Carbonari stared at him for a moment in disbelief. “You’re telling me he ‘came flying back out the window?’ Out the hallway window? All on his own?” Carbonari stared at Corliss and then at the twins. “You saw him climb inside, and then he came ‘flying back out’…? How stupid do you think I am?”
“It’s the God’s truth man,” Corliss begged. “I told them two to shut up and back me up when I said he slipped off the ledge, ’cause I knew nobody’d ever believe us.”
“Well, you got that right!”
“But that’s what happened, man. We didn’t believe it, either.”
“Did you look in the elevator lobby?”
“Yeah, yeah. After he landed, we ran out of the room and down the hall. The elevators were all on different floors, and we looked in the emergency stairs, but we couldn’t find nobody there. They wuz empty.”
Carbonari looked at the twins. “And you’re backing him up on a crazy story like this?”
“It’s what happened, boss, we swear,” Gerald pleaded and Phil quickly nodded his agreement. This time, Carbonari could tell they were telling him the truth. Finally, he dropped Corliss back in his chair, considering what they had just told him, but none of it made any sense. If these three didn’t do it, and Burke and the two women were halfway across town at the bank, then who the hell would have done something like that? And why?
“All right, all right,” Carbonari finally said. “Just remember, when Pastorini flew out that window, $175,000 of my money flew out the window with him.”
Corliss frowned. “He didn’t have no money on him, Boss. No way.”
“You imbecile,” Carbonari shook his head. “I’m taking about the money Burke got from the bank. He drove away from here with my money in his briefcase, Corliss. I need it, and I want it back!”
“Lemme go after him, Boss, I’ll get it back for you, I swear,” Corliss said as he managed to get to his feet. “I know I screwed up, but give me another chance. I’ll…”
“You’re too late. I already sent Lenny and Gino after him,” Carbonari dismissed the thought. “He’s heading back to the Philly airport, but I’m going to have them stop him on the Expressway once they get out of town.” Carbonari turned away and walked to the door, paused, and looked back at him again.
“I’ll tell you what, Shaka,” Carbonari said. “If they miss him or screw up, I’ll let you go after him; because I want that damned money, all of it! But if you screw up again, go get yourself a shovel and start digging a big hole out back and save me the trouble.”
CHAPTER NINE
As they drove north through the flat farmland of southeast New Jersey, rush hour was at its height, and traffic was thick in both directions on the Atlantic City Expressway. The ever-hopeful evening gamblers raced south to the casinos in their cars, pickup trucks, motorcycles, and charter buses, eager to hit the tables; while the day-trippers retreated back to Philly and I-95 north with empty wallets and their tails between their legs.
Bob drove in silence, thinking of Charlie Newcomb, his late, great, friend, bean counter, and head of finance. Over the past three years, no one knew Bob better than Charlie. Observing Bob in one of these dark, tactical planning moods, Charlie compared him to an expert diamond cutter hiding away in a backroom workshop in the Diamond District on 47th Street in midtown Manhattan. They spend their days hunched over a workbench underneath a bright desk lamp studying raw, uncut stones through powerful jeweler’s loupes. Every so often, they hold the stone up and turn it around under the bright light, until they see every flaw and imperfection hidden inside. Finally, with a precise plan in mind, they strike, betting it all on one swift, precise blow. They’d create a flawless gem, or shatter the gem stone into dust.
When he left Chicago that morning, all he wanted was to get Vinnie and Patsy out of that casino and back home. Now Vinnie was dead. Someone would answer for that, but Bob had no interest in going to war with another Mafia family, especially when Vinnie was a major contributor to his own problems, maybe even to his own death. Still, someone must answer. As much as he despised Carbonari, Shaka Corliss, and that toad Van Gries, he would wait for the FBI, the Army CID, and the Army medical examiners to investigate, determine the facts, and put whoever was responsible in jail, so he would not have to deal with it. The last time, he had nothing to lose and it was easy to do stupid, dangerous things. This time, things were different.
In the Buick’s back seat, Linda continued to console Patsy Evans without much success. Finally, she looked up and caught Bob’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “I heard what you said to Ace. You can try to convince him that you’re going to wait and let the cops handle it, but I don’t believe you. Neither did Ace. You’re going after them; I know you are.”
“Then you know something I don’t know.”
“I saw the smug expressions on their faces, and I know you. You won’t wait; it’s just that you don’t do anything without a plan. What does the Army call it? An Ops Order? That’s what you’re doing. You’re drawing one up in your head right now, and you have been doing that since the moment you saw Vinnie's body laying in that parking lot.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so, because I know you, and if you think you’re going to take us back to Chicago — Patsy and me — and find some excuse to dump us there, it won’t work. We’re coming. So, what’s the plan, Major?”
“I don’t have one yet!” he fumed. He turned his head and looked at her in the rearview mirror. “You don’t seem to know who we’re dealing with, do you? Carbonari and the rest of them? They’re the Atlantic City mob, and they’re tied to the Merlinos in Philadelphia and the Genovese and Lucchese mobs in New York City. That’s serious trouble, Linda.”
“I don’t care who they are. I saw that look in your eye and I know you’re not going to sit this one out. So, kindly tell the troops what the plan is.”
“There isn’t one, except not getting more of my friends killed. That’s not going to bring Vinnie back.” Bob shook his head. “I don’t know what the hell happened in that fifth floor hotel room, and neither do you. Vinnie owed Carbonari a lot of money, and Carbonari wouldn’t have touched him until he got it, which he never did. That isn’t to say I don’t blame Carbonari, Shaka Corliss, and even that prissy Dutchman Van Gries for his death, because I do, and I want justice; but Vinnie was at least partly at fault back there. A lot or a little, I don’t know; but if he had stayed in that hotel room and waited for us to come back, he wouldn’t be dead.”
“But he is dead!” Patsy sat up and shouted angrily.
“And after I see the Army and FBI reports, I might change my mind. But Carbonari was right about one thing, none of this makes any sense; and I have too many responsibilities to charge in there on some maybes.”
“Responsibilities? When did you become middle-aged?”
“I have a hundred employees who depend on me for their livelihoods now, Linda. Add to that a lovely new wife and a new stepdaughter I’d like to get to know better, and a squad of Army guys whom I have no right to keep putting in harm’s way, and I’m not being fair to any of them, if I don’t give them the benefit of the doubt and wait for some proof.”
“The benefit of the doubt? That’s their choice, not yours.”
“No, it’s mine, and the smart play is to walk away from this before I get more people killed, which is exactly what will happen if I turn the dogs loose before I’m absolutely certain what happened and who was responsible.”
They were seven miles beyond the Egg Harbor tollbooths, driving in silence, when they passed the big, black Lincoln parked on the road shoulder. Bob looked back and saw it peel out, kicking up a cloud of dust and dirt, as it came after them. Not wanting a problem with the local cops, Bob had been trying to keep the Buick near the speed limit, but the Lincoln in the rearview mirror changed all that. When you have “friends in high places,” like the wise guys always seemed to have, speed limits might not be much of a problem, he guessed. Still, any
expressway in rush hour wasn’t a good place for a road race. He accelerated, trying to put as much distance between them and the Lincoln as he could, but the late afternoon traffic was getting thicker. Bobbing and weaving between the other cars, Bob kept one eye on the road ahead and one on the rearview mirror. As he expected, the black car was gaining on them. They had to be doing well over a hundred miles per hour, maybe a lot more, as he urged the Buick on.
“Buckle ’em tighter,” he shouted to the two women in the backseat over the roar of Buick’s powerful engine. Like two awkward heavyweights, the Buick and the Lincoln were powerful in the straightaways, but sluggish and hard to maneuver when things got tight. After finally catching up, the Lincoln swung into the left lane and began to pass them. Bob guessed their plan was to get in front of the Buick, suddenly turn, and force him off the road. That was something he couldn’t let them do, but the Lincoln was faster and Bob’s options were few. As the Lincoln slipped ahead, in his side mirror he saw their passenger side window roll down and the stubby barrel of a sawed-off, 20-gauge shotgun suddenly appear, pointed at them.
“Get down!” he screamed at the girls as he swerved to his left into the Lincoln, door panel to door panel. The Buick bounced off the Lincoln, but it threw off the gunman’s aim and nearly took off his arm. Still, he managed to get off a shot. The shotgun roared as a load of buckshot shattered the Buick’s rear passenger window.
“You two, okay?” Bob shouted.
“Yeah, yeah, if you don’t mind sitting on broken glass,” Linda answered.
“Then get on the floor and hang on!” he answered, as he swung left again, bashing the Lincoln as he pulled up on his emergency brake. That put the big sedan into a controlled, 360° spinout, which bled off just enough of his own speed. As the Buick swung back around, Bob saw he was now behind the big black car, so he pressed his own gas pedal to the floor and went after them.
One moment, the man at the wheel of the Lincoln thought he was about to shove the Buick off the right side of the road; the next moment the Buick wasn’t there. Like a heavyweight boxer who threw a roundhouse right at his opponent’s head and braced himself for the impact when his fist struck, the driver hit nothing but thin air and found himself careening across the pavement toward the road shoulder and the deep drainage ditch beyond. Now in a panic, the driver suddenly spun the steering wheel back the other way, to the left; but all that accomplished was to send the heavy Lincoln fishtailing back across the road.
This wasn’t how he planned it, the driver must be telling himself. He had to get the Lincoln back under control. Without thinking, he slammed on his brakes, which was precisely the wrong thing to do, making the skid and fishtail even worse. That was precisely when the Buick came racing up behind, and Bob drove the right corner of his front bumper into the left rear of the Lincoln. It didn’t take much. Even a small tap would cause the Lincoln’s driver to lose his remaining control and send the big car to go into a “death spiral” to the right. However, Bob didn’t give him a small tap. He hit the Lincoln hard and it spun sideways out of control, flipped over, and flew off the road, landing upside down on its roof on the road shoulder, some fifty feet away. Bob watched it bounce, flip twice more, and finally land in the deep drainage ditch, which ran along the side of the road. It plowed a long furrow through the mud before it finally came to a stop upside down, half submerged in the water.
“Amateurs,” he concluded as he swung into the left lane, raced away, and quickly blended into traffic.
Wide-eyed, Linda sat up and looked back through the rear window. A dozen or more cars on both side of the Expressway had pulled over onto the road shoulders. Brake lights came on, a few brave souls ran across the median to try to help, while most stayed back out of trouble and gawked at the upside-down car in the ditch.
“Jeez,” Linda said. “I sure hope you took the good insurance on this thing. Where’d you learn to drive like that? Bubba Gump’s Demolition Derby School?”
“Not quite,” he smiled. “A defensive driving class in one of the CIA training schools in Virginia. It’s just some high school geometry, a little physics, plus a dash of mechanical engineering.”
“Defensive driving, my sweet patootie! That was a sawed-off shotgun he pointed at us,” Linda glared at him. “Well? How’s your ‘benefit of the doubt’ doing now? Do you still think what happened to Vinnie was an accident, or do you want some more proof?”
As they continued north up the Expressway toward Philly, one by one, the Lincoln, the drainage ditch, and the memories of the Atlantic City casinos faded from his rearview mirror. As they did, he got more and more angry and more and more certain of what he should do. That was when Linda chimed in.
“I don’t know if they were after the money or if they just wanted to shut us up,” Linda stated. “But whatever they did, they did it because Carbonari told them to. That changes everything and you know it.”
“You can’t let them get away with this,” Patsy leaned forward and joined in.
“I’m not letting anyone get away with anything,” he said, but one glance in the rearview mirror told him the girls weren’t very happy with him.
It was Linda who finally spoke up and said, “What you’re telling us is that you aren’t really backing off, you just want to see if someone else will do it for you?”
“Really?” Patsy glared at him. “How is that different from waiting?”
“Look,” Bob tried to reason with them. “I’d love to walk in there and kick Carbonari’s ass from one side of Atlantic City to the other, and then toss him, Corliss, and that four-star police chief off his own roof…”
“That wouldn’t be a bad start.”
“No, but that casino complex is a fortress. It has tall buildings commanding the high ground, surrounded by water, and with limited access. On top of that, the place is knee deep in private security guards and city cops now, with a top-quality, state-of-the-art camera and alarm systems inside and out.”
“You weren’t in that place more than twenty minutes and you figured all that out?”
“It’s what I do, Patsy… no, it’s what I used to do,” he corrected himself, “but some things never change. It’ll take a lot more than a couple of guys with sniper rifles and Ghillie suits to bring that place down.”
“A handful of guys and two women,” Linda reminded him.
“Both of whom I almost got killed a few minutes ago, because I got careless.”
“It wouldn’t have been your fault,” Patsy told him. “We’re here because we want to be, and when you go after them, we want to be there too.”
He shook his head, knowing it was hopeless. “I might as well say yes, because I know I can’t stop you.”
“Good. Glad to see we got that out of the way,” Linda said with a big smile. “I didn’t want to keep fighting over it either, since we both know you weren’t going to win.”
Sad, but true, he consoled himself. “By the way, there will be three women in this, not just two. Ace has a new girlfriend. You’ll meet her when we go down to Fort Bragg.”
“Great,” she said. “We already had you outnumbered; that will make it overkill.”
CHAPTER TEN
They returned the rent-a-car at Philadelphia International somewhat the worse for wear, and waited for the airport shuttle bus back to the main terminal. “Aren’t you glad I took full coverage on that thing?” Bob said as the rental car personnel circled the Buick, crying.
“I’d try a different car company next time,” Linda answered. “Those guys aren’t going to want to see you again.”
When they reached the terminal, they rode the escalators up one level to the shopping concourse, where Bob led them into one of those ubiquitous book, e-toy, and gift shops you can find at most metropolitan airports these days. They stocked about everything a traveler could conceivably want from computer accessories to luggage and carrying cases. When Bob saw a large, canvas carry-on bag with yellow and orange van Gogh sunflowers set against a
bright blue sky, he grabbed it.
“That thing is hideous!” Linda announced. “You don’t expect me to carry it, do you?”
“It’s perfect,” Bob corrected her as he headed for the cashier and paid for the bag. “In fact, since I’m not likely to find anything nicer, I was going to make it your anniversary present; but I knew you’d want it now.” He had been carrying the canvas bank bag under his arm, rolled up to hide the bank logo and name since they got out of the rental car. Two doors down, he stepped into an alcove where a store had been closed for remodeling. Turning his back on the concourse, he tore the tags off the new shopping bag, stuffed the canvas Citicorp money bank bag inside, and handed it to Linda.
“Who do you think that’s going to fool?” she asked petulantly. “It doesn’t even begin to go with my dress or shoes. Ugh!” But he wasn’t listening. He hung it over her shoulder, undid the top button on her dress, and slipped his index finger inside to pull out on the next button and her bra to expose even more cleavage.
“You’re getting a little personal in there, aren’t you?”
“Nowhere I haven’t been before.”
“And you may never go again, the way this day’s been. What are you doing?”
“Giving the TSA something nicer to look at than the shopping bag.”
“Want me to take the bra off, too?” she asked, exasperated.
He took a quick look around the concourse. “No, I don’t want to start a full-fledged riot at the gate. I’m just trying to distract their attention a little.”
“A little? Nice try, but you’re only digging yourself in deeper,” Linda said as Patsy began to laugh at both of them. Linda turned toward her and asked, “You want to carry this thing? A perky little thing like you? One peek and I’m sure you’d drive the guards crazy.”
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