Class Act Page 7

  “Oh, another question: How’d you get so rich all of a sudden?”

  “My mother gave me my inheritance early. It’s about gone now.”

  The guy nodded and turned to go. “I’ll pass it on.”

  Mickey closed the door behind him and locked it, breathing hard. “What the hell was that?” he asked himself aloud.

  * * *

  —

  Manny picked up the phone. “Yeah?”

  “It’s Vinnie. We braced Mickey O’Brien. He told us he passed Fratelli on the street, on Lexington Avenue, and slugged him with a blackjack and then had to run for it. He heard Fratelli was in a private hospital, but he couldn’t find him, because he didn’t have a name. We believe the guy was telling the truth.”

  “How’d he get so rich?”

  “His mother gave him his inheritance early, and he blew most of it. The consensus is, he’s got nothing left.”

  “I want his money, and Fratelli’s.”

  “Manny, I just explained he’s blown his inheritance. He’s got nothing. And he doesn’t know what name Fratelli is using, so he can’t find him.”

  “I don’t care, I want the money.”

  “Whose money?”

  “Everybody’s.”

  “Well, you can’t have it, Manny, because it ain’t there to have, and nobody knows who’s got it or where he is or what his name is.”

  “I want the money.”

  “No.” Vinnie didn’t think anybody had ever said that word to Manny—not anybody who had survived the experience—because he could feel the earth shake all the way to Brooklyn.

  “Now, Manny, do you still want me working for you at the track?”

  “Yeah, sure. And I want the money.”

  “I can’t give you the money, nobody can. Now, unless you accept that right now, I won’t be coming back to Hialeah, not to Florida, either. I’ll get out and take what I’ve got with me, and you can find some other guy to look into it and tell you the same goddamned thing. What’s it going to be?”

  Manny thought about it. “All right, come back to Hialeah.”

  “Are you going to leave me alone about this money?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not good enough, Manny. I want you off my back; you’re too heavy.”

  “Oh, fuck it. Come on home and get your ass back to work. Your backup guy fucks up every day.”

  “I’m going to rest for a day. I’ll fly home tomorrow and I’ll be back at the post the day after.”

  “Okay.”

  “Goodbye.” Vinnie hung up the phone. He was in the last phone booth on Fifth Avenue, he reckoned. As he stepped out of it he saw Johnny Fratelli. He froze. What was he going to do? He couldn’t brace Johnny; he’d get his head handed to him. So he followed, and at a respectful distance.

  Fratelli was skinnier, he thought, and he was wearing expensive clothes. Then, at an intersection, Fratelli made to cross the street and looked both ways. The image of Johnny dissolved before Vinnie’s eyes. From the back, it was Fratelli; from the front and side, it was somebody else.

  Vinnie went back to his hotel on Sixth Avenue, flung himself onto the bed, and drifted off. Before unconsciousness came, he resolved not to tell Manny about the encounter; Manny would just put him on another plane to New York, and he’d had more than enough of New York.

  * * *

  —

  Mickey O’Brien went down to Little Italy and found the alley where Tiny Blanco kept an office. As it happened, Tiny stepped into the alley as Mickey approached. Mickey pulled his .38 Smith & Wesson from his ankle holster, walked up to Tiny, and stuck it under his chin. “What the fuck do you mean sending a guy with a gun to my house?”

  “Hey, take it easy, Mick. He didn’t shoot you, did he? You look okay to me.”

  “I don’t like guns in my face. I don’t like the way you operate. I don’t like you. If you ever pull something else like that I’ll put two in your brain, you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Mick.”

  “And I know how to do it and get away with it.”

  “Okay, Mick. I read you loud and clear. It was Manny, the bookie from Florida, who wanted information.”

  “And you sent him to me?” Mick cocked the pistol.

  “Never again!” Tiny said.

  “You remember you said that,” Mick replied. Then he walked away, having bled off the head of steam he had accumulated.

  17

  Jack Coulter called Stone Barrington, and Joan put him right through.

  “Good morning, Jack. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you, Stone. I want to thank you for putting me in touch with Charley Fox. I was very impressed with him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Jack. Charley has certainly done very well for me.”

  “I wired the funds to him an hour ago and got a confirmation right back, saying he’ll send me a list of what he buys for me and instructions as to how to check my account online.”

  “That’s the way we do it. You don’t have to read the papers or watch CNBC to know where you are.”

  “Tell me, what do you hear about Mickey O’Brien?”

  “Funny. My guy, Bob Cantor, who’s been doing surveillance on Mickey, was in here this morning. I’d had his people watching him around the clock—you’ll get a bill for that—but he recommended easing off to one day a week, which was yesterday, and that’s when something happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “Mickey was called on at his new house by a guy dressed in a black raincoat and a black hat, and Bob’s guy on site recognized him as a known hitman named Willie Pasco. Do you know him?”

  “Never heard of him,” Jack said. “But unless he’s my age, or older, I wouldn’t.”

  “Anyway, Pasco was only in the house for a minute or two, then he left. We wondered if Mickey had been hit, but a couple of minutes later, he left the house looking angry and took a cab to Little Italy, where he braced the guy who used to be his bookie, one Tiny Blanco, stuck a gun in his face in an alley and talked to him earnestly for about a minute, then he got out of there, leaving Tiny in a near-fainting state.”

  “What do you make of all that?”

  “Bob thinks somebody hired Pasco to hit Mickey, or at least frighten him, and that made Mickey mad. I guess he thought Tiny ordered the bracing and went off his head.”

  “And how does that relate to me?”

  “We don’t know. I’d hoped the names might ring a bell or two for you, and you could tell us.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Oh, there was one other piece of the puzzle: one of Bob’s people recognized a guy from Florida named Vinnie, who was in town and in touch with Tiny the day before. Does that mean anything?”

  “Yes, it does. A bookie named Vinnie, who works out of Hialeah, was the guy I placed a bundle of money with and got five percent a week.”

  “I remember you mentioning that.”

  “But when they failed to pay the interest one week, I demanded that money and my bundle back and gave them twenty-four hours to comply. I had a reputation in prison for keeping my promises, and I guess they figure it was less trouble to give the money back than to worry about me.”

  “Who is the other party in ‘they’?”

  “Oh, Vinnie works for a guy named Manny who runs the mob’s South Florida interests. My money would have been funneled through Vinnie and him to somebody else.”

  “Do you think Vinnie would have put out a hit on you?”

  “No, but Manny would, if he was pissed off. He’d have had Vinnie hire somebody. Now all this is making sense.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m missing something. What would Vinnie—or, rather, Manny—want from you?”

  “Manny would probably want my money back. He’s the greedy sort. And in order to get it
back he’d have to find me, and that means he needs to know my new name. Vinnie knows me only as Fratelli. Mickey O’Brien is the only person I can think of who knows that name.”

  “Ah,” Stone said. “I sort of understand. Is there anything you want Bob’s people to do about this? I don’t mean anything drastic.”

  “No. I need to think about the whole thing and a way to throw a monkey wrench into their works.”

  “Well, you’ve got your new nose working for you.”

  Jack laughed. “Yes, there is that.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, Stone, I think I know how to handle it. Do you have an address for Mickey?”

  Stone gave it to him. “Oh, and Mickey has a girlfriend living with him named Marge: she was his real estate agent on the house.”

  “Got it. Thank you again, Stone.” Jack hung up. He had to sleep on this before he did anything, but it was already clear that he had to do something.

  * * *

  —

  Stone called Bob Cantor. “Hey. My client was on the phone this morning, the one who’s worried about Mick O’Brien.”

  “What’s with that, anyway?” Cantor asked.

  Stone took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you much. Let’s just say they knew each other in another life, and Mickey is the only one who knows about that life.”

  “Okay, I buy that. Do you think he wants something done to Mickey? I mean, you and I don’t deal in that, right?”

  “Very right.”

  “Is your client capable of dealing with it directly?”

  “My client is capable of wringing Mickey’s neck like a chicken’s. But we don’t want blood in the streets of Brooklyn, especially on my client’s hands. He’s an upstanding citizen.”

  “Does this thing between them have anything to do with that big robbery at an apartment on Fifth Avenue? I mean, when I was redoing the security system, I saw Mickey there. He was one of the investigators.”

  “My client attended that party.” Never mind that Jack was the host of that party, Stone said to himself. “Mickey might have seen him there on the night.”

  “And he would have seen Mickey.”

  “Possibly.”

  “I’m getting the feeling that I’m tiptoeing a little too close to the edge here.”

  Stone remained silent.

  “Okay, let’s scrap that theory.”

  “It could work, as long as it’s only a theory and not spread around.”

  “I see,” Bob said. At least, he thought he saw.

  18

  Bob Cantor thought about this thing for a while. He’d gone as far as he could with Stone, maybe further than he should have. Maybe he’d see what he could find out without consulting him. After all, what people want in this sort of case is a result; even if they didn’t want to deal with the means.

  Bob knew Tiny Blanco from his days as a cop, when Tiny was muscle for his predecessor. Tiny wasn’t stupid, but he was a bully—that is, he enjoyed siccing his boys on some hapless son of a bitch who couldn’t cover his bets. Bob viewed bullying as a weakness, a way inside a man’s head.

  Bob drove his van down to Little Italy and put it in a parking garage around the corner from the alley where Tiny’s business operated. He remembered something about Tiny: he always lunched alone at the same Italian restaurant, probably because he didn’t want anybody to see how much he ate. He sat near the kitchen at a table behind a screen, sheltered further between his table and the kitchen by a tall piece of furniture that held the silverware in pigeonholes.

  Bob walked down the street to the next alley where the restaurant, Luigi’s, was situated. He walked past the place slowly, casing it. The screen was still there. Bob checked his watch: a quarter past one; Tiny was probably there now. The place was more than half empty, catering as it did to an earlier lunch crowd. Bob walked back and into the restaurant, grabbing a menu on his way. He sat down at the table next to the screen and listened. Judging from the noises being made, either Tiny was behind it, or they were keeping pigs in the place now.

  He leaned close to the screen. “Hello, Tiny,” he said.

  The noises stopped for a moment, while Tiny tried to place the voice, then he chewed some more and swallowed. “Whozzat?” he asked.

  “An old acquaintance,” Bob replied.

  “Whaddaya want?”

  “Just the answers to a couple of questions.”

  “Not now, I’m eating.”

  “Yeah, I know. I could hear the noises out in the street.”

  “Maybe you would like to ask your questions to some friends of mine.”

  “No, Tiny, just you. Give me straight answers, and I’ll be gone. Give me crooked answers, and I’ll shut you down, take your money, and pull out your phones. How’d you like to do a couple of years on Rikers? I hear they have a very fine chef there.”

  “What do you want?” Tiny said, enunciating more clearly without a slab of veal in the way.

  “You sent Willie Pasco to see Mickey O’Brien. Who told you to send him and why?”

  “You don’t want to mess with that,” Tiny said. “Those people play for keeps.”

  “Then what’s a small-time bookie like you messing with them?”

  “I got a request,” Tiny said.

  “That brings us back to my original question,” Bob said. “Who from and what for? And if I don’t get an answer I like, you’re going to hear the sound of police sirens before the next minute has passed.”

  “From a guy in Florida,” Tiny said. “Manny runs things for the boys down there.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Manny Fiore. Every buck off a track or a card game in South Florida passes through Manny Fiore’s hands.”

  “Where does he work out of?”

  “He has an old trailer parked at the back of the parking lot of the Hialeah, one of them Streamers, or something.”

  “Airstreamer?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Now get off my back, or I’ll call for some help.”

  “And you’d need it,” Bob said. He slid out of his seat, left a twenty for the waiter, and left the restaurant.

  Tiny was left wondering if he still had company. Finally, he pulled back the screen an inch and looked. Nobody there.

  * * *

  —

  Back in his van, Bob Cantor called Stone.

  “Yes, Bob?”

  “I got a name for somebody who might be involved with trying to find your client.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “Manny Fiore, who deals with all the betting money in South Florida.” He told Stone about the Airstream trailer.

  “I don’t guess you’d want to take a hop down to Florida and check him out.”

  “He’s the kind of guy you don’t want to check out,” Bob said. “He hears somebody is looking into him, and first thing you know, the looker has a gun in his ear, and somebody’s pulling the trigger.”

  “Then don’t go to Florida,” Stone said.

  “Exactly what I had in mind.”

  “I’ll mention the name to my client and see if it rings a bell.”

  “Okay, but don’t ring any bells while you’re doing it,” Bob said. “People get hurt that way.”

  “Thanks, Bob.”

  Stone called Jack Coulter.

  “Yes, Stone?”

  “When you were in Florida, did you ever hear of somebody called Manny Fiore?”

  “Certainly. Everybody who knows anything about the mob in South Florida knows that name. He’s one of the people who handled my money. And it wouldn’t have been refunded, if he hadn’t approved.”

  “He’s been looking into you, I hear.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it, but not surprised.”

  “He works out o
f an Airstream trailer in the parking lot at the Hialeah track.”

  “Ah.”

  “You think he wants another shot at your money?”

  “I think he probably regrets giving it back. It’s not really the sort of thing those guys do.”

  “How’d you manage it?”

  “I threatened him, and he took it seriously.”

  “Jack, don’t threaten mob guys. You could get hurt again that way.”

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ll take care of it.” Jack hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Stone called Bob Cantor back. “The information you gave me meant something to my client. Is there anybody who can say you were asking about Fiore?”

  “No, the guy I asked couldn’t see me at the time.”

  “Whatever you say, Bob. I just don’t want you to get caught up in this thing.”

  “I’m clear. Don’t worry about it.”

  19

  Jack Coulter dug out another throwaway phone from a desk drawer and called Vinnie.

  “This is Vinnie.”

  “It’s Johnny,” Jack said.

  “I don’t much want to hear from you,” Vinnie said.

  “I just want to slip a flea into your ear. Are you where you usually are?”

  “Nah, I’m in the big city, been here a couple days.”

  “You might want to extend your stay a little further,” Jack said. “Be as far as possible from your friend in the trailer park.”

  “I’m far enough,” Vinnie said. “Thanks.”

  “Be safe.” Jack hung up. He gave some thought to old acquaintances from his former home up the Hudson. One came to mind. He called back Vinnie. “One more thing, where might I find Solly White?”

  “I’ll give you a number.”

  “Shoot.”

  “It’s a diner in Boca. He has lunch there most days. Don’t mention I told you.”

  “I never mention anything to anybody,” Jack said, then hung up. He checked his watch. Worth a try. He called the Boca number.