Titans

by Tim Green

  But his concern was with finding Metz, so he forgot about it and called information to get the number for U. S. Tobacco in Syracuse. There was no such listing. He called the corporate offices in New York, and in anticipation of the sarcasm and rudeness that were sure to come, Hunter started throwing his name around. He had to talk a little football, but he got results. Seven phone calls later, he was dialing Metz's office upstate.

  "Heeell-o, U. S. Tobacco," Metz answered cheerfully.

  "Metz, it's me, Hunter."

  Metz was quiet, figuring just how to proceed.

  "Hi, how ya doing, Hunt?" Metz said cautiously. "Everything OK?"

  Hunter snorted and said, "Yeah, fine. Listen, I need the name and number of the guy you used to place our bets with."

  "Wow! You starting back up?" Metz said enthusiastically.

  "No," Hunter said flatly. "I just need to get a message to someone."

  "Oh. Well, I got it here in my book. Just give a minute to find it."

  Hunter waited silently. He could hear Metz digging through drawers and then flipping through his book.

  "So how's it going up there," Hunter said to fill the silence.

  "Oh, great!" Metz said excitedly, glad for his old friend's concern. "You'd love it up here. No crime, no smog, pretty scenery. Here it is! Jimmy the Squid. It was under B for betting. That's why I couldn't find it, but here it is."

  Metz gave Hunter the number.

  "Thanks, Metz," Hunter said. "Well, I gotta go. I hope everything goes well for you up there."

  "Hey, Hunt," Metz said quickly, "I'm sorry, man. I'm really sorry. I never meant anything bad to happen. I didn't even think about betting on your game, about what it could do. I--I know it was wrong, I just didn't think. I'm sorry."

  "Yeah, Metz," Hunter said, his voice sounding suddenly tired. "Well, shit happens."

  Later that same morning, on the upper east side of Manhattan, Tony Rizzo was shaving in his bathroom. He whistled as he worked. In fact, he had been whistling since the alarm went off at ten. Camille had been unable to get back to sleep, and since Tony seemed to be in such a good mood, she decided to break their recently established pattern of silence.

  "Got something important today?" Camille asked tentatively.

  Tony popped his head into the doorway, the surprise in his face showing between patches of shaving cream.

  "Yeah," he said almost pleasantly, "I do. How'd you know?"

  "Oh, the whistling, I guess."

  "Was I whistling?" Tony said, furrowing his brow. "Yeah, I guess so."

  Cook had been in his office since six A. M. He hadn't slept well the night before and decided to go in to work early rather than fight it. Besides, he was behind in his paperwork and wanted to keep his i's dotted and his t's crossed until he broke the Tony Rizzo case. The way things looked from his viewpoint, he was going to be keeping his office running in New York for a while. It would probably be at least six months before he'd have all the loose ends tied up on the Mondolffi family, maybe more. But he had the feeling that once he had Tony Rizzo, things would start to move. He knew Rizzo was the only one who mattered in Rizzo's life and that he would turn on others in a heartbeat. Once the organization started to crumble, Cook was certain that someone would drop the dime on Tony's murder of the Fat Man. Then he could put Tony away for good.

  At eight-thirty, Cook had a meeting with Duffy and Marrow. They were updating him on the progress of the investigation. The news was all bad, but Cook maintained an even expression as he listened.

  He could hear the undertones of both of these men. Their hearts were no longer in it. No real progress had been made and the writing was on the wall. Cook knew they were backpedaling, preparing for the inevitable disbanding of the task force, probably spending more hours on making calls around inside the Bureau to land a new assignment than concentrating on the Mondolffis. Cook really couldn't blame them, and he was tempted to tell them that he was going to save the day in the eleventh hour. Cook hated the thought that these men considered the project a failure.

  But discipline and secrecy had taken him this far and he wasn't about to take any chances by letting the cat out of the bag. He said little during the meeting. When it was over, he told them he would not be around for a few days. "I've got some things I'm working on that are going to keep me away."

  By ten, Cook had plowed through a mound of paperwork and had the essential things in order. He worked through lunch and by late afternoon had composed a seven-page report outlining the situation he had with Hunter Logan and where it fit into the plan to bring down Tony Rizzo. He would send a copy of the report to Zulaff in Washington. He knew it would give him as much time as he needed to get the job done. Cook congratulated himself on a good morning's work. He proofread the report and went to see Duffy about the electronic equipment needed to wire Hunter Logan. On his way down the hall he bumped into Duncan Fellows and another man whom Cook didn't recognize.

  "Hello, sir," Cook said, caught completely off guard.

  Fellows smirked and said, "Cook, this is Marty Lazinski. Marty is doing an inventory of all the equipment we've got here to see what we can salvage and what we've got to sell. Isn't that what you do when we close down an office, Marty? Liquidate?"

  Cook gave his boss a blank look. Fellows was obviously getting a jump on things by taking the preliminary preparations needed to close down his operation, and he was clearly enjoying it. Cook gritted his teeth. Fellows wasn't making the slightest effort to conceal his delight.

  "By the way, Cook, while you're out of your office, maybe it would be a good time for Marty to look at your desk. I told him he could have it, if he liked it."

  This was too much for Cook.

  Tm glad you're here, sir," Cook said, offering a genuine smile of his own. "I need to talk with you about something very important."

  Fellows assumed a haughty air of indifference and chuckled lightly as he followed Cook back down the hall and into his office.

  Tm sorry, Marty," Cook said, gently closing the door on the accountant. 'This will only take a minute."

  Fellows winked knowingly at his sidekick and said, I'll be right out, Marty."

  Cook closed the door and went around behind his desk.

  "So, wondering what the Bureau holds for you next, Cook? Too bad you can't take this view with you," Fellows said, gazing out through the canyon of buildings toward the Hudson River in the background.

  "Sit down, sir," Cook said, still smiling.

  "I really don't have time, Cook," Fellows huffed. "Marty and I want to finish up here. We've got a tee time at four."

  "I think after you take a look at this you'll be able to get out to the driving range in plenty of time. That is what you do, isn't it? Go to the driving range when you've got extra time on your hands?"

  Cook flipped his report to Zulaff across the desk. Fellows picked it up and began to read. Cooked watched as his superior's face turned red, then white. Cook was delighted. The sick look on Fellows's face only confirmed how much the man had been gloating over what he'd assumed was Cook's failure.

  "I told you none of this cowboy stuff on your own, Cook!" Fellows tried to sound stern, but the report had taken the wind out of his sails and his words came out sounding more like a protest. Both men knew that Cook's ends justified the means. The bottom line was simple: Cook was going to bring down Tony Rizzo, and possibly the entire Mondolffi organization.

  "I want to see the rest of this file," Fellows said, looking as though he had been punched in the stomach.

  Cook's bright smile lit the room. "I'll be happy to accommodate you, sir," he said, "when I get it all together. It's not here right now. I've been doing some work at home ... on my own time."

  Fellows said nothing. He turned and started for the door.

  "Excuse me, sir," Cook said, rising to cut him off and lifting the report gently from his hands, "but I'm sending this by courier to Mr. Zulaff, eyes only, of course. But," Cook added, opening the door for his bo
ss and bowing sarcastically, "I thought you might like a peek at it first... to save you and Marty the trouble."

  Tony Rizzo knew things were going as good as he'd hoped when he walked into the suite at the Waldorf and there were four places set at the dining room table for lunch instead of just two. Mark Ianuzzo and Sal Gamone were already sitting when Meeker ushered him into the suite.

  Tony!" Mark Ianuzzo greeted him warmly. "Sit down. We were waiting for you."

  Tony knew better than to begin the discussion with business. Ianuzzo and Gamone would let him know when the time was right, probably after the espresso was served. The four of them casually discussed politics, taxes, and the fate of the country's economy under the new administration. When the table was cleared and the room emptied of all except themselves, talk turned to Hunter Logan.

  "We're very impressed," Sal Gamone said. "You should know that up front, Tony. Especially the way you got Logan back on the field after they'd pulled him. That showed us that not only have you come upon a great opportunity, but you've thought over every angle carefully. We appreciate the fact that you're willing to share this opportunity with us."

  "We know that times are uncertain," said Ianuzzo. "We understand that sometimes things happen to people at the top of any organization and . . . they have to be replaced. Naturally, when the time is right, we'd like to work closer with you."

  "Before we can assure you of our complete cooperation," Gamone broke in, "we would like to see you take care of the upcoming Giants-Titans game, as a guarantee. All of us will be able to make the kind of money on that game that will help us to soften the rough times ahead.

  "After that," Gamone continued, "whatever happens, you can count on our friendship."

  "We would like to mention to you now that we'd also like to be involved in another one or two of these games before the end of the season," said Ianuzzo. "And we were thinking that if the Titans could make it to the Super Bowl again, it would be the first time anyone could control the outcome. You can imagine the possibilities."

  "Of course, we'll have to make sure we don't let Logan lose too many to keep them out of it in the first place," said Gamone. "So?"

  Both men looked at Tony. He couldn't hide his smile.

  He nodded and said, "I can give you the Giants game, and one or two more after that. It's no problem at all. The idea about the Super Bowl is something I hadn't thought of. I like it. And if they get in, we can make history."

  Tony saw that these men were pleased, though not in the same way he was. He liked the idea because it would put him into the forefront of organizations like theirs around the world. It could mean more power. They liked it because it would mean an incredible amount of money. Every school teacher, businessman, factory worker, and secretary in the country bet on the Super Bowl. Everyone. No one was exempt from putting action on the show.

  Tony took a final sip of his coffee and, in order not to overstay his welcome, rose to leave. He appreciated the fact that these men had sat down with him to eat. It meant he was almost an equal. Two things remained for him to do. First, he had to fix the Titans-Giants game. Second, his uncle had to meet with what Ianuzzo had called "uncertain" times. Both were well within his grasp. He could see the peak of the mountain, and all that remained was one last sprint to the top. Of course, if he failed in either one of these, he would be cast down, probably to his death. That, however, was not even a consideration. Tony Rizzo believed in his own destiny.

  Chapter 33

  Cook decided to take Natasha and Esther out for dinner to celebrate. Esther could not remember the last time she'd seen him so jubilant. Natasha sensed the difference in him, too, and during their cab ride down to the Village, took advantage of his good mood to show off some Spanish words she had learned. She explained that Alejandro had taught the words to her and Lucy during recess so they could greet their teacher, who was also Hispanic, in her own language tomorrow morning.

  "Ready?" she asked, concentrating to remember the exact phrase.

  Cook smiled affectionately at her and nodded.

  "Vese mi cula!" she barked proudly, smiling from ear to ear.

  Cook's face sunk. The cab driver was looking back in the rearview mirror, smirking and searching for a glimpse of the little girl. Cook scowled at the driver and glanced at Esther. She remained, as always, passively staring straight ahead.

  "What, Daddy?" Natasha asked, sensing her father's disapproval.

  "Don't say that, Natasha," he said in a sterner tone of voice than he'd intended.

  "Why not? Good morning is a nice thing," she argued back.

  "I said no!" Cook bellowed in a voice that got even Esther's attention.

  Tears welled in Natasha's eyes, and her lower lip began to tremble. Cook watched her fight back the tears. It reminded him so much of her mother that he was lost for a moment in his own world.

  Esther broke his reverie by staring at him with as much malice as she could muster.

  "No, honey, I didn't mean to yell," Cook said softly, reaching out to stroke his daughter's cheek, "but those words aren't nice. They-- they don't mean good morning, they mean something not nice."

  Cook realized how silly he sounded, talking about "not nice" in the kind of world they lived in. He reflected that his daughter probably heard a lot worse every day, at school, on TV . . .

  "It means 'kiss my butt,'" he told her suddenly. "You don't want to say that to your teacher."

  Natasha giggled at his words. He never spoke like that. Cook scowled at her. "OK?" he said.

  Natasha nodded, trying her best not to keep giggling. Cook could see that even Esther was amused. He turned his attention to the people going by on the sidewalk. The practical joke Alejandro had attempted to play on his daughter was no big deal. He was sure he'd done worse in his day. But it reminded him that things were not always as they seemed. Suddenly, he was no longer in a celebrating mood. The case was not wrapped up yet. He remembered Tommy Keel. The thought of the boy and his girlfriend lying there in the kid's apartment with their heads blown open like summer melons took Cook's appetite away. As he knew it might be the last time for a while that he would see his family like this, he did his best to be pleasant and cheerful during dinner. But Esther and Natasha were acutely aware that although Cook was there, his mind was already working far away.

  The dinner put Cook behind schedule. He had wanted to be at Logan's house by nine, but it was nine-fifteen before he even got off the Nassau Expressway in the midst of the Five Towns. The weather had turned cooler, so Cook had the windows up until he drove past the entrance of Hewlett Harbor. He wanted to be alert to everything around him as he drove through Logan's neighborhood. He went past the front of the house. The black Town Car was parked just past the driveway, on the other side of the road. It sat right on the boundary line between two homes so that each neighbor would think the Town Car had something to do with the guy next door. It was a good choice of car, too, common and unassuming.

  Cook never slowed as he passed. He knew he'd learn nothing and only give himself away if he did. His only purpose was to make sure that whoever was watching the house was actually in the car. The last thing he needed was to bump into some guy of Rizzo's out in the shrubbery.

  He wound his way through the back roads of the Harbor to the street that would allow him to access Logan's house from the back. He parked in the same manner that Rizzo's man had, on the boundary between two homes. He got out of his car and slung the bag with the wire in it over his shoulder, then worked his way through some lawns and shrubbery until he came into a grove of towering old trees that marked the end of the Logan property. He peered up the slight rise, past the playground, past the pool, and into the warm yellow light of the house. He could see Hunter peering out of the bay window in front of the kitchen table where they'd sat last night.

  Cook cast a glance around quickly, taking in the dark outlines of the enormous neighboring homes that sat like dark shrines, silhouetted against the moonlit night sky. H
e exhaled slowly and started to walk toward the house. He collected his thoughts for the plan he was about to unfold and wondered if Hunter had had any success with getting the number of the bookie.

  Hunter shook Cook's hand at the door, actually stepping out into the night to greet the agent.

  "Agent Cook," Hunter said.

  'Just Cook, call me Cook."

  Cook stepped into the house and saw that Rachel was waiting for them at the kitchen table. She had a full pot of coffee in a silver urn and a crystal cake plate covered with delicious-looking baked goods laid out on the table. The sweet smells filled Cook's nostrils. He gave Rachel a smile and they exchanged pleasantries. The food seemed superfluous. Here Cook was, about to unfold a plan that could put Hunter's life on the line, and the table was laid out as if a tea party were about to begin.

  "Can I get you something to drink?" Rachel asked. "I made coffee."

  "Coffee would be great," Cook said, sitting in the same chair he sat in the night before.

  "Did you get the number?" Cook asked Hunter.

  "Yes, I tracked Metz down in Syracuse. He still had it. The guy's name is Jimmy. Metz said it was Jimmy the Squid."

  Cook nodded and took a sip from the mug Rachel handed him.

  "He' s one of Tony's soldiers," Cook said. "He runs the numbers in the Five Towns for the Mondolffis, got shot up a few years back and he's been in a wheelchair ever since. Can you call him any time tomorrow?"

  "Yes," Hunter said, "we break for a half hour at lunch."

  "Good," Cook said. "Give Jimmy a call and tell him who you are. Tell him that you need to get a message to Tony Rizzo and that it's important you speak to Tony right away. Tell him that you won't talk to anyone but Tony. Tell him that Tony will be mad if he doesn't get the message right away. That'll insure he calls Tony immediately. Nobody wants to get Tony mad, especially one of his henchmen."

  Cook picked his bag off the floor and took out the wire. There was a small microphone with a peel-off back that Cook told Hunter to stick to the inside of his shirt near the collar. A thin wire connected the mike to a small transmitting pack that Hunter could strap around his waist inside his pants. The pack was only two by three inches and a half inch thick.