A String of Beads (13 page)

Crane waited. He always felt a twinge of fear when Salamone showed up this way. Some
time ago Crane had begun to think that the last sounds he would hear on earth might
be the footsteps of Salamone and a couple of his guys on the stairs. The idea had
bothered him for such a long time that he had tried several ways of lessening the
anxiety. He had tried talking to Salamone on the telephone so he wouldn’t have a reason
to drive all the way out here in person. But Salamone wouldn’t talk to him on the
telephone. He said he liked to be able to look into a man’s face while he talked business,
but Crane suspected it was because so many men of Salamone’s acquaintance had been
the victims of wiretaps.

He had also tried keeping a short-barreled shotgun in the coat closet behind his desk.
The shotgun hadn’t been a good idea. Salamone came in one rainy day, took off his
coat, and opened the closet door to hang it up. He said, “What’s the shotgun for?”

Crane said, “Protection. People know we have duplicate keys to all the bays, and we
take in cash and checks. I don’t want some holdup jerk to come in and kill one of
my guys so he can steal some customer’s stamp collection.”

“If your guy is smart enough to give him the keys, nobody gets killed. Get rid of
the shotgun. If your place gets robbed, we’ll get it all back. I promise.”

Crane knew that Salamone was telling the truth, that it had been the truth for over
a hundred years, and that it would still be true after they were both gone and forgotten.
Salamone wasn’t just some guy. He was speaking as a member and representative of the
organization, which in Western New York was called the Arm.

Crane listened to the footsteps coming up the stairs. As always, the first one to
appear was Cantorese, the big man. He was about six feet three and fat. It was a hot,
humid day, and he was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt that hung down over his belt
and covered the gun at the back of his pants. His small eyes were already scanning
everything in sight, and then settled on Crane and never left him. He stepped aside
from the landing and stopped to Crane’s right. The etiquette of these meetings was
that one didn’t greet Cantorese. He was there, and you could nod to him or—if you
were, for some strange reason, happy to see him—you could smile. He didn’t care what
you thought, so either was wasted.

The second man up was Salamone. He was about fifty years old, but his body seemed
younger. He had good posture and was light on his feet. Today he looked as though
he had been golfing. He wore a dark blue polo shirt and a pair of well-tailored black
pants, with a pair of rubber-soled walking shoes.

Behind him was Pistore, who trailed behind Salamone by five or six steps and half
turned to look over his shoulder occasionally. It was clear to Crane that if something
had been happening behind the three men, it was Pistore’s job to take care of it.
Crane had, a couple of times, caught sight of guns on Pistore. Today he didn’t have
a sports jacket, but he carried a thin nylon windbreaker over his left arm, undoubtedly
to conceal something lethal.

Salamone reached the office and stepped up to Crane. “Danny boy.” He gave Crane a
quick hug and a pat on the back, then held him at arm’s length and stared into his
eyes for a half second, then released him. He went to sit behind Crane’s desk.

When Salamone was settled, Pistore returned to the top of the stairwell and leaned
against the wall. From there he could see the bottom of the stairs, the big paved
aisles between storage buildings, and Daniel Crane. Pistore was a generation younger
than the other men, so he seemed to do most of the chores. Crane knew that if death
were to come, he would probably be the one to administer it.

Salamone sat back in Crane’s leather desk chair looking contented. Crane knew that
the hug Salamone sometimes gave other men had nothing to do with friendship. He had
been checking to see if Crane had microphones or wires on his body. Salamone was the
conduit for Crane’s stolen goods, but Crane couldn’t know all of the other businesses
that Salamone had going. For many years he had run the network of barbershops, bars,
gas stations, and convenience stores where people bought each week’s football betting
slips in this area. On Mondays, Salamone drove around to those businesses and picked
up his profits. He also had some kind of deal with the people who stole luggage at
the airport, and some share of an auto parts business. But he could be doing almost
anything.

Salamone leaned forward. “Well, Danny, what have you got to tell me?”

“I’ve got your percentage for the storage business,” Crane said. “It was pretty good
last month. People paint and remodel during the summer, or go on vacations, so they
seem to store things more often.” He went to the safe in the corner of the room. It
was left unlocked during the day, so he just opened the door and took out a stack
of bills he had placed there. He set it on his desk in front of Salamone.

Salamone pursed his lips and gave a silent whistle to show he was impressed. “How
much is that?”

“Six thousand, seven hundred forty-five. Ten percent.”

Salamone nodded, then held it up to hand it to Cantorese, who made the money disappear
under his voluminous shirt. Salamone said, “I’ve got something for you, too. It’s
the money for the last load of stuff we sold. Pistore, give him his money.”

Pistore stepped up to the unoccupied desk where Harriman had sat, spread his windbreaker
on the surface, and unzipped the pockets. Out of each pocket he took a stack of bills
with a rubber band around it. When the stacks were all on the desk, he stepped back
and put on his windbreaker.

Salamone said, “It’s twenty-two thousand. Are you pleased?”

“It’s hard not to be,” said Crane.

“How are we doing so far this month?”

“It looks good again. We got another load in this morning, just like the last few.
Summer has always been good for us. Vacations, like I said. And people open a lot
of windows and forget to close one when they go somewhere. It’s also when there’s
a lot of remodeling and construction and stuff, so nobody notices one more truck parked
by a house.”

Salamone smiled and nodded, then reverted to his serious expression. “Danny, you kind
of skipped over something that I’ve been wondering about. You told me how good last
month was, but you lost a guy last month, that guy Nick.”

“Well, yeah,” said Crane. “I didn’t think you’d be interested in that.”

“He got shot to death. Sure I’m interested. Who killed him?”

“Nick said he got drunk in a bar, and got into a fight with some Indian. The guy knocked
him cold. The cops were pressing charges for assault.”

“So who killed him?”

“The Indian, I guess.”

“No, he didn’t. Guys kill people for reasons. They kill for money, or over a girl,
or something like that. Nobody beats some stranger up in a bar and then comes back
and kills him too. Winning a fight is kind of a one-act deal.” He paused. “So I’m
asking you, Danny. Who killed him?”

“The police think—”

“I’ll ask one more time. Who killed him?”

“I did.”

Salamone grinned and looked at Cantorese and Pistore. “See?” He tapped his index finger
on his temple.

The others said nothing, and showed neither surprise nor disapproval.

Salamone turned to Crane again. “You did the right thing by being honest with me.
I want to make that clear to you. Pistore, give him the rest of his money.”

Pistore reached into another pocket in his jacket and put another stack of bills on
the desk.

Salamone said, “You’re honest with us, so we’re honest with you. Tell me why you killed
him.”

Crane’s mind raced. He wanted to tell Salamone that Nick had diverted some money from
a robbery, or a piece of jewelry, but he knew Salamone would want to know which piece,
and he couldn’t remember the pieces he had given Salamone to sell last month. He could
see Salamone’s face darkening. Time was going by, and then gone. “I wanted his girlfriend.”

Salamone kept his eyes on Crane as he said, “You can go back to the car and wait for
me.” Pistore and Cantorese went down the stairs. It seemed to take a long time. When
he heard the door downstairs close, Salamone said, “So where is the girlfriend? Did
you get her?”

“Not exactly. Not yet.”

“Why not? Did she get you to kill him and then change her mind about you?”

“No,” said Crane. “It’s not like that. She didn’t know about it. I never told her
I was going to do it. I never even told her I wanted her.”

Salamone rested his elbow on Crane’s desk and leaned his chin on the palm of his hand.
“So how is she supposed to know?”

“I plan to tell her,” he said. “I just think I need to give her some time.”

“For what?”

“To get used to the fact that Nick is dead.”

“Is she a little slow or something? I read in the paper that she was right there when
the bullet went through the bastard’s head. The blood must have sprayed the walls.”

“She just thinks of me as a friend—somebody she knew through Nick, who has been nice
to her since he died. She isn’t ready to start dating again.”

Salamone rolled his eyes. “If people waited until they were ready for things, not
a goddamn thing would ever happen. Things get sprung on them, and they either keep
up or get trampled. You’d better move quick, or somebody else is going to get in there
ahead of you. Right now she’s alone and she’s going to be receptive. Make sure it’s
to you.”

“You think so?”

“Show me a guy who waits around until she’s all ready, and I’ll show you a guy who’s
going to be on the guest list for her wedding—way at the back with the groom’s third
cousins.”

“I’m going to have to think about it.”

“Here’s a start. She’s probably short on money. Nick won’t be bringing any pay home
this month. Even if you didn’t give a shit about her you should be generous to her
just because he worked for you. That will keep the other guys on your crew thinking
you take care of your people. If you don’t care about them, they won’t care about
you. And women can’t help loving money, just the way men do. Giving her money when
she’s broke is an easy way to show her you’re desirable. That’s better than being
hung like a horse, and even if you are, the money is a lot easier to show without
risking embarrassment.”

“I guess you’re right. I’ll do it today. I’ll pay her rent, and give her some spending
money.”

“A good start,” said Salamone. He stared at Crane for a few seconds, and then sighed.
“I’m afraid there’s one more thing we have to talk about.”

“What’s that?”

“I heard that guys were checking themselves into the Erie County jail to wait for
this Indian. You know anything about that?”

“Well, I did ask my guys if they knew a couple of friends we could pay to make sure
the Indian didn’t get off. They got four of them to get arrested for small things—probation
violation, domestic abuse, that kind of thing.”

Salamone stared at him, and he could feel the eyes were seeing through his skin and
into his innards. “You know that I like you, Danny,” he said. “Not personally, of
course. That’s a different thing, and I have a very big family for that. But you’re
a good earner. Every month, I get a shipment from you that’s full of good things to
resell, and I get an honest percentage of the storage business. You’ve made me a lot
of money, and I haven’t had to spend much time worrying that you’ll do something stupid
and put me in danger.”

Crane said, “I try to be smart.”

“I’ve appreciated that. You run your business right. No outsiders who aren’t in on
things and might ask questions, and not much chance of strangers noticing what you
do. You do your own books and pay taxes and all that. We could go on forever and die
rich old men. You want that, right?”

“Yes,” Crane said. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“That’s the way to be,” said Salamone. “When this business gets big enough and you’ve
diversified your investments and set aside money for trouble, you could stop doing
burglaries and just collect your rent. So here we are. And this is what gets me. You’re
like forty years old, and I’ve got to explain the way the world works, and our place
in it.”

“You don’t really,” said Crane. “I don’t need—”

“Yes you do,” Salamone snapped. “So here it is. You know that the little bit of power
I have on this earth isn’t from me, or from the handful of guys like Pistore and Cantorese
who work for me. It comes from people up above me, the people I work for. Most of
the power that matters belongs to Mr. Malconi.”

“I know who he is,” said Crane.

“See, that’s exactly my point. You do, and you don’t. He’s the guy you’ve seen in
the papers. The don, the capo, the boss of the Arm. They keep showing that one picture
of him from his last indictment twenty years ago, outside the courthouse, with the
two FBI guys holding his arms. The wind blew his hair straight up, so he looks like
an old man with a porcupine sitting on his head. That’s who you know, but that’s not
him.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Mr. Malconi is the man who is at the top of the pyramid. Below him are a couple of
underbosses, and then there are about a hundred guys just like me, who have a few
businesses that he allows to operate, and that he protects. We can each pay ten or
twenty guys like Pistore and Cantorese, and we send a percentage of our profits up
the line to Mr. Malconi. I send him a part of what you give me, for instance. Once
in a great while, Mr. Malconi will pass down an order to those hundred guys like me,
and we each pass down the order to our ten best guys, so in an hour or two, there
are a thousand guys following that order. If the order was about trouble, he would
also call the bosses of nearby places—Rochester, Cleveland, Toronto, or Pittsburgh,
or even Boston or New York.”

“I guess what I meant before was that I don’t know why you’re telling me this,” said
Crane.