The Big Scam (15 page)

Baldovino walked over to the boy. “Stand up.” Fighting off laughter, the boy stood up, barely coming up to Manny's chest. “He's about the right age, but he's a foot too tall.”

Tatorrio said, “Any of you guys wearing a wire? Mr. Dellaporta here is worried.” The men's laughter drowned out the boys'.

“And now you give them my name? You are a moron, Mr.
Waylon.”
Dellaporta turned to the kids. “You want to know his real name—”

Mike Parisi interrupted. “Gus, let's keep things in perspective here.”

“Yeah, Gus,” Tatorrio said. “We're just telling a story here.”

“Go ahead, Jimmy,” Parisi said. “Finish up so the kids can get some sleep.”

“Anyway, boys, don't worry too much about the finer points of banking. You'll learn all that stuff in college. Now back to William the Weasel. While he made many needy people happy, it made rival businessmen very sad because they had always lent money at ten percent. So they decided to do something about it. They got ahold of two, ah, customer service representatives and told them to have a little talk with the Weasel and convince him to either change his rates or, even better, maybe find another line of work. So they drove him over to Staten Island and discussed future business strategies. But William didn't like the tone of the meeting, so he went to those bad people at the FBI and told them about how the other businessmen were charging ten percent and everything else he knew about their operation. When the businessmen heard of this they were very, very upset. So they called in the customer service reps again and told them to make their problems go away permanently—if you know what I mean.” A burst of laughter told Tatorrio that no further explanation was necessary. “So they took William up to these very woods, and he was never seen again. The end.”

“What kind of ghost story is that? It's supposed to end with something scary,” Dellaporta said.

“What, you don't think some guy lending at seven and a half per is scary?”

“You're supposed to scare the kids, not us, moron.”

“Okay, okay.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “When the service reps brought him up to the woods—and I'm sure you've guessed by now, it was to clip the Weasel—they asked him if he had a last wish. Without hesitating, he said he wanted some Italian sausage. The last thing anyone knows is that the three of them were sitting around, on a night just like tonight, cooking sausage. The next day they were all found with their stomachs ripped out. Supposedly something in these woods got all three of them. Something that's attracted to campfires and the smell of freshly cooked Italian sausage. They say it can smell it on your breath while you're sleeping.”

Dellaporta looked directly at the boy with the glasses and smiled. “Man, am I glad I didn't have any sausage.”

 

It was after ten a.m. before anyone from Parisi's crew crawled out of the tents. The first one up was Jimmy Tatorrio. He discovered that the scouts had broken camp and were gone. The rest of them rose stiffly, with no espresso or even coffee to comfort them. Parisi told them to pack up and get in their cars. He ran his papery tongue over his dry mouth and watched them stumble around clumsily, complaining, stretching their backs, running their hands over unshaved chins and attempting to reshape their hair without gels or creams or hair dryers. They were obviously incapable of functioning in any setting outside the slender, dark crevice of organized urban crime. Had they wanted to escape, he doubted if they ever could. Their lifestyles imprisoned them. Those Cub Scouts were more self-reliant, more self-assured than his crew, who seemed more like a collection of characters in a failing comedy. Walking over to the clearing where the scouts had pitched their tents, he couldn't detect any evidence that they had been there, while his area was strewn with the debris of a different civilization. He packed up his own gear, taking a little extra time to do it neatly.

Parisi got in his car and had the others follow him to the landmarks indicated on Manny's map. While he, Manny, and Ida spent the next hour trying to figure out how the Rosenkranz map connected to the terrain, Dellaporta and Tatorrio stood around watching them. “Maybe we should give them a hand,” Tatorrio said.

“Yeah,” Dellaporta said, “let's encourage them. Then we can all become one with the land. Maybe even stay another night or two. I'm sure Manny will be able to start a fire eventually.”

When it became apparent that they could not find even the most marginal starting point, Parisi admitted, “We can't figure this out. Anyone have any ideas?”

“Yeah,” said Tatorrio, “I was thinking about some nice veal for lunch. Maybe a little wine.”

“Anyone else?” Parisi said, dismissing the humor, feeling like an outsider again.

Dellaporta said, “Hey, we had to give it a shot. And we did. It didn't work out, so we go back to the city where we belong, doing what we do.”

Parisi knew he was right, but going back meant dealing with DeMiglia. Then an idea came to him. Maybe Dutch Schultz's elusive treasure wasn't a worthless myth after all.

THE DOOR TO LIBERTY LOAN SWUNG OPEN AND
Jack Straker walked in wearing a suit. Sam Kasdan attempted to flatten his expression, but Straker sensed a small rush of anticipation in the pawnbroker. Kasdan considered everyone who came through that door an impending business transaction. This one, however, had nothing to do with money. He allowed himself a small grin. “Looks like someone got a haircut.”

Straker ran his hand through the back of his hair where the fake ponytail had hung the night before. “It didn't go with my official look.”

“You mean the suit? I hope my three hundred dollars didn't buy that.”

“When I get to know you better, I'll tell you exactly what your money bought.”

“As much as I would like to hear the intimate details of your life, with all due respect, I'd prefer to never see you again.”

“As luck would have it, I've come to offer you exactly that. And before you say no, you should know it was me who made sure you got out on that PR bond.”

“You seem to be skipping over the part that you were the reason I needed bail.”

“We've all got a business to run.”

“Fair enough. Let's hear the offer.”

“Danny DeMiglia.”

“Why would I want to trade my little problem for one that size? My lawyer says I'm looking at probation—if convicted. And because of entrapment, that's a fairly large
if
.”

“Let me save you some legal fees. It probably was entrapment, but see, the whole problem is when I get on the stand and the prosecutor asks me why we targeted you, I'll have to tell the jury that we were trying to get at DeMiglia. So then it's in the public record—law enforcement sees you as a link to the Galante family underboss. And I think you know that Danny's a big believer in missing links.”

“What is it exactly that you want from me?”

“Judge Ferris.” Kasdan started to protest his ignorance, but Straker held up a hand. “We don't think you know anything about it, we're just looking for a starting point with DeMiglia.”

“Someplace you can wiretap.”

“You know I can't admit something like that.”

“How do I know these receiving and concealing charges will be dropped?”

“What, this doesn't look like a trustworthy face?”

“If I was able to judge your face more accurately, we wouldn't be having this conversation.”

“Point taken. Just give me something that I can use, and I guarantee that before I leave, your problem will be gone.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Sorry, you'll have to pay to see my hole card.”

“And my name?”

“Nowhere to be found.”

“Okay,” Kasdan said, “I've
heard
that when Danny wants to fence something, or discuss exchange rates, or anything else he doesn't want to hear coming from a courtroom tape recorder, the place he feels most secure is in his car. I know what you're thinking, but that's why he has it checked once a week.”

“See, that wasn't so hard.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

“And now I don't have anything to worry about because…”

Straker smiled. “That Tiffany bowl, don't give it another thought. We've got sixteen more of them in evidence. And they're all going to be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

“That's what the FBI does with counterfeits.”

 

Lo Kim's was at the end of a narrow curved street, crammed into the clutter of Chinatown. Hanging in its window were half a dozen orange-glazed duck carcasses, but Danny DeMiglia hadn't come for the Peking duck. As part of his personal security program, he maintained a list of places he frequented no more than once a year to discuss business. That way, his attorney assured him, the government couldn't have them bugged. Wiretaps required court orders based on probable cause, something that depended on established patterns. Legally, once a year was not considered a pattern.

Part of Lo Kim's appeal was its small balcony with room for only one table. No one, not even the employees, could get close enough for what the Feds called “an overhear.”

Mike Parisi walked in and sat down.

DeMiglia poured him some tea. “You found it okay?”

“If you're asking because I'm late, sorry.”

“Only ten minutes.” DeMiglia handed him a menu. “You hungry?”

“I had trouble finding parking.”

“I like the congestion. Makes it harder to be followed. Especially with Angelo outside keeping an eye on things.”

Parisi set the menu down without looking at it. “I had a late breakfast, but you go ahead.” He wondered why the volatile underboss was being so accommodating. Ignoring tardiness, pouring tea—these things were not in Danny DeMiglia's nature. Had he found out about the don's improving health and decided to perform some damage control? Parisi doubted it. DeMiglia had never demonstrated any desire or aptitude for long-range diplomacy. He had worked his way up by being impulsive, taking care of problems when and where they happened. He was the non-commissioned officer, the one who got his knuckles skinned so the boss could strike a patriarchal pose. On the rare occasion when an underboss was promoted to don, his tenure usually proved short-lived due to his inability to make the transition from violent enforcer to savvy administrator.

The waiter climbed the stairs and in a thick accent asked, “You ready order?” DeMiglia could smell kitchen odors on him, most prominently peanut oil.

“For now, bring us both an order of egg rolls. With lots of that plum sauce.”

Parisi figured he was about to be given
the
order, that the time had come to rob the diamond vault. But DeMiglia's uncharacteristic tact told him that he didn't want that order refused. A charge of disobedience would have to be decided by the commission, and that was always a questionable route. It could backfire and derail his plans. Contrarily, if he could convince Parisi, the don's anointed
capo,
to commit a violent crime and it brought the wolves of notoriety to the mob's door, DeMiglia would be in a position to make a strong case for a change in leadership.

DeMiglia possessed the one weakness that ambitious men of marginal intelligence all seemed to have in common, the need to prove himself smarter than everyone else. He needed to succeed where others failed; in fact, Parisi suspected that their failure was more satisfying to him than his own success. It was how men like him kept score, how they convinced themselves of who they were. He was not a man who lived off dead carcasses, but instead, rapacious, someone who dined on the living. While effective in the short run, his need to succeed while others failed was ultimately a flaw that carried the weight of its own destruction, and Parisi had an idea of how to use it against him. Delaying DeMiglia's plot to take over the family was now Parisi's primary mission. Maybe as much as a month would be needed, even though that now seemed impossible. But he had no choice but to try.

“I hope you're doing something about the Lag,” DeMiglia said.

“I told you before, I had a long talk with Manny.”

“Why would the Feds go after a lightweight like him?”

“He said they tried to get him to turn.”

“No shit, little Manny. Has he got anything that could hurt us?”

Parisi knew DeMiglia was asking him if Manny needed to be eliminated. “Nothing. He couldn't hurt a fly even if he wanted to. But take my word on this, Danny, he'd never go over on us. He'd rather do all day than give any of us a minute of jail time. That's one of his strengths that's easy to overlook.”

DeMiglia stared at him for a few seconds, testing the conviction of Parisi's assurances. “Okay, Mikey, but if something goes south with this idiot, it'll be your mess to clean up. As long as you understand that, I'm not going to give him another thought.”

“Good.” The waiter brought the egg rolls and quickly disappeared.

DeMiglia dipped one into the sweet-sour sauce and bit off the end. “You ready to make some real money?”

Parisi waited before he spoke. “You know, I've been thinking about that, Danny.”

DeMiglia stopped chewing, leaned back, and loudly dropped his hands on the table.

Unintimidated, Parisi continued, “This diamond guy, who's into Jackie Two Shoes for two hundred K and obviously trying to stay healthy, says there's ten million in the vault. Which means, because he wants to be in our good graces, there's probably not even five. If we kill more than one person, that means the conversion rate on the stones will be far below the usual. At best, ten percent. Now we're looking at splitting up half a million dollars. After taking care of my uncle, me and my crew are probably looking at something in the neighborhood of fifty grand apiece. To tell you the truth, Danny, I'd rather sell handicap license plates.”

DeMiglia leaned forward slowly. “Are you sure you want to refuse to do this?”

“You say this is about money. Is it?”

“What else would it be about?”

“Then I assume you would rather cut up thirty to fifty million dollars.”

DeMiglia took another bite of egg roll and then laughed sarcastically. “Thirty to fifty million? Where's someone like you come up with a number like that?”

“Granted, this isn't a sure thing, but there's zero risk.”

Ambivalence seized the underboss. He wanted Parisi out of the way, but the numbers he was offering—and, as Parisi had just demonstrated, he knew numbers—were impossible to ignore. He at least had to hear what it was about. “I'm listening, but it better be good.”

“Dutch Schultz's treasure.”

DeMiglia burst out laughing again. “Dutch Schultz's treasure? You got to be shitting me.”

“Then you know about it.”

“I've been hearing that tale since I was a little kid.”

“What exactly did you hear about it?”

The unsettling sureness in Parisi's voice compelled DeMiglia to answer. “You know, he thought he was going to prison so he buried all this money and jewels in a metal box somewhere upstate. People been looking for it ever since. It's all bullshit.”

“Two minutes ago, you were ready to believe in ten million from some degenerate gambler. Did you ever hear anything about a map?”

“Every good buried treasure story has a map—a missing map. I suppose you've found it.”

In careful detail, Parisi told him how Manny's father had secreted the map in the New Jersey safe deposit box for twenty years, and how it had just been discovered.

In spite of not wanting to give Parisi a way out, DeMiglia said, almost to himself, “Manny's father wasn't nobody's mark.”

“Exactly. So we take a minute or two to find out if there's anything to this.”

“Where's the map?”

Parisi took out Joseph Baldovino's notebook and the map. He unfolded it and pushed it in front of DeMiglia.

“Well, it looks old, but who knows. They can make these things look old.”

“You use that lawyer Max Stillman, don't you?”

“Yeah. He's the family's lawyer. What about him?”

“He's got to have someone who does document exams. Let him see if this is legit.” Parisi had decided on the examination ploy because he knew “experts” usually charged by the hour so they took their time, and time was what he was looking for.

DeMiglia ran his fingertips across his lips three or four times. “I suppose it wouldn't hurt.”

“If it's a phony, we haven't lost anything. If it's real, then we can figure out what to do next.” Parisi could see the underboss was conflicted. For the moment, the treasure was at least as compelling as his ambition to become head of the family. Parisi just had to make sure the two became inseparable. “Here's what you have to remember, Danny. For three-quarters of a century, the men in our business have been trying to find the Dutchman's treasure. And they've failed. Their explanation is always the same: that the box doesn't exist. But just imagine if we do find it. We'd be as big a legend as Schultz, maybe even bigger. Would anyone be able to say no to the person who found Dutch Schultz's treasure?”

DeMiglia folded the map with unusual care. “Okay, I'll have it checked out, but for now, this doesn't go any farther than you and me. If it's a phony, I don't want to look like some moron.”

Parisi handed him the notebook. “You'd better take this, too. It's in Manny's father's handwriting. To my eye, it looks like he's the one who wrote ‘Lulu's Map.'” He didn't tell DeMiglia that the other half of the map was buried in some archival catacomb inside the New York FBI office. That would be discovered soon enough because it was spelled out in the senior Baldovino's journal. Also, Parisi hadn't explained how Tommy Ida had traced the genealogies of those mentioned in the book either, even though it would have lent even more authenticity to the map's promise. That trump card could be played later when DeMiglia, confronted by obstacles not yet visible, used the argument that no proof existed that the map was real and ordered the hunt to be abandoned. One problem at a time, Parisi reminded himself. That was the way to keep DeMiglia on the hook: keep the prize large and the hurdles small and distant. The important thing was to distract the underboss of the Galante crime family.