The Piranhas (10 page)

“When you spoke to my uncle this morning, what else did he say?”

“He told me to call the captain and have him send the coca to a man named Ochoa in Medellín. That was the same man that Angelo was taking it to.” She took a cigarette from the night table. Slowly she dragged the smoke into her lungs. “I told him that I should tell you. He said nothing. Just that you should call him at two o’clock.”

I looked at her. “I don’t know whether I want to talk to him.”

“But he loves you,” she said. “And he needs you. More now since Angelo is gone.”

I was silent.

“And what about me?” she asked. “We had something special. I need you too.”

I met her eyes and there was a hint of tears in them. “It doesn’t make sense to me anymore. You’ll get along, you always have. But, I don’t know how to live in your world.”

“You have to feel something,” she said huskily. “If not about me, then your uncle. After all, he’s still your family.”

“The family has given me nothing but grief,” I said. “Tell my uncle if he wants to talk to me I will be at my father’s old apartment.”

Then I turned so that she could not see the tears in my eyes, picked up my valise, and walked out the door.

12

MY FATHER’S APARTMENT
was only a ten-minute taxi ride from the Pierre. Across Fifty-ninth Street and up Central Park West to Seventieth Street. It was in an old-fashioned apartment house, nothing like the new apartments that were being built on the East Side. It was a comfortable apartment on the eleventh floor, with high ceilings, two bedrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and two bathrooms. My father had bought it after my mother had died. He couldn’t live in the house in which he had spent his life with her. When he moved to the apartment, however, he did get the second bedroom for me, even though most of the time I would be away at boarding school.

Barney, the doorman, greeted me as I stepped out of the taxi. He took my valise. “Welcome home, Mr. Jed,” he said, smiling.

I paid the driver and turned to him. He had called me “Mr. Jed” ever since we’d moved in when I was twelve years old. “How are you, Barney,” I said.

“Getting on, Mr. Jed,” he said, leading me through the lobby to the elevator. “The arthritis is still bothering me. But I can handle it.”

“Good,” I said, slipping a ten-dollar bill into his hand.

He put the valise down in the elevator beside me and pressed the button to my floor. “The apartment should be nice,” he said. “The cleaning girl was just there yesterday.”

“Thank you,” I said as the doors began to close.

I dropped the valise in the entry hall as I entered the apartment. Barney was right. The apartment was neat and clean, though close. I walked into the living room and opened the windows. The fresh air coming in from Central Park helped. I took my valise and went into my bedroom. I opened the bedroom windows and looked out across the park. I could see the towers of the Sherry Netherland and the top of the Pierre next to it on Fifth Avenue.

It didn’t make me feel that good. I unpacked my valise. Then I threw it on the floor of the closet, took my jacket off, and left it on a chair. I picked up the attaché case, went into the dining room, and opened it on the table.

I checked to see that the money was still there. Seventeen thousand dollars. Inside the flap I took out Angelo’s passport and his wallet with his credit cards and driver’s license. I lifted the Rolex from the zippered slot. I looked at it for a moment. It had a dark-blue face with diamonds at one, six, and nine; the calendar date was at three o’clock. I turned it over. It was engraved in thin script: “To my beloved son, Angelo. On his 21st Birthday, from Papa.”

I put the watch back into the slot. I was still angry with my uncle because he was a part of all those playing games with me. But he was my father’s brother, and Angelo had been my cousin. And whether I liked it or not, they were family.

I closed the attaché case, took it into the living room and placed it on my father’s desk. At the end of the desk was a double silver frame, one side containing a picture of my father, the other of my mother. I stared at them. I was nine when my mother had died. I always felt guilty because I couldn’t remember much about her. Then I looked at the picture of my father. I felt strange. For the first time I realized how much he looked like my uncle.

I took a deep breath, went into the kitchen, took down a bottle of Courvoisier from a shelf, and poured myself a good shot. The cognac burned down to my stomach. I began to feel warm. But not better.

I sat down at the desk and swallowed another mouthful of cognac, then picked up the telephone. I didn’t know Alma’s private number so I called the Pierre.

The operator’s voice was professionally cheerful. “Miss Vargas is out.”

“Did she say what time she would return?” I asked.

“No, sir,” she answered.

“Then would you leave a message, please, that Mr. Stevens called. My number is—”

The operator interrupted me. “She left a message for you, sir. She wanted to let you know that she was leaving for France this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” I said and put down the telephone. I thought for a moment, then looked up at my father’s photograph. “What do I do now, Father?”

But photographs don’t answer questions. My father just smiled and looked wise. I took another sip of the cognac and stared at the photograph. Maybe I was getting drunk, but I thought he looked even more like his brother than he had before. The house phone rang, and I picked it up. “Hello.”

“Mr. Jed, this is Barney,” he said. “Your uncle, Mr. Di Stefano is here.”

“Okay, Barney,” I said. “Send him up.”

I left my glass of cognac on the desk and went to the entry hall and opened the door. I waited until he came out of the elevator. His two bodyguards were right behind him. They started toward me. I held up one hand. “Not them,” I said. “I want to talk to you alone.”

He motioned to them, and they stayed in the corridor. I stepped back and let him into the apartment and closed the door.

My uncle was a big man. Before I could turn, he put his arms around me in an embrace. Then he kissed me on both cheeks. “My son,” he said.

“My uncle,” I said stiffly.

He sniffed. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Just a cognac,” I said. “Would you like one?”

“No,” he said. “You know I hardly ever drink before six.”

“I forgot,” I said. I led him into the living room and opened the attaché case. “This was Angelo’s.”

He looked down at it silently.

“Everything in it belongs to Angelo,” I said. “There is seventeen thousand dollars left.” I opened the flap. “Here are his driver’s license, passport, and credit cards.” Then I unzipped the slot and took out Angelo’s Rolex.

Slowly he took it in his hand and turned to the engraving on the back. Then he began to cry. Hard, dry, heaving sobs, the tears falling from his eyes down his cheek.

I put my arm around his shaking shoulders and guided him into the chair beside the desk. My own voice was choking. “I’m sorry, Uncle Rocco. I’m really sorry.”

He held his face in his hands. “I really didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. Not until now.”

“Please, Uncle Rocco,” I said. “You have to be strong.”

He shook his head, his face still in his hands. “My beautiful son is lost. He is gone. And now I have no son. No heir who came forth from my loins. What have I done to him?”

“You have done nothing to him. All you did was to always love him,” I said.

He looked up at me. “I should have stopped him. I told him not to go. I told him I didn’t want you to go. But he had to do it his own way. He said if he didn’t go, no one would ever respect him, he would always live in my shadow.”

I was silent. I didn’t know what to say.

He looked at me. “Was he in very much pain?”

“There was no pain. It was over in a second,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “I thank God for that,” he said. “And I also thank God that you were there with him. At least he had his family around him.”

I remembered holding his head in my arms. “Family,” I said. Then I killed him. I looked at my uncle. “His family was with him,” I said.

My uncle was quiet now. “I will arrange for a mass.”

“Yes,” I said.

“You will be there?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“And you will be my son, my heir,” he said, taking my hand.

I held his hand. “But I am not Angelo,” I said. “I am not like him. I would not know how to live in his world.”

“But you will be rich,” my uncle said. “More rich than you ever dreamed. Already you will receive twenty million from Angelo. He left it to you in his will. You were his only heir.”

“My father left me all I need. I do not want to be rich. We can give Angelo’s gift to the poor.”

He looked at me. “You are as crazy as your father. You come with me and a whole world will open up for you. In twenty years cocaine will make you a billionaire.”

“Or dead,” I said. “The only thing I learned in all of this is that we cannot control this world. The South Americans in time will take over that business. They grow it, they manufacture it, soon they will want to distribute it. Then we will all be out of it or dead.”

He stared at me. “Maybe you are not as crazy as I thought. Then what do you want to do?”

“My father had a good business. He rented automobiles. I have another ambition. Airlines are becoming greater each year. But they need capital to own the planes. And capital is difficult to get. I got the idea while traveling on TWA, and I began to notice that behind each cockpit there was a metal sign. ‘This plane is the property of Hughes Aircraft Corp. and leased from H.A.C.’”

My uncle shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Hughes owns only TWA. I’m sure that many other airlines would like the same kind of deal,” I said.

“Aircraft leasing! But that would take a great deal of money,” my uncle said.

“I’m sure that you have the connections to find the money. I think we can begin with two hundred million.” I laughed.

“I have to think about it,” he said.

“Forget it,” I said. “You can’t even get into this business. There are seven government agencies keeping close check on the airlines. I think you would have to retire before you get into anything like this.”

“Maybe you are really crazy after all,” my uncle said. “Money has no name on where it comes from.”

“But people do,” I said.

My uncle rose to his feet. “I will call you when I have the mass arranged.”

“I will be there,” I said.

He started to the door, then turned back to me. “You know the girl has gone to France?”

“I know,” I said.

“She was a nice girl but not for you,” he said.

“What kind of a girl would you like me to marry?” I asked.

“Angelo had a nice girl, from a nice Sicilian family. I think he was thinking of marrying her in time.”

“A nice Sicilian family?”

“A very nice Sicilian family. Maybe sometime I can arrange for you to meet them,” he said.

“Thank you, Uncle Rocco,” I said. “Maybe in time.”

Then we embraced, and this time I kissed him also. I opened the door and watched as he walked to the elevator and his two bodyguards waiting out in the hall joined him.

Capo Di Tutti Capi Emeritus I

THERE WAS NO
way they could kill Uncle Rocco. Not that they hadn’t tried. Knives, guns, and car bombs. Uncle Rocco had a sixth sense. He had made up his mind: that was not the way he was going to die. “I’m getting old,” he told me. “And now that Angelo is gone and you don’t want to come into the business with me, I have no one to leave it to. So why should I have to fight anymore?”

I stared at him. We were seated in a small booth at the back of the Palm on Second Avenue. We sat alone, his bodyguards seated at another table nearby. Uncle Rocco still wore his black mourning band for Angelo on the sleeve of his jacket. “I don’t know, Uncle Rocco,” I said. “My father told me a long time ago that you never really get out of the business.”

“What did your father know?” he growled, rolling a large forkful of pasta from his plate. “This is not the old days. This is the seventies. We’re civilized, more businesslike. I’ve already made my agreement with the five families.”

“What does that mean?” I asked. “They’re not going to kill you?”

“You’ve been seeing too many movies,” Uncle Rocco said.

I cut into my sirloin. It was bloody rare, exactly the way I like it. “You still haven’t told me anything.”

“I’m moving to Atlantic City,” he said.

“Why Atlantic City?” I asked. “I thought you always wanted to retire in Miami.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Uncle Rocco answered. “Miami is controlled out of Chicago. Bonanno worked it out for me to take care of the hotel and restaurant unions in Atlantic City. It’s a simple operation, enough for me. I don’t want to work hard anymore.”

I slowly chewed another piece of my steak. “And what did you give them for it?”

“They’re taking over my operations here. But that’s okay. I’ll have peace and quiet.”

“That’s a lot of money,” I said.

“I have a lot of money.” He smiled. “Maybe a half a billion dollars.”

I was silent. I could hardly believe it was that much. But I knew it had to be true. My uncle wouldn’t lie to me about that. “What else are you going to do?”

“I’ll take care of my investments,” he said. “Everything I have is clean money now, I can do whatever I want.” He finished his pasta and emptied his glass of red wine. He pointed his finger at me. “You’re not eating,” he said.

I sliced another piece of my steak. “I don’t understand. If you can do whatever you want, why do you stick yourself in a shithouse like Atlantic City and watch a couple of nickel-and-dime unions for them?”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said as if he were explaining to a child. “I’ve spent my life with these people. I can’t walk away when they ask me to help them.”

“You can be nailed for a small operation just as much as a big deal, maybe more. Why take the chance?” I said.

My uncle refilled his wineglass. “I know what I’m doing,” he said testily. “I have connections better than the Bonanno and the other New York families. Ten years from now Atlantic City will be big business.”