American Gangster (16 page)

Eva's unease was only heightened by the occasional muffled yet distinct reports of shotguns booming just outside.

Frank, who'd never before seen a clay target much less aimed at one, had held his own shooting with Cattano. So far this afternoon, the two men had been all smiles and friendly remarks—guarded respectful
behavior from longtime business associates who'd lately become rivals.

That Frank had been a glorified bodyguard to Bumpy Johnson, with whom Cattano had collaborated for decades, made the atmosphere a little stiff and awkward, but that was to be expected.

Lunch (Mrs. Cattano called it “luncheon”) in the formal dining room had been pleasant enough, with both Cattanos expressing interest in hearing about Eva's experiences as Miss Puerto Rico; and the two men had chatted a little about the upcoming Ali/Frazier match. Afterward, Mrs. Cattano—prompted by a look from her husband—led Eva away for a tour of the house.

Shouldn't take any more than four hours,
Frank thought dryly.

Flashing his disarming smile, Cattano escorted Frank by the arm down a hallway. The two men had taken their drinks from the table with them, a goblet of red wine for Cattano, a glass of ice water for Frank.

“A lovely girl, Frank,” Cattano said as they walked. “You really should marry her.”

“We've talked about it. She seems willing.”

“Good!”

“But we won't rush into it. Too many things to look after, right now, to think about that.”

Cattano squeezed his guest's arm a little. “Frank, if I may—take it from a man who's gone down this road. Waiting is a mistake—don't take her for granted, a girl like this. A man needs a strong, smart woman for a partner. To bring smart, strong children into your family.”

They were going down a corridor lined with framed
family photographs. If those were Cattano's kids, they looked more goofy than smart and strong, to Frank; but he kept that opinion to himself.

Frank nodded. “I appreciate the advice.”

“Good. I'm glad you don't think I overstepped. I wouldn't ever want to overstep, Frank, but I know you and Bumpy were like father and son. He'd say much the same to you, I think.”

“Bumpy had a dog not a wife. And I have the dog now.”

With a polite laugh, Cattano led Frank into a richly wood-paneled study lined with leather-bound volumes, the kind more for decorative purposes than reading. Soon they were seated in comfortable, leather-upholstered chairs in subdued lighting with a golden tinge, as if Frank's host's Midas touch extended even to illumination.

Cattano settled back, sipped his wine, then gestured to the library around them. “It's good to have a sense of history, Frank—the events that have brought us to where we are today.”

Frank thought,
I'd rather make history
, but said nothing.

“You know, Frank,” Cattano was saying, “Bumpy Johnson had a real interest in history.”

“Bumpy had a lot of interests.”

With his eyes gliding down the rows of books, Cattano said, “I always wonder if people
know
when history's being made . . . that they're part of it, that they're
in
it.”

“Hard to say.”

“They're living their lives, doing any number of inconsequential things—for instance, this could be a historic moment, right now, this second . . . and you're just sitting there sipping a glass of ice water.”

As droplets trailed down his glass like rain along a window, Frank thought,
Finally you're getting to it. . . .

Cattano held the wine goblet in both hands; he looked down in it as if reading tea leaves, then up at Frank and said, almost casually, “Bumpy and I did a lot of business together, of course.”

“I know.”

“Whatever he needed, he'd come to me. And I would do my best to provide whatever it was.
He
came to
me
. . . I did not go to him. Is the point I'm trying to make. And d'you know why that was?”

Frank shrugged. “Bumpy didn't have what you needed. You had what
he
needed. I believe it's called supply and demand.”

“That's right.”

“Which is why,” Frank said, “we've always come to you.”

“Yes.” A tiny bit of edge came into Cattano's voice. “Until lately, that is.”

Frank sipped his ice water. His glass was sweating but he wasn't. He had the best poker face in Harlem and knew it. Cattano could search Frank's features forever and not come up with anything.

Maintaining his vaguely professorial tone amid all these books, Cattano said, “Monopolies are illegal in this country, Frank . . . because nobody can compete with a monopoly.”

“A lot of things are illegal in this country, Mr. Cattano.”

“Call me Dominic, please! . . . Imagine the dairy farmers, if the powerful ones threw together and formed a monopoly, that is. Why, half the dairy farmers in America would go belly up!”

“That's a shame,” Frank said, “but I'm just trying to make a living.”

“Which is your right. Because this is a free country.” The don's head tilted and a patronizing smile formed. “But not at the expense of
others
, Frank. That's un-American.”

“Sounds like capitalism to me, Dominic. And that's as American as apple pie.”

Cattano's smile began to curdle like some of that dairy-farmer milk gone bad. “You know the price you pay for any commodity doesn't represent its true cost of production. It's controlled. Set. So that a fair profit can be made.”

Frank shrugged. “I think my price is very fair. I haven't had any complaints.”

Cattano's nostrils flared. “Your customers are happy, but what about your fellow dairy farmers? It's very unfair to them. You're not thinking of them at all.”

“I would say,” Frank said calmly, “that I'm thinking of them as much as they ever thought about me.”

“All right,” Cattano said dismissively. “I can see you're getting excited. No need to get excited, Frank. That's not why I invited you to my home, to get all excited.”

But Frank was not excited at all. Cattano seemed mildly worked up, though.

Then, with a suspiciously benign smile, Cattano rose and indicated Frank should do the same. “I have something for you. Something nice.”

In a small, pungent, climate-controlled, tobacco-laden room just off the study, Cattano opened a humidor and extracted two fat Cuban cigars.

Casual again, Cattano said, “Now what if . . . and I'm just thinking out loud, here . . . you sold some of your inventory wholesale, and I helped you expand your avenues of distribution.”

Frank shook his head, gently. “I appreciate the offer, Dominic. But I don't need it.”

“Oh?”

“I already got everything from 110th Street to Yankee Stadium, river to river.”

Cattano waved that off. “Which is a little mom-andpop operation, compared to what I'm talking about. I could make you bigger than Kmart or McDonald's. I can take you nationwide—Chicago, Detroit, Vegas. And I could guarantee you peace of mind. And I think you know what I mean by that.”

Just in case Frank didn't, Cattano used a little gold guillotine to clip a Cuban.

“Frank,” Cattano said, soothingly. “You see how I live. You've seen my wife, you know the kind of family I have. I fancy I'm a kind of Renaissance man.”

“I got that.”

Cattano shook his head regretfully. “Unfortunately,
not all my associates are as . . . enlightened. You ask them, what is civil rights? They don't know. To them, black power is a couple of boxers hammering each other bloody. They're not open to change from the way things've been done in the past, and who's done it, and who is doing it now.”

“Do you anticipate a problem, Dominic?”

Cattano held up a palm. “No, not if I talk to them, so there won't be any misunderstanding. That, Frank, is what I mean by peace of mind.”

Frank realized that he was not really being given a choice here. Funny—he'd dismissed the old protection racket as antiquated, and yet this Italian don, Renaissance man or not, was squeezing Frank's balls in a time-tested fashion.

Still, maybe this really was an opportunity. Frank operated internationally, procuring his product; but for merchandizing, he was limited to Jersey and New York, turf he knew and was familiar with. Cattano and his Cosa Nostra pals could open the world up. . . .

All business, Frank said, “You pay what, now? Seventy-five, eighty a kilo? I'd consider taking fifty. And I can get you as much as you want. And better than anything your other sources have ever come up with.”

Now it was Cattano's turn to put on his best poker face; but Frank saw right through it: the capo's eyes had dollar signs in them. Fifty thousand a kilo, for the highest-quality shit on the planet, would be a hell of a coup for the Mafioso on the marble horse.

“You see,” Cattano said, and put a hand on Frank's
shoulder, “I was right. This is one of those historic moments we were talkin' about. Frank, you're going to be bigger than Bumpy Johnson himself.”

And Cattano handed Frank a Cuban cigar, expertly prepared for his guest.

“Can't smoke it here, unfortunately,” Cattano said, with a funny little grin and shrug. “Grace doesn't like it. Take it with you.”

Half an hour later, Frank and Eva walked across a driveway smaller than Rhode Island to the Lincoln, where the massive driver Doc waited. Frank slipped the cigar into his top shirt pocket and they climbed in back. From the front step of the reconstructed castle, their host and hostess smiled and waved.

In back of the Lincoln, Eva gave Frank a raised-eyebrow glance. “Why would you trust these people, the way they look at you?”

“What do you mean?” he said, and grinned and laughed. “Why, baby, they look at me like it's Christmas and I'm Santa Claus.”

“Please,” she said and shivered. “They look at us like we're the hired help.”

Frank leaned over and kissed her cheek. “That's impossible.”

“Why?”

“They work for me now.”

In the bedroom of
the penthouse, the dusk outside giving way to evening, Frank—in shirt-and-tie and trousers—stood gazing into his closet where his
extensive color-coordinated racks of Phil Cromfeld suits and sports jackets awaited his whim.

On the TV on the dresser opposite the bed, Howard Cosell—already ringside at the Garden—was (in his trademark nasal bleat) expounding on tonight's fight . . . or anyway, talking about Muhammad Ali's antiwar stand. The battle ahead with Joe Frazier seemed almost an afterthought.

Eva, in her lacy underthings, was sitting at her makeup table, getting herself even prettier than God had managed, and God had done a hell of a job. Frank selected a linen jacket, laid it carefully out on the bed, then strolled over to the lovely young woman, catching her eyes in her mirror.

“What?” she asked. She had just a tiny bit of attitude left from this afternoon's tea party at the Cattano castle.

He set a little jewelry box down on the vanity.

She gazed at the small square object and reached for it, but her hands couldn't quite manage to touch it. So Frank opened it for her, showed her the four-karat diamond engagement ring, which he then slipped on her finger.

Her lips trembled. A tear formed and trickled down a perfect cheek and messed up her makeup, just a bit.

Then she was on her feet, hugging him.

Kissing him, long and lovingly.

“Yes, I'll marry you,” she said. “Yes.”

After that, still in his arms, she held her hand out in the way all newly engaged women do, appraising their
own worth via the size of the diamond their men had provided.

“Funny thing,” she said with an impish grin, “I bought you a surprise, too.”

She eased from his arms and moved past the TV and opened her own closet; she made her selection—a man's garment bag—and rested it on the bed next to the linen jacket. She touched her fingers to the zipper, but then stalled, giving him a girlish, teasing look.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

She giggled.

As if unveiling a great work of art—one that would at least rival the Cattanos on horseback—she unzipped the bag and revealed the full-length chinchilla coat.

Frank, his anticipation turning to embarrassment, said, “I don't know, baby. . . . I don't think that's exactly my style.”

“You don't
have
a style, Frank,” she said firmly. Probably in the same kind of voice Grace Cattano used to tell Dominic not to smoke his Cuban cigars in the house. “And it's time you
got
one. . . .”

Saturday afternoon, at the
narcotics squad's church HQ, the guys had given up paperwork and sorting through surveillance photos to gather around the portable TV, watching a press conference where Muhammad Ali was telling the world that he was the black man's black man, whereas Joe Frazier was the white man's black man.

“Frazier is gonna kill that conceited clown,” Spearman said.

“What odds you give me?” Jones asked.

Richie Roberts wasn't paying any attention to the TV. He was studying the bulletin boards, specifically the work-in-progress that was the table of organization of drug suppliers and their higher ups. Only the lowest level included black faces—one of them Charlie Williams—but Frank Lucas (whose name Richie had never heard) was not among them.

The other faces were white, mostly Italian, and stopped midway up—the top slots remaining empty. The squad had hit a wall, and Richie didn't know where the hell he was going to find a ladder.

He was still preoccupied with the problem that evening, attending the Ali/Frazier match via a press pass as he and his camera blended in with the media crowding the rear entrance of Madison Square Garden.