by James Burke
"What could I do? I tell you, Dennis, it was like the cancer. Even though it was part of your body, you must cut it out before it kills you. But this cancer, it had to be dissected, so to speak, first. We had to have those books, Dante's records, before we permanently removed this cancer.
"And so I called Gennaro Giamatteo, who for so many years - even as a very young man - had been a strong right arm for me. You see, with Dante headquartered in Gennaro's territory, even though he lived half of the time in Florida, he was Gennaro's responsibility. His treachery was against Gennaro, and the vengeance belonged to Gennaro. I told Gennaro exactly what I have told you. I know him well, he is a very smart man. Oh, Dennis, he was so quick and so smart and so dedicated, shall we say, ten years ago. It pains me to see him now.
"Anyway, I have to assume that Gennaro knew how important it was. I even told him that if Dante's records and what was in Dante's head got into the wrong hands anywhere in the world we, the organization, would be in very bad trouble. Actually, I always felt in my own heart that Dante, may his troubled soul rest in peace, did not wish to destroy us. I do not think so. He would rob us for this large money and this 'leadership status' that he considered so important and that he must have felt we had cheated him out of somehow. But, no, I am sure. He would not try to destroy us.
"Gennaro understood, but Gennaro failed me!" The old man spit out the statement. His voice was as cold as his eyes were hot. "The fool! He stayed in his warm office fucking that stupid oversexed secretary of his and turned over this most important job to some of his stupid relatives. I do not think that even today, Gennaro has got his head far enough out of that bitch's crotch to realize what a monumental mistake he has made.''
The old man took a long sip of wine. It seemed to cool him off. His voice was lower and sadder as he went on with his story. "Poor Gennaro. You have analyzed his problem well, Dennis. He has lost interest, lost his judgment, and lost all the qualities that made him such a good man. I have noticed, but I have been patient. One does not forget soon all the good things a friend has done." His voice rose in ·volume and intensity. "But there must be a limit, Dennis. There is a point beyond which one can no longer excuse or forget. I do not know, even yet, how big a mistake Gennaro made. I cannot tell, but I do know it was a terrible thing. Yes, Gennaro bet his wallet on one stupid throw of the dice, and he lost without even staying to see what he rolled. Now he must pay the price. It is our law and our custom. I cannot change it."
Conners nodded, straight-faced, but a chill flickered down his spine. He realized he'd just heard the commander-in-chief condemn to death one of his trusted generals.
The old man got up and started to pace the far side of the terrace. "But that is not why I'm telling you all this, Dennis. That is not why I want you to do this job for me or why it is so important. Can you guess why it is so important?"
Conners didn't hesitate. "Yes sir. I believe I can. I figure those notebooks we got in the Palm Beach lock box are fakes, and so this man Santa is the number-one suspect for having the real ones stashed away."
Mr. Henry just looked at him for a long moment, then nodded his head. He smiled. "Why did you not finish the law school?"
Conners answered quickly, but he knew from the sudden crinkle around the old man's eyes that he'd shown surprise at the question. He shouldn't really have been surprised at the depth of the man's knowledge of his background. "I wanted no part of their system, sir. They were hypocrites who pretended to be honest. I didn't want to play their game the rest of my life. Their idea of justice made me sick."
"And we? How do you find us in this regard?"
"Well sir, I find your organization's rules understandable, and with few exceptions at my level of experience, fairly administered. I am always satisfied if my progression in a job is dependent on my performance; I've found it to be that way so far in your organization."
"Fair enough. You're quick, son. I need people who are quick. And I liked your feeling of loyalty to Gennaro, whether or not he deserved it." He smiled, then continued.
"You're right, the notebooks are fake, and our best bet for finding the real ones is this Santa man. But the real problem is that we don't know anything about this Santa man. We don't know what he wants to do with those books. If he's smart, and I believe he must be, he will know their value, but I can't believe Dante would have gone so far as to tell this Santa man about the Corse deal, much less about the way Dante planned to work it. Now what would you do if you had those books, Dennis?"
Conners answered crisply, the humor touching only his eyes. "Why, I'd bring them personally to you, sir."
The old man laughed aloud. He had a good laugh, deep and sincere. "I asked for that, son. Good one. Now seriously, I mean if you were this Santa?”
"Well, sir, to start with I agree he must be smart, just from what we know so far. But I also think he is a man with some kind of experience in our business, I mean, at least in some related line of work." He smiled. "Like maybe an ex-cop or ex customs or treasury man."
Mr. Henry returned Conners smile, but his answer was a crisp question. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I think that would have been a necessary qualification for Mr. Cappacino to have selected him for the job, and I think also for his decision to try the heist."
"I see. I like that logic, even if I don't like what it means. Yes, I see. You feel he was more than just a local bagman for Dante?"
"Yes sir, though it probably started that way. I figure Dante had to have told him about those books or he wouldn't have known. I don't think, from what I know about Dante, and you'd know this far better than I, sir, that he'd give the books to this Santa to hold but the fact that the fake ones were in the lock box and we figure Santa has to have the real ones indicates some sort of an emergency plan for these books, in which Santa was included."
"So maybe he was Dante's confidant - this Santa man - as well as his bagman? Yes, I like that. Go on, my boy."
"I figure, sir, that Santa was an important part of Dante's scheme, with the Corse, I mean. I don't mean that Santa knew about it; I mean that Dante was planning to use him in some important way when it came down to the wire. I figure this is why Dante took such pains to conceal Santa's identity. I understand even Dante's girl didn't know."
"Who knows? That lying quack that killed her says she didn't know. But we'll never know that story either. But go on. I'm very interested."
"I believe that Santa had a bigger piece of the action than we thought at first, especially with Dante dead. I think Dante must have left him a note, instructions, location of the books, something like that. Otherwise, why the phoney books in the lock box? But I also believe that this is good."
The old man cut in sharply. "Why?"
"Because the more this guy knows, the more he realizes that his only sensible way out is to deal with us. He's got to be scared because he doesn't know how much we know about him."
"So what kind of a deal would this Santa man be making with us?"
''Money.''
"He's got two-and-a-quarter million of ours already. He will want more for the books?"
"I think so. I'm afraid so, sir. But I also think we have two jobs: first, to get him before he's ready or able to deal; if that's not possible, to get him when he tries to deal."
"I like that better. You think along the right lines, Dennis. I like that. Yes. Get this Santa man and the books and the money. That's what we must try for. But why do you say it's good that he's so smart?"
"Because, sir, he's smart and greedy, so even if he gets scared, he knows the worth of the books and won't do anything panicky like try to sell them to the feds, or, say, to the Corse. A smart guy has to know we're his best prospect, and a greedy smart guy has to know we're his only one. He knows we'll keep looking for him 'til we find him, so why not bet his wallet and make one big deal?"
"You make a persuasive case, Dennis. What would you have us do? Not just wait for him to come to us, books in hand?"
"Oh no, sir. I'm just theorizing about his motivation and plans. I think we have to go all out to identify Santa, and when we're positive we have him and know all we can about him, we move in and squeeze."
"Hah. I like that better too. But why do you say we must know him so well before we pluck him up and squeeze him dry?"
Conners thought he recognized another "test question," but that didn't change his answer. "Because, sir, I don't want to be in the same bind that Giamatteo got in. I don't want to see Santa dead before we've got the books and the money in hand. We have to know what kind of a man he is and what kind of 'insurance' he might have arranged before we can plan how and when to pluck him and how to squeeze him dry."
The old man chuckled throatily, nodding deeply as he looked at Conners. Those fiery eyes were almost benign for a moment. "I am now very sure I've picked the right man for this most important job. I liked what I knew about you, your back ground, military investigation experience, your stint with Spalstein in Las Vegas, all that but I wanted to see for myself. We needed a new face on this job so the feds and the Miami brothers wouldn't know immediately what was going on, but as you said earlier, Dennis, I didn't want to sacrifice anything in efficiency for a little speed or an edge in blood loyalty. Now I'm sure we are on the right track."
"Thank you, sir."
"Now, Dennis, what to do?"
"I believe Santa is still in the Palm Beach area, still carrying on his daily routine, planning his approach to us and his getaway. But I do think time is important because my theory may be wrong, or it may be right at this moment and the man change his mind tomorrow. So speed is essential."
"You need help?"
"Yes sir, but not too much and just a certain kind. We don't want to publicize our search."
"Right. Name what you need."
"I think two good men, sir. They should be in the thirty-to forty-year-old range-no older, not younger- and they should be smooth, well-dressed types, college background if possible, so they can pass as federal investigators when necessary."
The old man smiled. "No young 'Mustache Petes,' huh?" "No sir."
"Anything else?"
"Yes sir. I'd like the capability for some local investigation-employment records, courthouse, police, that sort of thing-whenever we need it, and probably anywhere in the U.S."
"You got it." The old man pulled a small note pad out of his jacket pocket and wrote on it. He tore off the page and gave it to Conners. It was a name, area code, and telephone number. "This is my, uh, personnel chief. I will call him and tell him that you will be in touch. He will give top priority to any requests you make."
"That's perfect, sir."
"And I'll have those two men you want on their way south today. They'll report to you personally at your hotel. They will take orders from you personally from now on. Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of at the moment, sir."
"Well, if anything comes up, let me know. Savilli can always be reached on my number, and I have already told him to service any request from you immediately. Now, Dennis, I imagine you would like to get back to Florida and find this Santa man. You understand that you are in sole charge of this operation and that the facilities of our organization are all available to you. You will report to me, not to Gennaro, although I have no objection to your keeping him posted; in fact, I think that's a good idea. Do it. And Dennis, I will be watching closely. I do not expect the impossible, but I do expect the maximum possible. I am sure you will not disappoint me."
''I'll do my best, sir."
"I know you will, Dennis. I'm counting on it. It has been a pleasure lunching with you. We must do it again soon."
"I hope so, sir."
"Good. Good-bye and good luck."
"Thank you, sir. Good-bye."
The flight back to Florida was anticlimactic. After that lunch almost anything would have been. Conners's mind was racing faster than the jet streaking its way down the coast. He'd wanted a chance, and man, he had it now. Sink or swim. He wasn't intimidated by he responsibility Mr. Henry had be stowed on him. No, exhilarated would be a better description. That Mr. Henry. Man, he was something. Like seeing a living legend, only the real thing was better than the stories. He knew most of the stories well, and although many of them were just that, stories, some were undoubtedly true. The man could be cold as ice or hot as fire, and either way he exuded strength, command, presence, charisma, whatever you wished to call it. He was second-generation American, unlike so many of his peers, but he had grown up in the bustling squalor of New York's Little Italy, and he had suffered through most of the same rough road to stature that most of the old dons had, although his father had developed a successful legitimate business, moved to Jersey, and staked him to two years of college. Nobody seemed to know where he'd acquired the name "Alberto Henrici," from which his current title had evolved; consensus was that it was the best of a number of aliases he'd used over the years. His family name was said to have been Malfalcone, but no one had ever found any records on that either.
Family economics and his own ambitious impatience had cut short his higher education, but this taste of the arts and sciences had whetted his appetite and given him an insight into things his colleagues neither considered nor understood. He became a stickler on English and a fancier of exotic wines, expensive art, and baronial estates, but more importantly, he had acquired a business acumen second to none in his peer group. It was he alone who realized shortly after the postwar crime hearings in Washington that the age of brutal "family" gangsters was over and he alone who did anything about it. Certainly, he'd used the old families, the old ways, the old connections, to build his new organization but the real foundation was a number of new ideas; the legitimate holding companies; the laundry systems; the intricate structures of small business (real and cover); the foreign operations, some owned, some just contracts. But most importantly and innovatively, he'd built most of his organization on the shoulders of a few key out siders. It was the contemplation of this last fact that gave Conners a feeling of exhilaration. This was the new syndicate, not the old brotherhood: the payoff was based on performance and the sky was the limit.
Conners had a sandwich in the grill with Agrico and Krupa that evening, eating contentedly while they excitedly plied him with questions. He told them as much as he thought necessary and appropriate. They were duly impressed. Later he called Matthewson and gave him a sketchy rundown, emphasizing that Mr. Henry had told him to keep Matthewson posted fully. Jammy was pleasant but monosyllabic, and Conners assumed that the smart but lazy guinea had pretty well figured out the whole pitch. In a way he felt sorry for the man, but not too much.
About nine P.M. the two men from New Jersey arrived. Conners was impressed; they were exactly the type he'd needed and requested. One, a handsome, surprisingly blond and blue eyed Italian named Landini, had known and liked Agrico a few years ago in New Jersey, so they had immediate and solid rapport. The other, a pixie-faced redhead with a Brooklyn accent, Arnold Mastick, was sharp, pleasant, smooth, and a real extrovert who hit it off quickly and easily with the group. Conners felt good. His first real "staff" appeared to be composed of first-class people, which was unusual in any league. Of course, Mr. Henry knew this too and would be expecting them to produce accordingly. Speaking of Mr. Henry, those new boys really had the word. Obviously they'd been told in no uncertain terms that Conners was Mr. Henry's personal designee for this job, and they showed it. Conners put them on an informal, first-name basis, but made it very clear that he was Mr. Henry's choice and was in complete charge.
Lying there that night waiting for sleep to ease the nervous tension of the eventful day, Conners wondered if he'd been too rash that afternoon in the great man's presence. He decided he had not.
10
That afternoon, while Conners was basking in the rarefied air, and his men, busily trying to find a name for the man in the artist's sketch, were anxiously awaiting the return of their leader, Mor
ley was boarding a flight to Paris in the Miami air port. He had a small carry-on bag that had gone through the X ray machine unscathed and that he shepherded tenderly every moment. A larger bag he had checked through to Paris. Morley's first tour business appointment was, as he'd insisted, with Campeau Sunday evening; Roger had assumed, as Morley had intended, that he was getting there early to have a weekend of lotus eating around his old haunts. Morley would have loved to do just that, but regrettably his busy weekend would have to involve Swiss finance, not French nightlife.
He transferred to a Swissair flight to Zurich Saturday morning without leaving Orly or going through French customs, met Willi, did his banking business, and returned to Paris Saturday evening. After four days on a whirlwind schedule in Paris and Rome, he arrived back in Miami, pooped but perky, on Thursday night. He'd lined up some super tour deals, especially one with Gianella, that Roger'd been trying to get for some time, so Roger was delighted and already urging him to go again. Morley too was pleased: his numbered Swiss account now contained $1,600,000 U.S. green. By that Thursday night, Dennis Conners was totally and embarrassingly frustrated. The sketch might as well have been that of a man from Mars - nobody recognized it. He'd gone himself, finally, to see if he could shake Farber's story or description, but the guy told it the same as ever and was adamant about the sketch being a perfect likeness. As Conners had suspected, there had been no known "official" syndicate or Corporation visitors to Cappacino during the past year, and certainly not during the critical period specified by Farber. In fact it had become apparent during the course of these inquiries that Cappacino just hadn't had "official" visitors down here - anytime. It was this point that had first convinced Conners that the visitor had to be Santa; later, after all these fruitless days, he'd remembered Mr. Henry's story of Cappacino's contacts with the Corse and became just as convinced that Ernie Pro's visitor was a Corse contact. That explained everything - everything, that is, except who Santa was and where he was hiding with all that beautiful dough and those lethal notebooks.
