“Yeah?” Frankie, the man on the seat next to Cole, obviously had no interest in the bridge’s history or its construction.
“Yeah. And I read that on the day it opened, the city had a big parade. When the people at the front of the parade got halfway across the bridge, a rumor started that the cables were beginning to snap and, like, six people got killed in the stampede.”
“I think you read too much, Sal.” Frankie pulled two sticks of gum from his pocket, tore off the wrappers and shoved them in his mouth. “What do you think, Wall Street boy?”
Cole didn’t answer. The partition between the driver and passenger compartments was open and he was staring through the windshield, concentrating intently on the road ahead.
“Hey!” Frankie kicked Cole in the ankle with the point of his sharp boot. “I asked you a question.”
“Jesus Christ!” Cole bent over and grabbed his ankle. It was the same ankle he had sprained in his collision with the taxicab and it was still sore. “I didn’t hear you,” he groaned.
Frankie and Sal shared a harsh laugh.
“You better get used to that kind of thing, pal,” Frankie warned. “Unless you’ve recently come into some cash.”
The limousine coasted to a gentle stop. Two lanes of eastbound traffic were closed due to construction on the bridge, and the line of cars waiting to move into the single open lane was long.
Instantly Cole lunged for the door away from Frankie. He had seen the traffic tie-up ahead through the open partition and anticipated the opportunity. He hadn’t heard any doors lock as they squealed away from the curb back in Manhattan, and he prayed that somehow the driver had overlooked that responsibility. Cole’s prayers were answered as the handle gave way and the door sprang open. He pulled himself through the door, rolled onto the blacktop, scrambled to his feet, slammed the limousine door on Frankie’s hand as the man tried to follow, then hobbled back toward Manhattan. As he ran past a plain-looking four-door sedan idling behind the limousine, the sedan’s driver-side rear door opened suddenly, slamming into Cole’s chest and legs. He fell to the blacktop, the breath knocked from his lungs by the impact. He lay for a moment in the fetal position, gasping for air, then was pulled roughly into the sedan. Suddenly there was metal pressed to the side of his neck. The sedan’s driver jumped out from behind the wheel, slammed the back door shut, then slid back behind the wheel and followed the limousine as traffic began to move forward once more.
“I wouldn’t try that again,” a voice warned.
Cole opened his eyes.
The man beside Cole on the backseat smiled as he forced the barrel of a revolver against Cole’s jaw.
“You guys are always smiling,” Cole gasped. “You just hear a good joke or something? Or are you just happy people? Maybe they should call you happyguys instead of wiseguys.”
The man said nothing as he brought the gun down from Cole’s face.
“Well, I hope you’re as much fun to be with as the guys in the other car were,” Cole said, still trying to catch his breath.
The man shoved the gun into his coat. “I thought I saw you catch Frankie’s hand in that door when you slammed it shut. Did you?” he asked.
Oxygen finally began to seep back into Cole’s chest. “Maybe.”
The man shook his head. “That should make things interesting. Frankie’s got a helluva temper.”
Minutes later the limousine and the sedan pulled up behind a warehouse deep in Brooklyn. Frankie stepped out of the limo and ambled casually to the sedan, then jerked the sedan door open and yanked Cole out by the wrist.
“Over there.” Frankie pointed at a door Sal was holding open.
Cole noticed black-and-blue marks on Frankie’s hands that had been made by the door slamming shut.
For several minutes Cole followed Sal through a labyrinth of hallways. Then Frankie’s unhurt hand clamped down on Cole’s shoulder, pivoted his body to the right and pushed him into a dimly lit smoke-filled office. Behind a decrepit wooden desk was another man Cole recognized from the Blue Moon—a man who was clearly senior to the ones who had ridden in the limousine and the sedan. The others nodded to this man deferentially as they crowded into the small room, but he didn’t bother acknowledging them.
The man motioned for Cole to sit down in a ratty armchair in front of the desk. His crop of meticulously combed silver hair and his tiny brown eyes glinted in the light from a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. “You want anything to drink?” His voice was predictably tough but, unlike the others, he spoke with only a slight Brooklyn accent.
“No, thanks.”
The man behind the desk lit a cigarette, then nodded at the others crowded in the doorway. “Frankie and Sal, go get things ready,” he ordered. “Make sure the employees are out of there.”
Cole felt perspiration beginning to build beneath his clothes as he watched Frankie and Sal disappear.
The man behind the desk took a long drag from the cigarette, then exhaled. “My name’s Mad Dog.”
Probably, Cole speculated, because of a very rotten disposition. “Hello, Mr. Dog,” he answered.
Mad Dog snickered. “You’re not going to be quite so cocky in a little while. You owe us a lot of money, Cole.”
“Which I intend to pay you very soon.”
“Almost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, including interest,” Mad Dog continued.
Cole performed several quick calculations. “I guess it wouldn’t do any good to point out that the interest rate you’re charging me violates every usury statute on the books.”
Mad Dog smiled. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“I didn’t think so.” Cole cleared his throat. “Look, I can put together twenty-five thousand dollars by this time tomorrow.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Cole glanced up. “Huh?”
“You’ve got two hundred and twelve dollars in your only account at Citibank and your credit cards are all but maxed out,” Mad Dog said. “The monthly after-tax amount of your salary wouldn’t keep me in cigarettes for a week, and I don’t believe anyone is going to lend you a dime.”
“Well—”
“We need to work out a payment schedule,” Mad Dog declared.
Frankie leaned into the office. “Everything’s ready.”
Mad Dog didn’t take his eyes from Cole. “And we need to make you understand that we’re serious.”
“I know you’re—”
Mad Dog held up his hand. “I want you to follow these gentlemen.”
Cole glanced up at Frankie, then at Sal, who was looking over Frankie’s shoulder, then back at Mad Dog. “Look, I—”
Before he could finish, Cole felt himself being lifted from the chair. Then he was in the hallway again, being hustled forward. He knew they had no intention of killing him, but he also knew that whatever Frankie and Sal had prepared was going to involve pain.
A left turn, a right, another right and the group moved into a large deserted shop area, its walls lined with tools. The men thrust Cole into a chair against the cinderblock wall, grabbed his right wrist, handcuffed it to a ring bolted to the wall a foot above his head, then locked his left wrist beneath a curved metal latch bolted onto a table next to the chair. The latch fit so snugly over his wrist that Cole could barely move his hand. He gazed down at his fingers. He had a good idea of what was coming, and the thought of it almost made him physically ill.
Mad Dog sat down in a chair facing Cole. He took another drag from the cigarette and smiled. “Now it gets real.”
“I can get the money.” Cole tried to remain calm, but perspiration was pouring down his face. “I get my bonus in January, only six weeks from now.” He saw Frankie taking down a huge pair of bolt cutters from the wall. “I’m not kidding!” His heart was suddenly racing.
“I can’t wait six weeks,” Mad Dog replied.
&n
bsp; Frankie moved to the table, took the little finger of Cole’s left hand in his meaty paw and snapped it hard, straight away from the wrist. Pain shot up Cole’s arm as the finger went numb, and he bit down on his lower lip to keep from screaming.
Mad Dog nodded at Cole’s finger, now sticking out from his hand at a strange angle. “We do that for two reasons,” he said, as if he were a professor of medicine guiding a group of interns through a tricky procedure. “It makes cutting it off easier, because now you can’t move it around. And now it’s numb, so you won’t feel as much pain when it comes off.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Mad Dog nodded at Frankie. “Cole, the arrangement will be ten thousand dollars a month for the next three years. No more, no less. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Frankie took Cole’s finger and slipped it between the bolt cutter’s sharp blades.
“Today we are going to remove the finger that Frankie has inserted in the bolt cutters. Miss a payment,” Mad Dog warned, “and we’ll take off the little finger on your right hand. Miss another one, you lose the thumb on your left hand. You get the picture, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
Mad Dog took one last drag from the cigarette, dropped it to the floor and stamped it out. He smiled as he blew the smoke into Cole’s face.
Cole stared at the mobster. This was one of those times in life where you just had to suck up your fear and get through a horrible situation the best you could. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he asked as he drew a deep breath and clenched his teeth.
“Tough guy, huh?” The man’s smile disappeared. “Tell you what. We’ll cut off two fingers today. Then we’ll see how tough you are.”
“Put down the bolt cutters.”
The mobsters whipped around.
Bennett Smith stood in the shop doorway aiming his .44 directly at Mad Dog. “I’m a federal agent,” he said calmly. “That man you have handcuffed to the wall is being sought by the Department of Justice as a potential witness with respect to a high-profile case which has absolutely nothing to do with any of you or any operations with which you may be involved. And I personally don’t care what you’re involved in. Do you understand what I’ve just said?”
Frankie reached for his gun. Bennett smoothly turned the .44 on the man, squeezed the trigger and nailed him through the wrist. Frankie dropped to his knees and his .38 flew through the air, clattering against the far wall.
“You stupid sonofabitch!” Mad Dog snarled at Frankie, who was writhing on the floor, clutching his wrist.
“Any more of that and I’ll start shooting at everybody!” Bennett yelled. “And we’ll see who’s standing at the end.” Sal backed up against the wall, hands raised, as Bennett aimed at him. “Then I’ll rip this damn warehouse apart and take the temperature of the goods I find,” Bennett yelled even louder. “My guess is, they’ll all be hot.”
“There’s no reason for any of that,” Mad Dog assured Bennett quickly. For all he knew, the guy with the blond hair had nothing to do with the federal government. But there could be an army of federal agents outside the warehouse, too, and he wasn’t going to take that chance. “You can have him.” Mad Dog snapped his fingers at Sal. “Unlock him.”
Seconds later Cole was free from the latch and the handcuffs.
“Get over here!” Bennett ordered.
Cole moved quickly across the floor—stepping around Frankie, who was bleeding badly—until he was standing next to Bennett.
“Let me see the guns!” Bennett demanded.
The mobsters glanced at each other but didn’t move.
“Come on! One at a time, and take them out slowly.”
Reluctantly, they removed their pistols from their shoulder holsters.
“Throw them over here.” Bennett pointed at the ground in front of his boots.
The men slid the guns across the smooth floor.
“Now your cell phones.”
The men removed cell phones from their pockets and slid the phones across the floor as well.
“Get everything, Mr. Egan,” Bennett instructed, acting as if they were not well acquainted. “Put it all in that bag.” Bennett pointed at a bag hanging from the wall.
Obediently Cole gathered the guns and the phones and placed them in the bag.
“Put the bag outside the door.”
Cole did as he was ordered, then returned to Bennett’s side.
“Now what seems to be the problem?” Bennett asked.
“I owe them some money,” Cole answered quietly.
“Gambling money?”
Cole hesitated. “Yes.”
“Just like your damn father,” Bennett muttered under his breath.
“Hey, I don’t think that’s—”
“Shut up,” Bennett growled. “How much do you owe them?”
Bennett was talking to him as if he were an immature adolescent, and it made Cole furious, as it had when his uncle had admonished him as a teenager. His uncle had no right to talk to him that way and neither did Bennett. Only a father had that right. “I owe them plenty.”
“How much?” Bennett yelled.
But for the second time in as many weeks Bennett was risking his own life to pry Cole out of a bad situation. Now was no time to be arrogant. “A hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he admitted.
“Jesus Christ,” Bennett grumbled, shaking his head. Slowly he reached into his overcoat and produced a thick money clip. He tossed it at Mad Dog, who snagged it cleanly out of the air. “There’s seven thousand dollars in that clip. I want your assurance that Mr. Egan will not be required to make another payment until the first of February. Not until he’s had a chance to get that bonus I heard him telling you about. When he gets it, I want him to be able to pay off his entire debt in one lump sum. I don’t want it stretching out. And there will be no more interest accrued between now and February. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yeah,” Mad Dog agreed.
“If I find out that our understanding has been violated, I will bring the federal government down on you as hard as I can. And I’ll put it out on the street that you’re my personal informant.” Bennett pointed directly at Mad Dog. “That you have been providing the government with information about your family’s activities for several years.”
“Hey!” The ploy worked perfectly. Mad Dog’s fear was obvious and immediate. “Don’t start that!”
“If he isn’t hassled,” Bennett gestured at Cole, “everything will be fine.”
Mad Dog dropped the money clip in his shirt pocket. “Like I said. No problem.”
“Good.” Bennett glanced at Cole. “Get outside.” Bennett stalked to the far wall, ripped the room’s only phone off the wall, made certain it no longer worked and moved back to the doorway. He closed the door, locked it, jammed a thin piece of wood between the bottom of the door and the floor, picked up the bag full of guns and phones, then turned and began running. “Come on, Cole.”
Cole needed no urging. He sprinted after Bennett, who raced down a long hallway—pausing only long enough to hurl the bag of guns and phones behind several boxes—then burst through a metal door on the far side of the building from where the men had brought Cole. They jumped into Bennett’s rented Ford Taurus parked just outside the door and peeled away. Not until they had crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and were back in Manhattan did they begin to breathe normally.
Finally Bennett pulled the car to a stop in front of a deli and jammed the gearshift into park. “What the hell was that all about?” Bennett’s face and neck were bloodred, still flushed from the confrontation at the warehouse.
“I told you,” Cole said, rubbing his swollen little finger, “I owe them gambling money.”
“Nothing else?” Bennett was seething.
For the first time Cole caught a gl
impse of a mercurial temper simmering just beneath Bennett’s fair skin. “No.”
Bennett gazed at Cole, one eyebrow raised, as if he didn’t believe what Cole had said.
“I swear to you.” An odd expression crossed Cole’s face. “Oh, wait a minute. You thought all that was about the Dealey Tape.”
“Was it?” Bennett wanted to know.
“Christ, you thought they were trying to get it from me to keep it from becoming public.” The realization set in.
“Were they?”
“No!”
“If that tape became public, the Mafia would come under intense scrutiny,” Bennett pointed out. “You know as well as I do that the federal government would have to open up the investigation into the assassination all over again. The Mafia would certainly be one of the entities investigated. Federal agents would be crawling all over them again. The Mafia has done its best to maintain a low profile over the last few years.”
That was true, Cole realized. Since John Gotti had been put away, the Mafia had gone quiet again.
“The last thing Mafia bosses want is federal investigators back in their boxer shorts.”
Cole shook his head. “Look, I ran up a tab at one of their Brooklyn casinos. What happened back at the warehouse has nothing to do with the Dealey Tape.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Bennett set his jaw.
“You’re crazy. I went to the casino on my own. Nobody took me to—” He stopped short. He was about to say that no one had taken him to the casino, but that wasn’t entirely true. The corporate bond trader had steered him to the casino that night. But it was insane to think the whole thing had been prearranged, to think that Mad Dog and his crew had any idea the Dealey Tape even existed.
“What were you going to say?” Bennett demanded.
“Nothing.” There was no reason to bring up the fact that the trader had taken him to the Blue Moon. It would only arouse irrelevant suspicions. “What in the hell were you doing out there anyway? Not that I wasn’t glad to see you.”
Bennett relaxed into the car seat. “I told you. Your father was worried you might run into trouble after you went to that safe deposit box. I told him I’d make sure you remained unharmed.”
The Legacy Page 15
