The Good Guys Page 30

  Finally he settled down, closing his eyes—and within minutes the silence got on his nerves. Not that noise could bother the Duke, but the room was practically soundproof. Even if you could hear, there was nothing to hear. So Bobby lay there listening hard to the silence, and his mind began to wander. It was so fucking quiet he could hear his own thoughts. They crushed her, those cops had said. Crushed her. One limb at a time. Then . . . He didn’t want to think about it, about her, about what they did to her, but that damned silence was driving him nuts. He slept. Fortunately he did not remember his dreams.

  It seemed only minutes later that the Duke was shaking him awake, but it was late morning. The first person he saw when he came out of the back room was Little Eddie, prison-hunched protectively over a plate of bacon crisp and eggs. “Hey,” Eddie welcomed him to the day, “it’s Sleeping Ugly. What happened, kid, she find out you were cheating with the Amazon All-Stars?”

  Bobby sat down at the table. Yesterday was about ten years ago. Lenny and Vito V were also there. He reached across and took two strips of bacon from Eddie’s plate. “This shit’s no good for you, Eddie. Clogs up your brain. Makes you think you got one.”

  “You’re about as funny as a heart attack, Bobby.” He tossed another strip across the table. “What was that all about yesterday? Where the fuck was you going so fast?”

  The Duke put a cuppa down in front of him. Bobby stared into it, then replied, “Ah, just some shit that had to be taken care of.”

  “About the truck?” Vito V asked, putting down the newspaper he was reading.

  “Nah,” Bobby said, “nothing to do with that.”

  “Well, you heard from those guys or not?” Lenny asked. He was entitled to know, he owned a piece of the deal.

  Bobby shook his head. “Not yet. Just leave it, okay? I’ll figure it out.”

  Lenny wasn’t a complainer, but he liked to cover his tracks. “Gees, Bobby, it ain’t so easy keeping a tanker truck out of sight. I mean, you know . . .” He held his hands about a yard apart. “It’s a fucking truck.”

  A little louder, Bobby repeated emphatically, “I said I’ll figure it out. Now fucking drop it.”

  Lenny wagged a warning finger at him and chuckled sarcastically. “Hey, Bobby, I like you and all that, but don’t you fucking talk to me like that. I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but nobody talks to me that way. No-fucking-body. You got that?”

  Bobby just wasn’t in the mood for Lenny’s tough-guy bullshit. “Lemme fucking wise you up to something, Lenny—”

  “Don’t you fucking tell me nothing,” Lenny interrupted. “Swear to God, Bobby, open that mouth again and I’ll—”

  “Oh fuck,” Eddie said, pulling his plate closer. “Here we go again.”

  Bobby started to rise. “You’ll what? Go ahead . . .” These things happen. Social clubs are Testosterone Central. These places are filled with very tough men who have been successful because pretty much they never took that first step backward. An argument between two guys like that is the definition of a real serious problem.

  In this case they were saved by the ring. Vito answered the phone and shouted, “Hey, Bobby. It’s for you.”

  Bobby sneered at Lenny and walked over to the phone. “Asshole,” he muttered.

  Lenny shot him the finger, adding, “Anytime, baby, anytime.” He sat down and pointed at Eddie’s bacon. “Gimme a couple of those strips.”

  As Bobby passed the radio, he turned up the volume. Franzone was on the phone. “Youse a very lucky man,” he said. Cosentino had agreed to see him that afternoon. He was going to church, then afterward having a family dinner, this time with his legal family, at the Dew Drop Inn on Pacific Avenue. Bobby could have five minutes, no more. “Listen to me,” the Hammer warned him. “This Cosentino, he’s an important fellow and he makes time to see you. That’s a nice thing. So you don’t go there and do something to embarrass me, capisce?”

  Bobby said he understood. What is, is. By the time he hung up the phone, he’d just about forgotten his argument with Fast Lenny. Lenny was shoving a strip of bacon down his throat. When Bobby saw him, he pretended to smack the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Fuck me,” he said. “Ah fuck, Lenny,” he continued, walking toward him. “I’m sorry. I got a lot of fucking pressure on me right now.” And when he got about two feet away, he opened his arms—and then pretended to throw eight or nine quick jabs into Lenny’s stomach. “Paisano,” he finished, finally throwing his arms around the big man and kissing the top of his head.

  “Yeah, that’s good, that’s nice,” Eddie said, satisfied. “But don’t you fucking kiss him back, Lenny. I can’t stand that bullshit.”

  As Bobby put on his overcoat, Eddie sighed. Although no one had said a word about the phone call, in that mysterious way in which people know when something big is going down, everybody knew it. Eddie pulled the napkin off his shirt. “Hold on there a second, tough guy,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

  Lenny asked between swallows, “You need me, Bobby?”

  Bobby started to turn down their offers, then remembered that in this business one person was considered a victim, but two were a problem. “Yeah, c’mon, Eddie. You can drive.”

  Bobby waited until they were in Brooklyn before telling Eddie that he was going to meet with Cosentino. “I knew it was something,” Eddie said, then asked without actually asking if this meeting had anything to do with the professor. It didn’t, Bobby told him, it was about some other things. “Just be careful of that guy,” Eddie warned. “He’s a little, you know . . .” He pointed his index finger at his head and made some little circles. “Sometimes he ain’t right.”

  They stopped for gas at an independent station in Flatbush. “A dollar fucking forty-two a gallon,” Eddie said, marveling at the price. “Reagan just oughta go over there and take it from those A-rabs. They don’t need it. Fucking camels don’t use gas, right? They just make it.”

  Bobby reached across Eddie’s stomach and handed the attendant a twenty. “I’ll get it.”

  The Dew Drop Inn was a family restaurant masquerading as an old-fashioned tavern. It was as classy as its name implied. The walls were covered in cheap paneling, and above each table hung a stained-glass-colored plastic lamp. Even the ceiling was covered with faux tin paneling. It was not the kind of place in which citizens would normally expect to find a Mafia boss, but in fact, Two-Gun Tony had been eating there long before he got made, and it remained a Cosentino family favorite. On this afternoon there were three generations of Cosentinos gathered at a large round table in the corner. Four large men at a table in front of them—one of them the soldier Bobby knew named Jimmy or Johnny—formed an impenetrable barrier between the family and the rest of the place. Bobby spotted Two-Gun Tony immediately, sitting in a booth with his back against the wall, with several young kids, obviously grandchildren, seated on either side of him.

  Eddie waited in the car.

  Cosentino signaled to his bodyguards. Each one of them was bigger than Bobby. Two of them approached him and professionally patted him down. Jimmy or Johnny greeted him, “How’s it going, Blue Eyes?”

  “Going good,” Bobby responded, raising his arms. Cosentino scooted the kids next to him out of the booth and slid free. He pointed to the kitchen and went through a swinging door. Bobby and Jimmy or Johnny followed. Cosentino was standing next to a cutting block, toying with a cleaver, when Bobby joined him in the kitchen. The cook and his assistant took off their aprons, wiped their hands on soiled towels, and left.

  Cosentino slammed the cleaver down on the wooden board and greeted Bobby. Two-Gun Tony Cosentino was a small man, and thin, no more than five-seven, 135 pounds. His face was long and narrow, sort of flowing down into his long squared chin. His gray hair was wispy, but neatly cut and perfectly groomed. Overall he looked almost frail, helpless. And on occasion people made the mistake of equating his size with his strength. Cosentino, like Franzone, like just about all the men I knew from the ol
d days, had enormous self-discipline and strength of character. He had come up with the legends: my father, Luciano, Gambino, that other little guy, Meyer Lansky. Most important, being from those days, he wasn’t bound by the rules of acceptable behavior. As Eddie had reminded Bobby, there were a lot of people who thought Cosentino was crazy; and Tony knew that and used it. And probably even enjoyed that reputation. He understood that if people believed he was crazy, he could do crazy things and no one would be surprised. Usually, for example, when someone was caught stealing from the family, his punishment was immediate and final. One time, though, Cosentino caught a thief and used an electric jigsaw to cut each of his ten fingers—lengthwise, cutting through the middle of his fingernails to his knuckles. People who claimed they were there said he was laughing the whole time. Several times he supposedly disposed of people by wrapping them up with cinder blocks and throwing them alive into a cesspool. Laughing. Crazy. “So you got him, right? Where the fuck is that bastard?”

  Bobby looked directly at the old man. “No, Mr. Cosentino, I don’t have him. I got to tell you the truth: I don’t know where the fuck he is. That’s not why I wanted to talk to you.”

  Cosentino didn’t react. Instead, he sniffled, cursed a cold, then wiped his nose with his wrist. “So what is it? What do you want?”

  Bobby knew that Cosentino would never admit giving him up to the Russians, so he didn’t bother asking that question. Instead, he leaned over and whispered, “I have great respect for you, Mr. Cosentino, I hope you understand that. So I’m gonna ask you this favor. I need you to give me the Russians that came to the funeral.”

  Cosentino leaned back against the counter, his hands grasping its top. His lips moved as he considered his response, but he didn’t utter a sound. Finally he asked, “You think you know what you’re doing here?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Bullshit. You got no fucking idea.”

  “I know I got no choice. That’s what I know.” Bobby knew exactly what he was doing. One word from Cosentino, a nod of his head, and Bobby was dead. Another piece of shit in a cesspool. He just didn’t care. His voice was firm but constrained. And he left no room for doubting his intentions. “Those people . . . they took from me. What they did, it wasn’t right. If you got a problem with me, fine, you deal with me. That’s the way it’s always been. I accept that.” He leaned in close again. “I see your family out there, Mr. Cosentino. And you and I, we know that if anybody breathed on them wrong . . .” He swiped his hand across his throat. “That’s what you’d do and don’t tell me no. ’Cause I know. You have to, that’s who you are. You’d follow them to hell.” He stood up straight. “I’m not looking for any help from anybody. This is my thing. All I want is the names. And I got the right to ask this.” Officially that wasn’t true. Bobby wasn’t made, he was an associate. He didn’t have the same rights as a made man. But as a person who had earned respect his wishes had to be considered.

  This presented a problem for Cosentino, a real serious problem. He wondered how much about all this Franzone knew. Franzone had spoken for this kid, which carried a lot of weight. He went back a long time with the Hammer. Cosentino wiped his nose again, sniffled, and replied, “Things happen, kid. I ain’t telling you it’s right, ’cause we know. But there’s a lot going on here that you don’t know dick about. All I’m gonna tell you now is that the thing that we’re doing here is bigger than any fucking thing we’ve done. This is a new way for us, and if it happens the way it’s s’posed to happen, it’s gonna make a lot of people real happy. Now, you want a taste of that, you and the fat guy in the car outside, you earn it. You do the right thing by me and I’ll find a place for you. We’re talking here about more than you can earn in a lifetime. Two lifetimes. You got my word. But that’s it. What’s done is done. Capisce?”

  There was nothing for Bobby to say. Cosentino had made his decision. Bobby was expected to honor it. That’s the way of this world.

  “Capisce?” Cosentino repeated firmly. Then he continued, “Let me tell you a story, kid. Long fucking time ago I set up a beautiful situation through some people down in Florida. Believe me, this was a fucking beautiful deal, a thousand, two thousand a week. Guaranteed. And it woulda gone on forever. But there was a guy down there who walked in after I did all the fucking work and took it over. It was all legal the way he did it, on the books. He had the right; there wasn’t nothing I could do about it. So I waited, but I never fucking forgot. I waited sixteen years. Figure it out, sixteen years a thousand a week. And then, when the situation changed a little, you know what happened to that smug fucker?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  “Neither does anybody else. And unless somebody goes fishing in a shit pool, they ain’t ever gonna find out.” He took a step closer to Bobby. “Capisce?”

  Bobby got the point. That whole thing he had been taught about tradition, about protecting each other, about family, it was all bullshit. It was forever or until enough money came along. Cosentino thought he was for sale? Honor is like virginity: You can only give it up once. After that it was only about the price. “Capisce,” he agreed softly, telling his own lie.

  Cosentino put his arm around Bobby’s shoulders and led him out of the kitchen. “Now, what about that professor? I gotta have him.”

  “We’re close.”

  “Close ain’t good enough.” They walked back into the main room, Cosentino smiling at his family. “Let me hear from you soon, okay.” It was not a question.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Head bowed, Bobby left the restaurant. Cosentino watched him leave. Somebody was going to have to keep an eye on that fuck, he knew. He wasn’t going to be permitted to screw up a billion-dollar deal. He was getting close to being out of control.

  “Everything good?” Little Eddie asked when Bobby got back in the car.

  Bobby shrugged. Nobody was going to stop him. “They been better,” he said.

  FOURTEEN

  Connor O’Brien was pretty confident he understood the cognitive differences between men and women. Men thought logically, meaning neurons fired in a predictable sequence, straight as a road through the desert, roaring like the perfectly tuned engine of a Ferrari roadster. Women, however, thought chaotically, their neurons firing even less orderly than a box of bottle rockets on a burning fireworks barge. Women understood logical thought and therefore could pretty accurately figure out what men were thinking at any time. But a man could never guess what a woman was thinking because women just didn’t think in any discernible pattern. So trying to figure out what a woman was thinking at any given time was about as easy as a blind man playing whack-a-mole.

  This belief of his was the result of having been raised primarily by Mops, a woman who was just as likely to make him sit through a Bucky Fuller lecture at the 92nd Street Y as she was to surprise him with tickets in the Garden’s blue seats for a Rangers play-off game.

  Having this knowledge about women, O’Brien believed, gave men a distinct advantage. Men were smart enough to understand that they couldn’t possibly figure out what was going on in a woman’s mind, and therefore they never bothered to try. Women, however, were confident they knew what men were thinking at all times and often reacted to it before the man even knew what he was thinking.

  Which is why Connor O’Brien went along with Laura Russo’s hunch that Peter Gradinsky was very much alive and hiding out with a former girlfriend. There was nothing to lose. Both the FBI and the Mafia, using all of the unique methods available to them, ranging from sophisticated technology to good old-fashioned leg-breaking threats, had been unable to find him. So why not try women’s intuition?

  Geri Simon had given Russo three names. But as they got ready to leave Simon’s house to go to her office and get their addresses, Russo had stopped her and asked, “Geri, he’s not here, is he? That really is your mother in the bedroom?” Truthfully Russo didn’t believe Gradinsky was there, but she also assumed correctly that Simon would be flattered to be con
sidered close enough and loyal enough—and attractive enough—to a man like Gradinsky that he would rely on her for help.

  Simon had laughed so hard that she started coughing uncontrollably and had to put down her cigarette. “I wish,” she had replied, looking daggers at the bedroom door.

  After arranging for a car service to drive Simon home from her office O’Brien and Russo took her list of Gradinsky’s former girlfriends downtown. While many agents working in the city relied on the subway system to move around, O’Brien clung faithfully to his car, remaining defiant even in the face of such familiar New York tribulations as being stuck in gridlock caused by Con Ed digging up a corner while watching the temperature gauge rising inexorably toward the dreaded red zone. In this particular instance he simply persevered, and rather than worrying about overheating, focused instead on their destination. “Come on, Russo, you really think he’d hide out from the Mafia at an old girlfriend’s apartment?”

  She looked at him with surprise. It was sometimes difficult to believe that men were so dense. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “Of course I do,” he said firmly. He chuckled at that thought. “What are you, kidding me? Me get it?” And then he added casually, “Get what?”

  She was enjoying this. “Why, Agent O’Brien, I’m surprised at you. Peter Gradinsky isn’t hiding from the Mafia.” She waived away that thought. “The Mafia’s easy. The problem he’s got is a lot more complicated than anything the Mafia can do to him.”

  Somewhere, way in the back of his mind, he began to hear the tune, but he still couldn’t identify the song. “Okay, you got me. Happy now? I give up. If he’s not running from the wiseguys, then who’s he afraid of?”

  “Gradinsky got two phone calls that night, remember? One from Natalie calling from his office and the other one from Off Limits. From Cosentino, probably. We just assumed it was Cosentino’s call that made him take off. Right?”