Death Of A Dream Maker (18 page)

“I thought you said this was going to be easy,” T.S.
said, eyeing the technician anxiously.

“It will be easy. Bobby's just a pessimist. Right,
Bob?” Agent O'Conner said.

“Yeah, I'm a pessimist,” Bobby agreed sourly. “And
I'm also a realist. The mike in his car should have been replaced
two weeks ago. I'm telling you, it's ready to go.” He held up a
hand for silence. “I'm starting to pick something up. I think
they're getting close. But we're going to need a new bug in the
limo soon. Better tell Hank.”

“How did you bug his car?” T.S. whispered. Excitement
and fear gripped his stomach like a vise. The wait was
excruciating.

Agent O'Conner smiled thinly. “We have our ways,” he
tersely replied.

 Herbert was really annoyed now. He saw the
limousine approach slowly and the tinted windows confirmed his
suspicion that this was Galvano. But his attention was being
diverted by a tall man in a shabby blue suit who was demanding more
sauerkraut. What was the big deal about sauerkraut anyway? Good
heavens, people were picky. He'd always just asked for the works
and been happy with whatever he got.

Auntie Lil saw the limousine as well. She stood in
the rotunda of the courthouse and carefully adjusted the brim of
her hat. It was lilac, with an abundant arrangement of silk spring
flowers blooming about the brim. Brightly colored feathers cascaded
down over her left ear, including one long blue plume that rested
on her shoulder. It matched her flowered shawl very nicely. More to
the point, it concealed a small voice-activated tape recorder taped
to the inside of the brim. She didn't care what Agent O'Conner
said. She was making her own record of the meeting. She had lined
the inside of the hat with matching silk. Even if she had to take
it off, she'd be fine. He'd have to probe it with his fingers to
find the device.

She took a deep breath and moved slowly down the
courthouse stairs. The driver hopped out of the car and waited for
her approach. He nodded as he opened the back door for her. She
could feel the driver's tightly coiled biceps as she brushed past:
no amount of grooming could conceal his animal power.

“Miss Hubbert. A pleasure to meet you indeed.” Joseph
Galvano's smile belonged in a toothpaste ad. For morticians. He was
a handsome man, tall and slender with abundant black hair that was
brushed loosely off his face. Touches of gray at the temples lent
respectability. There was not a drop of hair oil in sight. He had
delicate angular features, with a long narrow nose and thin lips.
His cheekbones were slightly higher than normal, lending his face a
hint of the Far East. His deep tan added to this impression.

He is,
Auntie Lil thought,
a modern Genghis
Khan.

“Mr. Snake,” she said, shaking his hand. She was glad
she had worn gloves.

“Please,” he said smoothly. “Call me Joey.” His
suggestion had more than a bit of steel in it. Auntie Lil took the
hint.

“How about Joseph?” she suggested. “It becomes you, I
think.”

He smiled thinly in reply, and she got the impression
that the Grim Reaper probably grinned a whole lot like that.
“Fine,” he said. “I'm glad you agreed to this little meeting. I've
been curious to meet you ever since I heard that Max left his
fortune to you.”

“I didn't realize that was public knowledge,” she
answered.

“I have lots of friends,” Galvano explained. “I
usually hear things before the public does.”

“Is that so?” Auntie Lil adjusted her hat on her head
so that it drooped over the back of the seat. “Don't want to crush
the flowers,” she explained.

“Feel free to take it off,” he told her, reaching for
the brim.

“Oh, no.” She held up a white-gloved hand and smiled.
“I wear big hats to distract people from my hair. It's always a
mess. I feel naked without my hat.”

“I see you believe in big pocketbooks, too.” He
smiled at her again, revealing tiny white teeth. Was it her
imagination or were they all incisors? He reached for her
handbag.

“Oh, this.” She managed another smile and gave it to
him. “My nephew teases me about it. Says I carry my whole apartment
in it.”

“It sounds convenient to me,” Galvano said,
unsnapping the clasp and peeking inside. “It seems unfair that men
only get to take what they can cram in their pockets. I had an
elderly aunt like you, Miss Hubbert. Carried half of Little Italy
in her leather purse. What's this? Oh, one of those electronic
Rolodex contraptions.” He was methodically searching the contents
of her bag as he spoke, poking long fingers into every crevice and
feeling the lining carefully.

“Are you in the leather apparel business?” she asked.
“You're taking such an interest in my purse.”

He handed it back to her and his smile faded. “No.
Just curious. It's so hard to find good workmanship these days. It
was one of Max's biggest concerns.”

“Indeed? You knew him well, I take it?” She settled
back against the soft leather of her seat and willed her heart to
slow in her chest.

“Well enough. How well did you know him, Miss
Hubbert? Your importance to him is a surprise to me, I must
confess.”

“Funny. You sound just like the police. I'm a suspect
in his death. They've questioned me twice already. Can you
imagine?”

“You? They can't be serious. How unpleasant for you.
Being questioned by the police is always a bother.” He patted her
knee. Even through the fabric of her light wool pantsuit, she could
sense the iciness of his fingers. What in the world did women see
in him? He was a Halloween skeleton dressed in a nice suit.

“Yes.” She sighed deeply. “It's quite a pain, really.
Here I am trying to grieve over his death and they keep bringing up
old memories. I just wish they'd let me be.”

“I know how you feel. Still, his death was rather
curious. Quite sudden, don't you think?”

“Made all the more curious by the fact that his
nephew was found shot to death in the bottom of his grave,” she
conceded in a master understatement.

“Yeah. There are some people who are even saying that
it looked like organized crime,” Galvano said. He shook his head at
the injustice of it all. “It's very hard for my people to get away
from such accusations. It's not fair, I tell you, to work hard to
find a better life for your family. And then to be accused of all
sorts of criminal activity simply because of what country your
grandfather came from. Your family came from where, Miss
Hubbert?”

“Germany,” she said stiffly. They were out of small
talk.

“Germany.” He thought it over. “Italy and Germany
were on the same side during World War II, weren't they?” He looked
to Auntie Lil for confirmation.

“Yes. They were.” What was he getting to?

“Well, then, perhaps we should discuss being allies
as well.” He seemed pleased to have come up with such a complex
concept.

“Perhaps. I'm still not quite sure what it is you
want from me,” Auntie Lil admitted.

“Let's just discuss the situation. Swap information.
You can tell me what you know about Max's death and I'll tell you
what I know. Tit for tat. No cops involved. We're on the same side
in this thing.”

She pretended to think it over.

“I know you've been poking around,” he said easily.
“I've got friends. You've been to his office, you've been asking
questions.”

“Why are you so curious to know what happened to
Max?” she asked.

“Let's just say that I want to make sure that no one
I know was involved.” He stared at Auntie Lil. His eyes were small
for his face. Like a lizard's. “You say you worked in the business
for a while? If so, you'll understand that sometimes people who
work for you do things because they think that's what you want them
to do. Even if maybe you didn't come right out and ask them to.
Only sometimes they're wrong.
Capiche?”

“
Capiche,”
Auntie Lil agreed.

“Good. We'll talk about it over lunch.” He held up a
hand when she started to object. “I want to take you to a
restaurant where my old auntie used to eat. This is real Italian.
You're going to love it.” He tapped on the divider between the
backseat and the driver. “In fact, I won't take no for an answer.”
The car began to move.

“He's leaving with her!” T.S. yelled, craning to get
a better view from the tiny back window. “Do something.”

“Relax,” Agent O'Conner reassured him. “This is not
unexpected.”

“It is to me!” T.S. said furiously. How could he have
agreed to this? Had he been insane? Aunt Lil was being borne away
by the oiliest mobster alive and he was trapped in a van?

“He's taking her to
Puglio's,”
Agent O'Conner
said. “Look, sit down and shut up, will you? I'm having trouble
hearing.” He held the headphones tighter to his ears. “Can you pick
them up, Bobby?” he asked the technician.

Bobby scowled harder. “Yeah. He's jabbering about
Little Italy, so they're heading that way.”

Agent O'Conner spoke rapidly into a small black box
pinned to the inside of his lapel. “It's yours, Hank,” he said.
“They're headed for lunch.” He sat back with a sigh.

“Okay, that's it,” T. S. declared, grabbing the
agent's coat. “Tell the driver to move this van.”

Agent O'Conner pried T.S.'s grip from his jacket and
smoothed out his suit. “We can't,” he explained patiently. “The van
is too obvious. We have another team following them. Besides, we
have his restaurant bugged, too. He always goes to the same place.
We're fine.”

Bobby the technician pulled one headphone away from
his ear and scowled at Agent O'Conner. “It's not
Puglio's,”
he announced. “I can't quite pick it up. Jeez, Frank. Don't
recognize the name. It's
Saint
something or another... damn.
It's fading out. There's a lot of cellular traffic in this
area.”

T.S. felt faint with panic and remorse. In his
confusion, he attempted to open the van's back doors. They were
locked. “Let me out of here,” he demanded. “Now.”

“Relax. We'll pick them up.” Agent O'Conner did not
feel as calm as he sounded. “Give them a few minutes' head start
and then we'll move. We'll find them. His limo sticks out like a
sore thumb. Streets in Little Italy are narrow. We'll pick them
up.”

What had he done?
T.S. wondered to himself.
What in god’s name had he done?

Herbert Wong was blessed with a complete lack of
indecision. His compass had been set true at birth. He never
hesitated about anything. He knew where he wanted to go, always.
Rarer still, he knew why.

When Galvano’s limo pulled away from the curb in
front of the courthouse, Herbert did not hesitate. Untying his
white apron, he tossed it on top of the cart and took off running
across the fields of City Hall Park, leaving behind a long line of
customers. He did not care. Traffic was heavy, as always in lower
Manhattan at noontime, and that meant he had a chance. He didn't
know where the car was headed or how long he could keep up. Maybe
the feds were following and maybe not. None of these factors
mattered to him. All that mattered was that he had promised Lillian
that he would protect her. Nothing could stop him from doing just
that.

Herbert was a fit man who watched his diet and
exercised scrupulously. He had his own brand of religion, one based
on harmony of body and spirit. He believed in his abilities—both
physical and mental—and this put him light-years ahead of most
human beings. Keeping the limousine in sight at all times, he cut
across the lawn of the public park and easily beat the car to
Broadway. He followed it another block, where it turned up Church
Street. He suspected the probable destination was Little Italy. If
so, he had the stamina. But traffic on Church flowed quickly. He
was having trouble keeping up when a motorcade heading toward City
Hall saved him. Traffic stopped to allow a procession of sleek
limousines to pass. Thank God for a pomp-loving mayor. Herbert took
the opportunity to grab a two-block head start, pushing through the
heavy lunchtime crowd, banging shoulders and muttering a constant
stream of apologies.

It was a good thing he had worn sneakers. He nearly
lost Galvano's car when the avenue turned into West Broadway. He
caught up with it at Canal, where heavy traffic from the Holland
Tunnel once again slowed the limo's progress to a crawl. He kept
easy pace through the outskirts of Chinatown. He even darted across
Canal directly in front of the car in hopes that Lillian would see
him and be reassured. He could not bear to think of her feeling
trapped and alone.

Herbert waited calmly next to a street vendor hawking
illegal fireworks until he was sure that the limo was heading up
Elizabeth Street. Pulling his jacket collar up over his face, he
determinedly dogged Galvano, breathing evenly to conserve his
power. The Feast of Saint Gennaro—a messy and heavily
commercialized celebration universally hated by all neighborhood
residents—had recently taken place in Little Italy. The gaudy
tinsel decorations sagged tiredly from overhead wires and the
gutters were piled high with the debris produced by ten days of
greasy food and illegal games of chance. Several streets were
closed to traffic as cleanup crews toiled, aiding Herbert's cause.
He sent a prayer of thanks to every god he could name, including
some ancient Roman ones, just to cover all the bases.

At last the limousine slowed to a halt in front of a
small restaurant at the corner of Carmine and Mott. An intricate
portrait of Saint Teresa decorated the front window, but there was
no restaurant name. Herbert stepped under the awning of a small
electronics store and watched as a lovely young woman hurried out
of the restaurant to help Auntie Lil from the car. The girl's olive
complexion, dark eyes, and glowing hair gave her an eerie
resemblance to the saint in the window. She escorted Auntie Lil
politely inside. Joseph Galvano followed.