Don of the Dead (19 page)

The room was furnished with a plush couch in muted shades of burgundy and mission-style tables that were sparkling clean. There were four leather recliners and reading lamps in front of a stone fireplace that was on one wall, and on the other three, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a wide deck. At the center of the deck and facing the lake were broad wooden steps that led down to a strip of beach.

Prime real estate and a view to die for.

Something told me the irony was not lost on Rudy.

There were four men inside the room. Three of them were playing cards at a table on my left and the fourth was seated in front of a wide-screen plasma TV that was on too loud and turned to the History Channel. All Hitler, all the time. That day was no exception.

"That's No Shoes, BennyMarzano ." Gus pointed toward the man in front of the TV and I saw that Benny was in a wheelchair. "He had a lot more hair the last time I saw him."

"And the others?" I asked the question under my breath, my teeth clenched, my lips barely moving. I knew how lucky I was to get past the front door of The Family Place. I didn't need to blow this chance by looking crazy. "Who are they?"

Gus peered into the room. "That's Johnny Vitale dealing," he said and I studied the man he pointed out.

Though he was close to eighty, Johnny was still imposing. He had broad shoulders and hair the color of cold metal. He was wearing stretchy old man jeans and a gray T-shirt that showed off muscles that were still beefy, even if they weren't bulging. His face was heavily wrinkled and his hands shook when he dealt the cards.

The others…

My gaze went around the table as Gus narrated. "That's got to be thePounder ," he said, squinting toward the man who sat, stoop-shouldered, with his back to the door. "I'd know him anywhere. The other guy… " His gaze moved to thePounder's left. "That there's the Weasel, NickTrivilagetti . He looks lousy."

"He looks old. You'd look old, too, if you weren't dead."

"One of the advantages of dying young." Gus raised his chin and twirled his pinky ring. "I get to be this good-looking for all eternity."

I wasn't about to argue the point.

"So… " Johnny spoke up, never once glancing away from his cards. "You this Pepper Martin who called last week? This woman who said she was—"

"Writing a book. That's me." Even though no one was paying attention, I brandished my red leather portfolio as if it was all the proof they needed of my credentials. "I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. It's nice to meet you. All of you."

"You think?"Pounder choked out the words along with a smoker's cough. He looked at the cards in his hand before he glanced over his shoulder at me. Except for a couple of stray curls, my hair was pulled back into a ponytail and for that day's meeting, I had chosen a brown pantsuit and a modest white blouse. It was apparently not modest enough. ThePounder looked at my chest and smiled. "Say, sweetheart, what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?"

At my side, Gus shook his head, disgusted. "Always the ladies' man."

Not with lines like that.

I kept the thought to myself. As inappropriate as it was,Pounder's comment gave me a perfect opening. I smiled right back and took another couple steps closer to the card table.

"What I'm doing is collecting information. About GusScarpetti ."

"Who?" There was a commercial on and without the distraction of tanks and guns, Benny No Shoes had just noticed me. He squinted and looked from me to the card players. His voice was almost as loud as the television. "Who is she talking about?"

Johnny Vitale tossed five dollars into the pot at the center of the table. "The Pope." He spoke as loud as Benny did. "She wants to know about DonScarpetti ,
buonanima
."

"That means, 'God rest his soul,'" Gus whispered in my ear.

I slanted him a look that told him I didn't need any distractions and made a mental note to tell him that I also didn't need any help. Not about things like that. I'd spent the entire weekend boning up for that meeting. I knew at least that little bit ofmobspeak .

The Weasel threw his cards down on the table. "Why would a girl care about DonScarpetti ?"

I didn't bother to explain about the book again. There was an empty chair at the table and I sat down.

"He had a fascinating life," I said. "The story will make for a blockbusting book."

Poundertook another drag on the cigarette he had balanced between two nicotine-stained fingers. He laughed and coughed before he tossed down his cards, too, and Johnny scooped up the money from the table. "Yeah, blockbusting. That's us. 'Ceptwe're not blockbusting, we're ball busting!"

The others laughed and I smiled. Might as well go along with the pack.

"I'm sure your stories are very colorful."

"And you expect us… " Johnny's eyes were dark and as steady as a heat-seeking missile. His look went right through me. "You expect us to tell you all about DonScarpetti's life."

"I… well… I… " Because I didn't know what else to do or how to keep these men from noticing that my hands were shaking, I flipped open my portfolio and took out a pen. I clicked it open, ready to take notes. "Actually, I know a whole lot about Gus's life. It's his death I'd like to learn more about."

"What's that?" Benny No Shoes must have picked up on something I said because he wheeled around and came closer. "You're writing about how DonScarpetti died?"

"What can you tell me about it?"

"Nothing." My question was for Benny but the answer came from Johnny. "Ain'tnothing to say."

"But who—?"

Johnny swept one large hand over the table, collecting the cards. "It was the FBI that had him hit. It was the cops. It was some punk trying to make a name for himself. It sure the hell wasn't anybody in this room, so why are you bothering us?"

"Then what about VictorLaGanza ?" After what Rudy had told me, it was a long shot, but it didn't hurt to double-check. "Do you think he had anything to do with it?"

Johnny glared at me. "Itain't smart to disrespect Mr.LaGanza ," he said. He tapped the cards into a neat pile. "After all these years, what does it matter, anyway?"

"It don't matter. Not to you. You're not in this chair." Benny rolled nearer. "He's not in this chair," he said to me, raising his voice, convinced that if he couldn't hear me, I couldn't hear him, either. "He's not the one who got shot."

"You mean outside Lucia's?" I vaguely remembered something in the newspaper accounts of Gus's death, a mention of BennyMarzano and that he'd been wounded. I hadn't realized how serious it was. I never bothered to look into it. "You've been paralyzed since—"

"Thirty years." Benny was a beady-eyed man with yellow skin pulled tight across his face, so paper thin I could see the network of veins just below the surface. He was hunkered in gray sweatpants, a green turtleneck, and a polar fleece jacket. Even with all the layers and the plaid blanket draped over his shoulders, he shivered. "If I ever get my hands on the son of a bitch who—"

"It don't matter. Not anymore." Johnny's voice cut across Benny's.

"But it does." I twinkled at Johnny. "For my book. And for my book… " I turned in my seat so that I was facing Benny. "What do you remember about that night?"

Benny didn't have to think about it. Then again, I suppose the fact that he left Lucia's on his own two feet and hadn't used them since pretty much meant that night was firmly etched in his memory.

"We was done with dinner," Benny said, "and DonScarpetti , he wanted to go over toSaluto's . You know, that bar what used to be over there on the corner near the church. We were headed that way—"

"Not to your car?" I don't know why it seemed important, I only knew I had to ask.

"Nah." Benny shook his head, and when the blanket around his shoulders drooped, he tugged it back in place. "It was close. We weregonna walk. We were waiting to cross the street when the car drove by."

"The one the shooter was in. Did you see who it was?"

"If he did, hewould'a told the cops." Johnny shuffled the cards. His hands were big. His fingers were thick and in them, the cards looked small and fragile.

"What about the car, then?" I asked Benny. "What can you tell me about it?"

"It was green." Benny nodded. "Not new. You know, one of those kinds of cars the kids used to hot rod around in. I told the cops. They said they never found no car like it."

"They never looked." Johnny slapped the deck of cards onto the table and crossed his arms over his broad chest. The tone of his voice made it clear that the conversation was over. "The cops never cared about DonScarpetti . And you shouldn't, either. What's done is done and nothing's going to bring the old don back. We don't need some little girl asking questions or digging up the past. We was told you were here to talk about—"

"How generous Rudy the Cootie is. How he keeps this place going. What an upstanding kind of guy he is." I should have known I wouldn't have gotten past the front door without Rudy's permission and under his rules. I flicked my portfolio closed, ready to call it a day.

Until I remembered what Gus had once said about bargaining chips.

Right now, the only thing I had going for me was all that homework I'd done all weekend long.

"For all your talk of respect and GusScarpetti ,
buonanima
… " I used the same reverent tone Johnny had used when he spoke the word. "I would think you'd want to find out who burned him. Maybe that's the only way the old don will ever rest in peace."

Johnny's voice came out like a growl. "How dare you talk about the boss that way?"

"It's the whole karma thing, you know?" I shrugged like it was no big deal. "Let's face it, you guys might have been the enforcers, but Gus was the boss. He ran the show. It was his decision who got made. It was his decision who got whacked. He got points from all the Family businesses. You know, the shakedowns and theshylocking and the pump and dumps. He got a big taste from the bookmaking, too, and because of it all, he was a wealthy man, and he lived like a king. Makes you think of the old saying, doesn't it?
Coltempo la
fogliadigelsodiventa
seta
."

I gave them a moment to decipher my not-so-perfect Italian.

"Time and patience change the leaf to satin. That's what it means, right? But no time is going to change this reality, and if you think I'mgonna buy a that, then you're a bunch ofjamokes . You know it I and I know it, GusScarpetti died like he lived. With blood on his hands."

Benny's face went ashen as opposed to Johnny's, which turned a shade that matched the wine-colored couch nearby. I didn't bother to look at the other two men. I didn't have to. ThePounder was busy hacking up a lung and the Weasel's voice split the air.

"You can't prove that," he said. "Nobody can."

He was wrong.

One person could. One very dead person.

I looked toward the couch where Gus was sitting and hoped he got the message. If I was going to find out anything from these four men, I needed to establish that I knew what I was talking about. I needed to prove that I wasn't a dilettante, a mobster wannabe looking to garner some vicarious thrills from the stories of a few of the old MustachePetes .

I needed it all. And I needed it immediately.

Lucky for me, Gus realized it, too.

"Tell them… " He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking, and in one stomach-turning moment, I realized he wasn't trying to remember if he'd ever actually killed someone. He was trying to pick out which one he was willing
to
talk about.

When he looked my way again, his eyes were flat, remorseless. "Tell them you know about Tommy Two Toes."

"Tommy Two Toes." As mob nicknames went, this one was even more ridiculous than usual, and I would have laughed when I repeated it if not for the fact that the second the words were out of my mouth, the room went dead quiet.

Except for the TV. The narrator was still droning on about Axis war plans when Johnny hit the Off button on the remote.

Now the silence was complete. The quiet was ripped by the sound ofPounder's chair when he scraped back from the table and left the room. And the squeaking of the Weasel's sneakers against the floor when he beat feet, too.

"You can't pin what happened to Tommy on DonScarpetti ," Benny said, and it was hard to tell if the convulsive movement of his shoulders meant he was shrugging or shivering. "Must'abeen close to forty years ago that Tommy got whacked.Ain't no way anybody cares no more. And you, writing about Don Scarpetti . You should know he can't ever be connected to that. DonScarpetti , he didn't never—"

Johnny stood, effectively silencing Benny.

"This meeting is over," Johnny said.

"Just like that?" I couldn't believe my lousy luck. Even with the inside track, I couldn't get to first base with this bunch. "But I told you. I know about Tommy. Doesn't that prove that I've done my research and know what I'm talking about? Doesn't it get me anything?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Johnny said. He looked toward Benny. "Nobody here knows what you're talking about."

And me? I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

At the same time I wondered what I'd said to hit such a nerve, I headed for the door, where Joe appeared as if by magic. He handed me my coat.

I guess all that research I'd done over the weekend gave me a kick like adrenaline and the sudden urge to prove that I wasn't a little girl and I wasn't a dabbler. After all, these guys and I had something in common. They once worked for the boss who was now my boss.

As for theBrooklyn accent… well, I'm not exactly sure where that came from, I only know I sounded mighty tough when I left with a parting shot.

"Thanks for nothing, Johnny," I told him. "And by the way, if you think those are nice, friendly neighbors moving in next door, you're afuckin 'mortadella ."

I didn't bother to wait to see his reaction. Joe opened the front door for me and I raced outside. The damp air was colder than ever against my hot cheeks.

"What the hell was that all about?"

I might have asked Gus the same question but he beat me to it.