Titans

by Tim Green

  "So, Ma," he said, composing his features and wiping his mouth carefully so as not to show any anxiety, "how's Henry?"

  The question jarred Hunter's mother in a way that let him know she had expected it but hoped that it would never come.

  "Oh, he's fine," she said lightly.

  Hunter nodded. "Good," he said quietly, as if he were ready to move on to the subject of cows.

  "How's his job?" he asked suddenly, apparently unable to help himself.

  Hunter saw his mother's face cloud over and then brighten as if with a new idea. "Well, he's not at the gas station right now, but he's got some good opportunities," she added quickly.

  Hunter leaned over to his mother and said in a low voice, "Ma, do you guys need some money?"

  Hunter's mother looked across the empty plates at his sister and started to cry quietly. Then, before anyone could say or do anything, she jumped up from the table and rushed off to the ladies' room. Julia followed. Hunter looked at Freddy, whose down-turned face was red.

  "Freddy," Hunter said, "what the hell is going on? Come on Freddy, talk to me."

  Freddy reluctantly looked up and met Hunter's eyes. 'Things is kinda tough on everyone, Hunter," he said as sheepishly as a two-hundred-fifty-pound farmer could.

  "Meaning what?"

  "Well . . . Julia and I, we do what we can for your ma and Henry, but, well, even with my prize bull... well, we ain't on no food stamps anyhow," Freddy said with a note of defiance.

  In that one proud statement Hunter saw how bad things were for his family. They were not the kind of people to take hand-outs. They wouldn't stand in a welfare line. They wouldn't buy their food with stamps, even if everyone around them was calling it OK That's the way they were. Maybe for the first time, Hunter felt the great distance that really separated him from his family. In his world the dilemma was how to hang on to the beach house; in theirs, it was whether or not they would eat and be warm through the winter, or whether the bank was going to come in and take their land away. It was happening all over America. It was the rule now rather than the exception. It was the working people who were suffering, the farmers, the factory workers, the laborers.

  Hunter looked at his Rolex. He had only twenty minutes before his meeting. He looked at the hallway where the bathrooms were and supposed his mother would be in there a long time. She wouldn't want to face him now anyway, and it would be easier for her to take what he was leaving if she didn't have to thank him. Hunter pulled his wallet from his back pocket, flagged down their waitress, asked her for a pen, and handed her his gold card to take care of dinner. Then, from an inner fold in the alligator hide, he extracted a folded check. He made it out for the sum of fifty thousand dollars and handed it across the table to Freddy.

  "Freddy," Hunter said in a serious tone. "Freddy!"

  Freddy finally looked up from the check, his mouth still agape.

  'This is between me and you, Freddy," Hunter said, then waited until Freddy nodded. "You know Lance Anderson, the man who runs that River Savings Bank in town?"

  Freddy nodded again. The waitress returned with Hunter's credit card, and he signed the bill before speaking again.

  "You give this check to Mom and tell her to take it down to Lance Anderson and have him put it into something safe that'll kick out some good interest. You tell her to take that money and use it for all of you whenever she needs it. You tell her . . . you tell her to keep it, Freddy. You tell her it's the right thing to do. It's what she should do, that I'd be hurt bad if she didn't use it. Will you tell her?"

  Freddy nodded for a third time, and Hunter rose, tossing his napkin on the table and taking one last look toward the rest rooms.

  "Bye, Freddy," Hunter said, shaking his brother-in-law's callused hand. "If I don't see you all tomorrow, I'll know you had to get back in a hurry. Thank Julia and Ma for coming to see me. Tell them I'll win this one tomorrow just for them."

  Then without another word, Hunter hustled himself out to the street and made his way back to the hotel for the team meeting.

  Rachel had a large bowl of popcorn and a large ice bucket filled with four Diet Cokes in front of her on the coffee table. The security system was turned on. The phone was pulled across the room from the end table and was set on the table next to the supplies. Sara sat next to her on the couch, and together they settled down to watch the game. Rachel liked to have everything right there so she didn't miss a moment of the game. She had never been a football fan. In fact, it was Hunter who'd taught her the game. When she finally knew what was going on, she realized what she'd been missing all these years. It was the most visceral and exciting sport she'd ever seen, all the more because her husband was the focus of everyone's attention and usually the star of the game. To her every game was an emotionally wrenching experience, and although it was Hunter who had the rights to exhaustion the night after a game, she was also glad to finally rest her head following an afternoon of cheering, hollering, and anxiety over whether or not the Titans would prevail.

  On this day, in the city of Cleveland six hundred miles away, her husband shone as brightly as in any game he had ever played. The field seemed to belong to Hunter. He spent the afternoon directing receivers down field, avoiding swarms of defending Browns, and when all else failed, he would simply run the ball like a deer, dodging, leaping, and accelerating with a grace that was almost poetic. Rachel had seen enough football to know that on this day, everything was right for Hunter. He could do no wrong. At one point, down near the Titans' end zone, he threw a pass that was tipped up by a defender. Instead of watching it fall to the ground, Hunter, to the amazement of everyone including the Cleveland Browns players, dashed across the line of scrimmage and caught what was technically his own pass. Then he sidestepped a linebacker, lowered his shoulder, and ran over the Browns free safety to score a touchdown. The announcers roared with praise. The thrill of it all made Rachel forget the bigger problems in their life.

  "I can't remember the last time I've seen a football player play such an inspired game," Bob Costas gushed from the announcers' booth. "Hunter Logan can do no wrong! It's like his whole life is charmed, and he's just daring someone out there to try to stop him!"

  There was more, but Rachel stopped hearing it. Suddenly she was cold.

  "What's wrong, Mommy?" Sara asked, sensing her mother stiffen beside her.

  Rachel gave her daughter a startled look, as though she had forgotten Sara was there at all.

  "Nothing, dear," Rachel said, "nothing at all."

  Ellis Cook sat nervously pulling at his tie. He was waiting outside Duncan Fellows's office. He supposed he could live without the Bureau, the stuffy hierarchy of rank, the plush decor that was so much wasted taxpayers' money. Cook smiled to himself. He didn't begrudge those above him the finer things in life. All he wanted was his fair crack at getting a taste of the same. Well, no one in their right mind could say Cook wasn't getting the chance. He thought of all the things he could say to Zulaff to buy more time. Something was rotten in his group, that was for sure. But just how rotten was uncertain. If he played that card, he might look like a whiner. No, Cook would just play it straight and hope Zulaff would give him just a little more. Damn, it bothered him just being there now. He should be out tailing Rizzo.

  But on the other side of that door were Fellows and Miles Zulaff, probably discussing just what Cook's future held. Cook wondered how Fellows was playing it in there. He knew Fellows wanted to be rid of him, if for no other reason than the man flat-out didn't like him. But just how far Fellows was willing to go remained to be seen. The way things were going, Cook suspected that Fellows would have to do little more than stand back and watch. The Bureau liked results, and it liked them fast. The director was a sworn enemy of organized crime. It was his pet project. Cook, it appeared, had killed the pet.

  Finally Fellows's secretary was buzzed. She picked up the phone, listened, and then said to Cook, "You can go in now, Agent Cook."

  Cook stood up and s
traightened his de one last time, then marched through the heavy oak door to meet his destiny. The two senior men were sitting at one end of the conference table, where Fellows held his Saturday meetings. Zulaff stood to shake Cook's hand. Fellows followed cue, but only as a perfunctory gesture.

  "Sit down, sit down," Zulaff said warmly.

  Cook hadn't had much contact with Miles Zulaff before, even though it was he who had been directly responsible for selecting Cook to head up his task force. Cook wondered whether Zulaff might not want to try to distance himself from the whole task force idea if it appeared that Cook was going to fail. Zulaff, however, seemed quite at ease with Cook.

  "I understand things have been a little slow," Zulaff said in an even and easy way.

  Cook nodded and said, "We've had some setbacks, sir, and the climate is tough right now."

  "I thought things were ripe with Tony Rizzo. Isn't that why you were so in favor of assailing the Mondolffi organization? But now I see from this file," Zulaff said, tapping the file that lay open in front of him, "that you've recently suspended observation of Rizzo altogether."

  That's right, sir," Cook said, trying to wet the inside of his mouth. "We just weren't getting anywhere at all with Rizzo. We're pretty sure he was on to us. A couple of times he shook our tail, and the conversations he did have on his private phones were either personal or spoken in code."

  Zulaff raised an eyebrow and said, "Any ideas on why that might be?"

  "I can't say for certain, sir, so I'd rather not make any rash speculations. But in my opinion it was clear that Tony Rizzo was simply waiting us out. When he did have to make a move, he was able to lose us using intricate and well-planned deceptions. It wasn't just chance when we lost him."

  Zulaff nodded and seemed to consider what Cook was saying.

  "I can get to these people if you can give me more time, sir," Cook said, breaking the silence. "I'm sure if you can give me until the end of the year, I can give you something concrete."

  Zulaff looked at Fellows. Cook couldn't read his immediate supervisor's expression, but he seemed to be communicating something silently to Zulaff.

  "Well," Zulaff said, "I'll be candid with you, Cook. There are a lot of people who think this has been one big bomb."

  Cook glanced at Fellows, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  "The Bureau hasn't operated like this before, as you know," Zulaff continued. 'This is an experiment, and it seems that it's coming up short. I'll give you until the first of November, but no more. With the resources we've put into this, it just doesn't make sense to keep going without making even the slightest inroad. If we don't have something by then, I'm closing you down."

  "I think that even by then I'll have something for you, sir," Cook said optimistically.

  "I hope so, Cook," said Zulaff. "Believe me, I hope so."

  Chapter 28

  It was ten days before Scott Meeker could arrange the meeting with Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone. Meeker was eager to help Tony when he learned that the young capo regime was going to deliver an NFL game to him. Besides being owner of The Star casino, Meeker was a notorious gambler, and the thought of getting in on a fixed game and an easy quarter million, his typical Sunday bet, was too much to pass up. Also, he was a man who knew the underworld as well as anyone. He knew that Tony Rizzo's star was on the rise, and a favor right now could be something of great value in the future.

  The meeting was arranged in a suite at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel. Tony arrived with Angelo and Carl at five minutes to twelve. Meeker was waiting for them. He was a large man and easy to spot. He wore a red jacket over a beige shirt and pants. His hairpiece was jet black to match the thin mustache that was a lonely line in the middle of a reddened face. Heavy gold bracelets and chains hung from the man like a pro athlete. His appearance was almost comical, and Tony would have laughed if not for Meeker's influence and usefulness.

  'Tony!" Meeker said with a beaming smile and an outstretched, bejeweled hand.

  Tony shook the fat man's soft, tiny hand and smiled thinly.

  "Angelo! Good to see you," Meeker said to Quatrini.

  This is Carl," Angelo said. "Carl Lutz."

  Meeker nodded and said to Tony, "I'm sorry, these guys will have to wait for you down here."

  Tony shrugged and pointed his men toward the bar. I'll be down," he said to them.

  This was what he had expected. He was not Ianuzzo's or Gamone's equal. He wasn't the head of his family. They would each have a man with them at the meeting, but not him. He would go into their presence unprotected and unarmed. At the door he was frisked by two men. A big lug with thick, shaded glasses took his Beretta from him while a tall, lean man with an ugly scar across his angry face ran his hands over Tony's body. Meeker smiled apologetically while the frisking went on, but Tony was unmoved. It was the way things were. One day soon he would be above this sort of treatment. The big lug motioned him into the dining room where an elaborate lunch had been laid out for the four men. Both Ianuzzo and Gamone remained seated as Tony entered. He could see from the gnarled black shells stacked on their plates that they had already begun working on the large bowl filled with crushed ice and oysters on the half shell. They did, however, shake hands and greet him warmly.

  'Tony," said Gamone, a plain-looking man in his mid-sixties, sporting a dab of bloodred cocktail sauce in the corner of his mouth, "it's good to see you. When was the last time? Your cousin's graduation party?"

  Tony nodded. His uncle had thrown a spectacular affair for Vincent, Jr., upon his graduation from Wharton. All the most important men in the city had been invited. This reference to his family made Tony uneasy.

  "Sit down, Tony," Ianuzzo said, waving to a chair at the end of the table. He, too, was an unremarkable character, small in stature, handsome and dark-skinned, dressed in a simple gray three-piece suit that one would expect to see on an older man like Gamone. Ianuzzo was only just past forty. "Sit down and eat with us. We can talk after we eat."

  Tony sat at one end of the table and Meeker placed himself on the other end, nearest the two capos. The effect was to isolate Tony in a subtle way. What was said during that lunch Tony would never remember. He could think of nothing but the proposal he was about to make to these men, and whether or not it would suffice in convincing them to ignore the protocol that normally dictated they inform his uncle of his activities. Finally there was espresso and a plate of fruit. The uniformed waiters from the hotel staff were cleared out, and the two bodyguards closed the doors to the dining room as they themselves left.

  "So, Tony," Sal Gamone said after stirring and sipping his hot drink, "what can we do for you?"

  "It's what I want to do for you, Mr. Gamone," Tony said, reaching for his water glass and hoping the slight shake in his hand was not noticeable. Both men met this statement with silent stares.

  "I simply have something to offer that I believe can benefit all of us," Tony continued, "without harming each other in any way. I--I just think it is good practice to share our fortunes with good friends around us."

  Both men nodded as though this certainly was a noble idea.

  "What is it you have for us?" the younger capo said.

  Encouraged, Tony said, "I have the ability to determine the outcome of some professional football games. I know both of you have gambling interests just as we do. It's as simple as adjusting the line to unbalance the books. I've made over four million dollars so far."

  Tony let that sink in. He watched as the two older men digested what he'd said. They were quiet for several minutes, each one calculating in his mind the risks and benefits of proceeding. Meeker sat between them, flushed and perspiring lightly from his vigorous assault on the food only moments before. He smiled at Tony confidently. But then, he had nothing to lose and much to gain.

  "I'm concerned," Gamone said finally with a frown, "asrto why it is you are offering us this gift and not your uncle."

  Tony cleared his throat. He felt naked and vulnerable wit
hout his gun and wished he had it.

  "I, uh, my uncle and I have been having a series of disagreements lately as to just how the family business should operate. He has not been agreeable to mutually beneficial ventures with other families that I have suggested to him in the past. But I think that is the direction we must go yt(. I think cooperation will benefit us all, and ..."

  Tony stopped talking. These men didn't like talking. The less said the better, and he had probably already said more than was necessary.

  "What do you want in return from us?" Ianuzzo asked pointedly.

  "Beyond keeping this venture between the three of us," Tony paused, "I only seek your friendship."

  "Friendship is a big thing," Gamone said, sipping his espresso.

  Tony hesitated. Respect was good, but he'd shown enough of that to get his point across. Now he had to show some balls.

  "So is four million dollars," he said flatly.

  Both men scowled at this.

  'Tony, I think we need a few moments to consider what you've said," Gamone told him.

  Tony got up and let himself and Scott Meeker out before closing the large mahogany dining-room doors behind them. Together they went into the adjoining living room and sat down. Tony remained calm on the outside in a way that would have impressed the two men in the other room, but his mind was reeling. He had just put himself at the mercy of these two men. If they disclosed to his uncle what he was up to, it would be the end. He didn't have the strength to fight his uncle. Even most of his own soldiers would side against him in a battle like that. Even, he suspected, Angelo. Although he spent most of his time with Tony and was extremely loyal, Angelo had some old-fashioned notions about the family. He would never go against Tony's uncle.

  If his uncle died, Tony knew he could count on Angelo in the struggle for control of the family. But to take on the existing capo was tantamount to suicide and everyone knew it. The only way Tony could take over the family was to hit his uncle before he knew what was happening. His recent success, which had left his uncle greatly pleased, would give Tony the advantage of surprise. But once his uncle was killed, the other families would traditionally go to war with the usurper. Ianuzzo and Gamone could change that.