You Get What You Pay For (The Tony Cassella Mysteries)

by Beinhart, Larry

  Still, I had stumbled on my own little bonanza. Each and every apartment had a landlord. Each and every landlord would be willing to pay something, anything from one thousand to ten thousand, for the proof that would allow him to evict a rent-controlled tenant who didn’t really live there. Win or lose on my bet, the short-term problems of D’Angelo Cassella were solved.

  I turned on the copy machine and started duplicating the files.

  It jammed. I started to sweat. That’s the sort of thing that takes the extra five minutes that make the difference between success and incarceration.

  I opened the copier up and read the instructions printed on the inside of the casing. They had been translated from the Japanese by a Korean and were applicable to either building a microchip or running a fruit stand. No matter; I could see the sheet of paper that had twisted itself between two rollers and a gearshift. We wrestled, the machine and I, and in time, and in bits and pieces, it gave forth the errant sheet.

  Copying recommenced.

  I read as I fed. There was one thing missing from all the files. Bergman’s actual address. That was the crucial bit. With it I could make the same case fifteen separate times. I could not say that the man had fifteen apartments, because someone would want to know how I got that information.

  Many police officers, all TV producers, Attorney General Gunderson, and President Reagan take the position that a criminal act against a bad guy is justifiable, pardonable, and even laudatory. But those people are not to be trusted. Just because Reagan pardoned and praised FBI agents who were convicted of break-ins of leftist and antiwar groups doesn’t mean he’s going to stand up and be counted on my behalf. Even if my break-in was absolutely essential to solve the heinous case of the Bergman apartment-hoarding ring.

  I went back to the file cabinet. There was nothing else about Bergman there. Then I found it. Exactly where it should have been. On the Rolodex. Samuel N. Bergman, 42 Avenue Jean Moulin, 75014, Paris, France. Oh-la-la. How très bien. Que merveilleux. C’est si bon. I have gone many places in my detective work: Erie, Pennsylvania; Camden, New Jersey; Gary, Indiana; Birmingham, Alabama; the Bronx and Brooklyn and Secaucus. Mais jamais Paris. My feet felt like Gene Kelly’s, my ears heard Gershwin.

  I waved to the security guard as I left; he nodded politely. He could tell I belonged. I walked up to the corner, turned left, heading for Church Street. It was a fine evening, still light in a gentle way. The air was soft and warm. A car, driving the wrong way along the one-way street, pulled up on the curb in front of me. The door swung open. The man who got out was large. About six feet three, 240 pounds, wrapped tight in a light-brown suit made of 100 percent virgin acrylic. He was looking at me. Like a cop.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  I saw what I expected to see. His partner. He was smaller. He had his hand at his waist, pushing his jacket back. Presumably, his gun was there. They must’ve been sitting out front, waiting for me. Now they were going to pick me up. No muss, no fuss. With my attaché case to testify against me. Full of burglary tools. And the papers in my pocket to prove I’d made use of them. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

  “Hello there, Anthony,” the driver said when I got close to him.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met,” I said politely.

  “Well, now we have,” he said, in that slobbering, I’m-in-control manner that cops learn from watching too much television.

  “We would like a few words with you,” the one in back said. His diction was too good for the NYPD. And his accent hadn’t come from one of the five boroughs.

  “Sure, why not,” I said. “There’s a pretty good coffee shop back on Broadway. Elaine’s. She once sang the national anthem at Yankee Stadium.”

  “Why don’t we go for a ride,” the man in front said, opening the back door of the car.

  “Sure,” I said. “But I would sort of like to know who you are.”

  A hand came down on my shoulder from behind. Big deal. “Get in,” the guy behind me said.

  “Hey, hey, slow down. No need to get physical. I just would like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  The man in front of me pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. “Ferguson, FBI,” he said. He was impressed.

  I didn’t know what the hell they could want from me. Unless they were already on to Finkelstein-Magliocci for something. Maybe I had stumbled into a federal investigation. When the Feds go in, they wire everything. Sound and picture. I could see it already. A video of me diving behind the secretary’s desk. Opening the file cabinet. Making copies. When I got to the federal penitentiary, I could get a job in the library, fixing the copy machine.

  “Let’s,” I said, “go for a ride.”

  It was a short ride. Federal Plaza was only four blocks away.

  Upstairs, they sat me down in an interrogation room and left me alone. I waited for half an hour. To meditate on my sins, no doubt.

  The door banged open. A different guy stood in the doorway. He looked at me coldly. His suit had pinstripes. It was a poly-wool blend; he was obviously a very senior agent. Ferguson and his partner were behind him. They came in and surrounded me.

  “This Cassella?” the new one asked.

  Ferguson said, “Yes.”

  “What kind of wise guy are you?” the supervising agent said.

  I shrugged.

  He opened a file on the table. The FBI has a lot of files. They like them. “Private detective … God,” he muttered, “what jerks. … But you have a very impressive background. A year at Yale Law School. Did they teach you anything up there, wise guy?”

  I looked at him.

  “Well, did they? Do you know anything about the law?”

  Of course I did. I knew I had the right to remain silent. I knew that I had the right to an attorney. More than that, I knew that shutting up and having an attorney does not make the police think you have something to hide. It does not make them certain that you are guilty. It makes them respect you, as someone with some self-control, not easily manipulated, who can cope with the system. As someone it would be more difficult to convict. Randolph Gunderson, John Mitchell, Richard Nixon, would never talk to the cops without an attorney.

  “Do you understand that it is a felony to reveal the secret proceedings of a grand jury?”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “We decided to be nice; that’s why you’re here, Cassella. A polite warning. Stay away from the Gunderson thing.”

  “The Gunderson thing?” I asked.

  “You’ve been looking for the special prosecutor’s report on Randolph Gunderson.”

  Oh, that. That was what they’d picked me up for. Nothing to do with Magliocci, Bergman, the burglary. That was good. I was relieved.

  “Let me explain a couple of things. The information that was deleted from that report was deleted for excellent reasons. To protect ongoing FBI investigations. To protect witnesses. Some of them in the Federal Witness Protection Program. To save their lives. To save the lives of their wives and children. … ”

  It has been my experience as a law enforcement professional that those are not the things that bureaucrats care about. They care about protecting themselves first and protecting the department second first.

  ____________________

  SENATE JUDICIARY COMMITTEE

  Hearing 2/12/82

  SEN. ORIN STEELE: You were the agent in charge of the background investigation of Randolph Gunderson?

  DEPUTY DIRECTOR DEA VERNON MUGGLES: Yes, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: At that time you testified that there was nothing in the background of Randolph Gunderson that would render him unfit to serve as attorney general. Is that correct?

  DD MUGGLES: Yes, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: Would you like to change your testimony at this time?

  DD MUGGLES: No, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: At that time you were a supervising agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Subsequent to your testimony, two weeks subsequent, you receive
d a promotion to Deputy Director, Drug Enforcement Authority.

  DD MUGGLES: Administration.

  SEN. STEELE: What?

  DD MUGGLES: Drug Enforcement Administration. You said “Authority.”

  SEN. STEELE: Thank you for the correction. It has come to our attention that Randolph Gunderson’s name appears in conversations of organized-crime figures, on tape recordings, that the FBI made in New Jersey.

  DD MUGGLES: That is not correct. …

  Hearing 2/14/82

  SEN. ORIN STEELE: Mr. Giuliani, you were the field agent in charge of the investigation of Randolph Gunderson.

  AGENT GIULIANI: I was one of several agents involved. I was the supervising agent in the Northeast.

  SEN. STEELE: Did you ever happen to come across organized-crime figures discussing their involvement with Mr. Gunderson, or one of his companies, or in any way implying a relationship?

  AGENT GIULIANI: Yes, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: Did you report this information to your superiors?

  AGENT GIULIANI: Yes, sir. …

  Hearing 2/15/82

  SEN. OWN STEELE: Three days ago you denied that there were wiretaps of organized-crime figures in which Mr. Gunderson’s name was mentioned. You lied, under oath, to this committee.

  DD DEA VERNON MUGGLES: No, sir. I didn’t lie, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: We have testimony—

  DD MUGGLES: If I may, Senator. I have a transcript of the hearing. … You specifically asked me about organized-crime wiretaps in New Jersey. Mr. Gunderson’s name does not appear in any FBI wiretap in New Jersey.

  SEN. STEELE: We have testimony that his name was mentioned. That you were informed of this. A long time ago. The first time you testified to this committee. Do you deny that?

  DD MUGGLES: No, sir.

  SEN. STEELE: Then you did lie to this committee.

  DD MUGGLES: No, Senator. The wiretaps in which Mr. Gunderson’s name was mentioned were not recorded in New Jersey. They were recorded in New York.

  SEN. STEELE: A whole river away.

  DD MUGGLES: Yes, sir.

  Congressional Record

  _______________________________

  “ … Am I getting through to you, Mr. Cassella?”

  “Answer the man,” Ferguson said from behind me.

  I could see how it would be very important to the Feds for the Gunderson affair to die away and be forgotten. I nodded yes.

  “Very good, Mr. Cassella. Now, to the point. Revealing that information, or attempting to reveal that information, is obstruction of justice. If you obtain it, it is probable that you used bribery or extortion or stole it. We will go to great, great lengths to determine which. Then we will prosecute. Another felony. Or two or three.

  “I will personally—and I am speaking on behalf of the Director—see to it that, when convicted, you will serve your time in the most unpleasant of federal penitentiaries.

  “In addition, while we are proceeding, we will make every effort to make your life hell. We will investigate you from birth to the present. We will investigate your finances. We will ask the IRS to assist us. We will request that your license be suspended, preferably forever, but at least until there is a finding.

  “And if we can’t get you for obstruction of justice, we will find something. We will find something.”

  He stood up and marched out.

  Then Ferguson’s partner marched out. Finally Ferguson marched out. I was alone. It was over. I picked up my attaché case with the burglary tools, which they had been kind enough not to open, and I, too, walked out. Just followed the exit signs.

  10.

  Par-lay Anglais?

  THE MARVELOUS THING ABOUT Paris was that it was just like Paris.

  Chic, sharp, meticulously intense about all and every object, particularly if it was edible. Gray stone, gray mist, gray river. But a different gray than New York or misery. A historic gray, designed in the sixteenth century, conscious of its own longevity and significance. The inhabitants lived up to their billing: bourgeois, rude, and rich in attitude.

  Wirtman had insisted on a written estimate. His concept of expenses was not four-star, but my travel agent was delighted that I was going somewhere I couldn’t get to by Greyhound. And the dollar was strong against the franc. I was supposed to get the job done in two days. Anything more would require written authorization or be at my own expense. Mr. Wirtman was not “financing vacations disguised as business. You are not, after all, a doctor.”

  About an hour before I was supposed to leave for the airport, twenty-four hours, give or take, before the time limit on the bet I was losing, a messenger, wearing cycling tights, soft helmet, and Campagnolo shirt, arrived. The nature of New York traffic and the get-it-here-yesterday New York attitude have called forth an urban pony express, the bicycle messenger. Paid a percentage of what they deliver, they ride at remarkable, even reckless speeds, when it’s freezing, when it’s steaming, when it’s raining.

  He gave me a large envelope. Clearly, by weight and shape, it was some sort of document. The return address was only the name of the messenger service, City-Speed. I tore it open.

  The cover page said: “REPORT OF THE SPECIAL PROSECUTOR. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA VS. RANDOLPH GUNDERSON.” There were no deletions. No WW II V-mail black ink. None. It was complete. It was the unexpurgated original. It was four thousand dollars.

  The messenger asked if he could use the phone. They do that to confirm delivery and be assigned their next mission. I asked him his name. It was Speedo.

  “Where’d you get this, Speedo?”

  “From the office, dude.”

  “Where’d they get it?”

  “Yo, dude, how am I gonna know?”

  “You want to ask them at the office?”

  “Sure, I do that for you. But time is money, dude, and time is all I got.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, but he was already dialing anyway.

  “This is Speedo, got a customer inquest. Gimme Dispatch One. … Hey, dudess, I’m here at”—he looked at his book—“D’Angelo Cassella. Got a package and we is the address returnee. Dude wanna know where we got it. … OK. What you say. … You got anything for me? … Yo. Good. Got it.” He hung up. “Dudess gonna check it out, then she give you a shout. She got your number.”

  “Thank you, Speedo,” I said, and I gave him a twenty. Tony C, last of the big-time spenders. I surprised myself.

  He snapped it, he looked at it, pocketed it, and peered at the package.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “Look like paper, don’t look like blow. But what do I know?”

  “Yeah, it’s paper,” I said. “Why’d you say that?”

  “When the green get long, someone doing wrong.”

  “You ever tempted to reach in?”

  “Hey, what you take me for, dude? I got my thing. I’m good at my thing. Maybe one of the best. Dig this, dude: I once done a thousand-dollar week. I got pride.”

  “Sorry, dude,” I said. “Dispatch One, she’s gonna call me?”

  “Yo, the dudess,” he said, heading out the door.

  I looked at the clock. There wasn’t much time. I called WFUX and asked for Des. He wasn’t in. I asked where he was. They offered to take a message and have him call me back. I said I had to reach him immediately. They weren’t eager to help. I pushed it until they said he was on a beeper and they would beep him. “Tell him it’s urgent. I have to speak to him in the next ten minutes, then I’m leaving the country.”

  He called five minutes later.

  “Where are you?” I said.

  “What’s up?” Des asked.

  “Where are you?”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “I gotta see you right away. You’ll see.”

  “I’m at a fire. Eighth Avenue and Forty-fifth.”

  “Stay there,” I said, and hung up.

  The dudess had still not called. I dialed City-Speed and asked for Dispatch On
e. The dudess said she hadn’t had a chance to track it yet and would get back to me. When? Soon. Thanks. I was out the door.

  I jumped into a cab. We stopped and went, stopped and went, the traffic clogging from Thirty-seventh to Forty-second in front of the Port Authority bus terminal. It opened up for a block, then tangled itself again around the fire at Forty-fifth Street. At Forty-fourth, I tore a twenty in half—a paranoid gesture on behalf of the luggage I was leaving in the backseat—and told the driver to wait.

  The fire was mostly out, but the trucks were still there and the air had a sodden smudge. Forty-fifth was closed to traffic, but bike messengers cut around the barriers and wheeled up on the sidewalk, pedestrians hopped over hoses and slid between the men in boots and thick black slickers.

  Des was easy enough to find. He was one of four camera crews competing to talk to the only available victim, a lightly scorched wino. I grabbed him.

  “Hey, I’m on camera,” he said.

  “You think you could gimme a quarter, just a quarter?” the wino said to the man shoving a camera in his face.

  “I gotta talk to you. Now.”

  “What about?” he asked.

  “For a cup a coffee,” the wino said as the paramedics lifted him away.

  “Des, I don’t have a lot of time here.”

  “OK. … Stop tape, Bobby. Shut it down a minute. … What’s the big deal?”

  “Here you go, Des,” I said, handing him the report in a new envelope. “Take a look, dude.”

  “All right,” he said, mumbling. “What’s the big deal?” Then he saw it. He did the same thing I’d done, looked for the blackouts that weren’t there. “Son of a bitch. You did it. Jesus, I forgot all about it.”