Condemned (19 page)

Out in the garden, several flaming torches on white bamboo poles lit the night as five guests—who Sandro had invited after arriving back home this evening—sat around a table under a pergola covered with grape vines.

“Sandro, come on out, enjoy the party,” Vic Rosa, a lawyer friend of Sandro's called. Rosa had been an Assistant United States Attorney in Brooklyn when Sandro first met him. Now he labored in a mid-sized corporate firm uptown. Angelo Marini, another person sitting at the table in the garden, also a lawyer, had often kidded Rosa that no one knew loneliness more than a lawyer working in a mid-sized, New York, Jewish law firm. Both Marini and Sandro were always importuning Rosa that he should practice law with Sandro, as a single practicioner; but Rosa needed the illusion of security provided by a larger firm with lots of people walking through the halls. Rosa's wife, Jenna, sat beside him. Emma Galiber, the Senator's wife—the Senator had planned to join the group for desert and champagne when he finished a fund-raiser in the Bronx—was next to Jenna.

“I am enjoying myself,” Sandro called back through the open archway that connected the large kitchen with the living room. A variety of copper pots and pans hung from a square rack over the center of a work island. “The pasta will be finished in a minute. Put that colander in the sink,” he said to Tatiana who was standing at the ready next to him. “Do they need more champagne out there?”

“All fine.” Tatiana wore white pants and a blazing red silk top which was covered with a bibbed apron. She removed a colander from the overhead rack and placed it in the sink.

“Will you two come out and join the guests,” said Angelo Marini, entering the kitchen with three Bellinis in his hands. He was about the same size as Sandro, with salt and pepper hair. He held out the champagne flutes. Tatiana took one for herself and one for Sandro. Marini and Sandro had attended high school, college, and part of law school together; Sandro dropped out of law school for three years while he raced Formula 2 in Europe. While Sandro had been abroad, Marini passed the Bar and joined the District Attorney's Office in Brooklyn. His law career was cut short, however, when he inherited the small, exclusive restaurant in East Harlem that had become all the rage among the chichi New York crowd. Having inherited culinary enthusiasm from his mother, he now devoted his time to greeting the nightly crowds that arrived in shiny limousines that were parked outside the ancient tenements.

“If you weren't such a cheap bastard, you would hire a cook,” said Marini, raising his champagne flute.

“I wanted to cook my speciality for Tatiana on her birthday.”

“It's also your anniversary,” said Tatiana.

“… And my anniversary at the Bar,” added Sandro. “We hadn't planned to be here, but hey—here we all are, and it's great.” The three of them clinked glasses together.

The stove-timer sounded. “Everybody at their stations,” said Sandro with feigned urgence, putting down his glass, moving quickly to take the pot of boiling pasta from the stove. He emptied it into the colander, shook out the water, and emptied it back into the pot, pouring several pints of heavy cream on top.

“What are we making?” said Marini.

“Carbonara.” Sandro put the pot back over a low flame. He separated three eggs and dropped the yolks onto the pasta, mixing everything together with a wooden spoon.

“Let me do that,” said Tatiana, “while you have a drink with Angelo.”

“Happy birthday, Tatiana; happy anniversary, brother.” Marini put his arm around Sandro and kissed his cheek. “You know how long we know each other?” he asked Tatiana.

“A long time. Did you break the bacon?” Tatiana said to Sandro.

“Not yet. I'll get it now.”

“You do the cheese,” Marini said to Tatiana, “I'll do the bacon.” Marini took an apron from a peg on the wall. “Carbonara has to be served hot immediately, or it's ruined. Are the plates warm?”

“Because you run that stinky hole-in-the-wall restaurant, you think you know how fine pasta has to be served?” said Sandro.

Marini gave Sandro a side-long glance. “I could cook carbonara for the Pope,” he said.

“What does he know, he's Polish” They all laughed. “Ahh, just thinking about cooking in Italy, being in Italy, makes my soul ache,” said Sandro.

“If you weren't so cheap, you would have taken Tatiana to Lago Como for her birthday, instead of the slightly less attractive Finger Lakes.”

Sandro glanced at Tatiana. “She has bad memories of Italy.”

“Ohh?”

“My mother died there.”

“I forgot. I'm sorry,” said Marini.

“It's all right.”

In that incredible way that the human mind can skew instantly forward and backward through time and space, Tatiana's mind now flashed through the moments after she, her mother, Inga, and her father, Vasily, fled down the stairs from their apartment into Prokophyeva Ulitza in Leningrad. Ironically, she now thought, rather than her parents giving her a thirteenth birthday party, the K.G.B. staged a raiding party, storming into their apartment just as she and her family were saying goodbye to Aunt Vlada and Uncle Boris. And now she was celebrating her birthday in America, with Sandro Luca and his friends. Tatiana now heard ringing. It was the phone in Sandro's kitchen. Her flood of memories left her as she picked up the portable phone from the counter.

“Tell them nobody's here,” said Marini.

“Hello?” said Tatiana. She listened. “It's your answering service,” she said, handing the phone to Sandro.

“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Luca. I have a woman named Flor on the line,” said the operator. “She says it's an emergency.”

“Can you patch us together?” he asked.

“One moment.” There was a pause. “Go ahead.”

“Hello, Sandro? This is Flor, Tony's girlfriend.” Flor was affectionately known as the “cummad,” or girlfriend, of Tony “Balls” Spacavento, a client of Sandro's. Tony Balls was a knock-around guy, and a close friend of Johnny G., the reputed head of the Gambino family. Tony Balls was part of ‘the life', often referred to in the media as a “reputed Captain in the Gambino organized crime family”.

“Something wrong with Tony?”

Marini half-listened to Sandro's conversation as he added copious amounts of cheese on top of the pasta as Tatiana continued to stir.

“It's not Tony. It's my son, Ray Ray. He was arrested early this morning,” said Flor. “I didn't want to bother you. I didn't even get a chance to tell Tony. He's at home—you know—I can't get in touch with him until he gets out of the house later. I thought they'd let him go, ‘cause he's only a kid, and he'd be home by now. But now it's a long time, and I'm worried about him in that stinking jail with all them perverts and punks. I hope you don't mind I called you.”

“Not a problem. What was he arrested for?”

“They went to a dance, him and some friends, and you know how kids are—he's only eighteen, nineteen—oooh, I'm gettin' so old—they were driving, and a cop stopped them, and there was a marijuana roach in the car. He tells me it wasn't his. It was just in the car. It's not his car. He was just at a dance at Xavier.”

“Your son goes to Xavier?”

“I wanted to get him away from the neighborhood kids. I know you went there, too. Tony told me. I tell my son I want him to grow up and be a big-shot lawyer like you. What's this going to do to him, Sandro?”

Marini was making signs to Sandro that the pasta was ready. Sandro pointed to the dishes that Tatiana had warmed in the oven.

“What time was he arrested?” said Sandro.

“About two-thirty this morning.”

“Don't worry—he'll be all right in the system. It takes about twenty-four hours to get through.” Sandro looked at the clock on the wall. It was 10:30. “When he gets to court, I'll be there to get him out.”

“I don't like to bother you, but I'm worried—you know how mothers are.”

“He's probably a little scared right now, but that'll be good for him. It'll keep him from making the same mistake again.”

“Where should I go? I don't even know where to go. Do I have to bring bail money or something?”

“There's nothing for you to do at the moment. He won't come up until after midnight. You won't need any money; he'll be released in his own recognizance—without bail. I'll make some calls and find him. I'll even call Tony and tell him.”

“No, don't do that. He'll be furious. He wants the kid to be so straight. He's more strict with him than my ex.”

“What's your son's name?”

“Ray Ray—Raymond Guitierrez. He's really a good kid.”

“Don't worry. It'll be all right. I'll get him out. Tell him, if he calls you, that he'll be out in a few hours. I'll call you back.”

“Oh, God, tfianks, Sandro.”

“Give me your number. I'll call you and let you know what's happening.” Sandro wrote her telephone number on a pad and hung up the phone.

“Some dope gets himself in the slam is no reason for the pasta to get cold. Come on,” said Marini, carrying three plates of pasta out to the garden. Tatiana did the same. As Sandro emerged with more plates of pasta, greeted by cheers and applause, the phone rang again.

“Forget it,” said Marini.

Sandro put the plates down and hustled back to the kitchen.

“Sandro?” said Joe Galiber's deep voice.

“What's happening? Is whoever it was still hanging around?”

“I don't think so. I can't see anyone from my windows. I went downstairs and was looking around. I didn't see them. Is Emma still there?”

“Yes. We're just about to eat. If you hurry you can have some pasta.”

“I'll go downstairs. If they're gone, I'll come down. Don't wait for me. Tell Emma—don't tell her about the tail. Just tell her I'll be there in a bit.”

“If they're still there,” said Sandro, “don't worry about Emma. Angelo is going to the restaurant to count his money. He'll drop her off. You want me to come up and meet you?”

“Not necessary. I didn't do anything, and I'm sure as hell not about to run scared. I'll take a look and give you a call back.”

Sandro went out to the garden and sat next to Tatiana. He told Emma that Joe was running late and would probably come down to pick her up in a little bit. Not knowing what Sandro and the Senator had discussed, she looked somewhat miffed. “He's having a little problem,” Sandro added. “He'll explain when he gets here.”

“A problem? What kind of problem? You'd better explain now,” said Emma, rising. She and Sandro walked into the kitchen where Sandro explained what he had spoken about with Joe. Emma nodded and said she wanted to leave immediately to go to meet Joe.

“Let's wait to hear from him again. He said he would call shortly to see if it was for real or if he was being paranoid,” said Sandro. “No sense getting upset over what may turn out to be nothing.”

Reluctantly, Emma agreed and returned to the table, anxious and impatient.

Champagne flowed, the pasta was terrific, there was a great deal of laughter, and many toasts. Even Emma began to relax as she waited for Joe to call. Marini insisted that he prepare the salad for everyone.

“I'll help clear,” said Sandro.

“Will you sit and relax,” said Marini, rising.

“I have to call the courthouse anyway.” Just as he stood, the phone rang.

“That damn phone of yours,” said Marini.

Sandro picked up the phone. It was the Senator. “There's nobody here. I'm on my way,” he said.

“Emma'll be relieved.”

“Don't wait supper for me. I'll catch up when I get there.”

Sandro put down the phone and searched through a phonebook he took from a kitchen drawer. He dialed a number. The phone on the other end rang many times. Finally someone picked up.

“Clerk's office,” said a man's voice.

“Clarence there?”

“Whose calling?”

“Sandro Luca, a friend of his.”

“I'll see if he's around.”

Sandro waited, listening to the sounds of far off voices, phones ringing, drawers opening or closing.

“Sandro?” said a man.

“Hey, Clarence. How are you?” Clarence was the night Supervising Clerk of Criminal Court.

“Good, thanks. You have someone here?”

“Yeah, a kid named Ramon Guitierrez. He was arrested about two-thirty this morning. How long is it taking for them to come up?”

“It's a light night for some reason. We're averaging about twenty hours.”

All arrests in Manhattan, from public urinating to murder, were initially processed through the Criminal Court. Day and night, twenty-four hours a day, three-hundred and sixty-five days a year, the system kept devouring, digesting, and regurgitating the bodies. Not many years back, fingerprints were hand sorted at the Bureau of Criminal Identification, in the basement of Police Headquarters on Centre and Grand Streets. Despite the manual sorting, a defendant arrested in the morning, would be arraigned by early afternoon. After the world became computerized, with fingerprints sorted electronically in Albany, the arrest process stretched out to forty eight then to seventy two hours. Detainees were stacked like cord wood in Central Booking, in every police precinct cage around the city, as the system waited for fingerprints. Finally, the Court of Appeals had ruled that detainees had to be processed within twenty-four hours, or summarily released, and somehow the system began to work more quickly.

“You think you could find an arrest number for me, and let me know when you think he might come up?” asked Sandro.

“Let me look at the computer. How do you spell his name?”

Sandro spelled ‘Guitierrez'. “Yeah, here it is. Arrest number 134566. Arrested about two-thirty this morning.”