Once a Crooked Man (16 page)

Before heading to Fiumicino and the flight to America, the threesome enjoyed four wild days in Rome shopping for her immediate needs and greasing willing palms to procure a passport.

When they arrived back in Brooklyn, a dilemma soon presented itself to the young girl. Her prince was not as charming as he had first appeared. In fact, the whole of his family earned their money doing dirty jobs that no one else would touch. They were smart, efficient and successful crooks.

Her choices were simple. She could return to her family in Sicily and face her father's wrath. She could leave Sal and make a life of her own in America. Or she could become a willing accomplice. She chose the last as it promised the greatest challenge. Salvatore Bruschetti and Furella de Benedictis were married three days after her eighteenth birthday.

On her wedding night she declared that he must never deceive her or keep anything secret. No matter how ugly or brutal his work, they must always talk frankly. As a result, Furella became a steadying influence. When Sal and Max were thinking about linking up formally with an established crime family, it was she who advised them against it. Let the Families band together with their oaths and allegiances; the Bruschettis would be better off with anonymity and independence. She also insisted they refrain from the macho practice of adopting pseudonyms between their first and last names, pointing out that there was no need to glamorize what they did.

She soon gave birth to two sons, Vicenzo and Angelo. When the boys turned sixteen and seventeen Furella told them what their father and uncles did for a living. Angelo was deeply affected but wisely kept his feelings to himself. When the time came to go to college he applied and was accepted at Pepperdine in Malibu. The day he left for the West Coast he hugged his parents on the front steps, took the short cab ride to JFK and never came back.

On the other hand, Vicenzo had visions of taking over when his father and uncles retired. This ambitious young man was intrigued and impressed by the way they managed to avoid even the slightest run-in with the law.

The emergence of the computer set up the path he would follow for the rest of his life. When their electronic devices were in their early stages the young Bruschetti instinctively recognized the potential rewards that could be reaped from their use. He studied voraciously, assimilating everything he could. When he quit college at the end of the first semester he had a comprehensive understanding of computer design and function and had become an ace programmer, surprising even his teachers who marveled at his concise code.

Max turned in the hallway as Furella closed the door and admonished him with a shake of her head. “
Mascalzone!
It's been too long. We haven't seen you since … how long has it been?”

“Vic's birthday.”

She looked at him quizzically. “Vicenzo's birthday was last week.”

“No.” He smiled. “Last year.”

“Oh! That is terrible, Max. We live so close.” She waggled her index finger like an Assisi monk and added, “This is not good for family. Are you hungry? Good. Come in and I'll make us something.”

Max pulled out a stool and sat at the kitchen island as Furella poured him a mug of coffee.

“Some fresh pasta?”

Max looked surprised. “I thought you guys gave that up.”

She laughed. “For Sal, yes, but for you, no. And it gives me an excuse to indulge too. I picked some beautiful zucchini from the garden this morning. And plum tomatoes. How soon do you have to be back?”

Max just shrugged as he knew Furella was aware he had come unannounced and that meant something was afoot. She also knew that unlike Sal, Max didn't like to include her in matters of business. Her husband would fill her in as soon as he left.

“Sal's taking a nap. He should be up soon.”

Furella formed a well in a mound of white and semolina flours on the marble counter and cracked in two eggs. Then she added a little olive oil and salt. With her left hand she deftly mixed it into dough. “Sal is still too heavy. His new diet helps, but I wish he'd take walks, but he says around here that's not safe.”

“What about his golf?” asked Max.

“Golf!” she said with contempt, taking out the pasta machine. “They ride around in those stupid carts like kids at a fairground and then end up in the bar for beer.”

Max watched as she rolled out the dough and fed it into the machine. “Speaking of kids,” he asked, “you hear from Angelo?”

“No,” she said, and gave a little grimace.

“How's Vic?”

“Always busy with his computers and his machines. Day and night. Makes a lot of money.” She laughed as she draped the strands of pasta over the back of a chair. “Knows how to spend it too!”

A door opened below. Stockinged feet shuffled up the stairs from the basement. Sal's voice asked, “Are you two having an affair?”

Max smiled. “I didn't come for the sex; I came for the food. Did I spoil your nap?”

“That's okay. I got enough.” He caressed the pasta machine. “I don't suppose any of that's for me?”

Furella shook her head. “For you I have tuna salad on a bed of lettuce.”

The fresh pasta with the lightly cooked vegetables was perfect. Most of the time they ate in silence broken only with small talk. When they had finished, Max poured himself a fresh mug of coffee and followed his brother down the steps to the basement.

When he was not out on the golf course or in bed, Sal spent most hours down in his den. The furnishings were sparse: black leather sofa, coffee table, vibrating recliner and a practice putting ramp. An enormous flat-screen television dominated the room.

Sal closed the door and pushed the newspapers onto the floor to give his brother a place to sit.

Max took a moment to look at the many framed photographs on the walls. Over the years he noticed that Sal had physically changed the most, principally as a result of his growing girth and baldness. Furella had changed the least. Only a few lines around her eyes. In all the pictures, Furella and Sal were always touching, her arm often draped around his neck. Pride of place in the very center of the wall was a faded print of a young girl sitting on the wall of a splashing fountain in the town square with her head held high.

“Fucking amazing what people will do to screw themselves up,” said Sal, pointing to the
Post
with his foot. “Every day it's the same. Useless politicians. Beheadings. Wars. Suicide bombers. Guys fighting over who has the best fucking God for Christ's sake! Worst of all, we got goddam Catholic priests molesting kids! What a world!” He dropped into his recliner and pushed back. “So why are you here? Did we fuck up?”

Max gave a shrug. “Could be.”

“Tell me about it,” Sal grunted, closed his eyes and listened attentively as Max brought him up to date.

When he had finished, Sal gave a deep sigh. “You have any idea who this Murphy is?”

“No,” said Max. “But I see it like this. Who knew about the hit? Only Rocco and this guy Eddie Ryan. Stands to reason Ryan's the leak. Shoots his mouth off in a pub. Murphy overhears him and decides to stick his nose in. But all of a sudden he finds himself with a bagful of cash. Right now he's a long way off celebrating his good luck.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Sal linked his hands behind his neck. “When did you last talk to Villiers?”

“He called to say he was okay. Seemed pretty pissed off.”

“Have the police questioned his wife? What's her name? Rhonda.”

“Right.”

“Find out,” said Sal. “Find out if they've asked her if she knows where he is now.”

“Why?” asked Max.

“If they haven't asked her then they already know. They could have taken him in for questioning. Maybe they've been tailing him. Maybe they had his phone tapped. That would explain the Telecom van.”

Max looked at his watch. “I'll give her a call.”

Sal opened his eyes. “When Villiers hears about Santiago, do you think he'll make a connection?”

“He could.”

Sal grabbed the lever, pulled himself upright and flipped open the lid of a humidor on the table by the chair. He cut the end from a Cohiba Millennium Reserve, took out a box of matches and lit up. “What have you told Rocco?” he asked.

“To sit tight. I told him I'd call him.”

“Tell him to come home. He needs to do some explaining. If you feel he can still take care of Villiers, then he can go back later.”

“So what else? What have we missed?”

Sal sucked deep on the cigar. “Give me a worst case.”

Max leaned back in the sofa. “Villiers knows our names and various contact numbers,” he said. “If he cops a plea and tells them what he's been doing for us they'll throw him inside for a good long stretch. If the Feds here in the US decide to get involved we could be facing a problem. But according to Carter, the paper trail he has set up is a good one. It would take a lot of man-hours to come up with hard evidence for a prosecution.”

“What about this Murphy character?” asked Sal. “You think he could be working for someone?”

“It's possible. But I have no idea who it could be.”

“Keep me posted. Let's meet with Rocco when he gets back.”

The two men stood up and walked upstairs. Max kissed Furella on both cheeks and left.

Nino waited with the car. Max got in and stretched out in the backseat as they drove off. Maybe somewhere the ideal female was walking around waiting to drape her arms around his neck, make him feel loved and cook him fresh pasta.

Nino took the Belt Parkway to the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. Once through, Max told him to pull up at a payphone on Canal Street where he could call Rhonda Villiers. She told him that the police had questioned her briefly, but no, they had not asked her if she knew where her husband had gone.

As Max walked back to the car, a cute blonde in a fuzzy pink sweater and white leather pants walked by on three-inch red patent-leather heels. Max invited her for a drink. She was not ideal, but he needed a little light entertainment.

Some things never change.

 

31

The sound of a key in the lock woke Harry up. The door opened to reveal Ivan with a clipboard.

“A statement. I need a statement,” he said, and clearing a space at one of the desks he pulled over a keyboard.

“Then I sign it and you let me go?” said Harry.

“First things first” was the enigmatic reply. “And slowly please; I don't type so fast.”

Once more Harry began with his audition and ended with his rescue. Ivan was a two-finger typist. When they were finally finished, he got up, removed Harry's handcuffs and walked out. Minutes later, he came back with the young woman from the Telecom truck.

Now she wore a studded leather jacket, a short black skirt that was stretched over shiny Lycra tights that ended in combat boots. At the other extremity, her eyes were heavily lined with mascara and her mouth was daubed with a psychedelic mauve lipstick. Dragging out a chair she sat down. Ivan handed her the clipboard with a printout of Harry's statement.

“I am Detective Sergeant Elizabeth Carswell.” She spoke with a Cockney accent. “My friends call me Lizzie. My classification is ‘Pain in the Arse,' as I have a special knack for sticking my nose in where it's not wanted.”

She turned to the man at her side. “This dozy, idle individual here is Detective Sergeant Ivan Sapinsky. Otherwise known as ‘Ivan the Terrible.' His ancestors came from Stara Zagora in Bulgaria. Take my advice, Harry; don't fuck with Ivan.”

Leaning back in her chair, she lifted her legs, and her boots landed on the desk with a crash. “On second thought, you'd better not fuck with either of us.”

She tapped the clipboard with the back of her hand. “I've read your little story, but I want to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak. If you refuse to oblige me, I'll turn Ivan loose. He'll probably grab you where it hurts the most. You get my drift?”

Harry was captivated. He nodded.

Lizzie took out a packet of Camels and lit one with a small jeweled lighter.

“How did you find me?” he asked. “I know how Villiers tracked me down, but how did you?”

“Find you?” She took a noisy drag. Smoke came out of her mouth in spurts as she talked. “We never lost either of you. I spent the last couple of days in hot pursuit of your chum Villiers. Ivan's been glued to your ugly backside like a leech.”

“Villiers lost you at the entrance to the garage,” said Harry.

Lizzie looked at him as if he were a naughty child. “We knew all about his little getaway car, Harry. The minute you both headed towards that garage we had squad cars all around the place.”

She turned her attention to the clipboard.

“You were born Harold Patrick Murphy in Brooklyn, New York, September 20th 1981. You presently reside at 409 West Fifty-sixth Street, New York, New York, 10019. You are a member in good standing of the Screen Actors Guild, the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists and Actors' Equity. You are represented by the Milstein Agency of New York. You have a good credit rating. You flew overnight to London on American Airlines. You checked into the Fabian Hotel, from which you made one very brief call to the residence of one Charles Villiers. You visited the aforesaid residence at eleven-oh-five hours that morning, being admitted to the premises by his wife, one Rhonda Villiers. You returned to your hotel and stayed in your room for the rest of the day.

“Later that night you walked to Soho. After dinner, you patronized the Isle of Capri Coffee Lounge, where you consumed one coffee and two alcoholic beverages and attempted to pick up Policewoman Susan Banks, who had been assigned by Ivan here to observe and report your activities.”

Her eyes had a cheeky glint when she looked up at him. “Susie was real surprised. She thought you'd penetrated her cover.”