Frame-Up

by John F. Dobbyn

  The words were few and whispered.

  “Is he alone?”

  The priest nodded. I was still feeling the chill of the two Town-cars in front, and I wondered what “alone” meant.

  The priest was still gripping Mr. Devlin’s hands.

  “He’s aged, Lex.”

  “Yeah, I know, Matt. His choice, right?”

  Concern seemed to come through folds in the brow of the priest. I figured him and Mr. Devlin for the same generation. Mr. Devlin pressed for a commitment.

  “Am I right, Matt?”

  “Do any of us really have choices, Lex?”

  Mr. Devlin just looked away. He caught sight of me and called me over. I felt like an intruder, but I went.

  “My partner, Michael Knight. This is — Monsignor Ryan.”

  I sensed that Mr. Devlin was going to be more elaborate but decided against it. I held out my hand to a grip that could crack an oyster shell. The hand that covered mine was as gnarled and crooked as roots of blackthorn. The smile that went with it was warm, but it did not erase the lines of concern.

  “Forgive me for being direct, but this is a closed meeting, Lex. You know how he is. I was to take you in alone. This could change things.”

  “Michael’s involved. And he’ll be more involved if things go badly. I’ll vouch for Michael. If that’s not good enough—”

  I saw another figure in the dark corridor that led back to the priest’s room. This one was smaller and seemed to move more slowly. The voice was soft-spoken, but something in the timbre set off alarms in me I had never heard before.

  “When has your word not been all I ask, Lex?”

  The three of us turned toward the speaker as he walked slowly, arthritically, out of the shadows. Every physical sense left me. I was riveted to the floor. For that moment, I could not have moved to run out of a burning building.

  The third man kept moving on until the three men were within an arm’s grasp of each other. He and Mr. Devlin stood face-to-face. Their thoughts simply passed between their eyes for what seemed like an eon. I saw the arms of the man rise tentatively from his side and extend toward Mr. Devlin. Monsignor Ryan looked at both of them with an intensity that seemed to will something to happen. I heard him whisper, “Lex, how can we forget?”

  Mr. Devlin’s eyes turned slowly from steel to something softer and moist. And his arms came up to embrace a man I had conceived for my entire adult life as the Antichrist. He was the reigning don of the New England family of La Cosa Nostra, Dominic Santangelo.

  I sensed that the embrace had been years in coming. The great arms of the priest were around the two of them, and I looked away from the privacy of the tears that flowed across three faces. Whatever they said to each other was theirs, and it will remain that way.

  When they separated, Monsignor Ryan led them back to his private office. I followed, practically unnoticed. Under Mr. Devlin’s flag, I was apparently accepted as posing no threat.

  The three men sat on leather chairs in a triangle while the priest poured a glass of wine for each. They were so absorbed in each other that I was able to take a seat in the corner, permitted in but not intruding.

  Monsignor Ryan raised his glass and looked to each of the others to follow.

  “Dominic, Lex, God brought us together as brothers a long time ago. Now He’s brought us together again. It’s a serious business, and it’s His business that brought us into this room. He wants us together as brothers again. Let’s let Him have His way.”

  Mr. Santangelo raised his glass, and both looked to Mr. Devlin. Mr. Devlin looked at the glass on the table in front of him as if to lift it would commit him to something he could not accept.

  Monsignor Ryan rose and put a massive hand on Mr. Devlin’s shoulder. The large fingers were disjointed and twisted, but the touch was gentle.

  “We haven’t much time, Lex. We’re not three kids who are going to live forever anymore. Let’s make the peace now, so we don’t have to meet in anger in heaven.”

  Mr. Devlin looked deep into Monsignor Ryan’s eyes.

  “Is this the priest talking, Matt? Or is this Matt Ryan?”

  “This is both of us, Lex.”

  It took more than a few painful seconds to cross a barrier, but Mr. Devlin reached for the glass and stood up. Mr. Santangelo stood and there was a touching of three glasses that must have been heard in heaven. I had a disturbing feeling that the compact sealed with that sound would change my life as well.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Santangelo led the opening card.

  “Lex, I’ll put it simply. I’ve come to ask for your help.”

  The shoe dropped. So did the smile on Mr. Devlin’s face. He took on a few more years.

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “It’s been forty years, give or take. When Matt called me, I knew something brought it on. I’ll give you the only answer I’ve got before you ask the question.”

  Mr. Devlin was on his feet. I think he needed to be standing to say what I knew was coming.

  “Whatever it is, Dominic, I can’t do it.”

  “Listen, Lex—”

  “No, you listen. This is hard to say. My partner and I made an agreement.” He nodded to me. I nearly jumped when I realized I was not invisible. “We represent people with blood on their hands. It’s part of the trade. But we agreed never to take the case of anyone who made it their business. Dear God, man, how did you sink to this?”

  Monsignor Ryan was on his feet to calm the waters. Mr. Devlin waved him aside.

  “No. Sit, Matt. I’ve waited years to ask Dominic to his face. How? The three of us were closer than brothers. Every time I see a headline with your name connected to this filth, I die a little.”

  I was riveted to the face of Dominic Santangelo. I was sure that no one had spoken above a whisper to this little man for the span of my lifetime. He exercised the power of a judge and jury with the simple nod of his head. He had palace guards to carry out any order of execution without appeal.

  But there he sat. There were seconds of unfathomable silence before he spoke. When he did, it was so soft that I could barely hear the words. “There is so much you don’t know about me, Lex, and so much I can’t tell you in half an hour. Please, talk to me, not to that creature the newspapers have created to sell their papers.”

  Mr. Devlin was searching his eyes, but I could see he was not finding the answers he was looking for. He raised his hands slightly and stopped searching. “I can’t help you, Dominic.”

  Mr. Santangelo rose to his feet, and I held on to the arms of the chair.

  “It’s not for me, Lex.”

  Mr. Devlin waved him off. “It doesn’t matter, Dominic. It’s all part of the same—”

  “It’s for Peter. It’s for my son.”

  The chill that passed between them filled the room.

  “It’s for your godson, Lex. There is no blood on his hands, and there never will be. Will you listen now?”

  “What about Peter?”

  “He’s about to be indicted for murder.”

  “Damn it, Dominic!” The explosion triggered every nerve in my body. “The last time I saw you, you promised that boy would never touch any of this.”

  “And I kept that promise. He’s my son, Lex. I swear he is as clean as this junior partner you want to protect.”

  That was two references to me in a conversation to which I wanted to remain a total spectator.

  “Sit down, Lex. Sit down, and we’ll talk.”

  Mr. Devlin sat with both elbows holding down the table.

  “I’m certain that by this afternoon the Suffolk County grand jury will indict Peter for murder. I give you my word on his mother’s grave. Peter is innocent. He’s no part of my business.”

  The reference to Peter’s mother seemed to take the fire out of the mouth of the dragon. Mr. Devlin uncoiled the spring he seemed to be sitting on and listened.

  “There’s a complication
, Lex. Peter is accused of murdering an attorney by the name of John McKedrick.”

  He waited for that to sink in. Mr. Devlin looked at me, and I just froze.

  “Dominic, are you aware that Michael was involved in that car bombing?”

  Mr. Santangelo looked at me with pale, tired eyes. I tried to see in them all the power and the evil I had always associated with the don of a major cell of La Cosa Nostra. All I could find was a gentle compassion.

  “I’m sorry for your pain, Michael. If I could have foreseen it, I would have prevented it if at all possible. As it is, I have no idea who’s responsible.”

  It’s hard to convey in words the sincerity that caused me to want to believe that to be true. Mr. Santangelo turned in his chair to face me directly.

  “Michael, if Lex agrees to represent my son, I know you’ll be working on the defense. I want to know that you have no reservations. I can only give you my word that neither Peter nor I were involved, directly or indirectly. Do you believe that?”

  I knew that Mr. Devlin was watching me. I didn’t look at him. I knew he’d rather I handle it on my own. Like it or not, it was my turn at bat.

  “Mr. Santangelo, I’ll admit that you confuse me.”

  He cocked his head. I knew I had his attention.

  “John McKedrick worked for you, didn’t he?”

  He looked directly into my eyes and answered softly, “Mr. McKedrick worked for an attorney who has represented people I’m associated with. That’s true. Actually, I never met Mr. McKedrick. Please ask your questions. I want you to be satisfied.”

  I knew his interest in me was minimal. I got the clear sense that I had fallen into a useful, if uncomfortable, role that served his purpose. I could ask the questions that would have been awkward between himself and Mr. Devlin. I accepted the invitation. “In fact, Mr. Santangelo, practically everything John did was in connection with people in your business.”

  “I’m not aware of that, but you’d know better than I.”

  “Yes, I would. John and I were very close friends. Mr. Santangelo, I can ask this delicately and be left with doubts. Or, we can speak plainly and maybe resolve something.”

  I had an idea where I was going, but not at the expense of another car bomb. To my relief, Mr. Santangelo smiled and turned to Mr. Devlin.

  “He’s cut from your cloth, Lex.”

  He turned back to me.

  “I’m in your hands, Michael. By all means, take off the gloves.”

  “This is the hurdle, Mr. Santangelo. You’re the head of an organization that uses murder as a business tool. Word has it that you have Benny Ignola on retainer. That means John was part of that business, legal niceties aside. John must have known enough about the inner workings of your business to make him a security risk. John called me the day he was killed with a dinner invitation. It sounded to me as if he was working up to a major announcement. I had a feeling he was about to take my advice and leave Benny Ignola and all that went with him. Am I striking any chords?”

  Mr. Santangelo never moved or changed his expression. “Please continue, Michael.”

  “Before he could make that announcement, he was murdered. Forgive me, but car bombing is not unknown in Sicilian circles. The implication is somewhat overwhelming.”

  “That’s not a question, Michael. Take off the gloves, and ask the question.”

  The softness was gone from his eyes. I was looking into two cauldrons of steel, but I was too far into it to waiver.

  “Mr. Santangelo, did you give the order?”

  “I did not. Nor did my son. Nor did any member of my organization so far as I’m aware. I’ll swear on everything I hold sacred.”

  “Mr. Santangelo, I have no idea of what you hold sacred.”

  I could hear the nervous shuffling of Monsignor Ryan as he tried to decide when to cut off this juvenile interloper. Even Mr. Devlin was tense as a fiddle, but both held their ground. Mr. Santangelo was intent, but calmly in control. It was clearly between the two of us.

  “You have my word, Michael. I have nothing else to give.”

  “There is something else you can give, Mr. Santangelo. I can’t speak for Mr. Devlin, but for myself, I wouldn’t consider representing your son without it.”

  He looked at Mr. Devlin, and in that fraction of a second, Mr. Devlin nearly burst my heart with swelling. Without hesitation he gave a deep nod of the head that meant that whatever in the world I was about to say would bind him, too.

  “Mr. Santangelo, John McKedrick was the closest friend I ever had. If I ever learn that you or your son was responsible for his death, I’ll come after you with everything the law allows. There’ll be no legal wall for you to hide behind. I want not only your word. I want a full waiver of any right of lawyer-client privilege for any information that comes out of our defense of your son. You have my word that I’ll use it only in that circumstance.”

  The air grew stone still. I thought the clock on the wall stopped. I was frozen by the thought that I was eye-to-eye with a man with more immediate power over life and death than the whole state government. Where did I get the gall to put this man to a decision on the spot? Every voice inside of me was screaming, Get the hell out of there. You are so far over your head, you’ll never see daylight.

  Only one tiny voice was whispering, Hold your ground. I didn’t hear it. I sensed it. It was coming from Mr. Devlin. That was all the starch I needed to stay on my end of the seesaw.

  I set my mental timer for ten seconds. I resolved that if he hesitated longer than that, we’d never trust anything he said anyway.

  He turned his eyes to Mr. Devlin. The look he found in Mr. Devlin’s eyes only confirmed the terms of the deal. Mr. Santangelo did me the honor of looking back at me with a gentle smile that was not condescending.

  “Please draft the agreement, Michael. My son and I will both sign it.”

  Eight seconds flat.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I knew the ride back to the office was going to be tense. There were a lot of ghosts in that car, crowding the front seat. Mr. Devlin was in another world, struggling with all of them. I let him keep his silence.

  When we reached the Bunker Hill Monument on Monument Avenue, he pulled over and put the car in park. I think he wanted to look at me when he spoke.

  “Michael, I pulled you into this, and I’m sorry. It’s not your cup of tea. We agreed when we started this partnership we’d never go to bat for a mobster.”

  “The only agreement I care to remember, Mr. Devlin, is that whatever came along, we’d handle it together.”

  He looked at me as if he was about to say something, but he just nodded. All indecision was gone. The game was on. He was about to put the car in gear to propel us into a chain of events that would test the steel of that agreement when I stopped him.

  “Before we go on, Mr. Devlin, that trio back there was as bizarre as anything Stephen King ever dreamed up. I don’t like to ask. I know it’s personal. But under the circumstances—”

  He rubbed the two o’clock growth on his chin, either to decide where to begin or whether to begin at all. He finally motioned with his head up toward the window in the two-family where he had pointed out the room in which he was born.

  “I told you about that one. Look at the house to the right of it. The Right Reverend Monsignor Matthew Ryan was born up there. We came up together through a lot of neighborhood skirmishes. It was different for kids in a neighborhood like this in those days. No weapons. Just bare fists. That’s how this nose took on its wandering ways. I think it did more to prepare me for the courtroom than law school.

  “But Matt Ryan. Matt was a natural. He took it to the ring. When he was eighteen, he turned pro. I was his cornerman. He had twenty-four fights. Twenty-three wins by eighteen knockouts. The Lord only knows how far he might have gone.”

  He took a second to remember the past.

  “That explains you and the monsignor. You’re not going to tell me little Mr. Santangelo, all f
ive feet four of him, survived on bare fists around here.”

  He laughed at the thought, but then he was on me.

  “Listen, don’t let the suit and the chauffeur fool you. In a fair fight in those days, I’d give odds on Dominic against any two Irishmen in Charlestown, except Matt.”

  “So how did Mr. Santangelo get into the trio?”

  “Ah, that goes back to the good days. I guess we were early twenties. Matt was fighting about every other Friday night on the card at the Boston Arena. It was a tough section down around St. Botolph Street. It’s all class and reconstruction now, but in those days—” He waved his hand in a way that said “dicey.”

  “One night Matt fought a Puerto Rican kid from the South End. This kid had a lot of backing in the crowd. Some of them looked tougher than the fighter. Matt took him in three rounds. The kid was game. Matt had to give him a hell of a licking before the ref stopped the fight. The crowd didn’t like the ref’s decision. Matt dressed in a hurry to get us out of there alive.

  “There was a fighter’s exit in the back of the arena that led to an alley. When we came out, we could see eight of them up ahead coming for us. They filled the alley two deep. We couldn’t get back into the arena because the door locked behind us. They had us, and we knew it.”

  He started to grin in the telling of it.

  “All of a sudden comes this bat out of hell. From behind these bozos this pint-sized bowling ball comes into them like a row of ten pins. The arms are swinging. He’s yelling like a banshee in Italian. Matt and I dove into them from the front. Four of them went down, and the other four didn’t know whether to run or pray. From the sound of it, they did both.

  “We chased them out of the alley and kept on running in the opposite direction before the cops came. That was our introduction to little Dominic Santangelo.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “Who knows? I guess he didn’t like the odds. Anyway, he became Matt’s second cornerman. We were the three musketeers. ‘One for all, and all for one.’ One never moved without the others. Three years we were together while Matt climbed the ladder in the ring.”