They were greeted at the door by Lee Dong Wen, to whom Nick had sold a similar house not three blocks away. To anyone watching, they were house guests who entered quietly, and whose car was driven off toward Yellowstone Boulevard.
In the basement, Richie looked around, clearly annoyed by the tight quarters, as everyone stood to welcome his grandfather. Only bosses were present, no second-in-commands except Don Ventura’s grandsons. They were a mutually agreed exception. The Don was growing older and seemed somewhat breathless. He gestured them all to sit down, then stood himself.
“Before we begin, I have one very important request to make of each of you. And then one important piece of information to convey. The first request applies to every single one of us—including myself.”
The request was put politely, but it wasn’t arbitrary: Every man present would be searched. The two Colombians narrowed dark cold eyes, stared through the walls, ignoring the indignity of a search for guns or hidden recording devices. No family member, from anywhere, searched any other family member. There was to be no favoritism and no chances.
Nick watched as his grandfather was searched by Lee Dong Wen, who in turn was searched by Don Ventura. Missing, obviously, was Dennis Chen.
When everyone was cleared, Richie leaned over and said to his cousin, “Nice ring ya got there. I don’t remember you ever wearing that before.”
Without looking at his cousin, Nick removed the ring from his pinky. His son’s class ring from junior high school graduation. Richie dropped it, apologized for his carelessness, examined it closely, then handed it back. Nick removed a familiar fountain pen from his breast pocket, uncapped it, plucked at the gold lever, then smiled as the squirt of ink just missed Richie’s shirt.
Papa Ventura admonished them in a whispery voice. No time for stupid games. No food was offered; nothing to drink. Afterwards, whoever wanted entertainment would have the whole of New York City to welcome them.
When he had everyone’s attention, Ventura reached into his leather folder and extracted some documents.
“Now for the information. Mr. Dennis Chen, our esteemed colleague, is not present. His place is taken, for this time, by Mr. Lee Dong Wen, who has Mr. Chen’s complete power and authority in this matter.”
Before he could continue, one of the Colombians, a large, heavyset, muscular man with a glistening bald head, thick eyebrows, and semidark eyeglasses, spoke in a very loud, suspicious tone. “Why not? Why is Chen not here?”
Ventura was not accustomed to that tone of voice directed at him. He stared the man down for a moment, in silence, then looked away from him. Deliberately, insultingly, not acknowledging his presence, he said, “Two nights ago, at Heathrow Airport in London, Mr. Chen was waiting for his flight to New York. As he waited, an anxious passenger, afraid he was going to miss his own flight, ran through the airport pushing people aside and knocked Mr. Chen down.” As though sensing unasked questions, he held his hand up. “There were many witnesses to this accident. The passenger gave the police his business card.” He displayed a faxed copy. “Dennis Chen was in great pain and was taken by ambulance to the Royal Hospital. X-rays showed a compound fracture of his right leg. It required immediate surgery, which was performed by an orthopedist who has attended many of the Queen’s own family members. His card is also here. He had a broken wrist, a mild concussion, a cut on his forehead, a shoulder injury.” Ventura shuffled through the various documents, then distributed them to the others at the table. “Mr. Lee has acted for Mr. Chen on other occasions.”
Several of the Chinese nodded their affirmation.
“Nicholas,” the gravel-voiced man from Philadelphia hesitated, then spoke slowly, “this has been—all of this stuff, the accident and the injuries and all—this has been, ya know, checked out?”
Ventura nodded, “By our own people. And by others. Yes. So, is everyone comfortable now? I regret that the accommodations are not so comfortable as meetings on this level should warrant, but we all appreciate the necessity, at this point, for absolute privacy.”
Still standing, Nicholas Ventura surveyed the faces around the table. Then, in a clear, loud voice, beginning with the men to his right and continuing around the table, he named each participant by way of introduction. Some nodded self-consciously, some shrugged, seeming embarrassed or annoyed by the personal attention. The Triad members, one at a time, stood up, glanced around, nodded slightly, and sat down quietly. The Colombians stared at Ventura, then glared around the room. They were obviously angry at being named, even in this tightly secure meeting.
They settled down and waited expectantly as men from both ends of the table pulled out various papers, faxes, charts, and documents, and passed them around. Each offering was studied carefully. Notebooks came from breast pockets, as it had been made clear all copies were to be returned. Nick pulled out a large white envelope and began doodling: a large blue ink puddle marred the paper and soiled his hands. His cousin looked at him and grinned. Nick pulled a ballpoint from another pocket, raised his eyes at Richie, silently offered the pen for inspection.
“What’ll that one do, stab me in the eye?”
Nick shrugged. He made doodles, stick figures, suns and moons, then absently clicked the pen, in and out. In and out. He chewed on one end for a moment, then resumed playing with it, rotating it between his fingers.
Before them all, on the rough Ping-Pong table, was the detailed itinerary of the China White distribution plan, by which the Italian-Colombian-Chinese triangle would launch one of the largest heroin disseminations in the history of the United States.
Abruptly, after they had been present for an hour and a half, or just under, all papers were collected and returned to Papa Ventura and Mr. Chen’s deputy. Everyone here would be kept advised, specifically, of all matters pertaining to his sphere of operation. Hands were shaken all around; some present looked wary, evidently uneasy at the nationality of their new partners. Others were more outgoing, inviting anyone interested to a tour of the best restaurants in New York City.
Each man then exited as he had entered, discreetly escorted to the place where his car waited to pick him up. A few men, looking for a personally owned Mercedes or Cadillac, hesitated for a moment, then remembered: these were all rented, low-cost cars.
Nicholas Ventura and his two grandsons, shown to the front door on the first floor, shook hands cordially with their “host.” Papa Ventura directed Nick behind the wheel of the empty Camaro, and gave him the keys. Richie sat in the passenger seat, Papa Ventura in the rear. Ventura instructed that they be driven to Metropolitan Avenue, in the vicinity of the cemetery.
Joe Menucci opened the door of the small car for Papa, leaned toward him, and spoke quietly, directly into his ear. With his right thumb, he jabbed toward the house from which they had just come. He looked at his watch, held up three fingers.
“Three minutes, that’s all, Papa.”
Papa Ventura took Joe’s arm; shook his head; patted his shoulder. Whatever it was that Joe wanted to do, Papa decided this was not the time. Menucci nodded; helped Papa out of the car.
The old man leaned into the open window of the Camaro and spoke in a firm but pleasant voice.
“Nick, you drive Richie out to Massapequa.”
Instantly, Nick said, “I’m ten minutes away from my apartment, Papa. Why don’t I—”
“Yeah, but your car isn’t,” Richie said. Shrugged;
hey, don’t blame me.
“Your car is at Richie’s house. I had it driven there—just in case anyone might be following you. Do as I tell you and pick it up there.” He raised his hand, anticipating Nick’s protest.
That was all he said. He settled into the rear seat of his dark-windowed limo and Joe Menucci slammed the door, got into position, and drove off quickly.
“I’d offer to drive this piece of shit, Nicky, but what the hell. You’re used to drivin’ crap like this—I’m not.”
Nick didn’t answer. He pulled the car quickly into the line of traffic, nearly cutting off an oncoming car. He slammed his brakes and ignored the angry driver. Richie had flung his hands out; they hit the windshield, instead of his forehead.
In a quiet voice, Nick said, “For Christ’s sakes, put your seat belt on. How’d I explain your cracked skull to Papa if you went through the windshield? Besides, it’s illegal.”
The other motorist, shaken by the near miss, was walking toward them, but Nick O’Hara just tooted his horn twice, waved, and headed toward Grand Central Parkway.
N
ICK IGNORED RICHIE’S RUNNING
commentary on the various men present at the meeting. He joked about pissing off the guys whose job it was to drive around Queens for an hour and a half. Queens, for God’s sake!
“Hey, did ya notice how some of the guys—‘Philadelphia Pete’ Pisarano—did ya see his face when he spotted you with Papa?” Nick didn’t respond. “See, me, he knows me, right? But you—I don’t know, Nick. Coupla guys raised eyebrows.”
Staring straight ahead, Nick said, “I didn’t notice anyone askin’ Papa anything, did you?”
They got on Grand Central Parkway at the Forest Hills entrance. Traffic was fairly heavy in both directions. Nick reached for the radio, pushed a button for 1010 WINS—all the news, all the time.
“How ’bout we try for some music? Hell, I gotta lotta great CDs in my car. What’s so interesting about the news, anyway?”
Nick turned the sound up. He sensed Richie studying him, but he watched traffic carefully, made sure he stayed in the proper lane, didn’t hang to the right cutoff when he had to stay with the left lane.
Along with their retainers, more than a dozen men from the meeting were on their way to a little-publicized but very popular restaurant in Little Italy. The cook had been carefully selected, the menu scrutinized. Even the Chinese, in their quiet way, would be pleased. Who the hell could not like pasta?
“How come you didn’t go out to eat?” Nick asked.
“How come you didn’t?”
Childishly, Nick said, “I asked you first.”
He had a hunch that Papa hadn’t invited him, either. But Richie had to save face. “I tole Papa I ate before I came. You know my wife—whatta cook!”
After a long silence, Richie snapped the radio off. “Ya know, I been thinking, Nick. If someone, somehow, had bugged that meeting tonight, Christ, they’d have everybody. Under that fucking RICO, all ya gotta do is get with a coupla people, have a sitdown—hell, about anything at all, right? Like your kid’s communion, or your daughter’s wedding, right? And wham, they slam ya on RICO, right? That the way it works?”
When Nick didn’t respond, Richie picked up tempo. “I know we was all frisked. Hey, you think them chinks knew what they were doing? I don’t think they were very comfortable about it, do you? Hell, my chink, he hardly skimmed me. How about yours? They make all kindsa mikes now. Like your ring, for instance. I hope ya didn’t mind I checked it out. Christ, we can’t be too careful. You might have,
anybody
might have, ya know, come up with somethin’ and have it all on tape and …”
Without answering, Nick abruptly pulled across two lanes of traffic, the cars he cut off slamming on brakes, barely missing running into other vehicles. Tires were screeching, drivers yelling. Nick brought the car to a neck-wrenching stop on the grassy median along the parkway. Only his seat belt saved Richie from a header through the windshield. Before he could utter a word of complaint, Nick was out of the car, around to the passenger’s side. He flung the door open and yanked at Richie, who fumbled at the seat-belt lock.
“Get the fuck outta the car. Now. Right now.”
Richie stood open-mouthed and watched as Nick pulled his jacket off, tossed it to the ground. He loosened his tie, then, annoyed, pulled it over his head. Nick was going nuts; Richie didn’t know what to do. As he continued to undress, bringing his foot up, hopping as he pried his shoes off, then his socks, cars were slowing down in all three traffic lanes, nearly coming to a halt in the slow lane. Passengers slid windows down in disbelief to watch the tall, well-built, obviously agitated man pulling off his shirt, popping buttons in the process, then ripping off his T-shirt.
A carload of young women, delighted, began to chant: “Take it off! Take it off!”
Richie yelled, “Nicky, what the fuck ya doin’? Nicky, for Christ’s sake, holy God, whatsa matter with you?”
Nick undid his belt, hooked his thumbs in the waistband.
“Ya think the Chinese guys didn’t do a good search? Okay. Fine. Get over here. Get over here,
you
do a good search.”
He pulled the fountain pen from one pocket of his pants, the ballpoint from the other. Aimed them, one at a time, directly at Richie.
“There, see? A little inky, but I gotcha, Richie. How about this one?”
Click-click-click.
He turned the ballpoint toward the traffic and yelled, “Say cheese! Smile!”
Then he tossed the pens at Richie, who recoiled, but not in time to escape a smear from the fountain pen.
He flung his pants at Richie, who fended them off with a raised arm. As Nick grabbed the waistband of his briefs and began to slide them down, Richie rushed over to him. Nick grabbed his cousin’s wrist.
“Ya wanna get inside, Richie, huh? That what ya wanna do? Get inside my pants? Now’s your chance, you moron.”
Richie pulled his hand away, turned his back to Nick, tried to shield him from being seen by passers-by, who were now starting to make whooping, encouraging noises as they passed.
Over his shoulder, he said, “Christ, Nick, the cops’ll be here. Somma these people, they got cellular phones. Shit, we don’t wanna get picked up by cops. Not now. Not for this stupid thing here.”
Richie’s face had gone gray and his stiff hair stood up in all the wrong places. He darted around, picking up Nick’s clothing, his pens, tossing them to his cousin.
Nick caught the clothes and to the regret of his audience, put his shirt on, then his trousers. He shook Richie’s hand off his arm, shoved him toward the car.