Echoes of a Distant Summer (47 page)

Paul laughed sarcastically. “Yeah, I remember.” He pointed his finger at Edward and sneered, “It was an insult to my family, part of a long line of insults. You throw us scraps while you take the prime cuts. Of course I refused it!”

Edward decided that it was time to take the gloves off. “The deal wouldn’t have paid the costs of your Chinese mistress on Grant Street, or your ex-stewardess on California, or even your coke connection on Powell, or your gambling debts, but your family would have lived well and, more importantly, would have been positioned to participate in anything the DiMarco family may undertake in the future.”

Paul was furious. The spineless punk had been spying on him and was now trying to muscle him with the information he had gained. “I didn’t know you were a Peeping Tom,” Paul said with a smirk. “But I guess it’s typical of the gutless wonder you’ve become.”

Now it was Edward’s turn to smile. His cousin was so predictable: Push the right button, you got the desired response. “The DiMarco family no longer depends upon criminal enterprises for income,” Edward spoke, staring straight at Paul. “We’ve diversified. We have trucking, unions, toxic waste disposal, the junk-bond market.

“Now, with our Republican connections in Texas, we’re ready to get into the savings and loans business. If this election is successful, we’re looking at putting someone in a statewide office. The opportunities that will be available through an elective office are too numerous to count. There will be enough for everybody. You’re the lone liability, still involved with illegal activities. It’s a pity you didn’t take the deal, because we’re going to have to close your drug operations down.”

Paul stood up, his face red with rage. “Who the hell do you think you are? Close me down? I’ll cut your balls off and stuff them in your mouth first!”

“And what will you say to Joe Bones when you try to explain to him that you assaulted his representative?” Edward asked, smiling. “Joe likes the proposal for this branch of the family to go legit. We’ve done it with his blessing and help. He understands that elected officials can be very valuable in a lot of different projects.”

Paul’s eyes were slits as he tried to comprehend the totality of what Edward was saying. Was Edward in business with Joe Bones? What kind of arrangement did they have?

“You made two and a half million dollars last year in your drug dealings. Maybe another quarter of a million from your extortion racket,” Edward recounted, still smiling. He waved to a passing waitress and requested a scotch. He turned back to Paul and saw his cousin studying him. “A million dollars of this money you laundered through a construction company. The remaining money you passed through your restaurant.” Edward spoke casually. He knew the facts by heart.

“Your books and ledgers read like loony tunes. You cannot account for the money you have passed through this restaurant, nor can you reconcile it with your annual tax statement. In short, cousin, you’re a disaster waiting to happen. The family cannot afford to be in the political limelight while you are running a sloppy, unsophisticated operation. We’ll have enough of a struggle without you giving our opponents ammunition.”

Paul was steaming but said nothing. Again Edward smiled. He was confident that he had revealed sufficient information to cause Paul to reconsider his course of action. The waitress delivered his scotch and Edward raised his glass to Paul before drinking.

“So what do you want from me?” Paul asked through gritted teeth.

“I need to know what’s happening in Mexico. Joe was not pleased to lose a ten-story office building as part of what he thinks is a retaliatory
raid. Particularly when he hadn’t done anything to provoke such action except let you use one of his strike teams.”

“Okay, that’s one. What else do you want?” Paul asked angrily.

“Take the deal we offered last year,” Edward urged. “We’ll guarantee a certain dollar figure of business annually and it will be well above what is needed to break even.”

“So, I become a caterer while you become a politician, is that correct?” Paul demanded. He wanted to spit in Edward’s eye. “Does that sound fair to you? I need to know.”

“Well,” Edward pondered a moment before continuing then said, “you’re not much of a politician.”

Paul had had enough. He stood up and leaned over the table. “Fuck you! I’d rather be dead.”

Edward knocked back his drink and stood up. “That can be arranged.”

“You threatening me?” Paul started around the table, but before he got to Edward a large shape loomed in the corner of his eye. He turned to face the threat and was shocked to find it was Vince Rosetti coming to Edward’s aid. “Vince?” Paul asked in surprise as he looked into the weathered face of the assassin. “What are you doing here?”

“Joe said I should come and help Eddie explain things to you,” Vince said in his thick, gravelly New York accent.

It was now obvious that Edward was fronting the party line, not his own agenda. Paul was shocked to think that Bones would send a killer to help Edward explain. It was a statement from the organization, clear and simple. Desperately, Paul needed time to think. They had him in a box. The only escape was to get hold of King’s fortune. He needed to play for time.

“Why don’t I come down to your office tomorrow and I’ll bring everything that pertains to the Mexico project?” Paul suggested to Edward.

Edward said nothing. He merely looked at Vince and nodded his head at Paul.

Vince stepped forward and said, “I think you should talk now, ’cause Joe wants to know now.” Vince’s throat had been cut early in his career so his voice sounded like a cement mixer filled with aggregate. “Let’s go in the back,” Vince suggested.

Paul signaled to Dominique that he would be meeting in the office
and informed her that the prep cook assignments had not been completed. As Paul walked back to his office, he promised himself that one day soon he would be standing on Edward’s grave.

J
ackson was sitting at a kitchen table, wiping his sweating face with a towel as he looked out the window and saw tatters of early-morning gray fog drifting through the trees of the park across the street. As a precaution, he had moved into one of his grandfather’s San Francisco safe houses. He had informed no one of his return and would not until he had familiarized himself with all the materials he had received from his grandfather. He exhaled slowly then took a deep breath. He and Carlos had just completed a rigorous workout together. Carlos was intent on teaching Jackson knife technique, and they had been working on attack and parry patterns. As they sat across from each other at the table and recuperated from their physical exertion, they discussed their plans for the day. Carlos had several errands to run and Jackson had committed to finish reading the files that he had received from the Ramirez brothers. Theresa came out of the laundry room, picked a coffee urn up off the stove, and poured both Carlos and Jackson mugs of the thick, black steaming liquid then went back to buzzing around the kitchen. She was moving so fast that it hurt Jackson’s eyes to focus on her. The potent aroma of strong coffee now filled his nostrils. He lifted the mug to his lips, took a sip, and grimaced. The aroma had not misled him. It was his grandfather’s coffee, a black mixture of coffee grounds and boiled water, something that could’ve been cooked over a campfire. Jackson pushed the mug away.

“Don’t have to guess who taught her to make coffee,” Jackson said softly to Carlos.

Carlos smiled. “You don’t like the coffee again?”

Jackson retorted, “This is something you drink only when one foot is gangrenous and you still have to walk fifteen miles in the snow without shoes. Otherwise you avoid it because it’s bad for your kidneys!”

A burst of angry Spanish erupted from the kitchen and pots and pans began to clang. Jackson turned toward the kitchen door and then looked back toward Carlos, who was now laughing. Theresa continued her loud tirade without breaking for breath. Jackson looked questioningly at Carlos.

Carlos chuckled. “She is angry. She says no one told her how you like your coffee. She says she would do it the way you want if somebody tells her how that is. She wants to please you, not anger you.”

“I’ll get some Peet’s coffee and show her how to use a drip carafe.”

Carlos held up two manila folders labeled
PAUL DIMARCO
and
JOHN TREE
and then slid them across the table to Jackson. “Did you review the copies of these two files that I left in your room last night?”

“I read them. Not exactly bedtime reading. Both these guys are serious killers.”

“These are just two of your known enemies. We’re still searching for the third man. He’s the one who brings these two thugs together.”

Jackson picked up one of the folders and leafed through it. “Your men really put together thorough reports. How did they find out DiMarco is laundering drug money through his restaurant?”

“I use people who specialize in information collection. They don’t reveal their sources, but they guarantee the report’s accuracy. If any of their reports have a critical inaccuracy, they will refund triple the fee paid, and that’s quite hefty.”

“I’ve been hoping that your information collectors would come across something that might give these people pause, perhaps consider reaching a negotiated settlement.”

Carlos shook his head. “No way! Too much money at stake.” He stood up. “Right now, I’m going to leave you to the rest of your reading. I need to contact some people I’ve got working in the field on other assignments and I’ve got to prepare for my trip to Mexico on Friday. I’ll be back some time this afternoon.”

“Before you go, tell me what’s happening with the puppy. Is he going to be sent up here soon?”

“I thought it would be better if we held off the dog until you’ve settled things with your enemies first.”

“I’m going to leave two men with you while I’m in Mexico. I want you to continue your knife practice with them. I don’t want you to miss a day.”

Jackson frowned. “This is getting more onerous than a job!”

“You need the blade work until you’ve memorized all the patterns of attack and defense. You need to keep to a daily two-hour workout schedule. My job is to prepare you to deal with whatever physical threat comes your way. We cannot rule out assassins, can we?”

“Whatever you say,” Jackson agreed with a tired wave of his hand.

He was left alone in the dining room after Carlos departed. He could hear Theresa moving through parts of the house, cleaning, but the sounds were muffled. He had read for almost an hour before he came across a file marked
ELROY FONTENOT
. There were several inches of papers contained in the file. After going through it once, he set it down and wiped his forehead. It was confusing. The deeper he got into his grandfather’s affairs and papers, the stranger the reality became. He had been reading a detective agency case folder and final report on the search for Elroy Fontenot, completed in 1952. Apparently, his grandfather had a son by a woman before he ever met Serena and this son, as a result of DuMont treachery, was left in an orphanage in south Texas in 1923. Serena knew of the whereabouts of the child from the very beginning but had never told King. She’d left the child to grow up in the orphanage. If that wasn’t weird enough, King spent thousands of dollars and nearly thirty years searching for Elroy, and when he found him, he never once approached him. Elroy had actually been living right in San Francisco in the years after World War II. He was among the second group of black American officers hired by the San Francisco Police Department in 1951. King Tremain had known that Elroy was his son and had done nothing to inform him of their kinship.

It was all too strange. Jackson stood up and stared out the window, which looked upon the green meadows of Alamo Square Park. The park’s grassy swards, dotted with stands of twisted pine, junipers, and oaks, rose gently to a peak which overlooked the Fulton Street corridor. He found comfort in the sight. The park was familiar ground. His grandmother’s house was on the far side of the park. All his friends had lived around this same park and they had defended it against all comers.

He turned away from the window. His head was filled with questions. Why would his grandmother commit such cruelty to a child she didn’t know? Although on some levels he saw her actions as consistent with the coldness she had displayed toward him, still there were other
questions. Why would King search for years for that same son and then, upon finding him, not attempt to contact him? It was so strange that Jackson could decipher neither intent nor motive from either of his grandparents’ actions. They were like icebergs whose visual surface could not begin to indicate what lay beneath their dark waters. They were moved by currents that ran far beneath the surface, to destinations that could be neither predicted nor imagined.

Jackson exhaled. He had spent the last two days familiarizing himself with his grandfather’s papers. The old man, in his craftiness, had dictated his thoughts and memoirs for Jackson to read. There was no other purpose; he wanted the papers burned after Jackson had read them. The story of King Tremain’s life, told in his own words, was a strange and bleak saga of a man who saw life as a constant battle. The only times there was ever a hint of warmth or affection in his narrative was when he mentioned his son or grandson. He wasted no time or words on regret. There was no remorse for the men he killed. He told his story in a dry, humorless manner.

The papers clearly conveyed the tenor and mood of the Fillmore in the early fifties. The words seemed to leap off the paper, molding themselves into audible tones, flowing with his grandfather’s drawling inflection. For Jackson it was like listening to his grandfather tell his stories aloud. Vaguely remembered names were brought to life, given motivations and woven into the fabric of the memoirs. This world took substance from the page and wrapped its arms around him, enfolding him into its intrigues.

In order to better prepare himself, Jackson had requested that Carlos pay some investigators to work up a portfolio of up-to-date information on the DuMonts, the DiMarcos, and John Tree. Perhaps by sifting through the collected information, he might discover a path through the minefield. He picked up another sheaf of papers but returned them to their box. He needed a break. He wanted to see Elizabeth. He wanted to bathe himself in the contralto of her voice, hear her laugh, be warmed by her smile. He went to the phone and dialed her number at work. A secretary answered and informed him that Miss Carlson was in trial and not expected back into the office until the late afternoon. Jackson left a message that he would call back at four-thirty and returned to the desk. He poured himself a cup of the thick, black coffee then picked up the DiMarco file again and began to read through it.