Once a Crooked Man E-Book

David McCallum

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 537

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Sal, Max, and Enzo Bruschetti have spent their entire lives keeping a low profile. As their criminal empire as grown more diverse, they have relied on an increasingly complex web of financial arrangements to keep their business safe from prying eyes. Now wealthy and aging, they have decided to retire from crime. Right after they tie up a few loose ends... When actor Harry Murphy inadvertently overhears the Bruschetti brothers plotting to turn several associates into "dead meat" he is stricken by conscience and decides he must intervene. After traveling to London to warm one of the intended victims, Harry is caught up in a shootout, forced to flee in a high speed chase, mistaken for a Bruschetti agent, and handed a suitcase filled with cash.

Leseprobe

Born in Scotland and educated in England, David McCallum has spent most of his life in the United States. As an actor he has starred in such television series as The Man from Uncle, Sapphire and Steel, The Invisible Man, and NCIS. As such, his is one of the best known faces on television throughout the world. He is the son of two professional classical musicians and has recorded no fewer than four albums. In addition to all this he is widely read and a lover of books. Once a Crooked Man

ONCE A CROOKED MAN

David McCallum

First published in Great Britain

Sandstone Press Ltd

Dochcarty Road

Dingwall

Ross-shire

IV15 9UG

Scotland.

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © David McCallum 2016

The moral right of David McCallum to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

ISBN: 978-1-910985-07-6

ISBNe: 978-1-910985-08-3

This book is affectionately dedicated to

Lance Corporal George Whitney Carpenter, USMC.

Contents

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There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

1.

Until he pulled open the door of the Starbucks at 50th and Lexington, Carter Allinson II had only experienced crushes on the fair sex in his early years and minor infatuations in his teens. Some of the latter had led to wild sexual exploits but Carter had never fallen deeply in love.

The line was mercifully short and he soon had his usual fix of a regular coffee with a double shot, along with a slice of lemon cake with white icing. He looked around for somewhere to sit, and that’s when the Fates took a hand in his future.

She was seated at a table in the far corner reading a book. In front of her was a small beaded purse and a mug with a Camomile tea label hanging out. On the far side was an empty chair. The only one in the whole place.

Carter threaded his way through the crowded room.

“May I?” he asked, and pointed at the chair.

“Of course,” she replied and moved her purse.

“Thanks. Busy here this morning.”

“Yes,” she said.

As he sat down she looked at his face for the first time.

Poets have tried to capture in words that rare and magical moment when eyes meet and lives are permanently changed. Some come close in both prose and verse. It is one of the world’s great tragedies that some people never experience it and possibly never will. The animal kingdom knows it well: bald eagles, beavers, wolves and vultures mate for life, just to name a few.

On the fourteenth of July 1998, Carter extended his hand and said simply, “Carter.”

“Fiona,” she replied, taking it and marveling at the intensity of his blue eyes.

For half an hour they sat in silence, but before parting company they exchanged the briefest of pleasantries and he invited her to have dinner with him. The whole encounter was so natural to both of them that there was no need for any beating around the bush or subterfuge. He had asked and she had accepted.

Over dinner she discovered that he had recently graduated from Vanderbilt and was now going on interviews. Most of these had been unsuccessful, not only as a result of the current state of the financial world but also because the young man with the deep blue eyes was not particularly well organized and definitely in need of feminine guidance.

Perhaps if she had known just how much guidance that would be she would have nodded politely, got up from the table, and walked out of his life. Instead she invited him to meet her father, who just happened to run a Wall Street investment firm.

On the following Friday evening in the paneled library of the family apartment Carter found himself before Charles Maitland Walker, Fiona’s father and the founder of the firm of Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher. In his hand he held the young man’s resume.

“I see you went to Deerfield. Great school. One of my partners went there. But that was back when it was all boys,” he said wryly.

“Yes sir, that was before my time.” Carter took slow deep breaths.

“And then Vanderbilt, I see.” Charles Walker looked up. “Why did you head south?”

“I think it was the weather, sir. I had had enough of snow and cold.”

“And I see you did a stint over in the UK.”

“Yes sir, in England. Bristol University. I got to play a little rugby.”

“That must have been interesting. I saw a great game at Twickenham once. Fascinating. So simple by comparison to what we do here.”

Carter crossed fingers on both hands as he watched the pages turn.

“I get the impression from what I read here that you have all the necessary qualifications for this line of work, but lack the motivation. Apart from sports. It makes me wonder whether you are cut out for a career in finance. My daughter thinks otherwise.” He sat down on the sofa. “If you were in my shoes, what would you do?”

Carter took a deep breath and forced himself to relax before he answered. “It is true, sir, that my efforts in the past have been less than satisfactory, but can I assure you that need no longer apply if you put your faith in me. I shall work hard to learn the specifics of whatever you choose to give me. I can promise you enthusiasm, loyalty and a strong desire to succeed, both for my own future and more importantly to justify the trust that your daughter appears to have in me.”

Fiona and her mother rose up when the two men came out of the study. They spoke in unison: “Well?”

Charles Walker laughed aloud. “He starts tomorrow. In a very minor capacity I might add,” he said as he kissed his daughter on the cheek. “Then, as my mother used to say: ‘We shall see what we shall see.’”

Carter put his arm around Fiona. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m a little shell-shocked. This is all happening so fast.”

“Welcome to the Walker clan,” she replied. “Let’s have some wine and toast to your success!”

“Our success,” said Carter with a broad smile.

The next weeks were extremely hard for him. The pace of his life tripled as he learned the pleasures and pitfalls of investing other people’s money. But in six months he had proved his ability. As he was the constant companion to a partner’s daughter, he was given his own small office on a lower floor.

The young couple were inseparable and it came as no surprise when they married at the Church of the Heavenly Rest and honeymooned in the Swiss Alps. James was born the following year and Amanda fourteen months later.

No one in the family at any time had the slightest idea that Fiona’s new husband had a sizeable skeleton in his cupboard.

2.

It was an odd coincidence, but on the 14th of July 2015 it all began for Harry Patrick Murphy in Bloomingdale’s as he tried to figure out what to send his mother for her sixtieth birthday. He settled for her favorite, a bottle of Chanel No. 5. In the section marked: Intimates, he worked his way through an endless number of racks that held every size of style, color and material known to man. He settled on a black satin robe that was perhaps a little too sexy for someone her age. Not to worry, his dad would get a kick out of it.

He liked to keep in close touch with his parents, but as he had lived in New York and they had retired to Florida, this was more of a sentiment than a reality. As a child he had respected his father’s authority and willingly accepted his mother’s cooking and constant care. It was only when he was older that he was able to appreciate what a great job they had done. Mike and Bridget Murphy had made him a man of principle with a strong set of values. They had given him the confidence to face the world and handle most situations that might come his way. Or so he believed.

As an actor, he was well established with most of the ad agencies. His voice had the essential ingredients of sounding authoritative and at the same time friendly. He was fortunate to be sent to a considerable number of commercial auditions. Once in a while he was successful and the resulting income combined with the odd movie and television part kept him solvent. When he was really fortunate, he landed a role on Broadway.

Over the past month however, he had gone on several promising auditions and had not been selected once. These rejections were beginning to erode his confidence.

Harry took the elevator down to the gift-wrapping department on the lower level, where he stood in line to pick up a box, two sheets of white tissue paper, a length of ribbon and a big red bow. Five minutes later he ran across the street to Chase Bank.

The balance of his checking account was precariously low, a situation not uncommon with actors in New York, particularly with the quixotic economy and ever-growing demands of daily living. Harry was forced to take out only two-thirds his weekly allowance from an ATM. The notes were folded in his money clip and he headed home.

Most people might find living in a five-flight walk-up a nuisance. Harry felt it an excellent way to keep fit and he was able to save on the expense of a gym. The West Side location on 56th Street was prime. It was also relatively peaceful as he was the only tenant on the top floor.

He unlocked the front door, went in and put the Big Brown Bag onto the sofa. As he moved into the kitchen his cellphone played the march from Star Wars.

“Hi there, sport,” said the familiar raspy voice of his agent. “We’re emailing you a new play by an up-and-coming young author. They’re doing it at Ninth Stage. Mike Zergenski is producing. He’s the one who caused the stir last year with the naked Coriolanus.” Richie took a drag on his omnipresent cigarette. “You may be a little old for the part but I think it’s worth a try. It’s an anti-war, anti-America sort of piece. Scale, of course, but it’s only a six week run and with Zergenski, highly visible and a good career move. The office is emailing you a script. Audition’s Monday.”

Harry chuckled to himself. It was amazing how people in the business talk about off, and off-off Broadway. No one had any idea how successful a production would be, but always assumed it would transfer to a large Broadway theater for a long and profitable run.

“How much rehearsal?” he asked.

“Zergenski wants three weeks but there’s some discussion about getting it on in two.”

“What else has this guy written?”

“No idea. I could ask.”

“Have you read it?”

It would snow in Tahiti before Richie read every page of an off-Broadway script. “I plan to get to it this weekend when I have some free time.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Harry.

“Look at the part of Tex. He’s the one in the box.”

“What box?”

“You’ll see when you read it. They also emailed you the address. It’s somewhere in Queens.”

“Sure. No problem. Thanks, Richie.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, I just had a thought. Are you free right now?”

“Yes. Why?”

“We got a last minute audition for a voiceover at Roz Lewis. Two national TV spots for Mueller’s Mayonnaise. Could you make it over there within the hour?”

“Sure.”

“Great. You see Wendy on the sixth floor.”

“Great. Thanks, Richie.”

Every voiceover audition was a crap-shoot. Unless one of his interpretations made half a dozen people sit up and listen he wouldn’t get the call back. On a spot like this he would be competing with the best in the business and star names often got the lucrative contracts.

Once in the casting office, he signed his name on the list and picked up the copy. The mayo creative team had been brief. The text was simple:

Mueller’s mayo! It’sin the bag!

Familiar faces came into the room. He nodded hello and shook a few hands before seeking a quiet corner to sit down to wait. Five minutes after his appointed time, Wendy came out, glanced at the sign-in sheet and called his name. He walked into the little studio, placed the copy on the black music stand and put on the headphones.

“Just your name and slate, Harry,” she said. “This will be take forty-two.”

She pressed buttons and gave him a wave.

“Harry Murphy, forty-two,” he said in his friendly voice. After a short pause he read the text intimately, enthusiastically, and as a news announcer.

“Thank you,” said Wendy flatly. “That was great.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied.

He replaced the copy where he found it and left the agency feeling not particularly optimistic about his chances.

3.

When he was sixteen years old, Carter Allinson regularly traveled down from the family home in Westchester to the Bronx to to buy his supply of weed. Several other boys at Deerfield Academy were users and he had become their provider at the beginning of his second year. This enterprise made him popular and gave him a much needed supply of ready cash. As social mores changed, his supplier was able to sell him whatever was currently in vogue to pop, smoke or snort. When he graduated and moved on to Vanderbilt he established another select group of customers and had the merchandise triple-wrapped in plastic and sent to him in a FedEx box. During the short time he was studying at Bristol in England, a trusted Nashville friend took care of the distribution.

Studying at College allowed Carter little time for casual recreation and he personally stopped smoking. But on his return to the States he continued to supply his close friends as he considered it harmless.

Carter was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and he knew it. To succeed in life and business he needed guile and luck. He soon taught himself the first and never missed an opportunity to take full advantage of the second.

The day the Walkers announced that Carter and their daughter Fiona were to be married, the young man felt it prudent to contact his customers to tell them the store was closed. Everyone understood his position and most wished him well. Then he called his own supplier and gave him the same message. This time the reaction was not so understanding.

“How the fuck am I going to explain the loss of so much fucking business?” came the scream on the other end of the line. “Don’t you realize my boss may decide to fucking kill me? Or do me a serious goddam fucking injury!”

Anxious to avoid involving others, Carter made the egregious mistake of offering to explain the situation to the man’s boss personally. An hour later he found himself in the Fiery Dragon, a nondescript Chinese restaurant in Queens, seated across a table from a neatly dressed cigar-smoking Sicilian who told him politely that there was no way he could walk away unscathed.

“You are in too deep, my friend. And if you make a big fuss, you will be driven upstate to a remote forest, cut up into little pieces, fed to a pack of starving Dobermans, and crapped out among the pine trees.”

Carter sat silent, agonizing over the sudden and terrifying prospect of losing everything he had managed to achieve.

“However,” continued the little man, “a deal may be possible. Our organization has never had anyone to officially take care of our business affairs. You are in the perfect position to rectify this omission. If you agree to become our financial advisor and tell us what to do with our money you can carry on with your cozy life with nobody any the wiser. Otherwise, I am sure the press would jump at the chance to publish a juicy segreto vergognoso about the drug addict tycoon with the beautiful fiancee and who works at a prestigious Wall Street firm. The choice is yours. We will of course come to some financial arrangement mutually agreeable to us both.”

Carter weighed his options. Right away the challenge of investing large sums of cash began running through his mind. If he played his cards right he could do what this man was asking and keep his head above water.

The Italian leaned towards him. “Believe me, Mister Carter Allinson, there are many who make a very respectful living off of the weaknesses and needs of others. My brothers and me are not like those you may have seen on the big movie screen.”

And then he lowered his voice and spoke the words that would be embedded in Carter’s mind until the day he died.

“Most people in this great country have an illusion about the criminal mind that is based on what they watch on their big television sets and read in their newspapers and gossipy magazines. But contrary to popular belief, crime pays, and pays well. The trick, my friend, is not to get caught. This is a lot simpler than people think.”

He leaned back and smiled. “The law enforcement agencies of this country are not omnipotent. They only succeed in uncovering a very small percentage of what goes on in the so-called underworld. And they achieve prosecution even less often. Trust me, if you just treat us like any of your other clients, no one will ever be aware of what you’re doing. Keep it in that smart brain of yours that the law with all its money and manpower only catches the stupid, the impetuous, and the greedy.”

The deal was settled with a handshake and Carter left. Two weeks later in his little office he began to receive bundles of bills in small denominations from his newfound clients. To be able to bank the cash he immediately created a bogus company with a chain of nonexistent self-service laundries across the country. At all times he was careful to keep the deposits below federal reporting limits. As the flow increased he simply created additional, fictitious cash-heavy companies.

The Sicilian’s name turned out to be Salvatore Bruschetti and he had two brothers: Enzo and Max. At a subsequent meeting with all three in the same Chinese restaurant, Carter made arrangements to take over control of the Bruschetti assets, reinvesting most of them in legitimate, low-risk companies. He insisted the brothers be named as owners, pointing out to a reluctant Enzo that they would be more anonymous doing this than in the old way of obscuring their identities and going about with pockets full of cash. Over time Carter made them use Social Security numbers, file corporate returns, and pay all the required taxes. As the balance sheets were within acceptable limits, there was nothing in them to flag an IRS audit.

The Bruschettis collected street money for the Colombians and held it in stash houses in Manhattan. For this they were paid an agreed amount. When he was at a reunion with classmates in Bristol, Carter met Julian Evans who had become manager of a bank in the Channel Islands. Carter took the hapless fellow out to dinner and offered him a small percentage of the money that he and his associates wanted to pass through the bank. Julian took two days to make up his mind but eventually agreed, stipulating that on no account was he ever to be told the source of the cash.

This meeting also serendipitously led to a way to get the money from the United States to the Channel Islands. Julian’s sister was married to a diplomat who traveled without scrutiny across borders. At first the amounts were kept small, but as the pattern was established the sums grew larger. Once Julian had processed the cash, the funds were transferred electronically through banks in several countries until they found their way to offshore accounts, most of which were on Grand Cayman. All these were under the direct control of Carter Allinson at Walker, Martin, Pomeranz and Fisher.

As the years went by, the brothers themselves became like many of Carter’s regular clients. The only difference was the records of these early dealings. Carter kept them tucked away in a private safe to which only he had the combination.

4.

Harry took a beer from the icebox, flipped off the cap and made himself comfortable on the sofa with the Zergenski script.

“Far, Far Away”

by AlbertHallenbeck.

A Play for Our Time

Below this were the name and address of the producer and a warning of dire consequences if anyone dared copy a word. Below this was a note from the author:

Apart fromthe imprisoned Texan, all the other twenty-seven parts willbe played by two actors and two actresses.

Harry chuckled. Anything to save a buck.

Act I began with Tex the Prisoner being dragged on to the stage by an Arab guard and stuffed into a small wooden crate. He remains there through much of the play. The crate is slatted so that the audience can see him and hear what he says.

As he sweats in the hot tropical sun Tex remembers his life back home. The crate becomes the kitchen table where his Mom gets him ready for the school bus. Then it’s a bench at the ballpark and his father shows him how to throw a curveball. His sister sits on it as it becomes her bed and she teases him about his acne. By the eighth page Harry was getting really bored. But then at the age of fourteen Tex drops out of school, leaves home and takes to the road for a series of exciting and well-written adventures. But then life becomes reality and it gets tough. To ease the pressure he borrows money that he can’t possibly repay. To escape his avaricious creditors he joins the army and ends up as a grunt in an unspecified country in the Middle East.

Act II and Tex is with his buddies in the desert. Violent bloody battles. Great camaraderie and a good time is had by all. But then his tour is over and Tex is repatriated. Back in the States he is made to conform to a stultifying suburban existence and he goes slowly crazy.

In the last moments of the play, Tex screams that he wants to go back and spend the rest of his life alone in the crate.

As the audition was to be held in Astoria, Harry headed for the subway at Columbus Circle taking with him a neatly wrapped package for his mother that he intended to drop off at the post office on the way. However at 58th Street the light was changing and he made the stupid mistake of running across the road. At precisely that moment, a cab accelerated away from the sidewalk to his left.

When he saw it coming, his brain told him there was no way he could get clear. So to prevent severe damage to his legs, he leapt upwards. His body was slammed over the hood where his head hit the windshield and his left hand tangled briefly with the wiper blade. Immediately the driver banged on the brakes and that sent him sliding back off the hood and down to the roadway. There was a momentary pause and then the cab drove off with a squeal of tire treads.

The whole incident took a matter of seconds. As he staggered back to his feet, he checked his body for damage and mercifully felt no broken bones. A gash in his left hand was bleeding badly and his left shoulder throbbed from the impact. Taking out his handkerchief, he bound the wound. A few passersby paused to look at him but none offered assistance.

At the moment of impact, his mother’s package had flown out of his hands in an arc and landed on the sidewalk. The destruction was total. Brown soggy paper held clinking pieces of shattered glass and reeked of Chanel No. 5. Harry looked at his watch. Replacements would have to wait.

It was time to go to Queens.

5.

From a double-locked drawer Max Bruschetti extracted three sets of stapled papers, put them in his briefcase and set it down by the front door. He walked across the hall into the bedroom and lay down on the king-size bed. Beside him was a naked young body, her glossy skin lit by the golden morning rays of the sun that shone through the window. The girl was sleek and curvaceous and blessed with a mass of curly dark brown hair. Max stroked the soft fuzz on her brown ass. She didn’t react to his touch. This was hardly surprising after their exertions of the night before.

This encounter was something of a milestone. One month earlier Max had collapsed in the shower. Nino, his driver, had found him and dialed 911. In the local emergency room the doctor had told him the attack was not life-threatening. However, he should take it easy for a while both physically and, more important, mentally. His attack most likely had been brought on by a high stress level. Max had tried to take the doctor’s advice but was totally ill equipped for the passive lifestyle. Within days he became restless and frustrated. As he didn’t want to die of boredom, he made up his mind to take a few risks. The girl beside him was the first.

A phone beeped on the bedside table. Reaching over the prostrate girl, he picked it up.

“Yeah?”

A male voice at the other end said, “I’ll be there in five.”

“Thanks, Nino,” said Max, and he replaced the phone, grabbed the girl’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “Get up, babe,” he said.

The young girl shivered herself awake, knelt up on the crumpled sheets, stretched her arms to the ceiling and thrust her taut body back into the world. Images of the night before flashed through Max’s brain. She gave him a knowing smile.

“Not now, babe,” he said. “Sorry to say, we got to go.”

The long-legged creature slipped off the bed, gathered up her scattered clothes and disappeared into the bathroom.

Max pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a denim shirt and a windbreaker, walked through into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of black coffee.

Five minutes later, Nino opened the doors of the black sedan parked out front. Max got into the front passenger seat, and as they drove off his anonymous female companion curled up like a kitten in the back.

The trip to the Edgewood Boat Marina took only minutes. The waterfront was silent and deserted. Max climbed out of the car and walked slowly across to the edge of the dock carrying his briefcase. Nino, his driver, switched on the radio. The sounds of “Summer in the City” wafted across the empty parking lot. An odor of fish and engine oil rose from the dense mass of flotsam that had collected against the riverbank.

The girl materialized beside him hugging herself in the morning air. Together they watched as an impressive cruiser appeared throwing up a wide bow wave. The helmsman passed upstream, cut back on the power and steered around in a tight circle. Judging the distance perfectly, he glided along the dock and cleared the concrete supports by less than a foot.

Max stepped on board, lifted the girl up and swung her to the deck as if she were a doll. Immediately the twin Caterpillar 475 horsepower engines roared to full throttle and the big boat plowed through the calm waters of the Hudson and headed south towards the city.

A deckhand in a dirty Mets cap held open the aft door.

“Thanks, Karl,” said Max. Taking the girl by the arm, he propelled her inside, where they squeezed past boxes of supplies, life jackets and other marine paraphernalia.

In the main cabin, his brother Enzo was sitting in one of two swivel armchairs before the wide front cabin window. In contrast to Max, he was dressed in a suit and tie.

Max pointed to a ladder that led to the cabins below. The girl reached down, pulled off her high heels and silently disappeared.

Enzo got up and the two men greeted each other with a back-slapping hug. Enzo held on to his brother’s arms. “Who’s the chick? Cora’s new girl?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Max.

“She pass the test?”

“Cum lauda.” Max grinned at his own pun. “Coffee ready?”

“Sure,” said Enzo with a nod. He walked to the back of the cabin but turned in the doorway.

“What’s up, Max?” he asked. “Why the meeting? Something go wrong with the stuff at Kennedy?”

“No,” Max replied evenly. “They used four intermediaries and clean cash.”

“What about the Times Square construction project?”

“Siegel got his money. Fletcher got his contract. Client was very pleased.”

“Then what the hell is going on?” asked Enzo. “Something’s up, right?”

“No more questions,” said Max firmly.

“Okay,” said Enzo with a shrug. “I’ll get the coffee.” And he stepped into the rear cabin.

Max stood watching the world go by on either shore and wondered how Enzo would take the news that they were about to change the way they did business. Although they were a close-knit family, Max had never really got to know his younger brother in any depth. Enzo lived a solitary life and kept very much to himself. There were rumors that he indulged in weird sex but Max dismissed these as malicious gossip.

Three weeks earlier he had met with Sal and briefly outlined his plan. His older brother had given him the go-ahead and told him to get back to him when he was ready to talk details. The meeting today was called for ten thirty. Hopefully Sal would be on time. Of the three brothers, age had changed him the most. Punctuality had been one of the first things to go with Sal.

Max wished that he had someone outside the family that he could talk to about his deeper reasons for wanting these changes. The decision was not simply for medical reasons. He harbored a nagging feeling that that he was missing out on what life had to offer. He couldn’t put his finger on what this was, but he was determined to broaden his lifestyle and give it every opportunity to make itself known.

He was also aware that there were serious risks involved in what he was about to do. The past three weeks had been an exercise in anticipating what these might be and taking all possible measures to avoid them. This included discussing it with no one. In spite of a fraternal urge to put Enzo in the picture, Max decided to wait until they were all together and in a safe and controlled environment.

Enzo carried in two steaming mugs.

“Something’s changed in here,” said Max. “What is it?”

“Very good,” replied his brother. “It’s the chairs. I had them re-covered. And the curtains are new too.”

“What was wrong with the old ones?”

“Nothing. I just like to take care of my Gazelle. Makes us both happy.”

For a while they both stood side by side.

“Gonna rain later,” said Enzo.

“Yeah,” replied Max.

The Gazelle passed beneath the immense span of the George Washington Bridge. Headlights flickered on the road. Max was glad he was down on the water. He liked his bridges like his women, young and pliable. The older structures were to be mistrusted. They’d been around too long and had begun to creak.

The helmsman steered into the Harlem River between the buildings of the Bronx and the island of Manhattan. They glided under the Triboro Bridge and alongside the green fields of Randall’s Island. Finally they bobbed alongside the rickety dock of an abandoned factory and the two brothers jumped off. Max led the way around the building and across Vernon Boulevard. A thin man in a brown suit waited at the side of a Town car.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, opening the door.

“Everything in order, Benny?” asked Max.

“All present and correct, my friend,” was the answer. Once the brothers were safely inside, Benny slid into the driver’s seat and locked the doors. The car sped off down the road in a cloud of summer dust.

6.

A paper taped to the door fluttered in the breeze. Harry held it down and read: Far Far Audition 2nd Floor. The casting instructions below were to be on time and for actors to read carefully the monologue that made up the last two pages of Act I. Pushing open the graffiti-covered door, he climbed the narrow stairway to the theater lobby.

On the ride from the city, he had removed the bloody handkerchief and put pressure on his cut finger. Thankfully the damage was minimal; it could easily have been so much worse. Once the bleeding had stopped, he had taken out the script pages and gone over them again. Although he had memorized the lines the night before, he wanted to make sure he had them word for word.

Eight people were standing around the little space. An unsavory odor from a unisex toilet at the far end pervaded the athmosphere. Two actors sat on the floor. A tall actress spoke her lines aloud with her head pressed against the shutter of the refreshment counter,

A blonde came out of the auditorium. “Fucking asshole!” she muttered, and headed down the stairs.

At 10:50 he was the last one called up to audition.

The casting person, as Lenny liked to be called, gave him a warm smile and apologized for keeping him waiting. A young man with a shaved and polished head sat in the second row scribbling notes on a clipboard. Harry climbed up and walked over to center stage. Lenny settled back in the shadows.

After a long pause, bald-head looked up and gave him a cursory glance.

“Don’t you have the sides?” he asked testily. His accent was from somewhere in the Midwest.

“Yes,” replied Harry. He touched his forehead. “Up here.”

“Oh,” said the young man. “I like to work with my actors from the script. But never mind, just show me what you can do.” He returned his attention to the clipboard.

When he arrived at the theater, Harry had been nervous. Now he was mad. He lay down on the floor, curled into a fetal position and delivered the lines with venom. If there had been an audience present he would have received a standing ovation. For a moment he felt the euphoria that comes to actors when they are performing well on a stage. The young man leaned on the seat in front of him.

“No, Harvey,” he said with a theatrical sigh. “Not that way.”

“Harry,” said Harry.

“Harry,” the man said as if it could matter less. “Imagine you are totally bored with life. Take all the energy out of your voice. Give me the feeling you have accepted your fate. Try it again.

And slower.” He sat down. “And get up off the floor; we can get to all that crap later.”

Harry had come across this type before. A petty dictator who wanted to know up front which actors would conform and submit. A control freak who had no doubt worked at a university or in regional theaters where young inexperienced minds could be impressed by his bullshit.

But Harry needed to get this part. He could put up with being paid less than $400 a week. He could stand being confined for two hours in a crate and overcome his dislike of this tedious, egotistical director. The theater was remote and drab. The stage cramped. But Harry felt an affinity to Tex. With any luck the cast would be supportive. He might even get a favorable review in The Times. It could be a wise career move.

He delivered the text just the way the man asked and hurried down the stairs into the real world.

Out on the sidewalk Harry had a sudden urge to take a leak. It was not surprising after two cups of coffee, a bottle of water and the adrenaline pumping through his nervous system from the encounter with the cab. But relief was a few steps away.

Across the road was a convenient Chinese restaurant.

7.

Max told Benny to pull the car up opposite the Fiery Dragon and take the usual look around before he and Enzo went inside. A red neon sign flashed: Good Food! 24 Hours!

Benny crossed the road and disappeared briefly inside. Both brothers waited until he came back. “Just Sal and the kitchen staff,” he reported, opening the door.

Salvatore Bruschetti was in the farthest corner at a table allowing him to keep an eye on the whole room. Red-striped pajamas poked out from beneath a gray sweatshirt and baggy trousers. A bottle of Cutty Sark stood on the table in front of him with three empty glasses. An unlit cigar butt dangled from his lips. Max and Enzo threaded their way through the tables.

“You look like shit, Sal,” said Max. “Someone steal your clubs?”

“The way I been playing lately I should be so lucky,” Sal croaked. Years of cigar smoke had wreaked havoc on his vocal cords.

Max slid into the booth opposite his older brother. Enzo pulled a chair up to the end of the table.

The waiter hurried over. “You like to try the special?” he asked. “We got spicy shrimp on menu today.”

“Bring me a cup of black coffee,” said Max, “and then disappear. Don’t come out until I call you. Savvy?”

The cook called out something in Chinese from the kitchen. The waiter twitched in understanding and scampered through the beads. He came back with the coffee, set it down with a trembling hand and looked inquiringly at Enzo who shook his head. The little man bowed and withdrew. Max poured a stream of sugar into the mug and gave it a stir.

Sal unscrewed the cap on the whiskey and filled the glasses. He pushed one over to Max. “You want to tell him, or shall I?”

“Why don’t you?”

“Max and I have been talking about getting out,” said Sal. “Putting an end to everything illegal. Calling it quits.”

“What!” said Enzo.

“Bastard put up a good argument,” added Sal. “In the end I agreed with him. I told him to put some figures on paper. Give us an idea of what we got.”

Max lifted the clipped papers out of his briefcase. He handed one to each. Sal took out a pair of half-glasses from a pocket and perched them on the end of his nose.

“Page one,” said Max, “is a summary of our current investments. The figures are from the end of March. Pages two and three show where our income comes from: bonds, real estate, overseas investments, stocks. Page four is what we’re worth. This doesn’t include any cash we got stashed away. As you can see, the Bruschettis are in pretty good shape.” He took a swallow of coffee. “Page five is why I decided to talk with Sal.”

All three turned to the last page. “Seven percent!” said Enzo. “Is that all it is now? I work my ass off for seven percent? I spend my life updating the books, handling the payouts and keeping this organization running for seven percent?”

“Yeah. That’s all it is. Take a good look. It’s the last time you’re gonna see it on a balance sheet.”

Enzo was irritated and bewildered. “That smart-ass money man put you guys up to this?”

Before Max could reply the front door banged open. All three heads turned. A rugged individual stood in the doorway, blinking at the dimness. From the beaded curtain the waiter trotted out carrying a menu.

“We’re closed,” said Max.

The man declined the offered menu. “No. Sorry. I just need to take a leak.”

There was an awkward pause.

“You heard,” said Max. “We’re closed!”

There was a moment of silent confusion.

“Get the fuck out!” yelled Sal and Max in unison. The waiter and the man in the doorway obeyed fast.

8.

Harry had no desire to pee his pants. Out on the sidewalk he frantically looked around for somewhere he could relieve himself without being seen. Mercifully there was an alley on one side of the restaurant. He hurried down it unzipping his fly as he ran.

A heap of black plastic bags of garbage were piled up beside an overflowing Dumpster. Harry squeezed past them, leaned against the wall and soon became oblivious to the world as all the tension and discomfort of the past few minutes flowed to the ground.

Through an open window directly above his head he became aware of the voices of the men inside who had just told him to fuck off. At first he thought they were talking about the plot of a new action movie. Then he realized that these guys were the real deal. They were talking cold, hard facts. The prudent thing to do would be to leave. Quickly and quietly. But he didn’t.

Curiosity overcame good sense.

9.

“That ‘smart-ass moneyman,’ as you call him,” said Max, “doesn’t know about any of this.”

“Bastard will be pleased,” said Enzo. “Carter’s wanted out ever since we nailed him.”

Max gathered up all the papers. “We got enough ready cash to keep us fat and happy until we’re too old to care.” He put them back in his briefcase. “Your great-grandkids will be able to buy all the candy bars they can stuff down their throats. Our legit businesses can provide jobs for every cousin and nephew we got.” He snapped the case shut.

“More important, we stay clean. There is no record anywhere that links us to illegal activity of any kind. If we get out now and stay legit, we’ll never have to worry about asshole cops busting down the front door at five o’clock in the morning.”

As if to emphasize his point a police siren wailed past outside.

Enzo frowned. “You know we’ve never been on that side of the fence,” he said. “It’s not gonna be that easy.”

“Give me a break,” said Max. “We got ninety-three percent on that side of the fence. Shut down the cash pickups, the adult merchandise, and we’re one hundred percent clear. Everything else is nickel-and-dime operations, favors for old friends that don’t mean shit.”

“How long ago was it?” asked Enzo suddenly. “How long’s Carter been with us?”

“Fourteen . . . no, his little girl’s gotta be fourteen . . . what’s her name?”

“Amanda.”

“Right, so it’s sixteen years now.”

“And he’s done quite a job,” added Max. “The Feds begin an investigation tomorrow, by the time they fumble their way through the files, like I say, we’ll be drooling in our oatmeal.”

“What about your pal Julian in the Channel Islands?” persisted Enzo. “You really think he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

“Of course he will. He’ll just make a few changes in the bank books. Go on about his other business.”

“Basically, we got three things to deal with,” said Max. “First is the Colombians. Shouldn’t be a problem. We’re not the only ones doing business for them in the Northeast, so they’ll find a replacement real easy. Then there’s the adult merchandise. Not a problem. I know someone who’ll take over the whole operation.”

“Who?” asked Sal.

“Ramon Rivas,” replied Max.

“Rivas?” Sal raised an eyebrow. “That Latino cunt? You sure?”

“He’s an ambitious bastard and he already controls a major part of what’s sold on the East Coast.”

“He’d pay cash?” asked Enzo.

“You have to ask?” said Max and he sat back down. “That leaves the guys in London. We have to give Santiago and Colonel Villiers their marching orders. I figure if we give them generous severance pay, they won’t give us any trouble.”

“We never talked about Cora and the girls,” said Sal, pouring himself another shot. “You gonna close Mazaras?”

“What the hell for?” replied Max. “Nobody gets arrested for fucking.”

“What are we gonna tell Rodrigo?” said Enzo. “We’ve been doing business for fourteen years. Those guys don’t take kindly to change.”

“I’ll go down to Bogota and meet with him,” said Max. “Face-to-face.”

“When?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

Enzo hesitated for a moment and then asked, “What about Vic and his computer business?”

“They’ll have to pack it up too,” replied Max. “He’s your son, Sal. You want to tell him or shall I?”

“You.” Sal took a drink. ”He listens to you.”

Enzo asked, “How much are you going to give Villiers and Santiago?”

“The Colonel picked up a shipment in Canada this morning,” said Max. “Close to a million and a half. I’ll get a message to him not to make the usual delivery. I’ll tell him to keep it with him and wait for instructions.”

Enzo was unconvinced. “Won’t he be curious?”

“About what?”

“Where the money’s going.”

“Give him a reason. Make one up. You don’t have to be specific. Keep it vague. Tell him we have to take care of some strategic planning at the airport; he’ll believe that.”

“Okay,” said Enzo. “But what about all the guys who work for us here in New York? What are you gonna do with them? Give them a fucking reference?”

“They don’t work for us, Enzo,” replied Sal. “They work for a guy who hires them with a cellphone. No names and no connection to us. Remember, we always picked good people. They won’t have trouble finding jobs.”

Enzo shook his head. “We made a lot of enemies over the years. You think they forget? Soon as the word gets around we gone soft they’ll come running.”

“Most of them have quit, are dead or inside,” said Sal and he began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” said Max.

“I was just thinking about Papa Aldo,” Sal explained. “What he’d say if he was here now.”

Max grinned. “Yeah. He wouldn’t know what the fuck we were talking about. We’d have to sit him down and give him . . . what was the name of that drink he liked?”

“Fernet Branca,” replied Enzo. “Battery acid.”

Sal gave a throaty grunt. “Yeah, that was it. His aperitivo!”

All three men smiled at the memory.

Sal leaned back in the booth. “Hey, Max,” he said, “remember when the big boys tried to put Papa out of business? There was no amici degli amici for him. He did it alone. Beat the bastards at their own game. It took him years, but he did it. Our name meant quality.”

“Quality! Give me a break, Sal,” said Enzo. “Our old man established power by terror and intimidation. He wouldn’t survive five minutes in today’s world.”

“So what do you say, little brother? Are you with us?” said Max. “Tell us what you’re thinking.”

Enzo just gave a shrug.

“It’s time we got out,” said Sal assertively. “Okay?”

“Okay,” said Enzo. “I agree.”

Sal delved inside his sweatshirt and pulled out a fresh cigar and cutter. He nipped off the end, carefully lit it until it was glowing red. Then he stood up and walked over to the curtain.

“Hey! You two. Get the fuck outside,” he said. “Like now!”

The cook and waiter shuffled out through the front door as Sal came back and stood beside the table.

“When Papa died he put me in charge,” he said. “Right?”

“Right,” agreed Max and Enzo in unison.

“There is a conception I don’t take much interest in the business. Some people even think I’m getting senile. And that’s good. Keeps them off my back.” He blew a huge cloud of smoke into the air. “We gotta move fast, Max. We ain’t gonna get no second chances. We gotta do it right first time.”

He pointed his cigar at Max. “You go to South America right away. Meet with Rodrigo. You can work out what you’re gonna tell him on the plane. Send Rocco to London tonight. He should keep in touch same way as usual through that same Internet cafe in Kensington.

“I’m sorry, Max, but I don’t agree with giving Santiago and Villiers severance. They know too much. Tell Rocco to get rid of them both. Permanently.”

Max hesitated before asking, “Dead meat? Both of them?”

Enzo shook his head. “Santiago has been our point man in Europe for a very long time. He’s proved himself to be extremely useful. When the Colonel’s needed help moving the cash, he’s been right there. He’s never let us down. He’s reliable. Aren’t we better off with him alive rather than dead?”

“Enzo’s right,” added Max. “Shouldn’t we wait—”

“Madonna! Are you both deaf? No fucking delay!” said Sal vehemently. “We got no choice if we’re going to sleep nights.”

He put a hand on Max’s shoulder. “Tell Villiers we’re sending someone to the Mews to pick up the million and a half. Don’t tell him it’s Rocco. We don’t want him to get suspicious. The fewer people that know Rocco’s there, the better. Go ahead with Rivas. Work fast, but get the best price you can. Then you send the girls packing. Shut Mazaras down.”

“No need to shut the place down,” said Max. “We’ll just run it as a restaurant. Family-style.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want,” replied Sal and he flicked the ash off his cigar. “Enzo. You take care of all the little jobs we got going. Do what you gotta do to get rid of them all. Call me when you’re done.”

“All of them?” asked Enzo.

Sal nodded and banged his glass down. “Meeting adjourned,” he said, and dropped two twenties on the table. “Now let’s get out of here. I hate this place. I don’t know why the fuck we ever bought it.”

10.

Amidst the garbage, Harry stared at the little screen on his cellphone. Soon after he had begun listening under the window he had quietly retrieved it from his pocket, turned on the Notepad app and tapped out names and phrases as he had heard them.

A good five minutes passed before he ventured back to the sidewalk. To regain his composure he began to walk. After a few blocks he came across a coffee shop. In a booth by the window he ordered a bagel with a side order of bacon and a cup of coffee. Switching on his cellphone he read through the list.

One thing was clear: someone in London was about to be terminated, someone with the name Villiers. Presumably by an assassin named Rocky.

The waitress came back with his order. Max added some cream and sugar to the steaming mug of coffee.

Had he got it all wrong? Could it be a hoax? Or a stupid television game show of some sort? Who were these guys? Who was Villiers? And what had the poor man done to deserve being turned into dead meat? And what the fuck did it have to do with Harry anyway?

He balanced some bacon on the bagel and took a big bite. As he munched away he gazed once more at the list and came to the sad conclusion that there wasn’t much an out-of-work actor in New York could do to help a doomed bastard on the far side of the Atlantic.

11.

Max settled back into the soft worn leather seat of the Town car. “Can you believe that Sal!” he said. “The old bastard can’t wait to take on the whole fucking world! Still gets a buzz out of killing.”

“It’s ironic.” Enzo shook his head from side to side. “Furella managed to change everyone but her own husband.”

Max smiled. “Yeah. I never thought of it like that.”

“Dio ce la mandi buona!” exclaimed Enzo. “We’re quitting!”

Max put an arm around his younger brother’s shoulder and pulled him close. “Sorry I kept you in the dark.”

“No, you were right,” replied Enzo. “Come sempre. Keep the surprise. Quick and clean. The fewer who know what we’re doing the better.” He leaned forward and opened the liquor cabinet. “I had the impression that you were in favor of payoffs.” Ice cubes clinked into a crystal tumbler.

“I am,” replied Max. “I figured it would be easier to deal with Carter if we didn’t have too many bodies lying around.”

Bourbon flowed over the ice. “I suppose if we don’t take them out we take a big risk.”

“Killing isn’t risk-free either. But Rocco will take care of it. He’s a pro.”

As Enzo took a drink, Max asked, “You got a phone with you?”

“Sure.”

Enzo reached in his pocket and pulled out a disposable phone. Max dialed Continental Airlines Reservations, where he was put on hold.

“The new guys gonna use our stash houses?” asked Enzo, taking a big drink. “Cash comes in every day. Piles up pretty damn quick.”

“How many apartments we got?” asked Max.

“Four.”

“Four? I thought we only had two.”

“We just signed leases on two midtown, one east, one west. I was going to get rid of the others at the end of the month.”

“Let’s decide when I get back,” said Max. “By then I’ll know who’s taking over.”

“What do you know! No more hassle with bagmen,” Enzo mused. “You know I’m not gonna be able to make the changes overnight.”

“How long do you need?” said Max.

“I dunno. A week. Two maybe.”

An agent answered and Max checked on available space on flights to Bogota. Turning off the phone, he handed it back.

“As soon as you get home,” he said, “call Rocco and tell him to go to London. Tell him what Sal said.”

“Okay.” Enzo sipped his drink. “You meeting with Carter in his office?”

“No way. Carnegie Deli.”

“How d’you get him to see you there?”

“I told him he had no choice,” replied Max with a grin. “I think I scared him.”

“You gonna tell him Sal is, shall we say, cleaning house?”

“No fucking way,” snorted Max. “I’m only gonna tell him we’re making changes.”

“He’s bound to find out,” warned Enzo.

“He’ll find out when they’re dead. Tutti morti. That’s when I’ll take him into a quiet corner and explain the facts of life.”

12.

Carter Allinson was in fine spirits. At the office he had met with a group of investors from Europe and persuaded them to put their financial future in his capable hands. If all went according to plan, this acquisition would substantially increase his personal wealth.

The evening before, his wife announced that the board of the hospital, to which she dedicated most of her time, had asked if they could give a cocktail party in her apartment for their major donors. The news had so thrilled Fiona that she had seduced her husband before breakfast and given him a big bear hug before he left. Carter understood her happiness. Her diligence over the years was not only appreciated but now formally recognized.

The only blot on the day was a call from Max Bruschetti. But even that failed to dampen his mood. Only when he saw Max standing in the doorway of the Carnegie Deli surveying the crowded room did he face reality. He raised his hand, waved and watched as his nemesis threaded his way through the tables. Carter was surprised to see how thin and drawn Max looked.

“I took the liberty of ordering,” said Carter affably.

“This won’t take long,” said Max. “How’s Fiona and the kids?”

“She’s in fine form, busy fund-raising for her hospital,” said Carter, doing his best to hide his discomfort. Even after all their years together he still hated these face-to-face encounters. “The kids are with their grandmother. James is driving everyone mad. Growing up too fast in this crazy world.”

“I thought Amanda was in Europe,” said Max.

“She goes next week. Tuesday, I think, or maybe it’s Thursday.” He picked up a menu from the table and held it out.

Max shook his head. “Just coffee.”

“You okay?” Carter asked.

“I have a big day ahead of me,” answered Max with a sigh. “Got a lot to do. I have to go down to Colombia later.”

“There a problem?” Carter sensed the possibility of trouble.

Max lowered his voice. “I’m going down there to tell them they have to find someone new to do their pickups and deliveries. The Bruschetti boys want out.”

This was the last thing Carter expected Max to say. But was it necessarily good news? Why the sudden change in their operation?

The waiter set down his corned beef sandwich.

Max asked for coffee and continued quietly, “I had a meeting with Sal and Enzo this morning. We made the decision to go one hundred percent legit.”

For a moment Carter was at a loss for words. Then he asked, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Max smiled. “Enzo said you’d be in favor of the change. He feels you would have been a happier man if you had never met us.”

“He doesn’t still say that does he?”

“He thinks you got a conscience,” said Max. “Always have. Always will.”

“And that makes me someone who could never fully be trusted. Is that it?”

“It makes you someone who has always wanted out. That carries its own baggage.”

The waiter arrived with a mug of coffee for Max and refilled Carter’s.

“In my experience,” said Carter, “quitting is not that easy. Things can jump up and bite you when you least expect it no matter how prepared you think you are.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind,” said Max.

Carter took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a moment. “I take it you’ll want me to get in touch with the Channel Islands?”

“There’s no need for Julian to know,” replied Max. “Not yet.”

“What about the others? What about London?”

“Not a problem,” answered Max. “We will take care of them. We’re still working out the details.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask if you know that Villiers steals from you.”