment later the buxom waitress arrived with shots of Jack Daniel’s for Lozzi and Anfuso, and another double Grand Marnier for Woods. When she left, Lozzi turned and watched as she leaned over a nearby table to take an order. “Not bad,” he said, half smiling. “Not bad at all.”
“You want, cugine?” Woods said. “Just say the word, she’s yours.”
Lozzi turned back to the table. His smile faded as he shook his head and declined the invitation. Woods turned to Marintino.
“Tony, have some more vino,” he gushed, picking up the bottle.
“It’s from my private stock, Brunello di Montalcino, 1989. Not like that swill they serve at the Grand.”
Marintino smiled and nodded yes.
“Word is you brought some heavy action to Napolini,” he said, after Woods filled his glass.
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“Yeah, we’re doin’ some business,” Woods said, beaming, “and it’s just the beginning. I got plenty more—”
“How in the hell does an Italian get a name like Brian Woods?”
Lozzi interrupted, a sarcastic grin on his face.
“Sono italiano!” Woods said emphatically.
“Sei sicuro?”
“Damn right I’m sure! I changed my name.”
Lozzi’s grin widened as Woods dabbed at his forehead with a cocktail napkin. He was enjoying every minute of the cocky upstart’s dis-comfort.
“So, why’d you change your name?” Marintino asked.
“Lemme tell you,” Woods said. “You know why I changed my name . . . I, ah, I used to work for a collection agency. I’d call these poor bastards—”
“Watch out, the bullshit’s starting to fly,” Lozzi laughed. He grabbed Marintino, winking as he hugged him. “This motherfucker’s squirmin’ like a stuck pig,” he whispered.
“No! Wait a minute. Wait a minute! This is a true story,” Woods said, anxious to save face.
“Yeah, like the Atlantic City story,” Marintino said. “Atlantic City all over again.”
“No, God’s honest truth,” Woods said. “I swear on my mother’s grave.”
Anfuso laughed, and for the first time during the evening spoke up.
“Not for nothing, Brian, but your mother’s not dead.”
“Then on my grandmother’s grave,” Woods continued, without a hitch. “See, I’d call these mothers and tell them they better pay up—
their phone bills, cable bills, whatever—if they knew what was good for them. You know, I’d suggest that if they didn’t get the money immediately they might develop a serious knee problem—some crap like that. Anything to scare the fuck outta them. So this guy panics and 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 115
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takes me to court, I swear to God. Motherfucker took me to court. He tells the judge that I was threatening him—and, get this, trying to intimidate him by using an Italian name and pretending to be in the mob. . . . I swear to God. And the fucking Irish judge believed him.
Cocksucker said that if I wanted to stay in the collection business I had to stop using my real name.”
“So what happened to the pussy who complained,” Marintino asked.
“I found him and busted his fucking knees—both of them,” Woods laughed. “What the hell did you think I’d do?”
All four men were laughing now. In fact, Lozzi was holding his stomach trying to restrain himself, and Marintino, a huge, squat man who weighed nearly 250 pounds, was coughing and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath.
“So, what the hell is your real name?” Marintino finally asked.
Woods finished his drink and was about to answer when he stopped short. A tall graying man in sunglasses, impeccably dressed in shirt and tie and blue Brooks Brothers suit, was approaching them. Lozzi recognized him immediately and didn’t seem surprised that he was there. He stood up, and the others followed his lead. When the man reached the table, Lozzi stepped forward to embrace him and kiss him on the cheek.
“Hi’ya doin’, cugine,” Lozzi said.
“You don’t wanna know,” the man said with a straight face, then he and Lozzi stepped back and laughed.
“Lemme introduce a friend of ours,” Lozzi said.
It was Victor Pasaro, part of the Detroit outfit that shared control of the midwestern area, which included Michigan and Ohio. Marintino hugged and kissed Pasaro next and then Woods and Anfuso went through the ritual before the men sat back down.
“Seems like you guys were having a great time back here,” Pasaro said. “What’s so funny?”
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“Ah, just bullshitting with Brian—talking about the old days,” Marintino said.
“And what brings you to the bowels of Las Vegas?” Woods asked.
“Don’t you usually hang with the heavyweights over at The Sahara?”
He picked up the Montalcino bottle and gestured toward the new arrival, silently offering him a drink. Pasaro nodded yes, then stopped him when the glass was half filled.
“That’s good,” he said, picking up the glass. “Grazie. It’s early and I don’t want to overdo it. I’m here on business. Napolini’s crew sent me to assist you with the show that begins next week.”
“What! Nobody said anything about it to me.”
“Contact Riccardo if you want. He’ll tell you himself.”
“What the fuck is he thinking? This was my deal. I brought it to them, and I don’t appreciate anyone stepping in and interfering!”
“Hey, paesan, calm down,” Marintino said. “Don’t get your dick hard when there’s nothing to fuck. Listen to the man, it don’t sound like nobody’s taking anything away from you to me.”
“Hell, no! This is mine. I took it to Riccardo because I knew him as a kid. I set up the whole diamond—”
Pasaro slammed his wineglass onto the table, nearly breaking it. “I’d be more careful about what the fuck I said if I was you,” he growled.
“Yeah, I don’t want no details,” Marintino said.
Lozzi shook his head in disgust, pinning Woods with an icy gaze.
Anfuso shrunk back in his seat, visibly shaken. He was amazed that his friend had the balls to challenge a guy who’d already been straightened out. His eyes darted from Woods to Pasaro. Finally, Woods threw up his hands and called the waitress. He ordered another Grand Marnier.
“Yeah, you’re right, cugine,” he said to Pasaro. “We can talk later.
It’s six-thirty. I got time for one more drink before I start working tonight.”
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about that fuck-up in Miami, when you guys popped the wrong Cuban chick and had to run for your lives from that gang of spics?”
“Hey, they all look alike, you know that. Well, maybe you don’t.
You New York guys are trying to be too . . . what’s it called, politically correct. And anyway, we didn’t run, we retreated until the next day and them came back and kicked ass.”
“That ain’t what I heard,” Marintino laughed.
Woods had gotten his drink, and, after gulping it down, he sat glar-ing at Pasaro, visibly upset. The alcohol was taking its effect; he was not only high, he was stewing. Pasaro noticed and glared back at him for a minute, then stood up.
“Maybe we should talk now,” he said.
“You know, I don’t think we should talk at all,” Woods said. “I was warned that something like this might happen. It’s bullshit. I can take this deal somewhere else, you know. You’re not the only family interested in making a fortune off diamonds. It’s my deal.”
“You know, Brian,” Pasaro began. He paused and looked around the room. “Tu serai un problemo. Tu parli troppo.”
“Che dici?”
Pasaro turned and started to walk away.
“Fuck you, Victor!” Woods yelled.
“Sono lava le mani,” Pasaro said before leaving the table and walking to the bar.
Lozzi and Marintino immediately stood up. Marintino hugged Anfuso and, smiling, whispered something in his ear. Then both he and Lozzi hugged Woods before joining Pasaro, who had stopped at the bar and ordered a drink. They spoke for a few minutes before leaving.
“What the hell’s goin’ on,” Anfuso asked Woods.
“Nothing . . . nient!”
Woods brushed pass Anfuso, heading for the casino floor. He paused briefly at Pasaro’s side. “Look, don’t you understand, it’s my deal. I can handle it.”
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When Pasaro ignored him, he turned abruptly and walked away.
