Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  A cheer went up, and Flanagan smiled happily. “We’re on the scoreboard,” he said. “Wait till you see what we got planned for tomorrow.”

  Around seven, Gordon emerged with half a dozen sheets of paper in his hand. “Tell Jacob to run these down to the Trib,” he told Flanagan

  “How did it go?” Flanagan asked.

  “A masterpiece of disinformation and innuendo, if I do say so myself. Walter Lippmann is spinning in his grave.”

  Flanagan glanced at the first sheet. “My War with the Mob,” by William Gordon. “For the past several weeks, some of New York’s most vicious mobsters have been waging war against this reporter and his family,” it began. “Apparently under the mistaken impression that my uncle, Max Grossman, left me valuable papers, the Brooklyn-based Spadafore Family has sworn to kill me, my relatives and friends—”

  “Hell of a lead,” said Flanagan. He scanned the article with an editor’s practiced eye, pausing here and there for an appreciative chuckle. “I love the part where you accuse Sesti of being behind Mario’s murder,” he said. “Luigi will love it too. I just hope the paper has the balls to run it.”

  “Piece of cake,” said Gordon. “You’ll see.”

  An hour later the phone rang. It was Morrie Birnkrant, the editor in chief of the Tribune. “You don’t expect us to run this thing, do you?” he shouted into the receiver.

  “Why not?” asked Gordon. “It’s an eyewitness account of the Spadafore Family. I’d say there’s another Pulitzer in it.”

  “Pulitzer, my ass,” said Birnkrant. “There’s a lawsuit in it.”

  “Morrie, give me a break. You know what kind of disclosure you have to make in a libel suit. We’re talking about the Mafia here, not Mobil Oil.”

  “Sorry, William,” said the editor. “We can’t use it.”

  “Fine,” said Gordon. “In that case, I quit. By the way, do you happen to have the phone number of The New York Times?”

  There was a long pause. “You think you have me over a barrel,” squawked Birnkrant. “Well, goddammit, you do have me over a barrel. But I’m warning you, Gordon, you better be right. If they sue, Pulitzers or no, you’ll be lucky to get a job on the Ankara Gazette.”

  “Morrie, don’t worry, it’ll be sensational,” said Gordon. “And that’s not all. I have another one for tomorrow—Carlo Sesti, mob lawyer.”

  “Lawyer? Christ almighty, I must be crazy.”

  Gordon put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Flanagan.

  “We got him, chief,” he said. “I can’t wait for the early-bird edition.”

  Flanagan called Boatnay Threkeld. “Got any leads on the Grossman case?”

  “Not much,” said Threkeld. “Couple of winos saw the hit, and they think it was a tall white man with long hair. That could be a whole lot of people. It could even be you.”

  “Bet you a dollar I can pick him out of your book,” said Flanagan. “How’d you like that?”

  “You think he’s the same guy that knifed you?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “How come you couldn’t pick him out last time I showed you the book?” asked Boatnay suspiciously.

  “Boatnay, you’re my best friend and I’m not going to jive you,” said Flanagan. Threkeld waited, but there was only silence on the other end of the line.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he finally asked.

  “It means I’m not going to tell you a lie, and I’m not going to tell you the truth, either. You want me to pick this guy out for you, OK. No explanations.”

  Threkeld sighed. “Man, you are the most difficult mother fucker I ever met in my entire life,” he said. “All right, come down here and finger this guy. No, on second thought, I’ll come over there. Could be dangerous for you to be cruising around town right about now. And give me the real address this time.”

  Flanagan went into the kitchen, where Morgan was teaching Pupik Feinsilver and Bad Abe to play tonk. He noted that there was a large pile of dollars in front of Boatnay’s father. When it came to stereotypes, he thought, these Jews are definitely antis. “Boatnay’s gonna be here in a little while,” he said. “Maybe you fellas ought to make yourselves scarce. And make sure the guard downstairs wears a Hasidic outfit. I don’t want this to look too much like a scene from The Untouchables.”

  “Where do you want us to go, boss?” asked Feinsilver. Ever since the Pizza Riot made the evening news, Flanagan had noted a new respect from his troops.

  “Why don’t you get some fresh air. I may have something for you to do in a while.”

  Suddenly, Flanagan noticed a strange aroma in the kitchen. “What’s that?” He sniffed.

  “That is a new recipe that Pupik and I invented,” said Morgan. “Southern-fried kreplach.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” laughed Flanagan.

  “You makin’ fun of us now,” said Morgan, “but we’re gonna have the last laugh when this stuff hits the market, packaged under the R and J label.”

  “R and J?”

  “Rhythm and Juice,” said Morgan expansively.

  “Juice, Jews, get it?” said Pupik. “The slogan was Morgan’s idea.”

  “No kidding,” said Flanagan.

  “You won’t be singing the blues when you cook with rhythm and juice,” Morgan sang, scooping his tonk winnings into the large pocket of his white apron. “I think I’ll go out with the boys for a bit of air. There’s a pool hall over on First, might could use a visitation from the geriatric nation.”

  “It would be a sensation,” said Bad Abe with a grin.

  “My man,” laughed Morgan. “Gimme five.”

  Flanagan was alone in the living room when Threkeld arrived with three large leatherette-bound folios under his arm. “The bad ass file,” he said.

  Flanagan had looked through the file the day after his stabbing. He had been pretty sure then that he had seen the picture of his attacker, but he hadn’t said a word. Better to wait till I’m not so doped up, he had told himself; no point in making any moves when I’m not thinking straight.

  Now, leafing through the pages, he looked for the man with the long, dirty hair and the beaky nose, and in the second folio he found him. There could be no doubt—this was the guy. He looked at the caption under the picture: Grady Rand. He had forgotten the name in his sedated condition, but he wouldn’t forget again.

  “Sorry,” he said to Threkeld when he had finished looking through the last book. “I don’t see the guy.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you’re bullshitting me, John?”

  “Because life on the streets of this city has made you suspicious and cynical,” grinned Flanagan. “I don’t know what’s happening to you, Boatnay; you never used to be this way.”

  “John, I’m asking you straight. Did you see the guy or not?”

  Flanagan looked directly into Threkeld’s eyes. “Boatnay, I swear to you, he’s not in there,” he said. “If that’s not enough for you, then you better put an ad in New York magazine for a new best friend.”

  “All right, don’t get offended. I just wanted to make sure,” he said. “If you say you didn’t see him, I believe you.”

  “Well, that’s more like it,” said Flanagan. “You want a dish of Southern fried kreplach before you go?”

  “No, and I don’t want any chili con tofu, either,” said Boatnay.

  “Unlike you, I’ve got a job to get back to. I’ll see you later, John. And be careful, whatever you do. The guy that shot Grossman’s still out there.”

  Boatnay Threkeld took the elevator down, handed a quarter to an old Jewish beggar standing outside the apartment building and walked over to a white Ford Escort parked down the street. “Here’s a picture of John Flanagan,” he said to the detective sitting in the driver’s seat. “He goes anyplace, you follow and let me know. Don’t lose him. I think he knows who shot Al Grossman.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Gordon’s article caused an immediate sensation. Within minutes, the wire
services spread the story across the United States and around the world. Television news teams cruised the city like hit squads, searching for Gordon and Flanagan. The mayor issued a statement, assuring the journalists around-the-clock protection, and the district attorney promised a full investigation.

  Gordon placed a call to ABC News. “Peter, it’s William Gordon,” he said.

  “You’re the talk of the town,” Peter said.

  “Think your viewers might be interested in a firsthand account?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? Can you be at the studio at six?”

  “On two conditions. First, nobody knows, not even your producer. It could be dangerous.”

  “No problem,” said Peter.

  “And I want ten minutes,” said Gordon. “At the top of the show.”

  “Ten minutes is impossible,” said the anchorman. “Ten minutes on network news is a lifetime.”

  “You got Dan Rather’s number handy by any chance?” asked Gordon.

  “OK, ten minutes, but that’s counting commercials,” said Peter.

  Gordon placed one more call, to Bev Friedman. “I’m so scared,” she said. “Do you think I should stay here? I could go stay with my sister in California.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Gordon. “Don’t leave from here, though; they might be watching the airports. Drive down to Philadelphia and fly out from there. Give me your sister’s number and I’ll call when things calm down.”

  “Will, I think you’re incredibly brave. Maybe I should come to wherever you are. Do you need me?”

  “We’ll have plenty of time later,” he said. “Right now, get out of sight and stay there.”

  “OK,” she said. “You know something, Will? Just now, you sounded just like your father.”

  It took Kasha Weintraub less than an hour to find Grady Rand’s address. “Would you mind telling me how you did it,” asked an impressed Flanagan. “Just out of curiosity.”

  “Well, since you’re asking, I found him in the phone book.”

  “The phone book? Under what, Rent-a-Thugs?”

  “Naw, a guy I know did a job with him a while back. He told me that Rand’s got a security company in Paramus, you know, something for the income tax guys. The number’s in the book.”

  “Is it a real company?”

  “Seems to be. He handles building sites, warehouses, that sort of thing. It’s easy work. You just round up some ex-GIs, give them little blue uniforms, and presto, you got security guards.”

  “Thanks, Kasha,” said Flanagan, snapping the notepaper with the phone number between his fingers. “Ask Zuckie to come in, will you.”

  Zucker dialed the number. “Mr. Rand? This is Rabbi Morton Zucker of Temple Beth Momser in Newark calling,” he said.

  “What can I do for you, Rabbi,” Rand drawled.

  “We got a problem here with the shvartzers,” he said in a thick Yiddish accent. “They write dirty words on the walls outside. They pee in our bushes and break windows at night. People are afraid to come anymore. Maybe you could help?”

  “Why me?” asked Rand. “Where did you get my number?”

  “I found you in the yellow pages,” said Zucker. “I don’t want a Newark company, they’re all cousins around here. May I ask what you charge?”

  “I don’t usually work with houses of worship,” said Rand.

  “We’ll pay whatever it takes,” said Zucker. “We got a special account, the tochis fund.” He waved his hand for Gordon and Flanagan to stop giggling.

  “Well, why don’t you come out to my office, and we’ll discuss the whole package,” said Rand. “Around four would be all right.”

  “I don’t finish with the afternoon prayers until six,” said Zucker. “I could meet you maybe around seven o’clock?”

  “Yeah, all right,” said Rand. “My office is in Bergen Mall on Route Four. Nobody’s there at that hour, so ring the bell and I’ll let you in.”

  “You’re a good man, Mr. Rand,” said Zucker. “May God bless you and shtup you.”

  Detective Pete Moore unwrapped the Big Mac and stared at the sandwich. “Doesn’t it seem like these things are getting smaller?” he said to his partner, Dan Murphy.

  “There’s more meat in the Whopper,” agreed Murphy, “but there isn’t a Burger King around here.”

  “That’s life,” said Moore. “You can never find a Whopper when you need one.” The two men laughed comfortably. They had only an hour or so before the next stakeout team took over at seven.

  “See anything while I was gone?” asked Murphy.

  “Nope, the usual. Oh, there’s a pack of old Hasidic Jews went by. Don’t see too many of them in this neighborhood.”

  “Must be collecting for something,” said Murphy.

  “I guess,” said Moore. “Hey, you got any ketchup for these fries?”

  At two minutes to seven, Flanagan took a big sip of Jameson’s and picked up the telephone. “Carlo, it’s John Flanagan,” he said. “How the hell are you?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” said Sesti. Flanagan detected a jagged note in the consigliere’s normally smooth voice.

  “Having a rough day, are we? I won’t keep you, then. I just called to tell you to turn on ABC News. I think you’ll see someone you know-o,” he said in a teasing voice.

  Sesti hung up the phone and pressed the television button. William Gordon’s bearded face stared back at him. “… would be funny if it wasn’t so dangerous. This Luigi Spadafore is a ridiculous old man who sits around in a smoking jacket covered with spaghetti sauce and talks in parables that would embarrass a third-grader.”

  “Was it Spadafore who threatened you?” asked the anchorman.

  “No, that was his so-called consigliere, Carlo Sesti. He’s a lawyer, if you can believe that. Sesti told me that if I didn’t turn over these imaginary papers, he would have me killed.”

  “What did you say in reply?”

  “Well, naturally I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “And did he attempt to make good on his threat?”

  “Well, all I know is that there’s been a series of amazing coincidences. First, I was almost killed by a hit-and-run driver coming out of a restaurant. Then, my fiancée, Jupiter Evans, was murdered, and my close friend, John Flanagan, was …”

  Sesti stared at the screen in disbelief. That contemptible liar, he thought, deliberately twisting the facts to protect himself. And ABC—how could a responsible network broadcast such libelous charges? He had seen abuses of power in his life, but this was the most brazen, outrageous …

  He was interrupted by the telephone. “Carlo,” growled Don Spadafore, “are you watching the news?”

  “Yes,” said Sesti. “I was just planning to place a call to the head of the network, demanding an apology.”

  “They’re crucifying me on television, consigliere, and you speak of apologies. I have already received calls from our friends in Detroit and Philadelphia. They say that this attention could be ruinous, and they are right. To them I said that it will soon stop. To you, consigliere, I say that you were the one who brought Gordon into our world, and he is your responsibility.”

  Sesti felt a chill at the menace in Spadafore’s voice. “I assure you, as a lawyer, that Gordon has nothing whatever that could incriminate us,” he said. “The only papers he saw were fictitious. I anticipated that he might—”

  “You anticipated nothing,” said Spadafore. “We are being publicly humiliated and you do nothing to stop it. If I wanted a moron for consigliere, I would have appointed Mario. Perhaps if I had, he would still be alive.” He hung up, leaving Sesti with a dead receiver next to his ear.

  Sesti forced himself to stay calm. He hadn’t heard from Grady Rand since noon, and he wanted an immediate status report. Perhaps he could pick up Gordon’s trail from someone at ABC. Rand had told him that he would be at his office between seven and eight. He dialed the number and let it ring fourteen times, but there was n
o answer. Maybe he’s already on his way to the studio, Sesti thought hopefully.

  Shortly after eight, Indian Joe, Zuckie and Handsome Harry returned to the apartment. They wore black Hasidic outfits, and Zuckie carried a hatbox. Jacob Gurashvili was with them, dressed in a Barry Manilow–type suit.

  “Everything go OK?” asked Flanagan.

  “A piece of cheesecake,” said Millman, showing his white teeth. “It’s like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.”

  “What do we do with this, boss?” asked Zuckie, gesturing to the hatbox.

  Flanagan turned to Abramson. “Abe, you think that you could break into Carlo Sesti’s office? It’s in a building on West Fifty-seventh.”

  “I imagine I could handle it,” said Abramson. “I’ve broken into better places.”

  “Good,” said Flanagan. “I’ve got a little errand for you.”

  The following morning, Carlo Sesti arrived at his office shortly before eight. A night’s rest had restored his spirits and his self-confidence. The storm of publicity was bad, of course, but it would blow over. The main thing, he told himself, was that Flanagan and Gordon had no proof of anything. When this fact came to light, he was quite certain that he could extract public apologies from ABC and the Tribune. This, he hoped, would go a long way toward mollifying the Don’s outraged dignity.

  Sesti realized that Spadafore was his major problem at the moment. The old man was positively crazed with a desire for revenge, but the consigliere saw that it was now impossible to strike at the two journalists. If something were to happen to them it would constitute prima facie evidence that he and Spadafore were responsible. Somehow he would have to find Grady Rand and tell him to call off the contracts temporarily.