With a feeling of great relief, the men in the room got down to a discussion of day-to-day business problems. Joe Fiore listened for a short while, and then slipped out of the room. He went straight to the pay phone box in the lobby.
He had the connection with Vegas immediately.
“This is Joe. Gimme Doc.”
A short pause.
“Doc? Right. We’re going ahead. I want you to get over to L.A. this afternoon and take that flight as planned. And listen, Doc. Either you guys make a go of that goddamned bank over there, or I’ll get you. Personally. And now another thing. If I hear of you trying to pull any funny business—and I mean any—you are going to be in deep, deep trouble. Understand? This deal is going to be done 100 percent straight from the word go. Understand?”
The phone squawked full understanding.
“And take good care of Albert. You hear?”
2
AT 9 P.M. Alitalia flight 967 left the Los Angeles International airport bound for Milano, Malpense. Mathew “Doc” Smythe, Marvin Skinner, and Albert Fiore went directly to the cocktail lounge in the front of the D.C. 8 after the big plane had climbed to cruising height. Smythe ordered beer for everybody. After the drinks had arrived, Marvin took a tentative sip, looked around,and then asked:
“Doc, are you sure we’re on the right plane?”
“Look, Marvin,” replied Doc Smythe, “if I told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: just do what I do, and you’ll be fine.”
“I know you said that, Doc. But this plane is going to Italy, not Switzerland.”
Smythe sighed. “Marvin, I know. But for the very last time, let me explain that Lugano, though in Switzerland, is in the Italian part of Switzerland. They speak Italian there. And why? Because it’s right on the border of Italy where, as you may have heard, they also speak Italian.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah come on, Doc. Don’t get sore.”
“I’m not sore, and to prove it I will finish. Lugano does not have an airport. Milano does. So, we are . . .”
“I know. You explained that before. But it still doesn’t seem right. I mean, let’s say we wanted to go to Japan. That doesn’t mean that, just because it’s close to China and they speak almost the same language, that we would . . .”
“Marvin,” interjected Doc, “shut up and leave me alone. If you don’t believe me, ask Albert.”
“Albert,” said Marvin. No response. Albert was reading.
“Albert,” yelled Doc, “for Chrissake pay attention. Marvin wants to ask you something.”
Albert looked up. “Yes?”
“Marvin wants to know whether we are on the right plane or not.”
“Yes, I know.”
Doc Smythe’s eyes searched for help from above. Then he spoke again.
“Well, Albert, could you give Marvin one of two statements: yes, we are on the right plane, or no, we are not on the right plane.”
Albert turned to Marvin. “Marvin, we are on the right plane.”
“Oh,” said Marvin, “fine.”
Doc’s eyes again shifted toward heaven.
“Marvin,” he asked, “now why all of a sudden do you believe Albert when you’ve been pestering me to death?”
“Because Albert is never wrong.”
The three then lapsed into silence, much to Doc’s relief. Actually, he thought, Marvin was right. That Albert was uncanny. The smartest young bastard he’d ever met. And educated. God was he educated! Yet so quiet, so modest. The contrast between him and his old man was incredible. When Joe first introduced him to the boys in Vegas as his son, Albert, everybody had just stared in disbelief: those thick glasses, the pale thin face, the delicate hands, and on top of everything he had blushed like a schoolgirl. So everybody just ignored him. I mean, what could you do with something like that in Vegas? Then the boss had given him that office, and put him to work calculating odds. The results soon became legend. The kid was a teenage Nick the Greek! Well, not exactly teenage, since Albert was, after all, twenty-six. But he looked sixteen. But no matter. If he quoted two to one odds that the St. Louis Cardinals would take the World Series in 1987 in six games, you could order your tickets the next day from Busch Stadium, and will them to your eight-year-old son, in the sure knowledge that a decade hence he would be enjoying hotdogs and beer under an October Missouri sun. If Albert gave you even money that it would rain twice during the last weekend in August in San Diego, only a fool would go to Southern California at that time without an umbrella. How did he do it?
Doc had been dumb enough to ask one time. As Albert had then elucidated, while studying economics under Paul Samuelson at M.I.T. when he was sixteen, he had become fascinated with the probability theories of two foreigners called John von Neumann and Oskar Morganstern. Then he had branched out into something he called “random walk hypotheses” after he’d moved on to graduate studies under Milton Friedman at the University of Chicago, where he had specialized in monetary analysis. Albert explained that by synthesizing these two analytical approaches, he had developed a technique which was universally applicable where situations resembling games of chance were involved, like horse races, stock markets, commodities, football games, elections— the works. Well, that was the last time that Doc had ever put any more dumb questions to Albert. I mean, who the hell could make head or tail of such answers? And Doc was not one to unnecessarily demonstrate lack of intellect. After all, he had built up a reputation which had to be maintained.
Mathew “Doc” Smythe was undoubtedly the smoothest, the most imaginative, the best-looking crook in the entire West. As anybody who has ever lived west of the Mississippi knows, that really means something, since the competition out there is fierce. Smythe exuded an image which demanded confidence and respect; he projected a magnetism which consistently deluded his fellow man into feeling, no, firmly believing, that somehow they knew—and liked—him. Time and time again he was mistaken for other people: a nationwide newscaster; a Welsh Shakespearean actor; a senator from South Dakota. Smythe’s full wavy hair, his strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, his magnificent build, his easy walk— together produced a vision which overwhelmed females from sixteen to sixty-six. His deep voice, sometimes echoing memories of Eton, at other times the polish of Harvard, commanded attention whether across a conference table or through the din of a gambling casino. From small beginnings as a con artist in the Midwest, matured by a three-year stay in Leavenworth, Doc had risen steadily to the top of America’s criminal ranks. Along the line Chuck Synkiewicz of Milwaukee had become Mathew D. Smythe of Boston. And the self-bestowed Ph.D., sometimes accompanied by an equally phony LL.D., had also become a standard part of his new personality. But, as many people had found out too late, it was a horrible mistake to regard Doc’s idiosyncratic attachment to a totally synthetic set of credentials as a sign of weakness. Beneath the smooth external veneer, the man could match any of his colleagues in those attributes necessary for success in his chosen trade: cynicism, cruelty, and a completely detached view of the value of human life, especially the loss thereof. When a contract was taken on by the Fiore group, Doc was not above direct involvement in its execution, even though years ago he had become the one and only lieutenant of the boss himself. His explanation: he enjoyed it! Doc regarded the Swiss bank job as a diversion of his talents, especially because, for some peculiar reason, the boss apparently wanted him to play it straight. But for how long? Certainly having Joe’s son along was not going to make things any easier, because if the boy ever got into trouble with the law in Europe, or anywhere else, heads would roll. Marvin Skinner was something else. Slow, yes, but as a counterfeiter, one of the best in the Western Hemisphere. And when it came to rough stuff, Marvin could hold his own with the best of the boys. If Joe planned to play it straight all the way, he would hardly have sent Marvin along. Comforted by this thought, Doc fell asleep as the plane droned its way east.
The immense clock overlooking the
concourse of Malpense airport put the time at 6 P.M.,as many hours and time zones later the passengers of Alitalia flight 967 passed through immigration and customs control.
The man standing below the clock, tall, slender, in a superbly fitted topcoat, black Homburg, gray gloves, and carrying a walking stock, moved forward when he spotted the group of three men coming toward him.
“Dottore Smeeth?” he inquired, and when the response was positive, caught the good doctor from Las Vegas in the most Italian of embraces.
“Ah, it is so very good to meet you.” Having finally released Doc Smythe, he then turned to Albert.
“And you must be little Alberto. Your father Giuseppe has told me so much about you.” Another hugging session.
Then Marvin, who had been watching all this in stunned awe, got the same treatment.
“Now,” said the one-man greeting party, “I would like to ask all of you a favor. My name, given to me at a time when I was not in a position to control my destiny, is Principe Gianfranco Pietro Annunzio di Siracusa. But all my friends from America call me John. I insist that you must also do the same. You agree?”
For the first time Smythe had a chance to speak up.
“With the greatest of pleasure, John,” he said. “But then I must also insist that we dispense with the use of any of my academic titles. No more Dottore, please. I would appreciate your addressing me merely as Mathew.”
Marvin continued to stand there with his mouth open. Smeeth! Principe! Dottore! John! Maybe the right plane had been the wrong one after all. But “John” left no time for further reflection.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have reserved a limousine, since I am sure you will all want to proceed to your hotel in Lugano as quickly and easily as possible. Our driver will take care of your luggage.”
Darkness was already falling on northern Italy as they moved swiftly along the autostrada toward the Swiss border. Less than an hour later, they entered the outskirts of Lugano. The view was stunning, even at night: the palm trees lining the city’s main boulevard; the reflections on the calm waters of the lake; the little islands of light on the mountains which reared up on all sides. It was a twinkling fairy-tale-like scene, which seemed almost unreal to the three Americans, accustomed as they were to the brassy, flashing glare of Las Vegas by night. Even Doc Smythe could not restrain himself.
“I had no idea it would be so beautiful.”
“Ah yes, but it is,” said the prince. “La bella Svizzera. So much beauty, and so much money.”
The limousine was met by three bellboys as it pulled into the courtyard of the hotel. The manager was immediately summoned by Annunzio, and after a respectful bow, personally assumed responsibility for the installation of the Principe and his honored guests from America. The prince did not linger. He felt that all must be tired after the long trip. He would meet them at nine the next morning, in the lobby.
It was only a few minutes after nine when the limousine moved off again, down the Riva Caccia. At the Via Mazoni it turned left, and entered the Piazza della Riforma. The Principe signaled the driver to stop. Then he and the three Americans stepped out into the crowded square.
“Here we are,” said Annunzio.
Doc looked up at the massive front of the ten-storey building, at the marble stairs leading to the glass and metal entrance; then at the uniformed doorman, opening and closing the ornate doors as the bank’s clients hurried in and out.
“This time we’ve really hit the jackpot.” His choice of words showed that Doc had not yet fully completed the transition from the Nevada desert and its gambling dens to this garden spot of Europe, and the lofty atmosphere of international banking.
Then Doc continued. “Let’s get in there, and start things moving— American style.”
He stepped forward, with Albert and Marvin close behind, and moved up the marble stairs.
“Momento,” said the prince.
Doc hesitated.
“Oh, is there to be some kind of ceremony?”
“No,” answered the prince, “none that I know of.”
“Then let’s get going.” Doc started up the stairs again.
“Momento,” repeated the prince. “You are going the wrong way.”
“What do you mean, the wrong way?” asked Doc.
“You have the wrong building. Our bank is over there.”
Doc, Marvin, and Albert shifted their eyes in the direction indicated by the Italian’s outstretched arm. Over there, across the square, was just a restaurant, and a rather crummy one at that. The name, painted in blue letters across the flaked pink brick façade read:
TRATTORIA MONTE SAN SALVATORE
“Prince, old buddy,” said Doc in a voice which suddenly had steel in it, “you’ve just gotta be kidding. That’s a fuckin’ pizza parlor!”
“Ah yes,” replied Gianfranco, “but of course I do not mean the ristorante. We are on the second floor, above the ristorante.”
Doc just squinted at the prince, as his hands clenched at his side.
“Look, prince. Let’s cut the crap. Just show us the bank and shut up.”
The building they approached had two adjacent entrances. One was hung with plastic beads on long strings, designed to reduce, if not eliminate, the number of flies per pizza. The other, which had a door, though not closed, led to a dark narrow staircase. Single-file the four stumbled their way up. Apparently the light either did not work, or did not exist.
At the top of the second flight of stairs there was another door, this time closed. A small smudged card had been tacked to it. It read:
BANCA INTERNAZIONALE DI SICILIA E AMERICA A SVIZZERA S.A.
Another card, obviously new, translated:
INTERNATIONAL BANK OF SICILY AND AMERICA IN
SWITZERLAND INC.
After barely glancing at them, Doc pushed the prince aside, and opened the door.
“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.
A small man, probably sixty-five, rose from a desk where he had been slouched over a ledger book.
“I am, Signor. I am the chief accountant.” Then he proceeded hesitantly. “What may I do for you?”
“You must have heard that the ownership of this bank has changed hands.”
“Yes, of course. Signor Matteli—he was our general manager— mentioned it before he left last week. But he gave me no details.”
“Where is Signor Matteli now?”
“I don’t know, sir. He has left the bank and returned to Sicily. He told me the new owners would be appointing new management. That is you, Signor?”
“Correct. That is me. And these are my colleagues.” He just waved his hand at the three gathered at his side, but made no attempt at further introductions.
“Is this all there is to the bank premises?”
“Well, Signor, we have three rooms. Normally the girls work out here, but neither came to work this morning. You see, we really have nothing to do. I have the next office, where I do the accounting with my assistant. He is also not here this morning. He is sick. And Signor Matteli had the third office. But as I said, he is . . .”
“I know,” interrupted Doc, “he’s somewhere in Sicily.”
“Are these the books of the bank?” Doc continued, pointing to the ledger books on the desk.
“Yes, Signor.”
“I want to borrow them. Albert,” he ordered, “you get to work on them right now. Go back to Matteli’s office. Take this fellow with you. I’m going downstairs to have a word with the prince. When you get the full picture, come down and join us. Marvin, you stick with me.”
Two hours later they—the prince and the two Americans—sat around a table in the pizza parlor below. Doc Smythe, over his third espresso, wearily continued his interrogation of the prince.
“Look,” he said, “I still can’t understand it. I mean, you’ve been at the bank, seen the place.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly. How did you know where it w
as then?”
“The agent told me.”
“What agent?”
“The agent in Palermo.”
“And who’s he?”
“He is unimportant. He was acting for the former owners.”
“And who are they?”
“A very old Palermo family.”
“Yeah, a very old family of Palermo crooks.”
“Joe Fiore did not think so. I was convinced also that we were dealing with highly honorable people.”
“Honorable? Peddling a broken-down outfit like this?”
“But how was I to know?” protested the prince. “I merely provided the introductions, that’s all. Then Joe asked me to join the bank as its Chairman—really, just an honorary position. He felt that it would add to its image.”
“Christ!” exclaimed Doc. “Tell me just one last thing. How much did you personally make on this screwjob?”
“Absolutely nothing,” exclaimed the prince. “I just acted as a gobetween for friends.”
“No finder’s fee? No consultancy arrangement down there in Palermo?”
“Of course not.”
Then Doc leaned across the table and grabbed the prince’s arm.
“You know what I think? That you’re lying.” His fingers tightened.
“I don’t like liars. I especially don’t like dago liars. And you’re the biggest wop liar I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet.”
At this moment, Albert Fiore entered the restaurant. His face, normally relaxed and cheerful, looked haggard.
Doc released the prince’s arm and turned to Albert, as he drew up a chair.
“Well?”
“Bad. Real bad. I could go into all kinds of detail, but there’s really no purpose. These guys simply cleaned out the bank before they left. There’s about $1,600 worth of assorted currencies in the safe, and that’s it.”
“What about deposits, and that sort of thing?”
“Nothing. In fact, from what I can determine, the only deposits this bank ever had were from the former owner and his relatives. This place was really nothing more than a front, set up as a vehicle to help the owner’s family dodge taxes.”
The Silver Bears Page 2
