Condemned (11 page)

“There'll probably be fewer addicts once the sinful glamour of taking drugs is eliminated through legalization,” said Sandro. “No one drinks illegal booze anymore.”

“They come back with all kinds of things,” continued the Senator, “like, ‘what drugs will you make available? Heroin? What about controls?' And I repeat the thing about the controls will be the same as for alcohol. Under 21, can't have any. Can't have any if you drive a car. After the first year, when drugs will be free, in hospital facilities, then, they'll be sold either in state run stores, or controlled private stores. They shake their heads—not because they're skeptics. A lot of them are not—not anymore. They shake their heads because they can't believe they're even thinking seriously that this might be the necessary solution.”

“Knowing politicians—present company excluded,” said Sandro, “it probably frightens them to think about going out on a limb and telling their constituents they think drugs should be made legal.”

The Senator laughed softly. “When push comes to shove, the thing they keep coming back to is, what are you going to do about all the people who come from out of state? You'll flood the state with junkies, like Amsterdam. That's what we have to work out, Sandro.”

“It should be introduced in Washington, nationally. Then we wouldn't have that problem.”

“We're just showing Washington the way,” said the Senator. “But you have to make the bill foolproof, work out the residency requirements, constitutionality, all that; otherwise it'll be sucked down ass-backward. We don't want to provide the morality lobbyists a hook to pull us down with.”

“Are there a lot of people lobbying against it?” said Sandro.

“You bet. Most of them represent law enforcement, D.A.'s, Police, Corrections.”

“Corrections?”

“They say they'll have a problem with the thousands of people who are in for crimes that aren't going to be crimes any more. They never bother to mention the real reason that they're concerned: the huge loss of funds currently being poured into correction facilities. They get twisted when I say, okay, we'll pardon the people in jail for crimes that are no longer crimes.” The Senator laughed. “They come back and say, then you'll be putting thousands of convicts on the streets.”

“Sounds like you're having a lot of fun,” said Sandro.

“At least we have the vagasites moving. But, nothing's going to happen if you don't finish the bill. Your secretary said you're going to be out of town for the weekend, racing?”

“What's the matter with her, telling people where I've gone for the weekend.”

“Don't be putting me in the position of getting your secretary in trouble because she told me where you were. I told her how important it was, that I needed my bill. She told me because she knows we're close.”

“We are?”

“Just tell me when I can get my hands on the bill.”

“I'm on my way back in,” said Sandro. He glanced over at Tatiana. She smiled.

“Back to New York? What happened to your racing weekend?”

“Merian Ellis happened. She sent a Marshal after me.”

“Federal Court Merian Ellis?”

“I hope there aren't two of them.”

“What did you do now?”

“Apparently something happened to Red Hardie's lawyer,” said Sandro, “and Ellis plans to stick me back into the trial.”

“Do you have to accept the case?”

“She can do anything she likes,” said Sandro, “including putting me in jail for contempt if I refuse. But I'm going to appeal to her sense of decency and fairness.”

“When you tell me that, I know you're in real trouble, pal,” said the Senator. “I may try and sell her on the de-criminalization bill, that these people shouldn't be tried for a crime.”

“Fat chance on that one,” the Senator said. “When will you be in? You want to get together later tonight?”

The tall towers of the George Washington Bridge, with its network of cables, appeared out of the early evening sky. “Maybe we'll do something like that,” said Sandro. “I'm just getting to the G.W.B. We were supposed to go out to celebrate Tatiana's birthday.”

“And your anniversary,” said Tatiana.

“She's right. It's also my anniversary at the Bar. Maybe we'll whip something together at my place. I'll cook. You bring some wine. What do you say?”

“Probably. That way, maybe we can take a few minutes and finish the bill. I'll check with Emma. But I think it'll be okay.”

“I'll call a few of the usual suspects,” said Sandro. “About eight-thirty?”

“I have a couple of fund raisers early in the evening. I'll tell Emma to come down, and I'll—rye—anot—aft—”

“You're breaking up on me,” said Sandro. He had already paid the toll and was amidst the vast piers and support cables of the bridge.

“I—abt—” The phone went dead.

“I'll call him from the house,” said Sandro. “You mind if we stay in and cook, have a few people over, instead of going out?”

“Nyet problem.”

She was a lovely woman, Sandro thought, smiling at Tatiana.

Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn : July 1, 1929 : 11:30 P.M.

Vittorio Caiafa feathered his oars, leaning on the handles as he watched Marco Giordano standing on the rear seat of the dinghy, holding a lantern aloft, peering into the darkness.

“We there?” Caiafa said in Sicilian as the dinghy continued to glide stem first on the calm, dark water of Sheepshead Bay.

Giordano's eyes narrowed. He smiled. “Right in the bull's ass.” His smile changed quickly. “Whoa,” he called out. “Slow it down, slow it down.” Caiafa stroked in reverse. “Watch out. Grab it.”

Caiafa cursed as one oar dropped into the water when he reached out to grab the gunnels of the moored Seabright dory. Like most of the fishing boats nearby, the larger boat was entirely open, with a control pedestal in the center aft. Its planks were painted black.

Once the dinghy was steady next to the larger boat, Giordano climbed into the dory. Hand over hand, Caiafa eased the dinghy toward the bow of the dory—on the way, retrieved the floating oar—took hold on the line secured to the dory's bow, and pulled himself and the dinghy toward the mooring buoy. He secured the dinghy to the buoy, loosened and pulled the dory toward him until he could climb aboard.

Giordano was now adjusting something inside the motor hatch beneath the floorboards. When he was finished, he closed the hatch cover, wiped his hands on a cloth, then turned a key on the control pedestal to start the engine.

When moored, this dory appeared just like many of the nondescript fishing boats bobbing silently nearby. Now, in darkness broken only by the dim lantern, the engine rumbled and echoed a deep, powerful growl. Months ago, Giordano, who had been a mechanic for racing cars in his native Sicily, had removed the standard four cylinder engine that was sufficient to move the ordinary dory to fishing sites, installing in its place, a powerful 12 cylinder Packard. Under full throttle, the dory was capable of slicing through water at more than 35 knots, out-speeding any Prohibition agents that might give chase. Another modification Giordano had made to the dory was four hinged panels just beneath the gunnels along the starboard and port sides. These were just large enough to facilitate jettisoning cases of booze from the dory under full pursuit.

“Let's go, let's go,” said Caiafa, taking the handle of the lantern now on the control pedestal and waving it toward the shore. Another light appeared on shore, off to the left, two hundred yards away.

“I see it,” said Giordano, engaging forward gear and opening the throttle slightly. The dory began to move. He spun the wheel, pointing the dory toward the light on shore. “Stand in the front with the lantern. I don't want to hit one of those smelly fish tubs.”

“Slow down, slow,” Caiafa waved a hand behind himself as he peered into the darkness. Giordano eased back the throttle.

“Tell me when to reverse.”

“Hold it. Hold it. Reverse. Reverse.”

Giordano engaged reverse, opening the throttle sharply twice. The dory shuddered—Caiafa teetered—then slowed, gliding slowly to a floating dock connected to the shore by a long gangway. Someone on the dock grabbed the dory, holding it steady as four men quickly boarded.

“Everybody on?” said Giordano. “Where's the Captain?”

“Here,” said a round-cheeked, man with weathered skin, white mutton chops, and a peaked officer's cap. Wordlessly, he moved to the helm. “Seats,” he said, glancing about. The others sat. “Push off.” One of the men leaned over to push the dory from the dock. The Captain opened the throttle a notch and the dory began to move through the narrow inlet out toward the open water of Jamaica Bay. The Captain glanced skyward. Thousands of stars dotted the sky. He opened the throttle more.

“She's calm,” the Captain said mostly to himself. A few minutes later, he open the throttle another two notches. The bow raised higher out of the water, planing.

“You think this old jerk can understand us?” Caiafa said to Giordano in Sicilian as he sat on a bench on the port side of the dory.

“Not unless his old man had a Sicilian ‘cummad'.”

Caiafa laughed. “Hey, Ciccio,” he called to a man with a flowing moustache who sat on the opposite side of the dory. “I hear your new ‘cummad' is American.”

Ciccio smiled and shrugged.

“Nice having a little money in your pocket for American pussy.”

“It's more important to have something big in this pocket.” He grasped himself in the groin.

“Stop the shit. If it wasn't for the fact that you make a pocket full every week over here, you'd be home fucking your hand.”

Ciccio shrugged again. “It doesn't hurt to have the extra dough, that's for sure.”

“Let's get this tub going so we can make another pay-day,” Caiafa said, standing, looking around. “We gonna make it on time?” he asked the Captain in English. “It's already half-past.”

“Not a problem.” The Captain took out a pocket watch, then glanced familiarly toward the Jersey shoreline. As his regular work, the Captain was the chief pilot of the Port of New York. For thirty-five years, he had been guiding giant ocean going ships through the Narrows out to sea or into their slips along the East or West River. As a second job, a very lucrative second job, he permitted himself to be employed guiding this small dory several times a month to pick up a cargo of rum from Cuba or whiskey from Canada from freighters anchored in international waters. He could pass through these waters with his eyes shut. And knowing the kind of work his present oily shipmates were about, he preferred to keep his eyes shut most of the time.

Flash Inn : June 18, 1996 : 6:15 P.M.

The Flash Inn is a restaurant on 155th Street, at the edge of the Manhattan side of the Macombs Dam Bridge, literally a stone's throw across the Harlem River from the Bronx and Yankee Stadium. Commanding the top of the hill that swept up away from the river and the Stadium was the Bronx County Supreme Court building on the Grand Concourse. In addition to courtrooms, the building housed the District Attorney's Office, the offices of the Borough President of the Bronx, and a complex of offices for most of the Bronx government and political officials.

Although the neighborhood around the Flash Inn was black Harlem, the owners of the restaurant were Italian, and the bill of fare was a hidden oasis of gourmet cooking. Because of the cuisine and it's proximity to the courthouse, The Flash had, over the years, become the gathering spot of the political and civic wheelers and dealers from both the Bronx and upper Manhattan.

Awgust Nichols and Anton Taylor sat at a table in the back dining room of the Flash Inn. An old black waiter, courteous, courtly, reminiscent of someone you might find serving on a Mississippi river boat, had just placed drinks on the red table cloth in front of the two men.

“What time are the Russians supposed to get here?” asked Nichols.

“Only Uri could make it. The other one, Sascha, is away on a trip for a couple of days, you know what I mean?”

“I dig.”

“I told him we had to leave here no later than six forty-five so we could make it to the game.”

“Should be a good one tonight,” said Taylor.

“I want to get there early, because I have an appointment with The Man downtown later. I don't want to be late.” Nichols looked up. “Speak of the white devil. Here's our boy now. Look at this, he's got a bitch and a heavyweight with him. You know this other guy?”

“I seen him once or twice, when they did some work for us.”

The three newcomers made their way between tables. Uri Mojolevsky was thick-lipped, balding, heavy-set. His blue eyes bulged slightly. What was left of his hair, which had a self-applied black shoe polish color job, was combed from one side of his head, up over the top, to the other. Walking next to him was a tall, dark-haired, buxom young woman in black leather pants, a too-small, white cardigan sweater, it's buttons struggling to stay closed, and a peaked, black leather biker's cap set on the back of her head. One step behind, was a thickly built, completely bald man, with deep-set, dark, sad eyes. Both men wore sport shirts and jeans. Mojolevsky carried a cellular phone.

“How's it going?” said Nichols, leaning forward, shaking Uri's hand. He nodded to the other man and studied the woman.

“Good, good,” said Uri, in a thick Russian accent. He also shook hands with Taylor as he sat. “This is Fima.” The bald man nodded. “And Anna. Sascha couldn't make it. He's busy this week.”

“I dig,” said Awgust.