To Save a Son (18 page)

“What are you talking about?” said Dukes.

“I'm talking about mobs,” said Franks, abandoning formality. “I'm talking about extortion and illegal gambling and drug peddling and usury. I'm talking about being tricked into the formation of these companies—particularly the casino corporation—for the movement and channeling of money from those activities beyond the jurisdiction and tax legislation of this country. And I'm talking about the respectability—and acceptability to me, as controlling stockholder—of members of this board. As controlling stockholder—with the proxy vote of my wife—” Franks took Tina's attested vote from his briefcase and slid it across the table toward them. “I intend today dissolving the companies, in their entirety. The real estate will be placed upon the open market and after the payment of all mortgage liens and any other debts, an equitable division will be made among members of this board, by a firm of independent auditors.”

No one moved to check the validity of Tina's proxy vote. Nicky sat, hands cupping his head, hiding, childlike.

“You know what I think?” said Pascara. “I think you're talking bullshit.”

“Do you know what I think, Mr. Pascara?” said Franks. “I think you're a crook. I think you're a two-bit gangster with an inflated reputation, who's so far been lucky in avoiding the indictments made out against him, who should be very careful about a current, ongoing FBI investigation.”

Pascara had felt out, as if for reassurance, for his son. Luigi took his father's hand without looking at it, staring instead at the table, his face a mask of fixed intensity.

“I think someone should be careful,” said Dukes in his rolling Texan accent.

“You're right,” said Franks. “I should have been, a long time ago. Had I been careful then, I might have known what I know now.” He looked away from the men gazing across the table at him, consulting his carefully made prompt notes. Franks started with Pascara, setting out the aliases—and the true name—and then all the indictments and accusations. From Pascara he went to Flamini and from Flamini to Dukes, itemizing everything and then, for good measure, he disclosed what he knew about Greenberg, in Las Vegas. Franks came up at last from the documents, looking for a reaction. There wasn't one, from any of them; they were as expressionless as they had been when he looked away from them minutes before. And when they had entered.

“There are two ways that these companies can be terminated,” lectured Franks. “Either here, today, by agreement of this board. Or by a court, before which all the facts and evidence can be put and which can be invited to dissolve them, upon my application. I would prefer it to be done by the first method, here today. But I'm quite prepared to go to court. In fact, I would welcome the opportunity of publicly clearing my name of any slur that might now be attached to it by association with you.”

The court idea had come to Franks as he spoke. He wasn't sure of the validity of what he said but he knew it applied in England and guessed there were similar provisions in company law in America.

“I can't make up my mind whether you're very brave or very stupid,” said Flamini.

“You prepared to put it to the test?” demanded Franks. He
wasn't
scared, he realized proudly. They were trying to make him so, with their artificial, theatrical composure, but they weren't succeeding.

“How do you know there is an FBI investigation?” said Pascara.

“Because I've undergone some hours of interrogation by FBI agents who've got a dossier on the affairs of this company that must have taken months to create. They've got samples of how much money has been moved through the credit agreement with Vegas and the identities of everyone who we bribed to set up the hotels and the casino,” said Franks.

There was a reaction at last, frowns between Dukes and Flamini and something whispered from Pascara to his son.

“They got the company books?”

The question came from Dukes, and Franks concentrated upon the Texan, guessing that he was the most worried of the three. “Yes,” said Franks. “They've got everything they asked for.”

“Why the hell did you give them the books!” shouted Flamini.

“Why shouldn't I have done?” Franks yelled back. He hadn't done it, he realized. Nicky had. The qualification didn't seem to matter.

“What did they say?” demanded the Texan. “Tell us everything they said.”

“They accused me of knowingly setting up a laundering operation—referred to it as a car wash—for money you got from the rackets. Knew everything about you. Everything. Listed the formation dates and the meetings. They've got photographs in the Bahamas and in Bermuda and in Las Vegas. And like I said, they know the money that's been going through.”

“You?”
seized Flamini.

“What?” said Franks, not understanding.

“They accused you of setting up the operation?”

“I did, didn't I?” said Franks. “Stupidly and unknowingly. That's why I intend to dissolve it.”

Flamini smiled at Dukes and then looked back across the table. “So the investigation isn't into us. It's into your activities?”

Franks looked briefly at Nicky, still hand-hidden, remembering the meeting in Westchester and Enrico saying openly that they would expect him to go to jail on their behalf. He looked back to the grouped men and said, “Activities carried out upon your behalf. Activities which, if it ever gets to court, I shall set out in chapter and verse.”

“Do you think that would be wise, Mr. Franks?” asked Pascara conversationally.

“I think it would be essential if it's going to keep me out of jail and put you in it,” said Franks.

“All the evidence must surely point to you if that's the way their investigation is going,” said Dukes.

“All the evidence they've got so far,” said Franks.

There was complete silence in the room. It lasted for a long time—so long that Nicky actually looked up—and then Pascara said, “What does that remark mean?”

“It means I have the recorded numbers of the offshore island accounts held by you, Mr. Pascara. And those in the Netherlands Antilles held by you, Dukes. It means I've also got details and records of the formation discussions that occurred without my knowledge, proving my complete innocence of any knowing involvement in what was being set up.”

“Scargo!”

Nicky cringed at Pascara's demand, blinking up at last like someone emerging from darkness into sudden light. “I didn't make them available when the FBI came here. Honest I didn't.”

“Where are they?” said Flamini.

“Safe,” said Franks. “Very safe. And they're going to stay that way, unless anything happens to me or to any member of my family. And then they will be automatically released. Released to the FBI, who I guess would like very much to get hold of them.”

Like the earlier threat of a civil court hearing, this use of the records as a protection was an improvisation. Which still didn't mean he was scared, thought Franks in private reassurance. It just let these bastards know how helpless they were to do anything at all to him.

“I want them,” said Pascara softly. “I want everything that the FBI doesn't have, handed over to me today.”

“Go to hell,” said Franks. ‘‘I'm neither impressed nor am I frightened of you, Pascara. Of any of you. You conned me and I'm going to be made to look a fool. I accept that. But I'm not going to appear in court or go to jail on your behalf. If any charges are made they are going to be made against the guilty people. And that isn't me.”

“You been asked to cooperate?” said Dukes.

“Not yet.”

“I don't think we should lose our heads over this,” said the Texan. He smiled, a brief on-off expression. “You got every right to be sore, Eddie. Sore as hell. But let's think it through. Where's the benefit in giving the FBI any more than they've got?”

“I'm not giving them any more than they've got.”

“Good,” said the Texan, smiling longer this time, his tone that of a patient teacher to a dull child. “That's good.”

“But I will if they try to make a case against me.”

Dukes' smile went off, as quickly as it had come.

“How much do you want?” said Flamini.

Franks laughed at the man, prolonging the laugh as long as he could. “I'm a millionaire, too. Remember?” he said. “The difference between us is that I got my money honestly. You think you can buy me off to say nothing? Now who's being stupid?”

“I sent you a message,” said Pascara. “I told Scargo to give you a message.”

“He gave it to me,” said Franks. “Something about being silly.”

“I think you're being silly,” said Pascara.

“And I think we're wasting time,” said Franks impatiently. “I'm formally moving the dissolution of the companies, as already set out. I have the power and sufficient stock holding to do that. You—either together or separately—have the right under the formation agreement to challenge in court any major decision you consider would be to the detriment of the company. Dissolution could be so considered. Do any of you intend challenging me in court?”

He looked slowly around them, from face to face. When was the last time these men had been put down, as they had been today? Franks said, “It needs to be formally recorded in the minutes of the meeting that there is to be no challenge. Dukes?”

“No,” said the Texan.

“Flamini?”

“No.”

“Pascara?”

“No.”

“I'll issue all the formal declarations. Put the properties on the market. You'll each get separate, certified accounts,” said Franks. “There'll be no need for us to meet again, as a board.”

“I'm not accustomed to being treated discourteously, Mr. Franks,” said Pascara.

“I'm not accustomed to being used, as I have been used,” said Franks. He stood, the gesture intentionally dismissive. “This meeting is over,” he said. “So is any association between us.”

Briefly me men across the table remained sitting as they were. Luigi Pascara was the first to rise, helping his father up with him. Dukes and Flamini stood at the same time.

“Remember what I said about not doing anything silly,” said Pascara at the door.

“Remember what I said about not appearing in court or going to jail on your behalf,” said Franks.

Nicky stayed as he was, hunched over his legal pad. Franks said, “You can look up now. They've gone.”

He regretted it at once. That was bullying, like Enrico. Still, Franks felt euphoric. It had gone far easier than he had expected. Realistically he knew there was nothing they could have done to oppose him, but their acquiescence had still been quick, with little or no argument. He wished Tina had been with him, to have witnessed how much in control he had been, of everything. To Nicky he said, “I wasn't aware of you making many notes.”

“It wasn't necessary to take many notes.”

“I want the dissolution notice filed today, with whatever authority has the jurisdiction. Delaware, I suppose. Can we do that, today?”

“I can telex the decision and promise the formal notices by express mail tomorrow.”

“Do that,” instructed Franks.

“Why the hurry?”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said Franks. He added: “How did you think it went?”

“I don't know,” shrugged Nicky.

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

“I thought they would have said more.”

“There wasn't a lot they could say.”

“Where is the file? The one with the bank account details and the formation stuff?”

“Safe, like I said.”

“Not anywhere they could get hold of it?”

“No.”

Nicky sighed, relieved. “Keep it that way,” he said.

“Bang! Bang!” jeered Franks.

“It isn't a joke,” said Nicky. “Stop thinking that it is.”

“It's all over, Nicky,” said Franks. “You're out, free. You don't deserve to be, but you are.”

Nicky smiled, briefly. “I hope you're right,” he said.

Franks remained in the lawyer's office, determined to see that the dissolution procedure was followed. The Delaware registration authority acknowledged Nicky's telex, and Franks waited until one of the outer office secretaries returned with the post office receipt for the overnight delivery. Nicky offered him a drink from the recessed cabinet, appearing to think some sort of celebration was in order, but Franks rejected it, making it clear to the other man that the association was over here, too.

Tina had been at the Scarsdale house for two hours when he telephoned. First David and then Gabriella clamored to the telephone to speak to him and it was easier to go through conversations with them before he talked to Tina. He said he loved them both and would be up on the weekend, but until then they were to do what their mommy and the nanny told them. Tina came on the line at last, the anxiety obvious in her voice. He told her everything that had happened, knowing that he was boasting, wishing again that she had been there.

“Sounds as if you were very tough on them,” she said.

“You're damned right I was tough. Haven't I the right to be, after what they did?”

“Still seems to have gone quite easily, though.”

“I told you I'd sort everything out, didn't I?” said Franks, boasting still. “Believe me, everything is going to be fine.”

16

Franks could not remember encountering Ruben Rosenberg during any of his visits to the businessmen's club with Nicky. The man's baldness, only a hedge of hair remaining around his head, prematurely aged him, because Franks guessed he was not much more than forty years old. He had an unlined, pinkly shaved face and was slight and unobtrusive. In fact, everything about the man was discreetly unremarkable. The suit was muted grey, with a muted grey tie over a white shirt. The office was comparatively small and unostentatious: an uncluttered desk, functional working bookcase full of law books, and filing cabinets actually in the room, not outside as in Nicky's chambers. Franks found a marked contrast between the two men. Rosenberg gave him a firm handshake and an offer of coffee, which Franks declined.