Part 15 (1/2)
It was very hard stuff. Two of Papa Ventura's top men, one in the steelworkers' union, another supposedly involved in illegal bidding in the city's construction business, were about to be indicted by the grand jury for collusion, bribery, and falsification of official government doc.u.ments. The government was building a RICO case against both men-and by extension against his grandfather. Facing really hard time, it was hoped that one of the two, or both, would be willing to deal away years for names.
Nick got a call from Caruso the day the sealed indictments were handed down. Both men were to be arrested within the next twenty-four hours. He went straight to his grandfather.
Nicholas Ventura looked over the top of his eyegla.s.ses, holding the notes his grandson had given him. ”Tomorrow morning? You are sure?”
”Yes. I'm sure.”
His grandfather went to the phone; made several calls. He spoke quickly, authoritatively, with great certainty.
He then considered Nick thoughtfully. ”This could be a step toward building their f.u.c.king RICO case against us. How does that work, Nicholas?”
Nick had a feeling his grandfather knew more about RICO than he let on. ”Well, Papa, they pull someone in under RICO, it doesn't matter what they have against you, personally, or your company. If you're dealing with other organizations, in any way, that are involved in a number of crimes-extortion, murder, arms dealing, importing and exporting of drugs, stolen cars, s.h.i.+pping girls for prost.i.tution, illegal immigration, stolen credit cars, price fixing-any number of things, they get you in their sweep.”
Nicholas Ventura shook his head. ”All these things-what have I got to do with arms dealing, young girls?”
”If you deal with anyone involved in any of the activities covered, you don't have to be involved in everything they do. Just one aspect and you're vulnerable. When they got the Cosa Nostra, they had miles of bugged conversations on tape; it was all over.”
Ventura was furious. ”And this is supposed to be a free country? A man can't have a conversation in his own home? Hey, how stupid were those guys, they got bugs in their own homes?”
”They did it all legally, Papa. They even got Gotti on the street in his walk-and-talk meetings with his people. It was his main guy who gave him up.”
The old man's face was hard, his eyes narrowed and blazing. ”Sc.u.m. Not like in the old days. The vows mean nothing now. Nothing at all. This never would have happened in the old days-we had honor then.”
Nick had studied his grandfather's weary face. ”That's probably why they figured on picking up those two guys I told you about. Play them along. Probably got enough on them to convince them to make a deal. They're planning to grab a lot of people in your different organizations and tie them together. Leading to you.”
”Well, they'll have to find them first, right? h.e.l.l, that's what private planes are for. And small islands in the ocean. You pay enough to some of these pompous n.i.g.g.e.rs who run these little countries, they think you're the great white G.o.d.”
He stared at the paper for a moment. ”Tell me this, Nicholas. Where did you get this information?”
”Papa, c'mon. You get your information, I get my information. We're like reporters. We don't reveal our sources.”
Nick realized what was going on in the old man's mind. Someone else should have told him this, too; should have had access; should have warned him.
He had come to a decision. ”You go home now, grandson. This is a very good thing you've done. Very good. I have some business to take care of now.”
He embraced Nick, kissed his cheek, and regarded him carefully. Then nodded, as though his trust had been well placed. He would bring Nick in closer. No matter who objected.
Nick continued to relay information, prepared by his grandfather, to Coleman. Information he gathered himself, to Caruso. From Coleman's office he picked up information, mostly useless, but enough to show his grandfather that Nick was doing his job. Caruso intervened just this once, a gesture valuable in and of itself, but also in helping to secure Nick's standing.
Yet Nick would awaken in the middle of the night in a cold sweat in his cold bedroom. Christ, did he give Coleman information meant for Caruso? Then his grandfather's mole in the DEA would know what Nick was doing. He felt like a traveler without a compa.s.s: handing off messages, some phony, some real; some important, some not. One mistake could trip him up. There were times when he longed to sit down with someone, outside of all this, and try to keep his balance. But there was no one. He knew things were moving rapidly. He longed for the whole thing to be over. He longed to stop being three different people. At times he really didn't know who the h.e.l.l he was anymore.
He was getting ready for bed when the soft buzz of the house phone jarred him.
”Yeah?”
It was Fred, the retired-cop building security guard with a tight New York voice. ”Young guy here, Mr. O'Hara. Don't much like the looks of him. Says he gotta see ya. Name's Vinny Tucci.” Then, loud enough to be heard throughout the main lobby, he added, ”Looks like bad news to me.”
Vinny Tucci was the twenty-five-year-old nephew of Salvy Grosso, who had watched out for the kid since his punk father Tooehy Tucci got clipped in a dumb street thing. His sister kept nagging him: give the kid a job. Vinny Tucci helped around the Queens real estate office. Ran errands, made deliveries, picked up and sent out mail. Listened to everything that was going on. Sometimes he went down to Manhattan to run some errands for Nick's cousin, Richie. The kid was a wannabe with never-be written all over him. A street punk.
”Put him on the phone,” Nick said.
The kid sounded smug. He'd just shown the security guy something or other.
”Hey, Nick. It's me. Vinny.”
”What, Vinny? What?”
”Oh, yeah. Well, your cousin Richie said ... listen, could I come up and see ya a minute, okay? Tell d.i.c.k Tracy here it's okay.”
Vinny Tucci was slender and badly dressed in baggy jeans and an oversized baseball jacket. He had a nice face that was spoiled by a nervous tic. Every few minutes his thin lips would pull out into a stretched, meaningless smile. The tic had gotten him into some serious trouble, from the time he was a schoolboy. When he attended a wake, he remembered to keep a hand over his mouth.
Nick led him into the kitchen and blocked his view of the rest of the apartment.
Vinny looked around, his small eyes darting as he waited to be offered something. A drink. Coffee. Something.
”What, Vinny?”
Nick apparently had no cla.s.s. Vinny delivered his message, his hand cupped around his mouth. ”Richie says to meet him at this place. Out here in Queens. In Forest Hills Gardens.” He dug into two or three pockets, then found a smudged piece of paper with an address written by Richie in the clear, legible handwriting of his early Catholic school days. It was about all of his education he had retained.
Nick held on to the paper. ”Okay, what else did he tell you?”
”Oh. Yeah. He said, uh-uh”-Vinny bit his lip, closed his eyes, then snapped them open-”Yeah, and he says do you know anything about bugs? Ya know. Not the creepy-crawlies. The listening things, ya know? Like a place being bugged. Ya know. Like you guys use. In the cops. See, he wants you to meet him there and check out the place. Want I should take you there? I got a car right downstairs.”
Nick took Vinny by the arm, somewhat surprised by the good muscle development. He remembered the kid worked out, wanted to be a lightweight contender. Right. Sure. He led Vinny to the door, opened it, and not too gently pushed him out into the hallway.
”Thanks, Vinny. You do nice work. I have my own wheels, but thanks anyway.”
As he closed the door, he heard the raspy voice offering to take him there, anywhere. Hey, any time. He could help Nick any time at all, all you hadda do was ask, okay?
Nick heard the elevator arrive, the door slide open. He watched as Vinny, grinning, stared longingly back at Nick's door, then left via the elevator.
CHAPTER 32.
FOREST HILLS GARDENS WAS a private community, a thirty-minute subway ride from mid-Manhattan. Continental Avenue stretched from busy, commercial, high-rise Queens Boulevard past a collection of shops, restaurants, newspaper stands, a movie, fast-food places, a big old five and dime, under the old-fas.h.i.+oned ridge of the Forest Hills Long Island Railroad Station. Once through that arch, there was a vast red cobble-stoned expanse: a town square setting. An ”old English” inn, with an internal bridge, led across the road from one side of the elegant building to the other. There was a perceptible quieting once on the streets of the Gardens, which had been built in the twenties and thirties as an alternative for very successful professional and business people who did not want to live in Westchester or anywhere on Long Island. Appearances aside, Forest Hills Gardens was actually in Queens, New York.
The only thing not perfect was the limited amount of land around each home. Some of the Tudor houses would have fit in on acres of bright green, well-tended lawns overlooking the mists of an English landscape. Plantings, shrubbery, flower beds, and trees concealed or revealed however much each owner desired. There were street lamps in lavish wrought-iron shapes: lanterns, glowing mild yellow, that seemed to have been lit by an ancient lampman. There were park squares, with mellowed wooden benches for nannies to rest while their infant charges slept in this oasis of isolation.
The only incongruous intrusions were the many signs placed along the curbs, outside and within the private parks, warning everyone that these streets were private. Presumably, all illegal cars would be towed away at their owners' expense. When they reclaimed their vehicles, paid a stiff fine, they would still have to deal with a large winds.h.i.+eld-sized sticker pasted with stubborn glue: that'd show 'em.
Not very long ago, many homes still welcomed guests with s.h.i.+ny-faced black jockey boys, their glowing lanterns lighting their lawns. Most of the statues had disappeared, though one or two of the grinning figures were resettled inside the private backyard gardens.
Nick pulled up just as a large moving van drove away from the stone and brick mansion. Lights were burning from every window. The neighbors might wonder why anyone would be moving furniture in until eleven at night, but no neighbors, curious or otherwise, could be spotted.
Richie opened the door at Nick's lightest tap, put an arm around him; without taking a full breath, he yelled at one of his men.