A Quiet Vendetta (40 page)

Verlaine didn’t say anything.

‘I want you to call her and tell her I’m on an official thing. Obviously you can’t tell her where I am, but I want you to tell her I’m on an official thing, and there might be a chance I won’t make it back to New York for Saturday.’

‘Sure,’ Verlaine said. ‘I can call her, but why don’t you call and tell her yourself?’

Hartmann shook his head. ‘Let’s say there’s a possibility she will read it as a cop-out or something. There’s a good possibility she won’t believe me, but if you call and tell her there will at least be a shred of credence to it.’

‘Trouble?’ Verlaine asked.

‘You could say that.’

‘Things gonna work out for you?’

‘I hope so.’

‘I’ll call her,’ Verlaine said. ‘You tell me what to say and I’ll say it, okay?’

Hartmann nodded and smiled. ‘Thanks, John . . . much appreciated.’

‘Not a problem, Ray. You okay?’

‘Sure,’ Hartmann said, and reached for the door lever.

‘Where you headed now?’

‘The Marriott,’ Hartmann said. ‘Got one bitch of a headache and I gotta get some sleep.’

‘Sure thing. You take it easy, okay?’

Hartmann made his way across the street to his own vehicle and drove slowly back to the Marriott. From his room he called for a sandwich and a glass of milk to be sent up. By the time they arrived he wondered if he had the strength to eat. He did anyway, the better part of half of it, and then he pulled off his clothes and collapsed on the bed like deadweight. He slept, slept like deadweight too, and even the alarm call didn’t manage to wake him.

He did wake though when Sheldon Ross got a passkey and let himself into the room.

It was a quarter of eight, morning of Wednesday 3 September, and Ross waited patiently outside the door while Hartmann showered and dressed.

They left together, drove across to Arsenault Street, and once there Hartmann found Schaeffer and Woodroffe seated exactly where they had been the evening before.

‘You boys even go home?’ Hartmann asked.

Schaeffer smiled and rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t fucking remember,’ he said, and before he could say another word there were voices and people, and Ernesto Perez, two men ahead of him, two men behind, and for all the world to see it appeared that he had become someone of importance all over again.

Once they were again seated across from one another, Hartmann looked at Perez and wondered if what he had said hadn’t been the truth. Had he in fact started to re-evaluate his own life? Had he started to truly accept that he was exclusively responsible for the situation he was in?

Hartmann shrugged the thought away. How could someone such as Perez precipitate anything of any worth? The man was an unconscionable psychopath, a hired killer, a brutal and unforgiving murderer. Surely there was nothing about him that could provoke any sense of mitigation or temper. Hartmann – despite himself – even considered the possibility that there might be something vaguely human within this individual, and then he closed such a thought down.

‘You are okay, Mr Hartmann?’ Perez asked.

Hartmann nodded. He tried to think of nothing at all. ‘You were going to tell us about New York.’

‘I was indeed,’ Perez replied. ‘In fact I was listening to Mr Frank Sinatra only last night in my hotel room, singing about that very same city. You care for Mr Sinatra?’

‘A little. My wife likes him a great deal.’

Perez smiled. ‘Then, Mr Hartmann, you have a wife with exceptional taste.’

Hartmann looked up. For a moment he was angry, felt invaded almost, as if mention of his wife from Perez’s lips was a personal affront.

Perez pre-empted any possibility that Hartmann could speak by smiling, raising his hand in an almost conciliatory fashion, and saying, ‘Enough, Mr Hartmann . . . we shall speak of New York, yes?’

For some reason Ray Hartmann went cool and quiet inside.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘New York . . . tell me what happened in New York.’

‘You gonna stay here with these people then you gotta get it right,’ Don Calligaris told me.

My head hurt. I had smoked too many cigarettes and drunk too much strong espresso. All these people ever seemed to do was smoke and drink, eat rich Italian food, pasta and meatballs and sauces made with red wine and sweet-tasting herbs. Seemed to me their food looked like the aftermath of a multiple homicide.

‘Five families, and it really ain’t no different from remembering all the players in a football team or somethin’.’ Don Calligaris went on. ‘Five and five only, and each of them have their names, their bosses, their underbosses, names that you need to know if you’re gonna mix with these people and have them take you seriously. You need to think Italian, you need to speak the language, you need to wear the right clothes and say the right words. You need to address people in the correct manner or they’re gonna think you’re some poor dumb fuck from the countryside.’

New York was cold. It was confusing. I had figured New York to be a single place, but it was made up of islands, each of them with different names, and where we were seated – in a small diner called Salvatore’s on the corner of Elizabeth and Hester in Little Italy – was a district on an island called Manhattan. The images, the names, the words that surrounded me were as new as the people who accompanied them: Bowery and the Lower East Side, Delancey Street and the Williamsburg Bridge, the East River and Wallabout Bay – places I had read about in my encyclopedias, places I had imagined so different from how they appeared in reality.

I believed Vegas to be the backstop of the world, the place where everything began and ended; New York disabused me of all I had believed. Compared to this Vegas was nothing more than its origin: a small jerkwater nothing of a place hunkering at the edge of the desert.

The sounds and images dwarfed me; they frightened me a little; they created a tension within that I had not experienced before. Crazy people wandered the streets asking for change. Men were dressed as women. The walls were painted with crude garish symbology, and every other word uttered was
fucker
or
motherfucker
or
assfucker
. The people were different, their clothes, their mannerisms, their bodies. People looked worn-out or beaten or bruised or swollen-headed from some late-night jag that had poisoned them with too much liquor or cocaine or marijuana. I had seen these things in Vegas, they were not new to me, but in New York everything seemed magnified and exaggerated, as if here everything was done twice as hard, twice as fast and for twice as long.

‘So there’s the Gambino family,’ Don Calligaris said, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Albert Anastasia was boss from ’51 to ’57. He started something you might hear of around here, a little club called Murder Incorporated. After Anastasia was killed the family was taken over by Carlo Gambino, and he’s been the boss since ’57. Then you have the Genovese, and these guys are Lucky Luciano’s family. After him came Frank Costello, and then Vito Genovese was boss until ’59. After Vito came a three-man council until 1972, and now the Genovese family is run by Frank Tieri. The third family, our family, is the Lucheses. Long history, lot o’ names, but all you gotta know is that Tony Corallo is the boss now. You’ll hear people refer to him as Tony Ducks.’ Calligaris laughed. ‘Gave him that name ’cause of all the times he ducked out from under the Feds and the cops and whoever the fuck else might have been after him. Then you got the Colombos, and they’re headed up by Thomas DiBella. Lastly you got the Bonanno family. They got Carmine Galante in charge, and if you ever meet him you don’t look him straight in the eye or he’ll have someone whack you just for the sheer fucking thrill of it.’

Calligaris drank some more coffee. He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another.

‘You got your New Jersey factions down here as well. Family has always been stronger in New York and Philly, but they got an established outfit in Newark, New Jersey, and the boss down there until ’57 was a guy called Filippo Amari. Nicky Delmore ran from ’57 to ’64, and now they got Samuel De Cavalcante—’

I was looking at Don Calligaris with a blank expression.

He started laughing again. ‘Hell, kid . . . think you better take a bundle of serviettes here and make some fuckin’ notes. You look like your face was a blackboard and someone just wiped you clean.’

Calligaris raised his hand and attracted the attention of the guy behind the diner counter. ‘More coffee,’ he said, and the guy nodded and hurried away.

‘Anyways, all you gotta remember is you’re here so’s we can use some of your special talents.’ Calligaris smiled broadly. ‘You got yourself somethin’ of a rep for the work you did for ol’ Giancarlo Ceriano, dumb fuck though he was.’

I looked up, raised my eyebrows.

‘Stupid fucker thinks he can rake off the cream from the milk and get away with it, you know?’

I shook my head.

Calligaris shook his head and sighed.

‘Don Ceriano—’ Calligaris crossed himself. ‘May he rest in peace . . . Don Ceriano, wise in the ways of the world he might have been, but he was given a specific instruction of how the Vegas business was supposed to be handled. He was only supposed to use certain men for certain things, he was supposed to pay over certain percentages to certain officials at certain times of the year. This is the way things work, and they’ve always been that way. Don Ceriano was an underboss for the Gambinos. Historically there’s always been a good relationship between the Gambinos and the Lucheses, and that’s why I was asked to go down and sort things out with Don Ceriano, make sure he understood who he was working for and why. Anyway, we sorted that little thing out, and now the Gambinos and the Lucheses have a part-share in the whole thing in Vegas, and it’s gonna get done right. You can’t run a business without a few dollars getting shared out between the right people at the right time, you know?’

Calligaris paused while the diner guy brought coffee for us both. He reached into his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar bill. ‘Hey kid,’ he said. ‘Buy your girl a necklace or something, eh?’

The kid took the twenty, stuffed it into the front pocket of his apron, and then he looked momentarily dejected and said, ‘Thanks, but I ain’t got a girl right now.’

Calligaris started to smile, and then he frowned. ‘What the fuck is this? What the fuck you bustin’ my balls about, you dumb schmuck? You want me to go out and get you a freakin’ girl or what? Get the fuck outta here!’

The kid stepped backwards, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

‘Hey!’ Calligaris snapped. ‘Gimme the fuckin’ twenty back, ya little fuck!’

The kid snatched the twenty-dollar bill from his apron pocket and threw it towards the table. Don Calligaris snatched it from the air, and then rose and started after the kid. He made to kick him and the kid started to run. I watched with amusement as the kid hurried down the length of the diner and disappeared through a door at the back.

Don Calligaris sat down. ‘Jesus Mary Mother of God, what the fuck is all this shit? Kid can’t even be grateful for a tip, has to get all smartmouth and wiseguy with me.’

He reached for his coffee, lit another cigarette.

‘Anyways, as I was saying, all you gotta do is keep your eyes open and your ears closed. You work for me now. You get an order to clip some fuck, then you go clip the fuck, right? Things is done right and clean and simple here . . . and none of that weird shit like what went down in New Orleans, okay?’

I tilted my head to the side.

‘That freaky shit with the heart, you know? Whatever the fuck his name was, Devo or something, right? Dvore, that was the fucker! That thing that you did when the guy’s heart was cut out.’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t cut anybody’s heart out,’ I said.

‘Sure you did. You went down there and did some work for Feraud and his politician buddy. Cleaned up some shit a few years ago. Word got out that you whacked that Dvore fucker for some shit he was pulling and took his heart out.’

‘I never heard of anyone called Dvore, and I never cut anybody’s heart out. I did something for Feraud because Don Ceriano asked me to, but that was back in ’62, and I ain’t been down there since.’

Calligaris laughed. ‘Well, shit, kid . . . seems someone has been using your name to make a mark on the landscape. I got word that you whacked this guy Dvore for the Ferauds and this politician buddy of theirs, and just to make the fucking point you cut his heart out.’

I shook my head. ‘Not me, Don Calligaris, not me.’

Calligaris shrugged. ‘Aah what the hell . . . you should see the things they got my name down for. Never did any harm, helps to build your reputation, right?’

I listened to what Don Calligaris was saying, but my thoughts were back in Louisiana. From what I was being told it seemed that Feraud and his old-money buddy Ducane had taken care of some things and attributed them to me. That did not sit well. The feeling was as if someone was walking around in my skin.

‘So what the fuck, eh?’ Calligaris said, interrupting me. ‘You gotta do whatever the fuck you gotta do, and if there’s something to be gained by sayin’ it’s someone else then fair enough. Can’t say I haven’t done the same thing myself a couple or three times.’

Don Calligaris changed the subject. He spoke of people we would see, things he had to do. From what I could gather it appeared I would be with him all the time, that I was to take care of the business end of things as he dictated. He had his minders, his own consigliere, but when it came to dealing with something that required a more terminal remedy, then I was to be called upon. It would really be no different from my relationship with Don Ceriano, and though there were nearly fifteen years behind me, though Don Ceriano had been there through everything, it seemed I had disconnected from that life. Florida and Vegas, even Havana and all that had happened, were behind me. I let it go. There seemed no purpose to hold onto such things. Nevertheless, the fact that Antoine Feraud and his politician friend were down in Louisiana taking care of their business and attributing it to me concerned me greatly. At some point the matter would have to be addressed, and I imagined its remedy would be terminal.