Mafioso, page 11
part #1 of The Mafia Chronicles Series
Speaking through Rizzo, the Commission had decided. Rizzo said Don Corrasco had given his word and now he must comply. There was no need to tell Don Corrasco what failure to comply would entail. They both knew that Don Corrasco would be killed if he failed to honor his word. To Don Corrasco, such a thought was unthinkable. Coakley had lost his wife and children but—Don Corrasco smiled thinly—he had forced the union of Families to come to terms. That was life, Don Corrasco thought—and business.
No more killing, Rizzo said. A truce would be declared the moment Lanzetta was killed. After that a meeting would be held between the members of the Commission and Coakley’s black allies in all the cities. Even then there would be problems, but nothing that couldn’t be worked out. Not only was Lanzetta to be killed, but he was also to be blamed, after his death, for the deplorable violence in the Brooklyn ghetto. To use Rizzo’s term, all the authorities wanted was a fall guy, a patsy. That was all they ever wanted—someone to take the blame. Lanzetta had to be the pigeon.
Don Corrasco’s bony fingers drummed irritably on his leather-topped desk. Personally, he still considered Lanzetta to be a most valuable subordinate. The man had given twelve years of good and loyal service. His work, in fact, had been superb. There was no doubt that he would have disposed of Coakley had he enough time. However, everything now was speculation. Lanzetta had to die and his death had to be quiet. Lanzetta wouldn’t be easy to kill by the usual means—the man was infinitely resourceful, Don Corrasco thought with admiration—so the job had to be done some other way. Don Corrasco thought he knew what it was.
The house guard telephoned to say that Corrigan had arrived. Don Corrasco looked at his pocket watch. The Irish detective was punctual, perhaps a good sign. He told the guard to bring him in.
Corrigan was sober, closely shaved and nervous. He had called in sick for two reasons, to get away from Captain Clifford’s telephone calls and because he was sick with a massive hangover.
Don Corrasco came out from behind the desk to greet him. “How you feeling, Lieutenant?” Don Corrasco said in English.
“I hated to bother you, Mr. DiSalvo,” Corrigan began. “But I was getting no place with Mr. Lanzetta—I guess he’s busy—so I decided to come to the man in charge.”
Don Corrasco was most gracious. “You were smart,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me about it.”
Corrigan turned down a drink. After doing that he explained about Captain Clifford and the pressure. He felt he was in deep trouble and he had to have advice. “Clifford’s a politician,” he said. “He’s trying to nail me to make himself look good with Leary.”
Lanzetta, Corrigan said, dropping the Mister, didn’t even want to listen. Corrigan excused himself. “You know what he said? Don’t shit your pants.”
Don Corrasco nodded, thinking that Lanzetta was right, but still foolish to let his feelings show. Looking at Corrigan, Don Corrasco wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before. “How’d you like to make Clifford look like a horse’s ass, Lieutenant.”
“What’s that?”
It was beautiful, Don Corrasco decided. “Clifford’s got you tied in with the Family—right? Clifford or the FBI. The telephone calls, so on. So they think they got you good ...”
Corrigan started to say something.
“Wait a minute,” Don Corrasco said easily, putting it together.
“Sorry,” Corrigan said.
“That’s okay. Listen, the Mayor, Clifford, everybody’s burned up about this war, now especially about this latest stuff in Bedford-Stuyvesant. Clifford’s crying for your blood and the FBI is after me. But we got nothing to do with the guy who’s responsible—Nick Lanzetta. Sure, the guy used to work for me in one of my interests, but that wasn’t lately. And you? You only know the guy—called him and pretended to be a friend—because you, as a good cop, was trying to nail him. Before Lanzetta got rid of Joe Daniello—Lanzetta must of done it—you used to call Joe because you wanted to nail him. Now it’s Lanzetta.”
Corrigan wasn’t dumb. “Sure, Lanzetta’s the one made all the trouble.”
Don Corrasco smiled. “Pretty smart,” he said. “Hey, look, Lieutenant. I met you a couple times, but I don’t know I ever heard your first name.”
Corrigan said it was Stanley; his friends called him Stan.
“Look, Stan,” Don Corrasco said. “You won’t take a drink, at least have a cigar. Real Cuban. Hey, maybe I shouldn’t tell you that. Bringing in cigars from there is a federal offense.”
They both laughed and Corrigan tried to sit back like a bigwig at the downtown Athletic Club. “Very fine,” he said, making blue smoke.
“You nail Lanzetta, you got it made,” Don Corrasco said. “The guy’s a killer, so you can’t take any chances. Tell the truth, I’ll be glad to see him put away. By that I mean dead. You know what I’m saying, Stan?”
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Corrigan answered slowly. “I guess you’re right. There’s no other way.”
“Not with a guy like Lanzetta, there isn’t. You could take him in and with the right kind of help you could make the charges stick. Maybe he’d keep his mouth shut, then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Then again, maybe he’d break out and start looking. Anything is possible with a guy like that. No, I say take no chances with Lanzetta. Stop him before he makes any more trouble. More trouble is exactly what we don’t want. Am I right?”
Corrigan nodded, thinking he was in all the way. He was most of the way in now, so why not take the last big step. “Right,” he said.
“Clifford can’t touch you after that,” Don Corrasco said. “You’re a hero cop. The Esposito murders are solved, the killing of Coakley’s wife and kids. That helps to cool down the ghetto and you’re the guy who did it. After that, I talk with Coakley, make peace with the black bastard. No more war—business as usual. You, a cop, want a nice, peaceful town. Me, a businessman, the same.”
One thing about Don Corrasco, Corrigan decided; the man talked straight. The top men were always like that; It was the underlings who screwed around trying to make themselves look important.
“Where’s Lanzetta now?” Corrigan asked. “I got to have an excuse to see him. They haven’t been able to connect him with the Coakley thing, but he’s going to be looking out for trouble. I don’t suppose he’s got any idea what’s going on?”
“No way for him to know.” Don Corrasco told the detective about the apartment house in the Village where Lanzetta was shacking up with Uncle Joe’s daughter. “I guess you know Uncle Joe has disappeared. Lanzetta says he thinks Joe has taken his bundle and left the country. Says Joe panicked and ran. Now, you know Joe Daniello better than that, Stan. You know what I think? I think Lanzetta did away with poor Joe. To me, that’s reason enough to hit him.”
Corrigan’s cigar had gone out and he didn’t bother to relight it. Even a good cigar on top of a hangover felt lousy. “What about the girl?”
“If you do it right, the girl won’t matter, Stan. Anyway, the girl’s no problem. Don’t worry about her. After you put Lanzetta away, I’ll take care of the girl. With Joe dead, she needs somebody to look out for her.”
Corrigan didn’t want to know Don Corrasco’s plans for the girl. He was ready to kill her, too, but he knew it wouldn’t wash. He might get away with it, but he wouldn’t be any kind of hero.
“How does this sound, Mr. DiSalvo?”
“Don Corrasco, Stan.”
“Sure,” said Corrigan.
“Pour me a little mineral water, will you, Stan. You know—the stomach.”
Corrigan did what he was told, and Don Corrasco nodded thanks. “You were saying ...”
Corrigan knew he had been subtly reminded of their relative positions. That was all right; the Don was a big man. “Suppose I call Lanzetta at the place. He’ll wonder how I got the number, but that’s all right. I’m a cop and I can get numbers. Then I tell him I have to talk to him. About something I can’t discuss on the phone. But something he’ll want to know. Like a witness who can place him at the Coakley house. There’s only one catch. Suppose he doesn’t want to meet me at the apartment? That would be the best place to do the job. Away from there maybe witnesses and problems.”
Don Corrasco said Corrigan’s idea sounded good. “I’d want to hear about a witness who could send me away for life. Don’t worry about him leaving the apartment. My orders are to stay put, don’t go out till this thing blows over.”
“What about evidence?”
Don Corrasco had been thinking about that. “I think we got enough.” He laughed. “Enough, not too much. What was that thing Lanzetta used to kill Mike and his boys?”
“A grenade launcher. Army stuff.”
“I’ll call Pignataro,” Don Corrasco said. “Don’t worry, Stan. Pignataro is a rock. He’ll get another grenade gun and have it waiting down in the basement. Soon as you knock off Lanzetta, Pignataro will bring it up. And what about some maps and pictures of Coakley’s street. That ought to do it. You’re standing there with the dead man and the evidence when the other cops arrive. The girl’s long gone with Pignataro.”
Corrigan was desperate for a drink, but he didn’t dare ask for it. The first bar he came to on the way back to Brooklyn, he’d have a couple of belts. Only one more thing had to be settled. “How soon?”
“Tonight,” Don Corrasco said. “The sooner the better. Then the case is closed, the war stops, and we all start enjoying life again. I know that’s what you want. By the way, Stan, how are the wife and kids?”
Corrigan recognized the threat. “Fine, Don Corrasco.”
“A lucky man,” Don Corrasco sighed. “My own wife and boy passed on a while back.”
Corrigan mumbled his sympathy.
“Thanks, Stan,” Don Corrasco said. “I appreciate you saying that. I tell you something else, Stan. When a guy does things for me, I do things for him. Could be a promotion in this for you. I still got a little influence in this town. Anyway, you won’t be hurting for money ...” Don Corrasco rang for the guard to show Corrigan out. Corrigan held out his hand and the Don shook it once and let it drop.
The windows in the top floor apartment were small-paned, bulletproof, and they didn’t open. Even with the air conditioning on full blast, the air felt stale. Or maybe it was just the idea of being cooped-up. Lanzetta lay on a couch in the living room watching television. Kate Daniello was in the kitchen trying to cook something. For an Italian girl, she was a lousy cook.
Lanzetta heard an ice-tray being rattled. The girl stuck her head out of the kitchen and shook the fresh ice in her glass. “You want another one, lover?”
“What are you cooking now? Whatever it is, you eat it. Yeah, I want another drink.”
Kate Daniello was wearing one of Lanzetta’s pajama bottoms—no top. Her breasts were young and didn’t need a bra. She put them right in his face when she handed him the drink. “You better watch it, Bogey,” she said. “That’s your third. Better not let the scoutmaster hear about it.”
Lanzetta sipped the drink and scratched the day-old stubble on his face. Without anger he said, “Why don’t you go diddle yourself in the bathroom.” He turned away to watch the beginning of a Star Trek re-run.
“Diddle myself? Not while I have you, Nickie.”
She went back to the kitchen and came out with two plates of canned Spanish Rice. “Go on, eat. It’s good. I used to love it when I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid. A dirty-minded kid. Go eat that slop in the kitchen. Looking at it makes me sick. So do you.”
In the too-big pajamas, hunkered up in an armchair eating the junk on the plate, she did look like a kid. “You’re so tender, you know that, Nickie. Why don’t we send out for a grapefruit so you can push it in my face. Tell me this, young man, who influenced you most in your career—Bogart or Cagney?”
Lanzetta looked at her, maybe for the first time. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Not at all. Come on, tell me—what’s the bit? You talk but you don’t say anything.”
She tried to smile and didn’t quite make it. “Maybe I’m the way I am because I don’t care about anything. Don’t give a fuck—you know! I don’t want to go to school and I don’t want to get married. I don’t want a fucking useless career and I don’t want children. I just want to lie around and ...”
“And screw and smoke pot and drink. Sounds great.”
Her temper came through her oh-shit attitude. “Don’t be a horse’s ass, Lanzetta. Coming from a fucking hood, that’s a laugh.”
“You laugh, honey. I don’t feel like it.”
“What’s wrong with lying around? Screw, drink, blow pot. It makes as much sense as anything else I can think of.”
“Poor bitch. Lost your faith in humanity, is that it? Now ain’t that a kick in the nuts?”
Now her smile was genuine. “You really are a horse’s ass, Nickie. I’m surprised you don’t wear an American flag in your lapel and vote Conservative. Do you really want William Buckley for President?”
Lanzetta knew who Buckley was, more or less, but he said, “The only Buckley I know is Sniffles Buckley; lays off bets for Ziggy Lev. That sound ignorant enough for you?”
“I love you just as you are, Nickie. A fucking ignorant hood. Hey, isn’t this domestic. Dinner for two, soft lights, and sour music.”
“All right, keep it down. I want to listen to the news.”
For once, she did what she was told. Twenty-four hours later in atrocity-bored New York, the Coakley murders had gone stale, at least for the networks. Rioting was still going on in the Brooklyn ghetto and that was still news. All the newscaster said about the murder of Mrs. Coakley and the two children was that the police had announced several promising leads. “Bullshit,” Lanzetta told the television set.
Kate Daniello came over from the armchair and tried to kiss him. He pushed her away. She went back to the chair and finished her drink. “You’re mixed up in that, aren’t you, Nick?” she asked him. “You keep listening to it every time the news comes on.”
There was murder in Lanzetta’s face when he answered. “Honey,” he warned her, meaning it, “if you want to hang around me, that’s your hard luck. I told you to go or stay, so you stayed. Fine by me, because nobody can suck a cock like you. You’re a beautiful piece of ass, okay. Now that we’re finished with the compliments, let me warn you not to mix into my business. That’s the word—butt out. If you don’t want to butt out, then get out. Okay?”
There was something wrong with the air conditioner all right; Kate Daniello fanned herself with one of the magazines on the coffee table between them. The breeze made by the magazine didn’t move the damp strands of hair stuck to her forehead.
“Why don’t you go to bed,” Lanzetta said, bored with talking.
“You don’t trust me, is that it?” she asked.
“Trust you? I don’t know you. I don’t want to know you. All I know is your nooky.”
“Beautiful,” she said. “I want to help you and you talk about nooky. You make me sick.”
Lanzetta told her where she could go, what she could do, if she didn’t like it.
“What’s it like to kill someone, Nick?” she wanted to know next. “You killed those two men, but they were trying to kill you. But what’s it like to kill someone who doesn’t know you’re going to kill him.”
“Is that the latest kick?” Lanzetta said. “Killing for kicks? Or just talking about it? You want to know, I’ll tell you. It’s like nothing at all. We all got to go, so why the big deal?”
“A philosopher,” she said. “Could you kill me?”
“You’re not worth killing.”
The girl wasn’t kidding. “Promise me you’ll kill me if you get tired of me.”
“Honey, I’m tired of you now.”
“I know what you say,” she said, “and I don’t mind. I mean, if you really don’t want me around. Don’t throw me away—kill me.”
“Anything you say. Now shut your mouth. I want to think.”
The telephone rang and it was GeeGee Pignataro. “Just listen, don’t talk,” Pignataro said. “I’m calling from a phone on Canal Street. I didn’t call before because somebody might have a bug on the line. They’re going to try to hit you. The Don and Corrigan cooked it up. The Don called me. I’m supposed to help. Corrigan hasn’t called yet, has he?”
Lanzetta said no. He looked at his left hand. It had stopped shaking.
Pignataro said, “He’ll call with some story, then come up to see you. He’s doing you a favor, so you don’t look for danger. Then he gets the drop and kills you. My part in it, to plant evidence. The Don has made a deal with Coakley, and you’re it.”
It sounded straight enough. “Why are you telling me?” Lanzetta asked. “We get along, but we’re not tight, so why?”
“Two reasons. First, I’m looking out for myself. I figure I could be next. Maybe all the old bunch has to go. Maybe I’m also part of the deal with Coakley. I worked with you on the job that zapped the black’s wife and kids. Or maybe Corrigan wants to shut me up for good. Either way, I don’t have a thing to lose. The second reason, I figure there’s no way to trust the Don anymore. And, like you said, we get along. You ought to be the boss. I figure the other guys will see it that way.”
“Maybe,” Lanzetta said. “Where will you be?”
Pignataro said downstairs, in about ten minutes, waiting in the car. “Soon as you handle it, I’ll come up.”
The phone rang again. Lanzetta listened to the caller. He did what was expected of him. “You sure?” he asked. “Could be a bluff.”
The caller went on talking, pushing it a little too hard.
“Okay,” Lanzetta said. “Come on up. And thanks.”
Chapter Twelve
“GO INTO THE bedroom and stay there,” Lanzetta told the girl. “Take the key and lock the door from the inside. Don’t come out no matter what happens. No questions, just do it.”
