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

by Beinhart, Larry

  “Thank you, Miss Social Woiker.”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

  “In point of fact, I’m making good fucking money now.”

  “Oh, Tony … ”

  “O-o-h-h, To-o-n-n-y … What?”

  “This case is a lot of money. But what about after it?”

  “If buying this fucking apartment is what our life is about, go ahead and buy it. Put it in your name. Don’t worry, I’ll pay my share. But I don’t want every day of my fucking life to be going in circles around are we gonna buy this apartment.”

  “Don’t talk to me that way. It’s not necessary.”

  It was necessary. Because I kept the truth locked in my trunk of silence. I was animal inarticulate, shaking my rattle and raising my hackles.

  Apologies were made, angers packed away, so we wouldn’t be wearing them when we got back upstairs to say good night to Wayne.

  Joey had taken time off for an extensive physical. I went to see him at home. He looked worn out. From the exam, he said, but it was all good news. All thumbs up, everything working, from brain pan to prostate. In turn, I gave him my good news: We were about to be rich and famous!

  “Watch this,” he told me. “Watch good.” He held his fist high in the air. “Mario,” he said. The mutt came bounding into the room. He spied the fist, came to a screeching halt, and went into his intelligent-hound-as-beggar act: hindquarters down, one forepaw up, ears up, tail twitching, what was left of his whiskers quivering, and his eyes locked on Joey’s fist.

  Joey opened his hand, turned it over, and showed Mario there was nothing there.

  Mario slumped to the floor, his head sinking between his forepaws, doggie eyes gazing up into eternal sadness.

  “That’s you,” Joey said to me.

  “Not only is the money good,” I told him, “but Straightman is right. We’re small-time because we make ourselves small-time. We’re nowhere, going nowhere.”

  “Some things there isn’t enough money in the world for.”

  “Which is OK for you,” I snapped, angry and out of patience, “fine for you. You got your pension, you got your rent-controlled apartment, your kids are grown. You got nothing to go forward for. But it’s not fine for me. My life isn’t fuckin’ over yet.”

  “These kinda bastards,” he said, shaking his head, old and sad. “What these kinda bastards, they’ll do to you … ”

  “So if you don’t want to go along, then fuck you. I’ll take this one on my own hump.”

  “You stupid, stubborn little bastard,” he said. “You’re like your goddamn old man.” He stuck his finger out at me. “Your old man, you’re lucky you had him. Sonuvabitch stood by me when … when I had problems. So what? So that puts me in this with you.”

  “What are you talking about? What kinda problems?”

  “You stupid sonuvabitch,” he said without anger. “Get me a beer and we’ll sit down and look at what we got here and how we’re gonna do this.”

  I got two bottles, pouring out a sip for Mario.

  “You know,” Joey said, “I was gonna take a vacation. Go down to Florida.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you can go down to Ocala, see this Buono guy,” I said. “Then we can bill the trip to Straightman and make it a deduction.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Hey, lighten up, Joey. We’re gettin’ lucky here. Paris for me. Disney World for you. It’s time for us to get on the gravy train.”

  “Let’s see how this lays out,” he said.

  I had my notes and my chart. I also had two ideas pretty set in my mind. One was that if there was a blueprint for the investigation, it was the special prosecutor’s report. The complete, unexpurgated version.

  “You didn’t make a copy?”

  “What for?” I said. “That was the end of things, not the beginning. And by the time it arrived, it was all I could do to make delivery before my flight. I need the thing. OK, maybe Fenderman did a bad job, maybe there’s a cover-up, but if there’s a blueprint for what we’re looking for, the report’s it.”

  “So get it again.”

  “I figure it was Bronstein sent it to me. I figure. I don’t know for sure. But I do know for sure that if it was Bronstein, she sure as shit did not want to be seen giving it to me,” I said, thinking out loud, and realizing: “I got to get to Des. Get it back from him.”

  “Des don’t exactly like you these days.”

  “True, but I think I know how to hook Desmond Kennel.”

  “Kennel ain’t a stand-up guy.” He said it without emphasis, but it was a final judgment, like a feminist slapping on the “sexist” label.

  “Yeah, well”—I shrugged—“he’s got something I need.”

  The other thing I was convinced of was that Santino Scorcese was the key.

  Joey suggested that we use Miles Vandercour for the paper chase. Miles was the tag end of an old Dutch New York family and a lawyer. Miles wasn’t all-around bright. He ended up the fall guy for someone else’s scam and was disbarred. In his disgrace he found his glory. Friends, throwing him a bone, or looking for cut-rate legal services, started hiring him to do research. He discovered that his brilliance was patience. He became a paper chaser. He had come to know his way through the bowels of every record room in the city better than he knew the face in his mirror.

  Joey agreed to go down to Ocala to see if we could get more on Phil Buono than was in the papers. I felt we were together on the thing. It was taking shape. We were getting a handle on it. It felt good. It felt right.

  “We got a good enough business as it is,” Joey said suddenly. “Silverman, he don’t want to use nobody but us now. He thinks you’re the greatest.”

  “He thinks I’m the greatest?”

  “The cops grabbed Elijah, running out of the fire. You know that.”

  “Yeah … ”

  “Well, it was our case, I figured we should get the money. So I went out t’ Brooklyn. Well, the Snake, he’s real impressed with you now. He figures a guy who would torch a joint just to bring in a skip, such a guy is real committed.”

  “Wait a minute … ”

  “Yeah.” Joey grinned. “Real committed. That the republic can only survive ’cause of committed people like you.” He stopped grinning. “So we could go ahead and drop this Gunderson thing and still get ahead. Still make a living.”

  “No,” I said. “You’re still not gettin’ it. We do take Silverman’s stuff, and we farm it out some. Even if we only take—what?—twenty, thirty percent of the fee, we still make out, as long as the Straightman thing is also coming in. Then anything from the Snake, it’s gravy. We are going to be a business.”

  “No, you don’t get it.” He was adamant. “These kinda people, they’ll strip you down to nothing. Nothing.” We were back to that. “If I could stop you, I’d stop you,” he said.

  “Good night,” I told him, tired of it, ready to leave.

  “If you knew the things I know … ” he said portentously.

  “What? What is it you know?”

  “All right,” he said, sounding very resigned. “Yeah. All right. I don’t know what it is. People got things they got to do. Got to do ’em. That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You more than most. Even me. I got things I got to do too.”

  I called Alicia Bronstein. She didn’t return my calls.

  I called Des. He didn’t return my calls. I went to the studio. WFUX security had orders not to let me in. So I waylaid him outside his apartment building the next morning.

  “Get away!” he cried when he saw me.

  “Hey, cool it, Des,” I said.

  His head swiveled, as he looked for an escape route. I kept trying to talk to him: He scuttled blindly backward. Someone had failed to scoop his pooch’s poop, as required by the New York City civil code, and Des’s foot went flying out from under him. I jumped forward and grabbed him as he fell. “It’s about your TV show,” I said, my arms around him.

  “I’m going to call a
police officer,” he said, with his feet flailing for purchase and his torso twisting to break my grasp, “and have you arrested for assault.”

  I clamped down. “I got someone who wants to back your TV show,” I said in his ear.

  “Is this serious?” He stopped struggling.

  No. It wasn’t. But I had someone who would pretend it was: mystery Israeli millionaire Yakov Felstein, who owned a small videotape facility in midtown Manhattan and peddled arms from the back room. Not Saturday Night Specials. The real thing—assault rifles, armored vehicles, tanks, land-based missiles. He had catalogs with glossy full-color action photos. “Mail order,” he said, “like Sears Roebuck.” He had once hired me to investigate a buyer. Yakov’s instincts were sound. The buyer was an FBI agent trying to set up a sting. But I didn’t think Yakov’s motive for helping was gratitude. He doesn’t like the press, and the idea of putting one over on a member of the Fourth Estate pleased him.

  He had a most impressive conference room. He convinced Des that he would back the show as an indie and put it in syndication. All that was needed was a socko pilot. Something to make the world sit up and take notice. Yakov quoted figures and projections, and Des dazzled himself with avaricious dreams. So much so that when the idea of making Gunderson the subject of show number one came up, Des didn’t flinch. If Yakov liked it, Des loved it.

  His only problem was time. For a piece of the action—and a featured role—I was willing, I said, to do the actual investigating.

  Everyone left the meeting delighted with the arrangements.

  Des even promised me real press credentials. They would be indistinguishable from what I could have had made up for twenty-five dollars. Except that an entire television station was now prepared to vouch for them. Which was a nice bonus. Being an actual reporter gave me some latitude and protection. Not a lot, but some.

  “Right, let’s start with the special prosecutor’s report,” I said to Des, getting to what I really wanted. “Get me a copy, will you?”

  “I don’t have it,” Des said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Feds took it.”

  “Come on Des, you must’ve made a copy.”

  “I gave it to them.”

  “Notes?”

  “They had a warrant, Tony. It asked for the notes.”

  “And you gave them your notes? Where the hell did you grow up? Didn’t your parents teach you anything? Didn’t your father tell you you’re supposed to lie to the cops?”

  19.

  Santino Scorcese

  I TRIED OUT MY new press credentials. I learned that Felacco and Ventana were still on the streets. The D.A. didn’t want to put them on trial for the murder of Arthur Scorcese until he was certain he could convict. But why hadn’t Santino “The Wrecker” Scorcese done something about them?

  There is a great deal of talk about people in organized crime taking care of each other. Certain criminal groups have acquired the designation “family.” This is mostly from Mario Puzo and very misleading. They are strictly financial organizations. They have as much heart and family feeling as your average brokerage house. Felacco and Ventana were on the outside, making money for people. Santino was inside. Not making money. That’s why Felacco and Ventana were still walking around.

  I tried to approach Scorcese through his attorney. No, Santino Scorcese did not want to talk to a reporter. Even when I said there was a book in it and a movie deal.

  I drove up to Dannemora. A long and tedious trip. I was prepared to offer Santino cash for information. But not through his lawyer, who was the attorney for several other mobsters in the same “family.” One of the correction officers would carry a message in for me. For cash. COs have the same attitude toward corruption as any other public official. Most of them will participate in it if it’s profitable, and they can convince themselves it’s harmless, and they think no one’s looking.

  Unfortunately, someone remembered my face. From the old days when I had been a CO myself, and had investigated and convicted several fellow officers. Even though I had been city and these fellows worked for the state and it had been a long time ago, they still felt antagonism. So that plan fell through.

  Joey had returned from Ocala. He’d taken Mario Cuomo with him and was bitching about how bad the fleas were in Florida. I told him how lovely the Adirondacks had been.

  “This guy Buono,” Joey said, “he’s like the papers said, a genius and a flake. Except that he’s bent, he’s a fine example of our Italian heritage. Smarts. Even with the guy testifying against himself, the Feds don’t know if they can convict him.”

  “You talk to him?”

  “Federal Witness Program,” he said. Which meant no.

  When the phone rang, I answered it. It was my uncle Vincent. He’d left several messages, which I hadn’t returned.

  “You got to come see me,” my uncle Vincent demanded.

  “What’s this about?” I asked him.

  “Come see me,” Vincent commanded.

  “Is this something we can’t talk about on the phone?”

  “Are you gonna come see me or not? It’s for your benefit.”

  “What is?” I asked.

  “Either you come or you don’t,” Vincent said.

  “Yeah, well, I could try to come out next week,” I said.

  “That might be too late,” Vincent said.

  “For what?” I asked my uncle.

  “You coming or not?”

  “I told you,” I said to Vincent, “I’ll try to get out there next week.”

  “When?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” I told him.

  He hung up. It had been a typical conversation.

  “Who was that?” Joey asked.

  “Vincent.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “What he always wants: to see me.”

  “You’re so concerned with money, making money, maybe you should start thinking about seeing him.”

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  “What are you, too proud to do his business?” Joey said, laying the sarcasm down with a trowel. “He told you he got business for you. Legit, he says. Nothing illegal, he says. He’s just a construction guy, he says. What are you, too proud?”

  “You want to do his business?”

  “No. But I ain’t the one in a hurry to make money. I got a pension and my rent-controlled apartment and no kids to worry about no more. I got all I need. You’re the one’s got needs and urges—”

  “What the fuck is it with you? What is this strange shit with you?”

  “With me?” he yelled.

  “Argh! Argh!” Mario barked.

  “Call off your dog,” I said.

  He put a restraining hand on the mutt’s neck. “I’m trying to figure out what it is made you take this job. I keep going around and around about it. You got to know that you’re just asking for trouble. So all I come up with is it’s the money. And if it’s the money, there’s other things we can do.”

  “Are we gonna have this fucking conversation every time I see you?” I said. “Scare you so much, whyn’t you go your way, I’ll go mine.” Which is the kind of thing people say when they’re fighting. Lovers, husbands and wives, and partners. Sometimes it’s what you got to do. Most of the time it’s the last thing in the world you want, and you know if you did there’d be an emptiness you’d never fill.

  “Like for example,” my partner said, “I met an old friend down there. Lee Fazio. He’s a P.I. now. Jesus, he’s living good. Got an El D’ custom convertible, pool out backa the house. More work ’an he can handle. Maybe it’s time to give up this New York thing, which costs like it breaks your back and hurts my bones in winter. Down there, we can make more and spend less to live better.”

  “Retire if you wanna retire,” I said. “But do me a favor. Before you do, tell me what you found out about Buono.”

  “Not much to tell.” He sighed. “Thing is, federal prosecutor, sent down to Oca
la, you gotta know he’s not exactly major-league material. Ocala, it’s not even triple A. These are not guys that management is planning to bring up to the majors. Everything, everything they got, they leaked to the papers. Swear to God, it turns out that they brought in the reporters and showed them the entire grand jury minutes. I got the clippings, you can go over them. And some reporters’ notes, though most everything got printed.”

  “Is it worth finding Buono?” I asked him, though digging out someone buried in the Witness Protection Program is tough.

  “Well, it is and it isn’t. On the one hand, I don’t think he’s much use. He seems like the kinda guy who never looked beyond his own thing. The only time he ever knew anything about Gunderson was that one dinner.”

  “Yeah. So why’s he worth going after?”

  “Loreen,” he said. “The ex. She wants him served a subpoena. Federal Witness Protection Program or not. Can’t sue him if she can’t serve him.”

  “To hell with it,” I said. “We gotta find a way to get to Scorcese.”

  “You don’t fucking listen to nothing,” Joey said. “Do you?”

  20.

  Panty Hose

  ________________________

  Last thing in the world I want to do is drive up to Dannemora.

  Thought the Fla. thing would hook him. What it is is restlessness? Or is it ambition? Or self-destruction. The Fla. thing a good thing. Much $ down there. Much divorce. Small-town type. Doing it to the neighbors. The closer to home the more the hate the bigger the legal fees. Also lots of real estate deals, double-X’s. Lots of paranoia. Drugs does that. Tony around drugs? Think he’s really clean now. Not AA clean but just past it. Is that possible?

  Lee Fazio getting old. Not as fast as me. But getting old. More business than he needs. Without even looking for it. We—he—Tony—could hook up fast down there. Cost of living’s lower. Lifestyle. But I sold it wrong. Didn’t sell it at all is what I did. Maybe I can guide him back to it.

  Less beer, more percs.

  T says to do the Loreen Buono job if I want. He’s getting off on multiple jobs. $ on top of $. He’s probably right. But not that one. Too far away, complicated. Better if I stay close. Though the last thing in the world I want to do is drive all the fucking way to Dannemora.