Codes of Betrayal (29 page)

“You drive, I just might crack us up in the next mile or so.
Capisci?
You understand me?”

Cars waited respectfully as Richie steered into the faster lane, which began to pick up speed. They ignored the honking horns, thumbs up and grins from some cars. A carful of girls came alongside, windows down, and they shouted in unison, “Nice bod!”

Richie muttered, “Stupid bitches.”

Nick stared straight ahead for nearly a half hour, then, when most of the cars had turned off, his voice cold and deadly, he said, “If you ever—
ever,
for the rest of your life—accuse me or something like that, it’ll be the last time you ever accuse anyone of anything. You got that, Richie?”

Richie’s voice was higher than usual. “Hey, Nicky, c’mon, kid. Ya know, everybody’s uptight just now. A lot is riding on this, ya know. So, okay, I got a little crazy. I mean, ya gotta admit, you went real nuts.” A quick look at Nick’s face and Richie shut up.

He caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror and began pawing at his hair, trying to force it back into its preordained alignment.

“All right, all right, Nick. Okay, okay. I’m sorry, all right? You and me, we never been together on nothing. Now, all of a sudden—look, if Papa wants you in, who the hell am I to say anything against his decision, right? But ya gotta understand, Nick—”

“I don’t have to understand anything.”

Against his will, not wanting to, unable not to, Richie, in a soft, pleading voice, said, “Hey, Nick. Look. There’s no reason, I mean, we don’t hafta tell Papa anything about this, right?” Silence. Then he thought of another approach. “I mean, what would Papa think, you goin’ nuts right on Grand Central Parkway in fronta all them gawkers and all? Jeez, those commuters got a lot to talk about tonight, don’tcha think?”

“He’d be more interested in
why
I did it. Don’tcha think?”

“Well, so okay, neither of us comes out lookin’ too good. So, deal, right?”

He took his right hand off the steering wheel, offered it. Nick looked at the hand, then at his cousin’s pleading expression. He smiled. He took Richie’s hand and gave it a very weak handshake, and said softly, “Maybe ya missed your chance, cuz?”

At the house in Massapequa, all the downstairs lights were shining; the master of the house was awaited. Richie offered his cousin a cuppa, maybe something stronger. Nick didn’t answer. He got out, walked around, found his own car, and drove toward Forest Hills. 1010 WINS repetitiously reviewed all the news—all the time.

B
ACK IN FOREST HILLS
, Nick stopped in front of the building, slipped the doorman a ten-dollar bill, asked him to put the Caddie in the underground garage. He carried his socks, undershirt, and tie in a bundle against his chest. Fingered the pens in his pants pocket. His hand felt damp as he dug out his keys. Until the moment he had stopped the car on the parkway, he didn’t know what he was going to do. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the scene and tried not to laugh out loud. He’d become hysterical. Now he needed to stay very calm. He was drained of all the anger he’d had to contain for so long. It was one helluva performance, even if he couldn’t tell anyone about it.

Coleman, coming from the kitchen with a glass of mineral water, was dressed in his customary beige, not a suit this time but slacks, sweater with pale shirt collar lining his neck.

Tom Caruso stood up quietly, gestured with his chin, then poured Nick a cup of coffee. Nick dropped his clothing on a chair, then moved to the round dining table and sat down. He rubbed his eyes for a moment.

“There was a meeting.” Coleman didn’t make it sound like a question.

“Oh, there definitely was a meeting. Dennis Chen was absent. Seems he got his leg broken by some impatient guy rushing for a plane.” He nodded as Coleman and Caruso exchanged glances. “There was documentation: doctors’ reports, police reports, the works. Even copies of his X-rays. Modern technology …”

“Speaking of which …”

Nick ignored Coleman. Gestured toward Tom Caruso. “I gotta take a quick shower. I am somewhat ripe from the night’s activity.”

He went into the bathroom, adjusted the shower; stripped off his clothing. Back standing before Caruso and Coleman, he wound a towel around his waist, reached up and pulled off his briefs. Carefully, he inserted his index finger and thumb into the crotch of the underpants and carefully extracted a small disc no bigger than his thumbnail. He rubbed his testicles under the towel and grimaced.

“Got a little rough around the edges.”

Expressionless, Caruso said, “A little chafe cream will help.”

“Listen, are you
sure
—positive,
court positive
—that this little gizmo works?”

Caruso held the device in the palm of his hand. “It works. I’m betting my career on it. Coleman and I have work to do. Take your shower. You earned it.”

Nick dug into his trouser pocket, extracted his two pens. Coleman stood in the doorway, pale eyebrows raised.

Nick tossed the fountain pen to Coleman, who leaped to avoid a splash of ink. Almost successfully. “Legitimate fountain pen. A good one. Worth over a hundred bucks. Won it in a crap game, long time ago. Maybe worth a lot more now. I prefer the good modern
click-click
ballpoint.” He turned first toward Tom:
click;
then at Coleman,
click.
Then at himself, in the mirror:
Click.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

Nick shrugged. “Oh, I got my sources. You should be able to extract some fairly good shots of the participants. The light wasn’t great, but what the hell. The last buncha shots—they will look kinda strange. My cousin Richie in various stages of hysteria. And a coupla shots of cars. Just ignore those, they were just play shots, okay? Don’t mean a thing.”

He wondered what his “runners” would think if they’d seen his performance. And the risk he took, actually tossing the pen camera to his cousin. What the hell, all undercovers keep certain things to themselves.

“We’re headed for my office where we’ll start a transcription of this tape, and the pictures too. If this pen is working,” Coleman said.

“It’s working.”

“Good.”

For the first time, he saw Coleman smile. It was an odd, almost painful grimace, but accompanied by the glow in his normally blank dull eyes it absolutely was a smile. He dug inside his jacket, then tossed a videotape to Nick.

“No copies, Nick. Caruso here will vouch for that, in case you don’t take me at my word. Although, I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t. Tom’s had the tape since day one. But I wanted to be the one to return it to you.”

“Jesus, Tom, you had it all the time? You could have …”

Caruso said, “Hey, I gave you an A on your course, what more do you want from me? Ya do nice work, kid.”

Nick turned the water up as hot as he could bear, soaped himself, turned his face up, felt the heat, then slowly, very slowly introduced more and more cold water into the flow, at the same time reducing the hot. By the time it was almost pure ice, his body was numb and unfeeling. Just as his brain was.

L
AURA SANTALVO TELEPHONED HIM
the next afternoon. While Nicholas Ventura was being placed under arrest two hours ago, at his home in Westwoods, Westbury, Long Island, he had suffered a heart attack.

“I’m downstairs, Nick. On my way to Long Island Jewish Hospital. Can I drive you?”

They rode in total silence. Her face was expressionless. Her hands on the steering wheel were virtually motionless, moving only slightly as she kept in the fast lane. She followed the turnoff signs, and when they entered the vast hospital parking lot, she quickly pulled into the first available spot. It was a long walk to the hospital.

Neither of them spoke a word.

Nick went to the information desk, then Laura followed him down a long corridor. Follow the red line, he had been told; take elevator two; then follow the red line again. Follow the yellow brick road. We’re off to see the wizard.

There was a uniformed policeman stationed outside his grandfather’s room—a partitioned section of the intensive care unit. Nick spoke to him and was allowed to enter. Laura followed, but kept a discreet distance.

There was the pulsating sound of various monitoring devices. The very walls seemed to throb with their persistent rhythm. There were tubes in and out of his grandfather’s body.

Nicholas Ventura seemed to take up hardly any space in the bed. He was a nearly flat presence. The only definition in the top sheet was the two raised points where his feet rested. He seemed diminished, arms thinner—or had they always been that thin, hidden by expensive tailoring? His hands were bony and trembling; no rings, no watch. Anything would probably slide right off. Tubes were stuck into his arms; fluids flowing and draining. His usually well-groomed hair was rumpled. Old man’s hair, dry, flaky.

The bones were clearly visible under his stretched skin, which was taut and waxy. There was a light gray, sparse stubble along his chin and cheeks. His nose seemed longer, sharper. His lips were parted and dry, and a hissing sound came periodically from his mouth, which was sunken. For the first time, Nick realized that his grandfather had had false teeth, removed for his own safety, lest he swallow or choke on them.

This anonymous, skeletal, barely moving body without recognizable facial definition was, in fact, his grandfather. The lids rolled back, revealing the bright blue eyes, which focused and, finally, confronted him. There was a working of the bony jaws; a dry tongue flicked the stretched dry lips. Nick found a glass of water with a bent straw, which he inserted into the toothless mouth. There was a gurgling sound; some water was swallowed, some dribbled down the stubby chin.

In a barely audible whisper he asked Nick, “Why? Please, Nick. Just tell me why?”

A pathetic, shrunken, dying old man who had done most terrible things; issued horrific orders. Nothing but a shell now, stripped of all power, all affect. All responsibility.

Yet still demanding something of him. Through the large, bright and steady sky-colored eyes. Yes. He
was
still there, inside that pathetic shell. Demanding:
Answer to me. Right now.

Nick leaned closer and without even realizing it, he pointed a finger. “No.
You
tell
me.”
When the expression before him went blank with bewilderment, Nick leaned closer. “Why did you order my father killed? He wasn’t even thirty years old, Papa. His death broke my mother’s heart. I was left an orphan, Papa.
Because of you.”

The old man shook his head from side to side, but Nick persisted. No pity.

“No one takes that kind of action without the okay from you. And you gave Vincent the okay. For him to kill my father.”

“No.” The voice suddenly became strong, familiar. He motioned for some water, gulped. “No, that is not true!”

“Papa. I know the truth. He called you; you gave the order. Vincent wouldn’t have given the okay without your permission.”

“I told Vincent no.” His voice, despite the slurping toothlessness, was fierce. “I told him to bring Danny to me. He was my daughter’s husband; my grandson’s father … I would have worked things out. I loved Danny. I loved him.” He closed his eyes for moment, then, the blue blazing with determination and sudden wisdom, he continued. “Ah, yes. I see now. I understand. Your uncle, your Irish cop of an uncle, told you this. So that you would hate me. Even your mother, my angel, she believed that bastard. Wouldn’t listen to me, wouldn’t talk to me.” He gestured emphatically and nearly pulled one of the needles from his arm. “God never forgave me, that I loved my daughter more than God Himself. Do you think I could hurt her like that? Never.
Never.
I sent Vincent away. He was outside the family forever for disobeying my order to him. And the two men with him, they didn’t live to see the sun come up again. Vincent tried to blame these two men—they misunderstood what he intended. But they did what Vincent told them to do. This—this mick, this Frank O’Hara. He lied to you so that you would betray me. Let
him
answer for your dishonor.”

He was exhausted. He reached for Nick’s hand, clutched it with surprising strength, motioned him closer. The smell of death emanated from every part of him, encompassed him and the air around his failing body. “Nicholas, my namesake, you are my daughter’s only legacy. I forgive you for this betrayal. Please remember: I forgive you. I understand. I am grateful God gave me this moment to tell you these things. That you know the truth. On my deathbed, as I will see God face to face, I swear: I never ordered your father’s death.”

When Laura touched his shoulder, Nick had to pry his hand from his grandfather’s grasp. She leaned to kiss the dying man’s forehead; her voice was soft and melodious. “I’m here, Papa. Laura’s here.”

Nick walked down the corridor and stood staring vacantly out the window, which was smeary, greasy, dirty.

He thought about the many faces of his grandfather. He had seen him joyous among his family during celebrations. A gracious host; a considerate guest. He had been a fearsome taskmaster to those who served him: kind and compassionate to those who performed well; ruthless to those who violated his commands or trust.

He had seen this man soften with love toward himself, toward Peter, toward Laura. He had undertaken to make himself a scholar. Was self-taught in vast portions of history and art and music. He was a connoisseur of beauty and harmony. He had sought oneness with nature and peace through meditation: through time spent in his unique brick garden. He solved problems for everyone around him who sincerely asked for his help.

And he ordered people killed.

Nick thought about his grandfather’s determined rationalization over his involvement in the drug trade. He had no interest whatever in the China White trade. All he wanted was the money; his share of the multi-millions generated from its sale. He only used, handled, dealt with
money.
Laundered it; invested in legitimate trade; put it to good use. He created jobs; funded schools for disabled children; had hospital wings named for him. Founded the Peter O’Hara Foundation for Animal Welfare.