Having slept on the idea overnight and enumerated all of the reasons why it was a bad idea, I decided to plow ahead before I lost my nerve.
Wednesday morning, sitting at the table in my apartment, fueled by a pot of strong coffee, I fired up my laptop computer. I conducted a thorough internet research on Lorenzo Mancuso. I found a great deal of information on Mancuso but little that directly identified him as an organized crime boss.
Several companies owned, or partially owned, by Mancuso were mentioned in news articles about various white collar crimes. Most of the crimes involved allegations of money being skimmed from contracts to provide various services at Miami International Airport or the Port of Miami. I found numerous articles about allegations and investigations, but none about anyone being charged with any crimes.
Mancuso wasn’t mentioned in many of the articles, and where he was mentioned, it came as a passing reference to ownership of the company being investigated. His name was most prevalent in articles about large scale real estate transactions in the South Florida area. He seemed to be very active in buying and selling real estate.
As I dug deeper into cyber-space, I did find out that Mancuso’s father, Salvatore Mancuso, had been indicted several times in New York on crimes ranging from theft to extortion and murder. Actually, several counts of murder.
Newspaper archives from New York contained countless articles focused on Salvatore. Some implied he was an organized crime boss and others came right out and said it. Given the number of indictments the federal government brought against him it was obvious that they considered him a major target of prosecution.
I found one article that referred to a conviction for theft involving the hijacking of a truck in the late 1960’s, but it looked like he only served a couple of years in prison. The more serious indictments seemed to always fizzle out somewhere in the legal process. It was interesting that a couple of cases ended when witnesses disappeared.
Salvatore’s career ended in a hail of bullets one night in 1977 in the Lincoln Tunnel. Also killed were his driver and a bodyguard. Authorities quoted in the newspapers called it a classic gangland hit. From my research I couldn’t say with certainty that Lorenzo Mancuso was an organized crime figure in Miami, but there was no doubt his father had been one in New York.
Hunger from the toils of my internet research, coupled with the fact that I hadn’t eaten breakfast, drove me downstairs just before noon. It seemed that a burger and a Landshark were in order. I also wanted to take a little time to reflect on the fruits of my research before embarking on the next step of my idea.
Moe and Marge were in the office talking about some problems we were having with the new taps that had been installed to accommodate craft beer. I just waved as I breezed by the open door. I needed to stay focused on my own project and didn’t want to get distracted by business problems. At least that’s what I told myself. This craft beer craze won’t catch on anyway.
I ate my burger sitting in my usual spot at the end of the bar. I opted for a second Landshark in lieu of french fries. It seemed like a healthy choice.
Moe came by and asked how my day was going but he didn’t even stop walking, so I made two observations, he was busy, and he didn’t really care how my day was going. Liz was waiting tables and she looked my way once and smiled but didn’t walk to my end of the bar to talk either. My public isolation was just as well because it gave me a chance to mull over whether I thought it was advisable to take the next step.
I made my decision and trudged back upstairs so that I could make a phone call. There is an extension for the bar phone upstairs but I keep the ringer turned off. I started to use that phone but thought it might be better to use my cell. If the federal task force is focused on Mancuso, as Lieutenant Kaur said, it’s likely that his phones are tapped. Somehow I felt that if I used my personal phone rather than the business phone it would keep Cap’s Place out of the potential quagmire I was quite possibly creating. I wasn’t certain of the logic behind this distinction, but I went with my gut feeling.
I had sorted through all of the businesses I could find connected to Lorenzo Mancuso and decided that I thought the largest umbrella was something called AM Holding Company. I called the main number and asked for Mr. Mancuso’s office. My call was transferred without hesitation.
I identified myself to the young female voice that answered, “Mr. Mancuso’s office”, as a South Florida business owner who would like to meet with Mr. Mancuso to discuss a business problem I was having. I had decided before calling that it would be a serious mistake to attempt any type of discussion with him on the phone and so had opted to attempt to get a face to face meeting. The voice sounded hesitant, but said she would transfer me to Mr. Mancuso’s assistant.
The second young female voice answered and I repeated my statement. Sensing reluctance, I added the name Anthony Bracchi to the statement. This voice told me she would transfer me to Mr. Mancuso’s personal assistant. Hell, how many layers of assistants does this guy have?
The third female voice was not quite as young and very direct. “Why should Mr. Mancuso meet with you to discuss a problem you are having with this Mr. Bracchi?”
“Because my problem today may well become Mr. Mancuso’s problem in the future.”
A long pause, “I will check Mr. Mancuso’s schedule. Hold please.”
Several minutes later, the voice came back on the line and told me to be at Mr. Mancuso’s office at 4:00 p.m. on Friday. Obviously, someone felt my issue with Mr. Bracchi was important. A man who has three levels of assistants is not usually available for an appointment two days hence. I swallowed hard and hoped that pursuing my idea was the right decision. There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday afternoon I made my way through downtown traffic to the heart of Miami and parked. Biscayne Views Tower is one of the more prestigious addresses downtown. The forty story building stands a couple of blocks from the water’s edge with panoramic views of The Port of Miami, Biscayne Bay, and ultimately the Atlantic.
The lobby with its three story glass front and gleaming marble floors was large enough to comfortably park a Boeing 747. I made the fifty-yard walk from the front door to the security desk located in front of another glass wall separating the lobby from the elevators. Two young uniformed security guards were seated behind the desk. One of them looked up as I approached and said, “Good afternoon Sir, may I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Jack Nolan and I have an appointment with Lorenzo Mancuso. I believe it’s Suite 3801.”
Looking at his computer he replied,“Yes Sir, you are to meet Mr. Mancuso in Suite 3801. Please sign the electronic register and I will buzz you through. The express elevators are the ones on the right.”
I signed the electronic pad that was built into the top of the desk and walked through the glass door to the right of the security desk toward the elevators. Entering an elevator, I pushed the button marked 38 and embarked on a silent, seemingly motionless, rapid assent to the thirty-eighth floor.
I stepped off the elevator and found myself in another gleaming lobby of beige marble walls with a slightly darker marble floor. This lobby was large by office standards but nothing like the behemoth downstairs. The elevators were separated from the majority of the lobby by a glass wall similar to the one downstairs, although it seemed to be considerably thicker.
A woman in her mid-thirties was seated behind a large teak desk in the center of the lobby. There were large medium gray leather couches and sleek chairs arranged on both sides of the lobby in front of her. As I approached the door in the glass wall, she smiled and I heard the locking mechanism click open. I opened the door, its weight confirming my belief that the glass wall was substantial, and walked toward her desk. I couldn’t help but wonder if the glass wall was bullet proof.
As I approached her, I confirmed my first impression that on a scale of one to ten she was a twelve. Medium length shiny platinum blond hair outlined a fa
ce with a flawless complexion, a perfect nose, and the warmest deep blue eyes.
When she spoke it was with an accent that reminded me of a honey bourbon drink, more akin to South Georgia than South Florida . “Hello, Mr. Nolan. May I see a pictured identification please?”
Obviously, the security officer downstairs had alerted her that I was on my way up. I handed her my driver’s license and watched as she inserted it into a device that reminded me of a credit card reader attached to the computer on her desk. She smiled and handed my license back, “If you will have a seat Mr. Nolan, Mr. Mancuso will be available shortly.” Gesturing toward a high gloss black buffet along one wall she continued, “If you would like something to drink while you wait, we have coffee, tea, bottled water, and soft drinks.”
I replied, “Thank you, I’m fine,” and took a seat on one of the couches.
I leafed through a couple of the magazines laying on the sleek glass and steel table in front of the couch. The magazines were all publications focused on high end yachts or private airplanes. Interesting, but subjects I was having difficulty relating to.
I had waited about ten minutes when a door I hadn’t even noticed in the light paneled wall behind the reception desk opened and a man walked out. He stood about 6 feet 4 inches and weighed at least 250 pounds. His obviously athletic frame wore a tailored light brown suit with the jacket unbuttoned and an open collared white shirt. His posture and demeanor screamed military or law enforcement.
Miss Georgia looked up and said, “Mr. Nolan, Jimmy will escort you to Mr. Mancuso’s office.”
Jimmy opened the door he had come through and motioned for me to proceed him. I entered a narrow room with a counter running along one side and a walk-through x-ray scanner like the ones seen at airports in front of the counter. Jimmy’s voice was friendly, but firm, “Sir, please place everything in your pockets, including you cell phone, into one of these boxes, lock the box, take the key with you, and step into the scanner.”
The boxes were similar to safe deposit boxes found in a bank. There were six of them firmly affixed to the counter top, four about the size of shoe boxes and two the size of a large briefcase. They were all open. I took the few things in my pockets out and placed them in the first of the smaller boxes and pocketed the key. As I stepped into the scanner Jimmy said, “Just stand still until the green light goes on Sir.”
While standing in the scanner, I noticed the small smoked glass domes on the ceiling in each corner of the room. No doubt cameras. It occurred to me that I had passed innumerable similar domes since I first entered the lobby downstairs, including in the elevator. They are serious about security around here.
The green light illuminated and Jimmy said, “Please step over here Sir,” pointing at a three foot circle of inlaid matte black marble in the otherwise gleaming floor. I stepped into the circle and couldn’t help but think that I should say something like “Scottie beam me up” but kept it to myself. Something about Jimmy told me he wasn’t a man who appreciated extemporaneous humor.
I did ask, “What is this scan?”
“Verifies that you are not emitting any electronic signals Sir.”
Electronic signals, hell I’m barely emitting breath at this point.
Another green light flashed and Jimmy said, “This way Sir.”
I followed him to a door at the end of the room, he opened the door and I stepped into the largest executive office I had ever seen in my life. The square space must have been thirty feet on each side. Two walls were floor to ceiling windows providing a spectacular view of the turquoise Biscayne Bay, South Beach, and the deep blue of the Atlantic. I swear you should have been able to see Bermuda from here.
The marble floor of the exterior space gave way to a rich hand-scraped oak flooring with a brushed white finish. An intricate inlaid pattern of the same material, but with a darker, almost black finish, created a seven-point star directly in front of a huge dark mahogany executive desk.
Lorenzo Mancuso rose, walked around from behind the desk, and strode toward me with his hand extended. He was just under 6 feet tall, trim and fit looking, black medium-length hair that looked as if it had just been trimmed. Lively gray eyes sat in a tanned chiseled face worthy of a Greek God. He was wearing a tailored gray suit with an open-collared white shirt. I judged him to be in his mid-to-late fifties. It was hard to be certain given his highly conditioned physique, attested to by his broad chest, tight waist, and the bulging biceps of his suit jacket.
His voice was a commanding rumble, “Thank you, that will be all Jimmy.” Shaking my hand firmly he said, “Nice to meet you Mr. Nolan. My assistant said that you wished to speak to me about a Mr. Bracchi. I don’t believe I know anyone named Bracchi, but I meet so many people that I sometimes forget names. She said you mentioned something about a business problem with this Mr. Bracchi. I don’t know that I can help you, but I am certainly willing to listen to you.” Gesturing toward a small round table directly in front of one of the windowed walls he continued, “Let’s sit over here. Would you care for anything, coffee perhaps?”
“No thank you. I just appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”
We settled into chairs at the table and Mancuso said, “I understand that you own a small bar in Hollywood, Mr. Nolan.”
I was surprised that he knew I owned Cap’s Place, but then again it’s public information, easily obtained these days, and he probably has background information developed on any strangers he meets. Probably part of the extensive security protocol evident here. I answered, “Yes, I inherited the bar from my uncle.”
His gray eyes revealed nothing, “Yes, your uncle the retired policeman. You were yourself once a prosecuting attorney in Michigan. Now a bar owner in South Florida. Quite a career change.”
My mind was reeling, that is all probably public information, but someone would need to put an effort into research and it was only Wednesday that I called for the appointment. His next comment really knocked me for a loop.
“On Tuesday you met with Lieutenant Kaur and today you are meeting with me. I can only assume that Lieutenant Kaur could not help you with your problem with this Mr. Bracchi.”
I knew that I could probably shade the facts a bit, but lying would likely be a fatal mistake, literally, not figuratively. Steadying my voice the best I could I replied, “Actually the police came to me. I was assaulted a couple of weeks ago and there is some speculation that Mr. Bracchi was behind it. The police wanted me to discuss an investigation into the situation.”
Mancuso folded his hands on the table in front of him, “So, the police are not investigating Mr. Bracchi and you think I can somehow help you in this matter. If the police cannot help you, I don’t see how I can.”
“I thought that possibly you could dissuade Mr. Bracchi from his interest in my bar.”
A slight smile crossed his tan face, “Dissuade. I like that word. The problem is that I don’t know how I can dissuade someone from something when I don’t even know that person. Beyond that, what motive would I have to become involved in this business problem you are having?”
I scrambled to answer, “Well Mr. Mancuso, I know that you have numerous business ventures in this area. I can only presume that you are familiar with those you do business with. That must be a business advantage to you. Familiarity. Who to trust. Who not to trust. It seems to me that if people, such as Mr. Bracchi, begin to do business in the area it will become more difficult for you to know who you can trust. It would not be good for your business.”
Mancuso subtly nodded, “You are correct, I do have extensive business holdings in South Florida. This is my building we are meeting in today. I own three others, similar in nature, as well as numerous businesses supporting the shipping industry at both the seaport and the airport. With all of these activities, I don’t really find it necessary to take on dispute resolution for others. Now, if I had business dealings with this Mr. Bracchi I could possibly see a reason to inquire into your situation, but
I have no dealings with him. I don’t even know him.
“Possibly he is someone who may have done business with my father in the past. My father, God rest his soul, got his start in New York. If this Mr. Bracchi is from that area maybe my father would have known him, but I don’t.”
I was getting no where with this wild ass scheme of mine. I decided to throw my “Hail Mary.” “Aren’t you concerned that if Mr. Bracchi takes my business he may develop a taste for businesses in the area? That competition can’t be good for your interests.”
Mancuso laughed, “Mr. Nolan, I face competition every single day. My last acquisition was the result of an intense bidding war with Donald Trump. I certainly don’t have the time to concern myself with every possible source of competition.”
Could I have the wrong Lorenzo Mancuso? Come on Jack, how many can there be in Miami? This is the guy, he just isn’t going to admit anything to me. Why should he? I’m a perfect stranger and he knows I was recently talking with the cops. How does he know that anyway? Look around Jack, guys like him don’t get where he is without being well connected. I felt myself deflate as I realized that Mancuso was not going to be my salvation from Bracchi.
I leaned back in the chair and said, “I’m sorry to take your time Mr. Mancuso. Obviously, I was misinformed when I thought you could assist with my problems with Mr. Bracchi.” I stood to leave.
Mancuso stood and grasped my hand in another firm handshake. His lively gray eyes locked onto mine, “I can certainly respect your efforts to resolve your business problems with Mr. Bracchi. Problems of that nature can be most troubling. You seem like a very sincere gentleman. I wish I could help you, but I just don’t know this Bracchi fellow, so can’t possibly help. I am sorry.”
Mancuso walked me to the door and opening it said, “Have a good day Mr. Nolan and good luck with your problems.”
I was standing rock still in front of the closed door to Mancuso’s office in a fog of disappointment when Miss Georgia’s voice broke through, “Mr. Nolan, may I assist you?”
Nimble Be Jack: A Jack Nolan Novel (The Cap's Place Series Book 2) Page 13
