by Tim Green
A stench wafted up into his nostrils, and Cook instinctively searched for the source. A bum lay stretched out on the sidewalk, clad in a tattered gray overcoat and a ratty wool cap. The bum pulled a bagged bottle of whiskey to his lips and tipped it up. Cook wondered what could bring someone to such depravity. He hadn't seen bums like this growing up; poor people, yes, but not like these. At first he had given change or singles to every bum who asked for money. Now, after only a few months, he was like most New Yorkers, overwhelmed and immune to their suffering.
New York City was not friendly to anyone, including Cook. He had finally come to grips with what had happened to Tommy Keel and his girl. He had fucked up. It had been ludicrous to think he could bring down Tony Rizzo single-handedly. He was sent to New York to do a difficult job, and thinking he could just ride into town and collar the bad guys on a lucky break was ridiculous. He had always been calculating and methodical in his investigations--that's why he was here now.
The big boys in the Bureau wanted to sting organized crime in New York. Of late, the indictments had been sparse and the big fish still swam free. The director felt that maybe a fresh approach was needed. Cook was being sent in to run a special operation against a particularly large crime family with a particularly rotten fish in its midst. It was a costly operation to devote an entire team to indicting one mob member. Immediate results were expected. But if Cook was successful, it could very well change the way the entire Bureau assailed organized crime. It could also easily turn into an assistant directorship for Cook. He might even get shipped back to D. C. to administrate a nationwide operation from behind a desk. More than once, he had imagined himself returning to a lavish suburban Virginia home every night to help Natasha with her homework.
But that was all far away. It wouldn't happen unless he brought down Tony Rizzo, or Rizzo's uncle. Tony would be Cook's focus. Not just because Cook owed him one for the Keel killing, but because Tony Rizzo was arrogant and greedy and hungry for power. All those things, Cook knew, made a criminal vulnerable. Cook crossed Twelfth Avenue and looked up at a four-story brick warehouse that had seen better days. He used a heavy key to let himself in through the only opening on the first floor that was accessible from the street, a steel door in the south wall of the building.
He peeked his head into the tap room. Amid the sophisticated electrical and recording equipment sat a balding man in his mid-forties.
"How's it coming, Duffy?" Cook asked.
"Nothing really," Conrad Duffy replied. "Guy made a few appointments. Told a dirty story to Cometti about the bimbo he was with last night, then went out for lunch."
Duffy was their communications expert. He had set up and monitored the phone taps they placed on Tony Rizzo and Vincent Mondolffi. They had been tapping their phones for only a few days, and it was still a novelty for Cook. He couldn't help but hope that something big would turn up on the tapes. Cook had his own surveillance team as well, made up of nine men who ran three shifts of three and followed Tony Rizzo every minute of the day. The rest of his team was hard at work investigating bank and tax records, looking for some dissatisfied associate of the organization who they might turn, and following up leads from information gathered by surveillance.
When Cook got to his office, John Marrow, his second in command, was waiting for him.
"You're gonna like this, sir," Marrow said.
"What have you got?" Cook said anxiously.
"Nothing too big"--Marrow saw the fire in his boss's eyes fade-- "but it is interesting. It seems our ladies' man landed him some real class. Since we've been tailing him, he's only seen one girl more than once. This one he's seen three times. Well, we checked her out and the interesting thing is, she's the daughter of Grant Carter."
Marrow could see Cook's puzzlement. "Carter is a big developer in this area, a Donald Trump type of guy . . . He also owns the New York Titans."
Cook raised his eyebrows. "Does the old man know she's seeing Rizzo?"
"We don't really know since we just started following Rizzo two weeks ago, but I've got Tom Snyder looking into it. Could be nothing. This Carter girl, Camille's her name, she's kind of a wild one. Could just be a quirk."
"Let's keep a close eye on what goes on between them, John. I've got a feeling. Tony Rizzo doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who does much of anything without a purpose."
Out on the Island, Hunter was teeing off in the fourteenth Annual Leukemia Society Celebrity Golf Tournament. Colorful flags adorned the clubhouse, and thousands of people milled about, craning for a glimpse of their sports heroes. Hunter smacked the ball and it lifted off down the fairway, straight and long. The crowd burst into applause. Hunter grinned from ear to ear and waved his cap to the crowd.
"A ringer," Patrick Ewing murmured as he passed Hunter on his way to the tee, shaking his head woefully.
"Couldn't do it again in a million years," Hunter said under his breath to the giant basketball player. Ewing's clubs were almost as tall as Hunter, and he marveled as the big man gently swung his club. The sound was like a shot. Ewing's ball hit the turf ten yards past Hunter's, then rolled another forty. The crowd went wild.
The two shots turned out to be the only bright moments on the course for New York's two favorite athletes. Their games went steadily downhill from there, until finally Hunter and Patrick decided to bet a case of beer on the guy who lost the fewest balls. At the halfway mark Hunter had lost five to Patrick's four.
Hunter was sharing a cart with the president of Mitsubishi's American division while Patrick played with one of the younger Rockefeller heirs. Each man had paid $10,000 to play with the celebrities. The idea of paying that much money for a round of golf with them got Hunter and Patrick laughing together throughout the afternoon.
"At least I've got an excuse," Patrick said as they crossed over into the opposite fairway to play their hooked tee shots.
"What's that?" Hunter said. "Your clubs are too short?"
Ewing looked as him sideways, then laughed when he realized Hunter was ribbing him about his enormous sticks.
"Nah," he said, looking around to see that no one else was within earshot. "I got a damn bad ankle that kills me when I pivot around."
"I've heard it all now," Hunter chuckled.
"Don't believe me if you don't want to." Ewing shrugged.
Hunter swung, topping the ball but getting it back into legitimate play.
"Man," Hunter said as they approached Patrick's ball, "if you were hurt it'd be the talk of the town. Especially with the Bulls coming in here Friday night."
"I know that," Ewing said, hitting the ball through some trees and into a trap near the green. 'That's why I ain't the talk of the town. I don't want no one finding out about this. The damn reporters would make my life more miserable than they already do."
Hunter changed the subject to the upcoming play-off series with Chicago, and soon they were back in their respective carts with the paying guests. Hunter, however, carefully watched the way Patrick moved for the rest of the afternoon. It was very slight, but Hunter did detect a slight wince in Ewing's face whenever he really tried to clobber the ball.
After the tournament there was a brief awards ceremony inside the clubhouse. Patrick and Hunter gave out the prizes. When the day ended, but before Hunter's car had left the parking lot, he was on his phone to Metz.
"Metz, it's me, Hunter," he said when his friend answered the phone.
"Hunt, what's up? I just walked in from work," Metz said.
"Can you meet me at Rafters?"
"Now?"
"Yeah, now. Can you meet me?"
"It's a little early to start drinking. Don't you want to eat first?"
"I can't hang out. I've got to be home for dinner by seven. I spent all day at that Leukemia golf tournament and Rachel will kill me if I don't get back, but I need to talk to you quick."
"So talk."
"Metz, will you meet me or not?"
"It ain't like you to be so mysterio
us. Of course I'll meet you. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Rafters was a bar and grill close to Hunter's home, and although it smelled strongly of stale beer, they kept the AC up high and it was nice and cool inside. Hunter got a beer at the bar and waited only about five minutes before Metz walked through the door. Hunter felt the warm air rush in from the street. Metz sat down in the booth and ordered a beer for himself. He was still wearing a dress shirt and a de that was loosened to accommodate a collar that wouldn't button around the enormous rolls of fat that supported his head. The shirt was rumpled, almost like he'd slept in it. Beads of sweat rolled down Metz's jowls as he tipped his head back to slurp down half his mug of beer.
"Ahh," Metz exclaimed, slamming down the mug and smacking his lips. "Hot as the devil's dick out there."
Hunter smiled at his friend. There was something so comical about the enormity of him that Hunter tended to forget he was a slob.
"So what's up?" Metz said. "You gonna sit there grinning at me, or are you gonna tell me what all this James Bond shit is about?"
Hunter looked around and leaned forward before he said in a low voice, "You can't talk on those car phones. Anyone can listen. Can you bet basketball through that bookie you know?"
"Sure," Metz said, "but I told you you know your shit when it comes to football. What makes you think you know dick about hoops?"
"I don't know," Hunter said, "but I got a scoop on Friday night's game against the Bulls that can't miss!"
Metz looked around too before dropping his own voice. "You know something?"
"Yeah," Hunter said, talking still lower. "Ewing was at that golf thing today and we played together in the same foursome. So one time we're going over into the other fairway to hit our shots, and he tells me his ankle is killing him. I tell him that I didn't see anything about it in the papers, and you know what he says?"
Metz shook his head no. His eyes were wide with excitement.
"He tells me he doesn't want anyone to know about it. Even the team's doctors. He says that he doesn't want to listen to any bullshit about it with Chicago coming to town. Metz, I watched the man. I watched him close after he told me that. When he turns that ankle just so, his face twists all up in pain. The man is hurt and no one knows it but you and me!"
Metz's face was red with excitement. Then it seemed to fade.
"What if he gets better?" he said.
"Metz, believe me, I know about this kind of thing. The man is hurt and he's not getting better by Friday night."
Metz sat for a while, then drained his beer and signaled the waitress to bring him a second one.
After the beer arrived, Metz said, "So what are you gonna do about it?"
"I want you to put some money on the Bulls for me."
"Man, that's not like you. This thing smells bad even to me."
"I know," Hunter said quickly, "it's crazy, but I was thinking about it. What the hell? It's no big deal. It's a little edge I got from being at the right place at the right time. It's too crazy, it's like this roll I've been on lately, like nothing can go wrong for me."
Metz nodded, "You got that right."
"So, you'll put the bet down?" Hunter said.
"OK," Metz said with a shrug. "You know I will. How much?"
Hunter leaned in again.
Ten large."
"You don't mean ten large," Metz said. "Ten large isn't ten hundred dollar bills. Large means a thousand."
"I mean ten large," Hunter said.
'Ten thousand?"
'Ten thousand."
Metz let out a low whistle between his teeth. "Jesus, Hunter, Rachel will kill you if you lose ten thousand dollars. Then she'll kill me! Where do you come off betting that much?"
It was Hunter's turn to take a long drink. "First of all ... I know I'm gonna win. Second, my contract this year is so damn big that ten grand is looking like pocket change to me."
"So they're gonna come through and pay you, huh?" Metz asked.
"Carter already offered me over three million a year," Hunter said quietly.
"Holy shit! That's twice as much as I made in five years together! No wonder you don't give a shit how much you bet."
Metz gulped down half of the new mug.
"Now you got no problems getting the cash, right? In case you lose, I don't want these guys coming to break my legs or something, you know. They like cash. They don't want no checks."
"No problem," Hunter said. "Just make sure you place the bet tonight, just in case someone else finds out and the line changes." Hunter got up and tossed a ten on the table. "I gotta get home. Thanks, Metz. Let me know if you have any problems."
"Hey, no problem, buddy. These guys love me. I just hope you know what the hell you're doing."
"Don't worry about me, buddy," said Hunter, "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Vincent Mondolffi spent much of his time away from home in the private upstairs dining room of a small Italian restaurant in Brooklyn called Romans. Mondolffi owned the building but not the restaurant itself. Mardno owned the place. He catered to all of Mondolffi's needs and fed him for nothing. This meant staying open as long as Mondolffi needed, and making available a private room with its own phone. In return, Mardno got a good deal on the rent and he never had any problems with the liquor authority or with lawsuits from any customers who slipped on the floor.
Mondolffi was finishing up dinner with an old banker friend and a builder who put up houses in Brooklyn when Ears stepped into the room and announced that there was an urgent call downstairs. Mondolffi frowned, then rose from his chair, excused himself, and made his way down some back stairs, then through the kitchen to the pay phones. He was tired of all this shit, walking through kitchens, talking on pay phones. If he could just throw his nephew over to the feds and have them go away, he'd do it in a heartbeat. If it was only that simple. The minute Tony started going down, he'd drag everyone with him he possibly could. He knew Tony well enough to know that. He cursed himself. It was his own doing that Tony was as powerful as he now was. It was a weakness not to have had him killed. His brother-in-law would have killed Vincent, Jr., if the roles had been reversed. But viciousness killed his brother-in-law at an early age, that and greed.
Vincent Mondolffi stopped momentarily to watch a lobster reddening in a large boiling pot. He left the kitchen and picked up the pay phone.
"Hello."
"Are you ready for the vehicle descriptions?"
"Go."
The voice read through a series of vehicles, giving the license number of each one. Some were old, some new. Three were vans with commercial markings on them. Vincent Mondolffi listened carefully and committed the information to memory. He wondered why he bothered when Tony would simply write it down anyway. But it was one of the habits he knew had enabled him to survive so long, so he never broke it.
"Also," the voice continued, "your home and Tony's home are being tapped."
"When did this happen?" Vincent Mondolffi snapped.
'They got them on a couple of days."
"Why wasn't I informed?"
"I wasn't able to get you. I can no longer call you at home, and I was unable to reach you at the restaurant. The heat is getting rather intense, Mr. Mondolffi, and I do think some additional token of your appreciation for my allegiance through bad times as well as good would be nice. Do you think that would be all right?"
Mondolffi was silent for a moment. It never failed.
"How would you feel if I doubled our present arrangement?" he said finally.
"I think that's very generous, Mr. Mondolffi. I'll look for the package."
"I'm sure you will. And something else ... I want to know the minute my nephew is compromised in any way. If he's going to take a fall, I want to know about it before it happens. Can that be done?"
Vincent Mondolffi would tell this to no one, but in his mind he had made plans to have Tony eliminated the moment he compromised the family. Tony was a survivor, not a romantic. Loyalty and ho
nor were lost ideas on a man like that.
"How could I refuse in the face of your generosity?" came the response over the phone.
"Good."
Vincent Mondolffi hung up the phone and turned to Ears.
"Get Tony over here," he said, "but don't call him. Go get him. I'm going back to finish with those two upstairs, then I'll have a drink. Tell him I expect him to be here by the time I have my coffee."
Chapter 11
It's M-17. He says he won't place a bet with anyone but you, Jimmy."
Jimmy the Squid took the phone from Carl, one of his thick-necked underlings.
"Whadya want?" he said rudely. He didn't have time to talk personally with small fries, especially small fries who were up on him. Jimmy was bound to a wheelchair. His pallid skin and clammy hands had earned him his name even before the "accident," as he called it. He was a surly man in his mid-thirties who had taken a bullet in the back in a shoot-out between the Mondolffis and the Capozzas back in 1979. Like anyone who had fallen in the service of the family, he was well taken care of. He was made and eventually given the responsibility of handling all of the Mondolffis' action in the "Five Towns" just east of Queens. He got a thirty percent take on everything. This enabled him to have a retinue of five or six thugs to do his constant bidding. Carl was his favorite, and despite being dim-witted at times, he showed promise. Jimmy had hopes for Carl.
'Jimmy, this is M-17."
"Yeah, I know who you are, Metz. Cut the shit and tell me what the hell you want that you couldn't say to no one but me."
"I want to put some money on Friday night's Bulls game."
"OK, the line's New York by one. I got heavy action on the Knicks this week, so I can only give you one."
"I'll take Chicago."
"I'm happy for you, Metz. Now tell me what your fucking bet is so I can get back to picking my ass."
"Can I bet ten thousand, Jimmy? On Chicago?" came Metz's voice tentatively.
