Riccio and Visconti had to hustle around to come up with their parts of the hundred. The old consigliere got sixty of it. The two guys in the Bronx who’d arranged the thing split the rest.
Grazie.
Had Russo not died so soon this sit-down might never have taken place. The dispute between Riccio and Visconti over West 47th very likely would have fallen through the cracks of the old mob, because it was right about then that the old mob bosses—Persico, Salerno, Corallo, Rostelli and Castellano—as well as many of their minions, their underbosses, capos and soldiers, were being hit with federal grand jury indictments.
Unlike those times before when they’d been rounded up and brought in merely to rub them the wrong way or just for election headlines, this time what was at stake was serious time and there was a new thing called RICO, the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, to make the charges stick.
What a barrage of charges!
One hundred thirty-five counts against the top Genovese guys alone. One hundred twenty against the Lucchese leaders. Altogether, over five-hundred counts. Which, when translated into sentences, would mean consecutive lifetimes of time inside, would mean dying in the joint, getting out only after rigor mortis had set in.
Their mouths had brought them to this, their old-mob arrogance and their spillways mouths.
“How much he come up with?”
“Sixty-five, an extra five for being late.”
“The piece of shit saying he was strapped.”
“You smacked him pretty good. His fucking ear was bleeding. Fat Tony don’t want him dead. He couldn’t pay if he was dead.”
“I hate poor-mouth late payers, that’s all.”
“Yeah. Listen, stop someplace when you see a place. I want to get a paper. You hear any more about Angelo?”
“Just that he’s got to be done.”
“I mean when.”
“When Fat Tony says.”
“You give a shit what happens to Angie?”
“No.”
“You used to hang out with him a lot.”
“What happens, happens.”
“Makes no difference who it was that straightened him out. For what he did the cocksucker’s got to get done, him and maybe his whole fucking family.”
“Whatever Fat Tony says.”
Mouthing, while all around was infested with bugs. The government had them. The old mob on over a hundred hours of tape. (What should they have done, become mutes and taken up singing?) They shouldn’t have trusted the dashboard of their cars or the water tanks of their toilets, not even the heels of their shoes.
Worse, they shouldn’t have trusted one another.
Soldiers and have-arounds who’d been theirs and in on all sorts of moves for years shed their covers and revealed themselves as having been federal good guys all along. Not only that. Guys they should have been able to be positively sure of, properly initiated guys they’d known since childhood whose legacy from made fathers and made grandfathers was to uphold that old-mob honor, old-mob respect, old-mob everything, were turning out to have been turned sometime along the way, were, behind their goombah faces, informers.
Cacchio! Shit! What was this world of theirs coming to? The silence that had been the code and, in so many instances, been painfully, sacrificially kept, had given way to giving up. Giving up people, places, amounts, killings, anything to the federal District Attorneys in exchange for not having to do all their remaining years in joints where the brightest prospects of any tomorrow would be a game of boccie.
Even the underbosses, counted on to be the most stand-up of stand-ups, decided they’d rather kneel and offer to plea-bargain. It got to be a matter of who had the most on who. Three of the older guys conveniently developed chest pains, were unable to get a deep breath.
Good riddance bad guys.
Arrivederci old mob.
Never to be the same.
Riccio and Visconti weren’t among those held accountable. They got looked at and then were overlooked. None of their transgressions, terrible as they might have been, were mentioned on the taped conversations. They weren’t notorious enough for anyone to use in plea bargaining and they hadn’t been tight enough with the up-top mob guys for the government prosecutors to press out of them anything that might be helpful in those prominent cases.
Ironically, just as much a reason for the government not including Riccio and Visconti in the thick of it was the street.
The prosecutors regarded West 47 as a rather separate community with distinctive, shadowy ways. If they went digging and charging into it they’d be opening too complex a side issue, something, with its glittering appeal, that would surely distract from their main performances. They decided to leave 47th, including Riccio and Visconti, as it was and perhaps they’d take it on at some future time when their plate wasn’t so full.
They never did.
Riccio loathed the transformation of the mob. The self-image he’d promoted all along refused to make room for any such change. He vowed that no matter what, even if he had to go it alone, he’d keep on keeping on, being loyal to the ways of his forebears. One day he suddenly claimed he was related on his mother’s side to Albert Anastasia of Murder, Incorporated. He’d considered making it Meyer Lansky but that would have been contrary to the qualifying, pure Sicilian line and, besides, he favored Anastasia’s legendary ruthlessness.
Riccio also enlisted only have-around guys with mentalities similar to his own.
Such as the fat one that Mitch had just moments ago shoved down the stairs twice. Mitch wasn’t paying attention to him now, was hesitating there on the landing halfway up to Riccio, indecisive about those next fifteen steps. Thinking Riccio might want to again show off his new electronic money-counting machine, insist on demonstrating it, and Mitch would have to stand there and watch while in mere seconds the thing counted out a hundred thousand or two. “Just like they got in the big banks,” Riccio would boast, which would cause Mitch to perhaps or perhaps not hold back cutting across Riccio’s old-mob grain with a remark that the money counter was a new thing, a big improvement from the old days when it took all night for guys to count the take.
Mitch made up his mind.
Instead of going up he wrote on the face of one of the gray envelopes that contained a set of the Kalali photographs:
“Joe—take a look at these and call me.”
He included his business card, tossed the envelope onto the daybed, gave the summoning button of the intercom a sure, long press. Went down where the fat have-around was expecting a kick, so sure of it he had his hands over his groin like a cup-jock.
Just stepped over him.
Chapter 8
Coming out of the Capital Jewelry Exchange, Mitch told himself that his passing on a personal visit with Riccio hadn’t been a shirk.
The purpose of the visit had been to determine whether or not the Kalali swag had already found its way to and through Riccio. Not that Riccio would have admitted right out that he’d bought it; however, chances were, in keeping with his style, Riccio would have allowed Mitch to read him by replying with his eyes and doing an appropriate, lopsided, mob guy grin.
Mitch believed that the way he’d handled it, leaving the series of photos and a vague note, would accomplish the same determination. That is, if he didn’t hear from Riccio he would assume the swag was gone, was no longer in its Kalali form and it would be a waste of him if he went chasing around hoping to recover.
On the other hand, if Riccio bothered to phone and wanted to know about the photos, it would indicate, at least as far as Riccio was concerned, the case was still alive.
Mitch headed east on the north side of 47.
It was busy now, normally so, its various elements into their usual concerns.
Carriers were out, dispatched by dealers whose offices were in the buildings above street level. Unexceptional-looking types, better for that reason, hurriedly threading through the crowd with gems on their person wo
rth perhaps a hundred thousand or more, bound for the eyes of someone in the trade, another dealer who had a call for such goods, or a cutter or a maker.
Hasids stood out uniformed in their black long coats and trousers. Gone shiny in the seats and elbows. Home-laundered white shirts buttoned at the collar, no jaunt to the way they wore their wide-brimmed black hats, as though jaunt would be sinful. Black and white men shunning color and haggling in Yiddish. Their inventories in their pockets, their offices the curbs.
Swifts with residual stealth in their walks, given away too by their expensive running shoes, designer jeans, T-shirts printed with the name of exclusive resorts they’d never spend a night at or a university that wouldn’t admit them. In pairs or threes they conspired, tried to agree upon which dealer might pay most fairly for the piece of swag they’d held out from last night’s thievery. A two-carat diamond perhaps, freed from the prongs of an engagement ring that had been held dear for years and rarely taken off. A formerly meaningful diamond reduced now to impersonality, a mere stone.
East Indian dealers. Emerald and ruby melee their specialty, calibrated green and red nearly as tiny as Christmas glitter. On the sunstruck south side of the street their burnished complexions seemed to have a somewhat aubergine cast and, at a distance, they appeared well-dressed. However, at closer range it was apparent their suits were cheap, pressed while soiled, their cuffs frayed and the tight knots of their ties grimed. They were not well-liked in the trade because of their distrustful dispositions.
Sephardics, genuinely congenial but shrewd, and good-hearted but underhanded Armenians, and compulsively aggressive Israelis. More Israelis than ever, leaning insouciantly against the doorjambs of their shops, their dark eyes sharp to spot likely passersby that they tried to spiel in.
Wives from the suburbs. Dressed in smart numbers from Ann Taylor, clipping along on hardly worn heels. On their way with elevated heart rates to a recommended 47th gem dealer, a friend of a friend who they naively believe will show them the best and charge them the least.
Ex-wives past the point of keepsakes or sacrifice, merely wanting to divest themselves of the accumulations of ten to twenty anniversaries and other futile occasions.
Then, of course, there were the sightseers. How easy it was to pick those out, as they scalloped along from window to window, vainly trying to appear blasé to what seemed to them to be exhibited treasure troves. Everything placed just so under the most helpful lights. Numerous black or gray or white velour-covered shallow boxes propped up diagonally for advantageous display, symmetrically slotted to accommodate rings, twenty slots to a box, four rows, five across, every slot occupied by a diamond ring. Some of the rings had small hand-printed placards in their proximity, saying: “radiant cut” or “one day low price” or “5 carats” or “visibly flawless” or any of an assortment of exemptible 47th fibs. “Not quality enhanced,” was one the sightseers didn’t comprehend. They whispered to one another: “Can’t be real, look at the huge one in the top row, I’d be afraid to wear it, do you think they’re real?” The precious stones sizzled their eyes, seemed to enjoy belittling the jewelry they had on.
Mitch, with his appearance and attitude, could hardly be mistaken for a sightseer. However, the way he usually walked that block was to some extent similar, the way he was seldom able to resist looking into a few windows.
This day was no exception.
About three-quarters of the way to Fifth his legs insisted he stop before a shop that he knew featured estate jewelry. Quite a few attractive pieces were displayed. Mitch appreciated a pair of chalcedony, black onyx and coral ear pendants, and a pair of ear clips of pave set yellow diamonds, and a diamond and rock crystal jabot pin.
Then he spotted it, off to the right, recognized it immediately. The cushion-shaped blue sapphire. It greeted him with a flare of its eternal bright blue, and he mentally replied:
Hello, old friend. Where’ve you been? Haven’t seen you around in quite a while. Remember when we first met? Must have been ten, maybe twelve years ago. You didn’t have that calibré-cut diamond border then, but I know you. I must say you’re looking sharp, none the worse for all you’ve been through. Bought, stolen, reset, sold at auction, stolen, bought, stolen, and so on. And now, here you are again, back on the street again, being offered again. Nice to see you. Maybe you enjoy being repeatedly bought and being owned and being stolen and coming back here, but it seems to me you’d be better off occupying one lovely finger for a lifetime. It’s not your duty, of course, and, anyway, you’re not alone in your transientness. Half the goods on the street keep making the cycle. See you around.
Mitch continued on to Fifth and entered the 580 building. He passed through the security checkpoint in the lobby and took an elevator up to the fourteenth floor.
At the far end of the corridor on fourteen was the substantial paneled door to Visconti’s office. PARAGON GEMS, INC. gold-leafed on it. The door opened before Mitch was halfway to it.
A man stepped out.
A distinguished-looking man conscientiously dressed in a light gray gabardine vested suit and black and white wing-tipped oxfords.
Mitch was at a range that permitted a complete look at the man. The swarthy, foreign complexion, the bushy black brows and the dark hair tight to the skull arranged straight back. He was in his mid-fifties or possibly in good shape in his sixties. He had a black-banded creamy panama hat in hand. He paused to put it on, was adjusting it just so as Mitch approached.
The man acknowledged Mitch with a single stranger-to-stranger nod. Mitch returned it. After going a short ways in their opposite directions they caught one another glancing back.
A foreign dealer, Mitch thought, or perhaps one of Visconti’s wealthy Italian privates. Not anyone he’d ever seen around the district but certainly someone he’d remember if he ever saw him again.
Mitch entered Visconti’s.
The offices had been redone since Mitch was last there about a year ago. The modest-sized reception area impressed. A pair of Louis XVI beechwood armchairs offered as seating on the left were upholstered in pale blue silk damask and were matched identically by another pair on the right. On the wall directly ahead hung a seascape so large and realistic that Mitch’s imagination smelled ocean. Situated below the painting was a mahogany bureau plat inset with a blue leather writing surface and bordered by ormolu. Lighting was indirect and kind. The unobtrusive music was Stravinsky.
The surface of the desk was clear except for a dark blue intercom phone, a notepad contained in dark blue leather and a dark blue lacquer and gold DuPont fountain pen. The .44 caliber semiautomatic pistol in the right-hand drawer would probably also be blued, Mitch thought.
Behind the desk sat a young man in his late twenties. Another about the same age was sentried beside the closed door that evidently gave to where business was conducted. They had such mannerly ease and were so comfortably well-dressed they looked as though they were ready to pose for a GQ ad. Mitch knew them as two of Visconti’s have-arounds and, as such, they typified the polarity of style between Visconti and Riccio.
New mob and old.
Mitch’s intention was to elicit Visconti’s cooperation at arm’s length as he had Riccio’s, by leaving a set of the Kalali photographs and a similar cryptic note. However, when he handed over his business card the young man behind the desk immediately got on the phone and announced him, and, before Mitch could say much else, the inner door was opened for him and he felt obliged to go on in.
Visconti’s private office was buffered by an interior hallway. The door to it was closed and Mitch was left to open it on his own, a privilege of sorts.
Visconti came around from behind the desk, bringing a handshake and doing a smile that, even after the preliminaries, he didn’t turn completely off.
“Nice of you to drop in,” he said. “I called you a couple of times.”
“I happened to be in the building.”
“Great. I was about to have some tea. Have some w
ith me?”
“Thanks.”
“There’s coffee too if you prefer.”
“Tea’s fine.”
“Earl Grey?”
“Fine.”
“I never used to drink the stuff but an English actress I spent some time with down on Mustique got me hooked on it. Maybe you know her.” Visconti said her name.
Mitch knew of her, of course. A well-known. He wasn’t surprised that she and Visconti had been socially or otherwise close.
“Ever been down there to Mustique?” Visconti asked.
“No.”
“Lovely island, very exclusive. I wanted to buy a place down there but the fucks wouldn’t sell to me. How do you like that?”
“Their loss,” Mitch said liberally.
Visconti didn’t resume behind his desk. He sat with Mitch on the visitor’s side.
“My reason for phoning,” he said, “was to invite you and your wife to my house in Watermill this coming weekend. I’m having a few people to dinner Saturday.” He named a fashion designer, and a motion picture director who was in town to promote a major summer film that wasn’t doing as well as expected. “You could come out Saturday and stay over.”
“I’ll have to consult Maddie. Seems to me she had something planned.” Mitch’s evasion wasn’t meant to sound as obvious as the way it came out. He was a little embarrassed. He detected resignation in Visconti’s expression.
Visconti eased the moment by calling attention to a painting on the wall to the left, a Jasper Johns flag. “Woman had it,” he said. “Actually it was her husband’s. When he died recently I traded her something for it.”
Which meant to Mitch that Visconti had gotten it for next to nothing, just some swag material he’d paid little for.
The Jasper Johns was slightly awry. Visconti got up to straighten it, giving Mitch an opportunity to update the man.
He was slight-framed and of average height. About the same age as Mitch but looked older because of his high forehead and a hairline that was beginning to recede. He was wearing a white, amply cut silk shirt, triple-pleated cotton slacks tapered at the ankle and a pair of Superga tennis shoes. No socks. No jewelry.
West 47th Page 9
