INTERVENTION

by May, Julian; Dikty, Ted

  "Jesus, Arnie, I wish you wouldn't do that." Grondin ripped open a pack of Marlboros with shaking hands and coaxed one out.

  Cassidy wiped his florid face with a handkerchief. "Wouldn't that be a helluva thing for the chief to wake up to? The fallout from your stupid come!"

  Pakkala ignored that. "Mr. O'Connor may continue to sleep until I make certain that our subjects are actually inside, in their box. If our informants erred—of if they lied—other plans will have to be made."

  "Well, get cracking, dammit," Cassidy snapped. "Don't just sit around here getting your rocks off."

  Pakkala's face went rigid again. He seemed to be studying the hub of the steering wheel with blind eyes. Tiny flakes of snow sifted down and melted to pinpoint droplets when they struck the warm windshield. The engine idled soundlessly and Kieran O'Connor exhaled a deep, sighing breath that was almost a sob.

  Grondin sucked cigarette smoke fiercely. "Poor bastard."

  Cassidy said, "He'll be all right. Just so long as those two dago butchers are in there where we can get at 'em."

  Nodding at Pakkala, Grondin said, "Arnie'll find out. Umpteen thousand people in there, but Arnie'll find 'em if they're inside. Helluva head, old Arnie, even if he has his weird moments."

  "I still think this is the wrong place for a hit, though," Cassidy said. "I know the chief has to do it before any of the New York crowd expect him to act. But to do it here..."

  Both men looked across Lincoln Plaza, where the five tall arches forming the façade of the Metropolitan Opera House enclosed a scene of festive splendor. They were more than ninety feet high and panelled in transparent glass from top to bottom, framing the four tiers of the house and the golden vaults of the ceiling. Colossal murals by Marc Chagall blazed on either side of a grand double staircase of white marble, carpeted in red. The walls were crimson velvet or gleaming stone, set off by twinkling sconces. In the central arch hung the famous starburst chandeliers, the largest at the top and the smaller satellites offset beneath it like a cluster of crystal galaxies. Rising bright against the black sky of winter, the opera house looked like the open door into a fantasy world, rather than the designated site of a double execution.

  Tonight's house was a sellout, a benefit performance of La Favorita by Donizetti. The performance was a new and lavish one featuring the superstars Luciano Pavarotti, Shirley Verrett, and Sherill Milnes, a rare treat for aficionados of Italian opera. Among the most devoted of these was a certain New York City business leader named Guido "Big Guy" Montedoro. On most opening nights he was to be found in his regular box with his wife, his grown children, and the spouses of the latter. Tonight, however, his companions were all male. Seated at the rear of the box were four trusted associates of the Montedoro Family, whose rented tuxedos bulged slightly under the arms. In front, next to Don Guido himself, was the honored guest of the evening, Vicenzu Falcone. Don Vicenzu, an old friend of the Big Guy and a fellow music-lover, was being fêted on the occasion of his parole from the federal prison at Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, where he had been serving time for tax evasion. He was accompanied by his deputy, Mike LoPresti, who had kept the Brooklyn narcotics pipeline running more or less efficiently while his superior was hors de combat. LoPresti's brother-in-law, Joseph "Joe Porks" Porcaro, the Falcone enforcer, was also in attendance. It was this same Porcaro who had gone to Chicago three days earlier to execute a contract on the upstart young consigliere of the Chicago Outfit, whose far-reaching activities had encroached once too often upon certain business interests of the boys from Brooklyn.

  Porcaro, following LoPresti's orders, had trailed his intended victim to the posh Oakbrook shopping complex in the western suburbs of Chicago. He had smiled as the counselor took pains to park his brand new Mercedes 450SL at some distance from other cars, lest their careless drivers open doors against its immaculate flanks and ding the paint job. When the consigliere went away, Porcaro wired a small bomb to the Mercedes, drove to O'Hare Airport, and was home in Brooklyn in time for a supper of linguini with white clam sauce.

  Unfortunately for him—and for Underboss LoPresti, who had ordered the hit on his own authority without consulting Don Vicenzu—the Camastra Family's legal adviser had come to Oakbrook to pick up his wife and children, who had spent the morning shopping with the wife's mother. The young parents and their daughters, aged two and three, had approached the booby-trapped automobile together. But then Shannon, the three-year-old, decided that she had to go to the bathroom. Scolding her just a little, her father took her to a nearby department store while the mother and younger child waited in the car.

  It was a cold and blustery February day, and only natural that Rosemary Camastra O'Connor should start the engine of the Mercedes to get the heater going.

  ***

  [Fireflower!]

  Wake up Mr. O'Connor.

  [Fireflower!] The dark hallway in the dingy flat in Southie with the emanations from the sickroom hitting him fresh again so that he nearly puked with the pain before he could shut it out Kier Kier my baby are you back did you piay did you...

  Wake up. It's all right. We're at the Opera House.

  [Fireflower!] Mom calling in her broken-glass-edge voice the voice only he could hear crying and dying clinging obstinately to her agony and to him Kiei Kier you did receive Holy Communion didn't you Kier you didn't sneak breakfast again did you oh you know you have to pray hard I can't so you must and then there'll be a miracle...

  Wake up sir. Open your eyes.

  [Fireflower!] The hands dry as newspaper the fingernails blue and broken one hand gripping the tarnished silver-filigree rosary and the other tangled in his old sweater pulling him closer and him fighting to raise a higher and higher wall between the two of them and she calling out to the awful Irish God she loved the one who tortured Kier Kier he tests the ones he loves best he loves us I love you Kier pray for the miracle pray Jesus it stops Jesus stop it please stop it Kier stop it ...

  Mr. O'Connor! Wake up!

  [Fireflower!] Yes Mom I'll stop it even if damned God won't I know how ... I know how ... was it so easy? Blue eyes gone wide and black and empty pain gone mind gone are you really gone? And the boy screams [fireflower!] and the grown man screams [fireflower!] and it expands in thunder under Illinois clouds as gray as Mom's fluffy hair on the coffin's cheap satin pillow and the coffin will have to be closed you understand Mr. O'Connor wake up Mr. O'Connor wake up!

  Kieran opened his eyes.

  Arnold Pakkala was there, and Adam Grondin, and Jase Cassidy. The loyal ones, the ones he had salvaged and bonded to him, the ones like him: hurt through their own fault, ever hurting.

  He asked Arnold: Are Porcaro and LoPresti inside?

  "Yes, sir," Pakkala said out loud. "Everything is exactly as Koenig and Matucci told us it would be. The two subjects are here with the dons. There are no women. Four button-men are inside the box and two are on watch outside. The intermission between the Third and Fourth Acts is about to begin. You and Adam and Jason can mingle readily with the crowd."

  Kieran unfastened his seat belt and removed his hat, his white silk scarf, and his dark blue cashmere overcoat. Grondin and Cassidy hastily followed his example. All three of them were dressed in black-tie formal evening wear. "Go around to Sixty-fifth Street, by the Juilliard School," Kieran told Arnold. "There's a tunnel on the lower level that goes under the plaza to the stage door. We'll meet you there afterward."

  "Yes, sir. Good luck!"

  Cassidy and Grondin were already out on the pavement, heading for the broad steps; but Kieran paused, half in and half out of the limousine, and smiled at his executive assistant. A mental picture hovered between them: a drunken derelict being kicked to death by a vicious punk in a Chicago alley, uttering a last telepathic cry for help.

  "Luck, Arnold? You of all people should know better than to say that. People like us make our own luck."

  Kieran stepped out of the car and slammed the door. The Cadillac's headlights came on like some great ani
mal opening its eyes. Arnold Pakkala raised his hand and said: I'll be waiting.

  Kieran nodded. He stood there in spite of the arctic wind knifing through his clothing, until the limousine disappeared around the corner. Yes, we make our own luck. We make our own reality, and when the bill comes due we pay cash on the barrelhead. Arnold and Jase and Adam didn't quite understand that yet, but they would; and so would the others when Kieran found them and bound them.

  The Opera House began to shimmer. Thousands of people were pouring from the auditorium and the balconies onto the grand staircase for intermission. Cassidy and Grondin waited patiently, silhouetted against the brilliance.

  [Fireflower.]

  All right, Kier said to them. This is what I want you to do.

  ***

  The performance was running long, and Montedoro and Falcone decided to spend this final intermission relaxing in their box, rather than attempt another sortie into the high-society crush out on the Grand Tier lobby. Three of the bodyguard were given permission to take a smoke break and Joe Porks was sent for a magnum of champagne. Mike LoPresti, whose musical tastes ran more toward cabaret singers than divas, appeased his boredom by using the binoculars to inspect the decolletages of the elegant ladies down on the main floor.

  The two dons made favorable comments about the rousing curtain-closer ensemble that had ended Act Three. La Favoiita, they agreed, was somewhat of a potboiler—which explained why the Met hadn't mounted a production since Caruso in 1905—but it did have some soaring melodies, and Pavarotti was in splendid voice. Vicenzu Falcone was old-fashioned enough to express regret that the heroine was being portrayed by a black soprano.

  Montedoro shrugged. "At least she's not fat, and she's got a great legato. So if her color bugs you, close your eyes during the duets."

  "Look, Guido, I don't mind a chocolate Carmen or Aïda—but there oughta be limits. When I was in stir I saw Price do Tosca on Live from the Met and it was fuckin' grotesque! What next? A Jap Rigoletto? It's all the fault of that damn Kraut, Bing. He squanders a bundle building this house, and we got trick chandeliers, no privacy, everything open like a goddam goldfish tank—and the singers gotta blast out their voiceboxes to fill the thing. The old Met was better."

  "Nothing stays the same forever, Vince. Us old farts gotta change with the changing times."

  "Sez you! You're only sixty-seven and you don't have arteries sludged up like a Jersey backwater at low tide." Falcone lowered his voice and began to speak in Sicilian dialect. "And you don't have a U.S. attorney standing on your testicles, ready to defy God and the Madonna and the Bill of Rights in order to make certain that you die in prison. Piccolomini, that head of a prick! Do you know why he pursues me? He intends to run for senator, and I am to provide him with his ticket to Washington. Illegal wiretaps, suborned witnesses, planted evidence—he doesn't care how he incriminates one. You had better guard your own precious arse, friend Guido."

  "I always have," Montedoro said in English. The perfect acoustics of the auditorium filled the place with white noise during the interval, so the conversation between the two dons was inaudible even to LoPresti and the single remaining bodyguard, who were only a few feet away. Nevertheless, the man whom the newspapers called Boss of Bosses leaned very close to his old friend and spoke in the tongue of secrecy. "Do you think that I'm blind to the government conspiracy against Our Thing? I saw it coming years ago, when that shitter-of-wisdom Robert Kennedy declared war on us. For this very reason, my own Family has diversified, distanced itself from the less savory sources of income. The Montedoro Borgata is legitimate, Vicenzu! Well—very nearly so. My sons, Pasquale and Paolo, have more three-piece-suits on their payroll than a Wall Street brokerage. You don't find cunting zealots like Piccolomini poking into our affairs. Not when they can spend their time more profitably pursuing the greatest importer of heroin and cocaine on the East Coast."

  "Perhaps I should peddle pizza?" Falcone growled.

  Montedoro chuckled. "Why not? See here—I know that your gross profits are tremendous, rising with each passing month. But you are having difficulty laundering the money. And some of your impatient young men complain that their share is slow in filtering down to them. I happen to know that the Sortino Borgata has the same problem, and there are rumors about Calcare's operation, too. It is the unprecedented quantity of money—the drug money—so inconvenient! But there are new methods of handling this embarrassment of riches, Vicenzu—tricks of modern finance."

  "Hah! You suggest that we hand the money over to you for safekeeping, my dear old friend?"

  "Suppose," Montedoro said softly, "that we revive the Commission? Suppose that the Five Families work together instead of at cross-purposes? The Commission was a good idea—only ahead of its time. But now, with this massive influx of dirty money that must be invested if it is not to be pissed away in bankers' percentages, we need to unify to survive."

  "Oh, shit," said Falcone in English. "Now you're startin' to sound just like that Chicago asshole, Camastra."

  A troubled look crossed Montedoro's face. "A1 Camastra phoned me last night. He knew we'd be getting together. How did he know that, Vince?...And what A1 had to say worried me."

  The door at the back of the box opened and Joe Porks came in, a tray of empty flute glasses in his hands and a big bottle of champagne tucked under one arm. He nodded deferentially to the dons and went over to LoPresti. The two whispered together. LoPresti, scowling, headed for the door while Joe Porks undid the cork wire on the magnum. There was a juicy pop. Joe began to pour.

  Falcone was distracted by the actions of his minions. There was a creeping sensation behind his stiffly starched collar, which seemed suddenly to constrict his windpipe. He ran a finger behind the collar and grunted to clear his throat. "Camastra! He always means trouble. Him and that smartass Irish consigliere of his. What kinda crap was he shovelin' this time?"

  Before Montedoro could answer, the door to the box opened again. LoPresti stood there, his face gray and drawn, and behind him were three men in evening clothes. The quartet edged inside and the door closed. The lone soldier on guard duty started up from his seat, groping in his armpit, and then crumpled to the floor with a muffled crash. He twitched and lay still.

  "Jesus Christ," said Joe Porks. His fingers tightened on the champagne bottle.

  "Don't even think of trying it, Porcaro," said one of the shadow men behind LoPresti. "Take his piece, Mike."

  The two dons gaped. LoPresti stepped over to his enforcer, who seemed to be paralyzed, and removed a .38 Detective Special from his shoulder holster. Joe Porks stood like a battered mannequin in an After Six display window, a full glass of bubbly in one hand and the big bottle in the other. Sweat poured down his forehead and his acne-pitted cheeks.

  Falcone lurched to his feet to confront his Underboss. "Mike, what the fuck's going on here?"

  LoPresti's mouth worked as if he were trying to overcome a spasm of lockjaw. There were tears of rage in his eyes. He handed the revolver to one of the men behind him and then went to a seat beside Falcone and slowly lowered himself into it.

  The shortest of the three intruders now stepped forward into the light. He was a man in his mid-thirties whose dark hair grew in a widow's peak, and his face wore one of the most compelling and terrifying expressions that the two dons could remember having seen during their unquiet lives.

  Montedoro remained seated. "A visitor from Chicago," he said in a neutral tone. "O'Connor, isn't it?"

  Yes.

  "Al Camastra mentioned your name when we spoke on the phone last night. Do you intend to kill Vince and me?"

  No. But I will explain certain matters to you.

  Montedoro nodded. His glance took in the sagging LoPresti and motionless Joe Porks, who was teetering a bit with the champagne but didn't spill a drop.

  May we sit down? The intermission is nearly over.

  Montedoro inclined his head graciously.

  Your associates whom we met outside are res
ting in the men's lounge. They'll probably feel much better after a good night's sleep. The fellow on the floor will require prompt hospitalization. Porcaro and LoPresti, however, will receive their treatment from me.

  O'Connor's two companions had gone to Joe Porks and relieved him of his burdens. They guided him to the fourth seat at the front of the box near to LoPresti and sat him down, then retired again to the shadows. The five-minute-warning chime sounded. People began returning to their seats in the boxes to the right and left. They paid no attention to the mobsters and their uninvited guests.

  "He's talking," Falcone whispered, his eyes bulging with terror, "but he ain't talking."

  Montedoro was staring at Kieran with shrewd speculation. "So you're Camastra's edge. No wonder he made you. No wonder he raised you to consigliere."

  "I have other talents as well, Don Guido. If you help reorganize the Commission and put it into efficient operation, you may benefit from my unique abilities yourself. And so may Don Vicenzu, and other businessmen of honor." But first we must settle another matter.

  Falcone said hesitantly, "It wasn't me ordered the hit, O'Connor. You know that, don't you? You're a counselor. Untouchable. But LoPresti was burned because you undercut us on the bidding last year for the Montréal Connection. That was a pipeline he sweat blood to bring in, and the froggies were all ready to deal—until you convinced 'em otherwise." He gave a weak laugh. "Maybe now we know how you convinced 'em."

  "I'm not a miracle-worker," Kieran said. "My ... influence isn't long-lasting and it certainly doesn't extend over distances. What I offered Montréal was a better deal and safer conditions of transfer, using the Saint Lawrence Seaway. No danger of hijacking, no payoffs to cops or customs, and payment direct to Switzerland. Chapelle explained all that to LoPresti. It was a simple business matter, Don Vicenzu, but your man chose to treat it as a personal affront. He's stupid and shortsighted and vindictive, and so is his animal, Porcaro."

  "I agree," said Falcone.

  The lights in the Opera House were dimming and the patrons settled down. Applause greeted Maestro Lopez-Cobos as he entered the pit and motioned for the players in the orchestra to rise.