Codes of Betrayal (23 page)

“This conversation is over.” Nick stood up abruptly. Then he turned, dropped his midterm exam on Caruso’s desk. “This deserves an A.”

Caruso shrugged. “You got it.”

Laura called him early that evening.

“Hey, you. I’m at Kennedy. Wanna pick me up and buy me some supper? I’m starved.”

“Yeah, I wanna pick you up. And buy you some supper.”

Within forty-five minutes her luggage was secured in the trunk of his car, and she directed him to a small restaurant.

Laura stared so hard as he took a bite of rare hamburger that it seemed to turn to blood in his mouth. He swallowed, shook his head, sent the burger back, and ordered grilled swordfish. The waiter, a tall, thin, pale boy, glanced at Laura, nodded slightly in approval. Another barbarian turned?

“Please, no lectures, okay?”

Laura rested her chin on her hand. “I follow my own beliefs. I never tell others what they should or should not do. If slaughtering animals after cruelly confining them doesn’t bother you—”

He reached across the table and took her hand. “Hey. I missed you.”

Her smile was the mocking, oh-sure grin that always got to him. She squeezed his hand.

“You are a hard case, Laura, you know that?”

“Is that what I am?”

“Among other things.”

“What else I am is tired. Jet-lagged. My head is filled with too many words about textures and lines and flat hips and rounder bustlines and the excitement of clashing colors. Why don’t we eat fast and get the hell out of here?”

She didn’t want to go to his place. She wanted to go home.

As they drove along Grand Central Parkway, headed toward Manhattan, Laura leaned her head back, closed her eyes.

“You have a busy time?”

“I always do.”

“How often do you take these trips? Christ, you hop around like a jumping jack.”

Quietly, she said, “I take ‘these trips’ as often as necessary.”

“What makes it necessary?”

Laura sat up straight. “You interrogating me?”

“I’m just making conversation. Relax, kiddo.”

There was no further conversation, only tension. Nick reached out, put on a soft music station. When he glanced at her once or twice, her eyes were closed; her jaw was tensed.

Nick drove down the ramp into the garage beneath the Beresford. She directed him to her assigned space. He was surprised how light her luggage was.

“When you travel a great deal, you know how to pare it down,” she told him. Her tone was conversational, neither friendly nor hostile.

The elevator opened at Laura’s floor. As she inserted the key and pushed the door open, they both stopped short. There were lights on in the large square entrance hall.

“I didn’t think Maria would be here.” She mentioned the housekeeper. “I usually call her when I return. Su-Su should be at school.”

Music came softly from the sitting room, which Laura used as a library. She looked at Nick, who dropped the luggage and motioned her back.

She followed closely behind him and they entered the mahogany paneled room. Stretched out in a deep cushy easy chair, feet on the square coffee table, latest copies of magazines strewn about, was his cousin.

It was a toss as to who was more surprised, Nick or Richie Ventura.

Laura pushed forward and in a steel-edged voice asked, “What the hell are you doing here, Richie? How did you get in?”

L
AURA KNOCKED HIS FEET
off the table with a sweep of her arm. Richie stood up.

“Hey, Laura. Relax. I just thought I’d save you a trip.”

“I asked how you got in here.”

Richie shrugged; smiled tightly at Nick. “Didn’t you both notice the Playboy downstairs in the lobby?”

Laura didn’t answer. She reached for the house phone, spoke loud enough so that Richie could hear her.

“Luis, this is Ms. Santalvo. Are you all right? Is there a gorilla-looking man there with you?” She listened, eyes riveted on Richie. “Luis, they will be leaving soon. You and I will talk. This won’t happen again. No, no. Don’t you worry. It’ll be all right.”

Then, to Richie: “You have fun scaring the hell out of a poor workingman? You, the big, labor-connected, concerned union man?”

As she spoke, Richie slid his arms into his jacket, snapped his fingers as though just remembering something. He dug into his trouser pocket and held up a key. Whatever reaction he expected, Laura remained stone-faced. When he reached out to give it to her, she didn’t move.

“I want you to get the hell out of my home, right now.”

Richie tossed the key on the coffee table. He shook his head; smiled his tense, leering grimace. “Nicky, you got a key to the place, too?”

Nick made a move toward him, but Laura intercepted by stomping on Richie’s foot; as he bent over in surprise and pain, she smashed him with her clenched fist, right in the jaw. It wasn’t the power of the blow, it was the unexpectedness.

Richie sprawled backwards, landing sideways on the couch. For a moment he seemed to fill with murderous rage. He took a deep breath, got control. Slowly he stood up, straightened his clothes.

“Jesus,” he said, “you sucker-punched me, just like when we were kids.”

“You were never a kid, Richie. Now get out.”

“She ever do that to you, Nick, or don’t you know all her little games yet?”

Laura said, “He’s not worth it, Nick. Wait a minute, Richie. You said you came here to save me a trip. Fine.”

She dug into her massive black leather handbag; unzipped a compartment, retrieved a small pink velvet ring box. She handed it to Richie.

Richie held the diamond ring between two fingers, letting the light send sparks across the room. He let out a sigh of delight, then showed it to Nick.

“For Theresa. Our twenty-fifth anniversary’s coming up next month. We’ll throw a big bash. Hey, you’re both invited. C’mon, Laura. Friends, right?”

Laura said coldly, “You will send over, by special messenger—not your ape man—fifteen thousand dollars in cash. It’s not that I’m trusting you with the ring, I just don’t want to see you again. So get going, Richie.”

“Fifteen thou, huh? Good price. Nick, ya know anything about diamonds? What’d this go for at Tiffany’s, huh? About double that, right? The markup on this stuff—fuckin’ incredible. But I guess your diamond-dealing friend—Mr. Chen, right?—gives you a special price.” He slipped the box into his jacket pocket, patted it. “Theresa will be bustin’ when she gets this. Hey, do I send the invitation to both of youse here, Nick’s place, what?”

When no one answered him, Richie shrugged. They followed him to the door, stood watching him as he entered the small elevator.

Nick waited for her to say something, but Laura headed for the kitchen. Then, “I could use some strong coffee. How about you?”

Nick remained silent. Laura studied him, and her face became hard and her voice street tough. “You waiting for me to say something, or what? You have questions you want to ask? Go ahead.”

Nick shook his head.

Laura jabbed her forefinger at him. “You fuckin’ well better not. You want to know—what’s with Laura and Richie? What’s with the key? What’s with the ring? What’s what? But you’re smart not to ask one single thing, Nick.” She turned and slammed a coffee mug on the counter, dumped a large teaspoon of instant into it, grabbed the glass kettle just as it began to whistle, and poured. She banged the glass so hard it was a wonder the kettle didn’t break.

“Why’re you so mad at me?”

Laura took one sip of the hot coffee. “Because I can read your mind. You picturing Richie and me? You going to lie awake tonight and try to figure it out?”

Nick shook his head. “No. I can’t see you with Richie.”

“And if I was with him—
ever
—it would have nothing to do with
you
or anyone else.” She studied his face; noticed him sucking in on his cheeks, biting on his lips. “And if I was with anyone, at all, at
any
time at all, it is
my
business. Nothing to do with you. Just the time we have together, Nick, got that?”

“No, I haven’t got that, Laura. Is that how you do it, live in segments?”

She looked up at him steadily. “Deal with it. What you see is what you get. No more, no less. Jesus, where are the cats?”

She ran from the kitchen, up the stairs, and flung open the door to her bedroom. Cats came rushing from the room, yelling, crying, furious at having been confined.

“That goddamn Richie. Okay, pals, it’s okay. I’m here now. You guys hungry, huh?”

She carried the gigantic white cat, a deaf oddity with seven toes on each of its front feet, past him. The cat stared yellow-eyed at Nick, then swiped at him.

“Angel, don’t do that. He’s not the man who locked you up.” She put the cat on a counter and searched for the can opener. In a calm, friendly voice, she asked, “You wanna help? I’ve got a lot of hungry critters on my hands.”

All the toughness was gone, the anger, the refusal to be put on the defensive. All that was over; done with; file and forget.

Nick shook his head. “I don’t think so, Laura.”

They stared, neither giving an inch. Laura shrugged. “You know the way out.”

Then she turned her attention to the cats. “Okay, babies, let’s see what you’ll have. Some tuna and chicken or that salmon stuff or …”

He closed the apartment door behind him silently, leaned on it for a moment. All the way down in the elevator, all the way back to Queens, for the life of him, Nick couldn’t figure what the hell was going on.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING NOTICEABLY
different about his grandfather. Their last few dinners had been tense, and interrupted by cryptic phone calls. Twice they were canceled at the last minute. While Nick was not specifically excluded from various conversations, neither was he included. He did catch his grandfather glancing in his direction as he pressed an arm, hugged a visitor. He seemed to be reassuring them: Nick was okay.

At one point, Papa Ventura said, “Nicholas, it is better that you do not know too much of what is going on. Actually, very few top people know. You notice your cousin isn’t included, even as often as you. We must keep information very tight.” He clenched his fist against his heart. “There is a job of work to be done. Soon.” He measured his grandson carefully, then nodded, apparently pleased by what he saw in the younger man’s face.

Nick spent hours trying to figure where the meeting of the various factions of the families would be held. He prepared a list of twenty possible locations: in private homes; in warehouses; in a large business office at some company’s headquarters on Queens Boulevard. It was physically impossible to wire all the potential locations. He felt certain of only one thing: it would be in Queens.

It would all begin with the RICO enforcement, and they would call it down upon themselves by meeting to discuss the arrival and distribution of nearly a billion dollars’ worth of China White.

Nick was convinced that no one—except his grandfather and probably one or two of his counterparts outside of New York, and the head of the China Triad, along with his top associates—actually knew the time and place of the forthcoming meeting.

It was raining as Nick finally left the office. He had parked half a block down from the real estate office, in front of an Italian bakery. As he unlocked the car door, a bulky figure, carrying a bakery box, darted toward him.

“Hey, Nick. Hey.”

It was Salvy Grosso, clutching a white cake box to his chest. “Can ya gimme a lift to the boulevard to the Independent, Nick? My car’s at the service station—I gotta subway home.”

He apologized for getting the car seat wet. Offered Nick a fresh-made cannoli. There was something quick and furtive about Salvy. He glanced over his shoulder, swiveled his head left to right. His voice was a little shaky.

“Hey, Nick, could ya do me a favor, huh?”

“Sure. You want the Continental Avenue station or want me to go down the boulevard, what?”

“Well, there’s a flower shop, ya know, right across from the cemetery over on Metropolitan Avenue. Could you take a run over there? I’ll buy the wife some flowers. It’s her birthday and I forgot.”

For some reason, Salvy asked Nick to park across the wide street on the cemetery side where it was dark. Instead of getting out of the car, he leaned back in his seat, took a deep breath.

“Hey, Nick, look. I gotta talk to ya. This is just you and me, okay?”

Nick regarded him coolly without answering.

“Jesus, Nick, this is so hard for me. Ya got no idea.”

“What?
What?”

“I don’t know how to say it, so I’ll just plain come out and say it, okay? Nick, you and me. We got something in common, ya know?”

Carefully, Nick said, “We sell real estate.”

Salvy shook his head, hard. He waved his hand in front of his face, covered his eyes for a moment, then spoke very quickly. “I’m in the same line you are, Nick. Ya know. Ya give information, I do too. For about eight years, Nick. See, they got me, the narcs, on a dealer rap. I couldn’t do no more time, Nick. I’m too old. Too tired. So I made a deal—I give ’em a few things. Here and there. Small stuff, you know.”

“No. I don’t know.”

Nick could feel the man’s desperation, smell the rancid odor of his wet clothing. And of his fear.

“Nicky, I’m in some trouble, ya know?”

Nick remained silent.

“Big trouble.”

“Tell your priest. Why ya tellin’ me?”

“C’mon, Nick. I know you’re workin’ for the feds. Nicky, I’m working for the local narcs. Eight years. I faced fifteen, Nicky. I never gave up nobody important. Just street stuff. But they been pushin’ me now with all this, ya know, activity goin’ on.”

“What activity is that?”

Salvy dropped his head, rubbed his face roughly. He looked up at Nick, his squinty eyes blinking rapidly for focus.

Nick wondered if this guy was so good an actor. He didn’t know Salvy well enough to guess the source of his fear. Salvy’s hands were shaking and he dropped the cake box and swallowed a huge sigh. He sounded like a drowning man.

“Nick, I can prove … wait, look.” He dug into his inside pocket, removed a large leather wallet. He pulled a folded news clipping and pointed to a picture, which Nick did not look at.