Operation Bamboozle (21 page)

“Yeah? That's a big word. We'll go and see him.”

Gibson stood. “I can't, I gotta get—”

“Married. I know. Later.”

They left the house. Othello was back in his place at the front door. He recognized Gibson's smell and remembered the taste of his blood and tried to bite his leg, but he was too slow.

“Morgan two-seater,” Feet said. “Snazzy. Plumbing pays well.”

“I'm a dealer. Classic Car Imports. Or was. I'm sellin' up, getting' out.”

Tony Feet gave him the keys to his Buick. “We'll take mine, it's got air conditioning. You drive. I like to be awestruck by the scenery.”

The men and the women, quietly dressed by Saks, got into the Lincoln and drove to the Foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, where, three months ago, Helen, widow of Ralph Pinchot Reynolds, had stumbled at the top of their grand staircase and fetched up at the bottom lifeless, thus leaving the second-largest construction company in LA to their only child, Nancy.

The women waited in the car until they were needed.

Hancock knocked on the door. A manservant opened it. Luis began his opening remarks and the man cut in to say that Miss Reynolds died in the hospital last night. Pneumonia. There was nothing to do but express deepest sympathy and leave.

“No luck,” Hancock reported. “Deceased.”

“Jeez,” Stevie said. “And we came all this way.”

“She wasn't expecting us,” Luis said. “Otherwise she would have hung on for another twenty-four hours.”

“If she'd expected us, the sheriff would of answered the door,” Julie said.

“True. And if she expected us, we wouldn't have come, would we? Surprise is half the battle.”

“Let's get out of here.” Hancock drove away, but slowly, on compassionate grounds.

“Maybe that guy
was
the sheriff,” Stevie said. “I mean to say, young heiress, whole life ahead of her, sudden death, that's no accident. Wake up, fellas.”

“She was 71,” Hancock said. He reached the highway and put on speed. It was a mild autumnal afternoon. A maverick wind had blown the smog away and the San Gabriel mountains soared to their right, as clean and as crisp as a National Geographic two-page spread. The scent of chaparral—manzanita and chamise, sage and yerba santa, a dozen others—tinged the air. LA must have smelt good to the Spaniards.

“I hate to waste a whole day,” Luis said.

“Come back again when you know who's inherited,” Julie said.

“And say what? Miss Nancy had a fling fifty years ago? And we represent her long-lost love-child? Now aged 49? Sick with the mumps?”

“Got to keep it simple,” Hancock said. “No women.”

“She was 71?” Stevie asked. “How is that possible?”

“She worked at it, sweetie,” Julie said. “A day at a time.”

They were passing a mock-Scottish hunting lodge, with spires and a clock tower. Luis pointed. “No lack of money around here.”

“There's another place …” Hancock tapped the wheel with his middle finger while he thought. “I put it on the list as a possible. It's on our way home. Take a chance?”

“What have we got to lose?” Luis said.

“The guy at the door wasn't the sheriff,” Stevie said confidently. “He was a con man. She's not in the hospital. He's inside the house now, conning old Miss Nancy out of a million. Maybe more.”

“Two con men in one afternoon?” Julie said.

“Why not? He got there first. Go back, you'll see.” They drove on. “He conned you good,” she said.

The room was as dim as a speakeasy, and twice as big. The fireplace could have roasted a boar and still left room to bake potatoes on the side. The ceiling was domed, and from it hung a tattered battalion of Mexican blankets. Their patterns, once rich and powerful, were dulled by age.

A swallowtail butterfly had somehow blundered into the room, and it flew figures-of-eight until it became tired and rested on a blanket, kicking loose a tiny fall of dust.

“I feel as if I'm in a Crusader castle,” Luis said. “Or perhaps the crypt of one of those early Norman cathedrals which one stumbles across in England. Gloucester, for instance. Sturdy is not an adequate word.”

Nobody argued with that. Their chairs were far apart. Casual conversation wasn't easy. Everyone was drinking iced tea. Luis wished his had a shot of rum in it. This must be the coldest livingroom in LA.

“So much modern architecture is, how shall I put it,
temporary”
Hancock said. “It lacks confidence. But here you have a heritage to be proud of.”

Nobody cheered. Nobody hurled their iced-tea glass into the fireplace. Time to move on.

“By way of preamble,” Luis said, “perhaps I should touch upon the extreme reluctance with which the other partners at
Bunker, Delancey and Scott agreed that we should approach you so soon after your grievous less.”

“There was no alternative,” Hancock said sombrely. “None at all.”

No comment.

“I must admit that when I was told of the circumstances, I was extremely skeptical,” Luis said. “Only after the most intense scrutiny was I persuaded of the truth of the matter.”

“The inescapable truth,” Hancock said. Still no reaction. He plowed on. “It concerns your late father, and a visit he made to Boston some twenty years ago. Business or pleasure, who knows? However …” He took a deep breath.

“There was a liaison,” Luis said. “At the Mayflower Hotel. With a young lady.”

“Which, in turn, resulted in progeny,” Hancock said.

“Progeny!” Vito DiLazzari bounced up from his armchair. “Hear that, Uncle? We are not alone!” He aimed a finger at Hancock. “How many? Twins? Give, give!”

“One boy, sir.” He showed a photograph. “A tragic story.”

Vito sat down. He eyes were bright as new pennies. “Tragic, huh? How so?”

“Hypostatic neuroplasia,” Luis said quietly.

“The B strain,” Hancock said. “Unfortunately.”

Vito slapped his hands together. “The goddamn B strain … Wouldn't you know it? Of all the luck.”

Luis felt the discussion slipping away from them. “We took the precaution of bringing the boy's doctor with us. In case you had any medical questions. Also his girlfriend.”

“She a looker? Bet she is. Bring 'em all on.”

Luis went out and came back with the women. “This is Dr. Conroy,” he said, “and this is—”

“Hey!” Vito said. “Didn't we meet, couple years back?”

“She's Stevie Fantoni,” Uncle said.

“Vito DiLazzari,” Stevie said. “This guy is Vito DiLazzari,” she told Luis and Hancock. “You don't want to shake down Vito DiLazzari. Not without you got the US Marine Corps behind you.” Vito like that. “Or even
with
them,” she added. He laughed, they embraced, he gave her his chair. “Okay, cut to the chase,” he told Luis.

“Nine grand and change for the Swiss operation on the boy. But you knew that, didn't you?”

“It's a smooth con,” Uncle said, “but an old one.”

“Stevie.” Vito couldn't stand still. He clicked his fingers in dance-time. “How come you got mixed up with these bandits? I heard you got married.”

“Long story,” she said.

“The way she told us, it was three short stories,” Julie said. “Slice it where you like, it's an idiopathic disorder causing acute nervous autonomy. Okay? Now I've done my party piece. Any chance of a real drink around here?”

“You knew all along,” Hancock told Vito. “With respect, sir, yours was not the behavior of a gentleman.”

“Well, you got that right, Pappy,” Vito said. This was turning into a happy afternoon.

Drinks outside. Garden chairs in a wide circle. Everyone sat except Vito and Luis. “Bit stiff,” Luis said. “Just stretch my legs.” Then he caught a look from Uncle. “Perhaps later.” He sat. This was Vito's party. He was dressed semi-formally: navy blue blazer, white silk shirt open at the neck, cream yachting trousers, Italian loafers. “This is one for the memoirs,” he said. “The day a pair of con artists dressed as East Coast lawyers stroll in and try to shake me down for nine grand.”

“And change,” Luis murmured.

“Cabrillo,” Uncle said thoughtfully. “I know that name from somewhere.”

“Nine grand,” Vito said. “I should give it to you for your
chutzpah.
We spend nine grand a week on greasing judges. Last year our business out-grossed Pepsi in southern California. And you waltz in here with a scenario wouldn't make a second feature at Paramount in a bad year. DiLazzari. You never heard the name? Jesus H. Christ, we
run
this town. Nobody lays a brick in LA without we get a nickel. They should take the buffalo off the nickel and put DiLazzari on. For services rendered. We'd all vote for that, right?”

“I apologize for our gaffe,” Hancock said. “The fault is mine. I'm from Kansas City. Unfamiliar with your town. I should have made inquiries.”

“Apologies.” A platter of antipasto had arrived and Vito took a piece of Parma ham. “Dad told me never to accept an apology, because all it meant was I had to say something stupid like ‘Forget it.' Can I forget it?”

“You can't forget it,” Uncle said.

“Never apologize.” Vito turned to Hancock. “You made a big mistake there. Now I got to have you all rubbed out. Not you,” he told Stevie. “You're different. It's …” He looked to Uncle.

“A matter of professional courtesy.”

“Yeah.”

For a long moment they all watched him, trying to guess the odds against this being a joke. Vito was thirty but he had the face of a fifteen-year old, capable of excitement or bleak indifference. Now it was wooden. “I'm with these guys,” Stevie said. “You whack them, you whack me too.”

Vito thought, spat out an olive pit, said: “Your choice.”

“No,” Uncle said. “Not a Fantoni. We can't do that.”

“We can do anything. We out-grossed Pepsi.”

“Not a war. Not with the Fantoni family. Don't even think of it.”

A small twitch had started in Vito's left eyelid. “They came here to steal from me. I'm supposed to let them walk away? Is that good business? How long before DiLazzari Incorporated is in the toilet?”

“Not Stevie,” Uncle said. “Rub out the others, rub out the Andrews Sisters, rub out the Daughters of the American Revolution. Not Stevie.”

“I have a suggestion,” Luis told Vito. “You and I meet in unarmed combat, here and now.” Vito rolled his eyes: the only emotion on his wooden face.

“Stay away from this boy,” Stevie told Vito. “He's an animal, he'll drink your blood.”

“He's a pussycat.” Vito tried to smile but it came out as a sneer. “A con artist. He'll pop like a balloon.”

“US Rangers,” Luis said softly. “Tough boys. I helped train them. There are thirteen ways to kill a man with your bare hands, and I invented eight.”

“Christ Almighty,” Julie said. “We're back in the playground. Mine's bigger than yours.”

“See his eyes flash?” Stevie said. “This boy is a stag. This boy is
hot.
Him an' me,” she told Uncle, “it's destiny. Woman needs man and man must have his mate. You know? Like in the song.”

“You people talk a lot, don't you?” Uncle said.

“This talks loudest,” Vito said. He held a stubby black automatic, neat and slim, ideal for formal wear.

“Hell's teeth,” Hancock muttered. He rubbed his forehead so that his hand blocked out sight of the gun.

“That ain't nothin',” Stevie said. She took a ladies revolver from her purse and waved it vaguely in Vito's direction.

“Back off, both of you,” Uncle said. “Back off about a hundred yards. Nobody looks good in a massacre.” But Vito was stiff as a statue, and Stevie enjoyed the attention.

“Listen,” Julie said. “Listen up hard. I'm gonna tell you the facts of death. If you, Vito, shoot anyone, she, Stevie, will shoot you, and there will be civil war between her family and yours. If you, Stevie, shoot him, there also will be civil war. Either way you will both end up dead, because that's how you crazies think.”

Nobody would argue with that, and nobody tried. In the silence, Milt Gibson drove the rental Buick into the estate and parked it. He gave the motor a final burst. It backfired.

Everyone watched the two arrivals walk toward them.

“Sam Giancana sent me,” Tony Feet said. “Mr. DiLazzari, this is a great honor.” They shook hands. Uncle took the opportunity to pocket the automatic. Stevie dropped the revolver in her purse. “Mr. Giancana asked me to send his warm regards. I am calling, of course, as a matter of professional courtesy. I'm Tony Feet. You know Milt Gibson?”

“Bum muffler,” Milt said. “Not one of mine.”

“He says there's counterfeiting in LA. Sam likes to know about funny money. Milt says your organization got the word before anyone else.”