Frame-Up (8 page)

I started to speak, but he held up a hand.

“Consider, Michael. Not too long ago a man came to me, as many do. His daughter, a very beautiful young child of thirteen, the very soul of his life, just beginning her life. She was at school after classes to take part in a play. Three boys took her into an empty men's room. I needn't be graphic. When she recovered enough emotional stability to do so, with her father's encouragement, she went to the police. They arrested these boys. They confessed what they did. But your law said that their confession could not be used as evidence. Something about not warning them to remain silent. In any event they were tried. Their lawyer made this man's daughter break down when she testified. He made suggestions about this young lady's virtue that were not true. The jury found them not guilty.”

“Mr. Santangelo, there are hundreds—”

“Please, Michael, just listen. I'm not talking about hundreds. I'm talking about this man and his daughter. This man who was nearly insane with grief. When his daughter was able to go back to school, these same boys taunted her. They threatened to do the same thing again. And get away with it again. Her father went to the police. They told him that until these boys do something, their hands are tied. This young lady could not bring herself to go to school, any school. She's still undergoing treatment by a psychiatrist. Whether successful or not, who knows. In any event, in all of your civilized legal system, where is the justice for this man and his daughter?”

I had no answer.

“Then consider this, before you judge me to be a complete savage.
When this man came to me and put his trust in me, I gave him my word — nothing more — which he believed, and his daughter came to believe, that no one would harm her again. She's now able to attend school. The healing is going on. She has young friends around her. God willing, she'll grow to be a beautiful woman with a good life. She has had no further difficulty in this respect from anyone.”

I had to fill the gap. “Did you have them killed?”

“No. They are very much alive. I'm sure they'll grow up to cause many more problems for society. But I can assure you that raping young women will not be one of which they'll be capable. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then consider this. Which power, mine or yours, produced justice?”

We rode in silence. I considered making the case for a democratic republic over a self-justifying tyrant whose every unquestioned whim was enforced in blood. I considered asking the don how many times he had used that power of violence for personal profit as opposed to unselfish justice. I also considered the futility of trying to convince this little Caesar that he somehow fell short of Solomon judging the Israelites. I vetoed all of it. There was no point in turning a very dicey moment into a high school civics class. The silence that reigned was noncommittal on both sides.

We drove north to the parking lot of the Continental Restaurant on Route 1 in Saugus. By that time, the lunch crowd was moderate. In a sense, the glaring openness of a sun-drenched public parking lot was our cover.

We pulled up next to an unmarked, dark blue Chrysler Concorde at the far east end of the lot. Two federal agents in sport clothes came from the Concorde to the side of our car. Peter showed no hesitation in joining them. We let them drive out of the parking lot before Mr. Devlin and I took his car that had been driven behind us back to the office.

I only touched base long enough to retrieve the yellow locker key from the top drawer of my desk. I waved and smiled at Julie on the way out, in the futile hope that that would be the extent of any delaying conversation. She waved back. Unfortunately, there was a message slip in her hand.

On the way down in the elevator, I took a moment to scan the note Julie had handed me. It was a message she had taken over the phone. Somehow it gave me the urge to wash my hands.

Michael: It's time. And time is shorter than you think. We should talk. I'll expect your call.

Benny Ignola

When I got back to my Corvette in the Devonshire Street parking lot, I had one of those stand-still moments when you suddenly become aware of the nerves lining your stomach and the up-tempo beat of your heart. Mr. D's advice about living defensively was good. The only question was how to do it.

I sat there with the key in the lock, about to give it that slight twist that could either start the car or blow me into pieces too small to reassemble. I told myself that unquestionably John McKedrick was the only target of the bomber. The trouble with talking to myself is that I know the fallibility of the source.

There were only two alternatives. I could hire a mechanic to search sections of my car that I can't even pronounce every time I start the engine. Or I could just get on with life. I chose the latter, but not without some stomach ripples and a prayer of thanks as I drove out of the parking lot.

I drove to South Station with that little yellow key in my pocket. I imagined that if John was hiding something in a locker, he probably chose a location close to his office, heavily populated by an anonymous crowd. It also squared with a faint memory that on the wall of the large waiting room of South Station there were rows of pay lockers, each of which had a yellow-handled circular key like that hot little item in my pocket with the number 134E.

I scanned the crowd for someone who might be waiting for some naïve goofus to amble up to that particular locker, open it, pull out heaven knows what, and walk into his arms. The problem was
that I had no way of guessing whom John might have told about the location of the locker. I was sure it held more than John's lunch or he wouldn't have played spy games with Terry O'Brien. The comforting thing was that this was one situation where being defensive was something I had some control over.

I limited the scanning to men since John's business contacts were completely with one organization, and the Cosa Nostra has never really embraced the feminist movement. That cut the possibles to nine, of whom five could possibly fit my personal profile of a sit-and-wait Mafia soldier. I eliminated two because they were reading books. The type I was looking for was unlikely to be curled up behind anything more demanding than the sports section of the Herald.

That left three. There was only one sure way to eliminate the nonplayers. I waited through a succession of train departures to see who was actually there to catch a train. One left at the call for Hartford, and after a patient half hour, a second answered the call for New York.

And there sat number three. He looked like a fireplug with ears. I visualized him standing and estimated five foot eleven inches, two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle. I had no way of physically prying him off of his watch. On the other hand, I had a couple of pieces of information.

The rows of seats backed up to each other in opposite directions. By that time, there were only a few people sitting in that section.

I bought a newspaper and slipped into the seat backing up to my new friend. I came from the direction of his back so he couldn't see my face. I turned my head till my mouth was about six inches from his left ear and whispered.

“Hey. Change in plans. You listening?”

He started to turn back to me.

“Don't turn around. Just listen. Mr. Aiello sent me.”

John McKedrick's envelope with the key was addressed to Tony Aiello. That suggested that he might be the brains behind the block of beefsteak behind me.

I thought the “Mr. Aiello” was a nice touch. It suggested that we
both worked for him, since no one who didn't, or who wasn't face-to-face with him, referred to him as “Mr. Aiello,” as opposed to “Chickie,” or, if safely out of earshot, “Fat Tony.”

It apparently worked for the moment, since he stopped in mid-turn.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Keep your voice down. I'm the one who was sent by Mr. Aiello to tell you you're at the wrong station. It's North Station.”

Unfortunately, he dug in.

“Go to hell. He told me South Station. I don't know you.”

“I don't know you either, but if that thing leaves the locker at North Station and you miss it, you won't be around long enough to get acquainted. You know how he is.”

That left him in total befuddlement. I could feel every brain cell being overtaxed. Unfortunately, he decided to make the one move I wanted the least. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. There was only one counter move that occurred to me. It was like a fast-draw fight in a western saloon. I pulled out my own cell phone and punched in numbers before he could do the same. I talked to him while I dialed.

“I'm calling Mr. Aiello. He can tell you himself. I wouldn't take too long to chat. He expects you to be halfway to North Station by now.”

Before he could move, I started talking to my dead cell phone.

“Mr. Aiello. It's me. (pause) Not too good. I gave him the message. He said, ‘Go to hell.' I don't know if he meant me or you.”

That spun him around.

“Gimme that phone.”

I stayed out of reach.

“Take it easy, Mr. Aiello. I'll tell him.”

I shut the phone just as he was about to grab it out of my hand.

“Here's the message. He's sending two men to do your job at North Station. If you're not there when they get there, they'll have another job after they finish. I think you get his meaning. I don't think he was happy with you.”

I could feel him on his feet behind me. His first choice was to take my head off at the shoulders, but somehow the message got through that his head was not sitting too securely on his own shoulders. I held the Globe up in front of my face as he acted on his second choice and lumbered a body not built for speed across the room at full tilt.

I was well into giving myself a mental high-five when I made a mistake I regretted instantly. The last thing he did on the way out the door was to look back just as I dropped the newspaper. He had a fleeting, but full, view of my face.

I could feel worms wrestling in the pit of my stomach, but when he disappeared, I knew the moment I wanted was there and might not last. I used the key to open locker 134E in the hopes of finding out what all the fuss was about.

It was empty, except for a small white business-size envelope. I tore it open and found a white 3 • 5 card inside with nothing on it but a series of numbers and letters printed by hand in black ball-point ink.

808PW53942

I ran outside to a nearby drugstore that sold paper supplies. I bought a box of the same type of blank white envelope, a packet of white 3 • 5 cards, and a black ballpoint pen. I used one of the cards to write the same type of code in the same way, except that I changed all of the numbers and letters. I placed the card in the white envelope and licked and sealed the envelope so it would look unopened. I put the envelope into the same locker and pumped in quarters to rerent it. I took the key with me.

For some reason not fully thought out by me at the time, I put quarters into the locker beside it, number 135E, put another white envelope with a 3 • 5 card with yet another altered number into that one. I took that key with me as well. I considered it a backup just in case of who knows what.

I'd like to say that all of this rigamarole was part of a grand master plan, but the fact is that I was flying by the seat of my pants, trying to make no mistakes I'd live to regret.

An exit opposite the one I came in brought me out into the Saturday night traffic. The night air and the ability to move at a relaxed pace felt good. It gave me time to wonder what pressure must have been gripping my old friend, John, the day he dropped that little envelope in locker 134E. It was practically the last thing he did on this earth.

On Monday morning, when I reached the office, my first check-in was with Julie. She put on a sweet, coy little smile and winked at me. She had my attention.

“You have a visitor.”

My heart went into overdrive. Terry O'Brien must have thought of something else.

With one deep breath for confidence, I walked to the door of my office. I was focusing on my best entrance, suave but understated. One quick check of my tie, and I looked in. There in the seat once occupied by the auburn-haired Helen of Troy sat the unkempt lump that was Benny Ignola.

I caught myself in mid-entrance long enough to mouth the words to Julie, “You're fired.”

She wrinkled her mouth and thumbed her nose at me, which was her usual response to my firings.

Benny stood when I came in. I was behind my desk before the need arose to shake hands as if we were colleagues.

“Benny, sit down. How are you?”

“Fine, Mikey. And how's yourself?”

How can an innocuous question like that be made to sound sleazy and conspiratorial? Benny had the knack.

“I'm all right. What brings you here?'

“I'm passing the office, and it occurs to me. We should be cooperating.”

“Really, Benny. With whom?”

“With each other. C'mon, Mikey. We're on the same side. Johnny Mac was my boy. I loved the kid.”

When he reduced John McKedrick to Johnny Mac, my temperature
went up six degrees. He made him sound like one of those parasites in the bowels of society known as wiseguys. I got a grip by taking a gummy bear out of the jar that Julie kept filled on my desk and biting its little head off. Benny continued undeterred.

“For example, Mikey, did Johnny say anything before he died? Did he give you any idea who might have done it?”

“Between the explosion and the fire, there wasn't a lot of conversation.”

“I mean the day before. Maybe that morning. Even if it doesn't seem relevant now, could tie into something.”

“We didn't talk business, Benny. No offense, but John knew what I thought of what he did for a living. He never brought the subject up. It was mostly Bruins, Celtics, Red Sox, Patriots, whatever the season.”