Operation Bamboozle (30 page)

Farewells were brief. The leaving was too sudden for real understanding. Princess piled her unsold paintings on the back seat. “They're just crap,” she said. “But better crap than my Mexican crap.” Stevie wiped away a tear. “Keep in touch,” she said. “Send me your address.”

“How?” Julie asked. “Where will you be?”

“Dunno.”

“Neither do we.”

Stevie drove away before it got complicated. She knew how. Been doing it all her life.

Julie left the Cadillac in Mrs. DiLazzari's driveway and hurried to where Luis was waiting in the Packard. “Unless you've got some secret bank account …” she said. He shook his head. “Then we've got enough to pay the rent for maybe a month, provided we don't eat or drink or feed Othello.”

He thought about that, and when he opened his mouth she said. “No, smart remarks, Luis. I'm hungry. Nothing's funny when you're hungry.” He shut his mouth.

Once a month, Agent Moody played small-stakes poker with a bunch of people he'd known for many years, not all of them in law-enforcement. One was Charlie Denny, about Moody's age, built like a barrel of beer, played his poker with a kind of cheerful abandon that was hard to read and that sometimes won. He was in shipbroking or marine insurance, something like that. One day he called Moody, suggested lunch, and over the best pheasant casserole Moody had ever tasted Denny told him he was with the CIA. He named several people whom he thought Moody was investigating. “It could be of mutual benefit,” he said, “if we exchanged information.”

“You're not hiring those bastards, are you?” Moody asked.

“How is your pheasant? I believe they fly it in from Scotland. Or is it Ireland? I forget?”

Moody wasn't paying. They lunched often. Charlie Denny was right about the mutual benefit: whatever it was the CIA was doing in LA, he knew things about the Mob. And he knew the good restaurants.

Now Moody was eating an excellent grilled trout, drinking a crisp Chardonnay, and listening to Denny talk about a curious friendship between Cabrillo, Conroy and DiLazzari.

Moody told him what he knew. It didn't take long.

“Has Cabrillo spent any time in Ukraine?” Denny asked.

“Possibly. We don't know. He's traveled a lot lately. We can't track him everywhere, the Bureau can't justify spending the resources when there's no hard evidence of crime, just a lot of hearsay. Smoke but no fire. Maybe the smoke is fog. Maybe ‘Ukraine' is a code word for something else.”

“Maybe ‘counterfeiting' is another code word.”

“Fake counterfeiting. Is that a crime? Tricky, isn't it?”

Denny poured more wine. “The whole set-up is … uh … interesting. Please stay in touch. How is your trout?”

Jensen TransAmerica Investigations was big. Tom Jensen, ex-FBI, founded it, built it, and now it had the top floor of a new and award-winning office building on Wilshire Boulevard. The elevator that took up Michael Stagg purred softly. It did not whine and nor did he. Jensen TransAmerica was not the place for whiners.

He explained his needs, very briefly. He wished to meet the man who drove an Olds with this Kansas license plate. No crime was involved. His interest lay in the nature of a reunion.

Two days later Jensen TransAmerica phoned him. The plate had been issued to Sterling Hancock III, who no longer lived at the Kansas address given when he bought the car.

“I know he was driving it here, in LA, a couple of months ago,” Stagg said. “Try and find him for me.”

Jensen TransAmerica had Hancock's full name and his photograph. If he was living in LA they would find him. Might take a little time.

Nicky Zangara was Vito's second cousin, maybe third. His hair was silver-gray when he was twenty and white by the time he was twenty five. He got called ‘Prince,' short for principal, because he seemed to know everything. He discouraged the nickname because he disliked exaggeration. However, it was true that he knew by first name every politician of influence, and every business leader with clout, and every police chief of any stripe in all of Ventura County. Nicky read books, many without
conversation or pictures. He read company reports, balance sheets, credit ratings. He ran the rackets in Ventura, and the Mob's accountants said his annual accounts were a model of their kind. If Nicky Zangara claimed 20% depreciation on the stock of ammunition, you could depend on it. Bullets don't last forever. Ask any general.

He was a year younger than Vito but the white hair made him look ten, fifteen years older. Vito liked that. He sent for Nicky. “Bring a pickup truck,” he said.

When Nicky arrived it was late afternoon and raining hard, the kind of downpour that looked like the black sky had lost control and just wanted to get it over with.

Uncle was waiting with a golf umbrella. “Some weather, huh?” he said. “Plays hell with the smog.”

Nicky laughed. He liked Uncle; approved of his downbeat style. They went inside. Hands got shaken, drinks got made, Smalltalk got talked. Then:

“I got a question for you,” Vito said. “You think I should get married in St. Timothy's?”

“You mean, now? In this rain?”

“Uncle says it's my duty, St. Tim's bein' the Mob church an' all.”

“It matters not,” Uncle said. “The lady has moved on.”

“She questioned my manhood. No big deal, according to Uncle.”

“I never said that,” Uncle muttered. Nicky simply shook his head. Good move. A shake of the head can mean anything you like.

“Jerry Fantoni was here. From the East Coast. Lookin' old, very old. You know what they say about the shark? Gotta keep movin' in the water, or it's dead. Shark gets old, gets slow, don't move like it should. End of story. Roll credits.” He finished his drink. “This rain … it's wet enough for sharks. I like that. We'll go for a spin. Take the pickup. Uncle drives.”

“Where?” Uncle asked.

“Just drive.”

By now it was dark. Streetlights battled the rain and lost. The pick-up's wipers were set at high speed and it wasn't always fast enough. Uncle had never driven the truck before and he had trouble adjusting to the pedal pressures and the gearshift. Nobody spoke: a dozen drummers were hammering on the roof. Sometimes Vito pointed, and Uncle made a turn. He was getting
accustomed to the controls when a black shape suddenly magnified in front and he swerved and the pickup lost all grip on the skidpan of a road and they skated past a brokendown car with no lights. Uncle glimpsed a man bent over the steaming engine.
Poor bastard,
he thought. After that he kept the speed down to a cautious twenty.

“Too slow,” Vito said. “Too damn slow. As usual.” Nicky turned on the radio. A newscast told them it was raining. He found another station, and Peggy Lee sang
Stormy Weather.
Some disc jockey was having fun. Static stabbed at the lyrics. Lightning was having fun too.

“Stop here,” Vito said. They were opposite St. Timothy's. The stained glass made a faint glow: red and yellow and green. “I want to donate a candle. A little light in a wicked world.”

They watched him run across the road, both his hands gripping the umbrella. “What's happening?” Nicky asked.

“You're the new Uncle, kid. This is what they call a rite of passage. So, congratulations.”

“Oh.” He was relieved. “I thought we were gonna whack somebody.”

“He wouldn't of brought me along, not since he whacked Marco. I told him, big mistake, Marco did good work, and anyway Vito should leave whackin' to other guys, he should … what's the word … delegate. Vito bein' chairman of the board now, it ain't …” He shook his head.

“Appropriate?” Nicky suggested.

“That's it. Jeez, my memory's gone down the toilet. What's a big mountain in Scotland?”

“Ben Nevis.”

Uncle slumped. “I'm gonna give up those stoopid crosswords,” he said.

The priest saw Vito light a candle, saw him wait a moment for the flame to settle, and then put his finger in it. Not the triggerfinger but the left index. Only a couple of seconds. Vito didn't jump, didn't cry out. The priest walked toward him. Churches attracted freaks. Just yesterday, a woman in the confessional said she wanted to be crucified on the Hollywood sign. Hard to know whether she was boasting or repenting. She said her sin was lusting after Hitler. “He's dead,” the priest told her, and she stormed out of the church. He sighed. What was wrong with people? Wasn't the Holy Ghost a big enough
mystery? And here was this masochistic gangster, sucking his finger. “Hello, Mr. DiLazzari,” he said. “Can I be of any help?”

Vito stopped sucking. “A man comes out of a bar, drunk as a skunk, drives off, kills a nun and ten kids waiting for a bus. Is that God's will, father? Or God's mistake?”

“Neither. But you know that.”

“Okay. Now … suppose I kill this guy before he can get in his car. Shoot him dead. Does God approve?”

“You should ask yourself. You just made yourself God. What is your answer?”

Vito smiled like a boy who has hit a home run. “Well, obviously, Father, shoot the sonofabitch.” He was backing away as he said, “I hate children, but nuns, I got a soft spot for nuns.”

The priest watched him go. “Clown,” he said, but softly. The DiLazzaris had paid for a new roof two years back. On a night like this, you had to be grateful.

Vito got in the truck. “Go,” he said. Uncle drove a couple of hundred yards and Vito said, “Stop.” Uncle pulled into the side. “You said you want to go to Florida, Uncle. Okay, Florida's that way.” Vito pointed ahead. “Get out. Go now.”

Uncle massaged one hand with the other. “This ain't right. At least let me go home, get a coat, some money.”

“Florida. Thataway.”

Uncle remained perfectly still. “Your father …” he began. “No, forget it.” He got out. They watched him pass through the beams of the headlights and reach the side of the road. Then he was a dim, bent figure, walking away in the pounding rain.

Nicky had taken his place at the wheel. “Stay with him,” Vito said. As they drew alongside Uncle, Vito wound down his window and shouted., “Too slow, Uncle. You'll never get to Florida. Speed it up.” Uncle made a weary, helpless gesture. Vito had a gun in his hand. “Run!” he said, and fired two shots at Uncle's feet, and missed. Uncle ran. The headlights showed pools of water splashing him to the knee. He was not a good runner. Soon he was lurching and slipping and gasping, and finally he gave up and squatted on his aching haunches.

“Fetch the umbrella,” Vito said. He waited until Nicky had got out and walked around with the open umbrella, and then he got out. They went to Uncle and Vito shot him twice in the back of the neck.

“Into the pickup,” Vito said. “Pasadena Freeway. New off-ramp being built. This weather, the concrete they just poured should be good and juicy.”

Next day was washed as fresh and bright as a new deck of cards. The sky had a few chalkmarks just to accentuate its blue, the bougainvillea was a healthy red, and the letters Julie was opening were mainly buff with cellophane windows.

“We owe the city for back taxes,” she said.

Luis took the letter. “Clerical error,” he said. “This is the national debt of Brazil.” He went back to the LA
Times.

“And the garage is making threats.” Another letter was passed. “That Packard …” She sucked her teeth.

Luis frowned. “What exactly is a differential? Sounds like Wall Street talk. Do we really need one? Hideously expensive.”

She threw the other buff letters over her shoulder. “If I can't see them, maybe they don't exist.” She picked up a box of cornflakes and shook it. Silence. “We're broke, Luis.”

He took the box from her and held it upside-down. A single cornflake fell out. “Not yet,” he said. “You have it.”

“Without milk? Are you crazy?” She got up and looked out at the stunning, sparkling view. A large bird was circling, high overhead. She thought of saying it resembled a vulture and then thought better of it. Luis was tearing something from the newspaper. She went and looked, and it was an obituary.
“General Stratton T. Blaskett, patriot and shipping magnate, dead at 73,”
she said. “If you're aiming to go back into the dying-bastard-son con, this body ain't cold yet.”

“Nicknamed ‘Blast 'em Blaskett,'” Luis said. “Dashing cavalryman. Made a killing out of oil tankers. Founded the anti-Communist pressure group ‘Old Glory.' This is a sad day for America. Vito must know at once.”

“See if you can borrow ten bucks,” she said, but by then he was halfway to the phone.