Mob Psychology td-87

by Warren Murphy

  "Yes?" he said tightly. It galled him to resort to the cheap dodge of bankruptcy. It was so . . . common.

  "Mr. Marderosian on line two."

  "Is it important?" asked Walter Weld Hill, who, while he had rebuilt Boston, did not sully his manicured hands with day-to-day building management. That was why he hired people like Marderosian to run Mattapoisett Managing. The Hills built. They did not manage. Other people managed.

  "He says that it is."

  "Very well," said Walter Weld Hill, depressing the linetwo button as he picked up the receiver.

  "Mr. Hill, we seem to have a problem."

  "Tell me about it," Hill said aridly, pinching the bridge of his nose. It helped relieve his sinus headaches, which were growing more bothersome by the week.

  "I drove by the Manet Building this morning," he said, his voice odd.

  "Which is that one?" asked Hill, who seldom bothered keeping a mental inventory of his properties when times were good, and could not care less now that they were not.

  "The new one. Down in Ouincy."

  "Oh, yes," said Hill, wincing. It was coming back to him. There had been a stretch of salt marsh along the Quincy side of the Neponset River, overlooking Boston. For a decade other builders had erected office buildings there that filled up within a week of the ribbon cutting. He had developed the last remaining plot at the tail end of the boom. But only after the other buildings had not sunk into the marshy soil, as he expected they might.

  Now, three years after the ribbon cutting, not a single office suite had been rented and Hill Associates was paying a monthly maintenance fee in excess of forty thousand dollars.

  Hill's voice lifted. "I don't suppose it has burnt to the ground, by chance?"

  "No, Mr. Hill. But it's occupied."

  Walter Weld Hill's bloodless fingers came away from his long nose. His blueblood-shot eyes narrowed in confusion.

  "Occupied. When did this happen?"

  "It never happened. We haven't shown the place to a potential leasee in over a year. But when I cruised by, there were lights on, people coming and going. Parking slots filled. From what I understand, this has been going on for over a week. "

  "Squatters?" blurted Walter Weld Hill, to whom nothing that happened north of Rhode Island and south of New Hampshire was a surprise anymore.

  "I don't know how else to explain it."

  "You confronted them, of course."

  "I was rebuffed, Mr. Hill. In fact, I was forcibly ejected."

  "But you manage Manet!"

  "That fact did not seem to carry any weight with the security staff of LCN. "

  "Never heard of them."

  "Neither have I. New England Telephone doesn't have a listing for them either. I checked."

  "This is absurd. Have you been drinking, Marderosian? One cannot conduct business without telephones. Not even in this third-world joke of a state."

  "But that's the point, Mr. Hill. NET claims they have no phone lines to the building, but I memorized a number on the reception-desk phone. It works. And they have all utilities-water, sewer, et cetera, but there is no record of any connections being made by the utility companies."

  "How," asked Walter Weld Hill, "is this possible?"

  "By bribery, I would assume."

  "And who," went on Hill, "would have the money to bribe someone in this state?"

  "LCN does, I guess."

  "Give me that number," said Walter Weld Hill crisply.

  When he had the number transcribed on a rag-paper notepad, Walter Weld Hill hung up and dialed the number directly. A low male voice answered on the first ring.

  "LCN. We make money the old-fashioned way."

  Walter Weld Hill blinked. He had heard that catch phrase before. At the moment, he could not place it, however.

  "Please connect me with your most rarefied executive," he said firmly. "This is Mr. Hill of Hill Associates calling."

  "Do you want our pharmaceuticals division, entertainment, loans, fencing, or waste disposal?"

  "What on earth sort of firm are you running over there?"

  "A successful one," said the strange voice. It sounded bored.

  "I see. And who is in charge?"

  "We don't use names, buddy. Company policy."

  "Very well, since you seem determined to make my life difficult, please inform whoever is in charge of your rather diversified enterprise that the owner of the complex you are currently illegally inhabiting is about to call his law firm, Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone."

  There was a pause. "Just a sec. I'll connect you with the CM."

  "That is GM, you ninny." Walter Weld Hill smiled dryly as he listened to a procession of beeps and boops as the call was rerouted through the building that officially had no working telephone system. Mentioning his law firm invariably produced the desired result.

  A moment later a gruff, raspy voice demanded, "Yeah. Whatcha want?"

  "Er, I asked to speak with the individual in charge of LCN. "

  "That's me talkin'. What's this about lawyers?"

  "You are occupying my building."

  "This crummy joint?"

  "It is a superior structure," Walter Weld Hill said stiffly.

  "If you ask me, it looks like it was made outta old sunglasses," the gruff voice snorted. "You ever see these windows? Dark. I never seen windows so dark. It's miracle we can see outta them. The only reason I took it was because it was empty and I didn't have time to evict anyone."

  "Thank you for your opinion," Hill said aridly. "Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

  "Call me Cadillac. Everybody does."

  "Quaint name. Well, Mr. Cadillac, I am afraid you have really stepped in it. Illegal occupation of a commercial dwelling is a felony in this state."

  "No kiddin ?" The voice sounded surprised, like an intelligent ape discovering that a banana was peelable. "I got arrested for a felony once. They charged me with riot. I was only playin' Johnny on the Pony with a couple of guys who owed somebody a few bucks. On account of all the broken bones, the cops called it riot. Isn't that a riot?"

  "I am not amused."

  "Don't be. I wasn't makin' no jokes. So what's on your mind?"

  "Since we seem so free with my building, I believe you owe me, in the very least, rent money."

  "Rent! For this crummy place? I got news for you, bud. This place had no lights, no phones, and no water. I hadda hook em up myself. And believe me, it cost plenty. I figure you owe me for getting your joint together so good."

  "Why don't we have my lawyers discuss the particulars with your lawyers, my good man?" suggested Walter Weld Hill.

  "Lawyers? I ain't got no lawyers."

  "Why am I not surprised?" said Walter Weld Hill with a dry-as-toast sigh.

  "I guess we can't do business, can we? I mean, who are your lawyers gonna talk to if I ain't got lawyers of my own? My mailman?"

  "Why don't I simply visit the premises with my lawyers?"

  "How many you got?"

  "I believe the firm of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone is staffed by nearly a dozen trial attorneys and other functionaries."

  "Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone!" exploded the gruff' voice. "They sound like fuggin' jewelers. You sure they're lawyers?"

  "They happen to be the most eminent in the state," Hill said sourly, thinking: This man is a positive vulgarian.

  "Okay, tell you what. I can see you're serious about this. Get your lawyers. Bring 'em over. All of them. Every last one. I'll get my people together and we'll do a sit-down. How's that sound?"

  "Tiresome," said Walter Weld Hill, who had never before encountered a business person who did not turn to jelly at the names of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone, Attorneys-at-Law. It appeared he would have to go through with it. In person.

  "I shall be over within the hour," he promised.

  "Great. I can hardly wait. Just ask for Cadillac. I'm the CM."

  "I believe that is GM."

  "No
t here, it ain't. "

  As Walter Weld Hill hung up, he pinched the bridge of his nose once more. This was such a comedown for the man who introduced the Palladian Arch to Boston.

  Walter Weld Hill's white Lincoln arrived a fashionable seven minutes after the assorted vehicles of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone had pulled into the parking area of the Manet Building, situated in the crook of a tentacular tributary of the Neponset River.

  Sol Greenglass, senior partner, bustled up, his hand-tooled leather briefcase passing from hand to hand excitedly.

  "We're ready, Mr. Hill," said Sol Greenglass, who, because he was not a Brahmin, was not allowed to invoke Walter Weld Hill's Christian name.

  "Very well," said Walter Weld Hill, shading his eyes as he looked up at the gleaming silvery-blue mirrored-glass face of the Manet Building. He frowned. "Does this remind you of sunglasses?"

  Sol Greenglass looked up. "A little. So what?"

  Walter Weld Hill frowned like an undertaker. "Nothing. We had best get about this."

  The other lawyers formed a train behind Walter Weld Hill as he strode toward the aluminum-framed foyer entrance.

  Two paces behind, Sol Greenglass was almost literally rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

  "When they see us sail in like this, en masse, they're going to positively plotz," he chortled. "I love it when they plotz."

  "Yes," said Walter Weld Hill vaguely. He had no idea what "plotz" meant. It was one of those vulgar Jewish words. He took pains to remain unacquainted with them, just as he scrupulously excluded the forces of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone from his social circle.

  They passed into a rather garish lobby. At a curved desk a male security guard had his face buried in a racing paper. He pointedly ignored them.

  The directory looked like the menu in a seedy diner, white plastic letters mounted on a tacky aquamarine board. Some of the letters were actually askew.

  Walter Weld Hill read down the department listings.

  There were no names. But between "Consiglieri" and "Debt Collection"-odd listings, those-was an odder listing: "Boss."

  "How droll," said Walter Weld Hill, noting that the "Boss" held sway on the fifth floor.

  They crowded into the spacious elevator together. It was filled with Muzak of a kind Walter Weld Hill, for all his varied social experience, had never encountered.

  "My word. It sounds like opera."

  "I think it's The Barber of Seville," said Sid Korngold.

  "Eh?"

  "Rossini," supplied Abe Bluestone.

  "At least their taste is not entirely bankrupt," muttered Walter Weld Hill, wincing at his own use of a particularly painful word.

  The elevator stopped, dinged, and let them off on the fifth floor.

  Briefcases swinging, jaws jutting forward, the law office of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone marched in lockstep behind their client as they negotiated the stainless-steel maze of corridors.

  "What is that odd odor?" asked Hill, his long nose wrinkling and sniffing.

  The collective noses of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone began sniffing the air too. Finally a junior lawyer ventured an opinion.

  "Pot," he said.

  "What is that in English?" Hill asked Sol Greenglass.

  "Marijuana."

  "My Lord! Isn't that illegal?"

  "Last I heard."

  They discovered that the odor was coming from behind a section marked "PHARMACEUTICALS."

  "How odd," murmured Walter Weld Hill. "One would think that physicians would not indulge in such distasteful medications. Remind me to report LCN to the AMA."

  "Yes, Mr. Hill."

  They passed to the end of a long white corridor from which emanated an even more disagreeable odor.

  "What is that pungent smell?" asked Hill.

  "Garlic. "

  "Ugh," said Hill, holding his nostrils closed with finger and thumb. "Detestable."

  Walter Weld Hill was still holding his nostrils against the offending ethnic odor when they came to a black door at the end of along corridor, before which two large men stood guard.

  At first Walter Weld Hill mistook them for LCN lawyers because they wore pinstripes. On second glance he noticed that the stripes were rather broad even for the lax standards of the day.

  And the men jammed into the suits looked rather on the order of dockworkers, Hill thought.

  Sol Greenglass stepped up to one of the sentries.

  "I am Mr. Greenglass of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone, representing Mr. Walter Weld Hill," he announced.

  One of the men stepped aside to reveal the block letters "CRIME MINISTER" on the blank white door. The other opened the door and stuck his head inside.

  "Boss. Company. I think it's the lawyers."

  "Great," boomed a gruff voice. "Wonderful. I love lawyers. Show 'em in. Show 'em right in."

  The brute at the door signaled with the point of his jaw for them to enter.

  Walter Weld Hill allowed the senior partners to precede him. It would make his own entrance all the more impressive. And he wished to get this ordeal over with as soon as possible. In all the generations of Hills, he had never heard of this happening before. Squatters in this day and age. What was the world coming to?

  When Walter Weld Hill finally crossed the threshold, he found himself in a long conference room.

  There were some odd appointments, such as the rather Catholic portraits on the walls, and over in one corner, a large black stove that belonged in the back of a low-class restaurant. On one wall was a sign that said:

  WE MAKE MONEY THE OLD-FASHIONED WAY. WE STEAL IT.

  "That's not correct," muttered Walter Weld Hill, his eyes going to the man rising at the far end of the table, just under the sign. He wore a sharkskin suit over a black shirt. His tie was white. A hopeless combination. Obviously unsophisticated.

  "Come in, come in," said the man, gesturing broadly. "I'm Cadillac. Welcome to La Cosa Nostra, Incorporated."

  Dead silence followed that statement. Every member of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone froze in midaction.

  The man in the sharkskin suit began chortling. "What?" he said. "You think I'm serious? It's a joke. I was just kiddin'. Honest. Just a little joke to break the tension. Don't be so serious all the time. Its bad for the digestion."

  No one laughed, but everyone resumed normal breathing.

  Sol Greenglass slammed his leather briefcase onto the conference table, saying, "Mr. Cadillac, I have here a summons to appear before the honorable judge John Joseph Markham of Dedham Superior Court."

  "Hold your horses," said the man in the sharkskin suit. "Which one of yous is Hill?"

  "I am Walter Weld Hill," said Walter Weld Hill disdainfullv.

  The man bustled out from behind the conference table. "Glad to meetcha," he said, taking Hill's right hand and levering it like a water pump. "These your lawyers?"

  "Of course," said Hill, attempting to disengage.

  "Great. I never saw so many lawyers before in my life. They look like Jews. Are they Jews?"

  "I believe they are. What of it?"

  "Hey, I didn't mean nothin' by that. A lawyer is a lawyer, right? And Jews make great lawyers. They understand business. Know what I mean? That's good when you're having a sit-down. "

  "I imagine their contribution will be profound. Are you now ready to comply with my wishes?"

  The short brute of a man scrunched up his face, leaving a single eye to peep from the fleshy knot. "You gonna try to evict me?"

  "No, I am absolutely going to evict you, you squatter. "

  "Hey, I just happen to stand five-eleven. I'm not squat. Who you callin' squat? I resent that remark."

  The man was flouncing around the room like a dancing bear, throwing up his blunt-fingered hands and gesticulating with every word. He reminded Walter Weld Hill of the maitre d' at Polcari's, an acceptable restaurant of the ethnic sort.

  "Resent it all you want," he returned coldly, "but
you are vacating these premises."

  "Hey, don't use that language on me. I'm from fuggin' Brooklyn. You think I don't now what them words mean? You think I don't know what all these lawyers mean?"

  " I am sure that you do," retorted Walter Weld Hill. He snapped his fingers. "Sol, the summons."

  Sol Greenglass whipped out the legal document and presented it to the man who called himself Cadillac.

  "This is a summons to appear-"

  "Yeah, yeah. Well, thank you very much," said the man called Cadilliac impatiently, stuffing the summons into his suit coat. He beckoned toward Sol Greenglass. "You, come with me."

  "What?"

  "Here," said Cadillac, "lemme help you."

  Sol Greenglass found himself being led out into the open side of the room. "The rest of yous, come on. I'm gonna show you all a little trick."

  "We are not interested in your tricks," said Walter Weld Hill in his sternest voice.

  "You'll be interested in this. You, stand there. The rest of yous form a line. Yeah, like that."

  Under the prodding and pushing of the boss of LCN, the entire legal staff of Greenglass, Korngold, and Bluestone was made to stand along one side of the long conference table. At the far end, Walter Weld Hill stood frowning. What was the man up to? he wondered.

  "Okay, okay, okay," said Cadillac. "Now, I want every one of yous to turn and face me. Humor me, okay? I like bein' humored. "

  Reluctantly, grumbling, the lawyers turned.

  Cadillac clapped his hands together. "Yeah. That's good. Hill, you still back there?"

  Walter Weld Hill had turned as well. He stuck his head out from the twenty-deep phalanx of lawyers. "What is it?" he asked tightly.

  "I told you I'm from Brooklyn, right?"

  "Repeatedly. "

  "Down in Brooklyn, we got a riddle that covers situations like this."

  "I doubt that."

  The man called Cadillac reached down under the end of the conference table. He did not take his tiny eyes off Hill.

  "It goes like this," said the man, withdrawing a forty-five-caliber machine gun so old it sported a drum magazine. With both hands he shouldered the weapon level to the exposed chest of the first man in line, the junior litigator, Weederman.

  Walter Weld Hill's heart skipped a beat. Then he realized he was protected by no fewer than the bodies of twelve of the finest litigators this side of Worcester.