Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  “They must be killed,” he commanded Carlo Sesti. “Hunt them down like wild dogs and destroy them. Gordon, Flanagan, the father—I want them all dead.”

  “Justice demands it,” agreed Sesti. “You have always been a man of peace, Don Spadafore, but there is no other way.”

  The phrase “man of peace” grated on Spadafore’s ears. This was the thanks he got for the long and prosperous Pax Luigi that he had imposed on the East Coast underworld. Like his hero Augustus Caesar, his sons had been murdered, not, in his case, by the devious Livia, but by the even more treacherous Grossman. He had been too trusting, too soft. But that was all over now. Luigi Spadafore, at the end of his illustrious reign, had no intention of going down in history as the don who allowed himself to be humiliated by an old Jew, a reporter and an Irish madman.

  Spadafore shot Sesti a sharp look. “There is no need, consigliere, for you to tell me what kind of man I have been. I am perfectly capable of evaluating my own character,” he said. “I remind you that it was you who brought these people into our world. I hold you responsible.”

  “Yes, Don Spadafore,” Sesti said quickly. “I have already called a council of war; this afternoon I will meet with the captains, and we will formulate a plan. There is only one small difficulty.…”

  “Yes?”

  “Flanagan and especially Gordon are eminent men. A highly public execution would focus unbearable attention on our affairs, particularly following the death of the movie star. How shall we handle that?”

  Don Spadafore was impressed in spite of himself. Carlo had a cool head. Maybe too cool; he was, after all, the chief beneficiary of the death of his sons. The old man knew that his consigliere was perfectly capable of engineering the murders, but this knowledge did not in any way alter his resolve to take revenge on Gordon and the others.

  Over the course of his long career, Spadafore had learned that honor was largely a matter of public perception. In his world, it would be assumed that the journalist and his friends were guilty, and thus his honor could be preserved only if they were executed. In the meantime, he would quietly look into Carlo’s connection with the affair. In the event that the consigliere was indeed a traitor, there would be time to deal with him later. But until Gordon and the others were dead, Sesti was as inviolate as a nun. The Don knew that should anything happen to his consigliere now, it would be interpreted as yet another defeat for the Spadafore Family.

  “You are correct, Carlo,” he said. “I want these men killed discreetly. When you have the bodies, take them to the waste-treatment plant in New Jersey and have them ground into fine powder. Then it will be my pleasure to personally flush them down the toilet. Does this answer your question?”

  Sesti nodded, regarding Spadafore with real admiration. The Don had already been an old man when Sesti was appointed consigliere, and this was a side of him he had never seen. “I will meet with the captains,” he said, “and your enemies will be destroyed.”

  At five o’clock the war council gathered in the massive brownstone: Bertoia, head of the Bronx regime, Fazzio from Queens, Rizzoli from Staten Island and Negrone from Long Island. Sesti was the youngest man in the room. During the long years of peace, Spadafore had promoted his captains according to seniority and executive ability rather than ferocity or military prowess. Now, seated around the table, Sesti saw four bland elderly men who could be counted on to carry out orders, nothing more.

  Fortunately, thought Sesti, wartime preparedness was not necessary. He knew, as Don Spadafore did not, that Gordon and Flanagan were perfectly harmless. Still, the pretense that they were dangerous assassins was necessary; otherwise, suspicion could focus on him. Thus did Carlo Sesti deploy his troops as if they faced a major campaign.

  Sesti spoke to the captains in Sicilian dialect, the language of war. “As I see it, we are up against a serious enemy,” he told them. “Not because they have many guns, but precisely because they are few, and unpredictable. They do not follow the established rules of war, and they have no scruples. Gordon murdered Mario, and then brazenly offered condolences to Don Spadafore. His father came to this house and swore a blood oath of innocence while, at that very moment, he was planning the assassination of Pietro. Only lunatics would strike out this way at a superior force, and lunatics can be dangerous foes.

  “You have, among you, almost one thousand men,” he continued. “let each regime provide fifty soldiers to protect the house; Nestore Bertoia will command the guard.” Bertoia nodded, proud of the confidence that such an assignment reflected.

  “Next, I want another fifty men from each regime to conduct a citywide search for the filth who killed Mario and Pietro. This force will be commanded by Bruno Rizzoli. Following this meeting I will provide you with pictures of Grossman, Gordon and Flanagan, as well as the information we have about them.”

  “Where should we concentrate our efforts?” asked Rizzoli. “Two hundred men are not enough to cover the entire city.”

  “Keep a watch on their houses and on the newspaper,” said Sesti. “Also, have some people at the airports and the railway stations. Within a few hours I hope to have more specific information.” Sesti had already spoken to a friend in the police department, who had promised to use his resources to find the fugitives. He also had Grady Rand on the streets. Unlike these jowly men, Rand was a true professional, and Sesti was counting on him to track down Gordon and the others. Dispatch was the key. Prompt action would make Spadafore eternally grateful to him; and, in the case of the seventy-seven-year-old Don, eternity would not last forever.

  Gordon and his bodyguards heard about Jupiter’s death on the six o’clock news. “Film star … reputed Mafia figure … Spadafore Family … romantic connection … explosion”—the words rattled in Gordon’s uncomprehending brain like beans in a bag, refusing to stick together. Jupiter and Pietro Spadafore? She didn’t know Spadafore. What could they have been doing together, how could she have been caught up in a bombing …?

  Then, in a flash of clarity, he saw the entire picture. Jupiter had gone to Pietro Spadafore to plead for his life. There could be no other explanation, no other reason. He could picture her piercing brown eyes fixed on Pietro, begging him in her husky, melodious voice to spare her man. Gordon didn’t know who or what had caused the explosion, but he was certain of one thing—because she had loved him and wanted to protect him, Jupiter Evans was now dead.

  He was possessed with a furious urge to avenge her. He saw now how badly he had underestimated Luigi Spadafore. The old man was a demon, a nemesis who had killed Jupiter, attempted to murder Flanagan and forced Gordon himself to hide like a criminal.

  Gordon had a sudden impulse to pick up the phone and call the head of the FBI or the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Hell, he could probably get through to the President. But, what would he say—that he was hiding from the Mafia, and could they possibly send a platoon of marines to Brooklyn? No, it was up to him; he would have to act alone.

  “There’s gonna be blood on the streets now,” said Sleepout Louie. Gordon spun his head in Levine’s direction, shocked that the old man had read his thoughts.

  “Relax, kid, we can handle the lokshen,” said Handsome Harry Millman grimly, but Gordon didn’t hear; his brain was already fogged with steamy thoughts of remorse and revenge. Thus it was that William Gordon, two-time Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, was the only man in the room who missed the lead of the story; it was not the death of Jupiter but the murder of Pietro Spadafore that mattered.

  CHAPTER 24

  Al Grossman sat in the wood-paneled saloon of the Grand Central Oyster Bar and methodically ate his way through a bucket of steamers. A few blocks away, Velvel and the boys were having dinner, but Grossman hated Pupik Feinsilver’s cooking, and he wanted to spend some time alone, savoring the events of the past twenty-four hours. He knew it was a cliché, but he felt like a new man.

  The more he recalled his meeting with Luigi Spadafore, the prouder he was of himself. He h
ad faced the Don as an equal, carried out his plan and saved his son. No one, he thought, not Jerry Shulman, not even Max himself, could have done better.

  Grossman had celebrated his triumph the night before with Bev. In bed he had performed like a teenager—twice during the evening, once again this morning. “Florida agrees with you,” she said.

  He stayed with her until about noon, just lazing around the house in his pajamas. Then he got dressed, came into the city and spent the rest of the day pampering himself—a svitz and rubdown at the New York Athletic Club, followed by a long nap; haircut, shampoo and manicure at the Waldorf barbershop; and now ice-cold martinis and steamers. After dinner he planned to stop by the apartment to say hello, and then go on to the Lakers game. Not bad for a seventy-year-old, he thought; who says you can’t live forever?

  Grossman was too absorbed in his own thoughts to pay attention to his fellow diners. He did not notice the man with the broken nose and dirty-blond hair who sat at a table near the entrance staring at him. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have meant anything to him; Albert Grossman had never seen Grady Rand before.

  Rand kept his eyes on Grossman out of curiosity, not necessity. He wasn’t afraid that the old guy would try to give him the slip. Obviously Grossman had no idea that he was being followed.

  Finding him had been a snap; Rand simply gave a doorman at the athletic club twenty dollars to call him when Grossman showed up. He had done the same at half a dozen of Grossman’s other haunts. Rand knew from experience that men, especially men as old as Al Grossman, were creatures of habit; they went back to the same places, mostly because they couldn’t think of anyplace new. This sort of insight into human nature was what made Rand an efficient practitioner of his art; to be an assassin, he always said, you have to be a people person.

  Grady Rand loved his work. The money was good, the hours undemanding, and he was his own boss. But there was more to it than that. Contract killing enabled him to come into contact with fascinating people, and gave him a special, almost divine role in their lives. Death, like birth, was a great existential moment, and he, Grady Rand of Columbia, South Carolina, was its agent.

  For that reason, Rand was choosy about his victims. In eleven years of more or less steady work, he had killed politicians and corporation heads, union officials and high-priced call girls, a professional basketball coach, the head of a major philanthropic institution and two left-wing priests. He had taken time with each one, tried to understand their characters and aspirations. Such personal involvement was, in Rand’s view, the difference between the true agent of death and a mere butcher.

  That is what had made his present contract with Carlo Sesti so frustrating. Shooting Mario Spadafore through a telescopic sight at two hundred yards and blowing up his brother, Pietro, had been little more than technical exercises; he had never even seen their faces.

  And then there was Flanagan. Rand didn’t really blame himself for missing the lanky Irishman twice; your average layman didn’t understand how difficult it was to kill someone. Like any other assassin, Rand had his share of failures, and he accepted them philosophically. In a few minutes, with Grossman, he would get back on the scoreboard.

  Grossman looked to Rand like a tough, lonely man. From the way his lips moved slightly when he was lost in thought, Rand could see that Grossman talked to himself, a trait they shared. He wondered what was going on in the old guy’s head right that second. Certainly he had no idea that he was going to die within minutes. Only he, Grady Rand, knew that, and the knowlege made him feel like God Almighty.

  Rand felt no remorse and he knew he would feel none later. Grossman had to die eventually; death was simply a part of the natural scheme of things. It was better, he reflected, for the old guy to go out with a painless bang. It pleased him that he could do Grossman that favor; he looked like the kind of man that Rand would have liked as a friend.

  The thought took him back to boyhood. After graduating from high school, Grady Rand had worked briefly as an ambulance driver. One day he had been called to the scene of a suicide. The victim was a girl he had gone to school with, an ex-cheerleader named Connie Berlow. Rand thought she was one of the cutest girls around, but he never found the nerve to ask for a date. She was the kind of girl who went out with football stars and rich kids, not with Grady Rand.

  As Rand placed her body in the back of the ambulance, he noticed once more that she was very cute—and still warm. He knew what some guys would have done in that situation; they would have stopped on the way to the morgue, crawled in back of the ambulance and fucked her. Maybe, he reflected, that was the natural thing to do. But Rand had a different impulse. He found a deserted spot, lugged the inert Connie Berlow off the stretcher and propped her up in the front seat, next to him. Then he put his arm around her shoulder and drove, slowly and deliberately, through the Dairy Queen, where his pals hung out. He was proud that she was with him in death, which, to his way of thinking, was a far more important time for her than, say, prom night. It made him feel very close to her, gave him a thrill of intimacy that he never achieved with living people.

  That’s the way he felt about Albert Grossman. Of course Grossman was technically still alive, sucking the juice out of his clams, but Rand knew that for all intents and purposes he was already dead, like a zombie. And who was here with him, sharing his last moments on earth? Not his famous brother or his illustrious son but him, Grady Rand. He wished he could make his face look like a skull and grin at Grossman. He decided to kill him from the front, just to share a private moment with the tough old bird.

  Al Grossman raised his hand for the check and glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time to go by the apartment and still make the game. He hated the Lakers, especially since they got Magic Johnson. He tried to picture the Knicks with Johnson in the backcourt, and he felt a flash of annoyance. How the hell could they have screwed up the franchise this bad?

  Grossman walked out of the restaurant, past the arcade of shops, toward the escalator. The corridor was deserted except for a few derelicts looking for a warm place to sleep. Suddenly he heard someone call his name, and turned. He saw a tall, thin man in a tan windbreaker. Grossman had no idea who he was, but that wasn’t unusual. He knew a lot of people, and he had a poor memory for faces.

  “Yeah?” he called. The man was perhaps twenty feet behind him.

  “You’re dead, Al,” said Grady Rand, and pumped two bullets into his chest. The shots thundered in the underground passage. Rand saw the winos scramble in terror as Grossman hit the ground. Normally he would have gone over to check the corpse, but there was no time; the noise of the gunshots would soon draw a crowd. Besides, he had seen both bullets hit the old man directly in the heart. Rand holstered his revolver and walked briskly toward the Lexington exit.

  A minute later, when Albert Grossman opened his eyes, he saw a circle of unwashed wino faces peering down at him. He could smell their foul breath. Jesus, he thought, heaven stinks.

  “He ain’t dead,” he heard someone say, and Grossman realized that it was true. He tried to sit up, but his legs were leaden and the bulletproof vest that had saved his life seemed to weigh him down.

  Suddenly Grossman felt a sickening pressure in his chest, and the room began to spin. “Call an ambulance, shmendrick,” he murmured to the closest wino. “I’m having a goddamn heart attack.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Flanagan lay in bed and stared vacantly at the pictures of Martin Luther King and David Ben-Gurion on the wall of the Threkelds’ guest room. He had been staying with Boatnay and Arlene for a week, recuperating, and he was itching to leave. He had enjoyed spending time with his godson, Terrence, and the twins, but he felt better now, and he wanted to get back into circulation. Flanagan was certain that Boatnay would try to force him to stay another week or so, but he was planning to escape. With Pietro Spadafore and Jupiter Evans dead, this was no time to be an invalid.

  Arlene knocked lightly and opened the door. She was a big, handso
me woman with a strong nose, prominent jaw and no sense of humor. Her marital policy was total ethnic parity—Ben-Gurion next to King, a Barbra Streisand record for every Otis Redding, this year’s trip to Kenya offset by next year’s vacation in Israel. Arlene also insisted that Boatnay do exactly one half of the housework and what she called parenting, and the big police captain accepted the arrangement with a docility that astonished Flanagan. Several times he had remarked on Boatnay’s dishpan hands or complimented him on his fluffy towels. Each time he had noticed that Arlene was not amused.

  “Boatnay’s on the phone,” she now said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Flanagan picked up the receiver. “Hey, Boatnay,” he said.

  “John, how long will it take you to get packed?” Threkeld asked in a preemptory tone.

  “About ten mintues,” said Flanagan. “What’s the matter, is it Arlene’s turn to have a houseguest?”

  Threkeld ignored him. “Get your things together, and I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said. “I’m going to take you up to Dad’s place.”

  “Boatnay, will you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  Flanagan heard muffled voices in the background, and someone call Threkeld’s name. “What’s going on? You tell me. All I know is that they just found Albert Grossman in the basement of Grand Central Station. Shot, a professional job. You could be next, and I don’t feel like having my kids in the middle of some Mafia shooting gallery.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Would have been if he wasn’t wearing a vest. They took him to Bellevue. Looks like he had a coronary. They got him in intensive care.”

  “Does Gordon know yet?” Flanagan asked.

  “I don’t see how he could,” said Threkeld. “It just came in about five minutes ago. But it’ll probably be on the radio anytime now. Where is Gordon?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” said Flanagan. “But I’ll get in touch with him right away. Look, don’t bother to come all the way out here, I’ll take a cab. I’m not going to Morgan’s.”