Dudley Mack avoided real estate entanglements. A seventh-generation Staten Islander, he loved the place. “There’s enough honest crooked money to be made,” he once told Scarne. “I want to be able to sleep at night.”
The Mack clan had started out in the funeral business in the 1890’s. But when Dudley took over he sold the two parlors they owned in declining drug-infested neighborhoods. As he put it, “You don’t go to a funeral home to get killed; besides there was never enough parking.” He opened up newer funeral homes in safer neighborhoods and eventually merged with the Sambuca Home for Funerals. The Macks and Sambucas had long been close. After bloody confrontations in the early part of the 20th Century between the first Italian immigrants and the more established Irish, truce evolved into trust. In the handful of local public and parochial high schools, loyalty to teams soon outweighed loyalty to nationality. Many a refrigerator-sized Sambuca opened a hole in the line to running backs named Mack at Curtis or St. Peter’s. Lifelong bonds formed. It was the same for other families. Then came the war. The guy who saved you on Iwo Jima was no longer a Mick or a Dago. He was your Mick and your Dago. And while boys loved their sisters they lusted after their friends’ sisters. Wedding bells united families that had once shot each at other.
Dudley Mack branched out into nursing homes and hospitals (“not much of a stretch”) and made a fortune, which he plowed into a city-wide string of massage parlors and hot sheet motels. (“I get them coming and going.”) His reputation for a ruthless integrity made him a power broker. The Italian mob, weakened by RICO prosecutions facilitated by the propensity to talk into every listening device the Feds could plant, was fighting a losing battle with Russian gangsters who saw the Island as the Promised Land. (“The Ruskies have been landlocked so long they can’t believe they can drown people in every direction.”) Mack knew there was money to be made in a competitive environment. He financed the Italians to keep them in the game and formed joint ventures with the Russians. The local District Attorney, by Island tradition Irish, concentrated on drunk drivers and his golf game and left everyone else alone.
The sliding door opened and a deep voice rumbled, “Jake, come on in. I think they’re gonna let us eat at the table for a change.”
He looked up and smiled at Bobo Sambuca, who filled the entire doorway.
***
Bobo, one of many Sambuca nephews, wasn’t cut out for the funeral business. He tried his best but after a widow fainted when he hefted a casket to his shoulder and the other pallbearers came off the ground, Dudley found him a spot in the inhospitality end of his organization. He excelled as a bouncer in Mack’s toughest bars. Mack claimed he’d leave his own bar if Bobo insisted. But one night he bounced too hard and killed a biker who mistakenly equated tattoos with toughness. Bobo jumped his bond and Mack asked Scarne, then with the Manhattan DA’s office, to find him before the cops did.
“Bring the dumb shit back in one piece. He’s not a bad guy. All he did was throw the loudmouth out the door, which unfortunately was locked. Cracked his skull like a quail’s egg. I’m gonna put a sign up. ‘Helmet law applies inside the premises, too!’”
“Why don’t you let the local cops handle it? The D.A. won’t be thrilled about me stepping on their turf. O’Connor hates my guts.”
“Hell, I hated your guts and got over it. I squared it with O’Connor. He owed me one. Besides, Bobo’s a hothead and he hates Island cops. Thinks they’ve forgotten where they came from. They used to hang around with Bobo in the same gin mills. They’re pissed because he beat them in arm wrestling.”
“It wasn’t arm wrestling, Deadly. It was extortion. Bobo never lost. Just the weight of his damn arm was enough half the time. Hell, he took ten bucks from me every time I walked into the bar. It was like a cover charge.”
“Listen, Bobo might shoot any cops trying to bring him back. He probably won’t shoot you, you’re family. I’m sure we can get him off on second-degree manslaughter. He didn’t mean to kill the guy, who was an asshole by the way. He punched a waitress.”
So that’s how Scarne and a resigned Bobo Sambuca wound up on an early flight out of Las Vegas on September 11, 2001. Scarne had just nodded off when Bobo nudged him awake.
“Wake up Jake, something is wrong.”
A flight attendant raced up the aisle. The seat belt light flicked on and the captain asked all passengers to return to their seats as the plane banked sharply. What the hell!
A man on an Airfone in the next aisle said, “You’ve got to be shitting me.” He looked at Scarne. “They’re attacking New York and D.C.”
Before he could reply, Scarne noticed the flight attendant who had been on the intercom stride purposely toward him. She leaned down and whispered.
“You are a police officer, right? Can you come with me please?”
“What’s going on?”
She leaned down and whispered, “There have been several hijackings. They destroyed the World Trade Center. The captain is worried about some of the people on board. He wants everybody out of first class and his door guarded.” Her lips were trembling. “Can you do it? I’ll see if I can get help.”
“Don’t you worry,” Bobo said. “You ain’t gonna need anyone else. They’d just get in the way.” He let the blanket covering his hands slide to the floor. “Jake, take these fucking things off. Sorry, miss.”
Jake unhooked Bobo. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of the handcuffs.
“I ain’t no choir boy, honey, but I’m just what you need.”
“Follow me.”
She walked to the first class cabin and asked everyone to move to coach.
“These two police officers need this section.”
Sharp girl, Scarne thought. He looked at Bobo, who was grinning at his recent promotion. Some of the passengers had already heard of the attacks and were ready to follow any orders. Those that grumbled took one look at “officer” Bobo and became instantly docile. A few minutes later the attendant brought two off-duty Marines to sit in the first seats of coach. They looked in at Bobo, who nodded at them. They turned and started scanning the rest of their cabin. U.S. Marines know when their flank is secure. The flight was diverted to Indianapolis. The people the pilot was worried about proved harmless, or were rendered harmless by Bobo’s presence. By the time they landed, Scarne had gotten most of the details of the catastrophe and was anxious to call his secretary. At the time his office was at One Liberty Plaza, directly across from the Trade Center complex. Bobo was also frantic.
“My cousins work a boiler room in the North Tower. I hope they made it.”
Bobo wasn’t talking about a maintenance shop. It was an open secret that Mack and the Sambucas controlled a small brokerage house that specialized in pumping shares of companies that had no products, revenues, earnings or future. The boiler room also ran the biggest football pool in lower Manhattan. After landing, they jumped in a cab and headed into town. Scarne figured they’d have a better chance of renting a car outside the airport. They almost struck out. The clerk at the rental counter in the Indianapolis train station claimed all his cars were reserved. Fortunately for them (and unfortunately for him), he was of Middle Eastern extraction, and Bobo was having none of it. They left in a brand new Volvo, unlimited mileage.
On the ride out of town, Scarne got through to Maria Marquez, his secretary at the time.
“You’re gonna need a new office,” she began without preamble. Puerto Rican girls were tough once they brushed the dust off.
After 12 grueling hours, they arrived on Staten Island, where Scarne was supposed to deposit his “prisoner” at the 120th Precinct in St. George.
Bobo wasn’t happy. “I gotta see my family, Jake. Then I’m gonna go into the city and look for my cousins. You can’t turn me over.”
A sworn officer of the law, Scarne knew he couldn’t let Bobo go.
“Here’s my cell number. Check in with me every day. I’ll square it with the D.A. He’s got other things on his mind ri
ght now. But if I tell you to surrender, get back here. I’ll be in the city, too. I’m trusting you, Bobo.”
“Don’t worry, Jake. My word is good. And I’ll never forget this.”
It was, and he didn’t. Bobo spent a month at Ground Zero even after he learned that his cousins survived. He was worth four men. The D.A., who acted honorably for once, finally pulled the string and Bobo surrendered. His rescue efforts, attested to by dozens of firemen and cops, were acknowledged in his sentencing report. He did a year on an involuntary manslaughter plea.
At that, he got off easier than Scarne or Mack. They both enlisted, something neither of them let him forget.
***
As Scarne and Bobo walked into the dining room, Mack and his father were already seated at the huge table and, as usual, debating politics.
“Scumbags, all of them.”
“Well put, Dudley” George Mack said. “Very profound.” He smiled at Scarne. “Jake, there are more horses’ asses in this country than horses.”
“I recall you telling me that once or twice Mr. Mack. I could be wrong.”
That brought a gentle slap to the back of Scarne’s head from Patricia Mack, who was walking by carrying a large tray of lasagna, which she put down next to a round platter of antipasto. Jake found it curious that she served the antipasto and pasta together. He had mentioned it to her once. And only once.
Now she said, “You know George has a dozen more piquant sayings to go through before dessert. Might as well let him get them all out.”
Then, addressing her husband, she added, “And you shouldn’t call your own son a horse’s ass in front of company.”
“Jake’s not company. He’s family.”
“And truth is a defense,” Scarne added helpfully.
“What about Bobo?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Pat, I got the expression from old man Sambuca. And I wasn’t referring to Dudley. Besides, Bobo’s almost family from what I hear.”
“Oh, shit,” Bobo said. “Sorry, Mrs. Mack.”
“What a fine bunch of idiots,” she said. “Dig in. I got the antipasto from Stanzione’s. Think of it as your salad.” She shot a look at Jake. “The lasagna’s mine. The steaks will be ready in a minute. Girls, get the side dishes and the kids, not necessarily in that order. Bobo, open the wine.”
Most of the meal conversation revolved around the athletic prowess of the various Mack grandchildren produced by Laura and Alice and their ex-husbands. The marital record of the girls had for years provided cover for both Mack and Scarne when the subject of their own love lives was broached. Most of their kids were at the table. The extended clan, consisting of parents, stepparents, grandparents, in-laws (and a few outlaws), aunts, uncles, cousins and others usually made up the largest cheering section at any parish game. It also made for some very unhappy refs. After dinner, the youngsters headed to the game room. Scarne and Bobo helped the girls clean up
When he got back to the table, father and son were back talking politics.
“You weren’t always so cynical about things,” George Mack said. “Both you and Jake served your country.”
“I think he drugged me when we enlisted. Anyway, that was then. The people who run things now are a ferry ride away. Not that I give a rat’s ass. This is a great climate to make money. But it bothers my pal, Jake, here. He’s a romantic. Want to hear him recite the Gettysburg Address?”
“Put a sock in it,” Scarne said equably, pulling up a chair. Dudley’s war had also been short and brutish. He dealt with it by joking.
“No more politics,” Patricia Mack said sternly as she sat down, casting a worried glance at her son. She knew he and Jake didn’t talk about the war. “Or no coffee and dessert. So, Jake, how’s your love life. When are you going to get married?”
“Ma, give it a rest,” Laura said.
“You give it a rest. Jake’s getting long in the tooth to be catting around. I thought Italians were all about family and Sunday dinner.”
“How about them Knicks,” Bobo murmured.
“Mom, don’t be insulting,” Dudley said. “You’re stereotyping Jake. He’s part Indian. All he wants to do is get drunk, roam the prairie and rape white women, or maybe just women. Or is it buffalo, I never could get that straight.”
Pat Mack ignored him
“Oh, Jake knows how we feel about him. Bobo, too. There’s nothing wrong with keeping with your heritage. And I realize that this family hasn’t exactly produced poster children for the sacrament.”
Scarne didn’t like the way this conversation was headed either.
“If you ever stop feeding me, Mrs. Mack, I’d probably have to get hitched. When the right girl comes along, who knows? If I could have caught one of the Bobbsey twins here between husbands, it might have happened already.”
“You wish,” the sisters said simultaneously.
“The right girl came along,” Patricia Mack continued. “You let her get away.”
“I need a smoke,” Dudley interjected quickly.
The four men retreated to the deck.
“Thanks for the rescue,” Scarne said, taking one of the cigars his friend passed around. “Even if you did suggest I screwed buffalos.”
Soon a cloud of smoke hovered around the four men as they puffed quietly. The breeze was against them and it drifted toward the kitchen window.
“For God’s sake,” Patricia Mack said as she slammed the window closed.
The men laughed.
“Hell,” Dudley said. “I’d rather get porked by a buffalo than get cross examined by Ma.”
“She means well,” George Mack said. “But women have to get men married. It’s in their DNA. But, Jake, if you don’t mind my asking, how’s Kate?”
“She’s in LA. Won’t talk to me.”
“I’m sorry I introduced you two,” Dudley said. “She poisoned your head.”
“Nonsense,” his father said. “It’s the ones that make you crazy that matter. Never be cautious in matters of the heart, Jake. Remember one thing.”
“I sense a piquant remark coming,” his son said and they all laughed.
George Mack patted Scarne on the shoulder.
“A faint heart never won the chorus girl.”
CHAPTER 8 – SEATTLE SLIME
The three men and one woman stood silently in a small dimly-lit room facing a large window. Folding chairs bracketed a dull-gray metal table on the opposite wall. The water cooler and wastebasket by the door were also gray. A bright red ashtray on the table and the white blinds covering the window seemed out of place.
Two of the men were from Seattle’s elite Homicide Unit, which consisted of three squads of six detectives each who worked full time on the 30 or so murders that the city of 570,000 people generated every year. Seattle homicide cops were proud of their 80% one-year clearance rate. Given the circumstances and the people involved in this particular crime both cops hoped for a quick resolution. Their superiors obviously expected one. The squads usually caught murders in random rotation. Not this time. These two detectives had the highest closure rate in the division and were specifically assigned to this case.
The woman was a new assistant district attorney. She tried to look professional but was falling a bit short. Although it was purposely cold in the room, there was a slight sheen of sweat on her face and she was taking exaggerated breaths. One of the cops, a large dark-skinned man with a sad face named Noah Sealth, exchanged a knowing glance with his younger, white partner. She wasn’t bad looking for a D.A., Sealth noted. He hoped she wasn’t a fainter. Supposed to be an up and comer. The first one of these is always the toughest. She’ll adjust. He was wrong. This would be the woman’s last time at the window. Within a month she’d be doing wills and trusts, and in therapy.
The third man in the small room was almost as impassive as the detectives. Only his rigid posture suggested a coiled tension. He even offered the young woman his handkerchief, which she almost took before realizing the absurdity o
f the situation. For the man was well known to all three law enforcement officers. Ordinarily, none of them, particularly the cops, would have given him the time of day. Today they were very solicitous, which he appreciated.
A fan kicked in with a rattle that settled into a hum. It was part of the facility’s primitive positive-pressure air-circulation system designed to keep the interior environment protected from outside contaminants. Sealth knew its limitations. They weren’t making computer wafers in there. At best, the system helped to suppress particularly noxious odors. But what was that smell? He sniffed the air, hoping not to be too obvious. Then he remembered where the woman was found. He said a silent prayer that Brutti wouldn’t ask him.
A buzzer went off as a small red bulb over the center of the window lit. The woman gave a visible start. There was no reaction from the men. The white detective said gently, “Carlo, are you ready?” The man didn’t turn his head, but nodded. The cop reached for the drawstring that controlled the blinds and started pulling. On the other side of the window was a gurney on which was draped the form of a woman, made clear by the gentle mound of her chest under the sheet. A white-haired and bespectacled man in a light green medical smock stood at the head of the gurney. Around his forehead was a visor that had a small light attached. He looked like a coal miner, Sealth thought. I guess he is going to do the post himself. Kind of unusual for the chief medical examiner, notorious for not working weekends, but this was an important case. Glad he held off on the mask and the gloves until this part was done. The M.E. was not known for his social skills. Would have been just like him to show up with a blood-stained apron and a surgical saw in his hand. The presence of the M.E. also explained why there were two other people near the foot of the gurney, a man and a woman in their 20’s. Trainees. The woman held a spiral notebook; the man a clipboard. Their pens were poised. They had serious looks on their faces but were obviously nervous. The cops looked at each other. Of all days for show and tell! They knew that the M.E. was a stickler about on-the-job training, but at the same time they felt some sort of adversarial professional courtesy for the victim’s brother and didn’t want a circus. Sealth, who was still worried about the A.D.A., was thankful that this viewing promised to be a piece of cake. It wouldn’t do to have city employees on both sides of the window dropping like flies in front of this particular relative.
Two Jakes Page 7
