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  Slowly, thoughtfully, Bacardo nodded. “Yeah, that could work. That could work fine.”

  “Okay, then.” As he spoke, Venezzio gestured to the door that led to the administration building, where a guard waited to pass them through. Now Venezzio’s voice was fading; in his eyes, the deal-making glint had dulled. “Okay, so you start getting it together—a little cash, maybe fifteen, twenty gold coins, but mostly jewels. Diamonds, mostly. Use Fineberg. You can’t do better than Fineberg. But pay him twelve percent, no more. Otherwise, he gets his legs broken. Right?”

  Bacardo nodded. “I agree. Fineberg.”

  “I’m not kidding, though, about the legs. The last time we did business together, he was right on the edge. Tell him that. Then remind him about Tony G., about what can happen.”

  “I don’t think I have to remind him. I think he knows.”

  “Just make sure he knows.”

  “I’ll make sure.”

  “The jewels—Fineberg knows: big ones, unmounted. He’ll know. A million dollars, you can hold in one hand.”

  “I know.”

  “So—what—six months to get the stuff together, play it safe?”

  “Maybe eight, nine months. Business is off, you know. There’s a lot of our guys with not much to do. So they start asking questions, looking around, thinking about the angles.”

  “Well, whatever. Nine months, a year, whatever. But keep your ass covered. This one, it’s got to be done right.”

  “Sure. Of course.” Bacardo let it show, his irritation that the other man would think he had to spell it all out.

  And, as if he was tuned in, his special gift, Venezzio said, “Sorry, Tony. I’m—suddenly I’m tired. You understand.”

  “Sure, I understand. No problem.”

  “Okay. So we’re all set, then.”

  “All set.”

  “Don’t forget what I said, about Fineberg.”

  Bacardo nodded, but decided not to reply. Was Don Carlo losing it? Or was he just tired, after the heart attack?

  They were almost to the door, which the guard was opening with his key. “About Cella,” Venezzio said. “Keep in touch with him. Make sure he understands about Tony G.”

  “Sure. I already told you, he understands.”

  “Just make certain. War, we don’t need.”

  “War?” Bacardo broke stride, looked at the other man. “War?”

  “Just keep in touch with him. Next time, you pick up the check for lunch. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 22nd

  8:20 P.M., EDT

  RESPECTFULLY, BACARDO WOULD REMAIN standing until Cella had been seated. One of Cella’s bodyguards held his chair. The other bodyguard stood at the door of the small private dining room.

  “Thank you,” Cella said. The bodyguard nodded to Cella, nodded to Bacardo, then stepped back. The room’s only windows opened on the dead-end alley that ran along the side of The Chop House. Since the alley windows were steel-shuttered, both guards could withdraw, take tables in the restaurant, one close to the door of the private dining room, one close to the restaurant’s front door. Their waiter was Sal Raffetto, a member of the Magglio family. Completely reliable, Raffetto was known to both Cella and Bacardo. The Chop House’s private dining room was not wired, had never been wired, would never be wired. It was an agreement guaranteed by all five New York families.

  As the bodyguards withdrew, Raffetto entered, gave his greeting, presented the menus.

  “So,” Cella said, smiling cordially across the table at Bacardo. “So eat. Enjoy. A bottle of Chianti?”

  Returning the smile, Bacardo nodded. “Fine.”

  Cella gave the wine order to Raffetto, who withdrew. In his late fifties, Cella was perfectly groomed, a slim, silver-haired man with the long, narrow, finely drawn face of an aesthetic. He was always seen wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit, a white shirt with silver cuff links, and a dark tie. Sicilians, Cella’s family had come to America when their only son was five years old. Mother and father had worked hard to see their son graduate from college—or from a Catholic seminary. A quiet, serious, often brooding student, Benito had been admitted to Columbia when he was only sixteen, and in his sophomore year had elected to major in theater arts. He was a compelling actor with a gift for projecting menace, and he soon became a protégé of Columbia’s principal professor of drama. But in his junior year Cella was accused of aggravated assault on a prostitute. The state’s case failed when the prostitute refused to testify, but Cella was forced to leave college. Without hesitation, he turned to crime. By age thirty, a trusted member of the Gentile family, Cella began specializing in loan-sharking. Soon he was supervising a dozen companies the Mafia had forced into bankruptcy and then bought for pennies on the dollar. In 1975, after Joseph Gentile was murdered as he left a whorehouse, the Gentile family became the Cella family. It was an open secret that, wearing his customary gray suit, Cella had rolled down the rear window of his Mercedes and pulled the trigger on Gentile himself, a single shot to the head from a distance of more than fifty feet, at night. Discussing the remarkable feat of marksmanship, admiring the steadiness of hand, one of the dons had dubbed Cella “The Undertaker.” The name stuck, but only out of Cella’s hearing. To satisfy the Mafia coda, at age thirty Cella had married an immigrant Italian girl. Ten years later he sent her back to Italy, childless, a psychological ruin. After her banishment Cella returned to prostitutes, exchanging hundred-dollar bills for the violent pleasures of sadism.

  Cella waited until the wine had been poured and the waiter had withdrawn. Then, gracefully, he raised his glass. “To Don Carlo.” The words were softly spoken, precisely measured. Cella’s pale gray eyes were hard-focused on Bacardo, an intensity that confirmed the significance of the words he had just spoken.

  “His health,” Bacardo said solemnly, acknowledging that, yes, he understood the deeper meaning of the toast. It was confirmation that Venezzio’s status as capo di tutti was secure, unthreatened. One of the five New York dons, Cella was offering to keep a weakened Venezzio in power.

  Cella placed his wineglass on the table, took a moment to consider, then decided to say, “How is Don Carlo’s health, Tony? It’s been three months now. What’d the doctors say?”

  Also setting his glass aside, also taking a measured moment to consider, Bacardo looked directly into the other man’s eyes as he said, “The doctors tell him to do what he always does, only do it slower, that’s all.”

  “Ah …” Cella nodded. “Good. That’s about what I thought. And his mind, of course—sharp as ever.”

  “No question.” Bacardo spoke firmly; his eyes were steady.

  “When he had Tony G. whacked, that was smart. That helped us all. You told him that.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Bacardo nodded. “Of course. I told him immediately.”

  Nodding in return, Cella raised his glass, fastidiously sipped the wine. “Tony was getting to be a problem, no question.”

  Bacardo made no response.

  Cella returned his wineglass to the table with a gesture of finality. The preliminaries had been concluded.

  “How old is the don, Tony?”

  “He’s sixty-five.”

  “Ah, right …” Cella inclined his narrow, finely boned head. His silver-gray hair was full cut, meticulously styled. “And you’re—what?”

  “Fifty-five.”

  As if the answer had been expected, Cella nodded. Then, after a moment’s hesitation: “Your son—Tony Junior—I’m sorry. It—Christ—this business is hard enough, without something like that.”

  At the words, Bacardo’s rawboned face froze. His splintered gaze looked through Cella’s eyes, not into them. Even as a small boy, his son had often cheated at games, had once been caught taking money from his mother’s purse.

  Two years ago, Tony Jr. had been caught again—skimming the organization’s off-track take. It was an offense for which no appeal was possible; even Venezzi
o could not have changed the council’s death sentence. For a year afterward, except when it was absolutely necessary, Bacardo’s wife had not spoken to him or looked at him directly.

  “I don’t mean to open old wounds, Tony. I just wanted you to know that how you handled yourself, it was just right. It took a lot. Everyone knew it, how much it took.”

  Sitting rigidly, his gaze still fixed far back in time, Bacardo made no reply. He could only endure.

  “Here.” Cella lifted the bottle of wine, replenished Bacardo’s glass. It was a small gesture of peace, an offering.

  Bacardo thanked him politely, but did not raise his glass. Cella let a last long moment of silence pass before he spoke again, this time in an even, controlled voice:

  “The reason I invited you, Tony, is that it’s time Carlo and I got a few things out on the table. You agree?”

  Carlo, this time. Not Don Carlo. Was it a signal? The next moments would tell.

  Bacardo decided on a sip of wine before he nodded. Saying simply, “I agree.”

  “This place—” Cella gestured at the room. “It’s okay?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “There’s a button on the floor. When I want the waiter, I step on it.”

  “Ah.” Bacardo smiled. “Good. I’m glad you told me.”

  “Otherwise, there’s no bugs. Guaranteed.”

  “I know.”

  “So.” Cella tapped his fingertips lightly on the gleaming white linen tablecloth for a moment, then began: “So, like I said, Tony G., that was okay. The other dons, they understood. Carlo had to do something, and he did. But something like Tony G., whacking a capo without putting it to a vote, usually you only get one free ride from the council. Right?”

  Revealing nothing, Bacardo nodded—once.

  “So you’ll tell him that,” Cella pressed. “You’ll tell him what I said. Just to keep us square, me and Carlo.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good. Fine.” Once more, an invitation, Cella gestured to Bacardo’s half-empty glass.

  “Thanks. No more.”

  Cella refilled his own glass, sipped. Then: “So that takes care of the Tony G. thing. What I really wanted to tell you—what I want you to tell Carlo—is that I’ve got a proposition for him. A quid pro quo, the diplomats say.”

  Bacardo frowned. “Quid pro what?”

  Cella smiled, raised a slim, elegantly condescending hand. “A deal. Tell him a deal.”

  “A deal. Yeah.”

  “Tell him—” The final pause. “Tell him that I’ll support him, do everything I can to keep him in the top job. Remind him that we’ve never—never—had problems, Carlo and me.”

  “Well, that’s—”

  “But then,” Cella cut in, “when he goes—retires, whatever—then I expect his people to support me like I supported him. He’s got—what—ten years left, inside?”

  “Right. It was a fifteen-year sentence.”

  “Okay. Well, he’s doing a good job running things from inside. Genovese did it, and so did Charlie Lucky, from Italy. But something like the heart, you never know. So what I’m saying is, when Carlo’s out of it, one way or the other—then it’s my turn. Tell him that’s the deal.”

  Careful to show no emotion, no approval, no disapproval, Bacardo said, “I’ll tell him.”

  “Good.” Cella’s voice was brisk with finality. “So—” Smiling broadly now, he raised his glass. “So, to Don Carlo. Good health.”

  “Good health.”

  1986

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 14th

  3:45 P.M., EDT

  IT BEGAN AS IT always did: the crushing weight in the upper chest, the shortness of breath. Then the pain: slivers at first. Daggers, thin and sharp. In moments, he knew, the pain would congeal into a solid mass, growing, spreading, reaching upward to the base of the neck, like strangler’s hands.

  From the pocket of his shirt Venezzio took the plain white envelope that was always there, quick to his hand, a reflex now: feel the pain, reach for the envelope, take out one tiny nitro pill, put it under the tongue. Secure the flap of the envelope with its life-or-death contents, carefully return the precious envelope to his pocket.

  And then, his latest doctor had said, relax. Lie down, close the eyes, breathe deeply. “Think of something pleasant,” the doctor had said. “Think of when you were a little boy.”

  A little boy …

  How old was the doctor, a specialist, flown in from New York? Forty? Dr. McCoy, the best in the business, according to Bacardo. Dr. McCoy, a tall, smooth-talking Ivy Leaguer, a scrubbed little kid from the suburbs, say shit when he stepped in it and get his mouth washed out with soap.

  “I’ll have to analyze the test results,” McCoy had said. “Then I’ll tell Mr. Bacardo. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Five days it had been before Bacardo had come. And then “inconclusive” was the best McCoy had made out of the tests.

  The first attack, almost ten months ago, hadn’t damaged the heart; the first doctors had said that much.

  But the second attack, eight months later—that one, McCoy said, was inconclusive. Meaning, Venezzio knew, that anything could happen—anytime.

  Think of when you were a little boy …

  Lying on his bunk, arms and legs limp, staring at the riveted metal of the cell’s ceiling, Venezzio drew a long, deep breath, then let his eyes slowly close. Yes, the nitro was doing the job; the pain was slowly fading, diffusing. From his chest, the weight was lifting. Five minutes more and he could sit up, stand, walk as well as ever. Thank you, nitroglycerin.

  A little boy …

  McCoy had said it because, for him, boyhood had meant sunshine and laughter, tennis lessons at the club, swimming parties, bike rides down golden lanes.

  Not trash littering the sidewalks. Not overflowing sewers. Not the shouts and screams and threats and clangor of the slums. Not the narrow cobblestone streets where the sun never shone, in perpetual shadows cast by the tall brick tenement walls.

  Genoa, in the twenties …

  His father had a withered leg, mangled beneath a horse-drawn cart. His mother lived most of every week at the house of a prosperous Genoese banker, where she washed clothes and scrubbed floors. In the corner of their tiny kitchen his father had kept a wrist-thick length of tree branch he’d cut many years before. There were twig stubs at the end of the branch. Many times, lying in bed between his two sisters, one older, one younger, he’d heard the crash of the branch, followed by the high-pitched chirp of the injured rat—followed by another crash. And another. Followed finally by silence. Except that, in the silence, he could hear his father panting from his exertions, dragging his withered leg as he returned the branch to the kitchen corner, then dragged himself back to bed. His father had—

  Wood tapped twice against the bars of the cell. “Mr. Venezzio?” It was Farley’s voice. Farley, captain of the guard, back from vacation. Captain Farley, the only guard permitted to talk directly to him. Venezzio opened his eyes, braced his elbows, rose to a sitting position, legs swung over the end of the bunk, feet on the floor. After an angina attack, keeping up appearances, it was necessary to speak briskly, move decisively:

  “Jerry! How was the vacation?”

  “Fine, thanks. We went to the Grand Canyon.”

  “Ah …” Venezzio nodded. Now the pain was almost gone, a mild discomfort, nothing more. It was only necessary to buy a few minutes more before he could get to his feet, go into his act: the indestructible mafioso, for thirty years capo di tutti. If the President was the most powerful man in the world, then he was the most feared.

  A few minutes more …

  “Did you drive, Jerry?”

  “Yeah.” The guard, big and blubbery, bulging inside his uniform, nodded. It was an expression of heartfelt exasperation. “Yeah. But never again. Two kids, forget it. Not only that, but we pulled a trailer.” Once more, Farley shook his head.

  Venezzio smiled, rose to his feet, stood motionless for a momen
t. Yes, the pain was passing—had passed.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” Farley said. “Where d’you want to see her?”

  Her, Farley had said.

  Meaning that, finally, Louise must have come. Louise, accompanied by Bacardo. For days, he’d expected them. Why hadn’t Bacardo called the prison, left a message, given him notice?

  The answer, he knew, lay with Louise, not Bacardo. Never had Louise kept appointments, kept to a schedule.

  “Is the little yard clear?”

  “Yessir. And there’s a golf cart.”

  “What about the weather?”

  “It’s fine. Fifty-seven, according to the radio. But this time of day, you know, that little yard’s in shadow.”

  “Okay.” Moving slowly, carefully, Venezzio went to his free-standing closet, selected a light poplin golf jacket. From the small desk he took his notebook and a ballpoint pen. “Okay,” he repeated. “Let’s go.”

  “Yessir.”

  4:10 P.M., EDT

  FROWNING, LOUISE TURNED UP the collar of her coat. “It would’ve been warmer in the warden’s office.”

  “This won’t take long.” Venezzio switched off the golf cart’s electric motor, stopped the cart in the center of the small exercise yard. The yard hadn’t yet been policed after the lunchtime tour; cigarette butts and food wrappers littered the area. A few feet from the cart, Venezzio saw a condom, used.

  “Are you getting enough exercise?” Louise asked. “I saw a heart specialist on a talk show—Larry King, I think. He said it’s very important after a heart attack to get on an exercise schedule. But he said it has to be supervised. Very carefully supervised.”

  “I do as much walking as I ever did. I just go slower.”