Frame-Up (10 page)

Sometime in the late eighties, the dealers in real estate woke up to the treasure that was being squandered on cavemen. They had the money, and therefore the political clout, to clean house and put up high-rise glass condos that reaped the value of oceanfront lots with a direct view of England.

The Cro-Magnons of earlier days were squeezed into pockets of the shoreline north of the new Revere Beach. One of these establishments was the biker bar called “The Pirate's Den.”

A quick phone call to an old friend in the Registry of Deeds saved some travel time in confirming Billy Coyne's statement that The Pirate's Den was owned by one Anthony Tedesco. What didn't square, and what had been jangling my sense of the likely, was Billy's
statement that Tony Tedesco had filed a complaint with the police against Sal Marone for extortion.

The extortion part was self-evident. Every club on the strip, including The Pirate's Den, was reputed to be paying tribute to the Mafia to avoid an accidental bombing. Any streetwise thirteen-year-old kid in Revere could have told us that. What defied logic was that little Anthony Tedesco had suddenly summoned the suicidal courage to bring a criminal charge against one tentacle of the octopus that had had him in its grip since the club opened.

Someone clearly had to personally penetrate The Pirate's Den, and given the cast of characters, it looked as if I were the logical penetrator.

It was around six o'clock in the evening. The sun was descending on a day that had been unseasonably warm. The line of Harleys racked up on either side of the door of The Pirate's Den told me that happy hour was underway.

I pulled my Corvette, top down, to a stop crosswise in the no parking space directly in front of the door. I was flanked on either side by tattooed hulks and their hulkettes, leaning on kick-standed cycles, beer bottles in hand.

I mustered every ounce of Puerto Rican cool I could draw from my mother's ancestry and stepped out of the car without haste and without hesitation. I had changed into the most expensive, dark blue, Italian worsted wool suit I had in my wardrobe. It was, in fact, the only Italian wool suit I had in my wardrobe. My understated swagger said otherwise.

There wasn't an eye in any hairy face in the crowd that wasn't taking in every inch. I was about as in sync as Prince Charles at a slam dance.

And that was the idea. I prayed that every move of every barely-in-control feature would radiate the signal — This dude is connected. Don't touch.

I moved with unhurried deliberateness directly to the door without wasting a glance at any of the palace guard. I caught a glimpse of
one of the younger ones rising off his bike and moving toward the car. An older hand with scars on every knuckle caught him by the shoulder and settled him back down. I thanked God and prayed at the same time that I'd soon find a men's room.

I passed through the door knowing that if one chink showed in the masquerade, I'd be fodder for the mackerel off the Revere shore, one piece at a time.

The inside was a dark, dank replica of some bar in Tombstone with a few touches of the Pirates of the Caribbean. The air, what there was of it, hung heavy with the stench of beer and sweat.

My entrance stilled the place with the pall of a sudden quiet. Every eye was on the creature from civilization. I moved slowly and deliberately to the bar without a wasted step and no eye contact whatsoever. The pool game on my left stopped, and beer bottles rested where they were. I felt a ball of acid rising from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my throat.

Without even a side-glance, I could see that this was not a random collection of misfits. Every misfit in the place wore the colors of the Satans. Even other bikers had sense enough not to wander into The Pirate's Den — only the kid in the Italian wool suit, feeling very much like an anchovy on a Ritz cracker, being served up as an hors d'oeuvre.

There was a mirror behind the bartender. It gave me a perfect view behind me of two particular masses of flesh with chains in each hand moving into position to block the door. I knew that the only way out intact was to stay the course.

When I reached the bar, I was looking into the hairy face of the six-foot three-inch bartender. He was glaring back at a gnat in a blue suit. Thank God he spoke first.

“You're a little far from Beacon Hill, ain't you, Percival?”

I returned the look and let five seconds go by in silence for whatever unsettling effect it might have on him. None was visible.

When I spoke, it was quiet, cool, and in control. I said one word.

“Tedesco.”

He looked around at the fifteen or so racks of muscles wearing the colors, including the two at the door, and then back at me.

“You mean Mr. Tedesco, Percival.”

I dropped the voice to another level of softness to emphasize the point.

“Your Mr. Tedesco is being given other titles even as we speak by people he would not like to offend.”

I caught the slightest freeze in the sarcastic grin on his face. That was enough to send my motor into the next gear. I reduced the volume yet one more notch as I played my last card. The surface was cool, but I was squeezing the Saint Anthony medal in my suitcoat pocket until the saint must have been writhing in pain.

“Tell Mr. Tedesco that someone he knows is very displeased with the way he carried it off. You might say I'm here with a policy of life insurance. Take your time. I have another thirty seconds to waste on this business.”

The grin was gone. The mean was there, but it was mixed with a grain of confusion. That was all I could ask. He picked up a phone behind the bar and turned his back. I could hear him punch one number, which meant it was an intercom. Tedesco was on the premises.

A door at the side of the bar opened. A dark, balding figure about five foot five waddled along behind the bar. He looked like a child's drawing of a man — one large circle for the body, another smaller circle for the head without benefit of a neck in between. The bushy moustache was, to me, a thing of beauty. It meant he was southern Italian and old enough to be of the old school in his understanding of Mafia ways. That meant to me that he'd get my drift without my having to dream up specific details.

He waddled splayfoot to stand beside the bartender. I had the honest pleasure of facing off with someone I could look down to. It was amazingly comforting.

“I'm Tedesco. Who are you?”

“I'm your life insurance salesman.” I'd grown to like that concept.
“You had a simple assignment. You screwed it up. He's deciding what to do about it right now.”

His Italian skin lost some of its olive glow. I was apparently right about his filling in the blanks. Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead to match the drops of battery acid that were percolating in my stomach. He leaned as far over the bar as his girth would allow.

“I did just what Benny Ig—”

“Tedesco!” I caught him in mid-sentence. “You throw out names in a public place?”

He backed off the bar like a kid with his finger in the cake icing. He snapped a command at the bartender who was by now standing slack jawed and totally clueless as to why this pissant in the blue suit was sending his boss into sweating fits on his own turf.

Tedesco snarled an order out of the side of his mouth. The gorilla in the apron retreated into the backroom.

Meanwhile, I had exactly what I came for. When he mentioned Benny Ignola's name it was clear that he was the contact. Benny was the messenger who delivered the order for Tedesco to turn Salvatore Marone over to the police for extortion. That started the chain of dominoes falling into place. Marone was then in a position to deal the name of Mike Simone to the D.A. as the bomber who killed John McKedrick. Once the D.A. made the arrest, Simone could deal his way to a manageably low sentence by fingering Peter Santangelo as the one who gave the order for the bombing. It was all part of a plan. That was why little Anthony Tedesco had the courage to buck the Mafia by ratting on Marone for extortion. He did it under orders from someone high up in the “family.”

The real question was who was pulling Benny Ignola's strings and why. I was sure little Tedesco was not brought into the loop on that information. My next goal was to get my unkilled body out of Revere as successfully as I had bluffed my way in.

With the bartender gone, we could speak privately. I could see the level of panic rising in Tedesco's eyes as the possibilities sank in. His throat was so tight he was hissing the words.

“I did what I was told.”

“Listen to me, Anthony. Tony. May I call you Tony?” I didn't wait for an answer. “Listen to me, Tony, and look me right in the eye. You were about to be — replaced. You understand what I'm saying? I said, wait a minute, why waste an asset? Tony's been okay for a lot of years. One mistake. Would it hurt if I met with him just once? Maybe he can fix it.”

“What mistake? What did I do? I followed orders.”

“Tony, are you listening to me?”

He seemed confused, but he nodded.

“This is an act of mercy. What you see on the bumper stickers, a ‘random act of kindness.' He likes to do that kind of thing maybe once a week. This week you're it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you'll meet with Benny tomorrow. Noontime. Same place.”

I figured that Benny Ignola would have needed to be wearing Depends to walk into The Pirate's Den. He must have set up his meeting with Tedesco someplace closer to Benny's safe ground. Sometimes it pays to throw a wild pitch to see if the batter swings at it.

“That's the life insurance, Tony. It's a one-time offer. It expires tomorrow if you don't show. Capisce?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“That's all.”

I turned around to close out the longest five minutes of my entire life. I saw the two primates with the chains still barring the door. I played one more card, the last one in my deck. I looked back at Tedesco and motioned to the two slabs of beef with my chin as if they weren't worthy of a hand signal. I gave a head motion that I hoped would be interpreted as “Get those two out of here.”

My newfound friend, Tony, caught the signal. One sweep of his hand and they backed off the door.

I gave Tony the coolest look I could muster on a tank that was now running on fumes.

“Noon.”

He just nodded.

I began the trek across the floor to the door and freedom without a glance to either side. One thought propelled one foot ahead of the other. It was six thirty.

It was ten to seven when I found the address Terry had given me on Andrew Street in Winthrop on the North Shore of Boston. The small, neat house laid just a quiet stretch of beach away from the serene, rolling expanse of the Atlantic.

For a few seconds, I let my mind play with the notion that if Terry chose to live in the lap of Mother Atlantic, it might reflect a certain depth of character. Then again, what difference would it make? For the fortieth time I reminded myself that this was purely business. My dinner companion was the probable fiancée of my recently passed best friend.

Before getting out of the car, I had made a call to Mr. Devlin. After calming the volcanic burst over my recent excursion into hell, I briefed him on the news. He was less than surprised to hear that Benny Ignola was the messenger boy who pushed the domino that started with Tony Tedesco's informing on Sal Marone for extortion and ended with Peter's indictment for John's murder.

We were both aware that the real question was who sent Benny to deliver the message. Clearly it was not Dominic Santangelo. That meant that the don had a rebellion in his family that could easily become our problem in representing Peter.

I told Mr. Devlin about the imaginary meeting I set up between Tedesco and Benny for noon the next day.

“An interesting ploy. To accomplish what?”

For the first time, I realized that I didn't have a clue as to what it would accomplish. As things stood, only Tony would show up, since Benny remained unadvised of the meeting.

“I don't know. I guess I thought I'd shake the cage. Everything seemed to be standing pat.”

Actually, it had been the only thing I could think of to pad my bluff in order to get my endangered posterior out of The Pirate's Den without being stuffed and mounted over the bar.

“Brilliant, Michael. And when this shaken cage of rattlesnakes decides to come after the shaker?”

“No problem. I didn't leave a name. Tedesco has no idea who I am. He just thinks I fit somewhere between Benny Ignola and the Godfather. I'm under the protection of the don, whether he knows it or not.”

“Listen to me, Michael. There's not a client in this world that's worth you're getting killed. Or even slightly maimed. You start being a lawyer and stop playing the Green Hornet.”

“Playing what?”

“Never mind. I forget you're an adolescent. You know what I'm saying.”

I did, and I appreciated the thought. It was a nonproblem at the moment, since the rest of the evening promised a peaceful ride up the North Shore for dinner.

Just as I hung up, another thought ran across my mind. I went through information and dialed up Benny Ignola. When Benny answered, I held a handkerchief over the mouthpiece and gave my best impersonation of Tony Tedesco's Revere accent in a forced whisper.

“Mr. Ignola. Tony. Tedesco. Can't talk. Too many people. Gotta meet witcha. Same place, tomorrow at noon.”

“What the hell's wrong with you? I told you not to call me.”

“It's important. Gotta talk to you. I'll be there at noon. What do you say?”

There was a pause on Benny's end that sent chills down to my heels. I had no idea what the pause meant, but I had to get it off dead center.

“Or I could come to your office, Mr. Ignola. Or you could come to The Pirate's Den if you want.”

I nudged Benny with two options that I knew he'd turn down in favor of root canal.