Authors: Joseph Badal
“I’ve got an envelope addressed to you.”
“Yeah, I got that from your message. Who’s it from?”
“Can’t be sure about that. But we found it taped to a door in Gino Bartolucci’s house in Chestnut Hill.”
Bishop wanted to scream.
“Mr. Bishop, Mayor Katz wants to meet with you immediately. You don’t happen to be in Philadelphia?”
Cute, Bishop thought. Brand just tried to put me in Philadelphia. Maybe to tie me to the raid on Bartolucci’s home. “Not only am I not in Philadelphia,” Bishop said, “but I haven’t been there in months. Why do you ask?”
“I guess I was confused, Mr. Bishop.”
“I’m on my way to New York City. Tell me what the mayor wants to talk with me about.”
“I have no idea what Mayor Katz wants except he mentioned he plans to call a press conference about a raid on the Gino Bartolucci estate. He wanted to talk with you before he made any statements about possible CIA involvement in that raid.”
“You have me confused,” Bishop said. “Who is Gino Bartolucci and why would the Philadelphia mayor be so misguided as to connect the Central Intelligence Agency to a raid on some gangster’s place. Do me a favor, Captain. Kindly tell Mayor Katz I’ll be tied up in New York for a couple days. I’ll call him when I return to Langley.”
“Yes, sir. But the mayor won’t be pleased.”
Finally, after a long pause, Bishop said, “Tell me about the envelope.”
“Oh yeah,” Brand said, as though he’d forgotten about it. “As I said, we found it taped to a door.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s in it?”
“Mr. Bishop, I have no idea what’s in the envelope. Do I understand you want me to open it?”
Bishop guessed the envelope had already been opened. But he couldn’t help admire how well the man handled deception. Brand would be a real asset to the CIA. “Of course, Captain Brand,” he said. “Please open the envelope and tell me what’s inside.”
“All right, sir,” Brand replied. “Huh,” he said, after several seconds had passed. “I don’t understand the note, but here goes. It reads: ‘When you play ball with the wrong people, you get the bat shoved up your ass. Bend over, Rolfie Baby, your time has come.’ Do you know what that means, Mr. Bishop?”
“I have no idea. But I’ll think about it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bishop,” Brand said. “I’ll be sure to pass your message on to the mayor.”
“You do that.”
Brand chuckled. Bishop had claimed he didn’t know who Gino Bartolucci was, but then he’d referred to Bartolucci as a ‘gangster.’ The man had lied.
CHAPTER 37
David had spelled Jennifer Ramsey behind the wheel of the Dodge after they crossed into New Jersey. It was now 3:15 a.m. While he drove the stolen car north, Gino slept beside him and Peter and O’Neil slept in the back seat, with Jennifer Ramsey sandwiched between them. David stifled a laugh when he looked at her in the rear view mirror and saw her bemused expression.
The scene in the back seat made David want to laugh. His father snored loudly; O’Neil’s head rested on Ramsey’s shoulder. Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. The clothes they wore, which they’d acquired at a Wal-Mart outside Philadelphia, only made the scene more humorous. Peter, O’Neil, and Ramsey were dressed in an assortment of Wal-Mart athletic shoes, sweatshirts, and jeans that David had hurriedly bought. O’Neil wore a sweatshirt adorned with the cartoon character, Foghorn Leghorn Rooster. Peter’s sweatshirt was emblazoned with the Washington Redskins’ logo. Ramsey’s was free of logos and writing, but it was a god-awful pink with glitter in the shape of a star on the front.
They’d been on the road for over two hours when David pulled off the New Jersey Turnpike into a rest stop. The others awoke when he stopped in front of a Roy Rogers restaurant. They were an hour’s drive from New York City.
“I’ll take the car around to the gas pumps,” David said. “Why don’t you all make a pit stop, get some food? I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes. Oh, Dennis, why don’t you see if they have prepaid cellphones for sale inside?”
Jennifer used the pay phone in the women’s room and put in a collect call to Lt. Croken’s cell.
“Jeez!” Croken shouted. “This better be a matter of life or death. Do you know what time it is?”
“Lieutenant, it’s Detective Ramsey. Sorry about the time.”
“What the hell are you up to? You left me a goddamn cryptic message that you’d found Mr. Hood, the guy Cromwell believes murdered his family.”
“I also left the message that I am convinced Hood had nothing to do with the explosion at his home.”
“Yeah, I got that, too.”
“Lieutenant, Cromwell’s an idiot. I know for a fact Hood’s innocent. Gino Bartolucci is helping Hood try to find out who killed his family. He’s protecting him at the same time.”
“Gino Bartolucci, as in Don Gino Bartolucci, the Mafia Capo?”
Ramsey swallowed hard. “Yes, that Bartolucci.”
“I got a call from the Philly P.D. They claimed there was a gun battle on the street where Hood’s father lives. They also claim some woman was involved. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Uh-h-h, sort of.”
“You were
sort of
involved in a gun battle?”
“I went by Hood’s father’s house to try to track down his son. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Jeez! Any other surprises, Ramsey?”
“The Philadelphia P.D. staged a raid on Bartolucci’s place a few hours ago.”
“What!”
“Listen, Chief, I gotta go. The others will wonder where I am. I’ll call you later.”
“Don’t you hang up on me, Ramsey,” Croken screamed. “Don’t you fuckin’—”
They all stood outside the restaurant when David returned. Their clothes and their obvious self-consciousness about them made David smile.
“Ah say, ah say, boy, what’s so damn funny?” O’Neil asked in an imitation of Foghorn Leghorn Chicken’s voice, and the others cracked up.
After they piled into the car, David pulled onto the highway, drove for about an hour, and then exited again after Rahway, New Jersey.
Gino got out and called Joey Cataldo on the prepaid cellphone O’Neil bought at the truck stop. It took ten rings before someone answered. It took another couple minutes before Cataldo came to the phone.
“Gino, it’s 4:30 in the morning; I assume this is important.”
“You know me how many . . . maybe thirty years? You think I’d call you if it wasn’t important?” Gino said
“Right. What can I do for you?”
“I got a stolen car I need to make disappear and I need another car to replace it. I need a place to hole up for maybe a couple days, along with four friends. And we all need changes of clothes. Lastly, that matter we planned to discuss over dinner tomorrow night, you think you’d be ready to meet tonight instead?”
“Yeah, no problem,” Cataldo said. “I found out what you wanted to know. As for the other stuff, where are you now?”
“Off the Jersey Turnpike, just south of the city.”
“Okay, here’s what you do. Take the exit for the Lincoln Tunnel. When you go through the tunnel, look for the turnoff to the Meadowlands . . . you know where the sports stadium is?”
“Sure.”
“Pull into the stadium lot. You’ll see a blue Ford van parked near the east ticket window with two men in it. Give your car keys to one of them. One of the guys in the van will be my nephew. He’ll take care of you. Clothes and stuff we’ll take care of later. You need anything else?”
“No, Joey. Thank you. I’ll see you tonight. Where do you want to meet?”
“My nephew will fill you in.”
It took a bit over a half-hour to locate the right exit and another ten minutes to reach the stadium. Gino spotted a solitary vehicle in the lot.
“That’s our guy. Blue van.”
David stopped ten yards from the van. Gino got out and walked the few steps to the vehicle. The two men there got out and one of them said, “Don Bartolucci, my name is Sal Fanelli. It’s an honor to be of service to you. Jimmy here will take care of your car.”
Gino waved back at the Dodge. The others got out and approached the van. Fanelli opened the van’s sliding door and waited for them to climb aboard. Gino got into the front passenger seat. When they were all seated, he asked, “So, where you taking us, Sal?”
Fanelli stared at Gino, surprised. “Didn’t Uncle Joey tell you, Don Bartolucci? I was told to bring you all out to his place on Long Island. You’ll be his guests.”
Rolf Bishop woke at 8 a.m. He’d slept fitfully and felt just as exhausted as when he went to bed a few hours earlier. The stump of his leg hurt more than usual. He attached the prosthesis to the stump and staggered to the bathroom. He had to get ready for the day’s events. He’d always been up to any task, but the pressure of the last few weeks had begun to take a toll. He actually felt sorry for himself—a first for him. He rose from bed, went into the bathroom, and stared at the tired face in the mirror. Bishop yelled at the image in the glass, “Suck it up, man.” He then asked the question he’d asked countless times before, “What would an extraordinary person do in this situation?”
At Joey Cataldo’s Long Island estate, Sal Fanelli dropped his exhausted passengers in front of a two-story stone guesthouse. A butler with an English accent greeted them as they left the van. “Welcome to
Casa Sogna
. My name is Cyril. If you will follow me.”
David glanced around at his companions. They all looked as though they’d been rescued from a ship wreck. Each was in need of a shower. Their clothes were not only wrinkled, but were spotted with catsup, mustard, and coffee. To Cyril’s credit, he didn’t react to their appearance.
Cyril was about as proper as an Englishman can get. He was tall and erect and his clothes would have passed the most detailed inspection at any Marine boot camp. His blond hair was slicked back in the continental fashion and his eyes, magnified by a thick pair of spectacles, looked particularly blue. His mustache was thin, straight, and perfectly trimmed. He showed them to their rooms, pointed out where they would each find towels, pajamas, robes, and slippers, and asked them to fill out a card on the dresser in each of their rooms with their clothing sizes. He explained he’d return for the completed cards in thirty minutes.
Cyril took Gino to an especially extravagant suite at the end of a hall. “Please feel free to get cleaned up and rest,” he said. “At 10 a.m., a man from a haberdashery will be here to fit you for new clothes. Don Cataldo told me to inform you his business in the city will occupy him through the morning and most of the afternoon, but he promised to be here early this evening to formally welcome you to his home.”
At 10 sharp, Cyril ushered a short, nattily dressed, sixty-something man into Gino’s room. “Antonio Persico,” Cyril announced, “the best tailor in New York.”
The little man accepted the compliment gravely. He bowed deeply to Gino and said in an accent heavy with the strains of southern Italy, “It is a great honor to be of service to a friend of Don Cataldo’s.” He walked over to the bed and carefully—almost lovingly—laid out several garment bags he’d carried in draped over both arms. He removed a suit, a sports jacket, a pair of slacks, and several shirts from the garment bags. Cyril had a large shopping bag in each hand and deposited them on the floor next to Gino. From the bags, Antonio the Tailor took underwear, socks, shoes, ties, belts, and toiletries, and laid them on the bed, too.
The tailor asked Gino to put on the articles of outerwear so he could be sure the sizes were appropriate. After Gino had done so, the man sighed with pleasure and said, “Maybe a little change here, a little change there.”
“
Si
,” Gino responded. “
Molto bene. Grazie
.”
At noon, Cyril tapped gently at each of their bedroom doors and suggested they “repair to the veranda for lunch.” They looked like patients in a hospital, in their pajamas, bathrobes, and slippers. Cyril treated them to a meal: Several types of cold cuts and garnishes, salads, freshly baked Italian breads, imported Italian soft drinks, coffee, and a variety of pastries. After they’d finished and the dishes were cleared, Cyril informed them their host would arrive around 5 p.m. Then he left the veranda.
“I need to tell you all something,” Gino announced. “This place belongs to the head of the New York . . . organization. And he’s not retired. I need each of you to give me your word anything I tell you or anything you hear around here will remain completely confidential. I need to know that none of you will ever do anything to make me regret bringing you into this.”
David and Peter nodded. Gino spoke directly to the Bethesda policewoman. “Are
you
in agreement, Detective Ramsey?”
Jennifer was no starry-eyed idealist or self-righteous ideologue, but “hanging out” with two Mafia Dons was well beyond her definition of appropriate behavior for a career law enforcement officer. She realized Gino wanted her to plead the Fifth or outright lie if she should be questioned or forced to testify about any of her activities with these men. The ethical and professional quandary she found herself in seemed to have anesthetized her vocal chords, until David gave her a painful look that seemed to beseech her to go along for the ride.
Before she knew what she was doing, she nodded and said, “I give you my word.”
Gino grunted his approval, and looked at O’Neil.
“I’ve thought a lot about how all of this will play back in Chicago,” O’Neil said. “I’ve also gone over in my mind on numerous occasions why we are knee-deep in the shit Bishop has generated. Some of us are here for very personal reasons. Gino, David, Peter, you’ve all lost family members and that pain is the worst pain a man can endure. But I, too, feel a pain I will never get over. That CIA son-of-a-bitch not only killed your family members, but he had a lot of brave men murdered—men who fought for our country. I’m also certain he had Gunnery Sergeant Sam Collins killed. I’ll always suspect if I hadn’t asked Sam to help me, he would still be alive. I assure you, Gino, I’m in this thing ‘til the end. And yes, I will never use anything I see or hear against you or anyone else who helps us take down Bishop.” Then O’Neil smiled and said, “As long as you give me your word you won’t tell anyone how I spent my East Coast vacation.”