Permanent Interests (34 page)

Wentworth made her quest his. He consoled her, comforted her and counseled patience. It was he who convinced her to cooperate with the FBI as their plant within the Russian mob. "Only by doing this can you destroy those who exploited you," he said. And it was the motivation for vengeance that made her cooperate.

But Wentworth was feeling uneasy over his own circumstances. By now he knew all about Albert Joseph Malandrino. How naive could he be! But, the strange, paradoxical thing about it was that he could live with it. He liked Big Al. Malandrino never asked him to get involved in any shady business. Furthermore, he'd been acquitted on previous charges, hadn't he? It could be that Al had been involved in legally questionable activities in the past, but now followed a straight and narrow path. He didn't need to be a crook, after all. Al-Mac and his other legitimate businesses provided a lucrative income. This, of course, was self-delusion. Wentworth was there when Al met with Yakov at Pironi's. He even took care of the security for the meeting. Now he and Lydia were doing undercover work for the FBI. If Al were indeed a mobster, he would go ballistic. Certainly, Ricky would take things into his own hands. Life was becoming precarious for Wentworth and Lydia.

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"You seein' anybody special?" Al asked with a smirk over espresso and almond
biscotti
at Sal and Vicki's.

Wentworth stifled a jolt of insecurity. Al knew Lydia as Yakov's mistress. Wentworth was connected with the Russian mob as well as the FBI. Double jeopardy. The irony was that he was 100 percent loyal to Al. There would be triple jeopardy if the FBI knew, and peril in the extreme if Yakov was aware of all his and Lydia's connections.

"You know how it is. A date here. A date there.

Nothing special, Al," Wentworth answered with a shrug and a boyish blush.

Al pinched and slapped Wentworth's cheek, a sign of affection among Italians. He pointed his index finger at his aide and warned, "You be careful now! Be safe. Also, watch out who you go out with. Lots of shady broads out there, not from good families. You can play with them, but when it comes to the real thing, you want a good girl from good family. Understand? I'll find you a nice Italian girl.

The kind that'll look good, cook good and fuck your brains out every night!" Al guffawed. He wiped his mouth, then blew his nose into a napkin. "Hey. We gotta go." He plunked a twenty dollar bill on the table.

"Al?" Wentworth spoke without forethought.

"Yeah? What is it, Chuckie?"

"There's something I have to tell you."

"Okay. Sure."

Wentworth wanted to tell his boss everything. Or maybe, just about Lydia. But a sixth sense got the better of him.

"Chuck. I'm running late for a meeting with some suppliers. Can it wait?"

"Uh, yep. No problem, Al. It's not important anyway."

Sal came over to thank Al for the Florentine silver set he had given Sal's daughter for her wedding.

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"Such silver I haven't seen since my grandmother's.

Madonna!
She came over with nothin' but some clothes and that set of silver. My older brother, Joey, got it though.

She liked him best…" Sal's hands accentuated his every word, except when he wiped beef blood and grease on the stained white apron that draped over his protruding gut.

Wentworth got up. He signaled to Al that he would summon Bags and the car over.

"Yeah, so when my daughter opens this huge box from you, I couldn't believe my eyes! Just like my grandmother's. First thing I do is invite Joey over to my daughter's house. By the way, they went to Vegas for their honeymoon. Had a great time! They won $630. Can you believe that?…" Al was trying politely to break free.

Wentworth sprinted out of Sal and Vicki's front door. In a split second, another instinct took over, one conditioned by his years as one of the Marines' elite. The familiar ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta of an Uzi reached his ears before the bullets did and he plunged to the sidewalk, snatched the Browning 9mm from his shoulder holster, rolled over on his side and instantly lodged six rounds into the chest of a figure who was but a flash in Wentworth's eye. He turned and fired four shots at the getaway car, but it sped off. He rolled to the other side and emptied the remaining three rounds into the forehead of a second figure rushing in his direction.

Wentworth dropped the empty magazine and slammed another in its place. There was no deliberation, no conscious thinking process involved. Another Wentworth took over, one steeled and ever prepared, with the automatic reflexes of a tiger on the prowl in unfriendly territory. It was over in a matter of seconds. Two strangers lay dead, one sprawled over a suburban station wagon filled with groceries, with a baby seat in the back; blood gushed from his chest, staining the car's hood and fenders in scarlet 304 JAMES

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rivulets. The other assailant, half of his head blown away, lay askew garbage-filled plastic bags in front of the green grocer adjacent to Sal's.

Wentworth jerked the Browning to another target. Both hands gripped tightly around the weapon, finger taut on the trigger. He was hyperventilating. His face and armpits streamed with sweat. Another instinct held him back this time. In his sights was the owner of the now-bloody stationwagon, a young, pregnant woman with a small girl holding her hand. The woman was screaming.

Wentworth bent his elbows, raising the revolver above his head. He sat up looking frantically around him, ready to lower his arms in a nanosecond and resume firing.

He was only now coming to, seeing people taking cover behind cars and lamp posts, dashing into buildings, or simply running away. Now the realization was beginning to sink in that he'd just shot dead two men, that he himself had come precariously close to a violent death just, what was it, seconds, minutes, hours ago?

He heard voices. "Chuckie. Chuck! You okay?" A hand shook him by the shoulder. He looked up at Al's concerned face and blinked. "Take it easy, kid." Cars arrived and screeched to a halt. Men rushed out. Ricky, Bags, beefy Herman "The German" and other Malandrino acolytes swept over the area with weapons drawn. Two men grabbed Wentworth under the shoulders and gently lifted him to his feet. He saw Herman and another man cautiously poke the lifeless bodies of the attackers. Ricky took charge, barking orders left and right.

Wentworth was pulled back into Sal's. The garrulous Sal hovered speechless and quivering behind the meat and cheese case. Wentworth's handlers lowered him into the same chair at the same table where, minutes before, he and Al had bantered about sex and marriage. Someone found PERMANENT INTERESTS

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Sal's liquor cache, poured
strega
into a sundae glass and plunked it down before Wentworth. Al lifted it to Wentworth's mouth. "Here kid. Drink this. It'll bring you back." Wentworth obliged. The potent Italian brandy burned as it coursed through his gullet, into his stomach.

He shook his head as if to ward off mischievous ghosts.

"You all right, kid? Talk to me." He tapped Wentworth lightly on both cheeks.

"Yeah." Wentworth glanced down at his body to check visually whether he was still in one piece. "I'm fine. What happened anyway? Who…?"

Ricky approached and just stared at Wentworth, a flicker of awe or admiration visible on his face. He surveyed the carnage. Bullets from the Uzi criss-crossed just inside the doorway that Wentworth had exited a mere second before.

Glass shards from the shattered front window sparkled on the wood floor.

"You do this?" he asked.

Wentworth just blinked, still trying to comprehend what had happened.

"And those two
ciucciamochi
," Ricky signaled toward the dead men. "You waxed those guys?"

Wentworth rubbed his face slowly with one hand. A great fatigue was setting in.

Ricky patted the younger man on a cheek. "I underestimated you, Wyatt Earp. You did good. Real good. Uncle Al, I think this boy deserves a new job description. 'Have gun, will massacre.'"

"Leave the kid alone. Can't you see he's got a lot on his mind? Cut him some slack," Al said.

"I admire his work, Uncle Al. Really, I do. He's initiated. We can make good use of him."

The wail of police sirens echoed through the neighborhood. More vehicles screeched to a halt, these 306 JAMES

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with spinning dome lights. Uniformed NYPD police converged like gathering shadows. Ambulances arrived as did various unmarked cars whose official nature was betrayed by their blackwall tires and the utilitarian men and women who debarked from them. The squawk of official radios filled the air.

A bevy of the city's finest stormed into Sal's and fanned out. "Who's the guy?" one of them asked. The small crowd of Malandrino men stepped away from the small table where Wentworth and Al sat sipping
strega
.

A plainclothes cop in a London Fog raincoat pulled his badge from his jacket and thrust it into Al's and then Wentworth's face. Two policemen, revolvers drawn, ordered the two to rise with their hands raised and legs spread against the wall and frisked them. "I'm lieutenant Menendez. You're the one?" he demanded of Wentworth.

Wentworth could see every pore, every hair on Menendez's angular face. He nodded faintly. Using his pen, a uniformed policeman carefully lifted Wentworth's Browning by the trigger guard and lowered it into a mylar bag.

"I'm bringing you in. And you…" he glared at Al. "I know you." A flash of recognition softened his face. "If it ain't Big Al Malandrino. Fancy this. Guess you can't stay away from us. You're coming with us too. And everybody else who was here!" he announced in a loud voice.

A phalanx of balding, bookish men with briefcases pushed its way in. Ernie Feinstein led the way.

He produced identification for Menendez and declared,

"I represent these two men as their legal counsel. Mr.

Wentworth is licensed to carry a firearm. He was acting in his lawful capacity of self-defense and as declared bodyguard, in accordance with the New York legal code, to protect my client, Mr. Malandrino. You may question PERMANENT INTERESTS

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these gentlemen, but you may not jail them without the issuance of an arrest warrant by a competent judge. Before
requesting
my clients to accompany you for questioning at police headquarters, you must read them their rights under the Miranda ruling should your intention be to keep them in custody." The other lawyers snapped open their attachés and produced reams of legal documents.

"Holy shit! Another Dream Team!" Menendez proclaimed.

"We are taking witness testimony to prove that my client, Mr. Wentworth, was acting in self-defense against two armed assailants--"

"Listen to me motor mouth! Shut up!!" Menendez ordered. "It's the police who take witness testimony. Got me?"

With a nod from Menendez, police slapped handcuffs on Al and Wentworth and hauled them outside. A barrage of flashes and cam lights blitzed them. A female TV reporter thrust a microphone into Wentworth's face. "Why did you kill those two men, Mr. Wentworth? Are you a mafia soldier, Mr. Wentworth?" The cops pushed Wentworth's head down and shoved him into the rear of a police van. Al was taken to a separate vehicle. Sal and other witnesses received gentler treatment, invited to enter police cars, the doors opened for them by other cops.

Wentworth's would-be killers were placed into body bags and loaded into an ambulance van. Police found no identification on the men. Neighborhood residents said they'd never seen them before.

Al and Wentworth were released after ninety minutes of questioning, and were ordered not to leave the country 308 JAMES

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pending the result of the investigation. Al again appeared resplendent before admiring and curious crowds on the steps of the courthouse, this time flanked by dour but alert bodyguards. Wentworth, still stunned by events, stood silently by Malandrino.

"Hey, Al! Guess you showed them!" yelled a hardhatter.

"Al! Who did it? Colombo Family, Genovese, or what?" bellowed a fat woman with tinted red hair.

"Is this the start of another mob war, Mr. Malandrino?"

asked the same female TV reporter from the scene at Sal's.

The Renaissance prince raised one hand, palm outward to signal quiet. With his other, he tugged at his tie and buttoned the jacket of his silver-gray, double-breasted Armani suit.

"I am not under arrest."

Applause erupted from the crowd.

"I repeat that I am not under arrest and neither is my security man here, Chuckie Wentworth." He wrapped an arm around Wentworth and hugged him. Photojournalists zoomed in on the younger man. Al again signaled the crowd to quiet down.

"What we have here is a case of how a breakdown of law and order is affecting innocent citizens in what were, up till now, safe neighborhoods."

"Tell it like it is, Al!!" shouted a uniformed deliveryman. Others whooped similar encouragement.

"Law and order!! Ladies and gentlemen, what this country needs is law and order! Tell the politicians to put their money where their mouths are! Protect the American people from crime! That's what I say!!"

Amid an uproar of acclamation, Malandrino, surrounded by his gunsels and with Wentworth at his side, made for the midnight blue Cadillac at the bottom of the steps. The PERMANENT INTERESTS

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specially armored vehicle -- thanks to Wentworth's security organizing -- was flanked by a car and a van in the front and a car and a van in the rear, each loaded with armed men. They sped off.

The newspapers were laid out on the large, round coffee table in Al's office at Al-Mac, which now resembled an armed camp. Wentworth stared at them unbelievingly. His face peered from the front pages of the
Daily News
and the
New York Post
. "MOB DECLARES WAR - Failed Hit on Mafia Boss Signals More to Come," trumpeted the former.

"BIG AL SHOOTS BACK - New York Braces for Mob War," ballyhooed the latter. Next to the photos of Al and Wentworth being taken away by police was an inset photo of the slain men. The
Times
, as usual, had a more staid presentation on page two of the Metro section: