Lust, Money & Murder (30 page)

“How we get past custom?” one of the Taiwanese said. “You such a boy-genius.”

“Easy.” Giorgio remembered the experience he’d had on the voyage over. “You can drag a container behind the ship.”

The men all laughed. “What the fuck you talk about? Drag container behind ship. You drink too much whiskey, boy!”

They all laughed again.

Pulling a pen from his pocket, Giorgio picked up a napkin and started making a sketch. “If you build a container like this, with tapered sides, you can haul it behind the ship. Then, when the ship comes into the New York harbor, you can pick up the container with a motorboat and take it somewhere else to unload it.”

The three men looked at each other.

They were no longer laughing.

* * *

The importers had the special submersible container made in Taiwan. Completely waterproof and welded together with iron plates, it was tapered on both ends to keep drag to a minimum. There was a single, sealed hatch used for loading and unloading. It looked like a huge gray cigar.

The first run from Taiwan went flawlessly. The container ship dragged the “cigar” into the harbor, and Silvio and Cattoretti easily snagged it by passing behind the ship in a large, rented motorboat.

They hauled the container to a remote spot on the Jersey shore, and then transferred all the merchandise to a waiting truck. The container was filled with water and sunk, the location marked with a small fishing float. It was later dragged back to Taiwan behind the same boat and used again.

Within a few months, Silvio’s fake Rolex business was thriving. He was making more money from that than all his other businesses combined.

“You’re doin’ good, Giorgio,” he said. “I’m gonna make you a partner.”

Several more months went by, and Giorgio soon understood that Silvio had no intention of making him a partner.

And Cattoretti had no intention of wasting any more brilliant ideas on his greedy, ungrateful uncle.

* * *

Two nights before a new shipment was due to arrive in New York, Cattoretti deliberately carried a small box of watches into Times Square, which he knew was controlled by the Mafia. It wasn’t long before he felt a hand grab him by the back of the collar. He was dragged into an alley and slammed up against a brick wall, the hand holding him by the throat. The box fell on the ground, some of the watches spilling out onto the pavement.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the man said. He had a face like a bulldog.

“I want to make a deal with your boss,” Cattoretti grunted. “I have something to sell.”

The bulldog laughed, sending his garlic breath into Cattoretti’s face.

“I know where you can get a whole container of fake Rolexes.”

The thug let Cattoretti slide down the wall until his feet touched the pavement. He picked up one of the watches. It was a new model, one that had not been sold in New York before—a copy of a Rolex Sea Dweller.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at Cattoretti.

* * *

Half an hour later, Cattoretti entered an abandoned warehouse in the garment district.

“Siddown,” the bulldog-faced man said, shoving Cattoretti into a chair that was bolted to the floor.

There was nothing in the musty room but a rickety wooden table and a few folding chairs. Beer bottles and cigarette butts were scattered across the concrete. There were dark, sticky spots that could have been dried blood. Cattoretti tried not to look at them.

A tall, olive-skinned man entered the room, an expensive-looking wool coat draped around his shoulders. He wore black leather gloves and smoked a long, slim cigar.

He puffed on the smoke, appraising the young Italian.

This guy is the real thing
, Cattoretti thought. He had a feeling it was Joey Russo, a powerful Mafia kingpin who had a big stake in the fake Rolex trade.

“Vito tells me you know somethin’ about a container of watches, and you want to make some kinda deal.”

“That’s right,” Cattoretti said.

He snickered. “You got balls kid, I give you that. Punk like you, wantin’ to make a deal with Joey Russo. Don’t he got balls, Vito?” He made a gesture with his hand. “Balls like a fuckin’ stallion.”

Vito chuckled.

Russo picked up one of the fake Rolexes and inspected it, turning it back and forth under the bare light bulb. “Not bad. Where are the rest?”

“I’ll sell you that information.”

Russo started laughing, revealing fine teeth, like a barracuda’s. “You talk shit, kid. You know how I know you talk shit? Because I got my finger on every import channel in New York. There ain’t no fuckin’ way a whole container of watches comes in without me knowin’ about it.”

“It’s coming,” Cattoretti said.

“Yeah?” Russo looked back at the watch.

Cattoretti remained silent.

Vito grabbed him by the collar, but Russo stopped him.

“How much you want for this info, kid?”

“Five thousand. Half in advance, and half after you get the watches.”

Russo glanced at Vito, then studied Cattoretti’s young, determined face for a moment, smoking his cigar. He pulled out his wallet.

“Boss, I don’t think we—”

“I don’t pay you to think, Vito.”

Russo counted out 25 crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them over.

Cattoretti pocketed the money, looking nervously at the two men. “Take me to a public place. I’ll tell you where you can pick up the watches.”

* * *

They drove Cattoretti to an Italian restaurant on the Lower East Side, and he told them the route that the truck would take after it was loaded on the Jersey shore. He did not tell them how the watches were brought in from Taiwan. When Russo asked, he claimed he didn’t know. He was saving that for later.

Cattoretti used the cash to check into a decent hotel in midtown, where he was continuously watched. The next morning, he went shopping and bought himself a tailored suit, much like the one Joey Russo wore.

He was followed everywhere he went.

* * *

At about 11 pm the next evening, Russo’s men stopped Silvio’s truck and hijacked it, leaving Silvio and two of his helpers dumbfounded in the street.

That night, Joey Russo waited for the other shoe to drop. He didn’t know which of the other New York families he had hit, but he knew they would retaliate.

Nothing happened.

* * *

“Who the fuck does this kid work for?” Russo said, looking from one face to another. Vito and several of his other men were sitting in his office.

“He don’t work for Conti, I checked,” Vito said.

“Not for Morella, either. I know every one of his guys.”

“Then who?” Russo said. “Maybe one of the Vegas families is runnin’ this?”

“Nah,” Vito said. “They don’t deal in Chink watches.”

Joey Russo and his men were baffled. The truckload of watches they had stolen seemed to have dropped out of the sky.

* * *

The next day he and Vito came to Cattoretti’s hotel room. They didn’t knock.

“Nice threads, kid,” Russo said, handing him the remaining $2,500 and admiring the new suit. “With my help, you could go places. Now, you gonna tell me who you work for? It ain’t one of the gangs here in Manhattan, I know it for a fuckin’ fact.”

Cattoretti said nothing. He and his uncle were so small, and so unknown, that in the overall scheme of things, they were anonymous. In this case, his insignificance was working in his favor.

Russo motioned to him. “Okay, what about the watches? You gonna tell me how they come in here?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Cattoretti said. The submersible container smuggling idea was far too valuable to hand over free of charge. He planned to sell it to them, too, just like the information about the truck. But for a much higher price. “I might be able to find out if you guys back off, give me some breathing room. I think they’re using a new smuggling method.”

Russo and Vito glanced at each other.

“‘New method’? Whaddya mean?”

Cattoretti shrugged. “Something clever that’s never been done before. Something to do with container ships.”

Russo looked at Vito. “Do you believe this kid?” He motioned to Cattoretti. “A cockroach don’t so much as fart over on those docks without me knowin’ about it. In fact, they ask permission. Am I right, Vito?”

“They ask permission,” Vito said.

“So when you talk about some ‘new method’, you’re talkin’ shit, kid.”

“I was right about the truck, wasn’t I?”

Joey Russo sighed, glancing at his sidekick. “Okay, kid, you win. Come on Vito, let’s give him some breathing room.”

* * *

Giorgio Cattoretti spent a stressful few days trying to figure out what to do. He knew he was in over his head. He didn’t have a plan. The fact was, he had no idea what he was doing. The money he’d been paid wouldn’t last much longer. His uncle was after him for selling him out to Russo. And it was only a matter of time before Russo found out who Silvio was—a nobody. Then Cattoretti knew he would be in deep trouble. They would beat the information about the submersible container out of him, and probably kill him. And Silvio, too.

He decided to go talk to Russo again.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, after he was frisked and ushered into Russo’s office.

The gangster rose slowly from his desk. “What are you talkin’ about? We had a deal.”

“We still have a deal. But I don’t want to be paid with money.”

“What do you want to be paid with?” Russo said suspiciously.

“I want a job in your organization. A good job.”

Russo and Vito looked at each other.

“Not a bagman, either. Something important.”

Russo studied him a moment, then walked around from behind his desk. Cattoretti’s pulse quickened.

Russo warmly put an arm around his shoulder.

“I’m flattered, kid, you want to come work for me.” He looked at Vito. “Makes me feel like a fuckin’ role model.” He patted Cattoretti on the back. “You get me the info I’m waitin’ on, I’d be glad to find you a place within my organization. We got plenty of spots. Right Vito?”

“Well, yeah, sure boss.”

* * *

When Cattoretti left, Vito said, “What’d you tell him that for?”

Russo shrugged. “Keep him motivated.”

* * *

An hour after Cattoretti left, one of Russo’s men came into the office.

“I found out who the kid is.”

“Who?”

“Name’s Giorgio Cattoretti. Traced him through a guy makes fake driver’s licenses. He works for his uncle, guy named Silvio Lombardi.”

“Silvio Lombardi? Never heard of him.”

“That ain’t a surprise. The guy’s a nobody. Makes porno movies, has a two-bit escort service on the Lower East Side. He’s nothin’, boss.”

Russo puffed on his cigar, thinking.

* * *

The next day, when Cattoretti returned to his hotel after dinner, he noticed two well-groomed men in suits sitting in the lobby.

When he stepped onto the elevator, both of them rose from their chairs and headed towards him.

As the elevator went up to the third floor, his heart beat furiously. With a little luck, he could get away by climbing down the fire escape from his room.

When he stepped off the elevator and unlocked the door, he found two more men waiting for him.

There was a satchel on the bed he’d never seen before, sitting wide open. Five fake Rolex Sea Dwellers were in it, still in their boxes.

Silvio. His goddam uncle had framed him. Who else would have put them there? He had no other enemies in New York.

“FBI,” one of the men said, flashing a badge.

The other patted him down.

“You’re under arrest, you stupid Dago.”

* * *

Giorgio Cattoretti was taken to Midtown North Precinct Station. He found himself surrounded by the lowest flanks of humanity— prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers, muggers and their victims.

He was photographed, fingerprinted, and booked for two separate crimes: trafficking illegal merchandise and violating U.S. immigration law. Both were felonies. A desk sergeant kindly informed him that he faced a sentence of up to five years in prison.

He did not take advantage of his right to one telephone call. There was nobody to phone.

He was led into the courtroom before a stern-looking female judge. The Hispanic woman peered down at him from the bench as if he were an insect. Cattoretti heard the words float past him as she talked to the arresting agents. “The State is requesting—” “—recommend that bail be set—” “trafficking counterfeit Rolexes—”