Hooked

by Polly Iyer

  “And your parents?”

  “They were disappointed I didn’t go to them, but more concerned about my health. They coddled me the whole summer, but I was too numb to enjoy the attention.”

  “Did you ever hear from the boy? Wasn’t he even interested in what happened, how you dealt with the situation?”

  “Not that summer. It was like I never existed in his life, but he must have known. Small town and all that. His apathy hurt more than anything, and it took a long time to rationalize what kind of person I’d fallen in love with. A very long time.” A smile crossed her lips, this time full and satisfying.

  “But then one evening, six or seven years ago, I was with…a date.” She glanced at him, unable to hide the sheepish expression. “He was a well-known playwright. Gay, but in the closet for anyone outside a small group of theater friends. We were at a table in some trendy after-theater place whose name escapes me, with the actors in his play, almost all well-known. My high school lover, Brian, that was his name,” her voice hitched as if speaking the name caused a gag reflex, “Brian saw me and made a point of coming over. He looked the same, a little heavier, hair starting to thin. I wondered what I’d seen in him, but I suppose that happens when you run into old lovers. I was gracious; he was impressed. He introduced me to his wife. Seven Sisters sort, lockjaw, pearls.” She made a funny sound, neither a laugh nor a sigh. “You know the type, although I doubt it’s your type.”

  “No, not my type.”

  “He called the next day. I’m guessing he must have bribed a restaurant employee to get my number from someone at our table, probably with a good tip.”

  “He called you? After you met his wife? Did he know―I mean―”

  “I know what you mean. I don’t see how he could have. No, he was the same sleazy guy I couldn’t see through ten years before. What goes around comes around.”

  During her story, Tawny had moved to the sofa; Linc took the seat next to her. Stiff at first, she relaxed as she sank back into the deep cushions. He stretched his legs, his eyes focused on hers, and took her hand. When her fingers curled around his, he felt they’d reached a turning point.

  “Now you know more about me, but not everything,” she said. “Maybe you even think you understand me, know the reasons I chose the path I did. But I doubt it, because I really don’t know myself why I made those choices. I saw a shrink for years. He told me I understood myself and I could keep going to see him, and he could keep taking my money if all I wanted was the company.” She laughed. “I stopped going after he said that.”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know, Walsh. I’ve unburdened my soul. That doesn’t make you mine or me yours.”

  “No, but it’s a start. I want to see you when this is over. I need to help you get through this mess, clear it up so you don’t have to think about it again.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “And I want to make love to you, but not tonight. Not because I don’t want to, but because I do.”

  “You’re a masochist.”

  “No, I’m a realist.”

  “Well, get real about this. I don’t know where this is going, but there are some things you’re going to have to face up to if what we have is more than lust.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m going to be blunt. I was what I was, and the history isn’t going to change. I don’t want it thrown in my face out of anger or jealousy. I don’t want you ever to use it against me. You’ll take a lot of crap from your cop friends for being a sex crime investigator involved with a hooker. It’s a bad movie scenario. In fact, I could jeopardize your job. I want you to think about that before we start something that could turn into a quagmire.”

  “I’ve never much cared what anyone thought. But my life is mine, not anyone else’s. I’ll worry about the job later.” He got up. “I’d better go, before I lose my resolve.”

  “Promise you’ll think about what I said.”

  “I will; I promise. I want this to work.”

  She walked him to the door. “You know what’s interesting about you, Walsh?”

  He turned, surprised she had anything more to say, especially about him. He couldn’t read her manner. Easy, he thought, as if she were saying goodbye to an old friend. She was so beautiful he wanted to scoop her into his arms and press his lips to hers. But tonight, Tawny was chocolate cake, and he was on a restrictive diet. One bite could ruin everything. “Not too much, I imagine,” he said.

  “You’re wrong. You’re a man, and you never once talked about yourself. You probably don’t know how rare that is.”

  “Not much to talk about.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Another night, Tawny.”

  She followed him to the door.

  He leaned over and brushed his lips to hers. “Good night.”

  “Night.”

  He didn’t want to leave but he did. He closed the door behind him and jogged down the stairs. His insides were shaking. Not from fear or nerves or misgivings, but from seeing a world filled with possibilities. He hadn’t felt that way in many, many years.

  * * * * *

  She stood at the window and watched him. He smiled, and this time she put her hand to the glass to let him know she saw him and smiled back. He walked to the end of the block and turned the corner. Should she have told him about Mario? If she had, it would open up more than his presence at Upper Eighties and the fact that one of his people had a problem there. It would expose the ten-year relationship with the mob boss. Walsh knew about it, but she saw no point in rubbing his face in it, especially tonight. That kind of thing could be a problem for a long time. She had no illusions about it.

  She wasn’t out of the woods yet. She needed one more night at Cooper’s to find out what was going on there. But that was only part of her problem. She had a big tax dilemma—two other overseas accounts that could definitely put her in jail if they were found, not to mention Walsh’s reaction. And it was too late to fess up to them, either to the IRS or to Walsh. If she were going to do that, she should have done it when this whole thing started.

  She had an idea. She’d call Mario’s accountant, Rick Martell, to take care of the problem for her. He was the one who set them up. He could make them go away, and she could do some good with the money at the same time.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Backstabber

  Mario Russo faced life head on. No sugarcoating. No false truths. The chemo treatments weren’t working. The pains had escalated in intensity; time was running out. Cooper’s call gave him the incentive to put his house in order.

  He poured a scotch and collapsed onto the sofa. What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette. The two guys in the house, bodyguards whose job seemed more superfluous by the day, didn’t smoke. If he had a pack, he’d light up and suck smoke into his lungs until every last cigarette was gone. What difference would it make now? He’d die before he’d contract lung cancer, but at least he’d enjoy himself while checking out.

  Facing his own mortality, Mario thought back over his life. What he said to Tawny was true. He harbored few regrets. He’d been groomed to inherit his position from his father, who came from Sicily as a young man and worked his way up the mob ladder. While in his father’s household, he did what was expected of him, but he yearned to make his mark outside its confines. He started Russo Construction from scratch, made a lot of money, and turned it over to his sons. He kept the rackets out of the business and his sons out of the rackets. Except for bid-rigging a public project or two, or ten, the company remained legitimate. He never used inferior materials, installed faulty wiring, or produced shoddy workmanship. It would have been easy, but the Russo name on the company masthead meant something to him. He didn’t need the construction business to launder money. There were plenty of other ways.

  Some referred to Mario as The Gentleman Don or the Robin Hood of crime. He laughed at the latter sobriquet, a misnomer if ever there was one. He kept his bo
unty, got richer from it. In spite of reports linking him to every crime in the city, his twisted code of ethics prevented him from engaging in a few. Unlike his father, he refused to traffic in human beings, including prostitutes. He didn’t deal in drugs, undoubtedly the biggest moneymaker, nor did he illegally dump toxic waste from his construction jobs to save on cleanup. He left the door open for all the other families to fight over the spoils he rejected. It meant more for them, and they had no problem with that.

  Everything else was fair game: extortion, racketeering, hijacking, car theft, fraud, even murder. But his secret pleasure was screwing the fat cats. Those arrogant, holier-than-thou bastards who sat in their pristine high-rise offices screwing everyone else. They were easy targets because they thought they could get away with anything. They all had skeletons in their closets. Mario knew what they were and used them. Gambling, insider trading, sexual perversions. He snickered at the last one, betting Benny Cooper knew some of those. Too bad Mario was going to die. He and Benny could clean up.

  In the end, crime was about control, and the most egregious crime one could commit against Mario Russo, the one he would avenge without a flicker of conscience, was betrayal.

  Reaching for the bottle of scotch, he half-filled his tumbler. The liquor didn’t eliminate his pain as much as anesthetize him to it. He avoided overindulging because he would take a sleeping pill, and dying from a barbiturate, alcohol overdose wasn’t on his agenda. At least not until he settled his affairs. Mario had groomed his heir apparent to follow his path. He might. He might not.

  Business was business. Mario understood.

  But Rick Martell was turning out to be a major disappointment. It wasn’t only that he fucked around on his wife’s niece. Mario knew about that before the tub of lard with the two-hundred-dollar shirts crushed the hooker, and he could hardly hold infidelity against him, could he? But Martell was fucking around with Russo Family money, and that was an unpardonable sin.

  Did Martell think because Mario was dying he’d lost his marbles? That he wouldn’t know the books were cooked? Mario had started a company, even did the accounts himself in the beginning. He didn’t leave matters in others’ hands like his father had done. Mario knew all about two sets of books. Martell wasn’t just screwing the IRS―a plus for Mario―he was screwing Mario Russo.

  To get accounts straight, he brought in Yossie Horowitz, to pinpoint what Martell was doing, how he was doing it, and where the money was stashed. The Jew could untangle the government’s financial bailout when the government couldn’t—that’s how good he was. Yossie got what he needed in one night by breaking into Martell’s office, cracking the computer password, and downloading Martell’s hard drive. He left things as he found them, then went home and decoded everything, including the bank accounts. He learned Martell had finagled them so only someone like Yossie understood them. He’d created shell companies to divert embezzled money. A lot of money. Mario was more than pissed, but he’d held off taking care of his nephew by marriage until Yossie transferred the accounts to his control.

  The time had come. After Cooper’s heads-up that the police had visited the woman who witnessed Martell murdering the hooker, Mario figured she’d roll on the accountant to save herself. Martell would plea bargain his fat ass to a lesser charge by flipping on Mario. He wouldn’t want to, but he would.

  Business was business. Mario understood.

  It wouldn’t matter, because by then Mario would be long dead. But Rick Martell held the key to more than the Russo family. He knew enough about every crime family in the country to take them down. If exposed, they would target Mario’s sons in revenge, and Mario couldn’t let that happen. It was his job to end the threat. Now. Mario couldn’t give Martell a pass. His nephew had betrayed him. He thought of his wife, Victoria, and her niece, Angela, then Mario did something he hadn’t done in many years. He made the sign of the cross.

  Seeing an end to his tenure, he needed to step up the action. First, find out everything he could about Cooper’s cleanup man.

  Then he thought of Tawny Dell. Was her appearance at Upper Eighties a coincidence? In his business, there was no such thing. Though he hoped he’d be proven wrong, he doubted there was one now.

  * * * * *

  Before Mario summoned Reggie Cart to his office, his man did a thorough investigation of the ex-boxer. Reggie acted as muscle for a mid-level hood in Queens, doubled as a bouncer in Queens, and moonlighted driving a cab around Manhattan. Word was he didn’t much care who he worked for and kept a tight lip, except he probably blabbed to his lover, that runt queer Colin who worked for Cooper. The thought of the little fuck activated the hairs on Mario’s arms. Imagine the audacity to think he could blackmail one of Mario Russo’s people. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to stuff Colin’s cojones in his own mouth and make him chew before Mario nipped his femoral artery and watched him bleed out. But not until Reggie did what Mario wanted.

  Over-muscled to the point of steroidal, Reggie towered over the five-feet-nine Mario, now more wizened because of the menacing disease rotting his insides. The boxer appeared akin to an automaton, as if he were slightly brain-damaged. Maybe too many punches in the ring, maybe he was plain dumb. Either way, Reggie acted respectful, even subservient, when he entered Mario’s office.

  It didn’t take but a couple of questions for Mario to learn the man would do about anything for a price. Everyone and everything was fair game, except Colin and anything to do with children or animals. Too bad Mario was on his way out. He could have used an amoral man like Reggie Cart.

  When Reggie found out Mario knew all about Martell and the girl’s murder, he told Mario what he had done with the body. So, not so tight-lipped after all. Then Reggie told Mario something that twisted his gut almost as bad as the cancer, and Mario let out a long, disbelieving breath.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Bad Timing

  Lincoln Walsh made Tawny think things she had no business thinking. Like love and a real life. What a fool she was. Those things weren’t in the cards for her. Though she had no regrets, how could she expect any man to overlook the life she’d led? Still…

  She checked the clock on the bedside table. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her meeting with Rick Martell. Hopefully, he could do what she wanted to take care of her money problem.

  It was a lot of money. Money she’d saved over the years for her retirement. With or without Walsh in her life, those two other offshore accounts Rick Martell set up weighed heavily on her. All her sleuthing would be for naught if they were found, and since the FBI and Treasury knew of one, they might go hunting. Whatever was left from the already exposed account after taxes, interest, and penalties would be a nice nest egg, and if all went the way she hoped, she wouldn’t need any more money.

  Unfamiliar with the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn, Tawny hailed a cab. She’d never met Martell. Mario had instructed him to set up the offshore accounts and file her taxes, laundering her illegally made money into a shell company Martell created to pay her the “legal” money she made as a model. The rest went into offshore accounts. If she’d claimed all of it, an audit would surely have followed unless her modeling job was strutting her stuff on the Victoria Secret runway, earning five grand an hour. She didn’t want Mario involved now. He had enough problems without involvement in hers.

  Martell’s office inhabited a center spot in an unobtrusive strip mall. There was no sign other than one that said, Ring the Bell. She did. The blind on the small window parted, and a voice asked who she was. She said her name, and the door opened. Tawny had heard Martell was a big man, but big understated his massive bulk.

  “Miss Dell,” he said. “Nice to meet you at last.”

  He locked the door after her, and she followed him into a no-frills office, a stunning contrast to the luxuriously appointed setup at Upper Eighties. Impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored light worsted wool, he moved with unexpected grace, not the shuffling waddle typic
al of a man his size. She saw no secretary.

  Two frames hung on the office’s wall. In the first, a group photograph, Tawny recognized a younger Mario Russo, a lovely woman she assumed was Mrs. Russo, Martell, and his pregnant wife. The other frame held a degree from City College in the name of Richard Martelli. She wondered why he’d anglicized his name, but given his professional, almost aloof manner, she took the visitor’s seat without asking. The huge desk fit the man or, conversely, the huge man fit the desk.

  She gave Martell a list of where she wanted the money dispersed.

  “That’s a lot of money, Miss Dell. I doubt the feds would find the two accounts in question.”

  “They found the first one.”

  Martell stiffened as if he’d been accused of wrongdoing. “It’s a different world now than it was ten years ago, when I created that account. Because the FBI and Homeland Security are zeroing in on banks with ties to terrorist organizations, things have become more transparent. Makes guys like me more creative.” A crack in his serious expression told Tawny that Rick Martell possessed a healthy ego. His statement was a verbal pat on his own very broad back. “Put simply,” he continued, “many of the old safe havens aren’t so safe anymore.”

  “How could my name have come up?”