The Big Scam (2 page)

Snow smiled appreciatively. “I could use a change of underwear.”

Straker laughed. “Christ, Howard, that's actually pretty funny. For you, it's damn near hysterical.”

Snow looked down, slightly embarrassed by the compliment, and then to ease his discomfort walked around the back of the car and examined the shattered window. “Dreagen's going to be pissed about that.”

“Dreagen? What does the administrative ASAC have to do with this? Or anything that real agents do?”

“He told Nick that he wanted this for his personal Bucar after we were done tonight. I guess it won't be too bad to get fixed.”

Straker laughed in the peculiar way he always did when he was about to say something sardonic. “That's perfect. Assistant Special Agent in Charge Bernard E. Dreagen. A sniveling asshole, who has never worked a case in his life, wants to drive a Mercedes that some poor hump agent worked his tail off to seize as part of a drug forfeiture, a car he could probably use undercover to make more cases.” Straker got a black leather bag out of the backseat and pulled a handheld radio from it. He tossed it to Snow, who caught it clumsily. “Call for any of the units that are still in the area who can give us a ride.”

“Aren't we taking this?” He watched the rain slant in the jagged opening where the rear window had been. “It isn't that bad.” Straker got behind the wheel without answering. “What are you going to do?” Snow asked, his voice slightly elevated, more pleading than questioning.

Straker took a drag on his cigarette. “Evidently you've forgotten how delighted Dreagen was to dump you on this squad.”

“Come on, Jack.”

Straker took a final, long drag and flipped his cigarette in a lazy, tumbling arc. “Call for the car…and you better give me a little room.”

Snow shook his head and backed up.

The Mercedes' oversized engine caught with a roar. Straker's eyebrows snapped up and down as he raced the engine. He fastened his seat belt without bothering to close the door. He dropped the shift into reverse and gunned it. The car accelerated a hundred feet before striking a concrete light pillar, caving in the rear end of the vehicle. The fifteen-foot metal light stanchion collapsed and fell on top of the car, shattering the sunroof. Straker then put it in neutral and revved the engine to near capacity. With a formal salute to Snow, he closed the door and shifted into gear, holding the accelerator against the floor. The tires spun briefly on the wet pavement, then the vehicle catapulted forward. It reached almost fifty miles an hour before slamming into the wall, taking out a couple dozen courses of brick. The engine sputtered, choked, and died as steam escaped up into the cool rain.

Snow ran to the car as Straker stumbled out, his forehead bleeding. “Jesus Christ, Jack, are you all right?”

“Fucking air bag failed,” Straker said through clenched teeth, testing the cut with his fingertips. “I think I screwed up.”

“Whoa, John William Straker second-guessing an impulse?”

“Jesus, Howie, first a joke, and now you're taking a shot at me?”

“I've been running with a bad crowd.”

“And yet another shot. Maybe there
is
hope for you.” Snow smiled self-consciously. “But I think you're missing the point. If I had been more patient, and with a little bit of luck, the ASAC could have been killed driving this thing.”

MIKE PARISI SAT AT THE FIVE-DOLLAR BLACKJACK
table, trying to slow-play what remained of the hundred-dollar stack of chips in front of him. It seemed foolish to worry about such a small amount when ten thousand dollars of his own money had just been bet on another one of his crew's “can't-lose” schemes, but for some reason, watching this hundred dollars trickle into the lava flow of cash and credit card numbers headed toward the Mohegan Sun counting room was making him even more anxious. Part of it was that even though he had been their boss for two years, he knew they still didn't accept him. And sitting and waiting for this latest scam to play out, he wasn't sure whether it was more prank than con. He even began to wonder if he wasn't the mark.

“Your bet, sir,” the dealer said, this time with a little less diplomacy. Parisi looked at him slowly and then again at the two cards that lay face up in front of him.

When he became engaged to Danielle, going to work for her uncle had seemed like a reasonable idea, at least financially. The downside was that his new employer, Anthony Carrera, was head of the Galante crime family. Not that breaking the law had ever kept Parisi awake at night. As a kid he had earned himself six months in a New York State juvenile facility for stealing cars. Of all the lessons incarceration could teach, the two he came away with were: never break the law out of boredom, and if the punishment for the crime outweighs the reward, you've fucked up. In recent years, before he met Danielle, he had been involved in some pyramid sales schemes, getting out just ahead of the regulators. And when nothing else was available, he worked a few boiler-room operations, defrauding people whose greed made them foolish enough to trust a voice on the telephone.

Carrera had offered Parisi the bulk of his loansharking and gambling interests to oversee. With that responsibility came a crew, or as Carrera had called it with a formality more suited to his generation, a regime. Parisi would be its
capo.
The previous captain, he was assured, had died of natural causes. Parisi was to be paid 10 percent of whatever his crew brought in, which, based on the don's estimate, would bring him roughly a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars a year. Additionally, he would be given 10 percent of any additional revenue his crew could create.

But memories of juvenile confinement warned Parisi of the consequences of easy money. He told Danni that before he could accept her uncle's offer, he had to be sure they had a way out—and in no more than three or four years—before it all became too comfortable and brought with it the inevitable prison sentence, or worse. A boyhood friend of Parisi's, Colin O'Brien, who had done well in northeastern New Jersey real estate, offered a possible solution. His father had a friend who owned a Cadillac dealership in southern Florida and was looking to retire. The asking price was ten million dollars, which by current standards was more than fair. O'Brien told Parisi that they could get a loan from the banks, but the downstroke would be 30 percent, making Parisi's end a million five, a number Parisi knew would be impossible to accumulate legitimately. Since the laws that he would be breaking for the don were not a priority for law enforcement, Parisi drew in a cautious breath and accepted.

In the last two years, he had managed to save close to three hundred thousand dollars, funneling it into an account used for his “consulting” business. His wife pitched in by working as a hostess at a local restaurant to bring in additional income. Their only disagreement over money was her insistence on buying the works of local artists, many of which were exhibited in the restaurant. While he thought most of them were amateurish, he never objected too strenuously. He supposed it was because of the way she went about it, buying them without apology, never asking for an opinion, confident in her choice. It was a strength he admired. He wished he were equally sure of himself with his crew. If he had been, he wouldn't be sitting in a casino in Connecticut in the middle of the night.

“I'll take a hit,” he said, and when the dealer turned over his third card, it was a queen, giving him twenty-three. He tossed in another five-dollar chip and looked at his watch.

Less than three hours earlier Jimmy Tatorrio had called him at home with his latest “surefire” moneymaker, a bet that would return eleven thousand dollars to Parisi on a loan of ten. What Tatorrio didn't say was that if he lost the bet, the chances of Parisi ever seeing his money again were extremely small. A judicious person would have said no, but Parisi was the outsider. The rest of his crew had come up together, ripping and running through the streets of Brooklyn. They had trusted one another their entire lives. His position as their boss had been gained solely through the sacrament of marriage. He felt he had little choice but to say yes.

“Ten thousand? No problem,” he said, trying to strike the pose of casual recklessness the members of his crew seemed to thrive on. Since taking over, he had tried different things to cast himself in the role of mobster, but with little success. Barely five foot seven and thin, he was not physically imposing. He was in his early thirties but looked younger, possessing one of those boyish faces that would probably change little over the next twenty years. He was wearing the kind of warmup suit some of the older men wore, but its bagginess made him look even more misplaced. A gold crucifix, slightly too large, hung across his chest. Tucking it inside his jacket, he pulled up the zipper a couple of inches and took a watery sip of his scotch, another thing he didn't like. He took a larger swallow to punish himself for his pretense.

He glanced at Gus Dellaporta sitting next to him. There was a mobster. At 270 pounds, he was their chief enforcer, but his hovering presence usually precluded any need for actual violence. If his crew had any respect among the other families, it was thanks to Dellaporta. No matter how badly one of their little enterprises fell apart, he never panicked, but methodically found a way to get out, managing to salvage some dignity for the crew.

Jimmy Tatorrio was another story. He lived purely by his wits. If his request for a loan had come during the day, Parisi would have guessed that the money was needed for another “lock” at the track. “What do you need it for this late?” Parisi had asked, hoping for a loophole.

“Did I ever tell you the story about the time I helped the FBI put the bug in the old club?”

Tatorrio had a flair for throwing out the one line that begged for the rest of the story. “No,” Parisi said, forcing as much disinterest into his tone as possible.

Tatorrio fought the urge to entertain him with the long version. “Remind me to tell you about it sometime. But a guy from the Parrinos had to lend me ten grand that night. Then the SOB gouged me for nine months. Every week when I'd pay him the juice, he'd make sure somebody else from his crew was there so he could enjoy rubbing it in. I've been working on a deal to get even for a year now, waiting for just the right time. He walked in the club tonight and started busting my balls. You know my temper, so I started this in motion without thinking. But honest, Mike, this can't miss.”

“I'm going to need more than ‘it can't miss.' ”

“It would take too long to explain. We're leaving to drive up to Mohegan Sun in less than an hour, and I've got to get over to my parents' and pick up their dog and then get back here.”

“Why the dog?”

“He's the bet,” Tatorrio said. “Mike, you're the only chance I got.”

It sounded like a disaster in need only of financing. He started to search for other reasons why he couldn't get involved and finally said, “I'll be there in a half hour.”

At the club, Tatorrio's car was parked behind a black Lincoln that Parisi didn't recognize. Dellaporta and Tatorrio were sitting in the back room drinking with two other men. A golden retriever lay obediently next to the table. Tatorrio stood up and shook Parisi's hand.

Six foot two, Jimmy Tatorrio was narrow at the hips and shoulders. His entire body, including a long neck and head, could be best described as a narrow cylinder, the most salient feature of which was a gnarled Adam's apple that appeared to be as prominent as his shortened chin. When he spoke, all the surrounding features seemed to stand fast while the dominating knot of cartilage bobbed excitedly. His eyes protruded like those of a creature that had survived because of a few extra degrees of peripheral vision. That Tatorrio had escaped a lifetime of obvious nicknames was a testament to his ability to never take himself seriously, a point of silent but inestimable admiration among Parisi's crew.

“You're a lifesaver, man,” Tatorrio said. “This is Joe Chianese. Joe, Mike Parisi.” In his late forties, with an oily, out-of-date hair-style, Chianese had the impatience, the racing emptiness of a degenerate gambler. “How are you?”

Chianese shot a thumb over his shoulder. “This is Billy.” Parisi nodded.

No one said anything further, and Parisi realized all eyes were on him. “You're waiting for the money.”

“That's why we're all here.” Dellaporta said.

“Can I at least know what the bet is?”

Tatorrio said, “That I will be able to get Rusty here into the Mohegan Sun.” He leaned down and stroked the dog's head. “And he will not only be allowed to sit at the blackjack table in a player's chair, but to actually play.”

“For one hour,” Chianese interjected.

“Yes, Joe, for one hour.”

Chianese said, “If this is some kind of trick with words or some other bullshit, all bets are off.”

“The dog will be allowed to play blackjack with me at the Mohegan Sun for one hour,” Tatorrio said. “Period.”

Parisi looked at Dellaporta for some sign of reassurance. “Don't ask me, Mike. I know they don't let animals in a casino under no circumstance. And as far as playing…”

Parisi stared at Tatorrio hoping to get some indication of how he was going to do it. Asking the wrong question might expose whatever sleight of hand Tatorrio had devised and cancel the bet. Tatorrio stared back evenly. Parisi handed him the small gym bag he was carrying. Tatorrio placed the bills on the table. “There's mine, Joe.”

Chianese riffled through one of the bundles and tossed it back on the table. He handed his car keys to Billy, who headed out the door. “It's okay with me if Gus holds the money.”

“I appreciate this, Mike,” Tatorrio said. “I'll see you tomorrow when we get back.”

Parisi looked over at Gus, who was examining the bundled bills. “I think I should go along.”

“Really? Sure, Mike, I just thought, you know, you'd have better things to do.”

“If I was a little smarter, I probably would. But I should at least get some entertainment for my money, don't you think?”

Billy came back and handed Chianese a bulging manila envelope. He gave it to Tatorrio, who turned it over to Dellaporta and said, “Okay, let's ride.”

Parisi said he'd go with Tatorrio and with the newest member of the Galante crime family, Rusty. The other three went in Chianese's Lincoln. As soon as Tatorrio pulled away, Parisi said, “Okay, Jimmy, I know this is another one of your scams.”

“Like I said in there, there is no scam.”

“Then how're you going to do it?”

“Don't you trust me?”

“I'm driving up to Connecticut in the middle of the fucking night. Does that sound like I trust you?”

Tatorrio smiled disarmingly. “Like I told you, I've been working on it for a while. I
really
need to get this guy. You said you wanted to be entertained. When we get there just go inside and get a good seat. It'll be much more enjoyable if you don't know what's going to happen. If I told you now, you might get all nervous, and Rusty can sense that kind of stuff.”

“You mean my money is in the hands of a fucking dog?”

“Paws, Mike. Paws.”

Parisi could feel the anger rising, not at Tatorrio, but at himself for not pressing him further. He just gave this man ten thousand dollars, and the guy didn't even feel the need to explain himself. He slouched back in silence.

When they finally pulled up to the main entrance of the casino, Tatorrio dialed Dellaporta's cell phone. “Gus, you guys inside?”

“Yeah, we got a table that's empty. The five-dollar table. Just come straight back through the lobby and you'll see us.”

“That's what you think.”

“What's that mean?”

“Patience, Gus.”

Parisi now understood that his ten thousand dollars was about to bankroll a James Tatorrio performance, one that he hoped would result in a tale of such epic proportions that it would distinguish itself amidst an already impressive oeuvre. “I'll see you inside, Jimmy.”

 

Parisi looked down at his cards again—twenty. The dealer had blackjack. He pushed in another chip. The four men played distractedly for the next fifteen minutes, watching in the general direction of the front door.

Then in the distance, they saw casino patrons walking around something coming toward them. A few seconds later, the obstacle materialized. Tatorrio, wearing dark glasses, was being led by a uniformed security guard and was holding on to a double-strapped leather harness with Rusty at the other end, placidly following the casino employee. Parisi burst into laughter. Tatorrio's face was slightly askew. Even Joe Chianese, who sensed he was about to lose ten thousand dollars, started chuckling.