by Bob Mayer
“Yes, Ms. Cappucci.”
“Since we’ll be working together, Kane, you can call me Sofia.”
The rumble of disapproval from Matteo was palpable. Kane had a sense that Matteo didn’t get to call her by her first name. Then again, Kane wasn’t sure it was an honor.
The car was negotiating south Manhattan traffic on a Monday morning to the accompaniment of a nonstop symphony of horn blasts, brakes squealing, sirens, and intermittent jackhammers. As best Kane could tell they were crawling north on 8th Avenue, past Jackson Square Park. A historical tidbit from Brother Benedict about the park flickered through his mind, but reading his audience for once, he fought back the urge to pass it on.
“You don’t look too good, Kane.” Sofia was peering at him under extraordinarily long eye lashes. She was lounging in the seat facing Kane, ensconced in her fur coat. This time she didn’t have a man with a gun sitting next to her.
“I had a busy weekend,” Kane said.
“Oh, yeah,” Sofia said. “The stuff you blew me off over. Don’t do that again.”
“I’m sorry, Sofia,” Kane said, “but we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“I was just telling you that.”
“No,” Kane said. “I’m telling you that.” He felt Matteo tense and shift in his seat, which was what Kane anticipated because he was already moving, twisting, as Matteo had given him the better angle to strike. Kane hit Matteo’s thick neck at a seventy-degree angle, avoiding the built-up muscles on either side, with a savage and abrupt punch led by the extended knuckle of his middle finger striking Matteo’s vagus nerve on that side.
Kane didn’t bother to see the result, turning in the other direction. The goon’s hands were scrambling for the gun in his shoulder holster which was stupid because Kane was too close. Kane did the same to him with his other knuckled fist.
Both men were out for the moment.
Kane sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “Are we communicating on the same wave length, Sofia?”
“How long are they unconscious?” Sofia asked in her Princeton voice, as if inquiring about the weather outside.
“Not long. Their necks will be sore.”
“Their pride will be sore,” Sofia said. “But we are now communicating. What Matteo has always failed to understand is that by subjugating himself to my command, he became less effective.”
“Some guys don’t understand power,” Kane said.
“I thought you were going to say don’t understand women,” Sofia said.
“That is not something I would pretend to have achieved,” Kane said.
“But you understand what I need you to understand,” Sofia said as Matteo began to stir. “Get over here so I can talk to him. You pulled the pin, I want to keep it from going off, to use an analogy you understand. What was that you just did? Some sort of James Bond karate chop thing?”
Kane moved to the other side of the back of the limo, claiming the corner away from Sofia. “It took me over two years to become proficient with that strike under the tutelage of one of the best masters in the Orient. Master Pak would have approved.”
Brooklyn was back. “Yeah, whatever.” She held up a hand. “Easy, Matteo, easy.”
The big man glared at Kane but remained in the seat. The other guy took a few more seconds to rejoin them. The limo took a left on 15th. Matteo’s face flushed red with anger but he didn’t attack.
Sofia glanced at Kane, arcing a thick eyebrow as if to say ‘you see’?
The limo turned right onto 10th and paused at an angle. Sofia flicked a finger and the guy on the left side of the limo powered down the window. The old Nabisco factory where Kane had had his showdown with Damon and Quinn was outside. The top floor was blackened, the roof burned through. Scorch marks were etched through the bars covering every window on that floor.
“They don’t build ‘em like that anymore,” Sofia said approvingly of the building. “It’s still standing.”
She gestured and the window powered up. She rapped on the divider and they headed north along 10th, through Chelsea. Sofia’s driver was heavy on the horn, which didn’t add pleasantry to the ride. The High Line rail line was paralleling their route, crossing the side streets and going through or alongside the various businesses it served, or mostly used to serve, given trains rarely ran on it any more.
The limo took a left on West 35th and came to a stop overlooking a desolate rail yard bounded by the West Side Highway and the Hudson River on the far side.
Sofia Cappucci opened her door. “Come with me, Kane.” She put her palm out to Matteo and the other guy, much like one would signal a dog to stay.
Kane walked next to Sofia, who still wore the mink coat, despite the sunshine and humid eighty-five degrees. He wasn’t sure to be more impressed by that or the six-inch stilettos she was balanced upon.
“They teach you to walk like that, between a lady and the street, at West Point?” Sofia noted.
“They did. We had classes on what they called Cadetiquette taught by the Cadet Hostess.”
“Chivalry. A lost fucking art.”
They came to a fence overlooking the sprawling yard. Broken-down warehouses surrounded the tracks.
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Kane wasn’t sure what she was using as her reference. The place was abandoned and strewn with garbage and the occasional derelict freight car.
“One owner,” Sofia said. “Prior owner I should say. Penn Central Railroad. Went bankrupt last year.”
“Right.”
Sofia glanced at him and went Princeton voice. “Don’t be a smart ass, Kane. Here’s the situation. The city wants to build a convention center. They got three potential sites. The Times Square area somewhere between Sixth and Eighth, Battery Park, or here. What do you think?”
Given his recent experience, he rejected one outright. “Forget Time Square. It’s a cesspool. People don’t want to come to the city to begin with. What tourist wants to go to Times Square?”
“Some want to, but you’re right. Not much appeal. And it would be tough to clear out the space for the building. Lots of legal wrangling. And the others?”
“I guess either will do.”
“No.” She sounded quite adamant. “Battery Park is too far from Midtown. Times Square may be decadent, but in Midtown we’ve got the theater district and the restaurants and, most importantly, we’ve got hotels. Not many hotels by the Battery.” She pointed. “This will be it. I want in on the ground floor. A slice of the buy-in, a slice of the construction, a slice of the operation. Lots of unions involved in the last two which the family already has a piece of. But the first one? Not something my profession has tapped into. Real Estate. We squeeze the builders and the occupiers, but I want to be a buyer.”
Kane waited.
“A company has been appointed to dispose of Penn Central’s assets, including these rail yards. That company is experienced at balance sheets, not real estate. The convention thing is going to be very political. Thus, they tapped some young schmuck wanna-be developer from Queens who they think is connected to the political big-wigs. Donald Trump. His father is a developer who we’ve done work with over the years.”
“Go to the father, then,” Kane suggested.
“I wouldn’t be talking to you if I’d decided to do that,” Sofia said. “The father is connected to all the old goombahs. He wouldn’t give me the time of day. Plus, he’s not the one they appointed. His son is.”
“You’re doing this on the sly,” Kane said.
“Gee, what gave you that idea?” When she was sarcastic, the Brooklyn was back.
Kane cut to the chase. “You want me to talk to this Trump guy and do what?”
“I don’t want you to talk to him. He wouldn’t give you the time of day. To do business, the guy you need to talk to is his lawyer. Roy Cohn.”
“That name sounds familiar,” Kane said.
“He was McCarthy’s lawyer,” Sofia said. “Now he’s Tr
ump’s lawyer.”
“Talking to lawyers is Toni’s thing,” Kane said.
“Cohn’s a criminal lawyer.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a lawyer and—”
“No,” Sofia cut him off. “I mean he’s a criminal lawyer.”
“Doesn’t that mean he’d be mobbed up, too?”
“Yeah, he’s connected,” Sofia admitted.
“That’s why you want me to talk to him, not one of your people.”
“I knew you’d figure it out eventually,” Sofia said, giving him a little gold star on his homework. “I’m doing this off the family ledger.” Sofia sighed. “Cohn is tied in to this thing called the Favor Bank. It’s how hoity-toity people with influence get things done without contracts or the law or paperwork. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Sometimes its money. Usually its trading favors or future favors. Cohn got fingers in everything in the city, even the church.”
“What’s his mob link?”
“The Genovese family has connections with Cohn which is another reason I have to stay in the shadows. But he’s got no loyalty to the Genovese or anyone else for that matter. A lot of them are finocchi, like Cohn. He was tight with Cardinal Spellman for many years before that bastard died. Another finocchi.”
“’Finocchi’? I was an altar boy. Took Latin in high school.” Kane waited for clarification.
“They like men,” Sofia said. “Not that I am in any position to pass judgment, am I?”
“I didn’t say anything. Would that mean he’s a member of the Gentleman Bankers?”
“Who is that?”
“A powerful group of what you call finocchi.”
Sofia shrugged. “If there’s a group like that, he’d be with him. I never heard of them but I don’t traffic in high society, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Who would I say I’m representing?”
“An un-named wealthy entity,” Sofia said. “Guys like Cohn eat that shit up. And when he tries to figure out who you are, he won’t find much will he? And what he does learn should scare him a little bit, not that he scares easy. You’re starting to get a bit of a street rep, Kane.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It could save your life.”
Kane faced her. “Since we’re on a last name-first name basis, Sofia, let me be frank. I’ve got something very important going down right now.”
“Thomas Marcelle’s disappearance?”
“That’s part of it. But not the most important part.”
“Enlighten me.”
Kane noticed that despite the heat and her fur coat, the heavy make-up on her face wasn’t streaking. Either she had no sweat glands or it was absorbed by the layer closest to the skin. “The IRA has a hit team in town.” He thought it was easier to stick with the IRA angle rather than explain the internal schism. “They tried to kill me the other night because I interrupted one of their weapons purchases a few weeks ago.”
“The old Nabisco place and Damon,” Sofia said. “Go on.”
“Did you know Quinn was working for the British government?” Kane asked.
Sofia didn’t blink. “Working what for them?”
“Working you, to begin with. But he was also gathering intelligence on the IRA’s connections here in the States. The money. The weapons.”
“I knew he had some weird angle,” Sofia said. “Go on.”
“Two hundred and forty M-16s destined for Ireland burned up with Damon. Along with money. Over two million.”
“That’s a lot of cash.” Sofia nodded. “I can see why they’d try to whack you. And Quinn? Did he burn up?”
“He killed Damon,” Kane said. “Then he tried to kill me.”
“Sounds like there’s a whole fucking saga to this, Kane, but the bottom line is you’re the one breathing and Quinn isn’t, right?”
“This IRA team tried to kill me but it’s not their main objective. They’re here for something else. Bigger. They bought explosives and guns and missiles in Boston off some Irish mobsters last week. The missiles can do a lot of damage at a distance. By the way, Damon was an FBI informant as a side job. He told the FBI that whatever the Irish were planning was happening Wednesday night.”
Sofia turned away from Kane and stared at the rail yard. A Circle Line cruise ship was chugging by on the Hudson River, showing tourists the island from the relative safety of the water.
When Sofia spoke, it was almost a normal voice, somewhere between the girl who’d grown up in Brooklyn in a mob family and the woman who’d come back from Princeton with two majors. “I like this city, Kane. I don’t want see it get hurt. Especially by some crazy micks. What do you need?”
“The mobster in Boston who sold the stuff was a guy named Joe Mac. He had a partner named Seamus. They won’t be selling any more missiles. There was a third guy, Whitey Bulger, present at our discussion. I don’t know anything about him and he says he wasn’t involved in the arms deal. He walked away with some cash and didn’t seem to give a shit about the two dead guys. But he said there would be people from Boston coming for me and a couple of my friends. I’ve got enough to do without having Boston Irish gangsters on my ass.”
Brooklyn was back full force. “Fuck them. They’ve killed a lot of my compatriots in Boston. Animals.” She shifted to Princeton. “The Irish in Boston have a penchant for violence. They’ll kill on the slightest provocation, justified of not. They are not, however, renowned for their ability to run things once they take them over. They’ve grabbed most of the numbers rackets from my compatriots via bloodshed, but the businesses have fallen into disarray from mismanagement and frankly, neglect. They’re too busy drinking and fucking to run things. But there is a line of communication established out of necessity. Quinn had something to do with that as he came to us via Boston and was caught up in some of the blood-letting. I’ll make some calls. Don’t worry about the Boston Irish.”
“Thank you. I’ll check this Cohn out. But I’ve got stuff to do today to track down these Irish guys. I’ve got to talk to the FBI and—”
“Why?”
“It’s their job,” Kane said. “They came to me with this. I’ve got to tell them what I found out.”
“I wouldn’t trust the FBI, Kane. Or the cops. They will fuck you over, either because they want to or because they can’t find their ass when they’re shitting. By the time they do anything, it will be over.”
“I know,” Kane said. “It’s the reason I’m staying on this. Besides the fact they tried to kill me. But I got to let the Feds know.”
“Kane. Listen to me.” Princeton, full force. “If I’m reading you correctly, you’re involved in multiple homicides. Here. And in Boston. The less you mingle with law enforcement, the less you tell them, the better. You can’t do the things you need to do from the inside of a jail cell.”
Kane reached up and put his fingers in the fencing but didn’t reply.
“You know,” Sofia continued, her voice lower, “this isn’t your job. Why are you doing it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Because those same people you want to go tell either aren’t doing their job, are corrupt, or are incompetent. Or all of the above. Right?”
Kane nodded.
“Bullshit,” Sofia said. “You got some sort of code, don’t you? White hat kind of guy?”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing.”
“Who appointed you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Brooklyn began returning. “You’re gonna have to make a choice, Kane. Either stop what you’re doing and walk away. Or do it all the way. Which means you are, in legal terms, a criminal. Capisce?”
Kane let out a deep breath.
“All right,” Sofia said. “Time for you to chat with Mister Cohn.”
“Now?”
“Aren’t you one of those go-getter types?” Sofia led him back to the car. “Don’t put off for tomorrow sort? Besides, my criminal lawyer tells me Cohn’s doing some sort of preliminary backdoor thing today with some city schmu
cks about the rail yards, so the clock is ticking.”
“That’s his car,” Sofia said as the limo drove past a Rolls Royce with personalized New Jersey license plates: ROY C. It was illegally parked in front of a hydrant on East 68th Street in the Lenox Hill neighborhood between Central Park and the East River. “That’s his home and place of business,” she added.
A town house sheathed in limestone glitzed above the sidewalk, standing out from its staid neighbors not just by the rock but also jutting forward slightly.
“I’m not an appreciator of architecture,” Kane said, “but isn’t that a bit tacky?”
“Supposed to be imposing,” Sofia said. “Different tastes.”
“Right.”
The limo stopped at the corner.
“I’m not sure exactly what you want me to achieve with this guy,” Kane said.
“We’re just sticking our beak in,” Sofia said. “Play it by ear.”
“That doesn’t turn out well with me sometimes,” Kane said.
“I believe in you,” Sofia said with little conviction, more like encouraging a dog to go outside and take a pee on the hydrant. “Use the words three hundred thousand cash as a buy in.” She leaned forward. “Maybe ask him about Marcelle? The two of them got to have crossed paths a number of times as they’re both the same kind of lawyers.”
Matteo threw the door open, eager for Kane to get out.
Kane walked up the steps to the imposing building. He rapped on the door and after a few moments it was answered by a barefoot young man dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
“What?” the guy asked.
“I need to speak to Mister Cohn,” Kane said.
“You have an appointment?”
“It’s about the rail yards,” Kane said.
“What about ‘em?”
Kane had a moment of inspiration. “Tell him it’s also about the Gentleman Bankers.”
The young man frowned. “The what?”
“Just tell him rail yards, convention center and Gentleman Bankers,” Kane summarized, getting more confident the more irritated he grew at this guy.
