The Ambitious City (37 page)

“This shit always happens. It’s gonna go like this till it flips over. Our guys are bigger than theirs, and they got guns and know how to use ’em. We’ll stay in the car for a while. Enjoy the show …”

As the police marched in carrying stacks of flattened banker’s boxes, the energy of those standing outside sagged, and one after the other they followed them inside.

“See what I mean—the flipover?”

“Yep.”

“I remember you from last year, Vertesi. You took some buckshot out by the lake—”

“That was me. My claim to fame.”

Neither of them looked at the other as they spoke, their eyes glued to the aluminum storm door of the building.

Soon a young female officer stepped out and waved briefly in their direction. “That’s our cue. I’ll let you take the lead on this—you okay with that?”

“I’m okay.”

Sean McNamara, a pug of a man, sat behind an ancient oak desk. The trappings of his office revealed the differences between him and Alberto Mancini. He’d mounted a large stuffed fish over the window that looked out on the working side of the concrete business, and on the walls were several framed colour photos of cement trucks with the McNamara logo—a shamrock—emblazoned on their sides. The floor was covered with indoor-outdoor carpet worn to a dull grey-green, the path to the desk trodden down to its black nylon roots. Vertesi could feel the plywood subfloor give way with every step. There were stacking chairs for the guests and an old overstuffed leatherette office chair for McNamara. He had an ashtray with several cigars butts in it and was sucking on another as they approached the desk. If he was upset, he didn’t show it.

“You two the heavies?”

“I’m Sergeant Ray Ryu of the OPP Commercial Investigations Branch, and this is Detective Inspector Michael Vertesi, of Dundurn Homicide.”

“A little off your beat, ain’t it?”

“A little, yes,” Vertesi said.

“So what can I do for you?”

“We’re investigating the deaths of several people linked to the concrete business. The investigation has led us to your firm.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, I’ll take that comment for what it’s worth.”

“Ya mean you’ll take my comment as meanin’ fuck all.”

“You said it. Sir, we’re aware that you knew of the exclusive arrangement between Mancini Concrete of Dundurn and ABC-Grimsby to supply the mayor’s waterfront project.”

“So?”

“We understand that you placed a call to Alberto Mancini and alleged a conspiracy between Mancini and ABC. Is that correct?”

McNamara stood up, looked out the window at the squat grey towers and dusty sheds of his business, and took a long drag on the cigar. Exhaling, he pointed the stogie to the concrete works beyond. “I built this—me. I din’t have any family to support me. Just me.”

“I don’t follow you, sir.” Vertesi said, though he knew exactly where McNamara was going.

“I employ ninety-four people in this town. I’ve earned my success. They’d spit in your eye if they knew what you was up to here, ya know that?”

“I’m concerned about only one individual at the moment, sir—yourself.”

McNamara smiled and took two more puffs as he continued to admire the view from his window. He rocked back and forth, toe to heel, heel to toe. Then he turned and sat down again. Vertesi thought he was going to go whole hog and put his feet up on the desk, but he didn’t. Instead he rolled his chair in close, leaning on his elbows on the desk, the cigar in the centre of his mouth. He kept puffing leisurely, the smoke escaping on either side. It was all
Vertesi could do not to laugh. After a few more puffs, he took the cigar out of his mouth, picked a bit of tobacco from his lip and flicked it onto the floor.

When he looked up and noticed they were both smiling, he said, “You think I’m funny? Let’s see … a chink cop and a wop cop. You think you scare me? You have no fuckin’ idea, the two of you.” He swung his chair around and glanced back to the yard, where his business was continuing as usual. “Take the fuckin’ computers—they’re a pain in the ass anyways. Computers mean shit to concrete, and to me, you stupid fucks.”

“Forgive me, Mr. McNamara,” Vertesi said, “but you’re acting as if you just got called by central casting to play the part of a tough Irishman. But I know you were born here, just like me and Ray. So are you ready to have a serious discussion?”

“Fuck you, dago.”

“We can do this somewhere else … you do understand that, sir?” Ryu said. “And just so you’re fully aware, we didn’t come here to charge you with hate crimes, but I’ll be more than happy to do so if you continue with these slurs.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” McNamara let out a hoarse howl of laughter and stared at Vertesi for several seconds, tipping his head this way and that as if confronted by an exotic animal. “I was born in forty-three. That date mean anything to you, Vertesi?”

“No, should it?”

“My dad landed with the Allies in Sicily that year, about a month after I was born.”

“Your point is?”

“When I was old enough, I asks him, I says”—McNamara leaned into the desk again, stabbing the air with his cigar—“ ‘What was it like to invade Italy, Dad?’ An’ ya know what he says?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“He said, ‘It was all flies, fleas and fuckin’ Eyeties.’ Ain’t that
great? Flies, fleas and fuckin’ Eyeties.” McNamara laughed so hard he rocked back and forth in his chair.

Vertesi wanted to shove the cigar down his throat, but he’d learned a lot from getting shot—basically that he needed to control his temper when this very button was pressed. He let the moment pass, watching McNamara settle down and take another long puff on his cigar before he said, “My grandfather was there too, and he tells a somewhat different story. He said that your dad and all the rest of them pissed their way through the streets, shit in the alleys and churches and tried to fuck every Italian girl they came across. Funny isn’t it, Mr. McNamara—you and your dad were both born in Canada, not Belfast, but here you are, smoking that shit-ass cigar and pretending you’re playing an Irish gangster like James Cagney.”

McNamara was caught mid-inhale. He started coughing, then laughed so much he had to stand up to keep from spewing out whatever smoky sludge lined his windpipe. When he’d pulled himself together, he pulled up his trousers and smiled, this time genuinely, across the table. “Kid, I like your style. Cagney, is it? Why, I never … That’s the tops!” He laughed again, the way he might do with his grandkids—God forbid the man had grandkids! Vertesi thought.

“Okay, let’s talk about what you two are here to do to my modest little enterprise in the heart of lovely Waterdown.” He ground out the cigar in the ashtray, where it stood smouldering among the others—a tiny stogie Stonehenge.

“For starters,” Vertesi said, “did you hire the Damned Two Deuces Motorcycle Club and their Quebec partners, the Jokers, to represent you at the negotiations in Grimsby with ABC?”

“Yes, sir. Next question.” McNamara nodded and adjusted his shoulders, keen to get on with the game.

“Why?”

“Because I was told ABC had no intention of doing an honest deal with me and they were bringing in some gang from New York to kick my Irish—my
Irish-Canadian
—ass.”

“Who told you that?”

“This ain’t gonna be pretty, Detective Vertesi.”

“I’m not here for pretty.”

He laughed again. “You sure as shit aren’t. Okay, I got a call from Roberto Mancini.”

“Seriously?”

“Fuckin’ A—seriously. It was a ‘thought you should know’ conversation. He says I should speak to D2D. I didn’t know what Mancini was up to, but I sure as shit wasn’t going to Grimsby to get beat up.”

“How much did you pay D2D?”

“First of all, turns out I wasn’t dealing with D2D. Oh, they was here, but it was that swaggering little French fucker Freddy Paradis, who just got shot, who did the deal—with this huge piece of shit who came with him—I guess to impress me.”

“How much?”

“I gave him seventy-five hundred, with a promise to double it if the problem”—he waved his meaty hand in circles—“went away. And it did, so I coughed up the second seventy-five. That was it. End of story.”

“Till the news yesterday.”

“Yeah. I never bin the shiniest penny in the purse, but I didn’t know shit about those killings till yesterday. I had a problem, I paid to have it taken away, and it was end of story.”

“You heard what happened to Pat Mancini?”

“Sure. Look, I liked that kid. I rooted for him as a player, I surely fuckin’ did. But he didn’t know squat about this business, likely never would … Still, I don’t know why he was lit up top a the fuckin’ bridge. You don’t get much higher than that around
Dundurn. We sent a huge bouquet to the family. I got nothing against ’em really—Eyeties, I mean. And earlier, wit’ you … shit, Eyetalians ‘n’ Irish got more in common than startin’ with an I. Am I right?”

“Can’t think of what that would be, Mr. McNamara, other than knowing what being occupied by foreign troops is like. Nope. The food, wine, women, art, history, contributions to the world—they all tip in Italy’s favour, I’m afraid.” Vertesi wasn’t smiling, and McNamara studied his face, waiting for some indication of intent. Vertesi didn’t give him one.

“Christ, you’re a cocky fucker. But when you climb down from yer golden chariot, Ben-fuckin’-Hur, maybe you’ll explain Sylvio Berlusconi to me.”

Vertesi smiled at last. “I take your point.”

“If you two have finished with your Old World one-upmanship, we’ve got an investigation to wrap up.” Ryu stood up and buttoned his suit.

“Last question,” Vertesi said. “The biker farm in Cayuga had a long concrete underground tunnel that ran out to the woods. Are we going to find the invoice for that on your books?”

“Wasn’t us. Look, you take the shit you need, boys—I’m not worried. If what you wanted to know about was D2D and the Jokers, I’ve already given it to ya.” McNamara stood up and shook Ryu’s hand. As they walked the beaten indoor-outdoor path to the door, he put his hand on Vertesi’s shoulder and said, “I like ya, kid, honest ta shit I do.” And, in his best Cagney voice, he added, “Good luck wit yer investigation, eh?” They shook hands, and Vertesi and Ryu headed for the front door.

“Elvis is leaving the building,” Ryu said to the receptionist. The SUVs were being loaded and the staff were outside again, watching the show. “Come on, we’re outta here.”

In the car Ryu asked, “So, did you get what you came for?”

“Yes, I did. And I was surprised when he turned around just like
that
”—Vertesi snapped his fingers—“I actually liked the second version of McNamara.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t get called on his shit every day. It was a bit tense there for a while.”

“Yeah, the old country comes to the new country carrying all that failed shit that made them leave the old country in the first place—and hands it down through the generations.”

“Tell me about it. What was all that Cagney stuff about?” Ryu asked as he drove out of the yard.

“You don’t know James Cagney?”

“No.”

“No, I guess most people these days don’t. Well, in the thirties and forties James Cagney, a cocky little Irish-American actor, played a cocky little Irish gangster. My pop loved to watch those old movies on weekends; it was a great break from always seeing Italians as the thugs and crooks.”

“So McNamara was doing Cagney?”

“Yes, but so can I, and so can my dad.”

Ryu pulled into the detachment parking space they’d left earlier and said, “We’ll keep this team together, do the forensics and hopefully have a report for you within a week.” Vertesi nodded his thanks and got out of the car.

Leaving Waterdown, Vertesi cut south on Plains Road so he could drive over the Sky-High Bridge—he wanted to see where Pat Mancini had died. Both sides were already open, though the damaged lane appeared to be closed for resurfacing.

The sad thing, he thought, was that no one would be able to lay wreaths or leave photographs or trading cards or tear-stained messages where he died. But Vertesi knew he’d never cross the bridge again without thinking about Pat Mancini lighting up the night sky.

L
OOKING THROUGH THE
sidelight of the interview room, MacNeice saw Roberto Mancini pacing back and forth in his black suit and armband. Williams sat like someone watching a tennis match he wasn’t all that interested in.

“Montile’s silence must be unnerving for Mancini,” Aziz said.

“If we had the time, I’d let it go on for another half-hour—but we don’t. Ready?”

“As ever.”

“We’re not going to have him alone for long. Pat’s father probably has counsel on the way here.”

As MacNeice and Aziz came in, Williams stood up and Roberto stopped pacing. Aziz held the door for Williams. He left without speaking but winked as he passed her. Aziz winked back at him before stepping into the room.

“Have a seat, Mr. Mancini.” MacNeice pulled out a chair and sat down, as did Aziz.

“I’d rather stand.” He began pacing again.

“Mr. Mancini, that wasn’t a request. Sit down now.”

Mancini looked at them, attempting to gather his dignity, then did as he was told. He crossed his arms, but MacNeice noticed that his left leg was moving furiously up and down. He spoke without looking at either of them, his eyes fixed on the fake wood grain of the table. “This is an outrage. I will have legal representation here shortly, and until then I will not say another word.”

“As you wish, but I have a lot to say to you. With me is Detective Inspector Fiza Aziz, who is also a doctor of criminology.”

Mancini looked at her briefly, then returned to his fascination with the table.

“Roberto, I suspect you know why you were brought in today, but you likely don’t know that we’re here to help you.” The man’s foot stopped bouncing for a moment. “Your relationship with your nephew, as we understand it, was very close. You were, of course, of a similar age—what, five years apart?”

Mancini did not respond, just ran a finger along the table’s fake grain.

“I’m sure that Pat’s taking on the role of an executive at Mancini Concrete made his dad happy, but I’m curious to know how you felt about that.”