the Plan (1995) (36 page)

Lucinda dropped five $20 bills into a jar labeled SCHOOL PLAYGROUND FUND, and a few minutes later, they got into the electric cart and headed back to the harbor, while Andrea watched from the front porch of the hospital.

Lucinda stopped at the market near the pay phone where she'd made the call to her mother. She picked up some fresh fish and vegetables and threw in some barbecue briquettes. A middle-aged, red-haired man with a sunburned nose saw her struggling with the heavy grocery bags. "Need any help with those?" he asked. He had a fishing hat pushed back on his sun-raw forehead.

"I think I can manage, thanks."

She moved out and handed the bag to Ryan in the front seat of the electric cart and drove to the wooden pier.

They walked slowly down the pier while Ryan tried to put some weight on his bad leg, but each step was causing more and more pain. He decided to start some sort of self-therapy first thing in the morning. They moved down onto the dinghy dock and, after Lucinda scrambled aboard and stowed the groceries, he threw the crutches into the boat and stood on one foot while Lucinda started to help him aboard.

Armando Vasquez watched from the darkness under the gangplank. He was crouched down with the linoleum knife out and ready. He chose that moment and made his charge, staying low, the knife out in front of him.

Ryan saw him, but without his left leg to pivot, he was helpless, teetering on the edge of the pier. Armando slashed at his torso with the linoleum knife. Ryan jerked back and fell awkwardly to the dock, landing on his elbows, favoring his left leg, trying not to tear out the stitches again. He was on his back as Armando rushed at him and slashed at his throat with the knife, missing again, as Ryan rolled left out of the way.

"Hey! . . . Hey you!" the redheaded fisherman from the market bellowed from the pier above them. "Stop that!"

Armando hesitated. Lucinda was trying to get out of the Avon to help Ryan. The man from the market was now running down the gangplank, his beer belly bouncing in front of him, the hat flying off his head. He had a long-poled fish gaff in both hands as he charged toward Armando. Once he got to the dinghy dock, he swung the gaff. The sharp point buried itself in Armando's shoulder. "Ayyee puta," Armando swore as the fisherman yanked the gaff free, tearing out a hunk of the Mexican's flesh.

Armando screamed, and the fisherman swung the gaff again. This time, it hit him in the side of the neck, but didn't stick as deeply. Armando yelled, jumped off Ryan, then turned to face the balding fisherman who had the gaff now in both hands. He swung it again as Armando turned and dove into the water and started swimming the short distance to shore. Once he was at the beach, he ran toward the street, the wound in his shoulder trailing blood down his ripped shirt on his back. They all watched until he was out of sight.

"Jesus," Ryan stammered.

"Looked like he was after your watch," the fisherman said, grinning, pointing at Ryan's Rolex. "That there's a ten-thousand-dollar invitation to get mugged."

"Bill Williams," Ryan said, extending his hand.

"Jerry Paradise." The red-haired man leaned down and held out his hand to Ryan, who was still on his back on the dock. Ryan took his hand and Jerry pulled him up on his good leg. Lucinda grabbed the crutches and handed them to Ryan.

"This is my girlfriend, Lauren."

"Thank you, Mr. Paradise," she said.

"It's okay, y'all take care now and don't wear that hunk a' gold on yer wrist, son."

'Thank you."

Jerry looked at his own watch, then out to the empty water. He sighed, shook his head in disgust, then started back up the gangplank.

"Can we give you a lift someplace?" Ryan said.

Jerry turned and smiled at them. "I was expecting a buddy to pick me up. I'm camping on the beach down at White's Cove, but he's not here."

"We can take you," Ryan said.

"I don't wanna put y'all out."

"Hey, you kidding? Jump in."

Lucinda and Jerry helped Ryan into the boat, then Lucinda followed.

The Ghost was the last to board. He pushed his hat bac
k o
n his head. He knew it made him look goofy, just another fat fisherman.

Lucinda started the small outboard, and they headed out of the harbor with their deadly passenger.

The Ghost had found Armando in the Island Bar. He'd shown him the picture of Ryan that Mickey had sent him. "He's screwin' my girlfriend," he'd explained to the puzzled Mexican. "Chingada--mi novia," he said as Armando nodded gravely. The Ghost gave his new friend a hundred dollars and told him he'd pay a hundred more after he'd frightened Ryan away. The Ghost told Armando not to kill him, just scare him. It had worked out exactly the way he'd planned. He was alone with the target, heading out to the boat where the Ghost would close his contract. If everything went the way he wanted, he'd be back on the plane to Atlantic City by morning.

Chapter
51.

AT NINE A
. M
. THAT SAME DAY, COLE AND KAZ MET AT
Rubio's for breakfast. The specialty at the Washington restaurant was eggs Florentine, so both of them ordered th e d ish and told the waitress to keep the hot coffee coming.

Neither Cole nor Kaz had been to bed. Kaz had spent th
e e
ntire night abusing old friendships, making calls to buddies in government. At midnight, he'd awakened Kirk Allen, a friend of many years who was waiting out his federa l r etirement in the FAA. Kaz told him that maybe there wa s m ore to the Anita Richards plane crash than a short landin g c urse at Cleveland International Airport.

"If you got something, Kaz, you better spit it out. This is the Democratic candidate's wife. Dicks are on the chopping block. You gotta squat to piss around here this morning."

"Just tell the forensics team to look for anything unusual. Explosives, a pneumatic control problem, tampered instruments . . . anything. That plane didn't go down 'cause it was voodooed. The only curse in Cleveland is on the Indians."

"If you got something, Kaz, and you're holding out on me, I'm gonna come after you with a seminary knife."

"If I get anything useable, I'll get back to you."

While Kaz had been sniffing that trail, Cole Harris had driven all the way back to his brother's house in Rye, New York, arriving at midnight. The reason for the trip back to Hamilton Boulevard was in an old black leather suitcase buried underneath his brother's ski equipment in the basement. Cole pulled the suitcase out while Carson and his wife Bea nervously looked over his shoulder. The experience in the kitchen a week earlier had shaken them. They had told the police nothing in an attempt to protect Cole, and, although they didn't want to say it, both of them were hoping he would get his things and leave.

Cole put the suitcase on the tool bench and popped it open. Inside were hundreds of reporter's spiral notebooks. They contained his notes from twenty years of on-site reporting from all over the world. He started looking for the two or three that he had filled out back in March of 1971. He finally found two notebooks that were held together by a large, red rubber band.

On the cardboard cover, he had written:

Israel, 1971

Meyer Lansky

With the notebooks under his arm, Cole climbed the stairs into the living room where he sat in
good light and flipped one open.

"You gonna go through that here?" his sister-in-law asked, nervously.

"Yeah, if that's okay."

"Uh, well, I guess," Carson said, glaring at Cole. "It is kinds late, y'
k
now. ."

"You probably don't want another news-gathering experience. Why don't I get outta here."

Cole bummed five hundred dollars from Carson; then he stood and kissed his relieved sister-in-law, hugged his brother, and went to the nearest all-night coffee shop.

He sat in the rear with his back to the wall, away fro
m t
he window, a survival technique he had learned in Lebanon, then started on the first book, marked 'Tuesday, March 10th. " His mind went whirling back to that day in 1971. He'd been attached to the UBC European bureau and had been sent to Jerusalem to cover Meyer Lansky's lawsuit against the State of Israel. The world press, about a hundred newsmen, were wedged into the courtyard of the Ottoman Palace of Justice in the Russian section of the walled Old City.

It was stiflingly hot with no breeze and the mood was ugly. They were all there to witness the outcome of one of Israel's strangest legal battles.

The Jewish State of Israel was made up almost entirely of immigrants. Section 2(b)3 of the Israeli constitution said that any man born of a Jewish mother should be granted the "right of return" to Israel. Every Jew deserved a place in the new Jewish State.

Meyer Lansky, after a career of questionable activities in Miami, New York, Las Vegas, and other hard-core mob enclaves, had petitioned the State of Israel for the right to return. Confident that he would spend his final days in the Promised Land eating kippered herring and wearing a beanie, he'd nailed a mezuzah to his door in a Miami suburb and waited for the news of his citizenship. But there was an asterisk on the Law of Return that said if you had a bad reputation or were suspected of criminal activities, the minister of the interior could block your repatriation. This is what happened to Lansky.

But he had one course left open to him. He could sue the Israeli government and attempt to overturn the ruling.

Lansky had hired a lawyer named Yoram Ahoy, who had served with honor during the Six Day War. Yoram was joined at the counsel table by a Miami lawyer named David Rosen. They had tried to make the case that Meyer had never been convicted of a crime and had been tried unfairly, without evidence, in the world press.

On the other side of the aisle was the Israeli prosecutor, Gavriel Bach. He was tall and slender with patrician goo
d l
ooks. Gavriel Bach had resolved to keep underworld elements out of Israel, no matter what the cost. In the middle of the trial, the press heard that three months earlier the Justice Department had invited Gavriel to Washington and the rumor in the press corps was that some sort of unusual deal had been struck.

The United States government was setting up a case against Lansky and feared that, if he settled in Israel, they would not be able to extradite him. The feds hoped that once indicted, Lansky would turn state's evidence on mobsters in the United States.

Another rumor said that an undisclosed number of Phantom F-4 jets had been offered for sale to the Israeli Air Force if they would refuse Lansky citizenship. These leaks had been heavily reported but denied by "official sources." There was no proof any of it was true.

Lansky's case had been argued before the Israeli Supreme Court for almost a week, and on that stifling day they were gathered to hear the outcome.

As Cole reread his twenty-five-year-old journal, memories flooded back of the skinny, foul-mouthed, sixtyeight-year-old mobster who had come to hear the judgment. Lansky was dressed in a threadbare department store suit; his tie was crooked and twisted under his collar. As he came through the side door of the courtyard, the world press surged, shouting questions.

"Mr. Lansky, over here . . . ABC News . . . We understand that Gavriel Bach has cut some kind of deal in Washington to force your return to Miami, where prosecutors say you're about to be indicted."

Lansky glowered at them. Cole was startled by his diminutive size. Only five-foot-three, he nonetheless generated venom.

"The fucks," Meyer said under his breath.

"What about the suitcase? What is in the suitcase?" somebody from NBC's Middle Eastern bureau shouted.

"What suitcase?" Meyer glowered. "What the fuck you fucks talkin' about?"

"Watch your language, please, sir. We can't broadcast profanities," the NBC correspondent said, as if Meyer cared.

"What is in the suitcase?" the NBC correspondent pressed, referring to a medium-size metal Haliburton suitcase that Gavriel Bach had taken to several in-camera meetings with the chief justice of the Israeli Supreme Court. "We understand the U
. S
. Justice Department gave Gavriel Bach evidence against you."

"Get me outta here," he yelled at his attorneys, who had been pushing him through the throng. Finally, he reached the double doors leading to the courtroom. Cole followed and physically pushed his cameraman through the door before they were locked out.

Meyer and his two attorneys sat on the wooden bench two levels below the five justices. Gavriel Bach sat alone at the counsel table. In front of him, sat the metal Haliburton suitcase. Like the rest of them, Cole wondered what was inside.

The chief justice read the unanimous verdict in Hebrew. It was translated simultaneously into English. The world press listened over headphones. The Israeli Supreme Court found that it was perfectly legal for Meyer Lansky to take "the Fifth" in front of the U
. S
. Congress during the Kefauver hearings, as every American citizen had the right under the Fifth Amendment of the U
. S
. Constitution not to incriminate himself. However, Mr. Lansky did say that his refusal to speak was on the grounds of self-incrimination. The Israeli Supreme Court had weighed that heavily, as it indicated from Mr. Lansky's own mouth that he had viewed his actions as crimes. The judge continued on . . . Hebrew filling the room like rolling thunder.