“In a little box in your desk?” she smiled. “Well played, Burke.”
Ten minutes later, the branch manager returned carrying Bob’s briefcase and a white canvas “Citibank” bank bag. “Here you go, Mister Burke. I got about half of the cash in your briefcase, but I’m sure you’ll want to count it all.”
“No need. I’m sure you and your people did that several times. Besides, if the count’s wrong, I’ll just have Shaka Corliss come over and straighten it out.”
Stern’s eyes went wide at the mention of the muscular black man’s name. “That won’t be necessary,” he stuttered. “If there are questions, ask Mister Van Gries to telephone me directly,” he said, as he laid several bank and government forms on the desk. “These are from Citibank and the US Treasury. We are required to report all cash transactions over ten thousand dollars. I will also need to photocopy your driver’s license.”
Bob took the forms and began to fill them out. “Doesn’t bother me in the least, Henry, but you’re telling me that all of Van Gries’s customers comply with this stuff?”
Stern shrugged, and gave him a thin smile. “The ones I handle do. We get regular visits from the Comptroller of the Currency, Federal Reserve, Treasury, the IRS, FDIC, the FBI, you name it. We aren’t state-chartered, but even the New Jersey State Police’s Organized Crime Task Force drops by from time to time.”
“Impressive,” Bob said. “That must keep you on your toes.”
“Most of the bank managers in this town are young, like me,” he said with a fragile smile. “When we are posted to Atlantic City, before we even get unpacked, the FBI agents in Philadelphia bring us in for a chat and a tour of the Federal High Security Penitentiary in Lewisburg. They make a point of introducing us to all the bankers doing time up there for money laundering and RICO violations. That’s what keeps us on our toes.”
“And I imagine getting squeezed between the FBI and a character like Shaka Corliss isn’t fun either. Do the Feds have a big crew here?”
“Not really. With all the real-time electronics at their disposal, ‘face time’ here isn’t necessary. They could be in Boise for all the difference it makes. Most of them are up in Philly or New York; but the FBI has a small field office in Northfield, over on the mainland.”
“I bet they stay busy,” Bob replied as he signed the last page. “You wouldn’t have the name of any FBI people you met up there, would you?”
Stern gave him an odd look as he opened his desk drawer, pulled out a stark white business card and pushed it across the desk. “Here, keep it.” Bob picked it up and read the name Philip T. Henderson, Resident Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation, with an address and phone number. “I’m not sure what you’re up to, Mister Burke,” Stern said with a thin smile, “but this is Atlantic City. Anybody who reads the newspaper knows who Van Gries and Corliss are, and who really runs this town. So keep me out of it.”
“Who, me?” Bob replied with an innocent smile. “I’m just paying off a friend’s gambling debt.” He picked up the briefcase and the bank bag, and headed for the door. “And thanks for your help, Henry. I’ll try not to make things any more difficult for you.”
As they got back in the rental car, Linda looked at her watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. We need to get back before Vinnie gets himself into any more trouble.”
“He’d better not,” Bob answered. “I’ve got my limits, and I’m sure that casino crowd does, too.” As he drove out of the parking lot and turned back east on Atlantic Avenue, the black Lincoln Town Car was parked across the street, waiting like a chrome-plated shark.
“The Gumbahs are back,” Linda said as she stuck out her tongue at them.
“They make me so angry,” Patsy added. “They act like they own the place.”
“That’s because they do,” Bob corrected her.
“Then I suppose mooning them is out of the question?” Linda asked.
“How about we just pick up Vinnie and get the hell out of here,” Bob said.
Linda shook her head. “You’re getting middle-aged, Burke.”
“Sad, but true,” he sighed as he accelerated and left the big Lincoln behind in the dust. At Maryland, he turned north toward the Bimini Bay, clearly visible on a low hill a mile away. The street they were on dead-ended at the long, curving, casino entry road. As they turned, he suddenly saw flashing red and blue lights and a half dozen emergency vehicles up ahead. There were five black and white Atlantic City police cars, two casino security cars, and a large, boxy, red and white fire department ambulance parked at odd angles near the base of the six-story tower with their flashers going. But Bob was still too far away to see through the screen of trees and shrubs as brake lights came on and the inbound line of cars began to slow and stop. The road appeared to be blocked by yet another Atlantic City police car. With exaggerated arm motions and whistles, two of the “city’s finest” and one of the white-shirted casino security guards directed the incoming cars onto a side road that took them around to the rear side of the building.
With all the visual clutter, Bob still couldn’t see much, until the last car ahead of him turned up the side road and he reached the head of the line. Instead of following them, he stopped in the middle of the intersection, ignoring the whistles and animated arm motions of the cops. Further ahead, he saw four more city cops standing with Shaka Corliss, his twin Hulks, and the dominating figure of Donatello Carbonari at the base of the big hotel tower near the ambulance. They were smoking, talking, and laughing. A short distance away, three paramedics knelt in a semi-circle around what appeared to be a body lying on the edge of the pavement, where the parking lot met the sidewalk. The paramedics had their medical bags open, but from the lack of any frantic activity, Bob got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He ignored the two traffic cops directing him to turn with the other cars. Instead, he pulled up next to the closest cop and rolled down his window. The officer stepped over and glared in at him through the open window. “Where the hell you think you’re going, Sport? When I signal you to…”
“I have business with Mr. Carbonari,” Bob cut him off. To no surprise, that was all it took. The cop turned his head and looked at the Don. The big man looked back and nodded.
“Oh, all right, all right!” the angry cop stepped away from the car and waved him through. “Pull over there to the right, and stay the hell out of their way.”
This time, Bob did what he was told, parked, and got out of the car. When Linda and Patsy opened their doors and began to follow, he motioned them back inside. “No, you two stay here with the money until I figure out what’s going on.”
Linda began to argue, until she saw the angry look on Bob’s face and got back inside. He turned and walked toward Carbonari, his eyes focused on the body lying in a large pool of blood on the curb. The paramedics were kneeling over it, blocking Bob’s view of the dead man’s face, but his gut told him he didn’t want to see it, even if he could. The man wore the same shirt and slacks Vinnie wore when Bob last saw him handcuffed to the chair in Carbonari’s office an hour before, and he had a pretty good idea what that meant.
“Mister Burke,” Carbonari called out and walked toward him with an exaggerated expression of concern. “It appears we have a problem,” he said, extending his hand.
Bob looked down at his hand for a moment. No doubt, it was some kind of peace offering, but Bob wasn’t about to accept. Instead, he turned toward the paramedics as they unfolded a thick, black-plastic body bag. Working together, they lifted the man, rolled him over on his back, and carefully placed him inside. It was Vinnie. His head and face had borne the brunt of the fall, but it was him, all right. No doubt about it. Burke turned and walked toward the paramedics until two of the city cops who had been talking to Carbonari stepped forward and attempted to block his way.
The two cops directing traffic behind him wore plain, unadorned blue slacks and shirts, with tactical equipment harnesses. That marked them as low-ranking patr
olmen, while these two were dressed as if they were headed to a cop convention or a Chamber of Commerce banquet, with gold braid on their hats, colorful ribbons on their chests, gold stripes and pins on their shirts, and big Glock 9-millimeter cannons on their hips. The one on the left wore colonel’s eagles on his collar tabs and the one on the right had four big silver stars on his. Bob shook his head, wondering why every small town cop and hick sheriff felt he had to wear as much rank as George Patton or Creighton Abrams.
The “colonel” blocked Bob’s way, with his legs spread as he had probably seen in some cop movie, while the ‘general’ reached his hand toward Bob’s chest. In the mood Bob was in, that was a very dangerous thing for any man to do; but flattening the local Police Chief or breaking his arm might bring a few complications that Bob didn’t need just then. Rather than force his way through, he stopped and glared at Carbonari. He said nothing, but as his eyes locked on Carbonari’s, it was as if the doors of a Pittsburgh blast furnace had swung open in the big Italian’s face. Burke might be slight of build and Carbonari much taller and heavier, but the power that radiated from Burke’s eyes hit the big Italian like a slap in the face.
“Uh, that’s okay all right,” Carbonari quickly told the two cops. “Let him go.”
The colonel and the general looked at each other, but quickly stepped aside and let Bob pass through. When he reached the paramedics, he looked down at Vinnie’s badly broken body, at the pavement around him, and at the nearby hotel building. His eyes ran up the wall until they reached the roof, trying to figure out what happened here. Like any officer who had spent time in combat, he had lost his share of men. He had lost good ones, bad ones, brave ones, stupid ones, some amazingly skilled ones, and even a few cowards, but mostly he’d lost unlucky ones. Despite their training, equipment, tactics, and whatever leadership he could provide, sometimes that was how a war went. Nonetheless, every man who served under him was his responsibility and he took each loss personally.
This was different, however. Sergeant First Class Vincent Pastorini had served with him since he joined the 75th Ranger Regiment at Fort Benning nine years before. His weakness for gambling aside, Vinnie was a highly skilled, highly decorated, and very deadly “operator” who served his country honorably, working his way up the Army’s special operations ladder one step at a time, and he deserved better than to end his days lying in the gutter next to a garish New Jersey gambling casino. His eyes were half-open. His mouth was open too, only a half inch or so, but enough to make it look as if he had been trying to say something before he died. Bob reached out, put his hand lightly on Vinnie’s forehead, and closed his eyes.
“Farewell, old friend,” he said quietly, and then stood. He looked back at Carbonari, Corliss, and the Atlantic City police brass, and felt like taking them apart. From the self-satisfied expressions on their faces, it looked as if there wasn’t anything they couldn’t get away with in the city. Well, not this time, Bob told himself. This time, they’d pay, but it wouldn’t be now. It would be at a time and place of his choosing, not theirs.
Carbonari took a few steps toward Bob. “Your friend was very foolish, Mr. Burke,” he said as he straightened his suit jacket and tugged lightly on his French cuffs. Finally, he glanced back at Corliss. “My head of security and his two men escorted Sergeant Pastorini back to his room on the fifth floor, as I told you they would. But while they were helping him pack, he went into the bathroom, supposedly to clean himself up. The next thing they knew, he had climbed out the bathroom window and was working his way across a narrow ledge, trying to escape, when he fell.”
Bob looked back at the building and let his eyes run up the façade to the fifth floor windows high above him. “You’re telling me he climbed out the bathroom window? One of those little ones?” Burke asked, even more skeptical. “And he fell.”
“That’s right. They couldn’t tell whether he was trying to get to the hallway window or climb on up to the roof,” Carbonari added. “They went out on the balcony and tried to talk him back in, but the damned fool wouldn’t listen. He gave Shaka the finger and began to climb. As you see, that ledge is only a few inches wide; and, well… that’s the result. He must have lost his balance and slipped off.”
Bob looked up at the bathroom window, the ledge, and the balcony, and then down at Vinnie. Carbonari said he flipped Shaka the bird and kept on climbing? Bob smiled, knowing at least that part of Carbonari’s story rang true. Bob looked back down at Vinnie’s body. It lay on the parking lot curb, fifteen feet out from the base of the building. Bob looked up again at the ledge and then back down at the body, and his gut told him the geometry didn’t work the way Carbonari was telling it. If Vinnie had slipped off the ledge or on the climb up to the roof, he would have dropped almost straight down and landed on the grass much closer to the wall.
“You say he fell and landed here?” Bob asked as he pointed to the body. “That’s hard to do, ‘Donnie.’ In fact, it’s damned near impossible to slip off that ledge, fall, and manage to land way out here, this far away from the building.”
Carbonari shrugged. “If you say so.”
“Oh, I do,” Bob answered as his eyes bored in on the big Italian and then on Shaka Corliss. “I think someone threw him out the window or off the balcony.”
Shaka frowned, and then grew indignant. “Whadjou lookin’ at me for, man? I never touched the dude. He got out there all by hisself, and he fell, like he said. I ain’t lyin.’ ”
“Why would I believe you, Shaka?” Bob asked.
“Why?” Shaka looked confused. “ ’Cause it’s the truth,” he said, surprising himself with the answer. Slowly, he regained his old form and bluster. “You Army paratroop-types crack me up, man. Y’all think you can fly. Guess he couldn’t after all, could he?”
Behind him, Bob heard Patsy scream. He looked and saw Linda trying to stop her, but the younger woman broke free and ran toward the body. Bob managed to stop her halfway, knowing it wasn’t something anyone should see, especially not Vinnie’s young lover. Bob wrapped his arms around her and turned her away, trying to block her view of the bloody corpse, but he was only partially successful. Patsy screamed again and went limp. She dropped to her knees as the paramedics zipped the thick plastic bag closed over Vinnie.
“No, no,” she moaned as Bob led her back to Linda and the car.
Behind him, he heard Carbonari say, “Look, your friend owed us a lot of money. We’re the last ones who would want this to happen. He was just a hothead.”
“Really?” Bob replied as he turned and walked back. “Vinnie was impulsive, but he wasn’t stupid. You know as well as I do, the only way he could’ve landed this far out from the wall was if he was thrown.”
“I know you believe that,” Carbonari answered, “but it’s illogical. I’m in the money business, Mr. Burke, and dead men don’t pay their gambling debts.”
Bob turned, put his hands on his hips, and glared at the two senior Atlantic City police commanders. “This was murder. I know it and you’d know it too, if all the dirty money sloshing around in this town hadn’t dumbed you two down to a couple of ‘rent-a-cops.’ ”
“Now wait just a damned minute here,” the general stepped forward with feigned indignation, until a black, extended station wagon backed up the driveway between him and Burke. It had darkened side windows and simple white lettering on the doors that read New Jersey State Medical Examiner.
Bob’s anger was up. He wanted to take Carbonari apart, but he stopped and backed away before he did anything as stupid as Vinnie had. Two black-uniformed, assistant medical examiners got out of the station wagon, looked at the angry faces around them, and realized they might not have picked the best timing. The one who had been in the passenger seat carried a clipboard and appeared to be in charge.
“Where are you taking him?” Bob asked him.
“Uh, we’re from the State ME’s regional office in Woodbine, southwest of here. Are you the deceased’s next of kin?”
; “His name is Sergeant First Class Vincent Pastorini. He is active duty U.S. Army and a highly decorated war veteran, so the Armed Forces Medical Examiner’s Office in Dover, Delaware will be in touch with your office before you’re halfway to Woodbine, as will the Army CID and the FBI. When they do, they’ll want to talk to you,” Bob said as he turned his steely eyes on the General. “You can bet your sweet ass there will be a real investigation of what happened here, so I’d make damned sure I preserved the evidence and your notes.”
“Son, I seen plenty of people take a nosedive off the hotels in town,” the Police Chief offered, trying to calm Bob down, and actually beginning to sound concerned.
“I’m not your son,” Bob cut him off with a sweep of his hand, “and this wasn’t an accident or a suicide. It was murder. You can see that as well as I can.”
“That’s the second time you accused me of somethin,’ boy, and it could be real bad for yo’ health.” Corliss glared at him and took another step forward. “Besides, who the hell you trying to kid? This is freakin’ New Jersey. This ain’t no goddamned Army post, and you don’t count for squat here. So, where’s the rest of that money you went to fetch?”
“Oh, you want your money?” Bob asked. “Come over here and get it, Shaka.”
Corliss flared. Instinctively, his hand reached inside his jacket for the .44-magnum revolver, but his shoulder holster was empty. He forgotten that his hog-leg Remington was lying in the corner of Martijn Van Gries’s office in pieces. Corliss growled and took two more quick steps toward Burke anyway.
“Not now, you damned fool!” Carbonari lashed out at him as he looked around at the cops and the other witnesses who were staring at them.
“Let ’em watch, I don’t give no damn. Ah had enough ’a him,” Shaka said as he scowled at Burke and then at the general, showing no fear of either of them. “You got lucky back there in the office. You sucker punched me, but you ain’t gonna get lucky this time,” he said as he took two quick steps and threw a sweeping right hook at Burke’s head.
Burke's Gamble Page 7
