Sweetheart (8 page)

The door opened.

The man who let him in was thickset, blondish, dour, and his voice was barely more than a whisper: “This is goddamned dumb of you.” Then, surprisingly, he extended a hand. “The name’s Blodgett.”

Wade shook the hand and then angled past him. The apartment was a duplicate of his but seemed larger because of the minimal furniture. He saw electronic equipment, which was what he was looking for. Two telephones were on the floor. He glanced into the bedroom, which contained only a cot, the bedding stacked on top. A card table and two metal chairs had been placed in the kitchenette. A coffee-maker, the kind Joe DiMaggio touted on TV, was set up on the counter space.

Blodgett said, “As long as you’re here, you want a cup?”

“No.” Wade lit a Merit Menthol. Smoke popped out of his mouth. “You could use a carpet.”

“We’re getting one. Take it easy, Lieutenant. You’re looking at me fierce.”

“I took it for granted my phone was tapped, but I didn’t realize you’ve got my whole apartment wired for sound.”

“Everywhere but the bathroom,” Blodgett said. “You want to talk private, you go in there.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay. You flush the toilet. Run the shower. We’re not going to hear you over that.”

“What about video?”

“That’s coming, if we feel we need it. You’ll know about it first.”

Wade moved into the kitchenette and poured himself a cup of coffee after all. The cup was Styrofoam, which he hated the feel of. He dropped in a sugar cube and peeled open a creamer, which was nondairy, not to his liking. He didn’t use it. “You’re going to look conspicuous moving in and out of this building. You look more like a cop than I do.”

“I won’t be here anymore,” Blodgett said in an easy tone. “A guy and a gal will be taking over, and you don’t have to worry, they won’t be here every minute. They’ll pass as young marrieds, a professional couple. That make you feel better?”

Wade sipped his coffee, disliking it, and drew on his cigarette, letting out a thread of smoke. He was not sure what he thought of Blodgett, whose smile was faintly porcine, otherwise relaxed and open.

“If you run into them on the stairs, nod like a neighbor, but don’t get friendly. Basically they know only what they have to about the operation. Let’s keep it that way. Meaning don’t come up here again.”

“What about the other agent I met? Blue.”

“Blue’s a good man. You can trust him a hundred percent. You can trust me a hundred and five.”

Wade dumped what remained of his coffee into the sink, his stomach queasy. He had not bothered with lunch or dinner. “Any other vital things you want to pass on?”

“Not really,” Blodgett said carelessly. “Though I hear Gardella’s got an interesting wife, half his age. Watch your step with her. I hear he’s jealous.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“One other thing.” The voice turned grave. “Be damned careful of his sister.”

V
ICTOR
S
CANDURA
took a taxi out of Miami Airport in a rainstorm. The rain was heavy, voluble, and the windshield wipers flailed. Peering into the rearview, the driver said, “You don’t look the type. For where you’re going, I mean. It ain’t the ritziest place in the world. Take my advice. Watch your wallet.”

Scandura nodded slightly as he peered through a sodden window. The outside world churned, trees eddied in the rain, oncoming traffic ghosted by. Then the driver’s head turned for a second. “If you get my drift.”

“I do,” Scandura said.

When they reached the storm-darkened dock area, the taxi plowed slowly through puddles that linked up into black lakes. Tandem trailer trucks, which looked abandoned, reared up between buildings fronted by curbside sacks of uncollected rubbish. Some sacks had shattered into the gutter, the trash surging away. “Down there,” Scandura said, and the driver said, “I know where it is. I just don’t like going down there.” It was more of an alley than a street, the rain gusting through it. The taxi inched into it and stopped at a small, squat structure that looked like zinc. A half-lit sign read
dinty’s
. The driver said, “Don’t ask me to wait.”

“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Scandura replied, peeling off a fifty and tearing it in half.

He hustled into Dinty’s before the rain could pin him in place or sweep him away but not before it soaked the back of him, and he shivered as the door shut behind him with a dull thud. He recoiled from the chill, stale air of the place, which in no way had changed since his last visit, maybe two years ago. The barkeep was obese, the waiter lame. Most of the patrons were lined up at the bar, and immediately he picked out the snitches, their faces secretive, even those who probably had no secrets. Only one interested him.

Suddenly he felt uncomfortable. He was standing in a shaft of light, and he pulled away from it and made his way to a chrome-stemmed table against the wall in a corner, where he felt the draft from an air conditioner. Five minutes passed before the waiter hobbled near. Without looking at him, Scandura said, “I’ve got a headache. Bring me a Bromo with ice.”

Nearly three minutes passed before the waiter returned, setting down the Bromo with a hard clunk, the tablet still fizzing. Scandura said, “The little guy down at the end of the bar, he called Skeeter?”

The waiter looked. “Yeah, that’s Skeeter.”

“I thought so. He’s changed some. You go by him, tell him to come over, I’ll buy him a drink.”

The waiter said, “Sure, I can do that.”

Skeeter appeared presently, carrying a shot of whiskey and a beer chaser, and joined Scandura with a nod. He was a nervous creature, skin and bones, bird-nosed, prick-eared, existing as if solely on his own nervous energy. From the depths of a sour-smelling suit two sizes too big for him, he said, “What’s this you told him I changed some? I look the same as the last time I seen you.”

“I had to tell him something, didn’t I, Skeeter?”

Skeeter was Boston-born, Prince Street, a boyhood friend of Anthony Gardella’s. Consumptive when he was a young man, he fled south to escape the New England weather and picked up pocket money doing odd jobs for friends of Meyer Lansky. In celebration of his regained health he began boozing and never stopped, which left him unreliable as a shooter for Lansky’s people. Gradually, between burglaries and racetrack scams, he became a snitch, one of the best. How he stayed alive was a curiosity, not least of all to Scandura, who had no use for him.

“Anthony sends you his best.”

“How is Anthony?”

“He’s fine.”

“He comes down here, he never looks me up. Only you look me up.”

Scandura’s elbows were damp, which sent a chill through him. His jacket stuck to his back. The last time he was here the barkeep cold-cocked a Hispanic customer for trying to pay for a drink with a peso.

Skeeter said, “You’re getting bald, Victor. I remember as a kid you had light hair. We all called you Victor the Kraut. Most guys get names like that, they stick for life. Yours didn’t.”

“Maybe because I didn’t like it.”

“That’s right. People didn’t fuck with you.”

“They still don’t.”

Skeeter smiled slowly, a part of his face sagging as if it were missing a bone. “I should’ve sucked up to Anthony more. I’d’ve made it big too.”

“Now you’ve got that out of the way,” Scandura said, “maybe we can talk.”

“Sure, shoot.”

“What’s Sal Nardozza doing that’s different?”

“You’re asking the wrong question, you always do.” Skeeter wriggled inside his suit, as if climbing up in it. Then he downed his whiskey and shivered all over as he reached for his beer. “Ask me about Miguel Gilberto, him I know something about could surprise you. He’s dealing again.”

“Small stuff, we know. He’s got Ty O’Dea with him, which makes it real small.”

“He’s dealing big, believe me.”

“He’s got no money to deal big. We cut him off.”

“Sal didn’t.”

Scandura jerked his head back so that what little light fell his way wouldn’t touch his face. “You telling me Sal’s still banking him?”

Skeeter grinned triumphantly. “I gotta spell it out for you, you horse’s ass?”

A thrill shot through Scandura’s belly. Conspiracy, intrigue, betrayal always affected him a funny way, like someone brushing a finger just below his navel. Skeeter’s narrow head teetered at the top of his suit.

“How much, Victor? How much you giving me?”

Scandura already had the money out, a small moist wad, which he passed under the table. He was on his feet before Skeeter knew it was in his lap, and he was through the door before Skeeter counted it. The rain pelted him. He had to pound his fist against the taxi window to gain entry. The driver flung the door open and said, “Jesus Christ, I’ll never do this again!”

Scandura said, “It’s the only way to live.”

• • •

Ty O’Dea, who lived in a little metal trailer outside Miami, felt lousy and took a belt of bourbon to calm his stomach, which it didn’t do. Finally he lay down in his bunk and listened to the rain. He could feel the throb on all sides of the trailer, which put him to sleep. When he woke four hours later, it was raining even harder. Flannel-mouthed, he took another swig of bourbon and waited for a cramp to pass. He was sitting on the edge of the bunk when the woman who lived with him came home from work. She shook her umbrella and closed it with a flourish as he watched with a faint smile. He was always glad to see her and worried when she was late.

“I was feeling shitty, so I slept,” he told her.

“How do you feel now?”

“Better,” he said, watching her rummage inside her book bag and finally come up with a comb, which she ran roughly through brown hair that was graying ungracefully. She was in her early thirties. The books that had tumbled out of her bag were dog-eared Penguins. She taught English literature and occasionally pushed marijuana at Miami-Dade Community College. “If it stops raining,” he said, “I’ll take you out to eat.”

“I can make something here,” she said. “You think about it for a while and tell me what you want.”

She went into the bathroom, which was a tiny compartment, barely big enough to squeeze into, and closed the door, and he pondered supper in a leisurely way, glad that they would be sharing it. She was the first woman he had ever truly felt comfortable with and the first he had felt lonely without. He got up and spoke through the bathroom door. “Did you miss me?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I always miss you.”

“I feel lucky, do you know that? I feel for the first time in my life everything’s going right.” He wiped his white hair from his eyes and smiled cautiously. He had money in the bank, a joint account, his name and hers, both signatures required for withdrawals. “Sara,” he said, leaning a shoulder against the door.

“What is it, Ty?”

“I love you.”

“Good,” she said, “because I think I’m pregnant.”

He beamed, all of a sudden, and for a full moment closed his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hope you are.”

“Do you want it, Ty?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve always wanted a kid. If it’s a boy, I’d like him to be Tyrone O’Dea Junior, do you mind?”

“No, Ty. I don’t mind.”

Nor did he mind that the child would not be his. Years ago, at Rita O’Dea’s suggestion and then insistence, he had gotten a vasectomy. He said with zest, “Tomorrow we look for a better place to live.”

• • •

As soon as he got back from Miami, Victor Scandura reported to Anthony Gardella, who listened carefully and without interruption. When Scandura finished, Gardella evinced no sign of wounded feelings and said, “Only one way to figure it. Sal’s using money doesn’t belong to him.”

“Stuff we give him to wash?”

“He’s washing it all right, he’s not that stupid, but he’s playing with it first. That’s the only way he could bankroll big scores on his own. Wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have a penny.”

“Wasn’t for you, Anthony, he wouldn’t even be down there. He’d still be up here stealing razor blades from Gillette. I still got some he gave me.”

Gardella said, “He’s got something going with this Miguel, it means what he’s got going with me isn’t enough for him. Maybe he wants me out altogether.”

“Something to consider. He ever get back to you on what you asked him about? Rita’s friend, Alvarez.”

“Alvaro. Yeah, he told me this guy’s a piece of slime, a two-bit hustler, and it’s a wonder nobody’s broken his legs and maybe I should do it, advice I don’t need.”

Scandura let a second pass. “About time Rita grew up, don’t you think?”

“That’s not for you to say,” Gardella said, narrowing his eyes.

“Sorry, Anthony, I was out of line.”

“Too many things hitting on me, Victor. I still haven’t got over what happened to the folks. Neither has Rita. I look at her the wrong way, she’s hurt to the core. Thinks nobody loves her. I love her, I almost got to put it in writing.” Gardella sighed. “Then there’s the thing with Ferlito’s nephew Augie, which I haven’t forgotten. What d’you think about that, Victor?”

“I talked to him like you asked. I say we watch him, see how it goes.”

“What about the other thing? Wade. I don’t want any surprises.”

“He’s set up in an office in the Saltonstall Building, twentieth floor, nothing on the door except
Private
. They tell me it looks real hush-hush.”

“What about his wife?”

“Checks out. She’s playing footsie with her boss, John Benson, Benson Tours. They’ve been away together on trips. Guess where? Key Biscayne.”

Gardella was thoughtful, even a little pained. “A guy separated from his wife still expects her to behave. Depending on the guy, it can tear him up. What d’you think?”

“I don’t know, Anthony. I can’t get in the guy’s skull.”

“I think he and I should talk. Minute he did me a favor, he said something to me. He’s smart enough to know that.”

“Long as we go easy on it. You know how I am about cops. Even Scat rubs me the wrong way. I still don’t forget the time in the fifth grade he ratted on my brother about who picked the priest’s pocket. Father D’Agostino, you remember him?”

“Scatamacchia is one of us,” Gardella said dryly. “Wade isn’t. I get the idea he’s the kind of guy you don’t embarrass with an offer.”

“What kinda guy gets embarrassed? Mad maybe, not embarrassed.”

“I just told you. His kind of guy. He doesn’t want to come right out and say he’ll take. Maybe he wants to fool himself.”

“Somebody should tell him everybody takes.”

“We can feel him out and do him little favors. He’s lonely, we get him a woman.” Gardella’s voice rippled. “Money can come later. Gradually, naturally. But first I want to talk to him face to face. You set it up.”

Scandura nodded. He had a small glass of beer in front of him. Scattered salt on the table stuck to the edge of his hand. “What are you going to do about Sal?”

“I got a choice, Victor? You tell me.”

“You got to clear it first?”

“This is my business, nobody else’s.”

“Then the only question is whether taking Sal out is going to be enough.”

“Make your point, Victor.”

“If Sal has a contract on you, he must’ve done it through the half-breed. Miguel.”

“He goes too.”

“Be nice to know who his shooter is.”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Gardella said with a lethargic movement, some sadness in it, as if from a premonition. Scandura straightened his spectacles and lifted his beer glass.

“Then there’s the matter of your brother-in-law.”

“That I got to think about,” Gardella said.

• • •

The district attorney did not know Lieutenant Christopher Wade and did not want to know him. One of his bright young assistants, magna cum laude from Suffolk Law, said, “What the hell’s going on?” and the DA told him to mind his own business. The DA had been vaguely briefed by the FBI, sworn to secrecy on the little he’d been told, and promised some of the credit if the scam worked and none of the responsibility if it didn’t. In his conversation with Supervisor Russell Thurston, he said, “I don’t want him anywhere near me,” and Thurston told him not to worry. “If he’s found floating in the harbor,” the DA said, “I don’t want the heat.”

“You have my word,” Thurston said.

Lieutenant Wade was installed in a two-room office in the Saltonstall Building, where he could look out a window at the Post Office, Kennedy Building, and City Hall across the way in Government Center. The first room in Wade’s office was furnished with steel desks and empty file cabinets. Wade used the top drawer of one cabinet to stash personal belongings, which included a shaving kit and a spare Beretta 9mm semiautomatic, a twin to the one he carried. Atop each desk was a telephone and a pad of paper. Mug shots of local organized crime figures adorned a bulletin board. The inner room was vacant except for a cot with bedding, in case Wade ever wanted to spend the night there, which he considered unlikely. There was a small sink but no toilet. For that, he would need to go down the hall.

His second day there, he rang up Thurston and said, “Where’s my staff?”