“What is there to fear from me? I come to negotiate,” said Farnsworth. “It is I who have apprehensions about you, Alphonse.”
“Fear and guns are conducive to harm, Mr. Felli. This is an unfortunate fact of life.”
“We will put ours away,” said Farnsworth. “You do the same. As a sign of trust.”
“Instead of putting them away,” said Bressio, “let’s lower them and I will step out and you will see my lowered gun and I shall see yours.”
“These men have none of your high skills, Alphonse.”
“I’m stepping out anyway. Your guns should be lowered.”
“You know that would be a provocation,” said Farnsworth, standing between his two gunmen, a tanned, immaculate little man with a pleasant but slightly fleshy face.
“Damnit,” said Cutler, “can’t you people even negotiate coming around a corner? You there, to the left of Mr. Farnsworth. You come in here with your gun lowered and then the others will follow and then you can all put your guns in their holsters. Satisfactory to everyone?”
Bressio nodded.
“Both of you agree then,” said Cutler.
Farnsworth looked to the man on his right, who took a reluctant step forward, then lowered his glance and would move no more. Farnsworth shoved him angrily, but the man went only as far as Farnsworth’s shove. The other gunman, seeing this, edged away from Farnsworth, shaking his head.
Farnsworth looked at the two men contemptuously. “I will come forward,” said Farnsworth. “I carry no weapons at all.”
Cutler admired the man’s courage and felt some small empathy. He too knew what it was like to see employees fold under pressure.
“Here I am, Alphonse,” said Farnsworth. He looked at Bressio’s lowered gun sadly. “Is this what we have come to?” Farnsworth looked back to the hall and yelled, “You can put them away. He won’t bite you. I said away. Come in here and look at a man. See what one looks like,” yelled Farnsworth.
The two gunmen holstered their weapons, looking nervously at each other, drawing some strength from each other in the knowledge that each was not alone in his fear. They entered Cutler’s office, eying Bressio as though he were an uncaged tiger. Cutler noticed that when Farnsworth signaled them to sit down, they did not take their eyes off Bressio. Nor did they stop looking when Farnsworth nodded Bressio into the hall and Bressio went with him to the far end out of hearing distance. Cutler saw them enter what he knew to be the smaller conference room. Naturally Farnsworth would know where all the rooms were. He owned the building. Funny, Farnsworth being a Mr. Felli.
One of the gunmen crossed himself. The other sighed with relief.
“Would you gentlemen care for something to drink?” said Cutler. They both shook their heads.
“Well, I can use a good stiff one, I’ll tell you that.” In a way he could not explain, Cutler felt a certain sense of exhilaration and pride that it was not a Mitchell, Walker and Cutler employee that had backed down, but these men, a reinforcement of the idea that quality always came to quality, no matter what the sphere. It was an amusing thought.
In the smaller conference room, which was only a neat, painfully bare table surrounded by floor-to-ceiling lawbooks, Al Bressio was not sharing amusing thoughts with Anselmo Felli. He had known the man since childhood. It was always Mr. Felli who had come when Mama needed some extra money, always Mr. Felli who inquired about young Alphonse, always Mr. Felli whom Mama would boast with pride that she could see if ever there was any trouble with city government, especially with building inspectors coming around the apartment building she owned.
“If you in any trouble, Mr. Felli take care of you, understanda, Alphonse,” his mother had said, but even as a young man Bressio knew better. He knew Felli hadn’t shown all that great an interest in him before he had to take care of himself with those three men. He knew what the gold watch was for at high school graduation or the offering of the car when he got out of law school. He knew what it was all about, but it was so much more practical to continue the charade of friendship.
Now, sitting in a conference room of Mitchell, Walker and Cutler, he saw the charade end after so many years. In a way, it was a relief.
Felli sat down at the table and rubbed his hands, examining his highly manicured fingertips. He wore a big diamond pinky ring on his left hand. “We want to know what is coming off, Alphonse,” said Felli. He looked up from his hands.
Bressio noticed how cold his brown eyes seemed now. Yet in the coldness was reassurance. He was not dealing with a fool.
“There’s been an accident of misinformation. My interest in 285 Pren Street was never what it holds, but was with the woman Mary Beth Cutler, who is the daughter of the man who owns this firm, one of the owners.”
Felli nodded.
“The reason why this information—misinformation—blossomed was I was out of town on legal business and did not get word from our mutual friend, who has told you I was here at this office. I might add if you check with him he will verify that he gave me misleading information, information I paid for in good money and in good faith.”
“He told you what he knew to be true,” said Felli.
“I know that. Because of the nature of the size of the material at 285 Pren Street a source of his was willing to incur his wrath with misleading facts. This I understand. I am not a little boy. My only interest in this is the safety of the woman Mary Beth Cutler. She is a client, a valued client.”
“What you say makes sense, Alphonse. Except that you are taking extraordinary risks for a client, even a most valued one. For days no one knows where you stand. You even disappear. When you are seen again, you are seen in that house. Shots are heard in that house, and during a tense time, a very tense time, you do not know how tense it is, when those shots are heard. You are seen later talking to, making a deal, with a narco. Now what can we believe?”
“I went to Pren Street to see for myself. I could not believe, even as I believed it, that a mistake of such monumental proportions could occur. I had to touch and feel the stuff for myself to see it’s dimensions. And whether you believe me or not, Anselmo … Anselmo,” said Bressio, repeating Felli’s first name to indicate that there should be no waste of time in presumed friendship and respect, “it is the truth, what I have told you.”
“I believe you,” said Felli. “But so what? I know you, but so what? These are very troubled times. This thing is like an avalanche. People making new alignments right within the most reliable regimes. And not just within our families. There is so much pressure it is driving all the top people in the families into thinking of new arrangements, some of which will not be so good for us or others. But that is my problem. Your problem is none of us feel we can afford to safely let you go wandering about without knowing what you were doing.
“All right. You say you do not wish to be involved. I say that is a smart thing to wish, Alphonse. I say that is a very smart thing. We do not wish to be involved either. But we are up to our balls. You want to go to a fancy school and think you’re too good for us, all right. All right. You want to buy favors, all right. You want to have a special life to yourself, all right. You carry that gun around that all of us know you can use so well and you do not wish to use it in our service, all right. That was then. Those were the good times. There are no good times any more, Alphonse. No more kissing Don Carmine’s hand and showing all the bullshit respect. You gotta take a side now. That’s why I am here.”
“You make it sound like there are only two sides, Anselmo. There is another side. Look at this office. You know what they take in a year? Legal? Without ducking to the botton of a car when they hear a loud noise? They can spend all their money right out in the open because they don’t have to sweat the IRS asking them all those questions about where they got their money. It’s a good life, Anselmo.”
“I don’t see no Cannigliaro, Bensi, Giordano on no names here, Alphonse. They got some lace-curtain Irish, a German Jew cause he’s a fucking ge
nius, and the rest are all their kind. This is their business, Alphonse.”
“I’ve had the kiss,” said Bressio, meaning he had been given an invitation to join the firm, which was untrue, but he had his special reason for saying it.
“What are they gonna let you make here, Alphonse? You’re a smart boy. How much can they cut you in for with what you can do? A hundred thousand a year? You ain’t gonna see bread like that. There are three guys here making that kind of money. And, I might add, much more. But everyone else is lucky to see fifty grand. This isn’t any Hebe outfit where they go spreading it around. They don’t have to here. They’re WASPS. Everything is kept right here,” said Felli, patting his chest. “On the other hand, there is a silver lining to our situation. A lot of things are going to be opening up. A lot of areas. A lot of new people will have to be replaced. You wouldn’t be just some soldier who’d leave me out in some hallway with nothing but my suit between me and a gun. You’d be a valued asset, and you’d be treated as such. You’d be a very rich man, a very rich man. Real money. I bet I got more money than that Cutler fellow out there.”
“How much are you going to spend walking into people like me, Anselmo? I made my deal. I got a good deal going with his daughter. Real money. I’m not going to throw it away to get my ass blown off in one of your wars.”
“It’s ‘your wars’ now. I see. Well, maybe you think so and maybe that Cutler guy thinks so, but nobody else thinks so and the only question, Alphonse Bressio, is whether you get into this thing with allies who can help you, or you go it alone with no one. No one. Alone.”
“That’s the way it’s really always been, Mr. Felli.”
“I hope they burn your balls off, Bressio,” said Felli, his face contorted in a sneer that revealed his gold bridgework.
Like a striking snake Bressio’s left hand reached out to Felli’s painted tie, and handling him like a stuffed teddy bear Bressio lifted him from his seat.
“Don’t forget who I am, Felli,” said Bressio. And he spit full in the older man’s face. Then he spit again and released Felli, who steadied himself on the table and stood erect, not bothering to wipe his face dry but letting the spittle run down his cheek.
“I will convey your respects to Don Carmine,” he said.
“Please do,” said Bressio. “I hope the summer is finding him well.”
“I am sure he returns the sentiments.”
“Good day, Mr. Felli.”
“Good day, Mr. Bressio.”
Bressio ushered Arnold Farnsworth to the front door and signaled to his men to follow. They jumped from their seats and trotted up the hallway past the many staid and private offices of Mitchell, Walker and Cutler. At the door, Bressio pushed them out, stumbling into Felli, who suddenly unleashed his anger on his subordinates who had failed him. Bressio shut the outer door of Mitchell, Walker and Cutler to the sound of faces being slapped.
Cutler was at his desk, drinking a half-tumbler of sherry. The bottle sat on his blotter.
“Well,” said Cutler. “So that’s the terrible, terrible Mafia. They don’t look all that tough to me.”
“Yeah, well,” said Bressio and could no more explain what fear was about to a man like Cutler than he could tell Felli. They just don’t know, these people. “Look, while I’m working for you on your daughter thing, I’d appreciate your spreading the word or at least answering if someone asks you, I’d appreciate you telling them you’re going to make me a member of this firm. I’ve got my reasons. I want to keep some people hopefully unsure.”
“How did you know?” said Cutler.
Bressio cocked an eyebrow.
“I said how did you know I was planning to bring you into Mitchell, Walker and Cutler?”
“I didn’t,” said Bressio.
“Well, I’ve given it some thought and I’ve seen how your mind works, and I am sure that when the bar comes up again soon, you will take it and pass it and then join us.”
“Wait a minute. Even people who are super experts at reaching people haven’t been able to get to the bar yet. I know.”
“Well, it’s not really a question of slipping someone an envelope or anything that crude. You’d probably have to do some heavy preparatory work, but I feel rather confident that we can reasonably assure you on becoming a lawyer.”
“That’s a hell of a carrot you’re holding in front of me,” said Bressio.
“I was wondering what your price was,” said Cutler. “You know, I’m what one might call an expert at determining a person’s area of maximum concern. This is very important in our business, and I couldn’t figure out yours.”
“You still haven’t,” said Bressio. “Can I use a private line? I want to phone my bookie.”
Cutler blinked and cleared his throat.
“I don’t think I heard what you said very clearly, Al.”
“You heard,” said Bressio.
“Can I ask why? This comes as a considerable shock to me. You know who we are. I known you know who we are.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I do.”
“And you’re still interested in law, I know that. I’ve heard you right here explain how you and that fellow Dawson plan to use the courts. No one can hide that sort of excitement from me. I know the law is where you’re at.”
“That’s very much true, Mr. Cutler. It’s been a long day and it’s going to be a longer night for me, so just point me to the phone. I’m drained.”
“Anyone on any of those secretaries’ desks in the main hallway. The front,” said Cutler, dumfounded.
“Thanks,” said Bressio and as he sat down near a typewriter at one of the secretaries’ desks, he thought about the note calling him a beautiful person and he wished again he could have saved it.
Clarissa would understand what Felli and Cutler could not. The Law. With all its whore judges and lawyers who knew more about collecting bills than the First Amendment.
In the law, there was what separated the men from animals, and while it was not perfect, in it was perfection. In it was the way out of young men being held over a coffin to kiss a wax face. In it was the way out of fear. Maybe not this generation, but maybe the next.
If he had told that to Felli, if he had given that as his refusal, he would be as good as dead. To show fear to a man like Felli was to die. Alphonse Bressio could not allow himself that luxury if he wanted to stay alive. He had to remind the close adviser to Don Carmine that he had not gone soft, that it was best to reconsider before any precipitous moves. Alphonse Joseph Bressio was not a man to be trifled with. Nor was he a man to devote a life to getting a useless warning on a pack of cigarettes.
The law was out there even if a William James Cutler did not practice it as a young graduate thought he did. There were Harlan Fiske Stones and Cordozos and Marshalls. They were beautiful people. As was Alphonse Joseph Bressio. Sometimes.
XVIII
Bressio arrived late at Federal District Court on Foley Square across the park from his office that he could not go to. Nor could he spend the night in his apartment. He had lost his tail on Forty-second Street and had spent the night sleeping in a Trailways bus to Trenton and back. All he had to do was keep moving and stay alive until someone got to the stash, as someone had to.
There would be a blood bath, and blessedly he would be out of it. They would all go after the people who got the stash and he would be out of it. Then it would be apparent he was no competition.
The heat wave had broken with an early-morning shower and Bressio felt cool tripping up the steps of the courthouse. He had washed and shaved at the Port Authority bus terminal that morning, phoned Clarissa, heard her beautiful alive voice, told her not to leave any more written messages, heard that Mary Beth and Bobbi had reluctantly gone with her to the farm in Mount Carmel, and told her he was fine and on the move. He also told her to bill Cutler with the clock running twenty-four hours a day.
Dawson’s private secretary told him the Fleish pretrial was scheduled for 9:00 A.M., and it was 9
:30 when he phoned. It was possible he would miss Dawson in action, but he doubted it.
Federal District Court was as good a place as any to spend a couple of hours, and he liked to watch Dawson work. Many young lawyers would make futile grandiloquent motions for dismissal at these proceedings and some of the older ones would go up to the bench tired and bored and let the prosecution dump on their clients, just not to be delayed in court any longer than they felt they had to.
The pretrial was the scut mechanics of the law, hearing defense motions for change of venue or lowering of bail or delayed trial date and often for dismissal of the charges, which rarely occurred. Here the defendant pleaded guilty or not guilty, asked to avail himself of a jury or not. Here the prosecution presented the grand jury’s indictment to the judge. And right here was one of the first distinguishing steps between Anglo-Saxon justice and the ancient Roman justice followed by the rest of Europe, except, of course, England.
The judge did not represent the prosecution. He sat between prosecutor and defense, ideally impartial. At least that was how he was supposed to be. In other countries, the judge and the prosecution were often one with the burden of proof on the defense.
The Anglo-Saxon system had its flaws, but only in comparison to the ideal of what it should be. In relationship to the rest of the world, it was beauty in Bressio’s eyes, and for a lawyer to function in this system with anything less than competence to Bressio was a sin. Which was why he liked to watch Dawson work even at a pretrial.
Dawson performed so casually that an uninformed observer would think he had just dropped in to say hello and gotten involved by mistake. He did not waste words, nor did he let anything slip by him.
The best comparison Bressio could think of was watching Joe DiMaggio play center field a quarter of a century earlier. No grandstand dramatics of diving catches, just consistent brilliant field work made ordinary in its appearance by his genius.
At something without publicity Dawson was his best. Bressio had never liked Dawson’s use of the media because it took from what Dawson did best. To Bressio’s occasional complaints Dawson would answer, “Pure, shmure, you ought to build a statue to the virgin of the law. I tell you, Al. That’s where we differ. I think she’s a great roll-in-the-hay whore and you think she’s a stone goddess. And we both love her, so how do you explain it?”
Bressio Page 17
