by Rick Boyer
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Joe went into a candy store and pumped coins into a pay phone, speaking into it softly and hunching into the alcove. I was standing next to him and couldn't hear what he said. Then he held, the phone and waited. Finally I heard him say, "I'm right beneath you, in the store." Then he hung up and motioned me to follow him. We went out into the street again, through a small door, and up a flight of stairs to the office of a little realty company. The office was closed, since it was almost seven. But we waited in the hallway, looking in at the dark office through the glass door. I was beginning to think Joe had lost his mind, that the strain of the past week had been too much for him. But soon a young man appeared in the dark office, turned on the lights, and unlocked the door for us.
"Come this way, Mr. Brindelli," he said, leading us through the thickly carpeted office to a solid oak door in the back. This door was thick-paneled white oak mounted on heavy brass hinges. It looked bullet-proof. I found out later it was. The attendant heaved it open and it hissed against the hydraulic closer.
We found ourselves in a large, dimly lighted club room that was plush indeed. Burgundy pile carpeting. Walnut bookcases. Brass and pewter sconce lights. Leather club chairs. Ten-man walnut conference table with club chairs neatly arranged. Illuminated globe. It could have been the Harvard Club, except it was newer.
"Gee Joe, this is really tweedy. Veddy British."
"Yeah. Too bad it's High Sicilian. Listen, you're to be my man in, this little visit. My witness. My second. Capish? Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut afterwards. Capish?"
We sat down in two of the leather club chairs. The guy who showed us in, the Sorcerer's Apprentice, asked us if we cared for anything to drink. I asked him if he could fix me a dry Beefeater on the rocks. He said no problem, took Joe's order, and oiled off. '
"He's not even Italian, Joe; he looks like a Swede or somethin."
"Oh yeah. The big guys always hire WASPy help. That peon's probably a Yaley."
"Uh, Joe? Would you mind explaining-"
"Not now. It'll be quick, I promise. just keep your eyes and ears open, mouth shut."
I sipped my drink. A polished rosewood door swung open and a tall, distinguished-looking man oozed forward on the thick carpet.
"Mr. Brindelli?" he said in a silken voice. "And Mr. Adams?"
We stood and shook hands with the man.
"I am Bernard Aldorfer, Mr. Tescione's personal assistant. We are honored by your visit, gentlemen. Mr. Tescione is in a brief meeting and will be with you shortly."
I had heard the name Tescione mentioned more than once by Joe. I had also heard it on television, read it in the papers.
"Ehhh… Mr. Tescione wishes me to ascertain the precise nature of your enquiry, Mr. Brindelli, so that, ehhh… he may be of more service to you in the short time he has at his disposal."
Joe leaned forward and looked into Aldorfer's eyes.
"Tell him it has to do with Carmen DeLucca," he said quietly.
Mr. Aldorfer's eyebrows went up; he slid the soles of his wing-tip brogues nervously on the burgundy pile carpeting.
"I, ehh… see. Well, I shall go and inform Mr. Tescione then. We won't keep you waiting much longer."
"You both are very kind," said Joe. I could see he meant it sincerely. I leaned over and whispered to him. We were alone in the big club room except for the flunky with the J.D. from Yale, who was keeping an eye on us from the entrance hall. But I thought the place might be bugged, so I whispered.
"But I thought you hated Tescione and all he stands for. You keep saying he's a disgrace to Italian-Americans. That he-"
"Yeah yeah, I know. But right now I need him; I need to muddy my feet a little. just keep-"
"I know: eyes and ears open, mouth shut."
He nodded in silence and the rosewood door swung open again. Mr. Aldorfer came forward, making as much noise as a cat, and requested that we accompany him. I set down the half-finished drink (the way they poured them, it had to remain half-finished if I wanted to walk) and followed Joe's wide form through I the rosewood door.
We entered a dark and narrow hall. Stairs rose at the end of it. As we began to climb a faint beeper went off. Mr. Aldorfer apologized and requested that we accompany him back into the club room, which we did.
"I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen, but one of you- perhaps you, Mr. Brindelli- seems to be in possession of, ehhh… some sort of firearm. Correct?"
"Oh, I forgot," said Joe, drawing back his coat and producing his nine-millimeter Beretta. "Was on a stakeout; I don't usually carry a gun. Here." He removed the magazine and snapped back the slide, flinging out the chambered round, and then handed the empty gun to Aldorfer, who carried it over to a cabinet with a look of fear and distaste, as if it were a black mamba.
"Don't be fooled by that," whispered Joe. "He's probably trained to pump the whole clip into a twelve-inch circle at sixty feet."
We tried the stairway again and this time reached the top. In the upstairs hall a man sat in a big leather chair. There was none of the Ivy League about this fellow. He sat in a big chair because he needed it. And he wasn't a WASP either. He looked like Primo Camera. He glanced up at us as we walked by. His expression was totally blank. Aldorfer knocked at the third and final door, and opened it. We went in.
It was dark inside. The only illumination came from a desk lamp that threw a small circle of yellow light down on the desk top, and from the skyline of Boston and the harbor that was visible as a panorama through the wide plate-glass windows that swept around two sides of the spacious office. I was told later that the glass was bullet-proof. The tall man sat silhouetted against the city lights. The setting seemed appropriate, I thought, for a man of great power and perhaps, metaphorically speaking, a man of darkness.
He rose and shook hands with us. His grip was firm; the hand was wide, strong, and dry. I was looking dead level into the face of Paul Tescione, fourteenth most powerful underworld figure in America and the world. He was very handsome. If an Italian man can keep his hair and stay thin, he is usually good-looking. Tescione was as thin as Jacques Cousteau, with strong, sharp features, dark skin, and snow-white hair. His suit was cut perfectly in the European style, but not flashy. He looked like an ad out of GQ.
We sat down, Joe and Paul facing each other across the wide desk, with me on Joe's right and Aldorfer on Tescione's right. It was a little like a chess game. Joe and Paul would be the caporegimes, the warlords, and Aldorfer and I were the consiglieri, or counselors who were to sit in on any important meeting for protection and to listen carefully so that afterward, in discussions and decision making, we could clarify points, remember details. It was very Old World. It seemed to me like a pretty good system.
Tescione broke into a wide grin that revealed perfect teeth and a touch of gold work on his upper bicuspid. He slapped his palms gently but decisively down on the desk.
"So! Carmen DeLucca. Tell us about Carmen DeLucca, Mr. Brindelli."
"He's alive. You knew that didn't you?" said Joe.
"I have heard that. Very, very recently I have heard that."
"Okay," said Joe softly. "Well it's true. He didn't die down in Jersey. He's alive and he's been up here. Now I came here tonight to ask you something and to tell you something, okay?"
"'Okay," said Tescione, his eyes never leaving Joe. I don't think he had blinked in two minutes.
"Friday before last, Andy Santuccio was murdered up in Lowell."
Tescione's eyes blinked and fluttered down briefly to gaze at the desk top before returning to Joe.
"I know. I was at his funeral; God rest his soul."
"The same people who killed him killed another friend of mine, and a friend of the doctor's here too. The man who killed Andy is Carmen DeLucca."
Tescione's eyes widened slightly. He put his palms back down on the desk top and leaned over close to Joe, still looking him square in the eye.
"We know he killed him," Joe continued. "We have
laboratory proof. Now what I wish to ask you is, do you know who had DeLucca kill Andy?"
"No. But I do know one thing."
"What's that?"
"That if he were in this room now I would kill him. And if you tried to stop me I would kill you first, then him."
"Do you know what Andy Santuccio had in the Boston Public Library that people would kill for?"
"I know his father had important papers from the Sacco and Vanzetti trial. That is, if you could call such an outrage a trial."
"Yes. I know that too. But do you, or anyone you know, have any idea exactly what part of the papers could have caused his death?"
"No;" said Tescione, who sank slowly back into his chair and propped his chin on his knuckles. "Until a week ago I thought DeLucca was dead. I don't know why anyone would have Andy killed. He was a friend of mine and a good man in the community. Did you know that at the time of his death he was working on a housing project for the elderly?"
Tescione opened a silver case at his elbow and drew out a black-and-gold cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and patted his pockets. Joe put his Orsini lighter on the desk top and slid it over to Tescione. Having lighted the cigarette, Tescione began to slide the lighter back, but Joe pushed it away.
"Keep it," he said.
Tescione held the lighter up and examined it.
"But this is a very expensive lighter, Mr. Brindelli. I can't-"
"No, please. Keep it. I got plenty."
Tescione pocketed Joe's lighter as a man brought a carafe of coffee and four cups. He detained the man by his sleeve, got up and walked with him a few steps, and whispered some instructions. Then he returned to the desk and poured coffee for all of us. I wanted a cigarette. I haven't had one for twelve years and it takes a helluva situation to make me think about them. But now I wanted one. A Camel. Joe sighed.
"Then," he pursued, "who had DeLucca kill Andy, and why?"
"I don't know," replied Tescione, setting down his coffee cup and dragging on the Du Maurier cigarette. "And also I don't think I know anyone who knows."
Joe looked blankly, and bleakly, ahead with his Thousand-Yard Stare. "I guess I have no alternative but to believe that."
For a second a look of annoyance crossed Tescione's aquiline face, then it was replaced by a smile. I could see how people could be afraid of him.
"Then believe it. Because it is true," the man said, thumping his palms down on the table. "Now. You have asked me. You said also you were going to tell me something."
Joe hesitated for a moment, then crooked his finger at Tescione as a signal for him to lean over the desk, which he did. Joe leaned over too until they were cheek to cheek, as if embracing. I heard him whispering right into Tescione's ear. The whispering stopped; the two men began to part, then Joe grabbed Tescione by the shoulder and drew them close again. The whispering continued. Then the men sat back and Tescione nodded slowly at Joe.
"Very well," he said. "Then it appears, Mr. Brindelli, Mr. Adams, that our business is concluded. Thank you very much for the visit. And thank you for the fine lighter too."
"Don't mention it. Enjoy it."
We shook hands. The attendant returned. to take the coffee tray and leaned over and whispered quickly to Tescione, who nodded and smiled at him. Then he left, and we followed. Mr. Aldorfer led us back downstairs and said good-bye. The Yaley- lackey appeared with a paper sack for Joe. It contained his pistol. We were once again walked back through the dark and deserted realty office, let out through the front glass door, walked down the stairs, and soon found ourselves on the street near the candy store where Joe had made the phone call. It was as if the whole thing hadn't really happened.
"I had no idea that the notorious Paul Tescione was so approachable," I said as we walked back to Salem Street and headed for the car.
"He usually isn't. I don't think we'd have gotten in if I weren't Italian. He knows of me; we've got some mutual friends, like Giordano. Ha! Meeting him like that, you'd never know how he makes his money would you?"
We walked on in silence. I didn't mention the lighter; I knew it would be unwise. Joe had loved that lighter and had given it up as a sign of fealty to a man he hated, but needed. I wondered too what he had told Tescione. I had an idea.
"Why the hell did they give me back my gun in this damn sack? Wait a sec; I'll slip into the car and lock it up under the seat."
I waited outside while Joe locked his Beretta in the special strongbox bolted to the frame of his sedan under the driver's seat. He hated to carry guns. He emerged, shut the door and locked it, and came to my side chuckling. He held in his big hand a blue cardboard box.
"Look what I found in that paper sack along with my gun."'
I took the box and opened it. It was a lighter. A Cartier, dark blue and gold. The gold seemed to be real.
"Shit. I'm moving from a wop lighter up to a frog lighter. I'm moving up in the world. Do you believe how fast he did that?"
We both laughed, and went into Toscana's and bought six extra-thick loin lamb chops. Up the street at Beninati's we bought some fresh bread sticks, the white nougat candies with the bright wrappers that Mary loves, some fresh bread, espresso beans, and six cans of flat anchovy fillets. It's practically impossible to go into these little North End stores and buy one thing. Back on Storrow Drive, then home by eight-forty. Not too bad, considering all we'd done.
Joe and Mary talked in the living room while I sliced tomatoes in the kitchen. I alternated slices of tomato, cucumber, and onion s around the outsides of three large plates, putting a bed of romaine lettuce in the center. On this I placed a big chunk of white tuna, a handful of Tuscan peppers and semihot banana peppers, pimentos and black olives, Greek olives, provelone and feta cheese, Genoa salami, and prosciutto, and I topped it with anchovies. Off to one side of this was a big scoop of marinated eggplant chunks and artichoke hearts. Then I crushed fresh basil over the tomatoes, added salt, coarse black pepper, olive oil, vinegar, and a little lemon juice. The lamb chops had been basted with garlic butter and were almost done. With the meat we would have bread and white beans with lamb drippings.
We started with the antipasto, and when we were almost through it Joe showed Mary the lighter and told her about our visit with Paul Tescione. She sat at the table wide-eyed and silent, her eyes never leaving her brother. She fed herself by touch. I brought in the meat and the rest of the meal and squirted a few drops of fresh lemon juice over each buttery chop. Joe had demolished his first chop and almost the second one when the phone rang and Mary went into the kitchen to answer it. She came back with a message for Joe.
"It was your office at Ten-Ten Comm. Ave. A man called the office there asking for you, saying it was pretty important. A Mr. Aldorfer?"
He was in the kitchen quite a while. His chop got cold. He came back, sat down, stared at his plate a minute, and then excused himself, saying he'd be in my study.
Mary asked me who Mr., Aldorfer was and I let on I didn't know. just a little white lie to keep her from getting worked up. I finished Joe's chop for him and told Mary I'd see him alone in the study for a few minutes.
I found him in there playing with the dogs. He was patting them and talking to them, and smoking..
"What's up?" I asked.
"What's up? I'm up. I'm up shit's creek without a paddle is what. Aldorfer just told me that some of his acquaintances up in Lynn stumbled across a corpse up there."
"Then they got DeLucca?"
He exhaled smoke through his nostrils like a dragon and shook his head.
"No. The body they found was the late Johnny Rizzo, tied to a chair in his rooming house. He'd been gagged. Then somebody- gee, I wonder who- broke both his legs with a billy club and went to work on him with a knife. Poor bastard. And it's my fault."
"Where were the cops?"
"They were still watching the sub shop, not Rizzo's place. None of us took Johnny's fear seriously. He was such a chicken-shit all the time. But he was right; DeLucca did know he
was being set up. Maybe that was him in the cab. Jeeee-sus Keeeee-riste."
"Now I know what you whispered to Tescione."
"No you don't. You can guess, but you'll never know. We made sure of that. Listen, Doc: the stakeout was blown and I didn't think we'd snag him. And if we did, chances are he'd walk, or get life. And I'll tell you one thing: I want Carmen DeLucca dead. On a slab. He's a goddamn animal."
Joe stalked out of the study and through the hall to the little phone booth underneath the stairway. Before he could close the door after him I held it.
"Joe. What would happen if O'Hearn and the others at Ten-Ten Comm. Ave. got wind you'd met with Paul Tescione in his office?"
He stood there glaring at me with the phone cradled in his big hairy paw and a new cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, trailing smoke. He needed a shave. Joe always needs a shave. He smelled of stale sweat and old smoke and food and booze. I saw a corner of his shoulder holster peeping through his coat. He was straight out of a Cagney flick. He was scary.
"Seewwww what!" He snarled. "They wouldn't particularly give a shit. But anyway, they'll never find out. Know why?"
"Why?".
"Because you don't want to take a fall for a B and E, remember?"
He slammed the door after him and pushed buttons while I went back into the study. They say when you fight an enemy long enough you begin to take on his characteristics. Maybe they're right; all Joe. needed was a big white fedora. He marched from the booth.
"Where are you going?" Mary asked him as he went to the door. He kissed her on the cheek, thanked both of us, and said he'd just alerted his own people to check on Rizzo. Knowing what they'd find, he thought it best to be on hand.
"At least the Mob wasn't in on the Robinson-Santuccio hit," he said as he paused at the open door. "I mean, I think he's leveling with us."
"I do too. I don't think it was the Mob."
"And if the hot item never surfaces, then so much the better. All I want now is DeLucca on a slab and I'm happy."
He left. Mary and I went into the kitchen and started up the coffee machine. She sat at the kitchen table and rubbed her fingers nervously over her eyes and forehead. Then she played with her hair, kneading and pulling at it like a grumpy child. She gazed down at the table, ignoring her coffee. Mary had had it. She was wrung out and exhausted. I patted her back.
