Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (72 page)

Chapter 16

Thursday Afternoon — Washington D.C.

Santino Castellano and his captain, Nicolas “Nicky Mumbles” Muzzatto, had been standing outside Swifty’s goomar’s apartment for so long, Kentucky bluegrass grew under their feet. Santino wanted to hurry and get the meet over with. To find out who tried to clip Dante, he needed Nicky to arrange a sit-down with the Russians. Swifty, the conduit between the five families and the Russians, was the man Uncle Sal had told them could get the job done.

Five minutes after they started knocking, Swifty plodded across the floor like a stuffed elephant and opened the door.

“Nicky! Santino! Long time,” Swifty said, greeting them both with affectionate hugs and pecks on the cheek. “Come in. Come in. Take a load off.” He shuffled toward the kitchen, lumbering like a snail on valium. They headed for the living room.

Frank “Swifty” Zanetti, a paranoid loyal-for-the-moment capo in the Genovese family, got his nickname because he moved as slow as an iceberg. He was built like one, too. Whatever the task at hand, the words “rush” or “quick” didn’t exist in his vocabulary. Connected guys found it hilarious that he talked and ate as if on fast forward. Words shot out of his mouth at a hundred miles per hour and food went in just as fast. But the only time he picked up his walking pace was to turn down the fire on the Sunday sauce. This explains why he took five minutes to open the freakin’ door after Nicky and Santino knocked.

“Frankie Z! How’s life?” Nicky asked. As a Bonanno capo, he led the conversation. For the most part, on Sal’s orders, Santino’s job was to listen, observe, and analyze in case Nicky had questions after. Speak when spoken to. “Still eatin’ good, I see.”

“Life’s good. Never seen a plate of macaron’ I didn’t like. Isabella’s got some beer and a nice proscuit’ in the fridge if you want somethin’ to eat,” he offered. They replied with no thank yous, eager to get to business.

Swifty turned toward Santino bearing a somber expression; his mouth curved downward, but he averted his gaze to the door. “Santino, how’s Dante doin’?”

Santino paused, combed his fingers across his scalp. Anguish ripped through his stomach and dampened his mood. “Not so good,” he said. “Doctors are saying he may not make it.”

“Bullshit. Screw those butchers, you hear me?” Swifty remarked, pointing his sausage-sized fingers. “Your cousin’s a fuckin’ bull. Stubborn as one, too. He ain’t goin’ nowhere until he’s good and goddamn ready. Don’t you worry about Dante. He’ll come out stronger than when he went in.”

Santino nodded. “God willing. Appreciate it, Frankie.”

Nicky waited for a comfortable pause and then proceeded. “We want to let you enjoy the rest of your day, so let’s get down to business.”

Swifty pored over the room, the corners, the phone, out the windows. Felt like twenty minutes passed by the time he started speaking.

“The fuck you think you got? X-ray vision? I mean, c’mon,” Nicky said. “If the Feds planted a wire in here, you sure as hell ain’t gonna find it by gawkin’ from your seat.”

“Fuckin’ Feds. They’d wire my balls if they weren’t hanging between my legs. You can never trust ‘em. Let’s step out on the veranda.”

Frankie’s place was on the top floor with nothing overhead except blue horizon. If the Feds ever figured out how to wire the sky, they’d all be in trouble. Swifty was a new capo in his family and refused to be the weakest link. His paranoiac behavior, constant checking, refusal to have conversations in any place his people hadn’t swept for bugs at least twice a week, kept him off the Fed’s radar…or so he thought. “You need a sit-down with the Russians.”

“Yeah,” Nicky Mumbles said. “It’s out of our deepest respect for your business interests that I’m askin’ before we make a move.”

The concern on Swifty’s face was obvious. “Listen, I understand your issue. Under any other circumstances, if those Russkiy cocksuckers hit one of us, someone in our family? Heads would be rolling all over Brighton Beach. But every single family is drawing water from this well, including yours, and the Russians control the supply end,” Swifty said. “You’ve got a legitimate beef, but we need to keep the peace for the time being. Any move would bring a lot of heat from the Feds. We can’t afford any more indictments. We got millions tied up in business with those jerkoffs, and we can’t rock the boat.”

“Rock the boat?” Santino questioned, his simmering anger coming to a quick boil. “With all due respect, Frankie, this is my cousin we’re talkin’ about here. My family…
mia famiglia
.”

Nicky Mumbles glared at Santino. His look said,
Shut your fucking yappin’. You’re talkin’ out of school.

“You know me and your uncle go away back, Santino. But we can’t step over dollars to pick up dimes here,” Swifty said. “If we were talkin’ chump change, I’d take ‘em out myself.”

“If not chump change, then what are we talkin’ here?” Nicky replied.

“Millions,” he said. “A hundred of ‘em.”

Santino glanced at Nicky. The response had taken aback both of them. With so much money on the line, forget about allegiance from the other families. Santino would have to avenge Dante’s shooting and ask for forgiveness later. Forget about permission. Wasn’t happenin’. Not then, not ever.

Santino seethed at Nicky, sitting there like a dead stump of wood, not giving two shits about his own boss’s son. Not until Santino checked his phone did Nicky speak up as if he had some skin in the game. “You grew up in the neighborhood, Frankie. There is no way in hell we can let this shit go. No way. And the pennies we earn from our little piece-of-shit cut, we can earn elsewhere, hai capito? The question is no longer whether we hit; it’s how and when.”

Swifty took a seat in his steel-enforced lawn chair and leaned back. “Nobody involved would have a problem with you roughin’ them up a little bit—injure ‘em, cripple ‘em, but you don’t kill ‘em. It’s not like they’re gonna run to the cops, but we can’t afford a street fight right now. With the Feds handing out indictments like two-cent candy, we gotta keep earning for the lean times, which are coming. I can feel it in my bones. So therein lies the compromise,” Swifty said.

The remark almost brought Santino to laughter. He didn’t know Swifty had bones.

“In the meantime, I'll arrange a sit down with Russians. They’ll cough up the shooter. We don’t want a war, but they don’t know that. We’ll work something out to our mutual benefit. A larger cut maybe.”

Nicky smiled and nodded.

At that moment, Nicky’s motivation became clear. He didn’t give a shit about Dante, but planned to use Dante’s shooting to get a bigger share of the Russians’ narcotics business.

Santino’s anger warmed him to the core; he thought a thousand words he dared not say. Nicky’s performance was pathetic. No loyalty to the boss, even with his nephew sitting next to him. His only concern was lining his pockets. Whatever front Nicky was putting up, Santino understood his true feelings and intentions. Until he got the order from Uncle Sal, he had to proceed with the sham, business as usual.

Before Santino spoke another word, his cell phone rang. His cousin Dree’s number flashed on the screen. He excused himself and stepped inside to the kitchen. “What’s goin’ on?” Santino whispered, his voice panicked. He asked Dree not to call unless Dante was about breathe his last. “I just left there a few hours ago. Is he okay?”

“He took a bad turn, but he pulled out of it,” she said. “That’s not what I’m calling you about, though. We got a visitor today. Blast from the past.”

“Who?”

“Tony,” she snarled. “Fuckin’ rat showed up here. Walkin’ in the room like the Lone fucking Ranger with some black chick. Large and in charge as if he gives a shit about what happens to this family.”

Santino let out a long sigh. Dree could hold a grudge longer and harder than any wise guy he’d ever tangled with.

“Listen,” she continued. “Dante survived the day, but you oughta pay another visit soon. He only made it through by the skin of his teeth. I…I don’t know if he’s gonna pull it off a second time.” Her voice cracked.

“You’ll be okay, Dree. Try to keep it together. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Tomorrow.”

“It’s not fair that he’s lying here, fighting for his life, Santino. The cops called earlier. They got no idea who did this.” She sobbed, spilling over with emotion. “Find out who’s responsible, Santino. The son of a bitch has to pay for what he did to my baby brother.”

“Stop crying, Dree,” Santino said. “If you don’t believe anything else in his life, believe this: Whoever did this is gonna pay, if it’s the last thing I do.”

By the time Santino returned, Frankie and Nicky were shooting the breeze about the good ole days. Santino made his excuses and said his goodbyes.

Once inside his Mustang, he promptly dialed Tony’s phone number. He understood why Tony felt obligated to come to New York, but he had to warn him. He couldn’t stay. If Nicky got word that Tony came to town, there’d be little Santino or Uncle Sal could do to keep him safe, unless they took out Nicky Mumbles. And with the state of disarray following crippling drug busts and Uncle Sal moving to the halfway house, a hit from inside the family might deal a blow too powerful to recover from.

As the phone rang, he thought about ways to convince the world’s third most stubborn person (after Uncle Sal and himself) to leave the city when the mere suggestion was diametrically the opposite of anything he stood for.

After three rings, an empty space followed by noise in the background filled his ears.

“Hello?” Santino said.

No one spoke at first…and then a voice sounded. “Hey, Santino. I was just gettin’ ready to call you. I’ve got something important to tell you. Hold on and let me step to where it’s quiet.”

Santino waited…now he was on edge. What the hell did Tony have to say?

“Listen, I got some news today…about your, uhh, health.”

Santino jerked his head back and then cocked it to the side. “
My
health?”

“Yeah, meaning you might want to stay off the streets. Some people are looking for you. From the east.”

Santino cursed to himself. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Don’t worry about where I heard it. Just keep a low profile until I can get over to visit so we can talk. You still at pop’s place?”

“Yeah, but you can’t go there. It ain’t exactly Disney World around here for you, either. If anyone sees you here, it’s gonna cause major problems…for both of us.”

“Nobody even knows I’m in New York except you and pop’s people watching Dante. I’ll get with you tomorrow.”

“But, Ton’…you can’t—”

The rumble of his Mustang’s engine droned in Santino ear. He hung up the phone cursed Svetlana Mikhaylova, the dead leader of the Russian spy ring who’d introduced herself to him as Katherine. “I shouldn’t have trusted that cunt.” Falling into her trap was a mistake for which he very well might pay…with his life.

Chapter 17

Friday Afternoon — New York City

Tony blasted his radio as he cruised down the Bay Ridge Parkway through Bensonhurst, remembering his times in the old neighborhood. It was vastly different from D.C. where distinct lines had been drawn between residential and commercial streets. In New York, mom and pop shops weaved through the blocks like threads holding things together when community broke down. Grocery stores. Dry cleaners. Restaurants. Everything located on your street or around the corner. The thought made him nostalgic for his favorite pizza joint. Decided to stop by Originals for a slice before heading back to the city.

The brownstone where Santino was staying had been in the Donato family for over fifty years. His father inherited it from his grandfather, may he rest in peace; Santino would bunk there, at least until the hospital released Dante. Helped cut down the drive from Jersey in case of an emergency.

Thinking about his old stomping grounds brought back a rush of memories of him, Santino, and Dante—the Three Musketeers—playing stickball in the alleyways, sitting on the stoop talking smack about being wise guys, and riding their Schwinn Stingrays to Third Ave and 85
th
to look at the Verrazano Bridge and buy Italian ice from the old man who operated the pushcart. A nostalgic smile edged the corners of his mouth upward.

Tony checked his rearview mirror out of habit, but the last two times, he noticed a familiar car. An older silver Mustang with local plates. A dick on wheels, the car was hard to forget He suspected the guy driving had followed him. Tony noticed the man from the minute he pulled out of the Plaza parking lot but blew off his suspicion as paranoia.. He remembered the look of the guy at the stoplight. With his thick, wavy mane, the pinky ring glimmering in the sunlight during a stop in the city, and a two-hundred dollar pair of Ray Bans. The light bulb went off. Tony recognized him from his past.

One of his father’s buttons—Ricky the Razor, a hit man whose mantra was “Life is short. Death is long.” He was more heavyset back in the day. He’d gotten the name for the gruesome way he slaughtered the family “rats” and other miscreants, wounding them to an inch of death and then slicing off their fingernails with a razor. Tony looked down at his fingers and shuddered at the thought.

He made a hard right at a do-not-turn-on-red light around 68th, and the guy followed him, turn-for-turn in a complete 360 to the parkway.