Final Justice, page 26
“Right under everyone’s noses,” he had laughed. “Who would ever think to look there?”
The horror of Sal Lata’s fate was never far from Santino’s thoughts and he had tried to keep the existence of the drugs a secret from Jimmy Bono, just in case something went wrong again. But Jimmy was so shrewd and so in tune with the DeLuca operation that it wasn’t long before he’d found out everything there was to know, though he never let on to Santino, even at the end.
By the late eighties, Santino felt that the time was right to bring the statue to the U.S. Arrangements were made for it to be crated and the outside bill of lading marked as a religious artifact, a gift from the Brattini family to St. Margaret’s, their own church in Buffalo. This was a necessary precaution to avoid the attention of some eager beaver customs inspector.
When Everly Judson, known to be on Brattini’s payroll, was contacted by someone he thought was Mario Grazie and told that a crate was coming from the Brattini warehouse in Marseilles, there were no questions asked.
In fact, Grazie was already dead, sealed up in an urn while he was still alive by Santino personally; an act of retribution that had deemed appropriate for what had been done to Sal.
“Imagine how thrilled the Boss will be when his gift for the church arrives in time for Easter,” Judson had been told. “And since he wants it to be a surprise for his wife, make sure you don’t let on to anybody what’s happening”
Judson had taken the bait, never doubting the authenticity of the call. He then arranged for the crate to pass through U.S. Customs within an hour of its arrival from Marseilles; he even signed the authorization himself.
It was then whisked off to the abandoned Depew railway station where it had sat for another two weeks under twenty-four hour guard until Santino was sure that neither Brattini nor Judson had any suspicions. Then the “gift” was transported to St. Margaret’s Church.
When Judson received a hand delivered envelope containing $5,000 in cash a week later, he assumed that it had come from Brat-tini as usual, and he soon forgot all about it.
For the next ten years the statue had sat in Massimo Brattini’s own church, in full view, with ten million dollars worth of pure heroin sealed inside.
Oh Santino, thought Rebecca. How diabolical you were. I can just see you laughing.
The outside buzzer rang.
“It’s a Mr. Peter DeLuca, and someone else,” whispered her secretary over the intercom.
Rebecca was taken aback. Peter DeLuca was the last person she expected to see, especially here in Toronto, and she hoped that nothing was wrong.
“Peter, what a nice surprise!”
She smiled warmly at him as they shook hands, resisting the urge to hug him. She soon felt the vibes from Peter’s companion and gave an involuntary shudder.
“Come on in. Would either of you like something to eat or drink?”
“No thanks Rebecca,” answered Peter. “I’ve got a meeting in Boston this afternoon and the plane is waiting.”
“Do I get to meet your friend?” she asked, turning to the stone-faced stranger.
“Yuri Latchman,” said the muscular young man, taking her hand and kissing it. “I’m delighted to meet you, finally.” Latchman was short and stocky, about five foot seven, with curly brown hair. He was very muscular, reminding Rebecca of the professional wrestlers she’d seen strutting on the T.V. He had a dimpled chin and dark brown eyes that grabbed hold and never flickered.
A Russian, thought Rebecca. There’s something about them. Then she turned and looked into the cold, green eyes of Peter DeLuca. Well, you aren’t Santino. And that’s too bad.
“I’ll get right to the point Rebecca,” Peter began once they were all seated.
“I’m here to give you some information that I think you should know. And I’ll ask in return that you not discuss it with anyone, especially my mother, including the fact that I was even here.”
“Tell me Peter, what are you doing with yourself now?” Rebecca asked, ignoring his words. “I was expecting a business card and an invitation to the opening of a law office now that you’ve finished school.”
“A funny thing happened on the way to that future,” he answered, a wry smile on his face, “and I had to change my plans.”
“And you Mr. Latchman?” asked Rebecca, swivelling around to face him. “Where do you fit into this equation?”
“If even half of the things I’ve heard about you are true Mrs. Sherman,” he answered in a quiet voice, “then you already know theanswer. I believe that it’s a skill you’ve perfected, namely the art of asking questions to which you already have the answers.”
What a suck! This Russian sure isn’t a Jimmy Bono. Rebecca had heard rumours about Santino’s son trying to revive DeLuca Industries. She’d also heard about the “Mad Dog Russian”, a name Jimmy had given Latchman. Now that she saw the two of them together, Rebecca had real concerns. If Peter really is in with him, then it could be trouble, not only for Elizabeth, but for me as well.
Being involved in business with Giancarlo Brattini, albeit loosely and very sporadically, could create a conflict if Peter tried to rebuild the DeLuca operation. And it wasn’t necessary. All of the P&M Trust’s assets had been released to the DeLuca family. Close to seven million dollars after legal fees and taxes. For most people, it would be enough. Start a new business, travel, anything. For most people, but not for Santino DeLuca’s son.
It’s true what they say about money, thought Rebecca. It really doesn’t motivate or satisfy driven people. It’s the chase, the quest for power—that’s the hook. And who knows that better than me?
“Okay Peter, I’m listening,” said Rebecca as she leaned back and gave him her full attention.
“This videotape is for you,” began Peter, handing her a package. “Your ex-husband, Steve Sherman, was murdered for it.”
Rebecca felt sick and clutched the arms of the chair. Her heart began pounding so hard that she thought her mended ribs would snap open again.
“Go on,” she said quietly, her eyes glued to his.
“It’s got some interesting footage of Senator Jacobs, Richard Dudley, two hookers, and two dogs,” Peter continued in a monotone.
“It seems that Sherman got it from someone who had been secretly videotaping a certain health club, a place where lots of political fun and games used to go on during the seventies and eighties. Sherman hoped that the tape would help you when Dudley was try-ing to nail your coffin shut, but before he could pass it on to the cops, someone talked.
“On orders from Massimo Brattini, DeSalle killed him by injection, making it look like a heart attack. But of course, you already knew that part.”
Rebecca was frozen in her seat. Her mind was spinning, so many things rushing around inside her brain, and yet, at the same time, some nagging questions being answered. Ever since Santino had told her some of the details around Steve’s death, she’d wondered what he could have possibly done to deserve it? Now she knew. And once again, she was responsible.
“How do you know that Steve was trying to use that tape to discredit Dudley?” asked Rebecca in a whisper, “or Massimo Brattini.”
“You know better than to ask that question,” answered Peter. “Dudley was owned by Brattini. If Dudley fell, so would everyone around him, including his silent partners. And the investigation surrounding you back then was so full of informants—Senator Jacobs, DeSalle, even the Crown prosecutor himself. So Brattini, through DeSalle, was always one step ahead.”
In the silence that followed, Rebecca tried to steady her emotions and figure out Peter DeLuca’s real reasons for coming to see her.
Who is he trying to get? They are all dead—DeSalle, Massimo Brattini, and Santino. Why tell me this now?
“And there’s one other thing, Rebecca,” Peter continued. “Your daughter left her husband because he was beating her up. It turns out that Jeff Jacobs goes both ways, and right now he’s going his way with Dudley. He wanted Lisa to stay with him as a cover for his political ambitions, but she refused.”
Rebecca said nothing, willing herself to keep still. Then both men stood up and Peter dropped the videotape on Rebecca’s desk.
“I’m sorry Rebecca,” was all he said as he turned to leave. Yuri Latchman bowed slightly and followed Peter out of the office.
Rebecca remained in her chair unable to move for almost ten minutes after the young men had left. Then she leaned down on the desk and put hear head in her arms trying to keep control of her rage. She fantasized a conversation between herself and Santino.
“I should have had the Senator wiped out when you gave me the chance.”
“But you didn’t take that option Rebecca, so you can’t run off half cocked now. Think, think before you act.”
“I want to kill Jeff Jacobs.”
“You can’t, and you won’t. Leave him to his choices; eventually they will bring him down.”
“What about Dudley? He will probably become Canada’s next Prime Minister. I’ll release that tape; that will fix him.”
“No, you won’t. No one will care, not yet. If you really want to make him suffer, and finish him off for good, wait until he’s in power. Then, and only then, should you act.”
“Why can’t I kill Jacobs, and the Senator, and Dudley? I’ve done it before.”
“Listen to yourself Rebecca, you’re not being rational. Is that what you aspire to be in the second half of your life? A hit man, or lady?”
“I feel so guilty about Lisa. How could this have gone on without my knowing it? Why didn’t she confide in me?”
“Because she’s a strong young woman who chose, for whatever her reasons, not to tell you. Maybe she was worried about your quick temper and how often you act first and think twice later.”
“Poor Steve. He was such a nice guy. Did you know all along why he was killed? Of course you knew. You knew everything. Why didn’t you tell me?”
A knock on the door jolted her back to the present and the image of Santino faded away.
“Did you forget your noon appointment with Richard Dudley and Senator Jacobs?” asked her secretary. “Do you want me to order in lunch?”
“No lunch,” she answered coldly. “I need another ten minutes to get myself organized. Please apologize to them for the delay.”
As she stood in front of the vanity in her private washroom brushing her hair and putting on some lipstick, she spoke to her image in a low whisper.
“Okay Rebecca, for the first time in your life, keep your mouth shut and your temper in check. These guys will kill to protect their interests. They are your enemies. Then, now, and tomorrow. It’s them against you. You have got to get them first. Keep your cards folded close to your chest and do not let them think you know anything. Be smart, be smart!”
She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face and walked back into her office. Richard Dudley and Senator Jack Jacobs were sitting on the French chairs in front of her desk.
Well, Dudley certainly looks like a Prime Minister, Rebecca thought as she approached the two men. He was fifty-eight years old. His hair was grey, his eyes blue, and his carriage aristocratic. He had an elegant blond wife and two elegant blond daughters. Memories of his former political career had long since faded in the public eye, along with the rumours about his extra curricular activities. Twenty years is a long time, especially in politics.
Oh how the circle of life twists and turns, she thought.
“Rebecca, it’s so nice to see you back on your feet,” crooned Jacobs as both men stood up. He took her hand and kissed it.
“I can’t tell you how thrilled we both were when we got the call from Johnny Brattini.” Then he nodded towards Dudley whose face looked as though it had just been excavated from a mass grave.
“And you see?” Jacobs went on, “I made sure that your name was put on the guest list for President Reynolds’ dinner party. Why, it will be just like old times.”
“And what do you say?” Rebecca asked Dudley as he stood frozen in place. At first he didn’t answer. Then he snapped, ignoring the glare of Jacobs.
“Look Rebecca, let’s cut this crap! I don’t know how you managed to return from obscurity, but somehow you did. And now that you’re back into the action, there is no way we can avoid each other. But I have no intention of sucking ass the way the Senator wants me to, so let’s just get right to the point.”
“Richard, please,” whined Jacobs, tapping him on the shoulder with his cane. “You heard what Johnny said. He wants Rebecca to get the respect she deserves.”
“Oh, fuck that wop pig!” Dudley shouted. “We’re all white folks here; we may have to do business with those people but we don’t have to like them. Now let’s get to it. You, Jacobs, keep your mouth shut!”
Rebecca said nothing, enjoying the display of empty bravado she was seeing.
Keep on going, you creep, she thought as Dudley paced back and forth in front of the window. You’re burying yourself deeper and deeper.
“The polls are showing a heavy win for my party,” Dudley said as he strutted around her office like a peacock. “That means that you are looking at the next Prime Minister of Canada.
“Even you Rebecca, with all your arrogance, can’t turn up your nose at that.”
Rebecca didn’t respond as she struggled to maintain a neutral expression.
“You’ve been around long enough to know that the last three weeks are the key in any close election race,” he continued, “especially when it comes to the press. And the only way to ensure that the opposition doesn’t win any points at the last minute is to control the media—and that takes a lot of money, or more specifically, cash.
“Now, our friend Jacobs here has managed to dig up some old dirt on my honourable opposition which we are saving for the last week of the campaign. That should finish him off for sure.”
Rebecca could hardly keep a smile off her face when Dudley used the expression “dirt” in relation to his opposition.
Oh, you don’t even begin to know what dirt means, you dog from hell, she thought. Wait till I’m finished with you.
“So don’t you try and put the screws to me Rebecca,” he went on, “especially if your friends want to keep their tariff goodies on construction equipment and supplies, along with their access to immigration waivers, after the next election.
“You and I both know that it’s in your new friend’s best interest, as much as my own, to have me sitting in the Prime Minister’s chair on June 7th.”
“Richard, Richard,” Rebecca practically crooned. “How can you even think that I wouldn’t support you? After all, then was then and now is now. You know my credo has always been business before pleasure.”
“Is that what DeLuca taught you?” Dudley asked with a sneer on his face, “or was it Brattini, your new special friend. Is he as good as…or better? Considering that the two of you were once such enemies, I guess you want to show me by example.”
“Now, now,” cooed Senator Jacobs as he stepped closer to Dudley and patted his arm. “No need to get personal. I know that we can work everything out. After all, we’ve done it before. Remember the deals we did back in the old days?”
Rebecca willed herself to keep the pleasant smile on her face as her brain raced in a thousand directions. Say nothing! Say nothing! Let him talk.
“You went to jail for corruption!” Dudley shrieked, obviously frustrated by her lack of response to his insults. “You were fucking DeLuca and who knows who else. You brought shame on your friends and family, especially your daughter. I told my nephew Jeff not to marry her, not even for show. And I was right. She turned out to be nothing but a two-bit version of you—with one exception. She couldn’t even perform in bed. So she deserved whatever he gave her. I should have handed her over to some dykes I know. What a loser she turned out to be—just like her mother!”
And then Rebecca lost it.
“When I destroy you once and for all,” she snarled, “I am going to remind you of this conversation. And I can only fantasize about what happy little campers you, and your friend the Senator here will be when your antics with a couple of prostitutes, their doggies, and who knows what else, becomes public…along with your bi-sexual tastes.
She was suddenly exhilarated by the way the colour drained from both of their faces.
“You are fucking assholes, both of you!” she went on, a smile on her face. “Did you think I didn’t keep any paper on our joint enter-prises.or the payoffs? Or the phoney tax receipts? Or maybe you two pricks thought you were fooling me. I’ve had a handle on you guys since you first tried to screw me twenty years ago. So.what goes around comes around. You are history—toast—dead meat!
“Now, get out!”
“So, how do you think Rebecca will react when the reality of what we told her sets in?” asked Latchman when he and Peter had settled in the back of their limo for the ride to the airport.
“Well, if she stays in character and doesn’t change her spots, she’ll do them both in, saving us the trouble,” answered Peter, a thin smile on his face.
“She’ll start making waves about Dudley and Jacobs which will no doubt bring in the press. That’s how it all begins Yuri: rumours, followed by newspaper articles, then denials, and finally, exposes. And soon the cops will start sniffing around. But this time around, the spotlight will fall on Brattini, not on us. Then, well, who knows?
“So, if things run true to form, my dear Uncle Giancarlo will be too busy to notice what we’re up to…until it’s too late.”
Latchman nodded his head and smiled, saying nothing. He had recently discovered that it was Giancarlo Brattini who had been responsible for the death of his Uncle Boris, along with the disappearance of millions of dollars that should have been his. He decided not to share that information with Peter, at least not yet. He wanted to see how far Peter would go without any encouragement from him.
