Mob Lawyer

by Dave Daren

  I was surprised to see that it had rained at some point, though at least the air felt cleaner. I dodged around the puddles on the sidewalk and made my way to the Irish pub selected by Desmond Duvernay. The Dead Rabbit is a relative newcomer in the world of downtown Irish bars, but it’s cozy and warm, with good food and a friendly staff.

  The Parlor Room was where they served up cocktails, and though most of the seats were around the bar, there were a few tables tucked into a corner. I hoped I was early enough to snag one though it probably wouldn’t make much difference as to whether or not we could have a discussion. That would depend on who else was there, and an Irish bar in the financial district would have plenty of noisy traders around, even during the middle of the week.

  I arrived fifteen minutes early, and pushed my way through the crowd already gathered in the Taproom. Luckily, the Parlor Room wasn’t as busy yet, and I snagged a table beneath a framed picture of James Joyce. I ordered a martini while I looked over the menu and stared at the specials board. Ten minutes went by before I saw a tall man in a trench coat and fedora step into the room. I was sure this had to be Liz’s contact, and I was about to raise my hand when he smiled at a woman at the bar and sat down next to her. The two kissed and he took a sip of the fizzy concoction in front of her.

  I had finished off the olive garnish and settled on a bowl of the lamb stew when I finally saw Desmond Duvernay. As promised, he was the tallest man in the room. He had to stoop to fit through the doorway and he could touch the ceiling just by lifting an arm. He wore the standard navy blue suit and red tie of the business world though I noticed the slight bulge on his hip. Everything else about him reminded me of sand. His skin tone, his hair color, and even his eyes were that golden beige color of Atlantic beaches.

  “You must be Hunter Morgan,” Duvernay said when he arrived at the table.

  “And you must be Desmond Duvernay,” I replied.

  Desmond nodded then turned towards the bar. He held up a single finger, and I saw one of the bartenders give him a thumbs up in reply. Desmond folded himself into the chair across from me, though I had no idea how he could fit. The space we were in was so small that I expected Duvernay to ooze over onto the table next to us at any moment.

  “One Bellini,” the waitress announced as she set a champagne flute in front of Duvernay. “Anything to eat today?”

  Duvernay tasted his drink and then nodded in approval. He glanced at me, then smiled at the waitress.

  “All I had for lunch today was a bag of Doritos and a pickle, so yes, I think I’ll order dinner,” Duvernay chuckled. “How’s the fish today?”

  “I’d go with the sandwich instead of the fish and chips,” the waitress advised.

  Duvernay nodded and looked at me.

  “I’ll try the lamb stew,” I said.

  “I’ll have those out in a minute,” the waitress replied as she swept the menu from the table and turned to take an order at one of the other tables.

  “Liz said you wanted to know about the families,” Duvernay said after taking another sip of his Bellini.

  “I’m trying to track down someone who probably belongs to one of the families,” I explained. “But I don’t have much to go on.”

  “Try me,” he said with a warm smile. “I know just about all of them.”

  “This is probably a low level guy,” I warned. “He claims he went to high school with our client, and if that’s true, then he’s probably in his early twenties. He’s average height, with brown hair, brown eyes, no distinguishing marks. He does, however, wear a distinctive cross. It’s large and has vines or ivy wrapping around the cross and a stone set in the middle.”

  Duvernay chuckled, a deep bass sound that seemed to rumble up from deep inside.

  “Oh, I know your guy,” he said with a shake of the head. “That cross belonged to his grandmother. It was the last thing she had that she carried with her from the motherland. That being Sicily. She left it to her grandson when she passed away because, according to her will, he was the relative who would probably need it the most.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “So who is he?”

  “You were right about the low level part,” Duvernay said. “His name is Giorgio Marinello, and he mostly runs errands for his bosses.”

  “What kind of errands?” I asked.

  “Picking up payments, threatening those who don’t pay,” Duvernay mused. “He’s been a driver as well, and the FBI nearly nailed him last year when he was hauling guns from Florida to New York.”

  “So he’s violent,” I mused.

  “He can be,” Duvernay agreed. “Though he’s smart enough to limit it to his workplace, I guess you could say. He doesn’t pick fights with drunken idiots at baseball games or anything like that.”

  “If he did kill someone, he would do it under orders,” I suggested.

  Duvernay studied me for a moment, then nodded.

  “Do you mind if I ask which murder you’re investigating?” he asked.

  “A young woman,” I hedged. “She was killed in her apartment.”

  I could practically see Duvernay’s brain sorting through the possibilities, and then his eyebrows went up and he chuckled again.

  “Oh, dear,” he replied. “This could be bad.”

  “Why do you say that?” I pressed.

  “If you’re talking about the case I think you are,” he said, “then the truce between the families is officially on hold. Anthony’s old high school friend works for one of Salvatore Febbo’s biggest rivals.”

  Chapter 9

  “Is that even possible?” I asked. “I mean, that kids from rival families would go to school together and hang out together.”

  “Sure,” Duvernay replied. “These days they all go to the same private schools.”

  “But…” I stammered. “What if they become friends?”

  “So they’re friends in school,” Duvernay sighed. “But once they join the family business, that’s it.”

  As I tried to picture myself at war with some of my high school friends, Duvernay polished off his Bellini, then held up two fingers for the bartender. A moment later, our food appeared along with a beer for Duvernay and glasses of water for both of us. Duvernay started on his sandwich and I finally forced myself to take a few bites of the stew. It was perfect, with plenty of sweet peas to balance the gaminess of the lamb and enough potatoes to sop up the thick liquid, but I couldn’t get Marinello out of my mind.

  “How does it work?” I finally asked. “Does every kid automatically become a member of the mob when they turn eighteen?”

  “Ha!” Duvernay blurted out. “No, most kids manage to escape that fate. The Febbo daughters have done a pretty good job of distancing themselves from the business, though the one son-in-law keeps trying to get in.”

  “Cathy’s husband,” I guessed. “Paul?”

  “That would be the one,” Duvernay replied. “Though Salvatore thinks he’s an idiot, so Paulie is still on the outside looking in.”

  “But Marinello joined,” I noted.

  “Yeah,” Duvernay agreed. “But he was sort of destined for it. He started as a kid, working as a distraction for the older kids while they stole cars.”

  “The Mafia steals cars?” I asked.

  “They’ll do anything that makes money,” Duvernay noted.

  “So why would someone from a rival family want to frame Anthony?” I mused, curious to hear the agent’s take on the whole affair.

  “You’ve met with Salvatore,” Duvernay replied.

  I could have denied it, or demanded to know how he knew that, but there didn’t seem to be much point. I had no doubt that Febbo was probably under constant surveillance, and our arrival the night before would have been noted in a report somewhere.

  “He wanted to talk about Anthony’s legal troubles,” I said instead.

  “I’m sure he did,” the agent chuckled. “And now you’ll tell me that those discussions were confidential.”

  “They
are,” I agreed though that was a thin line since Salvatore wasn’t the client and Anthony was an adult.

  “But now anything Salvatore mentioned about his own business would not be confidential,” Duvernay pointed out. “Unless Pappa Febbo decided to hire you as well.”

  I studied Duvernay for a moment, then finished off my martini. After another bite of the stew, I’d finally decided on how I wanted to respond.

  “Let me give you a hypothetical,” I said.

  Duvernay grinned, but nodded.

  “Let’s say someone fairly high up in a certain organization decides he wants to leave the business,” I added. “Not retire, exactly, but maybe go in a new direction. Maybe something more legitimate. What kind of reaction would that create?”

  It was Duvernay’s turn to gather his thoughts. He slowly chewed a bit of his sandwich, then washed it down with some beer.

  “There have been rumors,” he said. “Nothing you could really pin down, but it started out as Salvatore Febbo was looking to retire. Now, that kind of thing creates a stir, and of course, some of the… competitors start to sniff around and see if there’s any business they can siphon off. But then a couple of goons from the Colombo family turn up dead and people back away from Febbo’s interests. A few months later, a new rumor starts up. This one says that Febbo isn’t just retiring, but that he’s looking to become a legitimate businessman. Now things really start to become interesting.”

  “How so?” I pressed.

  “Because now Febbo is facing problems both inside and outside the organization,” Duvernay explained. “The other families, that’s easy enough. In their minds, Febbo is now an open target if he’s no longer a part of the business, and whatever interests he had are up for grabs. We’re talking about full scale mob war, potentially, as the families try to divide up his organization.”

  “I can see that,” I murmured.

  “But he also has problems within his organization,” Duvernay continued. “For many of his… employees, he’s now a traitor. He might as well turn himself into the FBI and become a federal witness. For others, it’s an opportunity to take over and become the new don. All of which is easier if Febbo is out of the way.”

  “But won’t he pick someone to head the family after he leaves?” I asked as I remembered the name Ben Kroger.

  “Sure,” Duvernay agreed. “But that person will still have to fight to keep the business.”

  We finished our meals in silence while I contemplated the war that Salvatore Febbo was about to trigger. I also wondered what plans he and Kroger were making that would ensure Kroger’s transition to mob boss. Either way, it seemed like a lot of bodies would start piling up before Salvatore and Gulia could disappear into their new life.

  “What would it mean for the rest of the Febbos if Salvatore does go legit?” I asked as I scraped up the last bit of potato.

  Duvernay pushed his empty plate aside and stared thoughtfully at the pictures behind me for several moments.

  “For the daughters, not much,” Duvernay replied. “As I said, they’ve managed to avoid the family business, and the sons-in-law are completely in the clear as well.”

  “And Anthony?” I asked.

  “He’s the son,” Duvernay noted. “Things are expected.”

  “But he’s made a point of avoiding the family business,” I pointed out.

  “Has he?” Duvernay asked.

  I sat back and studied the agent but he remained inscrutable. He shrugged, then smiled at the waitress as she cleared our plates from the table.

  “What do you know about Anthony?” I pressed when the waitress was gone.

  “Just rumors,” Duvernay said. “And there are always tons of rumors about the families. Most of it isn’t true anyway.”

  “But you seem to believe it,” I insisted.

  “I just listen,” the agent insisted. “Besides, do you really think Anthony Febbo is the first son to try to go legitimate? It’s not so easy to do, even if you have nothing to do with the family business. You call in a favor here or there, maybe your old man pays your overdue credit card bill one month. People remember that kind of thing, and they make assumptions.”

  “Is that why they would go after Anthony?” I asked.

  “If you set him up, he goes away before he can take control,” Duvernay agreed. “And you don’t have to worry about starting a war because he’s not dead and it’s the feds that locked him up.”

  “And it leaves the organization more vulnerable,” I mused. “If Anthony is supposed to take over, then there’s no one who can step in.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” Duvernay replied.

  “But if Anthony wasn’t the one Salvatore tapped to take over...” I prodded.

  “Then I’d say things are about to get very bloody,” Duvernay said.

  I thought about that for a moment, and then realized that if my client was to survive, I had to make sure that the prosecution went after the right person. I could call the police and explain what I knew about the driver who had picked up Francie at the party, but they should have uncovered that bit of information on their own. What was clear was that they weren’t acting on it, which raised another host of questions that I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.

  “The police don’t seem interested in Marinello,” I finally said.

  “A few greased palms can go a long way,” Duvernay replied.

  “And you’re just going to sit by and let that happen?” I demanded.

  “We need proof, Mr. Morgan,” Duvernay remarked. “Not speculation. And you don’t know for sure that they aren’t onto Marinello or that they’ve been bought off to leave him alone. For all you know, they’ve already talked to him and he’s produced an alibi.”

  He was right, of course, but the whole thing still stunk, and despite his sharp tone, I could see the doubt in Duvernay’s eyes. He wasn’t as confident about the police investigating Francie’s death as he wanted to be, and I knew a call to the detective in charge would have to be made soon. But first, I wanted to tackle Marinello for myself.

  “If I wanted to talk to Marinello, how would I find him?” I asked.

  “That depends,” Duvernay replied. “When did you want to have this conversation?”

  “Tonight,” I decided. “As soon as I leave here.”

  “Really?” Duvernay said in surprise. “Well, there’s a club he goes to at night but I wouldn’t recommend you dropping by. It’s sort of a meeting place for guys waiting for their next assignment.”

  “I won’t have time tomorrow,” I replied. “And I need to talk to him as soon as possible. So where’s this club?”

  Duvernay finished his beer, then shook his head.

  “If I don’t tell you, what will you do?” he asked.

  “Call people until I find out where he is,” I replied.

  “You mean Anthony,” he said. “And Anthony will tell Salvatore which will lead to something very messy.”

  “Anthony doesn’t tell Salvatore anything,” I replied.

  “You keep telling yourself that,” Duvernay muttered. “Okay, look, I’ll go with you. It’ll be safer that way.”

  “I don’t need your help,” I insisted. “And I want him to talk to me. He won’t do that if there’s a government agent lurking nearby.”

  “Listen to me,” Duvernay snapped. “If you go there alone, you will, at the least, end up in the hospital. You think the other families don’t know by now that you’re representing Anthony?”

  “You didn’t,” I pointed out.

  Duvernay shook his head again, but he refused to comment.

  “Fine,” I conceded, though secretly I was relieved. The idea of walking into a mob hangout alone had given me goosebumps.

  “I’ve got a car in the garage,” Duvernay said. “It’ll be the fastest way to Brooklyn.”

  I didn’t argue, simply paid my bill and stood up. Duvernay did as well, and the two of us returned to the first floor, where the Taproom had grown even
noisier and more crowded. We squeezed through the mass of people to the door, then stepped out onto the sidewalk in a drizzling rain. Duvernay led the way to a nondescript building near the Trade Center site. We strolled into the lobby, where two federal agents sat behind the security desk, and then down an escalator to the first basement level. Duvernay led me through a maze of conference rooms and supply closets to a heavy steel door marked with an exit sign. He flashed his ID, and the scanner by the door blinked green. Duvernay pulled the door open, and we stepped into the parking garage for the building.

  “Easier to go through the building,” Duvernay noted as he started to walk across the concrete. “They keep the gate closed at night and the guys on the desk hate it when you use your fob just to open it and walk to your car. Not sure why.”

  We stopped by a gray Chevrolet sedan that looked like one of those old police cars they sometimes sell at auction after they’ve been repainted. The lightbar was gone, and as I peered inside, I saw that the police radio had been removed, but otherwise, it looked the same.

  “Is this an old NYPD car?” I asked as I peered over the roof of the car at Duvernay.

  “Good eye,” he replied.

  “So this is your car?” I pressed. “The feds aren’t buying old police cars now, are they?”

  “It is my car,” Duvernay agreed. “It still has all the important bells and whistles, like the original engine.”

  “Ah,” I said sagely. “For all those car chases.”

  “This thing may look ugly,” Duvernay replied. “But it can still haul ass faster than most cars on the road today.”

  “I believe you,” I assured him as he opened the locks.

  I slid into the seat, and watched as Duvernay went through his routine like a pilot going through his flight check. When he was satisfied that all was well with the car, he cranked the engine and the machine roared to life. The growl echoed through the confines of the garage, and I saw a cloud of black smoke fill the space behind us. Duvernay shifted into reverse and the car eased backward out of its space. After some careful negotiations, Duvernay cleared the other cars and a nearby post and we eased our way towards the metal gate. After a moment’s hesitation, the gate rolled up and the Caprice pulled out into traffic.