“Vacation? You’re daft, woman. Retirement is a permanent vacation.”
She planted her hands on still-shapely hips. “Then why aren’t we doing what vacationers do?”
He knew what she meant–travel. “Finish your sandwiches,” he said. “I presume they’re what’s for lunch.”
“You presume correctly.” She turned back to the counter as he scurried out to the den with his mail like a thief in the night.
The first piece of mail Matt opened contained a colorful brochure showing golfers basking in the sun at Kaanapali on the island of Maui. How did they get his name, he wondered? The next one touted a similarly enticing view of golf courses on the Kona Coast on the Big Island of Hawaii. When he saw the third Hawaii postmark, his powers of deduction suddenly came out of retirement. She had set him up. Despite a penchant for frowns cultivated during his Bureau days, he broke into a big smile.
The smile carried over into his tone as he answered the phone that rang on the table beside his chair. “Kravitz here,” he said blithely, another holdover from his recent career.
“Former FBI Agent Matthew Kravitz?” asked an unfamiliar voice.
Matt frowned. He hated these businesslike intrusions into his purposeful life of leisure. “That’s right. Are you Mr. Hunter?”
There was a stunned silence, then, “Where’d you get that name?”
“Off my caller ID box. It shows ‘Hunter M.’ in area code 615.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I’m calling from a friend’s house. Actually, I’m a dead man. Or so I’ve been told.”
“You sound pretty lively to me.”
“You knew me as Pat Pagano,” said the caller. “Until you changed my name to William Holder.”
Matt laughed, feeling the elation of a theory vindicated. “Who told you you were dead?”
“An agent named Burger. I called that number you gave me to use when I found myself in dire straits. What’s the laugh about?”
“I knew it wasn’t you they found on that beach. Back when I learned you had disappeared from Portland, I was certain you’d gone underground, that you wouldn’t be back. You’re too sharp for that. Are you still in trouble?”
“Not as bad as I was a few days ago, but it could be only a temporary situation.”
Matt listened in amazement as Pagano’s story unfolded. He registered surprise at Boots Minelli’s ingenuity in tracking down the investment advisor through the Swiss bank, but his mood turned decidedly sour on hearing the mob had learned about the move to Portland.
“Locasio said they had a source at Justice?”
“I think his actual words were: ‘We got a man on the inside at the Justice Department.’”
“Damn!”
“I had hoped you might have some suggestions for me,” Pagano said as he finished his tale of deception and deceit.
Matt considered the ramifications for a few moments. He talked now and then with some of the guys he had worked with. That’s how he had heard about the discovery of William Holder’s body. On the rare occasion when he ventured back into the city during business hours, he usually stopped by the office. However, most of his trips were with Phyllis for an evening at the theatre or some special event at Lincoln Center. Heavy doses of culture really weren’t his bag, but since he couldn’t play golf at night, he went along for her sake.
“I’ve kept up with Vicario’s shenanigans,” Matt said, “but I had no idea they were up to something like this. When I read that Boots had died of a heart attack in Nashville, I called my old partner. He told me about Dom Locasio and the others getting themselves killed in what looked like a bus hijacking. But it didn’t make any sense. Now I understand. I think, just maybe, I can be of help.”
“To get them off my case?”
“Right. The current consigliere is a guy named Nick Caggiano. I’ve had dealings with him on many occasions. He’s bound to have been in on this. The weather is supposed to be lousy for golf tomorrow. I think I’ll go in and see if I can spoil Mr. Caggiano’s lunch. What name are you using now?”
“If it’s okay with you, I’d as soon not say.”
“I understand. I was only interested in having it to call you back after my little chat with the consigliere.”
“How about I call you?”
“That’ll work.” Matt chuckled. The man was nobody’s fool. That was why it had taken so long and such desperate measures for the Vicario mob to track him down. Matt admired his spunk. He hoped the little plan he had in mind would work.
The restaurant was a small Italian place on Mulberry Street in the heart of Little Italy, which in recent years had begun to look more like Little China, a consequence of its rapidly encroaching neighbor from the south, Chinatown. But this eatery was part of the authentic remnants wedged in between an Italian grocery and a pastry shop. The peeling yellow wallpaper was just one indication that the restaurant’s better days were behind it. The food, however, was decent and the late lunchers were mostly gray-haired, some with full beards, a few with the wizened look of shrews. It was a place where Nick Caggiano could relax and enjoy a meal or, if conditions in the family warranted, pick the brains of some older and wiser heads.
Matt was thoroughly familiar with Caggiano’s habits and guessed he would be here. If not, there were only two other places he would likely be found at this hour of the day. But on this occasion, Matt guessed correctly. As soon as he walked in, he spotted the Mafia mouthpiece seated alone at a corner table.
He walked over to where Caggiano had nearly finished eating. Pulling out a chair across from the consigliere, he dropped into it.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“I don’t remember inviting you,” said Caggiano. The look of disdain made his black eyes shine like lacquered pellets. He was a slight man dressed in a heavily-padded brown jacket that exaggerated his rounded shoulders. Everything about him conveyed the message that here was a man who was not at all what he appeared to be.
Matt’s smile never flickered. “I thought I had an open invitation.”
Caggiano dabbed a napkin at his thin lips, blotting a reddish spot of marinara sauce. “I thought you had retired.”
“You’re right. This is a social call, not business. I just wanted to pay my respects on the passing of Boots Minelli. Sorry to hear about that.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.”
“No, really. I always felt a bit of admiration for Boots. We respected each other. He was a sharp guy. I never could get enough on him to put him away.”
“Not for a lack of trying.”
“True.” In fact he probably could have gotten an indictment on a couple of occasions, but he had held off for bigger things. He was still looking when he retired.
“I also wanted to offer condolences on the loss of Dom Locasio and Boots’ other soldiers. I understand it was quite a messy scene.”
Caggiano’s eyes narrowed warily. “I wasn’t there.”
“Lucky you.” Matt rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, as though pondering the imponderable. “I hear by the grapevine that they were out looking for Pat Pagano.”
He paused expectantly.
“You Feds hear all kinds of strange things. You’ve been listening to your hidden tape machines and watching your jumpy videos too long.”
Matt ignored the remark. “What made it really puzzling is that we had given Boots credit for feeding Pagano to the sharks six months ago. That was when what was left of him washed up on the Oregon coast. We had changed his name to William Holder.” He paused momentarily, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “But you knew that, of course. Your man over at Justice had tipped you off.”
Matt had been speaking in a casual, offhand manner, a bland look on his face. But the reaction he got from Caggiano was a further narrowing of the eyes, a tightening of the jaw muscles.
“You’re dreaming, Kravitz.”
Matt shook his head. The time had come for a little creative embellishment. “I just came
from the office. This is all the gospel, Nick. Pagano’s body was pretty well mangled, so we couldn’t get any prints. But the medical examiners identified him through dental records and DNA. They’re positive. It was Patrick O. Pagano.”
Caggiano squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “So it was Pat Pagano. What do I care?”
“I don’t know about you, but old Tony sure does. Pat really wrecked his red wagon.”
Nick Caggiano sat back and folded his arms, finally mustering a semblance of a superior air. “So if Pagano got himself eaten alive six months ago, why the hell would Boots be sending his boys looking for him in Louisiana or Mississippi, or wherever the hell it was?”
“I’m glad you asked that, Nick. The guys at the office have worked like crazy on that question ever since we got word about the bus incident. After checking a bunch of old surveillance logs and consulting some Swiss bank sources, here’s what they came up with. I’ll admit it’s all conjecture, but it fits.
“We think Boots went over to Switzerland and bought or threatened somebody until they gave him a look at Pagano’s bank records. He found that Pagano had transferred funds into another account, which had an address on the Isle of Man. When we looked into that, we discovered the owner of the mail drop had been murdered, his place ransacked. We know Boots was over there at the time. So he must have found the name and address of a man in Tennessee. But what Boots apparently missed is it wasn’t Pagano, but a guy who had learned Pagano’s investment system and worked with him. This fellow would bring the profits back into the States, take his cut and send the rest to William Holder in Oregon. After Holder/Pagano died, the guy got a windfall. But it seems he also attracted Boots and Dom and associates. We still haven’t figured out what happened down there in the middle of that hurricane, but somehow your boys managed to blow themselves to bits in the process.”
Nick Caggiano glanced nervously at his watch. “I have to get back to work. Is that all you came here to tell me?”
“That’s about it. But you also have my condolences, Nick. I’d hate to be the one to tell old Tony that he lost a capo and four soldiers on a wild goose chase. To make it worse, you’re getting some terrible press for hijacking a busload of church folks–senior citizens at that. Naughty, naughty.”
Caggiano rose abruptly. It was not at all what he wanted to hear. Kravitz was right. Being the bearer of such terrible tidings would certainly not endear himself with Tony Vicario. Especially since he was the one who had originated the idea of tracking down Pagano through the connection to the Swiss bank.
Caggiano felt he had aged a few years since sitting down to lunch. “Thanks for the sympathy,” he said in a mocking tone, though the voice was more dispirited than defiant. He steamed out of the restaurant, knowing a grinning Matthew Kravitz stood there in his wake.
The following Sunday morning, Marge Hunter and Fred Scott stood at his side as Bryce Reynolds was welcomed into the membership at Lovely Lane United Methodist Church by Dr. Peter Trent. As a Catholic, Pat Pagano could have been accepted on the transfer of his membership, but since Reynolds had not belonged to any church, it was necessary for him to join on a profession of faith. He particularly liked the vow that asked:
“Do you accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever forms they present themselves?”
He had seen them in their worst forms imaginable. He had resisted them and, thank God, succeeded.
On a Saturday afternoon four weeks from the day they had arrived back home in Madison from Mississippi, Marjorie Hunter and Bryce Reynolds were married at the church altar. Many of those who had been on that fateful bus trip attended the ceremony, including Hamilton MacArthur, who was accompanied by his stylishly attired wife, Andrea. Following the reception, Bryce and Marge Reynolds left on a honeymoon trip to Acapulco, with a stopover in New Orleans. It was a small gesture to assure the world, and himself, that at long last, he was truly a free man.
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
This book is more personal to me than anything I’ve written. It’s almost biographical in some respects. The character Marge Hunter lived on Gartland Avenue in a house similar to the one in which I grew up. She attended East Nashville High School in the early years of World War II, as I did. She graduated from the University of Tennessee and moved to Madison after she was married. But the most personal part of the story is the bus trip to New Orleans. It mirrors in every detail the tour my wife and I took with a church group from Madison back in the middle nineties, right up to the appearance of the hurricane. Fortunately, we didn’t have that problem.
This story was written originally not long after I took the junket to New Orleans. Because of an agent problem (he disappeared), the book did not find a publisher, and I put it aside while moving on to new stories. Since the trip was fresh in my mind, I didn’t need to do as much research as usual. The result is I don’t have as many people to thank for help with this one. However, I want to acknowledge the input from colleagues in the Quill and Dagger Writers Group after I resurrected the manuscript and the invaluable editing job of Jaden Terrell, aithor of the Jared McKean Mysteries. Also thanks to my partner in crime, Sarah Campbell. Couldn’t do it without you.
http://www.chesterdcampbell.com
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