A Present For Santa

by James Burke

  The artist gimmick worked great from a technical point of view. Farber was fascinated with the concept and played with this new toy 'til he was sure the results were perfect. He said the sketch looked "almost like a portrait" of Dorothy's visitor.

  The next move was the slow and thorough recanvassing of all the island areas they'd been over with the other pictures, trying to find somebody - just one - who could name the man in the sketch. Conners had impressed on Krupa and Agrico the need for subtlety, care, and tact in this second go-round. He sure as hell didn't want anybody's feathers ruffled so they'd go calling the cops. Nor did he want to alert this guy Santa and scare him back into his hole. His men understood and followed Conners's instructions to the letter, using an agreed-upon set of questions and explanations that clouded their objective rather neatly.

  After two unproductive days, Conners got the phone call that changed everything. It was Matthewson, a different Matthewson, puzzled, petulant, and deflated. "Dennis, I just had a call from Jersey, Mr. Henry. I don' unnerstand it and I don' like it. He wants to know what's happening on this Santa business. I tell him, an' he don' like that either. Anyways, he says he wants to talk to you. Yeah, you. He says you should take the Eastern flight to Newark tomorrow, that's at nine-fifteen from your end. You go to the Eastern ticket desk when you get there and his man Savilli will find you. You can't miss that creep, he ain't got no blood. He looks like a fucking checkerboard with all that white skin and black hair. Anyways, Savilli will know you. You go with him. Okay?"

  "Sure, okay, but what's it all about, Mr. Matthewson?"

  Jammy's voice took on a sly tone. "Hey, Dennis, you're not shittin' me, are you? You haven't been talkin' to Jersey, have ya?"

  "No sir, no way. I've never met him. In fact I don't even know anybody from up there. No sir."

  "Okay, Dennis. Good. What's the man want? Hell, I don' know. All I know is ya better do like he says."

  "Right. I'll catch that plane. Be back as soon as I can. We've got some pretty good leads working here and the boys'll be pushing them all out."

  "Anything hot?"

  "Not hot, but we got a couple flickers on that sketch."

  "Good. Doesn't look like he was an official visitor?"

  "Not so far, anyway. I don't think so."

  "Well, keep at it. I hope it ain't too late. Gimme a call when you get back if the old man don't swear ya to secrecy." Matthewson laughed drily as he said it, but even over the phone Conners could sense the feeling of very unhumorous despair with which it was said.

  "Yes sir. Good-bye."

  9

  Conners felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. He knew he hadn't because he felt too alive, and he had no illusions about the kind of hereafter he merited. But this place looked like he imagined heaven would look. He'd been brought into the room by a butler after driving what seemed like miles from the huge iron gates, through a wonderland of a park to the huge mansion. The entry hall was bigger than a tract house. The room he was in, a library, bespoke quiet, solid luxury and he assumed from the size of the building that there were probably twenty or thirty rooms this size or larger. Three-quarters of an hour's drive from the squalor of Newark's airport area and he'd changed worlds.

  The door opened and a man came in. He was of medium height, slender with neatly trimmed gray hair combed straight back without a part, clean shaven, and impeccably tailored in gray flannel slacks, a smoking jacket of a subdued plaid, a soft wool shirt, and a matching ascot. The man's back was ramrod straight, and he walked with a spring in his step, but as he came closer, Conners revised upward his first impression of age; the man was well preserved, but he had to be in his seven­ ties. Then the man focused his eyes on Conners's face. They were ageless, deep set, and unblinking; they seemed to have an existence apart from the rest of him. Conners's overall impression was of a degree of presence and command beyond anything he'd ever experienced. The old man broke the spell by displaying a row of perfect white teeth in a half smile and holding out his right hand. He spoke in a beautifully modulated voice, soft yet strong. "I’m Albert Henry, Mr. Conners. Very pleased to meet you."

  "My pleasure, sir." Conners took the hand. It was slender, but the grip was firm and warm.

  "Would you have a glass of wine with me? Yes? Then we'll have a sandwich while we talk. I'm sure you're famished after your long trip. Perhaps the terrace would be best today."

  As he talked, the old man pressed a buzzer on the wall and then opened French doors leading to a raised flagstone terrace enclosed in what looked like heavy thermal glass and shaded by a deeply overhung roof. The three glass sides looked out on a gently sloping lawn and a curving flagstone walk that lead down to a large swimming pool. Beyond and off to the side Conners could see a tennis court and two gazebos. A glass table on the terrace was set for two, with white linen, gleaming silver, and sparkling crystal. A number of comfortable chairs were scattered about. The old man pointed to two of them separated by a round serving table. Conners waited until his host was seated, then took one himself. The butler came through the French doors and stood politely in front of the old man's chair.

  "Yes sir."

  "Oliver, please bring us some Chateau d'l' quern. And we'll have lunch at twelve-thirty."

  "Thank you, sir." The butler retreated through the library.

  The old man looked at Conners again. "Tell me, Mr. Conners, how long have you been with Gennaro Giamatteo?"

  "About two years, sir."

  "You've learned a lot?"

  "Yes sir. I believe so."

  "And what is your opinion of Gennaro's operation? I mean does it seem organized, efficient, well directed, and so forth?"

  Conners was taken aback, more with the timing of the question than with its bluntness. He tried not to show it.

  "That's a difficult question, sir."

  "Why?"

  "Because I've not had exposure to all of Mr. Giamatteo's operation, only to those parts in which I've been actually working. When I first began, I was told not to be inquisitive about what other people were doing."

  "I can't argue with that statement, but let me rephrase the question: what do you think of those parts of his operation to which you have been exposed, those in which you do have personal experience?"

  Conners had been prepared for Mr. Henry's superb diction; the stories about his private "culture tutors" were too many and widespread to all be false; nevertheless, he was impressed with the fluidity of the man's excellent English. He was certainly a far cry from the stereotype of the old "Mustache Pete." He answered. "Sir, I could give you my opinion, but I wouldn't presume to say I know more about his operations, these particular parts, I mean, than Mr. Giamatteo. He has been very fair with me, and I feel I owe him the same treatment."

  "So you feel you could comment on the Gennaro's operation, but that if you did it would be presumptuous, or disloyal, or both. Is that right?"

  "Yes sir. That's it."

  Conners was thankful that the butler knocked and then entered the room. He set the wine bucket near the table, handed Mr. Henry a goblet, and poured a sip into it. He tasted, nodded approval, and Oliver proceeded to fill the goblets. He left.

  The old man sniffed the bouquet, took a sip, then looked squarely at Conners. His eyes were almost hypnotizing in their unwavering intensity. All at once Conners found it easy to believe all those heretofore incredible stories about the pile of skeletons on which the old man's rise to the top had been effected. He spoke softly, but his words had a steel edge.

  "Mr. Conners, I will make one point clear, then I will not mention it again-ever! Giamatteo works for me. He exists, Mr. Conners, by my sufferance. His operations are my operations, and if they are bad, I suffer; if they are inefficient, I am unhappy; if they lose money, I lose money. Mr. Conners" - the eyes blazed -"! do not like to suffer; I do not like to be unhappy; I do not like to lose money. You understand?"

  "Yes sir. I do."

  "Well?"

  "Sir. I think Mr. G
iamatteo is, intrinsically, one of the very best people I've met in the business. I mean that when he does put himself into an operation personally it is always done in first-class style. But I think something has happened to him. It is sad, sir, to see a good man lose interest, to stop caring about his work and that, I think, is what happened to Mr. Giamatteo. He is not the same man he was two years ago. He's lost touch, lost control; worst of all, sir, he doesn't seem to care."

  Mr. Henry nodded seriously. "And specifically, Mr. Conners, what has been the result of this, this lack of interest on Gennaro's part?''

  "He's lost day-to-day contact. He stays in his office and tries to run his operations by delegating all of the decisions and responsibility."

  The old man jumped on that one. "But delegation of responsibility and decisions is certainly no sin in itself; in fact, there are those who will argue that it is the benchmark of good management. Is there more to your comment?"

  Conners smiled inwardly at the old man's insight. Damn, he thought, I'd sure have hated to have crossed this old pirate in his day. Look at him and he's gotta be seventy-five at least. Sharp as a bright kid. Conners answered slowly. "Yes sir, there is. Mr. Giamatteo has delegated to the extent that his supervisory control is gone. He doesn't know what's going on until one of his men tells him, and they never tell him until the flap is so big they can't handle it alone."

  "Still, this is a problem of degree, is it not?" Mr. Henry's eyes belied the seriousness of this question, but Conners decided to treat it as if he hadn't noticed.

  "Yes sir, I suppose it is, but there's an additional problem, one of judgment. Mr. Giamatteo delegates important responsibilities and decisions to incompetents whose only qualification is blood relationship, and then assumes that they'll do it right, although even his own experience tells him otherwise."

  Conners almost bit his tongue on that one! He knew Giamatteo was the son of one of Mr. Henry's loyal and trusted capos from the old days, and that Jammy himself had earned his spurs many times over in Mr. Henry's service. He also knew of the traditional sanctity of the bloodline in the families that had been the basis for the old man's rise to power and for his current status. But something in the old man's line of questions - his attitude - told Conners that this was the right kind

  of answer, so he'd shot the wad. He was right.

  The old man didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Like Mario Banducci?''

  "Yes sir. He's the best case in point."

  The old man swished the wine in his goblet, watching carefully as the film ebbed from one side of the glass and then the other. He looked up at Conners, his eyes stern but not cold. "You got balls, son. You know I've got nephews and friends and friends' nephews and sons all through my organization? You know we were built on bloodlines? Are you telling me that's all horseshit?"

  Conners thought he detected an absence of rancor, maybe even a hint of approval in the old man's tone, although he certainly still couldn't prove it by his looks. But the die was cast, so he went on. "Yes sir, I know about the tradition, and no, sir, I don't think it's all wrong but I'm sure you are very objective about your own delegation of responsibility."

  "Maybe. But still, don't you believe loyalty, especially family loyalty, blood ties, blood loyalty, such things, are important?"

  "Yes sir, within reasonable limits. I mean that blood and loyalty and efficiency don't necessarily come as one package. The Bible tells us not only that the first murder was committed by one brother on another, but that it was botched up."

  Mr. Henry slipped into his half smile on that one, but took up the cudgel once more. "Life is a compromise. Nobody's perfect. You have to take the best you can get."

  "Yes sir. I agree fully but I don't believe you should settle for less than the best person available because he happens to have a desirable bloodline, when he may or may not be loyal or efficient.''

  "Well said. I'll buy that. Let's go back to specifics. You think you'd have handled the Cappacino business better than Banducci, which means better than Gennaro?"

  "Yes sir. I do."

  The half smile again. "I believe you would have." He fixed Conners with that gaze. "That's why I told Gennaro to have you handle this Santa business. Which brings me to my point for asking you here today."

  The butler knocked and announced lunch. It was exactly twelve-thirty. They moved to the table and Oliver served them thick, steaming soup from a tureen. It was deliciously filling, and as they spooned it up, the old man talked about his estate - the problems, the advantages, the seasons - nothing personal. Oliver appeared silently, took the soup dishes away, and brought salad bowls and two plates with huge open-faced turkey sandwiches. After he'd served the salad dressing, the old man told him to leave the coffee carafe and said he'd ring when they were through. He ate about half his sandwich, pushed the plate aside, poured coffee for himself, and passed the carafe to Conners. He continued to chat until Conners had finished his sandwich and poured himself a coffee, then sat back in his chair and began. "Now, Mr. Conners, do you feel disloyal for making those, shall we say, honest but uncomplimentary, statements about Gennaro Giamatteo?"

  "No sir. I now understand I owe an overriding loyalty to you."

  He really did smile on this one. "Well said. May I call you 'Dennis'?"

  ''I'd be honored, sir."

  "Fine. Now, Dennis, this Santa job, you must know, this is a job for me personally. A most important and most personal job. I will give you some facts, facts very few people know, and you will understand why I want this job done right, and why it is so important to all of us that it is done right. Understand?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Good. But before I start, I need to know one thing. You must be honest. Are you happy working with my organization?"

  "Yes sir, I am."

  "You wish to stay? No hard feelings if you don't, Dennis but you must tell me now."

  "Yes sir. No question. I'd like to stay."

  "Good-because once I tell you all this, all these facts, I would be very upset if you were to leave us. Okay?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Now, Dennis, you have heard of the European brotherhood called the 'Union Corse'?"

  Conners nodded, and the old man continued. "The Corse, as such, is practically nonexistent at present but a very well organized and managed business syndicate was fashioned out of the old Corse. It is known as the 'Company Corse,' and it is very much alive, very strong. This new Corse was begun by old Corse leaders, but, with very few exceptions, it is now controlled by businessmen with new ideas, much as our own organization is. Three of the top men, say three of eight, are old friends of mine, and one of them-in fact, he is the man who designed this 'new look' - is a former close business associate. The other five top men I have no contact with. I seek none, and they, too, seem to desire it this way. Although we have, of necessity, a number of joint ventures, they have made it clear that these arrangements are temporary and not really desirable."

  The old man stopped to refill his goblet, took a long draught, and went on. "This was the situation as it existed, say, a year and a half ago. We were all aware of it, and we did not like it, but it was better than a war. Besides, my three friends were still strong enough to keep the pot from boiling over. Then comes along Dante Cappacino. Dante - who once saved my life, who has always been like a younger brother to me, whose mother was like my mother, rest her soul -Dante contacted the Corse and made a proposition that he knew would be favorably received by at least those five businessmen. Now, Dennis, make no mistake about it, Dante was a genius. No question. He designed and built and operated the system of money flow and courier service from all our overseas operations. Now this money is very important to us. It is clean and clear, and it's used for security -all kinds - and for starting new smaller businesses and many other things. We let Dante run his own show, even let him take on some outside courier jobs, even some for the Corse, as our only interest was in continuing his safe, efficient operation. Then, Dante began to service
certain other of our international 'laundry' mechanisms. I think it could be said that Dante came to control the flow from operations totaling over a billion dollars a year."

  Conners let out a breath, and the old man nodded approvingly. He continued. "But Dante, poor Dante, he was not satisfied somehow. About a year ago, ten months maybe, he contacted the Corse secretly. He offered to sell the Corse a deal that would have, shall we say, 'unionized' his whole system under the total control of the Corse. As I say, he was a genius, and the gradual takeover he proposed was foolproof. We would have awakened some day and the Corse would have been milking us for a billion plus a year, and we wouldn't have had one fucking line of recourse." The old man was furious just telling about it. Conners had heard that when his store-bought grammar slipped back to the street - beware. Especially if you were the object of his anger.

  "And what did Dante want for this, this many pounds of his own brothers' flesh? Money! Can you believe it? And status! Yes, status. He would be rich and a Corse leader. That was it. Never mind that the Corse would eat him up and spit him in the Mediterranean after they milked him dry. Dane had a clever arrangement worked out whereby they would not have all the parts of his operation until almost five years later. You see, Dennis, only Dante had the overall knowledge of the systems, the hundreds of airline, customs, immigration, police, and government officials all over the world who were on his payroll. We know that he kept this information well documented and up to date in six or seven notebooks. His place in Florida was like a fortress, and we figured this was why.

  "But Dante made one foolish, and for us, lucky mistake. He picked as his Corse contact a man, a good man, who'd been his close friend for thirty years. Dante forgot one thing: this man has been my good friend for forty years. My friend told me the whole story shortly after Dante approached him, which made us both extremely sad. Our old friend. To think he would do this kind of thing.