Final Justice, page 13
Rebecca tried to keep a straight face. Blasphemy or sacrilege, or something, she thought to herself. How can these men keep drugs in a holy place, especially when they’re always invoking the name of God, kneeling and crossing themselves!
“So, whenever you’re ready Boss,” Pedro continued. “I’ll get it.”
Santino said nothing for a few moments. Then, “Pedro, where’s Sal?”
Villela didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question.” Santino’s voice was very cold and menacing.
Rebecca glanced at Villela. I’ve heard that tone before. Watch out Pedro, my dear.
“He doesn’t want to see you,” answered Pedro. There was still food on his plate but he seemed to have lost interest in eating.
No one moved or spoke for what seemed a long time. Then Pedro sighed and took a piece of paper out of his pocket.
“Go gentle Boss,” he whispered as he handed it over.
Rebecca awoke to the light of the morning sun and the sensations of Santino’s lips moving between her legs and his fingers moving inside her. She gave in to the pleasure that filled her body and in a little while, her back arched and an orgasm swept through her.
Santino whispered her name over and over again as he mounted her, kissing her deeply.
“You keep me sane in this insane world,” he whispered, as they lay wrapped in each other’s arms. “Now, more than ever before.”
Breakfast was champagne, fresh baked brioches, smoked salmon from Norway, and in front of Rebecca’s chair, a crystal bowl filled with red berries from Provence. She smiled as Santino fumbled with a pitcher of orange juice. His tussled gray hair fell into his eyes when he leaned over to kiss her.
“Oops,” he laughed as his hand knocked the bowl of berries into her lap. One of them was wrapped in gold paper.
“This one looks interesting,” said Rebecca as she lifted it up. “Is it for me?”
His sleepy Italian eyes ran down her body and back up again to her face.
“Better open it and see.”
It was an exquisite ruby, unset and loose.
“Oh Santino,” said Rebecca as she flung her arms around his neck. “I love you so much. I also love the things you do to me.and the treats you buy for me.”
“I have business to take care of today,” he said, in between kisses. “Why don’t you go out shopping for something to put that little trinket into?”
“Is your business Sal Lata?” she asked as she stroked the ruby in her palm.
“Later bella,” was all he answered.
Rebecca spent the afternoon browsing through the old Greek quarter. The marketplaces teemed with street vendors haggling and shouting, selling jewellery, Persian rugs, and live chickens. It reminded her of Toronto’s Kensington market where she’d grown up.
When she got back to the hotel, Santino still hadn’t returned. An hour later, she heard the lock turn, and when she went to the door, he and Pedro were helping someone whose face was covered.
“Sal!” she cried out, rushing to put her arms around him.
“Don’t say anything Rebecca,” whispered Santino, a stricken look on his face as he and Pedro eased Sal onto the couch. “He can’t speak. Come into the bedroom and I’ll tell you everything.”
Once Sal was settled with a blanket and a pillow to rest his head, Rebecca held him as tightly as she could and whispered, “I’m so glad to see you. It’s time for you to come home.”
When she followed Santino into the other room, he closed the door.
“Rebecca, you know that drug shipment we were talking about yesterday,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she answered as her heart sank. “Why?”
“Well, six weeks after it was seized by the F.B.I., Mario Grazie returned to Marseilles with a tip that it was Sal who had been the snitch. After three days of torture, including the removal of his tongue and one of his testicles, Grazie had his men dump Sal in a back alley.”
Rebecca burst out crying. “Oh no, Santino, oh no! Poor Sal!”
“Luckily some sailors found him,” Santino continued, his voice choked with emotion. “They managed to drag him to a hospital where the doctors, used to drunks and criminals, fixed him up as best they could without calling the police. Two weeks after that, Sal disappeared.
“I kept calling and calling, and when I didn’t hear from him, I told Pedro to find him, no matter what he had to do. So last month, Pedro followed a hunch.”
“Hello my friend,” whispered Pedro to the monk digging in the flower garden at le Thoronet. “It’s taken me a long time to find you. I should have known you’d be right here under my nose.”
The monk froze and pulled the hood farther down on his face. When he turned to walk away, Pedro took his arm and held on. Then Sal Lata took the writing pad and pencil that were hanging from a cord around his neck and wrote, “get lost Pedro. Tell Santino I’m dead.” Then he pushed Pedro aside and hurried back into the Abbey.
And now, fifteen years later, Rebecca was back in Marseilles, alone, desperate to find out where that stolen drug shipment had gone. She’d known that it hadn’t been cut and sold as originally planned, but had been kept intact—moved and hidden somewhere. For some reason, Santino had kept its location a secret, even from her. He had relied on Sal to give her the information if she ever needed it. But Sal was dead, and she was on her own.
In this business, memories are long, she thought as the bus continued its winding route towards town. Perhaps Santino thought that he might need those drugs as a trade-off, especially after he blew most of the investments I made for the P&M trust. It would be his last trump card; that lost shipment in exchange for his bank notes. Unless I can track it down, the Brattinis will always have a score to settle and San-tino’s sons will never be safe. And neither will I.
It’s my only hope, she thought as her eyes began closing with fatigue. And maybe, if Pedro Villela is still alive, I’ll be able to find the answers that I need. Otherwise….
She awoke to the sound of a toilet flushing somewhere behind the cheap walls of her hotel room. It was two weeks since she’d arrived in Marseilles.
Valentines Day, she thought. Roses, chocolates, and funny valentines from someone you love. Well, not for me, and maybe never again. I’m almost ready to give up.
Her search for Pedro Villela had taken her to the waterfront area where she knew he had once lived. She’d been hanging around the Parc Borely, close to a group of red wooden benches that Santino and Pedro had used as their meeting spot so many years ago. Each day she fed the gulls that came screeching down from the grey and cold skies, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar face, anyone that might be able to lead her to Pedro, if in fact, he was still alive.
On this day, everything was dull and depressing—the weather, the park, and her mood. Rebecca had tried to keep her spirits up, but she knew time was running out.
Suddenly, an elderly woman who looked familiar was coming towards her. Rebecca got up from the bench and took off her hat and dark glasses as the two women came face to face.
“Bonjour Madame,” Rebecca said in her Canadian French. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Ah, it’s you,” was the reply. Both women sat down on the bench.
“It’s been such a long time. And how have you been?”
“It’s a long story,” answered Rebecca, smiling.
“You are seeking my husband.” Nicole Villela’s tone was matter-of-fact.
Rebecca stared into a pair of knowing blue eyes. It had been so many years, but she remembered those eyes. It took steel to be a mobster’s wife and Nicole had been one for a long time.
“Yes, I am looking for him,” Rebecca answered, “and I promise that there won’t be any trouble—not like last time.”
“It has been a long time,” said Nicole as Rebecca stood up. “My husband is suffering from high blood pressure and hardly goes out anymore.”
No kidding, thought Rebecca. I’ve been hanging around this fucking dump for almost two weeks.
“Mrs. Villela, I’m only looking for information. I’ve come back to Marseilles to try to get some answers, not only for myself, but also for Santino’s wife and children. They’re in grave danger.”
Rebecca noticed a slight flicker of interest in the other woman’s eyes.
“Brattini’s up to his old tricks again,” she invented. So what’s one more little lie in a life filled with so many big ones?
There were a few moments of silence before Mrs. Villela spoke. “Where are you staying?” she asked.
“At the Prado,” answered Rebecca, quickly.
Mrs. Villela’s nose twitched in disdain and Rebecca couldn’t help smiling.
“Times are different now Mrs. Villela,” she said. “And besides, I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself.”
“Go back there and wait. You will be contacted.”
“I’m under the name.
“It’s not important,” said Mrs. Villela, waving her hand. “We will find you.”
Rebecca was a little uneasy as she unlocked the door to her room. Have I been kidding myself into thinking that I’d be invisible here? She curled up in a chair and opened a magazine. I sure hope not.
The sound of tapping woke her and an envelope was slipped under the door, its message telling her to be in the bar at seven o’clock.
This cloak and dagger stuff is getting a bit silly, she thought as she sat down at a corner table to wait. Like an old Bogie film.
“Hello Rebecca.”
At first, she wasn’t sure who it was. His skin was weather beaten and grey and he wore a large loose fitting beret, which covered most of his head. A black lumber jacket with a turned up collar gave him the appearance of a stevedore, and the dim light made it difficult to see his face.
But his eyes, black, cold, and piercing, left no doubt.
“Hello Pedro.”
A few minutes were spent on small talk about old acquaintances and Santino’s family.
“Did you hear that Sal died of a heart attack six months ago?” asked Rebecca.
Pedro’s whole body shuddered. “No, I hadn’t heard.” He crossed himself.
“Vinnie and Jimmy told me about it at Santino’s memorial service. Giancarlo Brattini was also there. If looks could kill.well you can imagine.
“You know that both of Santino’s sons are at Harvard,” she continued. “Peter wants to be a lawyer, and Matthew is into philosophy.”
Pedro smiled. “Sounds like they’ve broken the cycle. It’s just as well. New times and new values.”
Then the conversation turned serious. “You haven’t been followed,” said Pedro. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you since you arrived”
“Oh Pedro,” sighed Rebecca exasperated. “How could you let me wander around for so long without contacting me?”
“I did contact you,” he answered, a touch of a smile on his face. “Did you think it was just a coincidence when Nicole walked into the park this morning? Or maybe you thought that it was your good luck?”
Rebecca was amazed at how the old warriors never changed, but she knew that there was no more time for nostalgia or memories. She started talking, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of raucous laughter at the other side of the bar.
“So that’s the whole story Pedro,” she said, finishing her glass of wine. “Santino stupidly signed away all his assets to a company that turned out to belong to Brattini. It was so unlike him to be careless. I doubt that I’ll ever find out how, or why he was tricked. But it’s not important now. All that matters is that shipment. Without it, or the money it was worth, Brattini will never let Santino’s sons go.”
“I never met Santino’s wife,” said Pedro. “But I saw pictures of her and their sons. I could never figure out what the boss was doing with you.”
Rebecca tensed up and gave Pedro an icy stare.
“Okay I’m sorry,” he chuckled. “You know very well that I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that usually men who play on the side have wives who are; you know, oh well, forget it.”
“Elizabeth DeLuca is a beautiful and very gracious woman,” said Rebecca. “And she is totally loyal to her husband and his associates. You, better than most, should know that one must never sit in judgement of another person’s tastes in women, or men. Now, let’s not discuss this again”
“Okay, sorry,” said Pedro sheepishly. “Nicole says I always put my foot where my mouth is supposed to be.
“Anyhow, I’m not surprised at what you’re telling me,” he went on. “That’s why Santino must have kept the parcel hidden all these years. He knew that one day he might need it.”
“So, can you help me?” Rebecca asked quietly.
Pedro stared at her intently for a few moments.
“First, I’ll give you some advice Rebecca,” he said. “You can only be strong, and win, if you’re honest with yourself. You and I both know that you’re not doing this for Santino’s wife and children, at least not completely. So stop pretending. Accept who you are and what you want, or you will make a careless mistake.”
Rebecca nodded her head in silent agreement.
“Okay then,” he said. “Listen carefully.”
An hour later, Pedro got up and kissed her hand.
“Santino thought you were special,” he said gently, “and I do too. But what you’re trying to do will not be easy, especially since you’re a woman. The old guys are all gone, and the new ones don’t care about anything—women, children, or the Church.
“Just remember that Rebecca. And don’t hesitate. Or you’re dead.”
Chapter 14
Toronto, Ontario.
The cold air hit Elizabeth and Matthew like a blast as they walked out of the plane into the tunnel towards Canada Immigration and Customs. Matthew had their suit bags draped over his arm and the large carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. Elizabeth carried a garment bag as well.
“You know Mom, we’ve got enough luggage for a month’s holiday,” Matthew huffed. “We’ve only here for a long weekend. What would you do if I weren’t a porter disguised as a college student? This stuff weighs a ton”
“Stop complaining,” she answered gently. “If we didn’t carry our own luggage, we’d have to stand in line for at least an extra half hour waiting for the bags to be unloaded. This way we’ll be in our hotel room within the hour.
“Now boy, let’s move it!” she said as she playfully slapped his back.
They were first in line at Immigration and presented their passports and return tickets as required.
“Purpose of your visit to Toronto?” asked the immigration officer.
“Pleasure,” answered Elizabeth.
“Where were you born?”
“Detroit, Michigan.”
“How long will you be in Canada?”
“Four days.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Four Seasons, Yorkville.”
“Are you carrying cash over ten thousand dollars or any special gifts?”
“No.”
“And you, young man. Are you together with this lady?”
“Yes.”
“Born?”
“Toronto.”
“Oh, you’re a Canadian citizen.”
“Not exactly. Dual.”
“Where do you live?”
“Boston.”
“What is your occupation?”
“Full time student.”
“Why aren’t you in school then?”
“It’s reading week”
“What’s reading week?”
“A holiday for the teachers.”
“Are you carrying any drugs or contraband?”
“No”
“Okay, move on”
As they moved through the airport to where the limousines were waiting, Matthew snorted in disgust.
“Can you believe that jerk?” he said to his mother. “Did you see the way he was studying our passports, looking at the pictures, and then looking us up and down? Trying to make us squirm no doubt. And those stupid questions? Like somebody who is smuggling drugs is really going to admit it. There’s nothing so pitiful as a brainless bureaucrat trying to make himself look important.”
“Is he there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Jim McGrath in Toronto.”
“Hold on.”
“Yah Jim, what’s up?”
“Elizabeth DeLuca and her son just passed through Immigration. They’re visiting for three days, staying at the Four Seasons.”
“Okay, thanks Jim. Appreciate it.”
Everly Judson hung up the phone and then picked it up again to dial a local number.
“Elizabeth DeLuca just arrived in Toronto with her son. No, there was nothing unusual. Okay.”
Judson was deputy superintendent of the U.S. immigration office in Buffalo, N.Y. He was over six feet tall and totally bald. He’d started shaving his head as a young man after he’d seen one of Telly Savalas’ old movies on TV. He usually wore dark glasses, rain or shine, indoors or out, in order to “keep the mystery about me”, or so he explained to his staff. He’d gotten a job as a part-time clerk at the I.N.S. in 1962 and had worked his way up, thanks in large part to his friend and mentor, Bob DeSalle.
After DeSalle’s murder, Johnny Brattini had contacted Judson, letting him know in no uncertain terms that it was he, not DeSalle, who had been providing him with his bonuses for the past twenty years, and that the Brattini/Salerno family expected business to go on as usual.
Judson was only too happy to continue passing on the information about new government immigration policies before they became public, special waivers given to wealthy immigrants with questionable backgrounds, which politicians were lobbying for special status for which individuals, and any loopholes for circumventing the regulations that became applicable.
Over the years, Judson had developed a network of contacts with customs and immigration officers from many other ports of entry in the U.S. as well as other countries. This allowed the Brattini/Salerno family to control, through him, their friends and enemies. For those whose co-operation was needed in connection with the family’s drug business in Asia, the promise of a haven in the U.S. was a large carrot. For others, the threat of harrassment at various borders for relatives or goods usually worked.
