The Good Guys Page 11

  Eddie looked at him with surprise. “I’m like you, I like it loud,” Eddie told him. “So nobody can hear us talking.”

  Bobby leaned closer to the dashboard. “FUCK YOU!” he screamed. “See what those cops make me go through?”

  They were not the only members of the crew trying to figure out what was going on. At just about that same time Henry Franzone was sitting in the back room of Popi’s Place, a bar on Seventh Avenue off Bleecker known mostly in the neighborhood for its greasy hamburgers and less well for the high-interest loans that actually kept the place in business. The back room at Popi’s was very popular with the crew because not too many people ever sat there. It provided the privacy necessary to conduct a lot of different types of business. Franzone was there to meet a man named Frank Weimann, whom he’d known for five years. Weimann was a recruiter at an executive placement firm, but what mattered most about him was that his wife, Lisa, worked as a secretary-stenographer at FBI headquarters in the city.

  Organized crime got information in two ways. Most of the time, like Bobby Blue Eyes and Little Eddie, people just asked nicely. That, and the unstated threat of ending up in a trash compactor, was often enough. But sometimes they got it the old-fashioned way: They paid for it. Just as law enforcement has traditionally used paid informants, so has organized crime. And like law enforcement, the payoff wasn’t always in cash. It might also be a reduction in debt or the return of a favor, but it was something of real value. Weimann, however, always wanted cash, with the amount depending on the value of his information.

  Organized crime is a cash business. There are not a lot of people who take checks or credit cards to settle gambling debts or loan payments or for drugs or cut-rate merchandise. It’s cash and carry. Or, as some people used to joke, cash or carry—either you pay the cash or we carry you out.

  Some people make a lot of money; being able to spend it is the problem. In order to spend money, you have to be able to prove to the government that it came from a legitimate source—a job, for example, or from a legitimate business operation—and that you’ve paid taxes on it. If the government can show you’ve spent more than you’ve legally earned, they can make a case against you. That’s the main reason so many wiseguys show up on union payrolls. They get a weekly paycheck, and they pay the taxes and the Social Security. There was the story of a guy out on Long Island named Matty Glenn who came out of prison and immediately started dealing drugs. He made a fortune. In less than a year he’d bought a million-dollar house, a Cadillac, a big boat, he’d bought beautiful clothes for his wife and jewelry for his girlfriend. He paid taxes, not exactly every dollar he owed, and claimed he was a jewelry salesman. One night he pulled into his driveway and DEA agents leaped all over his car with their guns pointed at him. “What are you guys doing?” he screamed. “I’m a salesman.”

  “Matty,” one of the agents told him, “you been on the street ten months and you got a million-dollar house, a big boat, an expensive car, you’ve bought clothes and jewelry. How could you afford all that?”

  “Easy,” Matty replied, “I’m a good salesman.”

  Most connected guys carry rolls of cash with them, and they’re not shy about flashing it. Some of them I knew would put big bills on top and make the roll thick with singles and fives. Not Franzone, though. Franzone never walked out his front door with less than $5,000 in his pocket. And, as people said about him, he rarely walked in that door without the same $5,000 in his pocket. Henry Franzone had what is known in the business as “short arms,” meaning they just couldn’t reach the bill. Every bill. Like a lot of captains, he expected his crew to provide for him. Usually they did.

  “Good afternoon,” Weimann said respectfully as he joined Franzone at the table, “it’s good to see you.” Within seconds a pot of espresso and the proper cups had appeared on the table. Franzone believed completely in the old traditions. Business was done as gentlemen, with respect for each other and the world in which they lived, although it was difficult for him to respect the man sitting opposite him. There is nobody hated more by the wiseguys than a snitch, a rat, a traitor, stoolie, whatever you wanted to call him. A person who betrays his own people for personal gain.

  Technically Weimann didn’t fit this description. Lisa Weimann was doing the actual work, and all he was doing was negotiating the terms. Franzone recognized the distinction but still found Weimann coarse and dull and despised him. But as long as their business interests coincided, he would be cordial to the man and treat him properly. “Salute,” he said, raising his cup and nodding. He was careful not to call Weimann by name, in case the walls were listening.

  Weimann carried a leather briefcase with him, which he held on his lap. “Salute to you,” he replied, tapping the briefcase with his free hand. “I got most of those . . . um, items, I guess, that you asked me for.”

  Franzone noticed that Weimann’s voice was a little higher-pitched than normal, evidence that his nerves were constricting his vocal cords. “Thank you very much. That’s a good thing. But maybe there’s something else you wanna tell me?”

  Weimann sipped his espresso but never took his eyes off Franzone. Frank Weimann was absolutely thrilled to be there, sitting at the same table as a real mafioso. Weimann was a true Mafia buff. He’d seen The Godfather in the theater seven times and at just about every opportunity would imitate Brando making an offer that couldn’t be refused. He also had read all the popular crime literature. What set him apart from the many other Mafia groupies was his access to real information. Franzone owned him. No one else even knew his identity. He was a gift from a friend of the family’s at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Lisa Weimann, it turned out, loved the blackjack tables. Loved them to the ring of $21,000 more than she had. In return for forgiving her debt, in addition to cash payments, the Weimanns agreed to provide information on occasion.

  Franzone used this resource sparingly. Twice a year, at most, and then only if the matter was important enough to risk blowing the connection. This seemed like one of those times. Franzone needed more information about what was really going on. A college professor didn’t come home a few nights, why was that important? Why was the FBI interested? Why was Tony Cosentino asking him for help rather than using his own crew, which was something he had never done before?

  Frank Weimann leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “The bureau is real interested in this professor. They’re putting a lot of people on it.”

  No shit, asshole, Franzone thought. Why the fuck you think you’re sitting here? But what he said aloud was, “Really? No fucking way.”

  Weimann nodded earnestly. He glanced nervously around the room.

  There was a part of Franzone that wanted to reach across the table and strangle him right there. They were the only two people in a back room only slightly larger than a storage closet. Who the fuck did he think was going to be watching, Eliot Ness?

  Satisfied they were alone, Weimann slid the briefcase off his lap and passed it under the table to Franzone. He did not seem to notice that there was no tablecloth covering the table, so that if anybody was watching, they would be able to see this handoff. Obviously, in a back room with the door closed, no one was watching. “Whattya got in here?”

  Weimann swallowed hard. “The names and addresses of the agents running the operation,” he said. “Plus I got a transcript of the interview they did with the wife and a couple of authorization forms.”

  Franzone played the game well. He tried to be everything Weimann needed him to be. Leaning forward, he asked in a low voice, “You find out why they’re looking for this fucking guy?”

  “It’s really weird. Nobody’s saying anything about it. Whatever they want him for, it’s got to be real important, because they’re keeping it supersecret.”

  Franzone exhaled thoughtfully. Normally he discounted whatever Weimann said by at least a third, based on his conclusion that the guy was a major jerkoff and often exaggerated the facts to try to impress him. But this was the first
time Weimann had admitted that even his wife couldn’t break through security. Whatever was going on, obviously it was real important to the bureau. That was interesting. “All right,” Franzone said, pulling out his roll and peeling off five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Here. Now, you listen to me good. You hear one word, you get in touch with me. You call the number. Capisce?”

  Weimann held the money tightly in his fist and nodded in obeisance. “You can depend on me.”

  Continuing to play his role to perfection, Franzone playfully tapped Weimann on his cheek just as he had seen an actor playing Meyer Lansky in some film do, then told him, “Youse a good kid. Don’t you ever fuck up with me.”

  Weimann beamed.

  Franzone did not return to the Freemont Avenue Social Club that afternoon, which was probably a good thing. Fast Lenny knew only one way to express his feelings: loudly. And so he was screaming angrily at everyone about everything—even Duke, who couldn’t hear a word he was screeching. First thing that morning Lenny had walked into the electronics store, grabbed the owner by the throat, and, ignoring his assistant completely, literally dragged him into the back. The owner was predictably terrified; too terrified, in fact, to scream for help. “I swear to God,” he pleaded with Lenny. “I don’t know what happened. I swear.”

  “You no-good motherfucker. Where the fuck is that shit at?”

  “I don’t know, I swear,” he swore. “I swear.” Tears were rolling down his face. “The truck never got here. I stayed here all night waiting for him, he never got here. I swear.”

  Lenny loosened his grip. The man stumbled backward and fell. He was too scared to even try to get up. “What are you talking? You telling me you don’t know what went down?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “No.” He paused again. “I don’t know nothing, I swear. Honest to God, Lenny, the warehouse told me the driver left, but he never showed. I don’t know what the hell happened to him.”

  “You want to know what fucking happened,” Lenny yelled, “I’ll fucking tell you what happened.” Lenny kicked him in his kidney as hard as he could. “The fucking truck was empty, that’s what fucking happened. What do you think, I’m stupid? That what you think? You think you can get over on me?” He reared back and kicked him again. And then again. And again. The owner desperately tried to roll away from him, but Lenny walked right after him. His rage was fueling his rage.

  The owner was trying desperately to shield his head with his arms. “I don’t know, I swear. It was the driver. It had to be the driver.”

  Over and over he screamed it, the driver, the driver, until Lenny finally heard him. “Don’t fuck with me,” Lenny warned him. “Whattya saying?”

  Still cowering, the owner pleaded, “I ain’t crazy, Lenny. Gimme a break. I swear to God I’m not stupid enough to cheat you. I know what happens to me.”

  He babbled on, and eventually he started making sense to Lenny. He knew the guy and the guy definitely wasn’t crazy. They’d done several scams together and the guy had always been honest with him. He’d always split the take fairly. But the driver? That fucking wimp cowardly bastard driver? Who would’ve guessed that guy had the balls to pull off a job like this one? That prick unloaded the merchandise somewhere between the warehouse and the store. He was going to open the back of the truck when he got to the store and be shocked, shocked, when he discovered he’d been robbed at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike.

  Fast Lenny kicked the owner a couple more times for being stupid enough to leave the store rather than wait for the delivery, then helped him up. He informed the owner that there was going to be a change in the deal. Instead of the owner keeping the insurance money and Lenny keeping the merchandise, Lenny was going to get all the insurance money. Every penny. The job now was to find the driver. Allowing people to scam the mob and get away with it would only encourage more people to try it. Obviously it had to be stopped dead.

  Later, at the social club, Fast Lenny was still so upset he couldn’t stay in his seat. He couldn’t sit there even to eat, which proved he was definitely upset. He was all over the place, complaining to everybody that he had been robbed, explaining in detail what he was going to do to the driver when he found him. Apparently, though, finding him wasn’t going to be that simple. The guy had disappeared. And it turned out his driver’s license was a complete fugazi. The name on it was Franklin Washington. Nobody even knew his real name.

  Bobby listened to Fast Lenny screaming. He wouldn’t dare smile—he wasn’t stupid enough to provoke Lenny—but it was pretty funny.

  SIX

  Connor slid one of the surveillance photographs across the table to Laura Russo. “Here’s a good one of the happy couple.” The photograph, taken the previous afternoon, showed Bobby Blue Eyes and Little Eddie leaving the Gradinsky apartment. As seen from the roof of the five-story brownstone diagonally across the street, the two mobsters cast long, thin shadows as they walked briskly down the steps.

  Laura was slowly working her way through a pile of photographs, carefully examining each one with the large rectangular magnifying glass that she had received as a graduation gift from her mother. She glanced casually at the picture and forced a smile. “Nice hat,” she said. Then went back to work.

  Connor frowned. “Boy, even his shadow’s better dressed than I am.”

  She looked up, and this time her smile was real. “Oh, come on, Connor, you dress fine. You just have your own style, that’s all.”

  “Yeah. Moe Ginsberg chic,” he said, referring to the cut-rate clothier on Fifth and 21st Street where he bought most of his clothes. Unlike his father, Connor did not have a “wardrobe.” Rather he had “clothes.” In his case it was usually “a pile of clothes.” When it came to dressing, he followed one strict rule: Socks had to match. Everything else was fair game.

  His lack of interest in dressing properly used to drive his mother crazy. “I guess the good news is that you can’t dress down for this occasion,” she said sarcastically as he got ready for a high school dance, “because you’re already there.”

  Connor was one of those few people whose closets improved significantly when they joined the bureau. Agents were expected to dress appropriately for their assignment, which most often meant a blue suit, white shirt, and neutral tie. The day he graduated from Quantico he bought three blue sports jackets and three pairs of slacks, a blue suit and a gray suit. He had yet to wear the gray one. Fortunately for him, agents working organized crime in New York were allowed to dress casually so as not to stick out in Little Italy and other mob hangouts.

  O’Brien was wearing what he called his “comfort clothes”: khakis, a white shirt, and cordovan moccasins. Not only wouldn’t he stand out in a crowd, no one would notice him if he was all alone—which was exactly how he preferred it. He took a good long look at another surveillance photo before spinning it across the table, and stated firmly, “Maybe it’s just me, but personally I never trust people who wear hats that don’t have writing on them.”

  Beginning an investigation is like trying to follow a road map on which the roads and the towns are not identified. No matter how long you stare at it, you don’t know where you are, where you’re going, or how you’re going to get there. O’Brien and Russo had bits of intriguing information that seemingly led nowhere. They had spent the entire morning reviewing everything they had, trying without success to fit some of the pieces together. Russo called this kind of work “a strategy review session,” while O’Brien referred to it as “the usual bullshit.”

  At the beginning of their careers most FBI agents dressed alike and worked alike. They followed the standard procedures taught at Quantico. They didn’t take the side roads or look for shortcuts. But as they gained experience, each agent developed his or her own methods for working a case. O’Brien preferred covering as much ground as possible, talking to people, making himself visible, figuring he’d eventually shake loose some information. Russo was more of a plodder, much like her favorite detective, Agatha Christ
ie. She liked taking the time necessary to examine each piece of evidence, believing without any doubt that there was always just a little more information to be squeezed out of it if she were just smart enough. She would literally spend hours bent over a single photograph with that magnifying glass. Early in her career, to perfect her skills, she had attempted to identify every book seen in the background in a photograph of John Kennedy sitting at his desk in his Hyannis Port library. She’d managed to list 256 titles.

  The boredom was beginning to get to O’Brien. “Hey, I got an idea,” he said brightly. “If we’re gonna spend all day in here looking at pictures, why don’t I go out and get us the new Playboy?”

  Without even bothering to look up from the photograph she was examining she told him, “You’re not funny, Connor.”

  Connor pulled down the skin under both eyes as far as possible with his forefinger and middle finger, then rolled his eyes as far up into his head as possible. “How ’bout this, then?” he asked. “This any funnier?”

  This time she leaned back in her chair and looked at him. And frowned. “What are you gonna do next? Fart jokes?”

  “C’mon, Russo,” he practically begged, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. We gotta find this guy, and unless he’s hiding under this table, he’s not in here.”

  “Just give me a couple more minutes,” she said in what definitely was not a couple-more-minutes voice. The only good news, as far as O’Brien was concerned, was that they just didn’t have too much more to examine. Russo had gone through most of the surveillance photos. Both of them had read the most recent transcripts from the taps in the social club and Gradinsky’s apartment. The Gradinsky apartment had picked up seven personal calls in which the professor was not mentioned and one order for Chinese food. About all they learned from the pile of material was that Grace Gradinsky was still not discussing her husband’s absence with anyone, which O’Brien believed reinforced his theory that she knew where he was, and that she preferred hot-and-sour over wonton.