"Why should he be worried? I'm good for them. And he set it up too, didn't he?"
"Well, that's what happened. He didn't set it up. They just thought he did. But because he sent you there, they told him they were holding him responsible. So he's worried. Six thousand dollars is a lot of money."
"Hey! I'm good for it. I got it in my pocket. You call him up and ask if he wants me to come over there right now with it, or whether he can wait until the morning."
"I'm sure it will be okay," Tony said.
"Call him!" Vito said. "Tell him the only reason I didn't make those markers good sooner was that I had to work."
"Okay, honey," Tony said. "Whatever you say."
****
Penelope Detweiler, wearing only the most brief of underpants, her naked bosom bouncing not at all unattractively, was chasing Matthew M. Payne around the upstairs sitting room of the Detweiler mansion in Chestnut Hill when the doorbell, actually a rather unpleasant-sounding buzzer, went off.
Matt Payne sat up in his bed suddenly.
Who the hell is that?
He looked up at the ceiling, where a clever little clock his sister Amy had given him projected the time by a beam of light. It was almost half past one.
Christ, don't tell me Evelyn's come back!
He threw the blankets back angrily and marched naked through the kitchen to the button by the head of the stairs that operated the door lock solenoid and pushed it.
The door opened and Detective Charley McFadden started up the stairs. On his heels was Officer Jesus Martinez, in uniform.
"You took your fucking time answering the doorbell," Detective McFadden said, by way of apology for disturbing Matt's sleep.
"I'll try to do better the next time."
"I thought maybe you had a broad up here," McFadden said as he reached the head of the stairs.
Not anymore. She finally went home, after reluctantly concluding that the only way she was going to be able to make it stand up again was to put it in a splint.
That being the case, where did that erotic dream about Precious Penny come from?
"If there was, you'd still be down there leaning on the doorbell," Matt said. "What do you say, Hay-zus?"
Martinez did not reply.
"You got a beer or something?" McFadden asked. "And why don't you put a bathrobe on or something?"
"Are we going to have a party?"
"No. This is business. We got to talk."
"You know where the beer is," Matt said, and went in the bedroom for his robe.
It smells in here. Essence de Sex.
"You got a Coke or something?" Martinez asked.
"There's ginger ale, Hay-zus," Matt said. "I don't think there's any Coke."
He went to the refrigerator and found a small bottle of ginger ale and handed it to Martinez.
"Thank you."
"Hay-zus thinks he's found a dirty cop at the airport," McFadden said.
Then he probably has. But why tell me?
"Tell Internal Affairs," Matt said.
"I can't go to Internal Affairs. I haven't caught him doing anything, but I got the gut feeling he's dirty," Martinez said.
"I don't understand what you're doing here," Matt said.
"Charley said I should talk to you."
"I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," Matt said. "You want to take it from the beginning?"
"Tell him what you told me, Hay-zus," Charley said, lowering himself with a grunt into Matt's upholstered chair.
"There's a corporal out there," Jesus said. "A flashy Guinea named Lanza, Vito Lanza."
Matt did not reply.
"Just bought himself a new Cadillac," Jesus said. "You can't buy a Caddy on a corporal's pay."
"Maybe his number hit," Matt said, slightly sarcastic.
"He said he won the money in Las Vegas," Jesus said.
'That's possible," Matt said.
"Look at him. He won six thousand when he was out there," McFadden said.
"Yeah, I thought about that. But he's not Lanza."
"What does that mean?" Matt asked.
"You're fucking rich. You don't really give a shit whether you win or lose, and you came home with only six thousand."
"Onlysix thousand? I wish to Christ I had won six thousand," Charley said.
"There's more," Jesus said.
"Like what more?"
"He had almost ten thousand in cash, ninety-four hundred, to be exact, in his car tonight."
"How do you know that?"
"I looked."
"What do you mean, you looked?"
"When Charley and I were in Narcotics, we stopped a guy one night and took a car thief's friend from him," Jesus said. "I kept it."
A car thief's friend, sometimes called a "Slim-Jim," was a flat piece of metal, most commonly stainless steel, suitably shaped so that when inserted into an automobile door, sliding it downward in the window channel, it defeated the door lock.
"In other words, you broke into this guy's car, is that what you' re saying?"
"Yeah, and he had ninety-four hundred dollars in an envelope in the glove compartment, an ashtray full of cigarette butts with lipstick on them, and this."
Martinez threw something at Matt who caught it. It was a book of matches.Oaks and Pines Resort Lodge.
"What's this?"
"It's a fancy place in the Poconos," Jesus said.
"So?"
"I called a guy I know in Vice and asked him did he ever hear about it, and he told me that there's a room in the back for high rollers; that the word is that the Mob owns it."
"So?"
"This doesn't smell to you, Payne?" Martinez said, seemingly torn between surprise and contempt.
"I take back what I said before. You should not go to Internal Affairs. What you have is a guy that gambles. At this lodge, and in Las Vegas. And right now, he's lucky. The only thing I can see he's done illegally is gamble in the Poconos. That's a misdemeanor, as opposed to a felony. Like being in possession of burglar tools is a felony."
"What did I tell you he'd say, Hay-zus?" Charley McFadden said.
"I got thefeeling, Charley," Jesus said. "This guy is dirty."
"What's he doing?"
"They're smuggling drugs through the airport, most likely off Eastern Airlines flights from Puerto Rico, and probably from Mexico City flights too."
"Youknow this?"
"Everybody knows it, Matt," Charley said. "The feds, Customs Service, and the Bureau of Drugs and Dangerous Narcotics…"
"Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs," Jesus interrupted to correct him.
"Whatever the fuck they are, they're all over the place."
"They haven't caught this guy, then, have they?" Matt responded.
"Iwant to catch this fucker," Jesus said.
You're not a detective, Martinez- You're a simple police officer who took the detective's exam and flunked it.
You are an arrogant, self-satisfied shit, aren't you, Matthew Payne? Martinez is not only not a rookie, he's spent a lot of time dealing with drug people when he was in Narcotics. He knows what he's talking about.
"What do you want from me, Hay-zus?"
"I told him he ought to go to Wohl," Charley said. "He says he doesn't want to."
"Why not?" Matt asked, meeting Martinez's eyes.
"I don't work for Wohl anymore, for one thing. And even if I did, how the hell could I go to Wohl and tell him the reason I know this fucker runs around with almost ten thousand in his glove compartment is because I looked?"
"'Broke into his car' are the words you're looking for," Matt said.
"I told Hay-zus Wohl, or at least Pekach, would listen to him. And he could tell them the car was unlocked."
"That's splitting a hair," Matt thought out loud. "That wouldn't wash with either Wohl or Pekach. And I suppose you know that if you'd found ten thousand dollars' worth of cocaine in his glove compartment, it would be inadmissible evidence."
"Hey, I
was a Narc when you were Mr. Joe College Payne," Jesus said. "I know what's admissible and what isn't."
"Hay-zus, you don't have a thing on this guy," Matt said.
"He wants to follow him, andget something on him," Charley said.
"You mean, he wantsus to surveil this guy, right?"
"I told you he'd tell us to go fuck ourselves," Martinez said.
"He can't do it himself, this Dago knows him."
"We're wasting our time. Let's get out of here," Martinez said.
"Hay-zus is usually right, when he smells something," McFadden went on.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Martinez repeated.
"What do you expect to find, Martinez, if we start to follow this guy around?" Matt asked.
"Association with known criminals," Martinez said. "That would give me enough to go to Wohl or Internal Affairs."
He keeps bringing up Wohl. Why? He doesn't work for Wohl anymore. But I do. That's what this is all about. He figures I could go to Wohl.
"For the sake of argument, Hay-zus," Matt said. "Let's suppose we follow this guy, and either he spots us before we catch him with some Mob type, or that you're wrong. He'd really be pissed. And we would have some explaining to do."
"In other words, no, right?"
"I didn't say that," Matt said. "I said what if."
"Then I would take my lumps."
"Weall would takeour lumps," Matt said.
"This guy is dirty," Martinez said. "We're cops."
Matt exhaled audibly.
"What have you got in mind?"
"You don't look like a cop," Martinez said. "You drive a Porsche. You could get into this place in the Poconos."
"How would we know when he was going to be there? And if we did, what am I supposed to do, tell Wohl I want the day off to take a ride to the Poconos?"
"I don't think he'd be going up there in the daytime," Martinez said. "Except over the weekend. He's got Friday-Saturday off. With a little bit of luck, he'd go up there then."
"And what if he just came across this book of matches someplace? Picked it up in a bar or something? You don'tknow that he's ever even been in this place." Matt picked up the matchbook. "Oaks and Pines Resort Lodge."
"Then I'll think of something else," Martinez said.
"Okay, Hay-zus," Matt said. "Let me know what you want me to do, and when you want me to do it."
"See, Hay-zus," McFadden said. "I told you."
"But don't let your Latin-American temper get out of joint if I can't jump when you call. I may be doing a lot of overtime."
"Overtime, you?" McFadden asked.
That was an honest question, Matt decided, not a challenge.
"Special Operations has been given Dignitary Protection. The Vice President's coming to Philly. There's a looney tune out there that wants to blow him up."
"No shit?" McFadden asked.
"Yeah, and the Secret Service thinks this guy is for real."
"What's that got to do with you?"
"Malone is in charge. For the time being, I'm working for Malone."
"We'll just have to see what happens," Martinez said. "If you're working, you're working."
****
When Joe Fierello drove his Mercedes-Benz onto the lot of Fierello Fine Cars at quarter to nine in the morning, he found Vito Lanza waiting for him.
"Don't tell me," Joe said as he got out of his car, "the transmission fell out."
"Not yet," Vito said. "I wanted to take care of my markers."
"Tony tell you I called?" Joe asked, but before Vito could answer, he went on, "Come on in the office. I'm not worth a shit in the morning until I have my coffee."
Fierello's secretary smiled at them as they walked past.
"Darlene, get us some coffee, will you?" Joe said, and as he walked behind his desk, he waved Vito into a chair in front of his desk. "Take a load off. You take anything in your coffee?"
Vito shook his head, no.
"Black both times, darling," Joe called out.
Darlene delivered the coffee and then left, closing the door behind her.
"Nice," Vito said.
"My wife's sister's girl," Joe said. "Anice girl."
"That's what I meant," Vito said.
Joe Fierello smiled at Vito. Vito did not like the smile.
"Like Tony," he said.
"Darlene doesn't go off overnight to the Poconos," Joe said. "You understand?"
"Absolutely."
"Don't misunderstand me, Tony's a nice girl. She's over twenty-one and she can do what she likes.
"I'm sorry there was that confusion about the markers," Joe said.
"They offered me the markers," Vito said. "I didn't ask for them."
"You went up there as my guest; they're holding me responsible for the markers. You're a nice fellow, Vito, but I don't like you six big ones worth. How soon can you make them good?"
"Right now, Joe. That's what I came here for."
He reached in his pocket and took out the envelope from the Flamingo.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
"I'm making good my markers," Vito said, now very confused.
"You don't understand," Joe said. "I'm a businessman. You don't make your markers good with me."
"With who, then?"
"You really don't know, do you?"
"You got me pretty confused, to tell you the truth," Vito confessed.
"Let me make a call," Joe said.
He took a small leather notebook from his jacket pocket, found a number, and dialed it.
"This is Joe Fierello," he said when someone answered. "Could I talk to Mr. Cassandro, please?" He covered the microphone with his hand. "Mr. Cassandro is sort of like the local business agent, you know what I mean?"
Vito nodded.
Business agent, my ass; this Cassandro guy is with the mob.
"Paulo? Joe Fierello. You know those financial documents you were a little concerned about? Well, don't worry. They're good. Mr.Lanza is right here with me now, and he's anxious to take care of them."
He started nodding, and again covered the microphone with his hand. "He says he's sorry, I don't know what the fuck he means."
He removed his hand from the microphone.
"I'm sure Mr. Lanza would be perfectly willing to come wherever you tell him, Paulo," Fierello said, and there was a reply, and then he went on: "Whatever you say, Paulo. He'll be here."
He hung up the telephone and looked at Vito.
"He's coming right over. He said there was some kind of a mix-up, and he wants to make it right. It'll take him five, ten minutes. You got to be someplace else?"
Vito shook his head. "I really don't understand this," he said.
"Neither do I," Joe Fierello said. "So we'll have our cup of coffee, and in five, ten minutes, we'll both know."
****
Ten minutes later, a silver Jaguar drove up the driveway into Fierello Fine Cars, and stopped beside Joe Fierello's Mercedes-Benz. Paulo Cassandro, wearing a turtleneck sweater and a tweed sports coat with matching cap, got out of the back seat.
He looked toward the window of Joe Fierello's office.
"I think he wants you to come out there," Joe said.
Somewhat uncomfortable, but not quite sure why he was, Vito nodded at Joe Fierello and walked out of the building and down the stairs.
Joe Fierello opened the drawer of his desk, took out a 35-mm camera in a leather case, went to the window, and started snapping pictures.
"Mr. Lanza, I'm Paulo Cassandro," Paulo said. "I'm sorry about this."
"I don't understand," Vito said.
"We thought you were somebody else," Paulo said. "Lanza is a pretty common name. You, Mario the singer, and a lot of other people, right?"
"I guess so."
"I hate to tell you this," Paulo said, draping a friendly arm around Vito's shoulders, "but one of your cousins, maybe a second cousin, is a deadbeat. He owes everybody and his fucking brother. We thought it was you."
"I can't think of who that would be," Vito said.
"It doesn't matter. With a little bit of luck, you'll never run into him."
"Yeah," Vito said.
"We're sorry we made the mistake. We never should have bothered you or Joe with this. I hope you ain't pissed?"
"No. Of course not. I just want to make my markers good."
"There's no hurry. Take your time. Once we found out you wasn' tAnthony Lanza, we asked around a little, andyour credit is as good as gold."
"I always try to pay my debts," Vito said. "I like to think I got a good reputation."
"And now we know that," Paulo said. "So, whenever it's convenient, make the markers good. It don't have to be now. Next month sometime would be fine."
"Let me take care of them now," Vito said. "I already brung the cash."
"You don't have to, but if you got it, and it's convenient, that'd straighten everything out."
Vito handed him the six thousand dollars. Paulo very carefully counted it.
"No offense, me counting it?"
"No. Not at all."
"Watch the fifties, and the hundreds will take care of themselves, right?"
"Right."
Paulo put the money in the pocket of his tweed jacket.
"I want to give you this," he said, and took out a business card. "You want to loan me your back?"
Vito, after a moment, understood that Cassandro wanted to use his back as a desk, and turned around.
"Okay," Paulo said, and Vito turned around again.
Cassandro handed him the card. Vito read it. It said Paulo Cassandro, President, Classic Livery, Distinguished Motor Cars For All Occasions.
"You ever get back up to the Lodge, you just give that to the manager," Paulo said. "Turn it over."
Vito turned it over. On it, Cassandro had written, "Vito Lanza is a friend of mine. And I owe him a big one. "
"You didn't have to do nothing like this," Vito said, embarrassed.
"I don't have to do nothing but pay taxes and die," Paulo said. " Just take that as my apology for making a mistake. Maybe they'll give you a free ice cream or something."
"Well, thank you," Vito said.
"I'm glad we could straighten this out," Paulo said, and wrapped his arm around Vito's shoulder.
****
The Assassin boh-5 Page 27
