Permanent Interests

PERMANENT

INTERESTS

James Bruno

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

Copyright 2006 by James Bruno

All rights reserved.

Lulu Press, Inc.

ID 435439

www.lulu.com

ISBN 978-1-4303-0042-7

Also by James Bruno

CHASM

TRIBE

For Tosca, Lara and Annika

Always at my side and in my heart

We have no eternal allies, and we have no perpetual
enemies. Our interests are eternal.

-- LORD PALMERSTON

PERMANENT INTERESTS

1

PROLOGUE

The Carabinieri officer retched in a garbage can. His two colleagues kept a wary distance from the corpse which was sprawled across the small alley, arms outstretched, one leg twisted, doll-like, away from the body, visibly broken in several places. A ragged gash ran from ear to ear as if inflicted by the indifferent violence of some rabid beast.

The victim's eyes were torn out, one brown orb thrown carelessly four feet from the body, the other apparently stepped on and crushed near the victim's head. The immediate catalyst for the sergeant's instantly losing his supper, however, was the sight of the dead man's genitals stuffed in his mouth. The Carabinieri had seen mutilated bodies before. The rising violence among growing north African youth gangs in Italy often defied human comprehension: beheadings, cut-off ears and noses, disembowelment. The case at hand could have been written off to such third world gang warfare but for one thing. The dead man was white, in his early fifties and clothed in a conservative, dark-blue pin-striped suit.

"
Gesú!
" exclaimed the youngest cop, Vellario, an erect, handsome boy of nineteen, as he crossed himself. His sick buddy wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

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Sergeant DiLazzara, a grizzled forty-something veteran of Italy's finest, shook his head. He helped his nauseous subordinate to regain himself.

"Stinking Africans," Vellario spat.

"I don't know," DiLazzara said, his eyes still transfixed on the carnage.

Vellario looked at him with surprise. "Who else then?"

he asked with a shrug.

"This is not the result of rage, or even of drug-induced madness. They knew what they were doing, whoever did this."

"So?"

DiLazzara finally took his eyes off the slain man before him. He waved away flies that were beginning to swarm in greater numbers over the blood-soaked scene. "This is a case for those superior horse's asses in the detective division. Let them figure it out."

The three policemen regarded the body as if it were unholy or radioactive. An ambulance and forensic specialists were on the way. "Leave it to them. They're the experts. They specialize in the dirty cases," the sergeant said.

PERMANENT INTERESTS

3

CHAPTER ONE

"Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the tanned, sartorially resplendent defendant upon hearing the "not guilty" verdict from the jury foreman. He hit the table with his fist in a gesture that combined triumph and relief.

"Ernie! Ernie! Come here, I want to hug you, you little kike bastard," he shouted to the small, quick, toupeed man who had defended him successfully now for the third time against the Feds. Enveloping the little lawyer in a bear hug, the exuberant defendant lifted him off the floor. "I love ya! I love ya! They don't come better than you, pal!"

he shouted in his throaty baritone.

Albert Joseph ("Big Al") Malandrino had been here before. And he beat the rap each time. But this time he had made no secret of the fact that he was scared. The charges -- murder, assault, extortion, arson, conspiracy to defraud -- were more serious. The government's efforts to nail him were more thoroughgoing and meticulous than before. Wiretaps, confessions of former associates, intercepted mail, compromising photographs. They had puzzled out Malandrino's activities over a period of years and carefully pieced together a picture of sophisticated and 4 JAMES

BRUNO

ongoing criminality. The DA put his best lawyers on the case.

"Albert Joseph Malandrino epitomizes all forms of evil in modern society," the prosecution had declared in its summation. "A man whose vile self-aggrandizement and cynical flaunting of the law has resulted in crack babies, murdered teenagers, blighted neighborhoods, thieving politicians and a deterioration of the moral standards of our society."

That's not the way Malandrino and his lawyers saw it, however. Albert Joseph Malandrino was a pillar of the community, the jury was told. A man devoted to family, church and community. A patron of charities and the arts.

An example to the youth. A successful businessman admittedly given to occasional unorthodox, though not illegal, methods. Yet another Italian-American leader persecuted by culturally insensitive authorities.

"Let's get the hell outta here, Ernie." Malandrino put his arm around Ernie Feinstein and the two skipped out of the courtroom like kids off to summer recess after the last day of school.

Outside the courtroom a mob of reporters awaited Malandrino.

"Mr. Malandrino! What do you have to say now that the trial is over?" "What are your plans, Mr. Malandrino?" "Is the government persecuting you, Mr. Malandrino?"

Malandrino paused, taking stock of the crowd of reporters, admirers and gawkers. Jerking his chin upward, he straightened the lapels of his crisp, form-fitting Armani suit. And with the righteous air of a Renaissance prince who had vindicated himself before Inquisitorial persecutors, proclaimed, "Let the people know…Let the people know that before God I am an innocent man. Why the authorities choose to squander the taxpayers' money on PERMANENT INTERESTS

5

show trials against honest citizens such as myself is a mystery and a scandal. It is obvious that certain people with political ambitions are trying to make a name for themselves by conjuring up some all-powerful crime organization that they call 'mafia' and randomly selecting successful Italian-Americans such as myself as the alleged ringleaders. Well, it's all bunk! Why don't they go after the real criminals. The drug king pins who poison our youth. The muggers on our neighborhood streets who assault the elderly. The gun runners who supply the street gangs. That's what I want to know. And so do
you
!"

The crowd erupted in applause and cheers. Tough-looking blue-collar youths from Bensonhurst and Astoria pumped their raised fists as in an atavistic victory salute.

Frumpy middle-aged housewives waved miniature American and Italian flags. Beefy hard-hatters bellowed,

"Atta way, Al!" Reporters shouted questions simultaneously, adding to the cacophony.

Big Al drank it all in. He loved adulation. What he loved even more was rubbing it in the Feds' faces. Big Al pulled it off again. Made fools of the Establishment. All those Ivy Leaguers with their superior airs. All those hypocritical political bigshots all for crime-busting, yet not too proud to take in campaign "contributions" -- whether over or under the table. Upper class sissies with clean finger nails and smooth complexions who never had to sweat for a living or defend themselves on the lists of city streets. Al knew life. He had the scars and quickness of mind to prove it.

But for weeks after the trial he grew increasingly irritable and listless, sulking for hours alone in the paneled study of his modest Flushing ranch house, not emerging for days. He was convinced that the Feds were listening in and observing his every move. He put on weight. He took up 6 JAMES

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an old habit: scarfing down cannolli on weekend afternoons while watching ball games in his darkened living room. When he did emerge, it was usually after midnight to visit his favorite call girls, sometimes two or even three at a time. In one of his trials, Malandrino was labeled an "obsessive-compulsive" by some high-falootin'

overpaid society psychiatrist. Big Al was a man with big appetites. After he lost Angie to breast cancer three years earlier, Al Malandrino’s behavioral checks fell by the wayside.

After a month of self-neglect and fifteen additional pounds, Al came to. The Feds were defeating him whether or not they were actually surveilling him. This he could not tolerate. Since boyhood, he had looked after his family and those who worked for the family. Nabbed at age ten for hijacking a crate of prosciutto with his buddies, Al had vowed that he would never be beaten down by the "Ameri-gahns" in providing for his family. He had to get back to business, though discretion would be the watchword. No more business over the phone! Big Al commanded.

Meetings would take place only at locales chosen by Al himself, usually at the last minute. No blabbering to wives, girlfriends, drinking buddies, etc. Neighborhood social clubs were to be used solely for recreational purposes. No business discussions in cars, a prime target for FBI bugging. Al was getting so paranoid that he wanted to know who talked in their sleep, who had drinking problems, who played around. Al fired one security capo after another.

Finally, Al thought to hell with the goddamn Feds. So what if they were under every bed, listening behind every wall. Al would play it straight for a while until he found more secure means of carrying out his business. As a first step, he realized that what he needed was a professional to PERMANENT INTERESTS

7

take over security of his "family." Somebody from the outside, totally removed from "Our Thing." So removed, in fact, that Al concluded he needed a non-Italian. This way, the man would be absolutely free of family connections, however indirect, with the mob or anybody who knew someone in the mob; a man who would be devoid of the emotional response (i.e., revulsion by most, sympathy by a few) that Italian-Americans had toward the "Mafia." What Al wanted was a straight-arrow, all-American boy who was ambitious, yet guileless, loyal but detached and, most important of all: incorruptible.

Al put an ad in the help wanted sections of several southern newspapers: "Security supervisor for major northeast construction firm. Must have five years related experience, including expertise in communications security. Excellent promotion prospects and benefits.

Start: $55K. Al-Mac Construction Co., Inc., Teaneck, NJ, (201) 493-0980, Mrs. McNamara."

Al figured his best recruitment prospects lay in the nation's hinterland -- anywhere but metropolitan New York. And by advertising in southern regional papers using one of his legitimate enterprises, the chances of the FBI taking notice were minimal.

Of the hundred-odd résumés that came in, one in particular caught Al's attention: "Charles Taliaferro Wentworth, Spartanburg, S.C., 28, four years in the U.S.

Marines -- two in "comsec" (communications security), two as an NCO in the Marine Security Guard detachment at the U.S. embassy in Rome; four years as a security officer with the Department of State in Bogotá and Rome. Bronze Medal for service in the Second Gulf War. Single.

Hobbies: boxing, fishing. Working knowledge of Italian and Spanish.

Al decided to give the young man a call.

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"Charles Wentworth? This is Albert Malandrino, president of Al-Mac Construction. I've got your résumé here. Impressive. I need to get somebody for the job who's real good. Not only who's got the skills, but somebody I can trust one-hundred percent. First, I want to ask you if you're serious about this job. "

"Well, er, uh, yeah. I mean yes. I mean of course. Real serious."

"Good. You got a few minutes so I can ask you some questions?"

"Yes,

sir."

"Great. Okay. First, how do you approach your work?

In other words, what's most important to you in carrying out your duties?"

"Discipline, sir," Wentworth answered crisply. "Both in myself and in my subordinates. Without discipline, order falls apart and the job doesn't get done, or, at least, not right."

Already Al was taking a liking to the deferential young man with the soft drawl. "What about your relationship with your superiors, what's the key factor in getting along with your boss?

"Loyalty, sir," Wentworth responded. "Without implicit trust, orders don't get carried out properly and things begin to go out of kilter."

On the personal side, Wentworth explained that he had left government some months before in order to settle down with a girl from his hometown and go into business for himself. But he called the engagement off after realizing that he'd become too worldly for Spartanburg. He found as time passed that he had precious little in common with his fiancée. To top it off, the last recession put the kibosh on his efforts to crash the business communications equipment wholesale trade. Returning to Uncle Sam was out of the PERMANENT INTERESTS

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