The Good Guys Page 33

  Normally Slattery would have written a long, detailed memo laying out the pros and cons of several possible scenarios and forwarded it to Washington, where it would be debated and analyzed, and several weeks or months later an action plan would be approved. Unfortunately they only had hours to make that decision. Agents assigned to the New York office liked to joke that by the time two bureaucrats at headquarters could agree on what time it was, it was already too late.

  It was Russo who came up with the plan. “Whoa,” said the very impressed Jim Slattery after she’d laid it out. “That’s nice. It’s great.” Connor O’Brien was truly impressed by its symmetry: If Russo’s plan worked, it would cause a schism between the Mafia and the Russians that would take a long time, if ever, to heal. It would force the bad guys to honor their own traditions or be exposed as frauds. It would permanently eliminate some very dangerous people with absolutely no danger to a single FBI agent. And it was remarkably simple to put into motion.

  Of course, that’s if it worked.

  As usual, Slattery volunteered to take full responsibility for approving the plan. O’Brien knew what that meant: If it worked, Slattery would make sure O’Brien and Russo got the credit; but if something went wrong, he’d take the heat. Typical Slattery.

  Rather than grabbing a few hours’ uneasy sleep on office couches, O’Brien and Russo went home to dress for success. “Dark colors,” he suggested as he dropped Laura off at her apartment. “You know, blood doesn’t show up as well.”

  She ignored that remark. But with the car door half-opened and the dome light flickering, she asked, “No jokes, Connor, what’d you think of the professor?”

  O’Brien considered that. “I think,” he said evenly, “that he’s about to get caught in a fucking shit storm and the poor bastard still thinks the sun’s coming out. That’s what I think.” Laura mumbled a few words in agreement and got out of the car. As she did, he lowered the window and shouted after her, “On the other hand, that Karen Abbot’s a real treat.”

  When he got home, there were eighteen recorded messages waiting for him on his answering machine. He was asleep halfway through number 8.

  At one o’clock the next afternoon reasonably refreshed FBI Special Agents Connor O’Brien and Laura Russo were right back where they had started, on Elizabeth Street in Little Italy. They were standing in front of a faded brown steel door, the entrance to a nondescript one-story building. Large bay windows on either side of the door made it obvious that this had once been a shop of some kind, but white screens at the back of both of those windows made it impossible to see inside. It made no difference. O’Brien and Russo knew that this was the Freemont Avenue Social Club, the home of the Mafia crew headed by Henry “the Hammer” Franzone.

  The two agents had been notified less than a half hour earlier by the surveillance team in the Country Club that Bobby Blue Eyes San Filippo had arrived and was inside. As they approached the brown door, O’Brien had whispered, “I hope you remembered to bring the cake.”

  “Just my luck,” Russo had responded. “I need John Wayne and I end up with Soupy Sales.”

  “Hey, look at this,” he said, pointing to the name slot above the buzzer, which read “J. E. Hoover.” “I always wondered what happened to him.”

  Russo leaned on the buzzer. The two agents stood there waiting, assuming they were being observed by a security camera. Every few seconds Russo shifted nervously from foot to foot. The door was finally opened by a relatively thin, balding older man O’Brien recognized as George “Georgie One-Time” Nunzio. There was very little chance that Nunzio knew who they were, but he definitely knew they didn’t belong there. “Yeah?” he asked, but not unpleasantly.

  O’Brien replied, asking, “Can Bobby Blue Eyes come out and play?”

  Russo shook her head in disbelief. Showing Nunzio her identification, she said professionally, “I’m Special Agent Russo, FBI. This is Agent O’Brien. We’d like to speak to Mr. San Filippo, please.”

  Nunzio’s eyes traveled very slowly and obviously down and then up her entire body, stopping only to admire her chest. Then he grinned at her. “You got some nice body for a cop.”

  Russo didn’t flinch. “Right. I’ll bet you told my grandmother the same thing.” She repeated her request, a bit more firmly. “Mr. San Filippo, please.”

  “Bitch,” he said, closing the door.

  As they waited, she turned to O’Brien, who was looking straight ahead, his lips puckered for a shallow whistle. “Don’t look at me,” he said, “I just work here.”

  About a minute later the door was opened about halfway. Bobby Blue Eyes San Filippo was standing there. His right hand remained on the inside doorknob. It was pretty obvious that he wasn’t about to invite them in. He spoke directly to O’Brien. “What?”

  This time O’Brien made the introductions. “There’s a couple of questions we’d like to ask you, Bobby. We don’t have a warrant, you don’t have to talk to us. But I got a real strong feeling you’ll be happy if you do.”

  While O’Brien was making their pitch, Russo took a good close look at San Filippo. It was obvious to her why women found him attractive. He was a dark, handsome man with chiseled good looks, about the same age as O’Brien, but in just about every way he was as smooth as Connor was ragged. His black hair was perfectly groomed, he was clean-shaved, and his piercing blue eyes contrasted with his bronzed Sicilian complexion. He was wearing what was obviously an expensive, highly starched white shirt and silk tie. And whatever cologne he was wearing, it was the right one. More than all that, though, he had about him an appealing aura of complete confidence.

  San Filippo considered O’Brien’s request. It wasn’t that unusual. Agents and wiseguys speak with each other all the time. And O’Brien was hoping that his curiosity would be strong enough to overcome his apprehension.

  “Come on,” Russo urged him, “take a walk with us. Ten minutes, tops.”

  San Filippo smiled at her, his lips just barely parting. Unlike Nunzio’s, his eyes never left her face. “This really’s not such a great time,” he said.

  As Bobby Blue Eyes focused on Laura, O’Brien took a real hard look at him. He pegged him right at thirty-five, and looking exactly that. San Filippo was obviously one of the “new Mafia,” the next generation of hustlers as concerned about their appearance as respecting the traditions of the family. His black hair was slicked down with some kind of goop that made it look about as natural as a statue’s. He had shaved that morning, that was easy to see, but still he looked exhausted, and there was a real puffiness under his eyes—they looked like tea bags to O’Brien—that made him look unusually tired or sad. It was also pretty clear that to make his dull blue eyes stand out, his mob trademark, he was using one of those bronzing lotions that darkened his complexion a little too much Miami Beach. And whatever brand of cheap cologne he had slopped on, the pungent smell was enough to suffocate an elevator full of secretaries. He was wearing a starched white shirt with a high collar, and Connor guessed he was hiding a flabby neck. It all came together in a two-bit manner, giving him the unappealing aura of misplaced arrogance.

  Russo lightly took hold of Bobby’s left hand. “Please,” she said softly, tilting her head innocently to the side.

  San Filippo frowned. “All right,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “Just gimme a minute.”

  As they waited for him, O’Brien found himself suffused with energy. He bounced up and down, finding it difficult to believe that Russo had actually reached out and grabbed the guy’s hand. For an instant he wondered if he might be feeling a twinge of jealousy, but almost immediately rejected that thought. Long ago he had dispassionately examined the whole concept of jealousy and decided it offered no benefits. After that he had been able to keep it out of his system, so it couldn’t possibly be the cause of the strange discomfort he was feeling.

  San Filippo reappeared wearing a full-length camel hair coat and a black fedora. “Let’s go,” he said, closing the door fi
rmly. The two agents flanked him as they walked toward Mulberry Street. “Either of you wired?” he asked, the kind of question defense lawyers cherished. O’Brien and Russo both said no. “Okay,” Bobby said, “but everything’s off the record, right? We got that straight?”

  They agreed. The day was on the edge of winter, crisp and clear. O’Brien and San Filippo jammed their hands into their coat pockets; Russo wore white furry mittens. As they crossed the street, Connor began the conversation. “You ever hear of a Professor Peter Gradinsky?”

  San Filippo made an exaggerated search of his memory. “Gradinsky, huh? Gradinsky? No, it doesn’t sound familiar. What kind of professor is he?”

  “He teaches Russian up at Columbia University,” Russo said. “Okay, then, how about Anthony Cosentino? You know him maybe?”

  San Filippo couldn’t repress a weak smile. “You know how it is, maybe I met him once or twice to shake hands. Seems like a nice enough guy. We got some friends in common, that’s all. What game we playing here?”

  “Clue, it looks like to me,” O’Brien said. “You know, Uncle Tony’s in the basement with a hammer.” Connor was enjoying this conversation. Even the subtexts had subtexts. But the only question that mattered was, would Bobby really understand the questions? They turned left on Hester. O’Brien waited for some reaction from San Filippo, but when Bobby failed to respond, he continued, “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you know an individual named Alphonse D’Angelo? Skinny Al?” He spread his hands apart. “A big fat guy used to hang around over on Bath Street.”

  Again San Filippo’s whole body shrugged. “Sure, who didn’t know him? Everybody knew that fat slob. Even the mayor, Koch, he knew him from when he was a councilman, I’ll bet.” For the first time he hinted at a touch of emotion. “It’s a shame what happened to him.” He glanced at O’Brien. “I hope you guys do something about that.”

  “We’re trying,” Laura interjected. “Believe me, we’re trying.” They were laying down a pretty obvious path, hoping he would follow it. She glanced down at the sidewalk, noticing the intricate web of cracks. The next question, she knew, was the rough one. She doubted very much that he saw it coming. They had spent considerable time that morning debating precisely how it should be asked. “Mr. San Filippo,” she asked as dispassionately as she could manage, but even she heard the slight squeak in her voice, “what do you know about the murder of Pamela Fox?”

  San Filippo took the question without breaking stride. He bowed his head but otherwise expressed no emotion. Even O’Brien admired his fortitude. Tough guy, he thought, real tough. They had learned her name the night before. The bureau had matched their information with NYPD reports to identify the victim. SA Bill Madden had confirmed her relationship with San Filippo by showing his mug shot to the landlord, who identified him as the legal tenant of the apartment and a frequent visitor.

  When they reached the corner of Mulberry and Hester, San Filippo stopped and turned to face both of them. Then he angrily spit out the words. “Fuck you. Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?” He pointed a warning finger at them. “I don’t care who the fuck you are. Come near me again, I swear to God you’re gonna be real unhappy. Now, you got any more questions, you call my fucking lawyer.” Then he angrily walked right between them, shoving them out of his way.

  O’Brien shouted after him, “Hey, Blue Eyes, I got one more question for you. You ever hear of a Russian guy named Vasily Kuznetzov?” San Filippo kept walking. So O’Brien shouted a little louder. “Maybe you ran into him somewhere? A tall guy, scar on his face? The guy’s a real lady killer, know what I mean?”

  That’s when San Filippo stopped. He turned his head toward them. “What’d you say?”

  O’Brien and Russo walked toward him. It was O’Brien’s turn to smile confidently. “Figure of speech, Bobby,” he said, “figure of speech.” He stopped a few feet away from the mobster. “I asked if you knew this Russian guy, Vasily Kuznetzov. Maybe I can refresh your memory. He runs this bootleg fuel business out of a gas station on Brighton Beach Boulevard—1405, I think it is.” He asked Laura, while still looking directly at San Filippo, “That’s it, right, partner—1405 Brighton Beach Boulevard?”

  “That’s it,” she confirmed. Then she asked Bobby, speaking in a normal tone, “You certain you’ve never been there? You’d remember. There’s a room hidden in the back. You have to go through the men’s room to get there? Doesn’t ring any bells, huh?”

  They stood about four feet apart. The expression on Bobby San Filippo’s face was one of bemusement. He heard them, no question about that, but they wondered if he got it.

  Still looking only at him, O’Brien continued, “And doesn’t he have this psycho partner works there too, Russo? Ivan something?”

  She, too, spoke to Bobby while responding to O’Brien. “Chernanko. Wasn’t he the guy always fighting with Skinny Al at the meetings between Tony Cosentino and the Russians? The one who swore he was going to kill him someday?”

  O’Brien closed the gap between them by half, then lowered his voice and added, “I think that’s what Professor Gradinsky said when we spoke to him last night. Remember? Was that before or after he told us that they were meeting there tonight?”

  “Beats me, O’Brien,” he said.

  San Filippo inhaled deeply. With his right hand he took off his hat, and with his left he swept back his hair. And it appeared that he bowed his head slightly and closed his eyes. It was a gesture that might have been interpreted as a salute. Then he put his hat back on his head, adjusted it carefully, and wordlessly walked away.

  O’Brien and Russo stood on the sidewalk and watched him go. And in a voice just slightly louder than a whisper, Russo said, “Bingo.”

  In his car driving back up to the office, O’Brien sang cheerfully, “My boyfriend’s back and you’re gonna be sorry . . .”

  When he reached the chorus, she joined him.

  FIFTEEN

  What you gotta do, you gotta do.

  Basically that pretty much sums up the wiseguy philosophy of life. The fact is that sometimes you just can’t fugetaboutit. Not if you’re a stand-up guy. And everybody knew that Bobby Blue Eyes was a stand-up guy.

  As he drove with Little Eddie toward Brighton Beach, he didn’t waste time considering the consequences of his actions. He didn’t bother trying to balance his right to revenge with the precepts of tradition. Bobby knew well that even if he survived the next few hours, the actions he was about to take might get him whacked. He was going up against the interests of some powerful people. None of that mattered to him; if he didn’t do it, he couldn’t live with himself. What was at stake was his honor.

  They didn’t talk much in the car. Little Eddie hadn’t hesitated when Bobby told him he needed his help. He’d asked a few questions, but “why” was not one of them. If Bobby asked, Bobby got. He had earned that respect from Eddie. And that didn’t change even when Bobby told him, “Bring Myrtle.” Myrtle being Eddie’s favorite semiautomatic weapon. They used to joke that he took it out only on holidays—like St. Valentine’s Day.

  Bobby hadn’t had time to work out any kind of plan. Pretty much, he was going in there naked. Whatever happened, happened. It had been only a few hours since the two FBI agents showed up at the front door of the social club. He’d been sitting at the card table, lost in his private sadness, when Georgie One-Time told him the feds were outside and wanted to talk to him. He described them as “a fucking clown” and “a bitch with some smart mouth.” Normally Bobby would not have spoken to law enforcement without an attorney on his hip, but there was nothing normal about the last few days. Bobby had a lot of different things going on, and this visit could have been about any one of them. He was curious enough to walk to the door and find out what they wanted.

  The guy agent was a real schlump. From his messy hair to his scuffed shoes there was not one thing about his appearance that looked like he’d put any thought into it; it was sort of like he was dressed out
of focus. After introducing himself and his girl partner, this agent said, “There’s a couple of questions we’d like to ask you, Bobby . . .”

  While the guy made his pitch, Bobby took a look at the female agent. Maybe on other days he would have been more attentive to her—she was definitely attractive enough—but today wasn’t that day. Today there was little room in his heart for that.

  They asked him politely to take a walk with them. Initially he turned them down, telling them just as politely, “This really’s not such a great time.” But then the girl agent had taken hold of his hand and squeezed it gently. He couldn’t tell if that was meant as sympathy or seduction, but either way it got his attention. If an FBI agent was desperate enough to flirt with him, it had to be really important.

  Before they had taken three steps, he asked the proper legal questions. If he had gotten the wrong answers, he wouldn’t have taken a fourth step. In response they told him they weren’t wired and agreed that everything he said would be off the record, meaning they wouldn’t use it against him. While that didn’t provide any solid legal protection, if they were taping him, a jury would hear them lying, pretty much destroying their credibility.

  O’Brien, the male agent, asked the first question. “You ever hear of a Professor Peter Gradinsky?”

  The professor? Of course, Bobby thought, that’s why the one name sounded sort of familiar. These were the agents that that long-faced secretary, something Simon, had told him about. Yeah, right, the nice-looking girl and the grumpy-looking guy. A young Walter Matthau, that’s how she’d described him. These people were also out there looking for Gradinsky. Had he ever heard of him? Cute, very cute. They already knew the answer to that question. But he made the decision that he wasn’t going to help them. “Gradinsky, huh?” He repeated the name as if he’d never heard it before. “Gradinsky? No, it doesn’t sound familiar. What kind of professor is he?”