My King The President (19 page)

Fifteen minutes later, we were aboard the yacht, and I was mildly surprised at Cancelossi’s seamanship. He handled the vessel as if he’d been born to the helm, though he had a crew of half a dozen to take care of mooring lines and other ship-handling tasks. His man Bruno was nowhere to be seen.

Once we’d cleared channel traffic, I commented, “Well done, skipper. You’re a hell of a sailor man.”

Cancelossi glanced sideways from the wheel back at me, looking for all the world like a guest character actor in one of the Gilligan’s Island episodes. “Thank you. Like a woman, a boat knows if you truly love her, and responds in kind, and like that old country song you’re too young to remember, she needs ‘a slow hand’. ”

“I’d have to call the
ANNA B
a ship, not a boat. My guess is this is not your first one, either.”

The light of happiness faded rapidly from his face. He turned his head and eyes forward again, and didn’t speak for a while. Then, in a low voice he said, “No, she isn’t, but she’ll be my last one. I’m dying, Mr. Willard. I don’t need all those expensive doctors on my payroll to tell me I probably have maybe three, four more months left. Six tops. But there’s a lot to do before I cash in my chips. Some of it rather unpleasant, and some of it urgent. Urgent as in today. Tonight.”

I nodded respectfully. There are times when saying nothing is better than any kind of vocal response, and I knew this was one of them. The diminutive admiral was doubtlessly in advanced stages of lung cancer or emphysema or both, but nothing was wrong with his brain. Or his attitude. Gradually, a new smile stretched his translucent, paper-thin lips back over his yellow teeth. “That’s a pretty good starting point, come to think of it. Before we get to your problem, allow me to tell you about that first boat. The story of it ties in with what you’re feeling right now. Your emotional state, I mean, which by the way, you’re doing a fair job of hiding.”

I returned his smile, but continued to keep my mouth shut.

“The
ANNA B
’s dinghies are bigger than my first boat. Actually
our
first boat. Let me explain. You may know that I grew up near the Baltimore docks. A skinny water rat wop from a rat-infested tenement. Smelled just as bad as the waterfront at low tide. Anyway, that boat was a small, beat-up wooden skiff Joey Tiberio and I stole from the city docks one night. Joey was twelve. I was ten. But I didn’t get any pleasure out of that skiff, though I had wanted to in the worst way.”

“Why not?”

“Because Joey sold it the next day for ten bucks. Didn’t give me a dime from the sale, either. Besides being two years older, he was at least thirty pounds heavier than I was, but I learned an important business lesson from it all. A lesson about trust, and so-called partnership.”

This time, I took the cue. “Whatever happened to Joey?”

“Joey Tiberio? Nothing. Not for a long time. Some years ago, I heard he was in a terrible accident at his cement mixing company up in New Jersey. I think he’s part of somebody’s driveway now.” He turned, winked at me, then emitted another of his dry, rasping laughs, which sounded like corners of burned toast being broken off. “I’m sure that was the first time the Tiberio Ready Mix Concrete Company ever delivered the full nine yards.”

Again, I said nothing, and stared ahead out at the line where the sky met the ocean.

“I know exactly what you’ve been feeling this past week, Mr. Willard. Funny thing about Sicilians, whether we were born there or not. We grow up feeling all human emotions just like everybody else, only we seem to inherit more
of
them. Long after we have no further interest in money, or the power money buys, or sex, or food, we still retain the strongest urges of revenge. It’s built in, as if we males are all born with an extra chromosome chain. And it’s wonderful how it can keep you going when nothing else can. When nothing else matters. Old Puzo was right about one thing; for us, revenge without passion is business. With it, it’s as natural as breathing. You follow?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

Cancelossi glanced at the Rolex, which flopped loose around his thin wrist. After checking the horizon and his course heading, he pushed the autopilot button, then said, “Let’s go up to the flying bridge. I promised you some fishing today, and we will certainly do some a little later, but first, I want to show you something.”

Climbing the ladder, I was reminded of something my coach at Carolina had said about giving up a touchdown; the old cliché; “don’t get mad, get even. Brains beats temper every time.” He’d been a small, dark man, too. I now wondered if
he’d
had any Sicilian blood. Cal had often told me that anger and hate were natural responses we all feel, but that a man who could control those feelings without acting in instant retaliation stood a much better chance of winning either a game—or a fight. I was rapidly, if grudgingly, adding Sal Cancelossi to my short list of Woms. And, I was missing the original terribly. Painfully. Helplessly.

I took the captain’s chair next to Cancelossi’s and watched as he switched the autopilot off, then headed the vessel directly into the wind and slowed down to maybe six knots. I had only a moment of confusion, but then heard the helicopter. Big as the
ANNA B
was, she’d nevertheless make a very small target from the air, the bulls-eye of the helipad even tinier. I had to admire the skill of the pilot who brought the craft in low, and settled it down like a hen squatting over her eggs. The rotors had hardly begun slowing down before several crew rushed beneath them with stays, which were firmly hooked into place. Two other men pulled a fuel hose from a locker and began refueling the small craft. I could see that there were only two people in the helicopter. One was the pilot, Bruno, which hardly surprised me. I’d have bet the last hundred bucks I had tucked away in my left sock that Bruno was also an expert seaman as well. Probably carried a legitimate master’s ticket alongside his pilot’s license. The other man was a total stranger to me. The expensive suit couldn’t disguise his build. Short, stocky, swarthy, sixty-ish. A full head of jet-black hair, which was combed straight back, eyes hidden behind wrap around sunglasses beneath a single, non-stop eyebrow. Clutching a thin attaché case, he climbed out of the helicopter just as Sal Cancelossi explained:

“My son, Johnny, with his business report.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “Looks more like his mother every day. We used to do this monthly conference in the house, but I enjoy it more out here, now. He doesn’t like it much, but then, there’s a lot he doesn’t like about my methodology. And after I’m gone, he will probably sell this boat.” He gave me another warped smile. “Well, you can’t take it with you, can you? Let’s go below.” He pushed the autopilot switch again, and led me back down the ladder and into the main cabin.

Cancelossi Jr. and Bruno must have gone below by a different door. No one else was in the spacious salon but my host and me. “You must be starving,” he said. “It’s way past normal lunchtime. Please be seated. My steward will bring you something. Johnny and I have a little business to take care of elsewhere. I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

Having said that, he turned and disappeared through a door aft. I sat down at the huge mahogany table, noting that there was an elaborate place setting for only one, complete with three different wine glasses. I had no more than picked up the folded linen napkin when a white-jacketed black man—maybe the size of Mike Tyson—appeared, a towel professionally draped over one arm. His face was neutral as he handed me a menu, leaving me with the impression that I was in a four-star restaurant, and that I should act my part. I glanced at the menu while he poured a glass of water, then said, “I’ll just have whatever you recommend.”

This brought half a smile from the huge steward, who took the menu back and left as silently as he’d come in. Half an hour later, I had consumed one of the best meals I’d ever had, with two glasses of light, excellent wine that couldn’t possibly have been domestic. The only dish I recognized was the sautéed shrimp appetizer, and was not about to ask the efficient servant what anything else was. Besides, I was too busy. I had forgotten how long it had been since I’d eaten, and ate like an ungraceful stevedore who’d just finished an eighteen-hour shift, but didn’t give it a thought, especially since there was no one to watch me. Midway through, I heard the helicopter take off again, but didn’t give that a second thought either, except to briefly wonder who was driving the yacht.

I was finishing my second cup of coffee when my host and his son, Johnny reappeared. Cancelossi the Younger wasn’t very friendly, and not only didn’t offer to shake hands when his father introduced me as Monsignor Ralph, he positively glowered at his father when told—not asked—to sit down. I gathered their business conversation hadn’t been all that good.

The Prince of Miami didn’t waste much time. “Johnny here isn’t hungry, it seems. His stomach is as sour as his disposition today. No wonder, either. Nobody likes to be caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

Johnny Cancelossi’s face began turning red, slowly, from the neck up, like a thermometer stuck in hot water. “Papa, you—”

“Shut up.” Papa’s voice had an edge that scared me. He looked at me, frowning. “My son is embarrassed to have his confession to a priest done for him. What he’s too shy to talk about, aside from being so impatient for me to die, is admitting to something that happened years ago. When he was, oh, maybe eighteen, I sent him down to Charleston to oversee the garbage truck business we’d worked so hard to establish there. At the time, it seemed a pretty easy way for him to learn something of our operations, and to get used to doing some actual work.” Cancelossi paused, as if remembering something trivial. “By the way, that was Charleston, West Virginia, not South Carolina. Well, old Johnny here didn’t care much for Charleston. ‘It’s full of dumb-ass hicks, Papa,’ he’d tell me. ‘It’s boring as hell, Papa,’ he’d tell me.”

He paused long enough to light yet another Camel. Puffed a couple times, then went on. “But he liked the dumb-ass hick broads. One in particular. Had her knocked up in no time. Pretty young daughter of the City Manager, no less. Fifteen years old. When she refused to get an abortion—well, I’m not certain she knew what one was—young stud here beat the living shit out of her. She wasn’t very pretty after that. Punched her in the belly, too. Enough to put her in the hospital. To make a long, unpleasant story short, I hustled down there, nosed around, and found this judge who was about my age. He came on with a local-yokel cornpone crust, but underneath it all was a smart man with a shrewd mind that knew the score. Plus, he was ambitious. Very ambitious. It cost me a lot of money to get Johnny off that Charleston hook. All charges dropped, hospital records destroyed, family paid off. You know the drill. I was in debt to that young judge for a long time. Wasn’t until Tyndall’s first election that he marked my bill paid in full. All square, as I told you earlier.”

The Camel had burned itself out. He lit another. In a few sentences, he had told me of the hold Ezekiel Koontz had had on him. His son’s face had taken on a purple fury, but he remained silent. So did I, waiting. For several minutes, only the faint droning of the twin Cats driving the
ANNA B
, more felt than heard, filled my ears and mind. Then, I finally remembered I still had Jody Erikson’s printouts in my pocket. I took them out and handed them to Cancelossi. He read the names on the list, nodding slowly. “Where’d you get this?”

Tapping the papers with a brown stained finger, he looked at me with a crooked sneer. “Pretty accurate, I must say. To wit: Clifford Mansfield: Blew his head off with a twelve gauge, like Hemmingway. Sure, maybe he pulled the trigger, maybe he didn’t. Carl Torrence: Died in a boat accident off Catalina Island. No other survivors. General Abner Turnberry: Plane crash in Alaska. No survivors there either. Paul Church: Dropped off the side of a stupid mountain in the Himilayas. Body found only last year. And the worst of all, Edwin Sneed: Slipped and fell—
Fell
? under that train in the New York subway. All powerful men. All
influential
men. All dead—accidentally. Accidentally on purpose.”

The sound of helicopter rotors interrupted him. He twisted the gold band of the Rolex, glanced down once, and said, “Bruno. Right on time, bringing the fourth party for our fishing expedition.” With another of his popcorn-dry chuckles, he added, “He’s bringing the bait. Let’s all go topside.”

We climbed to the bridge in time to see the crew repeat their earlier operations. Bruno got out, followed by a pencil-thin man with sleek black hair pulled back, and so long behind his neck it took three rubber bands six inches apart to keep it in place. He was dressed in a silk suit and tie that not even Cecil could have procured, pointy shoes, and when he removed his sunglasses and looked up at the bridge with a smile that showed the whitest, most even teeth I’d ever seen and which split his deeply tanned, paper-smooth face, I was struck by how handsome—no, how
pretty
he was. He was waving. I thought at first it was Cancelossi, but a closer look showed me it was Johnny he was waving to. Bruno touched the man’s elbow, pointing to a door a deck below. As they both disappeared inside, Cancelossi unfolded his skinny arms and grinned at me like he was the cat and I was the canary. I followed him and Junior back down to the salon where the pretty man stood waiting, next to Bruno, making a slight bow and saying, “Don Cancelossi. A great pleasure.” His English was without a trace of an accent, and if he was surprised to see an Anglo priest aboard, he didn’t show it.