Hades (33 page)

“He backed out?”

“He wasn’t stupid. He
asked
out. I liked the guy. He did his job for us. I said fine. Just get me a good replacement.”

“Evan Harmon.”

“A greedy fuckin’ guy.”

“You put your—okay—corporate money into Ascension.”

“We made a deal.”

“Which was?”

“He wanted our dough and he wanted it bad, this guy. We told him we’d go with him. But we wanted a guarantee.” Rubenelli paused. Justin knew it was for dramatic effect, so he gave him his moment in the sun. Then Rubenelli continued. “Twenty percent.”

“Guaranteed on your investment?”

“That’s right.”

“And he agreed,” Reggie said.

“He agreed happily. I think your friend LaSalle told him he was crazy. But like I said, this Harmon was one greedy fuck.”

“You know how he did it? Guaranteed you that kind of return?”

“I wasn’t dealin’ with him too directly. But I heard a few things and I had my suspicions. Now I pretty much know for sure, thanks to you.” Rubenelli stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. He went into a small bathroom off the den, tossed the remains in the toilet and flushed them away. When he came back he said, “My wife. I’m not kiddin’. She’ll bust my balls big-time if she sees I’m smokin’ in here.” He looked longingly at the pack of cigarettes. But he put it back in the drawer. “You know, I’m gettin’ kind of philosophical in my old age.”

“How’s that?” Justin said.

“I been thinkin’ how things change. I been in this business a long time. Since I was a kid. And I seen a lotta changes. In the way we work, the way we think. People got the impression that we’re like the movies. We sit around some table and do whatever the fuck they think we do. But we’re a business now. We’re in a lotta legit businesses. Our kids are legit. It’s different. It changes things, sometimes make you cautious. Kinda philosophical even.”

“Jean-Paul Rubenelli,” Reggie said.

“Whatever. But I’m tellin’ you, even the politics are different. When I started, you talk to a lotta the family heads, they were Democrats, you know. They didn’t care so much about the niggers, but they liked the whole underdog thing. We could relate to it. And we had some clout. This was the Hoffa era, you know. The Daley era in Chicago. I heard stories, back to Kennedy and Nixon. The West Coast wanted Nixon, they had their hooks in him. But we told ’em to back off. It wasn’t his time. We had to send people down to Florida—what the hell was that guy’s name, Nixon’s money guy. Stupid name. Rebozo. Bebe Rebozo. We had to send a couple guys to his house, meet with him and Nixon, tell ’em this wasn’t their year—you know what I mean?”

“You should write a book, Len. But is this going anywhere?”

“I’m just sayin’ it ain’t like that anymore. Guys got rich. Guys got fat. Guys got houses like this one. We used to deal with unions. With businesses, small businesses. Now we deal with Wall Street, with investors, lobbyists. Much more genteel. Not as much fun.”

“So the mob’s a bunch of Republicans now—is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m sayin’ that things change. We got different connections, we got different friends. The whole way of thinkin’ has changed. But some people don’t change. I don’t change. I mean, somewhat—you know? I adapt. But not that much. I like the old ways.”

“And Bruno doesn’t change.”

“Bruno? Nah, he don’t change at all. He does what he does. Always has, always will. And some guys like it, some guys don’t. Am I done now?”

“I just want to get this clear: You didn’t know about the platinum shorting?”

“What are you, gonna keep me here all night on this shit? I thought you wanted to talk to Bruno.”

“I do.”

“Then let him tell you what he knows. I took you about as far as I can go. ’Cause I didn’t go to fuckin’ business school, you smart-ass.”

“How do I talk to Bruno?” Justin asked.

“He’ll be in touch.”

“When?”

“Soon,” Rubenelli said. “Very soon. Now can I get back to the table? My wife’s relatives. I’ll be lucky if they left me one fuckin’ cake crumb.”

32

Reggie worked her BlackBerry on the short ride from the East Hampton Airport back to Justin’s house. He sat with his head leaning back and his eyes closed. But when she told him the reports she’d requested had come through—all the information he’d asked for, and more; she’d gone ahead and put through searches on her own—his eyes opened and, although his head didn’t move, the eyes did, shifting toward her. She read what had been sent to her. He blinked once, showing he understood, showing that the information was as stunning to him as it was to her.

When the taxi pulled up, she insisted on walking Justin into the house. He resisted but not very hard. And when they were inside he spoke in the same monotone he’d been using since she’d arrived at his house earlier. He was tired, said he wanted to go to bed, and she said, “I know. But I’m not leaving.”

“Reggie . . .” he said, but then he stopped. He didn’t have anything more to say.

“I’ll sleep on the couch. I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You killed somebody today, Jay. And it was horrible and brutal and it’s not over yet, you know it’s not over yet, so you can’t be fine.”

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe I’m not fine.”

He leaned back on the couch, and as he did she saw the physical pain he was in. She got up, got his bottle of single malt scotch and poured them each a glass. He took a small sip, recoiled as if the liquid were burning his lips, but then he closed his eyes in satisfaction, and when he opened them again he took another sip.

“You’re a strange man,” she said. He didn’t answer, just probed with his eyes. “You smoke dope; you’ll sleep with married women; I know from personal experience you won’t say no to kinky sex.”

He took another sip of scotch, this time a bigger sip. “So far I sound like any other guy except luckier.”

“And you’ve killed people.”

“So have you,” he said slowly.

“But I don’t sleep at night,” she told him. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Things wake me up in the middle of the night, but they’re other things. Not that.”

“You’re a cop,” Reggie said. “You enforce morality. And despite everything, I think of you as honest and moral.”

“I don’t enforce morality,” Justin said. “I enforce the law. Two totally different things.”

“So you don’t think in terms of morality,” she said.

“Of course I do. Constantly.”

“And do you think you live a moral life?”

“I don’t really think like that.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re too driven, too fixated on what you do.”

“Maybe,” he agreed.

“Then do you? Live a moral life? This isn’t multiple choice, it’s yes or no.”

“Okay, yes. Comparatively. Yes.”

“Then define it.”

“Morality? I can only define it for me, I think.”

“Go ahead.”

“Discipline.”

“Say what?”

“For me it’s discipline. I do what feels right or good until it doesn’t. Until it feels as if it’s going too far. And then I’m disciplined enough to stop.”

“And if it never feels wrong?”

“Then I don’t stop.”

She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. He didn’t kiss her back. But he didn’t pull away. And he didn’t close his eyes.

She kissed him again, tasting him. And this time he did respond. His hand came up behind her head and he gently pulled her closer to him. He could feel her warm breath on his lips, smell her sweat commingling with her perfume.

“I’m not feeling very disciplined,” she whispered.

“Good,” Justin told her. “Because I don’t feel like stopping.”

She had to help him upstairs and into bed.

She made sure he was comfortable, gently pushed him back so he could lie down, and then she began to kiss him lightly, careful not to touch his ribs or the bandage on his hand or the stitches on his face. She kissed his neck, his cheek and his lips. She kissed him deeply now, her tongue inside his mouth, and they began to make love. She took his clothes off slowly, saw the deep bruises from the battering he’d taken earlier. She removed her clothes just as slowly. She wanted it all to be slow; she wanted to please him as much as possible. She let him look at her naked, came back onto the bed, and let him run his good hand over her face, her neck, down her back. They kissed again and she got on top of him, and as they began to move she heard him groan. His eyes told her he was okay, so they moved together, and it didn’t take long for either of them. When it was over, she was drained, realized how much she’d wanted him, how much she’d needed this, needed it with him. She looked down, wanted to tell him that, but she saw that she’d hurt him, that it had been too much for him, and she said, “I’m sorry, oh god, I’m so sorry,” but he pulled her closer, using his bad hand, and he said, “It’s all right, it’s all right.” And she said, “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to be in pain.” She reached to the side of the bed, where she’d put the pills the doctor had given him. She went to open the bottle, but he took it. And he tossed it across the room. They heard the bottle roll and come to a stop as it hit the wall. He kissed her on the side of her head, and said, “Again.” She looked at him in surprise, started to shake her head no, it wouldn’t be good for him, but he said, “I want to make love to you again.” And he began to move, slowly, and she could see how much it hurt him, but could also see how much he wanted it, wanted her, so she began to move slowly again, too, on top of him, and as they were making love, and as she was watching him, the passion not quite overriding her concern, he rose up a bit, and pulled her down to meet him, and he put his lips up against her ear.

“Pain is good,” he whispered. “It means I’m still alive.”

They woke up together, found they were entwined. Her face was in his chest, her legs curled over between his. His arm was around her, covering her. They were naked.

He looked at his alarm clock, saw it was 5 a.m. They both wondered why they were awake, felt that maybe they weren’t, maybe this was some kind of mutual dream, then she sat up and so did he.

They knew why they had awakened.

Someone was downstairs.

They listened, heard a rustling noise, then a quiet cough, the sound of someone shifting position. Justin did his best to swing his legs out of bed, but he couldn’t, and also couldn’t stop the grunt of pain that escaped from his lips. She was out of bed quickly; she went to his bathroom door and grabbed his robe off the hook. She slipped it on, then she knelt down, ran her hand across the floor until it touched the gun that she’d left there. She had discarded it at the same time she’d taken her clothes off. But before she could grip it, she heard him whisper, “Drop it.” She looked up and he was pointing his own gun at her. He shook his head, one quick jerk back and forth, and said, “Don’t touch it. Move back,” and then she realized what was happening—what he thought was happening—and she thought her heart might break. The first time they had made love, that very first time a year earlier, it had been a setup.
She
had set him up, or at least had agreed to it. Men had barged in on them in the middle of the night, had drugged Justin and taken him away. He had suffered enormous pain—emotional and physical—as a result. She could see in his eyes he thought she’d done it again. She shook her head, but he didn’t waver. Reggie tried not to let her pain show, tried not to show that she was devastated, but she knew she wasn’t doing much of a job.

He said in a hushed tone, “Get in the bathroom. If I hear the door open I’ll shoot you.”

She thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She just stepped sluggishly—all energy sapped from her body—into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

Justin was out of bed now, too. He had to struggle to pull on his pants. But he managed. He picked up Reggie’s gun, stepped gingerly and silently down the stairs, his own gun held in front of him, pointed forward. As the living room came into view, so did the intruder. Justin yelled, “Freeze! Police!” The force of his voice made his ribs throb.

The intruder was sitting on the couch, leafing through one of the Melman Prep yearbooks that Justin had brought back from his meeting with Vince Ellerbe. He looked up, saw Justin, shirtless, wearing jeans, pointing the gun straight at him. He tapped the yearbook he was perusing, said, “Interesting reading.”

Justin sighed and lowered his gun. Went back upstairs and opened the bathroom door. Reggie was standing in the middle of the small room, looking lost and despairing. He said softly, “You can come down now.” She said nothing, only stared at him, and he said, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, said, “How could you think that?”

He said, “I had to think that. I couldn’t think anything else.” And then he said, “I’ll never think it again.”

She said, “I understand. But I don’t know if that’s good enough.” Then she stepped around him and headed downstairs. Justin followed her. When they both came into view, the man on the couch started shaking his head slowly.

“Unbelievable,” Bruno Pecozzi said, looking at the two of them. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“So word reached me that you want to talk,” Bruno said.

Justin wanted to ignore the big man, wanted to put his arm around Reggie, to kiss her, to make her understand what had happened, why it would never happen again, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have time. He had to focus and deal with what he had in front of him, so he faced the man on the couch. He was amazed that there was no difference between the Bruno who’d been sitting there with a loaded pistol pointed at him and the Bruno who was sitting there now, a beer in his hand. Justin and Reggie had quickly dressed; she had put on her outfit from the night before, and Justin managed to get a long-sleeved button-down shirt on. Bruno had taken careful note of Justin’s injuries and asked about them. Justin told him what had happened. Bruno never changed expression. Violence did not faze Bruno or even interest him all that much. It was simply a part of his daily life; he had the same perspective on it that commuters had about their rush-hour train ride from and back to the suburbs.

“I thought you were coming to talk a while ago,” Justin said. “Right after I saw you.”

“I had to be a little careful,” Bruno said. “Perhaps you might recall the circumstances under which we last met.”

“I recall,” Justin told him. “Pietro Lambrasco.”

“Was that his name?” Bruno didn’t seem surprised that Justin knew it.

“Yes.”

“Well,” Bruno said, “I didn’t much care what his name was.”

“You just cared why he was there.” When Bruno nodded, Justin said, “And did you find out?”

“I told you, there were a few possibilities. Turned out, I’d done something he didn’t like.”

“Back in the old country, maybe? When you took your relaxing vacation?”

“Could be.”

“Where you from again, Bruno?” Justin asked. “That place where your aunt has the beautiful villa, up on the cliffs? What part of Italy is that? I don’t think you ever told me.”

“The south,” Bruno said.

“As south as Sicily?”

“As south as that, yeah.”

“And this villa, does it happen to be on an island?”

“How official is this conversation?” Bruno said. “I’ll talk to you”—he jerked his thumb at Reggie—“but she makes me nervous. Bein’ a Fed and all.”

“You should be nervous, Bruno,” Justin said. “You killed Evan Harmon. And I don’t know how the hell you did it, but you sunk a ship near Sicily. And Wanda Chinkle knew about it.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, she did. She left me kind of a note about it.”

“What kind of note?” Bruno asked.

“She left me the name of the boat. Reggie’s associates just confirmed it. Sometimes it’s not so bad bein’ a Fed and all.”

“That right?”

“That’s right,” Justin said. He turned to Reggie. “You want to tell him?”

“
Hades,
” she said. “You sunk a ship called
Hades
off the coast of the Sicilian island Favignana. Named
Hades
because he wasn’t just the god of the underworld, or even just the god of wealth. Hades is the god of precious metal. And the ship had a lot of precious metal on it. That’s what it carried on a regular basis.”

“Platinum,” Justin said. “On this trip, over fifty million dollars’ worth.”

“You landed in Palermo five days before the boat went down,” Reggie went on. Her voice got stronger as she spoke, although she still wasn’t looking at Justin. “You took a ferry from Trapani to Favignana. And you left the island three days after the ship sank.”

“Your visitor Pietro Lambrasco. He was here for something personal, not just business,” Justin took over. “We got the list of sailors working on the ship. All present and accounted for. No deaths among the crew. But apparently there was one stowaway. No one knows how he got on board but he was there. A young kid. And he drowned. His name was Angelo Tornabene. You want to know the name of Pietro Lambrasco’s wife? Her maiden name, I mean?”

“No,” Bruno said. “I know it. Giovanna Tornabene.”

“Angelo’s older sister.”

Bruno said, taking another long swig of beer, “You didn’t answer my question. How official is this conversation?”

“It’s official,” Justin told him. “It’s official on her part and on mine.”

“How official is it if I didn’t kill Evan Harmon?” the mobster wanted to know. “’Cause I didn’t,” he said. “I would’ve. No problem. But before I could, somebody else beat me to it.”