Titans

by Tim Green

  Cook smiled at her and said, "I know you don't, princess. I love you."

  Cook went to the office and pored through the Rizzo files for anything on Thomas Keel. He was only vaguely aware of Keel as a relatively new and junior figure in the family, more like a pledge than a full member. By nine o'clock Cook knew a lot more.

  It seemed Keel had originally become involved with Mike Cometti in high school. Cometti was two years older, and the two of them had been busted for grand theft auto in '83. Keel was sixteen at the time, and was released with probation and some community service. Cometti, however, had actually done a couple of months in the Nassau County jail.

  Cometti was Keel's link to the Rizzos. Mike Cometti and Tony Rizzo were third cousins. They had always been close, but when Cometti got out of jail, he and Tony had become inseparable. Cook figured Rizzo had somehow made things easier for his cousin during his time in jail and created a fervent disciple in the process.

  Cometti was arrested a number of times subsequently, mostly for aggravated assault. Nothing had stuck. Keel, on the other hand, stayed out of trouble after the car theft. He'd gone on to college at Albany State and earned a degree in marketing. But Cook was able to spot Keel in a 1986 photo with Tony Rizzo and Cometti. The shot was taken at a Manhattan nightclub during a birthday party for Rizzo. It seemed that although Keel had kept clean, he had stayed in touch with the Rizzo family through the last six years. Cook suspected that Keel, like so many others fresh out of school, had found that a college degree was no longer a guarantee of good times and prosperity. In fact, it no longer even meant a job. Cook figured that Keel had fallen back in with his old crowd as a last resort.

  After what he had seen last night, and after what he now knew, Cook figured Keel was a perfect contact to help him get some dirt on Tony. The bad news was that Keel was so obscure and so far from the inner workings of the Mondolffi family that he probably had almost no information of any value. Still, Cook knew that there were long shots out there. And even though Keel himself would probably prove useless, he might provide Cook with some ideas about another member of the family who might have what he needed.

  Cook had just put all his files back in order when Duncan Fellows appeared in the doorway wearing a golf sweater and slacks. Fellows was an assistant special agent in charge, or ASAC, of the FBI's Manhattan office. All the supervisors in Manhattan reported to him. In New York only the special agent in charge and the assistant director were senior to him. Fellows was tall and handsome with a full head of silver hair and just enough of a potbelly to let you know he was used to the good life. He looked every bit the part of the successful Princeton graduate he was.

  "Cook!" said Fellows in a surprised voice, pointing at him with the stem of his pipe. Cook and his boss were about the same age, but Fellows's pipe and demeanor made him look ten years older. The difference made it easier for Cook to call him sir.

  "What brings you here on a Saturday morning?" Fellows asked. "I thought you people from the South liked to rest on the weekends."

  ''Well sir," said Cook with a pleasant smile, "I figured if I was going to teach you Yankees anything, I'd have to work overtime."

  "Ha! Well put," Fellows said, stabbing the air with his pipe.

  "And what about you, sir?" Cook said, despite being uncomfortable with small talk.

  "Oh, just brushing up on a few files of my own before I hit the links, ahh ..." Fellows frowned, "the golf course .. . I'm playing with some of the director's top people from Washington."

  "Oh," Cook said, doing his best to make some small talk. "Where are you taking them?"

  "Uh, to my club, the Montclair Country Club . . . We'll have to go there sometime."

  Cook knew his boss didn't mean it. He sat silently for a few moments, wanting to talk about his possible breakthrough, but not wanting to mention last night until he'd had a chance to talk to Tommy Keel to see if he would be willing to cooperate in any way. The ventilation system for the building was off for the weekend and Cook was hot and uncomfortable as he waited for Fellows to leave his office.

  Finally, Fellows said, "Well, I'm off, Cook, good talking with you. I'm looking forward to reviewing your plan on the Mondolffi family. Two more weeks?"

  Cook nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll have the team assembled by then. I've already signed a year lease on our offices."

  "Good," Fellows said and disappeared.

  Cook took a cab to New York Hospital, where he learned they had taken Keel the night before. He checked with information to get Keel's room number, but when he found it, the room was empty. The nurses at the station were surprised when Cook asked them where Keel had gone.

  "He shouldn't have gone anywhere," said a nurse. "He wasn't supposed to be released until tomorrow." Cook thanked them. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock and he probably had enough time to make at least an initial contact with Keel and still make it back by noon, so he flagged a cab and headed for Brooklyn. The cabbie knew where South Street was, and together they located the address the cop had given him. It was a typical brick mid-rise. Cook walked up to the Indian doorman, who was sitting on a chair in the lobby, and asked for Tommy Keel.

  'That's seven E," the doorman said in a heavy accent, without looking up from his newspaper.

  "No," Cook said, holding up his hand as the man reached for the phone on the nearby desk.

  "Sorry, I got to call before you can go up. I lose my job."

  Cook cursed to himself, then looked around. No one was there, and he had found that the best way to get things done quickly and quietly was to let people know that he was one of the good guys. He flipped his badge out.

  "OK?" Cook said. "You make sure you don't call."

  The doorman glanced at the wallet that was now closed, then seemed to consider Cook's hard brown eyes before he dropped his head again and nodded yes.

  Cook stepped from the elevator on the seventh floor and rang the bell after locating Keel's apartment at the end of the hall. After several more rings, a voice from behind the door said, "Who is it?"

  Cook had already figured that with a nice boy like Keel, the way to play it was straight up. "My name is Ellis Cook, I'm with the FBI. I think it would be in your best interest to open the door and let me in to talk."

  There was silence for almost a minute before the door opened. Cook's face remained impassive as he assessed Keel. One eye was reddish purple and swollen shut. There was a gauze pad taped to his forehead that was stained with blood. One cheek was discolored, and his lower lip was stitched together. A tiny end of thread protruded near the corner of his mouth. He seemed stooped and Cook suspected there were some broken ribs as well.

  "Who are you?" Keel demanded again.

  "Like I said, I'm Ellis Cook, and I'm with the FBI."

  Cook held out his ID, and Keel peered at it suspiciously through his one good eye.

  "What do you want from me?" Keel sounded angry, but Cook detected some fear in the young man's voice as well.

  "May I come in and sit down? I want to talk with you about Tony Rizzo."

  "Why should I talk to you? Am I under arrest? I don't have to talk to you."

  "You don't have to talk to me, that's right," Cook said harshly, realizing just how green this kid was, "but you better take a look in the mirror and think about it 'cause in case you hadn't noticed, you got yourself some problems."

  Then in an easier tone he added, "I might be able to help you, and if I can't, well then, I'll just go and you'll be no worse off than you were before I came. Besides, if I really wanted to talk to you, I could just take you in for something."

  Keel thought about it. "OK," he said finally, and led Cook into the kitchen to sit down at a small table. Cook decided to press him a little. He felt lucky.

  "I'm with a special office within the Bureau that investigates organized crime. We know about you and Rizzo, and we know about your recent activities. I'm here to give you a chance to help yourself."

  Tommy?" came a soft voice from
the hallway outside the kitchen.

  Both men glanced up. Cook quickly returned his gaze to Keel, not wanting to stare. It didn't take more than a glance for Cook to know that the girl had been beaten and choked. Both eyes were black and there were discolored finger marks on her neck.

  "Go in the bedroom, Sonya," said Keel firmly, but not meanly. Keel eyed Cook and wondered if he'd seen the shape his girlfriend was in.

  "I know about last night," Cook said, changing tactics. After what he'd seen, he figured there was little need to try to scare the boy into helping him. He figured the kid was scared shitless, like a man in a lion's cage. But take that same man out of the cage and he'd be the first one to shoot that cat through the bars. After the way he'd reacted to the girl, Cook suspected that given any safe opportunity, Keel would do anything he could to hurt Tony Rizzo. Cook stared intently at Tommy. The boy was clearly shaken and scared.

  Tommy tried to hold Cook's stare, but his battered lip begin to quiver. Tears fell down his face as he slammed his fist on the table with rage.

  'The son of a bitch! I'm going to kill him!" sobbed Keel. "I'll kill him!"

  Cook remained impassive until Keel composed himself. "Like I said, I think I can help. Now, both you and I know that you're not going to kill Tony Rizzo. But you can do worse than kill him. You can help to ruin him. There are things you can do to help me take him down, and believe me, if Rizzo goes to jail, it'll hurt him worse than death."

  "Even if I could help you . . . they'd kill me," Keel said, wiping his face on the sleeve of his jean shirt.

  "If you help me," Cook said, "I can get you and your girl out of here and into the witness protection program. For years the federal government has been protecting witnesses from organized crime. I can put you someplace where the Rizzos can never find you, where you and your girl can have a new life. You're finished here, whether you help me or not."

  Keel put his elbows on the table and ran his hands through his hair. Cook let some time pass. Finally Keel said, "If I was to help you, what would I have to do?"

  "I want Tony Rizzo. The way I see it, he's positioning himself to take over the family. There's no sense going after the old man. By the time I got him, Tony'd be in charge anyway. I'm going to want you to tell me everything you know about the family, no matter how insignificant. You may not think so, but there may be something you know that will help me put Rizzo away."

  "Huh! That's not even hard. I can fry his ass for you easy." Keel raised his eyes and looked directly at Ellis Cook. "He's the one who hit the Fat Man."

  Cook's heart pounded.

  'The Fat Man ..." Cook said.

  The Fat Man murder had been a front-page story for a week after the Super Bowl. No one had guessed that someone connected with the Mondolffi family had been responsible. The Fat Man had been a lucrative source of income for the family.

  Murder one would put Rizzo away for life. How could Keel have that kind of information? Maybe the kid was jerking him around.

  "How could you know about something like that?" Cook asked.

  "I was there," Keel said flatly.

  Cook felt a rush of adrenaline. Something like this came along once in a lifetime. It was almost too good to be true. It was luck that he had seen the blowout between Rizzo and Keel last night. His investigation hadn't even officially begun. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, he held the key to possibly one of the biggest organized crime busts of the decade. Tony Rizzo was more than the future head of the Mondolffi crime family. He was a symbol who glamorized crime. If Cook brought him down, his career opportunities would be bountiless. There had never been a black director . . .

  "You were there?" Cook said, wanting to be sure.

  "Yeah, me and Mike Cometti and Tony went to Ironside's. When the Fat Man went to take a leak, Tony went in and whacked him. Cometti watched the front, and I covered the back."

  The gun?" Cook asked, knowing it was far-fetched, but so was this whole thing.

  "In the East River."

  Tommy," Cook said, snapping out of his daze and rising to his feet, "you have to stay here. I mean, don't leave this apartment, not for anything. I want you to lock the door and don't answer it for anyone. Don't answer the phone either. It sounds crazy, but it won't be for long. After last night Rizzo might be keeping an eye on you, especially with what you know about the Fat Man."

  "Do you think?" Keel said nervously.

  "Probably not. Rizzo has no reason to suspect that someone from the FBI was standing outside the Palladium last night, but I'm kind of. . . overly cautious, you might say. But on the million-to-one odds that they've got someone keeping an eye on you, I just want you to lay low until I can get a team in here to bring you out. I'm going to try to get back to you by tonight, tomorrow at the latest."

  "I don't know about this ..." Tommy said, standing and pushing his hands through his hair rapidly.

  'Tommy, there's nothing for you to know," Cook said, taking Keel by the shoulders. "You're in it now. But I can promise you that this is the best way out for you. Especially if you want to have any kind of life with that girl.

  "Now," Cook said, moving to the door, "is there a way out the back through the stairs?"

  "You're leaving? Just like that? I gotta think about this. I gotta be sure."

  'Tommy, every minute I stay here is a chance that Cometti, or Angelo Quatrini, or even Rizzo could stop by here to smooth things over with you, or to keep an eye on you. I hate to put it to you like this, but you've got nothing to think about. If you back out now," Cook thought for a second, "I'd be forced to subpoena you, and the Rizzos would have your ass. You just do what I say, and before you know it you and your girl will be safe."

  Cook pulled a card out of his inside breast pocket and handed it to Keel. This is my card. If anything at all happens that makes you nervous, you just call me. My home number is on the back. You probably won't need it, but like I said, I'm overly cautious. You sit right now. I won't ring, I'll knock, like this, three ... two ... and one, so you know it's me. Anything else and you just sit tight. I'm on your side, Tommy. Everything will be all right. OK?"

  Keel closed his eyes shaking his head. Then he said, "OK," and nodded.

  "OK, call me Cook."

  "OK, Cook."

  "Good. Now, how can I get out of this building without anyone seeing me?"

  "If you go down the stairs to the basement, you can head to the back of the building and get out a fire door, but there's an alarm on it."

  Cook patted him on the shoulder. "I'll handle the alarm. You just sit tight and I'll be back before you know it."

  'Tomorrow, right? You'll be back by then?" said Keel.

  "No problem," Cook said, and left.

  Cook took a cab back to Manhattan. Natasha was dressed and ready to go when he walked in at twelve-fifteen.

  "Daddy!" She ran to him and hugged him. "Aunt Esther said you wouldn't be home by one, but I told her all morning that you were coming! Now she's wrong and she has to buy me an ice cream!"

  Esther was dressed in a housecoat which, like her hair, was almost white. Her wiry frame shook violently. She was washing something in the sink, and she didn't even look up to greet Cook. Her dark hatchet face was intent on scrubbing some vegetables that would no doubt end up on Cook's dinner plate.

  He held his little girl's face in his hands. His heart sank.

  "Princess," he said, "I'm going to give you and Aunt Esther money so you can both have ice cream, two if you want. But I've got to go back to work. I don't want to, but something very, very important has happened and I have to go."

  Her eyes wrenched his heart, so did her words. Both were sad but resigned.

  That's OK, Daddy," she said. "I know it's important. You go ahead. I can do my homework. Then if you get home tonight, we can watch a movie."

  Cook stared at her. He saw Naomi. He heard Naomi. He had to leave. He kissed his daughter, then allowed Esther the brief privilege of meeting his eyes with her reproachful glare b
efore he walked out onto the street.

  Cook went to the FBI garage and signed out an old olive green LTD. He drove uptown and headed to New Jersey through the Lincoln Tunnel. He had never been to Montclair, but had gotten directions at the garage. Soon he was twelve miles west of the city, winding his way through tree-shaded streets lined with beautifully maintained Victorian homes. These warm and welcoming houses distracted Cook. They were what he would love to be able to afford for Natasha. He envisioned her wheeling up one of those long driveways on a bright yellow bicycle.

  Although he had no problem finding the country club, Cook was confused just how he was supposed to enter. He ended up entering the club's circular drive the wrong way, and found himself face-to-face with a sour-looking old man sitting behind the wheel of a new Mercedes. The old man sat staring bitterly at him until Cook backed out of the drive and onto the street. Feeling foolish, he circled again and followed a big white Town Car through the club's front gate.

  He had never been to a country club. Cook didn't golf, and his social life had never extended beyond a friendly poker game or a neighborhood barbeque. He felt self-conscious in his toned-down government car. When he pulled up to the porte cochere, three attendants dressed entirely in white and wearing caps bearing the club's crest looked at him curiously. Cook rolled down his window and said, "Hello, I'm looking for a club member, Duncan Fellows. Do you know where I can find him?"

  The attendants looked confused.

  "Look," Cook explained, "I work with Mr. Fellows, and it's important that I talk with him right away."

  The tallest and skinniest of the kids evidently knew just who Duncan Fellows was and put two and two together.

  "You with the FBI?" he asked.

  "Yes," Cook nodded, relieved that he was getting somewhere.

  "I saw Mr. Fellows and his party on their way to the tenth tee not too long ago. You should be able to find him on eleven or twelve by now."

  When the kid saw the confusion on Cook's face, he pointed to a wide asphalt path that wound past the putting green and curved around a stand of large oak trees and out of sight.