“Vous êtes Italien?” Renaud asked, looking at my passport.
“American.”
Zucchero translated his reply as “The captain says your name is Italian.”
“I am American,” I repeated. “My father came from Sicily.”
I picked out the word “Mafia” from what Renaud said next. “Tell your captain,” I told Zucchero before he had a chance to translate, “that he’s seen too many movies.”
They asked me about the dates rent control had changed to stabilization. I didn’t know. They had me spell Magliocci, asked for his address, and wanted to know if he was Italian. Again they said “Mafia.”
I told the captain again that he saw too many movies.
“Oh?” Zucchero translated. “America is not run by the Mafia? Are we in France misinformed? We hear that they reach into the highest in the government.”
“Some things are very exaggerated.” I sighed. “Yes, they exist. No, they don’t run America. They are a dying breed. Almost history.”
Renaud snorted. “We know better,” was the translation. “Did the Mafia not assassinate witnesses against your attorney general?”
Odd that they had noticed. Nobody in America seemed to have. There was nothing I could say. I shrugged. Gallically. They looked at me.
They asked what I had done before I was a private detective. I told them. They wanted to know why I was dismissed. I explained that I had resigned, and had to explain why. Back to Bergman. They all talked among themselves. I knew their decision was favorable when Renaud shrugged and said, “America.”
“Café?” Renaud said to me pleasantly.
“Do you want some coffee?” Zucchero translated.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Oui, merci,” Zucchero translated. Renaud and I both looked at him.
Jean-Claude went out for it.
“Monsieur Bergman est mort. Elle été assassiné.” That made the whole thing comprehensible. “It appears,” he went on, through the translator, “that Attorney Magliocci has maintained Mr. Bergman’s dishonesties. … It is an unsolved murder. Paris is not New York. We are not accustomed to police inadequacy. Is it true that police in New York only solve one third of their murders?”
“They solve more than that,” I said. “Maybe two thirds.”
“What about Miami?”
“I don’t know.”
“I would like to visit New York,” le capitaine said, “but I would not like to live there. Do people really eat at McDonald’s every day?”
“Would it be possible for me to get a copy of the death certificate?” I asked.
There was some discussion between Zucchero and Capitaine Renaud. Jean-Claude returned with the coffee. It was in real cups, proving that French civilization is superior. Officer Zucchero brought me a cup and took the opportunity to say, by way of apology, “My family, they are also Italian. Zucchero.”
Renaud spoke again. Jean-Claude looked very interested in the question. Zucchero said, “The program Magnum, P.I., do you think it is realistic?”
“No,” I said. They all looked very relieved. “Do you think I could get a death certificate?”
Then Jean-Claude spoke. “It was a particularly brutal crime. … ” He paused for the translation. “Mr. Bergman was an old man … .He was hit, several times, with perhaps a club? perhaps a pipe. … Then the body was thrown out the window … from the étage four, the fourth level … to disguise the assassination as self—as suicide.”
“What about his wife?” I asked.
Jean-Claude looked at his file. “He is, in our files, a widower. He was. His death occurred in September of … 1979.” He spoke to Capitaine Renaud. Zucchero didn’t translate. Then back to me, with translation. This was why I hate foreign films: I always wonder what the subtitles leave out. “We will give you the papers you require. We would like to ask a favor of you. In return. Would you send us photographs of Dominic Magliocci … also of his partner, Mr. Finkelstein.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
Jean-Claude gave me copies of the death certificate and of the police report. I asked him if he knew Marie’s last name or remembered her address. I had watched him copy it from her ID. He claimed that he didn’t know.
My one night in Paris. I decided to go out on the town and learn if Marie’s charms were part of the national character or uniquely her own. I went back to the hotel and fell asleep across the bed, fully dressed. In the morning, with the help of the hotel’s concierge, I changed my booking for an early flight. I bought the International Herald Tribune—a joint publication of the New York Times and the Washington Post, printed simultaneously in Paris, London, Rome, Zurich, Hong Kong, Singapore, The Hague, Marseilles, Tokyo, and Miami—because it has U.S. sports and Doonesbury. I saw why Capitaine Renaud had gone on about Randolph Gunderson and the Mafia. The Trib had picked up on an exclusive, giving credit where credit was almost due, to Desmond Kennel, WFUX, New York. Des had revealed some of the allegations that had not been sufficiently corroborated to indict. An ex-loan shark and bagman now in the Federal Witness Protection Program, Sal Minelli, said that he had received money “in the tuna bag,” a brown paper sandwich bag, from Randolph Gunderson, for Tony Provolone. Benito “Little Benny” Caputo had alleged that he had seen Gunderson with Santino “The Wrecker” Scorcese and several other O.C. figures and some “very tasty bimbos” in a private box at the 1976 World Series. Scorcese himself had said—on the telephone, as recorded by the FBI—that “R.G. and me, ’s all right,” and also that “hey, Empire, I’m in with all the top people, like this, [at] the Empire.” A large number of Mr. Gunderson’s businesses and real estate investments, the paper explained, were organized under a holding company named Empire Properties, Inc. The attorney general had replied that this was “scurrilous rumor mongering, … the most irresponsible sort of journalism.” Sanford Beagle, the President’s press secretary, commented that “the courts have done their work, we intend to abide by their decision. This is a government of laws.”
11.
Rock ’n’ Roll
I’m a rock ’n’ roller
don’t want no Ayatollah
that mean old U.S.S.R.
they can’t beat God and a rhythm guitar
U.S.A. all the way
home of rock ’n’ ro’
we got Ronnie
we got Rambo
sea to shining sea
from Maine to Miami
it’s the land of the free
’cause we got MTV
The White Rapper (H. Stucker),
“U.S.A. All the Way”
(© Honkey Tunes, Inc., 1982)
WHEN I RETURNED TO the United States, I got a finger up my ass.
12.
I Confess
The Justice Department is not a domestic agency. It is the internal arm of the nation’s defense.
Randolph Gunderson
WFUX WAS NOT A twenty-four-hour station. So the FBI did not arrive until the morning after Des Kennel’s broadcast. They had arrest warrants, search warrants, and several injunctions. They picked up Des at home. He was charged with theft of government property, violating the secrecy of the grand jury process, obstruction of justice (thirty-four counts), conspiracy to do all of the above, and probably some other things too.
Desmond Kennel was not a stand-up guy. He was not the kind of reporter who would go to jail to protect his sources and the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. He looked the Feds square in the eye and said: “Cassella.”
A bored-looking black woman took my passport and punched my name into the computer. Something came up beside it. She pushed a button under her table and two other agents appeared.
I said, “I’d like an explanation.” They each took one arm. They marched me into a small room. I said, “I’d like to call my lawyer.” They took my bag and left. I tried the door. It was locked. I waited. Then waited some more.
An hour later, the door opened. A new age
nt appeared. He had my bag. Still open after their inspection. My best pair of underwear was hanging out. “Is this your luggage?” he said.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
“Is this all your baggage?” he asked.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
“Would you remove your garments, please,” he said.
They have the right, I understand, to do this. I stripped. I didn’t like it. He fondled my clothing, he felt the inside of my sneakers. He asked me to bend over and spread my cheeks. He put on a rubber glove, greased it, and stuck a finger up my ass. They have the right, I understand, to do this.
“Thank you,” he said when he withdrew.
He stripped off the glove, tossed it in the wastebasket, then left. I got dressed. And I waited. The greasy feeling of the petroleum jelly lingered. It was another hour before the door opened again. This time it was the FBI. They handcuffed my hands behind my back. One of them mentioned that I was under arrest.
“I want to call my lawyer,” I said.
“Downtown,” Agent One said. Agent Two nodded.
Agent One held the door. Agent Two shoved me out.
“How about my bag?” I said. Agent Two shoved me along. “It might be evidence,” I said.
Agent One thought about that. He nodded grimly to Agent Two. Agent Two retrieved it without bothering to close it. They marched me out through the terminal. My best underwear, a lovely hue of blue, 100 percent cotton, made in France, slid inch by inch out of the bag, to be left behind on the floor of JFK.
They hustled me into the backseat of their car.
Agent One had just moved to Tenafly. His daughter was a pep squad reject. That had broken her heart. She had been a Chattanooga Cougarette. And let’s face it, Tennessee girls are a lot prettier than Jersey girls, and his daughter was one truly pretty, real classic, blond, blue-eyed American Beauty Rose. Something was clearly not ko-shure.
Agent Two had read an article in Reader’s Digest, “Are Americans Eating Too Much Meat?” He was wondering if he was eating too much meat. He had a lot of gas.
I made some mention of a phone call, to a lawyer.
Lot of minority types, Agent One said. Blacks, Italians, Jews, Latins, all kinds of stuff, out in Tenafly, which he had thought was a good community. He suspected a little affirmative action going around, which to his way of thinking was all wrong when it started causing pain to the most innocent, loveliest, never-hurt-a-soul-in-her-life, teenage American girl that you ever did see.
“And you got her in school with guineas,” I said, admonishingly. “Italians, man, they get around that blond, blue-eyed pussy, they are outa control. And blacks, that’s even worse. They got those big, big things. Once your daughter tries that, she’ll be ruined for life. Send her back to Tennessee. Quick.”
They didn’t even look at me. I gave up.
We ended up in Federal Plaza. They had even saved me the very same room in which I’d had my last federal interview.
Before they left, Agent One put his face up close to mine. “Where you’re going,” he said, “you are not going to see any sort of pussy whatsoever, let along young, blond, blue-eyed. And you’re the one who’s going to have to worry about nigger dick. Have fun, asshole.” He’d had tuna for lunch.
They left me there with the cuffs on.
When the door finally opened, I saw two familiar faces: Ferguson and the supervisor he had brought me to the first time.
“Can I call my lawyer?” I said.
“Of course you can,” the supervisor said. “Absolutely. You may have to wait a bit; we got a problem with the phones.”
“How about a pay phone?”
“With the regular phones out, there’s a line, about a mile long. It might be a half hour, an hour even, until it’s free.”
“I’ll wait,” I said.
“Do you mind if we talk a bit while you’re waiting?”
I shrugged. He had his Cassella file, legal pad, tape recorder. He turned the machine on and uncapped his Bic. “My name is Special Agent Vernon Muggles,” he announced to both myself and the machine. By then I knew who Muggles was. The man who’d covered up for Gunderson. And he would never get his promotion back as long as the affair was in the public eye. I was in trouble. A lot of trouble. He added the date and my name as “the suspect, who has of his own free will agreed to a discussion.”
“The suspect,” I said, “asked to speak to his attorney, but was told there was a problem with the phones. We want to get everything recorded, right?”
“Sure.”
Ferguson leaned closer to me, speaking too softly for the machine. “Me you already know, don’t you, punk.”
“Why’d you do it, Tony? We warned you,” Muggles said. “We know it was you. Kennel told us. Your prints, they’re on the report, on the envelope you delivered it in. I want you to understand, we have you on ice.”
“You think we could take the cuffs off?”
“Nah, but we could make ’em tighter,” Ferguson said.
“Take ’em off. We don’t need them,” Muggles said.
“Chief … ”
“Ferguson,” Muggles said.
“Go ahead, Fergie, be a sweetie—take ’em off.”
Ferguson moved around behind me. He lifted my arms enough to hurt while he was getting to the cuffs. I grunted. He squeezed the cuffs down hard before he released them.
“That hurts, and you know it, Fergie. … Damn it.”
“Uh, sorry,” he said, making it clear that he wasn’t.
“What am I charged with?”
“Theft of government property. Violating the secrecy of the grand jury process. Obstruction of justice, thirty-four counts. Conspiracy to do all of the above.” He held up a warrant, but he didn’t show it to me. “I told you, we think of this as pretty serious stuff. I mean, maybe you think it’s just a piece of paper. But what you’ve done is you’ve endangered lives. You’ve contributed to the slander of a very, very prominent man. Who has already been through a very, very trying ordeal and been cleared by the courts. And you’ve jeopardized some very important investigations.”
“You guys really screwed this one up, didn’t you?” I said.
“You’re in serious trouble here, Tony. I wouldn’t worry about anything but myself if I were you.”
“Don’t bother with him,” Ferguson said to Muggles, for my benefit. “We got him cold. Let’s not waste our time. Hey, punk”—he smiled at me—“I’m gonna see to it you do your time in Atlanta. That way, you won’t keep coming back.”
“We are a nation at war,” Muggles announced, working himself into a fine lather. “A war between Society and the Criminal. What you have done … as far as I’m concerned, that makes you a traitor. As much a traitor as a guy who sells atom secrets to the commies.” He took a deep, deep breath, bringing himself under control. “In my heart, in my guts, in my soul, there’s nothing I want more than to put you away. Put you in a cage where one of the other animals will take care of you for us. But they tell me … they tell me I have a job to do. My job is to get information. Now. If you help us open up the rest of this conspiracy, then … then you might get lucky.”
“Lucky? How lucky?”
“God, you don’t deserve it. But if you come clean, no more than a year.”
“Forget it.” I couldn’t afford to take any kind of bust at all. Bye-bye license. I’d be washing dishes for a living. Or have to go back to law school.
“If you tell us everything, without reservation—now, right now—when we’re done, we’ll go for a dismissal. If we get everyone else involved.”
“Even that,” I said, my eyes cast down, “might … it might be dangerous.”
“We can protect you,” he said, eyes bright, eager now.
“No. Forget it. I won’t. I can’t,” I said.
“All right, punk, it’s the slam for you,” Muggles said.
“Hey, Vernon—you don’t mind I call you Vern, do you, Vern?”
“It’s Special Agent Muggles,” he snapped.
“Yeah, Muggs. You know, you’re doing this all wrong. You’re supposed to have a good guy and a bad buy. But you got yourself playing both parts. Whatsamatter, you don’t trust Fergie the Gorilla to use his mouth for anything but sucking?”
Fergie got angry. He stood up from his chair and loomed himself over me. “You show some fucking respect, punk,” he growled.
“Ouuu, did I hurt your li’l feelings?” I mocked him.
“Just shut your mouth, punk.”
“You know what I think?” I said in a teasing voice. “I think you’re a little strange.” I reached out and patted him, lightly, tenderly even, on his cock.
Fergie lost his cool. He telegraphed the big roundhouse right that came at me. I got my hand up enough to protect my face, but the force of the blow knocked me off the chair and onto the floor.
“Get away from him, Ferguson,” Muggles yelled, but not soon enough to keep Fergie from kicking me.
“You didn’t see what he did,” Ferguson said defensively.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“He … ” Ferguson started to say, then he blushed and shut up. I watched from the floor while he backed away from me. When he was out of striking distance, I picked myself up.
“I’m sorry about that,” Muggles said through tight lips.
I wasn’t. I glanced over at the tape recorder. Muggles hadn’t turned it off. “What … what do you want to know? I’ll tell you,” I said, weakly.
“Let’s take it from the top,” he said. He got his pen poised over his pad. “Who first approached you?”
“To get the special prosecutor’s report?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody actually approached me. It just sort of happened.”
“Look, this is up to you, Cassella. You help us, you help yourself. You want to screw around, you hurt yourself. Am I clear?”
“Claro,” I said. “You asked the wrong question.”
He frowned. “Who paid you?”
“Des Kennel,” I said.
You Get What You Pay For (The Tony Cassella Mysteries) Page 12
