Operation Bamboozle (27 page)

“No.”

“Well, try this. Two people don't always fit. Marriage ain't like buyin' shoes, you can change the size, get extra-wide if you want. We should make a test run, Vito. Pull the trigger, make sure the gun fires.”

“No.”

“Why take a chance? Maybe I'm not your flavor. Find out. Only takes a few minutes.”

“No. Listen. I'll say this once. My old man gave me one good bit of advice. In our line of business, broads are worse than booze. Male virility depends on the man's spinal fluids. Well-known scientific fact. Limited supply. Every bang is a minus. After marriage, there's obligations. But before … nobody in my organization goes tomcatting. Least of all me. I set the standard. Cream rises to the top.”

“So does scum,” she said before she could stop herself.
Fuck it,
she thought.
I didn't come here to be preached at.

“You forget you said that,” Vito told her, smooth as silk underwear, “and I'll forget I heard it. They have New York cheesecake here. Want some?”

South Dakota was not Milt Gibson's idea of an exciting escape from California. The food was monotonous, you couldn't get the LA
Times,
there was nothing to do but count the crows on the telephone wires. He wanted to move on. Betty said no, she wanted to rest in the motel and watch TV for a spell. The programs were crap: soaps and college football. Also Betty wasn't as hot in the sack as he'd hoped.

So he was trapped in the boondocks. He didn't know how to ride the Harley and Betty wouldn't teach him, she said she liked riding it, he could relax, enjoy the view. He'd seen the goddamn view a thousand times. He didn't need to see it again.

Also he was beginning to regret his wild, spontaneous decision to abandon Classic Cars. Quit LA, yes. Throw away his business, that was crazy. He left Betty sleeping, got a handful of quarters and worked the pay phone in the motel lobby. Got through to a guy in LA. “Milt Gibson,” he said. “Remember me? A while back, we talked about you buying my Classic Cars. Okay, make me an offer, it's yours.” The guy offered half what it was worth. “It's a deal,” Milt said. “But you got to bring the money here. Bring the paperwork, I'll sign everything over, cash on the barrel. I'm at …” He turned to the motel clerk. “What's this town?”

“Broken Arrow. Nearest airport is Sioux Falls.”

Tomorrow, the guy said. He was very friendly. Fly to South Dakota to make a killing? Why not? He hung up. Then he thought about it. The whole thing stunk. Milt Gibson was a schmuck. His cars were okay, most of them, but after he shook your hand, you counted your fingers. Now he's in big trouble. Maybe he already sold Classic Cars. Maybe he already sold it twice. The guy thought:
Do I really want to fly to South Dakota with a sackful of dollars?

Agent Moody's card was tucked into his blotter. Moody had paid a visit, this being a number that Gibson had called shortly before he went missing. Anything you can think of that might help, Moody had said, get in touch. Now the guy called Moody and Moody called the Bureau office in Sioux Falls.

By sheer bad luck, a bunch of Hell's Angels chanced upon Broken Arrow that day. Betty went to see what the noise was. She collected Milt and they all roared off to an old abandoned barn to get drunk. At the same time, Sioux Falls called the sheriffs office, and a deputy went to the motel. They had the license-plate details of the Harley on record. That was enough to bring in the FBI.

Gibson was the only person in the barn who was relatively sober when the bullhorns began ordering everyone to come out, and so on. The motorcycle crowd thought it was all a joke. Gibson told them otherwise, he said he knew, he said he'd worked with the FBI and those men outside were serious. Big mistake. Nobody likes a snitch. Somebody pulled a gun and shot him dead.

That kind of violence was not typical of Hell's Angels. Their beards and their bikes offended many people, but they were not stupid. They had watched
The FBI in Peace and War
on TV, they knew the Feds always won. They came out with their hands up. The shooter, too drunk to know what he'd done, got cuffed behind his back. He kept stumbling and falling. “Guy was too loud,” he said. “I don't like noise. Who was he, anyway?”

A report quickly reached Agent Moody. He looked in Gibson's file for next-of-kin details, called Gibson's ex, gave her the sad news. “Uh-huh,” she said. He asked if she wanted the body shipped someplace. “Hell would be nice,” she said, and hung up. He closed the file. Some people are born losers. Milt Gibson took longer than most, that was all.

Bach took this simple little melody to the piano and played it forward. Then he complicated it a bit, played it sideways, played it upside-down, played it backward, turned it inside-out, dropped it off a cliff and jumped on it with both boots. Johann Sebastian Bach. One of the cleverest guys that ever sharpened a quill pen, but he never knew when to stop. Jerome Fantoni grabbed the record while it was still spinning and flung it against the wall.

Damn thing didn't break. It was one of these new longplaying records, typical of all modern improvements, they took the pleasure out of life and called it progress. He picked up the record and failed to rip it in half. He dropped it and stamped on it until it cracked. “Variation in a minor key,” he said, but he didn't feel that he had won. Rain spattered on the windows.

He put on a tweed cap and a Burberry and went out. One of his horses trotted over to him and won a lump of sugar. Fantoni climbed on the fence and scrambled onto the horse's bare back. Already he was very wet and the horse was wet and slippery, so he cantered gently around the field. They did lap after lap, until he couldn't see clearly for rain in his eyes and the horse was losing interest. He let it walk, or not walk, as it wished, while he sat and let the rain run down his neck and soak his shirt. It was like doing a stupid act of penance instead of going to St. Nicholas of Tolentino and making an Act of Contrition, which he wasn't about to do. The regular priest was still in Rome. Maybe he wouldn't come back. Maybe Father Fletcher would always be in charge. Confessing to Fletcher was unthinkable.

Fantoni licked the rain off his lips and thought about that. Couple of weeks back he'd sent for a guy and told him to break Fletcher's legs, and the guy went away and next day a different guy, much older, a pillar of the organization, came to see him and said they couldn't do it. “One, he's a priest and you're of the same faith, so that's a cardinal sin. Frankly, I'm surprised you asked.”

“So break one leg.”

“Two, he's a decorated war hero. Got the Navy Cross for flying torpedo bombers in the Pacific. Did you not know that?”

“Break a few fingers.” But Fantoni knew he had lost.

“If you want, we could maybe burn down some of the church. That would send a message.”

“My family paid to build half of St. Nicholas.”

Fantoni nudged the horse back toward the house. Life was no fun anymore. He was getting old. Nobody showed him any respect, whether it was bloody Bach or the untouchable goddamn Fletcher. He went indoors, shedding clothes, and stood under a hot shower. He could feel the thud of his pulse, every heartbeat a step toward death. He couldn't chew a steak, he dreaded going to bed. In his dreams he was toothless, shouting obscenities that woke him in the black, hopeless pit of the night. It was time to fight back, time to make others suffer. “California,” he said aloud. “I'm going to California.”

The mind has a mind of its own. You tell it to stop working, you explain that the job's been canceled so don't waste your energy; but by now the mind has got interested, the flywheel keeps spinning.

Julie wasn't looking for it but a small picture of a small church jumped out of the pages of the LA
Times.
A trim, neat little place with a cleancut white spire. Fir trees behind. Looked more like Vermont than California.

She read the news item. Congregation of St. Mark's Presbyterian in San Bernardino had outgrown this church and left it for a building twice the size. A local realtor was handling the property.

“Perfect for Vito and Stevie,” Luis said. “You and me too. Make it a double wedding.”

“I'd sooner scrub floors in a flophouse. Anyway, it's probably deconsecrated.”

“So what? A judge can tie the knot. DiLazzari owns plenty of judges.”

“San Bernardino. That's not even in LA County. Got to be fifty miles from here.”

“The bride and groom will be helicoptered in,” Luis decided. “A transport of delight. Very romantic.”

“Uh-huh. And no bum notes from the organ, or the judge gets it.”

Luis phoned the real estate agent. “My brother is a property surveyor,” he said. “If he looks at this church, what will he find wrong with it? I should tell you I'm recording this conversation.”

“Dry rot,” the agent said. “A lot of dry rot.”

“And?”

“Some termites.”

“Now we know why the congregation moved out. I'll buy a six-months option for $500.”

“Sounds good to me.” They discussed details. Luis hung up.

“Tread softly as you walk down the aisle,” he said. “The termites are underneath, sleeping off their lunch.”

“Termites,” she said. “Five hundred bucks for termites.”

“Perfect tenants. Clean, quiet, no pets.”

Julie called Uncle and told him they had a church. He said come on over. They found Vito in a dark suit, white shirt, sober tie. “Ten minutes,” he told them. “I'm on the board of Concerned Citizens Inc. We gotta do something about our banks in this town.”

“Too many stick-ups,” Uncle said.

“Too many Freeways,” Vito said. “A guy hits a bank, five minutes later he's five miles away. It's a disease.”

“And bad for business,” Uncle said. “Vito's father used to say: What's good for society is good for the Mob. You found us a church.”

Julie showed them the photograph from the
Times.
“Cute,” Vito said. “What else you got?” “Nothing you'd be seen dead in.” Vito checked his watch. He checked Uncle, who shrugged: a church is a church. “How much?” Vito asked.

“Ten grand,” Luis said. “But to you … well, I'd accept an iced coffee.” Vito looked at him sideways. “It's a gift,” Luis explained. “Call it an early wedding present, from Julie and me.” He found an invisible speck to brush off his sleeve.

“Ten grand,” Vito said. He stood absolutely still.

“You know how it is. This loose change was lying around, nobody seemed to want it, I said to Julie, why don't we give old Vito the church? Charge it up to, I don't know, office supplies, paperclips, nobody will notice … Look, we mustn't hold you up. The Concerned Citizens will be getting …”

“More concerned,” Julie said.

Vito picked up his hat. “I don't know why I take this thing. Never wear it. Just something to carry. Listen: Stephanie and me, we thank you for your gift.” He hurried out. They heard the front door slam.

“Nobody ever gave him anything worth ten grand,” Uncle said. “Not without he broke their arm first. It's a surprise. He ain't accustomed.”

“I find that giving is curiously satisfying,” Luis said. “And besides, what else is there to do with surplus money?” Uncle had no opinion on that.

“Any chance of that iced coffee?” Julie asked.

Mrs. DiLazzari's hearing had got worse. “This is where Vito was conceived,” she shouted. “In this very bed.”

It was a four poster. The uprights were mahogany, black with age, very sturdy. The canopy had fed generations of moth; it hung in tatters, like an ancient battle flag. Stevie gave the bed a poke and raised dust. The mattress was pre-Carboniferous period. Possibly Triassic. “Must have been fun,” she said.

“A wedding gift from my grandparents,” Mrs. DiLazzari bawled. “It has great sentimental value. We hoped for a brother or sister for little Vito, but the effort of a second conception proved too great for Mr. DiLazzari. He passed away right here. Men are frail.”

“Don't I know it.”

“I give it to you both. Vito is a delicate child. Don't let your passions overcome you. His father's spirit hovers above us, a warning against excess.”

“And I thought it was a police helicopter,” Stevie said. “Silly me.”