Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (18 page)

“Leana bought it for me.”

“It’s killer.
 
Where do I meet someone like Leana?”

“You don’t,” Mario
said.
 
“I’ve got the only
model.
 
But one day, I hope you’ll
come close.”

“I thought you’d replace
your old Taurus with something similar.”

His wife, Lucia, died
from the explosives attached to that car and Mario could see by the concerned
look on Christian’s face that he regretted his words.
 

“I’m sorry, Uncle Mario.”

“It’s fine, Christian.”

“I miss Aunt Lucia.
 
I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s OK.
 
Leana intervened before I could buy
something simpler, which I would have.
 
You know me.
 
It’s never been
about the money or the things, and I hope it never is for you.”

“Are you glad she bought
it?”

Mario admired the car,
which he knew she bought him out of love, but what he’d never tell Leana is
that the car wasn’t for him.
 
It was
too showy.
 
He’d prefer another Ford
to this.
 
“I’m happy with most
anything Leana does.”
 
He tossed
Christian the keys.
 
“Feel like
parking it for me?”

The boy’s face lit
up.
 
“Are you kidding?
 
You’re the best, Uncle Mario.”

“Just keep it in one
piece.
 
I’m warning you, it’s fast.”

“No shit.
 
It’s a goddamned Ferrari.”

“And watch your mouth.”

“Sorry.
 
Can I take it for a drive?”

“Next time.
 
With me.
 
And a helmet.
 
Is my father inside?”

“Papa’s on the back deck
reading the papers.”
 
He screwed up
his face at Mario.
 
“Why is Leana
all over them?”

“Be careful with the
car,” Mario said.

*
 
*
 
*

Dressed in a gray suit
and seated in the sun at a table topped with an umbrella, Antonio Gionelli De
Cicco blew a plume of cigar smoke into the air just as his eldest son, Mario,
started to walk the distance between them.

He paid Mario no
attention as he crossed the expansive deck.
 
Instead, he just smoked and drank his
orange juice while thumbing through all of the New York newspapers that
featured stories about Leana Redman and what happened to two guests on
Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht the night before.

As he came closer, Mario
studied him.
 
Ashamed of his meager
beginnings in Sicily—and as vain as any person could be, even at
seventy-two, or especially at seventy-two as he never would allow himself to
look anything less than formidable regardless of his age—Antonio De Cicco
made a daily effort to look as professional and as educated as the bulls who
ran Wall Street.
 
In repose, the
illusion worked.
 
Antonio himself
was an old bull, tough and strong, thickly built, and still in shape.
 
Unfortunately, when he spoke, his
fifth-grade education became embarrassingly apparent.

“They’re saying a lot of
shit about Leana, Mario.
 
Been
reading and hearing about her since morning.
 
They’re calling her a murdering
cunt.
 
What the fuck is that all
about?”

“I don’t know why, other
than that it’s not true.
 
Let the
papers say what they want.
 
I would,
however, prefer it if
you
didn’t say it.
 
At least not while I’m around.”

De Cicco shrugged.
 
“Don’t be so touchy.
 
It’s the papers that are sayin’ it.
 
So is the television, the radio and
probably most of Manhattan.”
 

“She’s going to be my
wife.”

“You think that’s a
surprise to me?
 
It isn’t.”
 

“One day, she’ll have
your grandchildren.”

De Cicco didn’t
respond.
 
He turned the page with a
shake of his head and without inviting his son to sit down.
 
“I haven’t seen or heard from you in
years.
 
You’ve gone out of your way
to ignore me.
 
Care to tell me why?”

“To make certain Leana
was safe, we spent a year in Europe.
 
We’ve been busy since.
 
I
haven’t heard from you, either.”

“Europe for a year.
 
Quite a life you live.
 
What happened to giving back to the
poor?”

“I haven’t stopped.”

“Well, that’s great,
Mario.
 
I’m glad you’re good to the
poor.
 
They need you.
 
I wonder how they feel when you deliver
their groceries in your Ferrari?
 
I
know about that, too.
 
I haven’t
exactly fallen out of touch.
 
But
whatever.
 
Enjoy the car.
 
When you’re dead, you’ll still be at
God’s feet.
 
Your mother would be
proud.”
 
He shot his son a
glance.
 
“I knew when you returned
to the States.”

“If you knew, why didn’t
you invite us to one of the family dinners?”

De Cicco sucked on his
cigar and turned another page.
 
“Didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“How about the
truth?
 
I think it’s because you
don’t like Leana.”

“Don’t be
melodramatic.
 
Three years is a long
time, Mario.
 
I know things weren’t
working out between you and Lucia.”

“And yet you were
determined to keep us together.”

“For the kids’ sake.
 
And also because Lucia loved you.”

“That isn’t true.
 
You and her father arranged for that
marriage to happen when we were eighteen.
 
You cut a deal with Giovanni to bring the two Families together through
our marriage.
 
You worked with him
to seal the union and you used us as the bridge to make it happen.
 
In her own way, Lucia may have loved me,
but she loved money and power more.
 
That’s what she really wanted.
 
She grew close to you because she knew you’d protect her when I said I
wanted out.
 
I never loved her.”

“You see. That’s what I
don’t get.
 
That’s not the Lucia I
knew.
 
She was a good woman.
 
Never missed a step with you.
 
Faithful to the end.
 
And you stand here saying you never
loved her?
 
Why do you shit on the
dead like that?
 
What’s the point?”

This from a man who was
responsible for taking dozens of lives.
 
Mario remained silent.

“What are you here for,
anyway?”

“I need your help.”

“You mean you didn’t come
to see your old man because you missed him?”

“Actually, I have missed
you.”

“What about your
brothers?
 
Miko and Tony.
 
Missed them?”

“Of course, I have.”

“You better tell them
that, because the way I see it—the way we all see it—you abandoned
us.”

“I’m sorry that you see
it that way.
 
I think we can agree
that we needed time to cool off.
 
Three years is enough time, but obviously there’s still a wall between
us.”

“That’s because you
fucked up.”

“That’s your
interpretation.”

“Be careful the way you
talk to me, Mario.”

“Are we going to move
forward?
 
Or is that wall going to
be there forever?”

“Who knows?”
 

Mario withdrew, put his
hands in his pockets and looked out over the deck to where the grass stretched
as far as he could see, interrupted only by the estate’s many perennial gardens.
 
His father sighed, put down the
Post
with its photo of Leana facing up so that Mario could see it, and stubbed his
cigar in an ashtray not far from her face.
 
He nodded at one of the chairs opposite him.
 
“Sit the hell down, for Christ’s
sake.
 
You look like an idiot
standing there.”

Mario took one of the
chairs and sat.

“Have you eaten?”

“I’ve eaten.”

“You look like shit.
 
She been feeding you?
 
Lucia used to make you a proper meal
every night.”

“Actually, she didn’t,
but that’s what she probably told you.
 
I did the cooking.
 
I always
have.
 
It’s one of the reasons I
bought the restaurant.
 
It’s also
one of the things Ma left me.”

“Your mother was a good
woman.”

And you cheated on her
for years.
 
“She was the best.”

“You don’t find them like
that anymore.”

“I agree.”

“Why do you like this
Redman bitch so much?”

“Don’t call her a bitch.”

A beat passed, their eyes
met, then Antonio sighed.

“Why do you like the
girl?”

“Because you don’t find
them like that anymore.”

“You’re comparing her to
your mother?”

“She’s nothing like
Ma.
 
But she’s a good person.
 
She’s good to me.
 
And I love her.
 
I wish you’d be happy for me.
 
I know you blame me for Lucia’s death,
but I had nothing to do with it.”

“You and I both know
that’s bullshit.
 
If you hadn’t
gotten involved with that Redman girl, Lucia would be alive today.
 
Your car wouldn’t have been rigged with
explosives, and she’d be alive.”
 
He
looked at his son.
 
“But you’re
happy that she isn’t alive.”

Mario felt his face flush
with anger.
 
“My children have no
mother.
 
They talk about her every
day and they miss her.
 
I don’t take
any pleasure in what happened to Lucia.
 
Did I want to divorce her?
 
Yes.
 
Did I want her dead so
I could be with Leana?
 
No.
 
That’s ridiculous.
 
I just wanted out of a marriage you were
determined to keep me in.”

“What do you want from
me, Mario?”

“You’ve read the
papers.
 
You saw what was written on
the tarp.
 
I need you and the rest
of my family behind me.
 
I need to protect
her because something is happening.
 
First the tarp, then two people associated with Louis Ryan are murdered
on Fondaras’ yacht.
 
Given what’s
happened before, that’s a coincidence we can’t ignore.”

“Do I need to remind you
that Louis Ryan is dead?
 
Do you
think he’s working this shit from the grave or something?
 
This is something else.”

“Then what is it?”

“It sure as shit ain’t
Ryan.”

“I’m asking for your help
to figure out what it is before it’s too late.”

“I’m not comfortable
helping out Leana Redman, Mario.”

“Then how about helping
me out?
 
And the woman who will bear
your grandchildren?
 
How about
that?”

Antonio De Cicco reached
for his juice.
 
He sipped it and
looked stone-cold out at his estate.
 
Mario had seen that face before.
 
His father was making a decision, weighing his options, considering the
angles and what was most important to him.
 
After a moment, his face softened and he finished his juice.

“The Family has
connections that can get to the bottom of this quicker than the police,” Mario
said.

“I know that.”

“We used to be close,
Dad.”

“‘Used to be’s don’t
count anymore’.”

His father actually sang
the line.
 
It was so unexpected that
Mario turned to him in surprise.
 
What he saw on his father’s face was the smirk he remembered as a child,
and with it, the tension between them started to evaporate.

“Really?” he said.
 
“Neil Diamond?”

“‘You Don’t Bring Me
Flowers.’
 
One of your mother’s
favorites, God rest her soul.
 
She
loved that fuckin’ song.
 
Even
Streisand was on it.
 
She played it
over and over when you was a kid.”

“You think I forgot?
 
That song used to chase me out of the
house.
 
Ma had weird taste in
music.”

“Your mother was
world-class.”

“No argument there.”

“You were her favorite.”

“I used to be yours.”

“You were.
 
But it’s complicated now.”

“We need to get beyond
this.”

His father didn’t answer.

“Will you help me?”

“I’ll do what I can,
Mario.
 
I’ll see what I can find
out.
 
That’s all I’m offering.
 
That’s as far as I’m willing to go for now.
 
I’ll have the boys look into it and see
what they can find.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You should.”

“I think if you gave
Leana a chance, you’d like her.”

“Don’t push it.
 
I don’t plan on seeing her anytime
soon.
 
Last time I saw her was at
the hospital where you were fighting for your life.
 
It didn’t go so well between us.
 
In fact, it got ugly.
 
If the time comes and we should meet
again, I’ll decide then what I think of her.
 
But there’s a lot of baggage, Mario.”

“Understood.”

“You really gonna marry
her?”

“I am.”

“What do the kids think
about that?”

“They don’t know, but I
think they suspect.
 
They like
Leana.”

“Good
luck with that.
 
And by the way, for
a couple of Jews, you gotta hand it to Diamond and Streisand.
 
Right now, that song is stuck in my
head.
 
It’s like an endless
loop.
 
‘I learned how to love and I
learned how to lie’,” Antonio De Cicco sang.
 
“That’s my life.
 
Right there.
 
Lovin’ and lyin’.
 
Served with a fuckin’ side of
schnitzel.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY

When Spocatti returned to
the apartment in Tribeca the day after the Fondaras party, it was five a.m. and
the streets were just starting to come to life.

He’d spent his evening
evading the police, which involved getting out of the Hudson unseen and onto
dry land at Nelson A. Rockefeller Park.
 
He watched the helicopters as they circled the region with spotlights and
checked the streets for police cars even though he knew some would be unmarked.

Soaking wet but
exhilarated by the swim and what took place on the ship, he removed his dinner
jacket and his shirt, tossed them in the water and walked casually to Warren
Street in a T-shirt, his dress pants and his ruined shoes.
 

Knowing he needed to get
off the street as quickly as possible, he caught a cab on West Street and asked
the driver to take him uptown as police cars with their flashing lights and
piercing sirens roared past him toward the marina.
 

In an attempt to dry off,
he rolled down his window, but in spite of the rush of air, the smell of the
river nevertheless made the cab smell to the point that the driver asked him if
he was all right.

Spocatti didn’t
speak.
 
He only met the man’s eyes in
the rearview mirror and nodded.
 
Best not to engage him, especially since he knew that the police would
reach out and ask the Taxi and Limousine Commission, which controlled the
private companies that owned the cabs in the city, to report if any driver picked
up anyone unusual during the night near the marina, such as a soaking-wet man
who smelled of the river.

Although he was
frustratingly close to the apartment he rented for him and Carmen, he decided
to wait for morning before returning there.
 
Best to be safe.
 
Best to throw off the driver with a stop
farther uptown.
 
If asked, the man
would report that stop, not one outside his apartment building.
 
He’d be able to identify him as a bald
man in wet clothing.
 
Otherwise, it
was too dark in the cab for specifics.

When they approached West
Fourteenth Street, Spocatti asked him to pull over, handed him a damp twenty,
told him to keep the change and left the car.
 

He walked to St. Francis
Xavier Church just off West Sixteenth Street, found the little nook to the left
of the building, which he had used before, years ago, to kill a priest known
for molesting children, and crouched down for the rest of the night.
 

When morning broke, his
clothes were dry, but he smelled like shit.
 
He walked to the Textile Building on
Leonard Street and chose the Church Street entrance.
 
He nodded at the doorman who recognized
him, and went for the elevator.
 
Their apartment was a corner unit on the eighth floor.
 
His keys must have fallen out during the
swim.
 
He knocked on the door and
Carmen answered.

“Glad you could make it,”
she said.
 
She was wearing jeans and
a faded-blue T-shirt.
 
Her dark hair
was pulled away from her face and hung down her back.
 
She wore no makeup, but with her olive
complexion and virtually poreless skin, she didn’t need any.
 
“Shower first; then we’ll debrief.”

When he was clean and
changed, he was surprised to find that she’d made coffee, scrambled eggs and
toast for him.
 
“You look as if you
could use something to eat,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
 
“So, eat, grab your coffee, and meet me
in the living room when you’re finished.
 
After we discuss last night, I want to know who else is on Ryan’s list,
what our plans are and when we act upon them.”

“You won’t be waiting
long,” he said.
 
“We do the next one
tonight.”

*
 
*
 
*

“Who’s the next one?”
Carmen asked.
 

She entered the living
room with her second cup of coffee.
 
They’d already debriefed and now it was time to settle into Ryan’s list
and talk about the next logical steps.

“Cullen instructed us to
do the Redmans last,” Spocatti said.
 
“He’s expecting something grand.
 
We’ll give him that.
 
Probably at the opening of their hotels, which Ryan screwed up last time
because he got in the way and wouldn’t listen to me.
 
In the meantime, there are other people
on the list who pissed off Ryan for any number of reasons, usually because they
either snubbed him or betrayed him.”

“How?”

Spocatti held up one of
the printouts Cullen emailed him on the people to be targeted.
 
“Take Piggy French, for instance.
 
She’s old Park Avenue, and by old Park
Avenue, I mean old Park Avenue money.
 
So old that her people don’t mix well with the new people.
 
And by new people, I mean those whose
fortunes weren’t borne out of inheritance.
 
Piggy’s was.
 
Piggy’s
great-grandfather founded American Steel.
 
One of her uncles was a vice president of the United States.
 
All of the men in her family went to
Harvard and all of the women, including Piggy, went to Vassar.
 
She and her family have homes where
their kind mix—Northeast Harbor, Manhattan, Europe.
 
Piggy was born into privilege, but
according to Cullen’s intel, Piggy also was something of a slut.”

“A slut?”

“And a pill-popping
drunk.”

“Who names their child
‘Piggy’?”

“People of Piggy’s ilk
all have nicknames,” Spocatti said.
 
“Piggy isn’t her real name.
 
It’s the name she was given.
 
Or saddled with.
 
You
decide.”
 
He lifted his eyes to
hers.
 
“You remember Babe McAdoo?”

The woman was murdered
last year.
 
She and Spocatti worked
with Babe in an effort to bring down the syndicate that killed Carmen’s lover,
Alex Williams, and nearly killed Carmen too.
 
“You know I do.”

“Babe’s real name was
Margaret.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“But she grew up as
Babe.
 
A lot of them have odd
names.
 
Fatty.
 
Sis.
 
Ezzie.
 
Sturgie.
 
Dodo.
 
Phippie.
 
Peach.
 
Hubie.
 
You get the picture.
 
I bet half of them don’t even know what
their real names are at this point.
 
But they all know money and social status.
 
Which, according to these papers, is why
when Louis Ryan approached Piggy French for a dance at a charitable event one
evening several years ago, she publicly laughed in his face and said she’d
never be seen dancing with someone who tore down the very buildings she loved
just so he could have his nasty skyscrapers.
 
Piggy was drunk at the time.
 
She called him the Manhattan wrecking
ball, and people laughed.
 
She
called him crass and stupid and an upstart, and people laughed.
 
A reporter from the
Post
was
nearby, heard it all and guess what?”

“Page Six?”

“Exactly.
 
Complete with a photo and a caption
loaded with public humiliation.”
 
He
held up one of the pages Cullen sent him and showed it to her.
 
It was a photo of Piggy French leaning
back in her chair with an arm slung over the back of it and a martini in her
hand.
 
Her mouth was open.
 
She was letting Louis Ryan have it.

“He looks shocked.”

“That’s arrogance for
you.
 
At that point in his career,
no one talked to Louis like that.”

“And for that, he wants
her dead?”

“Apparently they had
scenes at other parties throughout the years.
 
I came to know Louis fairly well before
he died.
 
That one scene probably
crushed him because of all the people who witnessed it, and then because of the
millions of others who read about it the next day.
 
I think it bothered him that even with
all his money, society still shut him out.
 
But he didn’t understand them.
 
He didn’t understand how they work.
 
He thought money was the way in when it isn’t and it never will be.
 
It’s all about lineage.
 
The breeding and the schools.
 
The history.
 
I’m not surprised he wanted her dead
given what she’s said to him and about him.”

“He sounds like he was a
lunatic.”

“Ryan was off, especially
at the end when he derailed.
 
He
came from nothing. He felt he had earned his position in society, but what he
didn’t understand is that they’d never accept him, no matter how much money he
had, which usually was far more than they had.
 
Some were worth a few million.
 
Ryan was worth billions.
 
It didn’t matter to them.
 
As far as they were concerned,
particularly when it came to the Park Avenue crowd, he’d never be one of them.”