Codes of Betrayal (24 page)

“I think you better get the fuck out of my car, Salvy. If you’re lucky, this won’t go any further. I have to think about it.”

Salvy Grosso reached out, grabbed Nick’s arm, held it hard. “Nicky, I’m in big trouble.” He glanced around, checking the windows. “I … I skimmed some cash. From some of the business deals. I … they’re gonna find out soon. Nick, they’ll kill me. Please. Nick, ask them to bring me in. To gimme witness protection. Like they’re gonna do for you when this is over, right? Nick, please.”

Nick pried the strong thick fingers from his arm, flung Salvy’s arm away from him. “You’re a dirtbag, aren’t you, Salvy? Who the hell do you think you’re tellin’ this stuff to? Ya been stealin’? Sure, they’ll find out. And you’ll get what you got coming. What’s the deal, comin’ to me? Someone told you to do this?”

Salvy Grosso crossed himself frantically. “On my mother’s grave, Nick, I’m not lyin’. I been giving local narcs things, ya know—all this time. Now they owe me.
They gotta get me out.”

Nick reached across Grosso, unlocked the passenger door, and shoved the terrified man. The rain was slashing into the car. “Ya want the subway, Salvy, you can walk it.”

Grosso handed Nick the clipping, unfolded it carefully. He reached up and flipped on the overhead light. “Look at it, Nick. See? Those are the fed DEA guys … that’s the boss, Coleman. …”

It was an old picture and hard to see, but Nick quickly scanned it and the short paragraph identifying the feds responsible for a big drug arrest. The picture was dated several years ago.

Grosso pointed a trembling finger at a figure to Coleman’s right. “Him, see, there, him. Felix. A spic. Rodriguiz. Ya know who he is, Nick? Ya know?” Without stopping, he went on quickly, “That’s Ventura’s man in the DEA squad. He’s the tip-off man. How do you think your grandfather knew about your troubles so quick, Nicky? Because of this guy. Lemme tell ya something …”

Nick crushed the picture and tossed it into Salvy’s face.

“Wait, Nick. A coupla weeks ago, the grand jury brought down indictments against two chief executives of your grandfather’s companies. Rodriguiz musta tipped your grandfather; before the indictments were delivered, the two guys were somewhere in Europe, Nick. Check it out. Rodriguiz, anything he thinks the Venturas should know about, he gives the tip. He’s your grandfather’s man. Nick, please, tell them to get me out. Nicky, they’ll kill me when they start checking the money—”

Nick reached over and shoved Grosso out so hard that he fell onto the sidewalk. Then he picked up the box of pastries and tossed it after him.

“You ever come near me again, I’ll kill you myself, you little weasel.”

From the rearview mirror, Nick got a fleeting glimpse of Salvy Grosso, still sitting on the wet pavement, reaching out his arms toward the departing car.

Nick drove into Manhattan, stopped at a public telephone. It was raining even harder than before. He punched in Caruso’s number and spoke quickly.

“Don’t understand the last part of the reading assignment. I’m in Manhattan.”

“C’mon over and see me.”

In less than half an hour, they sat across from each other in Caruso’s office. Caruso shook his head.

“Grosso doesn’t mean a thing to me. He said he was working locally. Did you check with your uncle Frank?”

“Just you.”

Nick didn’t identify himself when Frank picked up his home phone. “Mr. O’Hara, I’m with Robinson Associated Travel, and you’ve just won a free vacation—”

Frank slammed the phone down; within fifteen minutes, as expected, O’Hara called Nick at Tom Caruso’s office. He listened, shook his head. “Never heard of the guy. Look, I’m gonna move around a little. Check things out. Get back to you.”

Everyone who has ever worked as a cop suspects every telephone he uses to be bugged. Move around, leave cryptic messages, prearranged signals. For nearly an hour, Inspector Frank O’Hara’s command post was a series of phone booths both inside and outside a large, suburban mall, filled with umbrella-carrying shoppers.

Finally Frank got back to him. “Called four main sources; guys who would know. One guy who knows everyone listed or not listed in the numbered file of informers. I got the best possible information, Nick. The guy was just a lowlife off the street when he went to work for your cousin. He was sent out to give you a song and dance, to see what you’d do. Listen, did anyone see you pick up Grosso?”

No one had. Nick was the last one out of the office. He’d been alone for about an hour and a half.

“Good. Good. That’ll account for the time since he laid this on you.” Frank’s voice was low and serious. “It’s that shit of a cousin of yours, Nick. Richie is playing his I’m gonna getcha’ games. Grosso’s not on any confidential agenda. His street record is for two-bit stuff—three-card monte and shit like that. He was a very bad pickpocket—got caught on the subway when he dropped the mark’s wallet and hunched down collecting the money. A dummy. He’s no informant.”

Nick licked his lips. “Ya sure, Frank? Ya gotta be sure. The guy really was scared.”

“Probably afraid he couldn’t pull it off. Tomorrow, they’ll all be laughin’ and smackin’ him on the back. Nick, get on the horn and call your cousin Richie. Anyone seen when Grosso left the office?”

“No. He left before me.”

“Tell him it happened, like, ten minutes ago. Ya thought you should let him know.”

Nick remembered Salvy’s face; the trembling hands and dry lips. “Jesus, Frank …”

“Jesus, Nick. You know your crud of a cousin. He thinks he’s laying another trap for you. Go on. Do the right thing. Hey, and keep in touch, okay?”

He waved good-bye to Caruso, who nodded. Frank would know, right?

Nick drove back to Queens and called Richie at his home in Massapequa. He repeated as much verbatim as he could remember, and with each word he felt surer of himself. Richie was playing again. He knew it. Richie didn’t bluster and yell and curse. He just very quietly said, “Thanks for callin’, Nick. Ya done the right thing. Ya done the right thing.”

Nick stared at the phone, and for the second time since he’d last seen her he dialed Laura’s number. He had no idea what he would say to her, what he wanted to say to her.

He just knew that he missed her. A lot.

I
T WAS A QUIET
day at Ventura Real Estate. Nick checked records of industrial holdings: current rentals, pending rentals, bills collected and bills due. Tessie pounded at her typewriter, then announced she had an appointment down the street to get her hair done and to get some new look for her nails. For months, Tessie had been experimenting with long, clawlike fake nails, decorated with paste-on objects resembling—to Nick—broken glass. To those in the know, Tessie told him, they looked just like the real thing. The only problem was breakage: typing was tough with these fingers. Nick teased her: Wouldn’t the computer be easier on her? She made a face.

Salvy Grosso hadn’t shown up, but then he worked on his own irregular schedule. In the early afternoon, a young couple in their twenties introduced themselves as “Augie the Butcher’s” son and prospective daughter-in-law. You know Augie, he’s known the family for years. Nick sat with them, went through lists of houses—moderate, ya know, like cheap but it don’t look cheap. There were some houses toward Metropolitan Avenue, unattached, one-family. Nice tree-lined streets. Unless they might be interested in an attached, more into the central part of the residential area of Forest Hills. He drove them around for a while. It was refreshing to see an honest reaction to such extraordinarily inflated prices. They seemed discouraged and somewhat bereft when they returned to the office.

Nick knew that some properties were kept at a good low price for “special people”—family-recommended, kids who needed a break on a first house. He cheered them up with the suggestion that he might—might—have something for them. Something he couldn’t talk about right now. Nick winked.

“It might be exactly what you’re looking for. In your price range. Good area … your father, he’s Augie the Butcher over in Woodside?”

These two looked like the kind of nice kids who could use a favor. He would run it through the files; check it out. Nick had seen other young buyers fall into “wonderful deals.” He told them to call him in a day or two.

As he watched the kids cross the street to their car, he felt a surge of pleasure. They walked arm-in-arm, the boy opened the door for the girl, kissed her, went around to the driver’s side.

It’d been a long time since he’d seen something resembling innocence. Of course, he could be wrong.

He’d been thinking about Laura. Should he call again? When the phone rang, for a split second, he thought it was her. It was his grandfather.

“Nicholas, you come out to my house. I need to speak with you. You gonna leave now?”

All the way out to Westbury, Nick felt a cold inevitability deep inside his gut.

R
ICHIE VENTURA STOOD NEAR
his grandfather’s fireplace, ignoring the nearly symmetrical flames that threw little heat into the room. He watched Nick refuse an offered drink, watched as his grandfather led him to the massive desk, picked up an envelope, and shook out the collection of Polaroids.

Nick took them one at a time as they were handed to him. The first photos were of Salvy Grosso, looking bewildered as he faced the camera. Then his face seemed to sink into itself, his eyes narrowing with fear, then terror, then horror, escalating with each photograph. The final photos showed Grosso’s corpse. The wire cut deeply into his neck; surprisingly, there seemed to be little blood. The bullet hole in his forehead, small, blackened, seemed almost gratuitous. Further documenting the disposal of Salvy Grosso, there were additional snaps of his corpse being fitted into a plastic garbage bag, which was then stuffed into a trunk of a car. Obviously others were present, but only their shoetips showed in the photographs.

Nick could feel the blood drain from his face; his brain felt depleted. Finally, he looked into his grandfather’s deep blue eyes, which had been watching him intently.

Papa Ventura then handed him about four or five more Polaroids. Vinny Tucci had met the same fate as his uncle.

Before Nick could say a word, his grandfather took the photographs from his hand, gestured with them to Richie, who carefully placed them in the flaming fireplace, one at a time.

Realizing he was speaking, but feeling remote from his own words, Nick asked, “Why Vinny? Why the kid?”

His grandfather shrugged. A gesture conveying, offhandedly, why not?

“Because we couldn’t take a chance. Let me tell you, Nick. For a long time, we didn’t trust Salvy. Sometimes you get a
feeling.
It wasn’t just the money—you know he’d been skimming, right? It was that certain pieces of information had been getting into the wrong places. What he told you last night was the final proof.”

“Papa, I didn’t really think—I thought he was just …”

Nick shook his head, covered his eyes. His grandfather handed him a double shot of Scotch. “Drink this. I know what you thought.” He glared at Richie, who shrugged. “No, your cousin wasn’t testing you—no more of that crap, right, Richie? Nick, this doesn’t happen very often anymore with us. Not like in the old days. But what was done last night, to both of them, was absolute necessity.”

“Was that Richie’s decision?”

His grandfather’s face stiffened; his voice was hard and his tone was ice. “Anything like this is
my
decision.
You got that?”

Nick nodded. He flashed for one split second:
Anything like this is my decision.

“It’s just that … I worked with the guy, Papa. I figured him for the nervous type. Christ, could he have been
this
bad?”

As though answering a challenger, Nicholas Ventura said softly, “Obviously. Or else this would not have taken place.” Then, seeing the distress on his grandson’s face, he placed a hand on his arm, then embraced him and pulled back.

“Nicky, Nicky. Let it go. You weren’t responsible for this. Salvy was. Forget about it. He was nothin’. He was street scum, garbage. He could have loused up a multi-billion-dollar deal with his scared little rat mouth. And his nephew was no better—snoopin’ around, gettin’ into things. Wouldn’t have taken him long to make trouble himself. Now, no problem, okay?”

Nick shook his head slowly from side to side and shrugged. He glanced at Richie, who watched the flames consume the last of the photos. Richie turned and stared at Nick with a strange, small smile pulling at his lips. His eyes weren’t smiling.

“Okay, Papa.”

His grandfather suddenly changed. He let everything unpleasant leave him. He approached his desk, picked up a piece of paper, and handed it to Nick. “Hey, I got a phone call, you seen Augie the Butcher’s kid today, right?”

Nick no longer wasted energy wondering how his grandfather got his information. “Nice kids.”

His grandfather nodded. “Good, good. So, okay, you give ’em a call—you got that property on Ingram Street, right, the attached right in the middle of the block. What you do, you rent it to them for a while. Keep the payments low, let them get on their feet. Then, we give ’em a decent price. Augie’s good for it, but let the kids take care of things for themselves for a while, okay?”

“Okay.”

His grandfather led him to the hallway, stopped at the heavy, ornately carved mahogany door. He glanced around, then told Nick, “Within the week, Nick. The big one. I want you to know fully why I want this so much. I’m an old man—I need to rest, but I wanna know I done some good in this world. The money this whole thing can generate for me—without me so much as touchin’ a gram of that shit—I can build companies, factories. I can leave some good behind me in ways that the straight-arrow suits only dream about. And won’t have to make all kindsa deals with the government crooks. It’s what
they
do, in Washington, all over. Everything, anything for personal gain. I’m gonna make a contribution.” He nudged Nick with his elbow. “Something
special
will be set aside for Peter’s dream, Nick. Animal shelters. The kid would be happy. It will make me happy.”