The Big Scam (5 page)

“I'll tell you what, I'll give you two hundred a set.” Manny could see that Tanager immediately began multiplying in his head. There was nothing easier to sell than easy money.

“I could definitely use the cash. How many sets are you talking about?”

“Get me twenty sets, and we'll see how it goes.” Manny figured he would make maybe seven or eight hundred on each of them in return, maybe even a grand in Manhattan where parking was impossible. “I guarantee this won't come back on you.”

Tanager drummed his fingers on the bar for a few seconds, then reached over and offered Manny his hand. “I'll see you here, in the parking lot, a week from today at noon.”

Where is this guy?
For the tenth time since parking, Manny flipped on the air-conditioning, hoping that some mechanical miracle had repaired the system that hadn't worked in three years. Damp, rubbery-smelling air churned out of the vents. He turned it off again. To divert himself, he took a napkin from the glove compartment and started figuring the optimum return on his investment. Twenty thousand minus four—sixteen grand. He would give Mike five. Eleven thousand, not a bad little gig. Parisi would ask where it came from, but Manny didn't think he should tell him. Parisi had taken Baldovino in when everyone else would have rather pretended he didn't exist. All in all, the crew thought Mike was a good captain. His only problem was that because he had not come from the same background as the rest of them, he occasionally tried a little too hard to be a gangster, to be a little tougher than he obviously was. Although he had done some time as a kid, he hadn't been involved in the hardcore felonies that were the normal precursors for acceptance into an organized crime regime—unless your father was Joey Stones.

Ultimately Parisi was an honorable guy, and in their business, that trumped all minor violations, and quite a few of the majors. For instance, Manny had the distinct feeling that Parisi had figured out his fear of bridges, because every time he started to send him on an errand across one of them, he would stop himself and find an excuse to send someone else, never confronting Manny with any suspicions. And because he was a standup guy, of the five grand turned over to him from the plates, Parisi would kick two or three up to the don, making sure that Baldovino got credit for the tribute. It wasn't big money, but it showed respect.

Tanager pulled into the lot. He was only a few minutes late. He parked his ancient Toyota next to Baldovino's equally seasoned Lincoln and scanned the parking lot as he got out. He was carrying a large pink cake box. Tanager got in and handed Manny the box, its weight too heavy for bakery goods. “As promised, twenty sets.”

“Any problems?”

“Smooth as silk. I had an overtime job last night and stayed late. I just ran them before I did my other work. Kind of funny, getting paid overtime to make them.”

“You're going to have to trust me for the four thousand.”

“Goddamn it, Manny, that wasn't the deal.”

“Hey, it's not like I'm going to stiff you. I'll be back for more. I can't do that and expect you to deliver. As soon as I sell four grand worth, it's yours.”

“Do you have
any
money? I was counting on this. I owe, and it ain't to the fucking Chase Manhattan.”

Baldovino took out his wallet and stretched it open to prove his insolvency. “I'm busted. But like I said, as soon as I see anything, it'll get to you.”

“When are you going to start selling them?”

“You just saw my wallet—today, right now.”

“I'm curious; where would you go to unload something like this?”

“Brooklyn, the old neighborhood. You know, kind of test the waters to see what they'll bring.”

“Okay, here's the deal. If I don't have my four grand by Saturday, don't call me again.”

“I'm on my way to Brooklyn right now.”

“Please don't fuck me, Manny.”

“I'm on my way, I swear.”

Tanager shook his hand with less enthusiasm than when he'd gotten into the car. “Saturday.”

DICK ZALENSKI KNOCKED ON THE DOOR FRAME
and stuck his childlike face in Vanko's office. “Nick, this is Brad Kenyon. Found him in the reception area. I don't know where Abby is.”

“She's running some errands.” As Vanko stood up, Kenyon thanked Zalenski with an elegant nod of the head. He wore a black turtleneck under an expensive black and white houndstooth jacket that seemed to strobe in the dusty fluorescent light. His brown hair was swept back from his delicate face in glistening cords. Vanko shook hands and motioned him into a chair. There seemed to be an air of restraint about Kenyon, as if he had been miscast as a government employee and was as amused as anyone by the occupation he now found himself in. Vanko suspected there might be money in his family, an unusual occurrence within their ranks, and could see why others might consider him a potential problem. Distrust had always proven itself a reliable ally of agents, both outside their ranks and within. Whether accurate or not, judgments tended to be made quickly. It was better to be wrong than to be taken in. Agents felt most comfortable with newcomers who were in character: bargain suits, just-out-of-the-military haircuts, and a trace of angst swimming just beneath the surface. Not only was Kenyon void of these conformities, but he had successfully recovered stolen art. Being out of character and still accomplishing things was more than likely his real crime.

“So, you were working art thefts on your last squad.”

“Was.”

“And you're still in your first year.”

“I'm still on probation if that's what you're asking.”

“I don't know what you've heard, but just because you've been sent out here, don't think I'm looking for a way to get rid of you.”

Without any noticeable apprehension, Kenyon studied Vanko's damaged face. His new supervisor did not try to use lighting, distance, or positioning to mute its effect, but instead held it out to scrutiny with an enviable dignity. “Fair enough.”

“I understand you made some nice recoveries.”

“Yes, I guess I did. Art is kind of a niche of mine.” The word was pronounced as a European might—“neesh.” “That's why it's a little bit of a mystery why I was transferred here. This squad works organized crime, doesn't it?”

“More or less.”

The walls in the office, like those throughout most of the squad's space, were covered with cheap wooden paneling that had been painted a color that was either pale green or an oxidized gold. Hanging opposite Vanko's desk were several black-and-white photos of men, obviously under surveillance; some were going to gray, the heavier ones wore designer warmup suits. The photos were neatly skewered with pushpins and spaced at perfect intervals. “The enemy, I assume.”

“Something like that,” Vanko said, his tone neither superior nor contentious.

On another section of the wall, almost lost in the shadows, were more than a dozen photos. Kenyon got up to take a closer look. The people in these were obviously not members of organized crime. The first one was a picture of an Asian man. His body strained against the weight of a heavy metal container, which he was pushing through the garment district. His expression was an amalgam of the bewilderment of an outsider and the hopeful confidence of impending acceptance. If he worked hard enough, long enough, and made good choices, one day he would be inside looking out. And if not him, undeniably his children. Next to it was a photo of a black woman, her dreadlocks disobediently emerging from underneath a knit hat.

“These are exceptional. Yours?” Vanko nodded with neither pride nor self-consciousness. “How did you get them all with the same expression?”

“Patience.”

“How many photos did you have to take to get these?”

“Hundreds, I don't know, thousands. We have a makeshift darkroom here. We're kind of the jacks-of-all-trades for the office, always getting called to photograph someone or someplace for arrest and search warrants. Most of us have had to become photographers to survive. It's just more practical.”

“These are all immigrants.”

“Yes, they're kind of an interest of mine. I came here with my parents from Greece when I was six.”

Kenyon turned back to the supervisor, his voice no longer contained. “I'm sorry, but I'm really wondering what I'm doing here. There's something I've got to ask you.”

“Go ahead.”

“I've heard some rumors, so I'm just going to ask you. Was I sent here because they think I'm gay?”

Vanko hesitated. He didn't want Kenyon to think it was a foregone conclusion. “They think it's a possibility.”

“Why didn't someone just ask me?”

“I think you know why.”

“Lawsuits.”

“That and precedents.”

“This seems like a very roundabout way to deal with it.”

“When you're here a little longer, you'll find that only in the most blatant cases does the Bureau get rid of someone because of their actual sins, at least not their sexual sins. Usually they just find some uncontestable
t
that hasn't been crossed and let it do their dirty work for them.”

“Which in my case is not that difficult because I'm still on first-year probation.”

“I've already told you, I'm a supervisor, not an executioner.”

“Aren't you going to ask?”

“No.”

“Well, just for the record, I'm not. This isn't the first time people have thought that about me. I know I don't come off exactly as a barroom brawler, but I do like women.” He grinned. “I've got some telephone numbers if you'd like testimonials.”

“Like I said, I've got enough to do. If you want, as soon as inspection's over, I'll call the SAC and get you sent back to the squad you were on.”

“I think I'd find it hard to work for that supervisor after this.”

Vanko opened a drawer and took out an office directory. He found what he was looking for and dropped the list back into the drawer. “When I had about as much time in as you do, I was working on a squad that handled bank robberies and kidnappings. I really liked it. Then I got into it pretty good with the supervisor over something that really wasn't that important. But I had my pride, so I requested a transfer off the squad. Six months later, the supervisor was transferred to FBIHQ, and I was never able to get back to that squad. According to the directory your supervisor is here just getting his ticket punched. If you really like working art theft, don't give it up because you're trying to get even with him. In the meantime feel free to hide out here until he leaves.”

Kenyon found himself involuntarily nodding at Vanko's logic. “I'll keep it in mind.” As he turned to go, a photograph he hadn't noticed before caught his eye. Apparently homeless, a black man was leaning into a trash basket. By the gauzy light, it appeared to be early morning along some Manhattan curb, and he was digging through the twenty-four hours of flotsam contained inside. Next to him on the sidewalk was a gigantic clear plastic bag filled to near capacity with aluminum cans, hundreds of them. Kenyon could almost feel the summer heat shimmering off the damp pavement at the man's feet. He had on a threadbare sport coat that had the top button fastened formally across his midsection. He also wore high black rubber boots that inexplicably seemed useful for what he was doing. They gave him the look of a fisherman efficiently excavating clams at low tide. At the last moment before the photo was snapped, he had instinctively stared up at the camera with a look of disrespect that gave him an implicit dignity.

“This one is different.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. He has a kind of grace.” Vanko smiled warmly. “Makes me think there's hope for all of us.”

“So he's the poster boy for this squad.”

Vanko laughed. “I just like the photograph, but you may be right.”

Kenyon knew that his supervisor understood these photographs far better than anyone. After all, his empathy had created them. He looked back at Vanko's face and, in the stinted light, froze it in a single-frame image. It explained Vanko's understanding and fraternity with the men and women on the wall. He too was an outsider, once by birth and now by the residue of tragedy, more enduring than most. So was Kenyon, sentenced to this unfamiliar world as every member of the squad had been—immigrants, castaways all.

TRUE TO HIS WORD, MANNY HEADED STRAIGHT FOR
Brooklyn. He had the perfect guy to sell the first set of plates to—an Arab who owned a convenience store. He was a known fence in the neighborhood. Baldovino had once sold him fifteen thousand dollars' worth of stolen food stamps. But the Arab was a tight bastard, giving only ten cents on the dollar.

As always, he was behind the counter where he could observe every square foot of his store. Manny walked in, put the box on the counter, and shook hands. The smell of brewing coffee hung thickly in the air and mingled with the scents of Middle Eastern spices that filled large scoop bins. The store owner's grip was strong, but his eyes gave no indication of friendship. They shifted to the box suspiciously.

Baldovino said, “Have I got something for you.”

The Arab smiled slyly. “Not cake?”

Manny opened the box. “Not cake.”

The Arab's eyes widened as he turned the plates in his hand, running his fingers along the edges, then inspecting the backs for any detectable flaws. “These counterfeit?”

Just then a man in his thirties walked in and went directly to the snack aisle. He was wearing a windbreaker and sunglasses.

Manny lowered his voice. “These are the real deal. They're as good as the plates on your car. They're made by the state. Foolproof.”

“One hundred dollars,” the Arab offered.

Manny smiled with some satisfaction at having the upper hand and put them back in the box carefully to suggest their worth. When he started tying the string, the Arab countered, “Two hundred.”

“A thousand.”

“Take them and get out.”

Manny rationalized that the Arab would be a more difficult sale than the rich white people he would sell the rest of them to, but right now he needed some walking-around money. “Okay, eight hundred.”

The storekeeper ignored him and raised his voice to the customer. “Can I help you find something, sir?”

The man was inspecting the nutritional information on a bag of pretzels. Looking up, he said, “Ah, I'm looking for something that's not loaded with fat. Do you have a health food section?”

“Sorry, you're looking at everything we have right there.”

“Five hundred,” Manny countered.

“Two fifty, end of discussion.”

“Okay, okay.” Manny took out the plates and handed them back to the store owner, who was smiling the same malicious smile he had used when he'd bought the stolen food stamps. The Arab handed two hundred-dollar bills and a fifty across the counter.

The customer said something in a low voice. Unable to make it out, the Arab assumed he was reading another label to himself. He set the plates on a shelf under the cash register.

While only getting a quarter of what he hoped the plates might sell for elsewhere, Manny walked out feeling like he had fought the cheap Arab to a draw. For him, not a bad piece of negotiation.

As soon as he got in his car, a gun was pointed at his face. “FBI!” Another agent was standing at the passenger's side with a gun drawn. Two more men ran into the store. Manny was pulled out of the car and handcuffed.

After they searched him, one of the agents took the box from the front seat and opened it. “They're in here.” He took the plates out and started counting them. “Nineteen sets.”

The first agent led him to a Bureau car. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“That's it.”

“That's what?” the agent asked.

“I'll take that one—to remain silent.”

“Fair enough, but I have to read them all to you.”

While the agent offered the option of afforded or appointed counsel, Baldovino realized that even though being arrested for the first time was something he had always dreaded, it now carried a certain liberation. He suspected, if nothing else, it would earn him some respect.

The Arab was brought out in handcuffs, led by the man who had posed as a customer. It occurred to Manny that he had not been reading the package but talking into a hidden radio. He must have been followed. But how had they known?

Manny suddenly questioned his latest enterprise. Where were New York plates made? Why would it be in New Jersey? And how did the FBI get onto this so fast? He was set up. He had to smile at the expression.
Set up
—a defense so overused that it had actually become subtle evidence of guilt to all but the most stubborn of jurors. Tanager had to be either an FBI informant or worse, an undercover agent. He had been very smooth: in hindsight, too smooth, and he lacked the uncleansed cast of someone who had survived years in correctional warehouses. Baldovino laughed out loud. The agent in the front seat looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” He laughed harder. “I'm fucked.” As much as it hurt to admit, Baldovino had again earned his nickname. The Lag had been too slow on his feet. The FBI had hooked strings to him and pulled them in the most uncomplicated sequence possible. And he had performed flawlessly. He closed his eyes tightly, and the fatigue he sometimes forgot he carried burned the underside of the lids. He was so glad his father wasn't alive.

“Maybe we could let you work this off.”

Before he could reply, something occurred to Baldovino. The government had gone to a great deal of trouble to target him. He was small-time, and the case certainly wasn't the kind that normally warranted the attention of the rubric-seeking FBI, but with the agent's offer to exchange freedom for information, everything suddenly made sense. They were after Mike Parisi. Then something far more immediate struck him. “Where are you taking me?”

“To the magistrate. For arraignment.”

“Yeah, I know that, but where?”

“In Manhattan.”

Baldovino felt his breath coming faster. “Can we take the tunnel?”

“We'll take the bridge, it's faster. You do want to try to make bail tonight, I assume.”

“Fuck bail. I want the tunnel.”

Not understanding what was going on, but sensing an advantage, the agent suggested, “Like I said, maybe we could work something out.”

For the first time Baldovino took a close look at him. He appeared too young to be arresting people. It was a game to these college boys. A year from now, Baldovino would be in prison, and they would be working elsewhere, going to their kids' games and school plays, their only remembrance of him an exaggerated sense of accomplishment. Maybe he wasn't as smart as everyone else, but loyalty didn't take any talent, just the ability to endure self-punishment. It was something he had inherited from his mother that he could finally use. His mouth twisted into an uncomfortable knot of resolution. “Fuck it, kid, let's take the bridge. Any bridge. The bigger the better.”