Son of the Mob (16 page)

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
GIVE
R
AY
forty-eight hours to get out of town. He's gone in half that. I call the next morning to make sure everything's okay, and his phone is already disconnected. I guess that's one thing the Bureau is good at: making people disappear.

Funny—I'm the one who forced him away, yet I'm really counting on hearing his voice, even if it's just to tell me he's done packing and his plane leaves at eight. He's been like a big brother to me these last few years, even more than Tommy. I toy with the idea of our paths crossing again, but deep down I know it's never going to happen. Not as long as he's in the witness protection program, and my name is Luca.

I hear a bang followed by muffled cursing. The basement. Seven o'clock in the morning, and Anthony Luca, woodworker extraordinaire, feels the need to express himself through his art. I contemplate doing the cowardly thing, making a break for school without talking to him. I sigh. No, the confrontation is inevitable; he's going to notice Ray's disappearance eventually. And anyway, he's in the right place for a conversation.

As I descend the stairs, I see the project of the minute. It's a bookcase, and to my surprise, it actually looks like a bookcase.

Dad barely glances up from yanking twisted nails out of the back panel with his claw hammer. “Vince,” he acknowledges with a grunt. The Cold War is still going strong at our house.

“Morning, Dad.”

I press my hand against the side of the case. It's a casual leaning gesture, but what I'm really trying to do is rock it against the cement floor. It's perfectly stable.

I can't explain it, but somehow the thought that my father finally made a decent piece of furniture gives me strength to stand up to him. Almost as if the idea that he's not a total loss as a carpenter proves that he's not incorrigible as a mobster.

The logic is ridiculous. Of course he's incorrigible. The whole business is incorrigible. It's just so much
easier
than living a legitimate life. The money is better, the hours are shorter, the cars are nicer, and the perks (my mind travels to Cece) are unbelievable. But once you let the corruption in, you're shutting the door on your old self.

How do you struggle with a tiny paycheck when you know that huge sums of money are out there, yours for the taking? How do you wait in line when you could be escorted past the slobs to the best seat in the house? Take it from a guy who traded in a Porsche for a Mazda with a leaky sunroof. It's tough. Once you've taken that first perk, spent that first wad of fast cash, you're lost.

And that's not just for you; it's for everyone around you. My father is one of the top bosses in New York, and he couldn't keep his business off my back. The thought that my mother, the most straitlaced person who ever lived, ordered the hit on Mario Calabrese…

Oh, I understand why she did it. If Ray's to be believed, I'm even glad she did it. But we're talking about June Cleaver here! It proves that The Life isn't something you can order à la carte. If you're in, you're in all the way.

I know that means I'm corrupt too, because every dime that's ever been spent on me has been dirty money. But I intend to take advantage of one last piece of corruption, the A++ that I don't deserve in New Media, and which I'm only getting because of Tommy's Internet bookie scheme. I'm going to use that grade to get myself accepted to college far away from here, maybe an international program. It's the only way I'll ever stay clear of the vending-machine business.

“Got a minute, Dad?” I ask.

He flashes me a warning look. “This better not have anything to do with Jimmy Rat and Ed Mishkin.”

“Cross my heart,” I promise, knowing he's going to like this new subject even less.

He takes a seat in a wobbly chair and motions for me to do the same. “You know I'd never even heard of Ed Mishkin before all this? Now his name echoes in my head when I sleep.”

The way he sits down registers with me as something of a shock. He sort of eases himself tentatively, almost like an elderly person. I blink. Anthony Luca isn't as young as he used to be! I have a bizarre feeling of thankfulness that he's got Mom to look after him so well. Then I remember with a shiver the lengths Mom will go to look out for her family.

Should I tell Dad about that, about who ordered the Calabrese hit? What would he say? He's as cool as they come, but surely that would shock him. If we were the Sopranos, he'd just smile with pride and say, “And she can cook, too!” and it would be this great TV moment, ironic, funny, and terrible all at the same time. But even for a Mob boss, television isn't much like real life. It would be a hard pill for him to swallow. Ever since I learned the truth, I can't shake a giddy vision of Mom in the kitchen throwing off her flowered apron just long enough to give Uncle Pampers the contract on Calabrese. Then back to the stove, where she whips up a delicious dinner.

No, this meeting has a purpose, and the only thing to do is get right to it.

“Dad, your inside man is Ray.”

His head snaps to attention with a speed that would give a normal person whiplash. “What!” Then, a little less sure of himself, “How would
you
know?”

“For one thing, because he admitted it.”

He stands, and there's no creakiness about him this time. “Do you have any idea what you're screwing with? If you're wrong—”

“I'm not.”

“But if you are, it's something you can't take back! Don't you understand what has to happen now?” It's scary to see that much power caught off guard. “God—Ray! I never thought—there must be some way to know for sure.”

“So you can kill him?”

“So I can do what has to be done to protect Brothers Vending Machines, which is none of your business!”

“You don't have to do anything,” I assure him. “I've taken care of it.”

He gawks at me, and I realize suddenly that, in this situation,
taken care of
has a very specific meaning.

“No!” I exclaim. “He left. He's in the witness protection program.”

He's enraged. “You tipped him off?”

“I made a deal,” I say. “He gets lost, and that's the end of it. You don't go looking for him.”

“That's not your deal to make!” he storms. “And Ray knows it better than anybody!”

“It's a fair exchange,” I insist. “You're free of a big threat, and he's off the hook.”

“Who said life is fair? You know what life is? Cause and effect. You rat for the feds, you pay the price. Your deal doesn't change that. You want to make a deal with Ray that he'll jump off a bridge and fall up? Fine! But gravity won't honor your deal, and neither will I!”

“Well, you sort of have to,” I tell him.

He gives me the Luca Stare with both barrels. “What happened? I died and left you in charge?”

If he doesn't turn off The Stare, I'm going to crumble, but I manage to say my piece anyway. “Tommy was using my Web site to run a bookie operation over the Internet. He could go to jail for that.”

“You gave Ray evidence?”

I'm insulted. “Of course not. But if anything happens to Ray, that floppy disk is going to the FBI. And please don't ransack my room, or my locker at school. It isn't there.”

The floodgates open, and the full force of his anger is unleashed. I can only hang on to my malformed chair as he hurls every curse in the book at me. In this white-hot fury, surely he's lost all trace of paternal feeling for me. At this moment, I'm any poor dumb slob who has crossed him, and my mother is the only thing standing between me and a landfill in Staten Island. It's possible that this very tirade has been, for some, the last thing they ever heard on earth.

Unbelievably, a calculating, almost Dadlike thought penetrates my misery as the onslaught continues to blast me:
This is the worst he can dish out.
And the corollary, surprising in its clarity:
This is the volley you have to return.

So I say it as matter-of-factly as I can: “I've got the evidence, and you don't. Your words—‘cause and effect': Ray's life—the disk.”

I can feel the heat rising from his red face. “You'd turn in your own brother?”

That's a question I've prepared for. “Look at it this way, Dad. It's Tommy's book, but the Web site is in my name. So you won't just have one son in jail. You'll have two. But don't worry, I'm sure we'll be fine in there. After all, a guy like you doesn't have any enemies, right?”

He's speechless. I've never seen that before.

“Ray's like a brother to me, too,” I add.

“He's rat scum!” he spits. “And you're an idiot! You never keep evidence around, even if you think you're the only person who's ever going to know about it! How would you like it if that disk fell into the wrong hands?”

“It won't,” I promise, thinking of my secure hiding place. Last night when everyone else was asleep, I triple-laminated that disk in plastic and glued it down under the asphalt roofing tiles over our garage. The thing is, our house has a twenty-year roof, and it's eleven years old. So by the time the shingles are due to be replaced, the seven-year statute of limitations on Tommy's crime will be long expired. If our roof comes down and Agent Bite-Me himself finds the disk in the rubble, it will be useless to him. I say, “I've worked it out so it's good for everyone, and nobody gets hurt.”

He snorts. “Listen to King Solomon here, fixer of all problems, dispenser of justice. Who do you think you are?”

“Anybody who could do what you did to Jimmy and Ed has no right to lecture me about justice!”

He pounds his fist on the bookcase, which, miraculously, doesn't collapse. “Jimmy and Ed! My favorite subject! For your information, Your Majesty, Jimmy and Ed are off the hook, which is a good thing!”

“It's still not justice,” I point out. “Rafael and that guy Boaz robbed them blind, and a lot of other people too. But they get their insurance money, same as Jimmy and Ed.”

My father casts me a superior smile. “You think so, huh? Well, it just so happens that they sold seven hundred percent of that place, and they're only getting insurance for one club. They've already come to me to borrow the money to pay off a lot of really angry people.”

I'm confused. “Then why did they burn the place down?”

“Maybe someone else did it,” he suggests dryly. When I don't clue in, he adds, “Maybe there's more than one King Solomon in this family.”

Light dawns on me. That's what happened to the Platinum Coast! Jimmy and Ed took care of their own businesses, and the Platinum Coast fire was the fine hand of Anthony Luca. Because of that, the investors break even, and Rafael and Boaz get burned by their own scheme. It's the perfect solution; the only solution. And Dad found it, the way he always does.

He gives me an appraising look, and a small smile displaces some of that anger. “I don't know whether to kick you out of the house or hire you. I always thought the advantages you had made you a flake-in-training—no drive, no motivation, just take, take, take. I was wrong about you, Vince. I don't like what you did, but I've got to hand it to you, you're motivated.”

“I can't work for you. You know that.”

“Too bad,” he says. “Look at what you've accomplished these last couple of months. You smoked out Tommy's book on your computer, you got Jimmy and Ed square, you blew the doors off the Platinum Coast, and you found an undercover agent right under my nose. There are a million guys who want to be in The Life. But real brains, that's something different.”

“Most of it was luck.” I shrug, embarrassed. “Bad luck. I definitely didn't tell Jimmy and Ed to burn down their places.”

“Doesn't matter.” He walks over to the desk and pulls out a fat envelope. “Your points, in advance.”

“My points?”

“Insurance pays Jimmy and Ed, Jimmy and Ed pay me. Since you took care of those guys, you get a cut. I usually wait till I've got the cash in hand, but I figured, hey, I know where you live.”

“I can't accept that!”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. It goes in your college fund.” At my surprised look he snaps, “Yeah, you've got a college fund, smartass, just like normal people! We're not going to pull up in front of Harvard with a suitcase full of Krugerrands.”

“I'm amazed you didn't call it a
university
fund.”

He waves the money in my face. “You sure you haven't got a use for some of this before I make the deposit?”

“I won't touch it.”

“You've touched it already!” he shouts, rummaging through the drawer, and slapping a piece of paper down on the blotter.

I stare. It's a credit card bill, for my emergency card, the one from Banco Commerciale de Tijuana. There it is, my six-hundred-dollar cash advance—5,400 pesos—circled in angry red.

I'm caught off guard. In all the time I've been holding that card, never once did it occur to me that it was legitimate. I always assumed it was like the Porsche. Call me crazy, but I actually get a warm feeling that Dad's concerned enough about me to make sure my emergency credit card isn't hot. In my family, swag is so common that when something is bought and paid for the old-fashioned way, it's almost a Hallmark moment. It shows you really care.

“Sorry, Dad. I really was going to pay it back. I just got—sidetracked.”

“Yeah,” he finishes. “Making my life a living hell.”

“Take it out of my—uh—cut.” I frown. “There's only one thing I don't understand. Why Tijuana?”

“I own a piece of the bank,” he replies.

I'm goggle-eyed. “Really?”

“I may not wear fancy suits, but I'm every bit as much of a businessman as those clones on Wall Street. A deal fell through, and this guy was left holding the bag. He didn't have the cash, so I took his shares in the bank. Happens all the time.” He smirks at me. “Tell Jimmy and Ed they get a pass for the six hundred.”