A String of Beads

by Thomas Perry

  The driver blocking the left lane pulled forward to block the space that had opened up in the middle of the road.

  Jane saw a wash of white light projected onto her dashboard from behind, and didn’t have to look into the rearview mirror to know that the SUV that had been following her for miles was coming up fast behind her.

  In another second she was at the roadblock, flashing past with two wheels on the road and the other two on the pavement of the gas station behind the left SUV. She narrowly missed the first gas pump and adjusted her trajectory to make it back onto the road to avoid the telephone pole at the end of the lot.

  The black SUV that had been following her shot past in the space between the two other black SUVs that had formed the roadblock, and began to gain on her.

  Jimmy turned around in his seat to watch the vehicle behind. “I can’t believe this. Who the heck are these guys?”

  “I can’t tell. They don’t seem to be good at stopping people without killing them.”

  Jane was driving hard now, accelerating steadily, trying to hug the inside of each curve and straighten to aim at the next one. Jimmy looked at the speedometer and watched the needle climb over ninety-five miles an hour, a hundred, and still move higher. The broken white lines on the pavement streaked toward them like tracer rounds.

  “You’re going too fast. What if a cop sees us?”

  “What if two carloads of armed thugs catch up with us on a deserted highway?”

  “Can we ditch the car somewhere and slip off on foot?”

  Jane kept glancing in the mirrors, her hands gripping the steering wheel to keep the car from spinning out. “If I see the right place, we can try. I haven’t seen one yet. We’d have to get far enough ahead so they can’t see us bail out, and if I can accomplish that, we’re better off in the car.”

  “But you’re going—”

  “Jimmy.” She said it quietly, but he understood that she didn’t intend to argue. The car was going so fast that when she reached a slight rise, the car rose on its springs to be nearly airborne at the crest, and then burrowed downward into the shallow trough beyond it. Jimmy gripped the armrest, his teeth clenched so his jaw muscles bulged whenever he felt a bounce or a rocking of the car, but he was clearly determined not to remind her that what she was doing was dangerous.

  Jane glanced in the mirror again. She reached a long, straight stretch, and kept her eyes on the mirror for a long time.

  Jimmy turned in his seat and looked. “I don’t see them anymore.”

  “Neither do I. Keep watching, in case one of them is crazy enough to follow us without headlights.”

  She kept going, but she let up on the gas pedal a bit. They hurtled through the night for another ten minutes before she lowered her speed again, this time to only ten miles an hour over the speed limit. “Okay,” she said. “We’re looking for Route Twenty-two now. There should be signs.”

  “Who do you think those guys are?”

  “Enemies. Watch for the signs for Route Twenty-two.”

  “Where will that take us?”

  “Away from them.”

  12

  This is pitiful,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “Dreadful. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. What am I going to say?”

  “I’m sorry, Teddy,” said Donato. “I’m sorry. I sent six really good men. The idea was to avoid shooting up the whole city and making a lot of trouble for everybody, right?”

  “Right,” said Mangeoli. “Was that too tall an order? Six picked men can’t go to a hotel where we know some guy is staying, and put him down quietly? This was a favor for a very important and respected man, a near neighbor we might need on our side someday soon.”

  “It wasn’t too tall an order. We just didn’t know some crucial things, and it made all the difference. Nobody mentioned that the guy had a girlfriend with him in the hotel. She happened to go down to the lobby while Santoro and Molinaro were talking to the desk clerk, and made them somehow. By the time Santoro and Molinaro got upstairs to take the guy out, the guy and the girlfriend were out and driving away in a car.”

  “Michael. My very good friend. Take a step back from all these details. Think about the magnitude of what’s happened to us. Our thing here in Cleveland was a force for a hundred years, an organization to be admired and feared. This was where Big Joe Lonardo put together the corn syrup monopoly. He dominated the corn liquor business during Prohibition.”

  “And lost it in the corn syrup wars.”

  “I’m talking about the size, strength, and importance of the Cleveland organization. Hell, the Statler Hotel was where the first national sit-down took place in 1928.”

  “Well, it never actually took place,” said Donato. “Every­body got arrested before it got started.”

  “That doesn’t matter. They all came, didn’t they? The most powerful, important men in La Cosa Nostra. They came here from New York, Chicago, Florida, everywhere. And in those days, you couldn’t just hop on a plane. You had to be sincere enough to spend a couple of days on a train. The point is the Cleveland organization was respected. Now we can’t take out one Indian from Buffalo and his girlfriend. We can’t do a simple favor for a very important ally. We’re a sad, diminished thing. We’ve got more guys in jail than on the street.”

  “This isn’t just some unsuspecting dope. The guys said they tried to force him to pull over on the interstate, but he outmaneuvered them. Our guys followed the car to Route Eleven, then called ahead to set up a roadblock. The car blew right through before they were ready. This guy was going a hundred and ten. You can’t stop somebody like that quietly. It’s like flagging down a suicide bomber.”

  “You’re not getting my point,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “Once there was Big Joe Lonardo, then Big Ange Lonardo. Then Big Al Polizzi. Have you ever heard anybody call me Big Teddy Mangeoli?”

  “Those were big guys, that’s all. You’re like, five foot six.”

  “Eight. Five foot eight. Jesus.”

  “It doesn’t mean those guys were more important. It was descriptive.”

  Teddy Mangeoli held him in his stare for a moment, and then walked across the carpeted office. He was usually happy when he was in this room. He loved being in charge of a bank, and he loved being its biggest shareholder. This morning the luxury of the office seemed to him to be an indictment. The man he was going to call was the head of the Arm in Buffalo. Just the sound of it made his spine tingle—the Arm. Lorenzo Malconi was from another generation, when men were a scarier species. Malconi had gotten where he was because he had burned some powder and he had dug some graves.

  When Teddy Mangeoli got to the cabinet, he turned to Donato. “Give me some time alone. I don’t need anybody to watch me grovel.” He picked up the receiver of the special telephone that was swept by the security people every day, and dialed. He fought the feeling of shame and dread that seemed to double with each ring.

  IN BUFFALO, ANDY SPATO PICKED up the telephone and said, “Malconi residence.” He listened for a moment, then said, “One moment please.” Then he walked out through the sliding glass door into the garden.

  “Mr. Malconi?” Andy Spato stood holding the telephone with his big hand over the receiver. “It’s Teddy Mangeoli in Cleveland. Would you like me to have him call back?”

  The old man opened his eyes, but didn’t move his head even a centimeter. He was tentatively ready for a disappointment or a new chore. Being a boss looked like being a king, but it sometimes felt like being everybody’s servant. You couldn’t just say you didn’t care what anybody’s problem was. He held out his hand.

  Spato handed him the phone and backed away, his eyes still on Mr. Malconi, waiting for a nod from him. That was usually the signal that he was dismissed. When he saw the old man nod, he spun on his heel and stepped back toward the
house. He went inside and closed the sliding glass door.

  He took a last look at the old man sitting on the chaise longue in the garden with his feet up, wearing his comfortable old sport coat with the elbow patches and his leather driving slippers. For the hundredth time, Spato thought about how much like a kind elderly gentleman he looked. Spato could almost imagine a half dozen little grandchildren gathering around him to listen to a story. The truth was that he was probably surrounded by the ghosts of a few dozen people waiting for him to die so they could tear his soul to shreds. Spato went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had promised himself he’d have one while the old man had his afternoon nap.

  In the garden, Mr. Malconi spoke into the phone. “Hello, Teddy.”

  “Don Lorenzo, I’m calling you with a very difficult and humiliating piece of news.”

  “What is it?”

  “I would have come in person, but it would have taken longer, and I was sure you would want to know right away. It pains me to tell you that the small favor you asked was bungled.”

  “Bungled?”

  “Botched. Fumbled. I can’t think of any other way to say it. My guys failed you.”

  “Should I be listening for a knock on my door, Teddy?”

  “Oh, no, Don Lorenzo. Nothing like that. Six men were sent to look at the hotel registers in the Cleveland area where that phone call originated—three teams of two men. The target apparently had a girlfriend with him, and she accidentally saw one of the teams by the hotel computer. She and the target drove off at over a hundred miles an hour. Our guys had big-ass SUVs, and you know how bad those are for that kind of driving. They’re heavy, and have a high center of gravity. Mario Andretti couldn’t hold one of those fat pigs on a winding road at over a hundred. As it was, one of the SUVs had to be towed out of a ditch.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “No, thank God,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “It’s a blessing things weren’t worse.”

  “Driving into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour?” said Mr. Malconi. “It’s a miracle.”

  Teddy Mangeoli felt a wave of heat wash over him. That wasn’t what he had meant, and it sounded impossible, but it was too late to correct the impression. He could only hope that Mr. Malconi didn’t consider it a lie. “Anyway, the guy and his girlfriend are gone. We failed you, and I’m very sorry.”

  “Do you know which direction they were going?”

  “South on Route Eleven, toward West Virginia and Maryland.”

  “Do they know who was looking for them?”

  “I don’t see how they could,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “My guys were in identical black Escalades. Since we knew this target was a wanted man, I thought that might make our teams look like feds coming to arrest him. You remember when the FBI raided Danny Spoccato’s office in Newark? Big black SUVs. I saw it on the television news over and over. Now the Escalades are back where they came from, and the guys never got close enough to get identified.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “A friend of ours has a Cadillac dealership.”

  “A friend of ours?” A friend of mine was just a friend. A friend of ours was a member of La Cosa Nostra.

  “Yes. Mike Donato.”

  “Do you think he might be able to get me a deal on a new CTS-V sedan?”

  “I’ll have one sent to you tomorrow. What color do you like?”

  “They have a really deep black, but I like a nice dark gray, you know—conservative, like a good suit,” said Mr. Malconi. “But I wasn’t asking for a present.”

  “It’s as good as done. It’s the least I can do to show you my regard. I know it doesn’t make up for the mistake.”

  Mr. Malconi said, “Forget that other thing. It’s just a small favor for a friend of a friend. I’ll make another phone call or two to the people who live where the happy couple are headed. Somebody will see them at the right time and place, and that will be the end of it. These things can sometimes take a week or two. It’s not unusual.”

  “Again, Don Lorenzo, I apologize.”

  “Don’t give it another thought. I’ll talk to you after my new Cadillac arrives.”

  The two men hung up. Teddy Mangeoli walked stiffly to his desk and sat down on the top of it, his mind churning. He had made mistakes, and sounded as though he was making excuses and lying. He had missed a chance to build a relationship with a man who had been a power practically since the beginning of time. What the hell had he been thinking? He should have sent a hundred men to the hotel district after this fugitive. It had been a huge opportunity, and he had left it to underlings.

  Mike Donato opened the door a crack, only an eye visible. When he saw that Teddy Mangeoli had finished his call, he came in and shut the thick office door. “How did it go?”

  “Rotten. I’m sure he thinks we’re stupid and worthless. I kind of misspoke and gave him the impression that one of the SUVs was driven into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour and nobody was hurt, so he thinks I’m a liar too.”

  “I saw the one that they rolled over this morning, and it looks like hell. It will cost thousands of dollars to restore that paint job.”

  “That reminds me. I told him we’d send him a new Caddy tomorrow. A CTS-V. Get somebody to drive it to Buffalo. And he’s particular about the color. He wants a nice dark gray, like a conservative suit.”

  “He means Phantom Gray Metallic,” said Donato. “A new CTS-V. Those things start at sixty-four thousand bucks, and go up from there. I don’t even have Phantom Gray Metallic on the lot right now. And how the hell am I going to get one there tomorrow?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” said Teddy. “If you have to get the right one from another dealer in Cincinnati or Columbus or someplace, do it. If you don’t have anybody to drive it to Buffalo, do it yourself. If you screw this up, we’re not going to get another chance with him.”

  IN THE GARDEN BEHIND THE big brick house on Middlesex in Buffalo, Lorenzo Malconi closed his eyes again. He never really slept in the afternoon, but pretending to nap made people underestimate him and gave him a chance to think. Teddy Mangeoli was in a position that wasn’t warranted by his talents or his character. The next strong wind would blow him away like a brown leaf off a tree. But Lorenzo Malconi had never been an impatient man, and at this stage of his life he valued cunning above audacity. He would not be the one to send Teddy Mangeoli to the undertakers. Instead, he might be the one who waited until somebody else did, and then administer justice on the culprit and exert his moral authority over both families. That would depend on who moved first.

  13

  They were in Cleveland,” said Mr. Malconi.

  “They?” said Salamone. “I thought he was alone.”

  “No. He made a phone call to his mother that came from the hotel district just outside of Cleveland. Some men went to check whether the guy was staying in one of them. He had come with a girlfriend, and she had done the registering, so it took a while to find the right room. By the time the guys got there, he and his girlfriend had slipped out.”

  “So they got away?”

  “I know,” said Mr. Malconi. “I was a little surprised myself. It sounded to me like the Indian drove fast, and none of them had the balls to drive as fast as he did. It stands to reason that Teddy’s guys weren’t anxious to die to please me, but I like to see men who don’t give up that easy.”

  “Should I be getting my crew to start looking?”

  “No, no,” said Malconi. “Teddy says the guy and his girlfriend were heading south out of Ohio toward West Virginia or Maryland, and I called some friends of ours down there just before you called me. I think we’ll hear some good news before too long. They can operate better than we can on their own ground, and we won’t waste our guys’ time on the Indian when they co
uld be up here earning money.”

  “I understand. Thank you for doing me the honor of telling me this. We’ll just sit tight until you tell us different.”

  “You know,” said Mr. Malconi. “There is one thing you can do for me while you’re waiting. This guy Crane considers you his partner, right?”

  “A silent partner,” said Salamone. “I get ten percent.”

  “I’d like you to get a storage unit for me. Make that two, but not next to each other. Put them in names like Smith and Brown. Not the same name. And make sure that I have the only keys to the locks.”

  “Of course, Mr. Malconi. I’ll do that today.”

  “Good,” said Malconi. “When you bring me the keys, maybe I’ll know more about your problem.” He hung up.

  Salamone stood for a moment looking at his cell phone’s display to be sure the call had ended, and he hadn’t just lost the signal for a moment. He didn’t want the old man listening to his conversations for the rest of the day.

  He shook his head. It was always risky to call Mr. Malconi. And expensive. Every time the old man talked to anybody about anything, he exacted some kind of payment, like a tax. If Mr. Malconi knew you had the owner of a prosthetics factory on the hook, he would want a free leg or something. Salamone thought about the two storage bays. He could only hope the old man didn’t do anything strange with them. Salamone didn’t want to have a bunch of drugs in them, or a cache of explosives. Malconi’s business dealings could include anything.

  JANE AND JIMMY HAD BEEN driving eastward all day through the rural countryside of Upstate New York on Route 20. They passed through small towns where traffic signals impeded their progress, and they ate in small diners. Between towns they stopped at roadside stands and bought fruit and snacks. They avoided taverns, because they all had television sets mounted in the corners and above the bar, where people intending to watch some game might instead see a mug shot of the man being sought for the murder of Nick Bauermeister. Their progress was slow, but a car following them on Route 20 would be easy to spot.