Permanent Interests (35 page)

"SHOOTING IN QUEENS - Italian-Russian Mob Tensions Lead to Violence."

Al picked up the
Times
and read aloud. "'Police investigating the incident report that the two dead men were members of the Russian mafia, whose influence has been growing in several North American cities, including Chicago, Toronto, Los Angeles and San Francisco. The failed attempt on Mr. Malandrino's life signals imminent hostilities between the two crime organizations, according to organized crime experts. Mr. Malandrino was tried and acquitted last year on a variety of charges involving…'

What is this bullshit? Here I draw hundreds to hear what I got to say and they don't write squat. But throw out the same old lies about me? Absolutely. That's what the press is good at. Recirculating old lies."

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"Uncle Al, word on the street is those two guys were Russians all right. But it's not clear whether they were Mogilevich's or Yakov's." Ricky leaned against a picture window overlooking the colorless industrial-officescape of northern New Jersey. He poked at his teeth with a toothpick. "And they're pissed at Quick Draw McGraw here. Lot of folks making contracts on our boy Chuckie.

You can be sure of that."

Al stared at Wentworth. In a concerned voice, he asked,

"Chuckie, how do you feel about that?"

Wentworth shrugged. "No love lost between me and Russians. Been fighting them for years in one capacity or another." He thought of his security and counterespionage work with the government and now his sheer hatred of Lydia's oppressor, Yakov. He wanted revenge. He wanted Yakov destroyed.

"It's Yakov," he said.

Al and Ricky both leaned forward. "How do you know it's Yakov?" Al asked.

"My sources. He also has government big shots in his pocket."

"Like

who?"

"The Secretary of State for one. Dennison."

Al and Ricky looked at each other. It all fit together now. Dennison had cut them off after Yakov had gotten to him.

"Horvath. Nicholas Horvath. The President National Security Adviser who went berserk a couple of weeks ago and shot all those people from inside the White House."

"You mean Yakov got him to do it?" Ricky asked.

"No. But Yakov does kill officials, Russian and American alike. I have reason to believe he put contracts out on the American ambassadors in Rome and Bangkok PERMANENT INTERESTS

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and at least a couple of Russian intel officers too. Senior officers."

"Chuckie T. Wentworth. I place you in Al-Mac Construction to put an end to goldbricking and petty theft and now you're my own personal CIA. I underestimated you."

"It's what I'm good at. It just takes time. Intel collection is part of a security officer's duties. Know what your enemies are up to before they can act on it. That's the name of the game."

"What do you know about my business? About me?"

"I know that you've had some scrapes with the law.

Serious scrapes. That the government watches you closely.

And that now the Russian mob is out to liquidate you. And it's my job to stop them from doing so."

"Like I said, Uncle Al. The kid's initiated. He's already made. Nothing to do now but to make it formal."

Al sat back, loosened his tie and contemplated Wentworth, assessing him, sizing him up. It foreshadowed an important decision that Al was about to make.

"Kid. You saved my life back there. I owe you my life."

"Just doing my job, sir."

"No. It's more than 'just a job.' You could've been killed. Easy. You waxed those two goons. Now everybody's got your number. 'Hit man,' they'll call you in the papers. A 'soldier' in the 'Malandrino Crime Family' --

whatever that is. The Feds will be sniffing around you.

Your friends won't want to know you. Your family won't know what to think. Your life will never be the same. You realize that?"

Wentworth pondered this. He glanced down at the newspapers bearing his face next to Al's on the front page.

He looked back up to Al. "Guess you're right."

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"You're part of my family now, Chuckie Wentworth.

For good or for bad, you're in. It's forged in blood. I'll protect you, guide you, reward you. You need anything.

Anything. You just ask. In return, I want your absolute loyalty. You understand?"

Ricky, still leaning against the plate glass window, added, "Kid, this is a lifetime membership. You don't resign. Ever."

Wentworth's head swirled. Images emerged and blended together. Of an idyllic childhood on the farm, sunny days at school, warm family holiday get-togethers, running on the high school track team, dating sweet southern girls, graduation, the Marines, adventures, hopes, dreams. Where would his life now lead to? Lydia, FBI, mobsters. So unpredictable, and perilous.

He bent forward, with his elbows perched on his knees and hands clasped. He looked up at Ricky, then to Al, and nodded, but said nothing.

Al got up and gestured Wentworth to rise. He took the younger man in his arms and embraced him on the left, then the right. Ricky followed suit.
Benvenuto alla nostra
famiglia, fratello
, Al said.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The

S.S.

Garrison McGee
had seen better days. In fact, it was now in the final years of useful service. Riven by rust, patched here and there and everywhere by spot welding and barely able to reach nine knots with its ancient, soot-spewing engine, the hulking WWII-era vessel plied from one lesser port to another, its creaking holds crammed at any given time with plywood from Peru, construction steel from Brazil, cocoa from Ghana, hardwoods from Indonesia. As a spanking new British merchantman in 1939 crewed largely with salts from Scotland and Wales, the ship bore the name HMS Harlech.

Now of Liberian registry, its latest changeable skipper was an aging Dane, Viktor Sigurdsen, with a drinking problem; its crew was Nigerian, Greek and Tongan, with a sprinkling of South Americans. The cargo was textiles from Thailand.

The port was Galveston, only three nautical miles due north. The ship would anchor for the night and await assignment of a berth the next morning.

For the pair of special ops veterans of the Soviet blue water fleet, it was an easy target. Four strategically placed cemtex charges at the water line was all that it would take to send the old freighter to the bottom with its clandestine 314 JAMES

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cargo of three tons of potent Thai marijuana. It would also send a clear message to Al Malandrino who would stand to lose a bundle on the deal, not to mention his credibility with the distributors who bought the stuff from him at hefty premiums. Yakov would see to it by this action.

The first explosion, more a muffled thud than a big bang, had no effect on the aquavit-sodden captain, who snored steadily in his quarters. Several of the Tongans, island fishermen who were constantly alert to nature's unpredictable actions, however, awoke in their bunks with their ears perked. The second and third detonations sent a shock wave jolting throughout the creaky structure of the ship. It awoke even the nonchalant Greeks. Rust-ridden steel beams snapped apart. Supplies toppled onto the decks. Fire extinguishers bolted from their metal harnesses and clanged down iron stairwells. The fourth charge sent a tremendous shiver through midship, causing it to give a deep and painful groan, as that of a fatally injured giant sea-beast. It seemed that the aged thing even welcomed this
coup de grace
, a quick, lethal blow to put it to rest finally. Crew members went flying through the air. The craft listed steeply to starboard, then aft, as the screw snapped apart. Sea water gushed into it from the four explosion points, then spread rapidly as strained steel plates came loose and cracked under the pressure.

Captain Sigurdsen lay prostrate in his cabin, having lost his balance twice in an alcoholic stupor. He shouted orders vainly from where he lay. Tongans, Greeks, Venezuelans, Africans ran to save their individual lives, some colliding into each other, others fighting over the few life boats that would release themselves from rusted moorings. Quickly the S.S.
Garrison McGee
sank, plunging eagerly into a deep, lightless ocean grave. And entombed with many of the crew within was several million dollars worth of a PERMANENT INTERESTS

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narcotic weed, the playstuff of a self-centered society that worshipped individual self-gratification.

Flora Dominguez was barely aware of her husband's stealthful sidling into bed. He reeked of liquor and cigarette smoke. She was fed up with Rick's nocturnal bar-hopping and carousing with other women. Maybe she would raise hell in the morning. But probably not. She'd threatened to seek a divorce before, but thus far had not acted on it. Her priest counseled her to try to bring her husband around through gentleness and patience -- "Jesus's weapons," he called them. Surely, the passage of time would reform Rick. But at this moment, in the twilight between consciousness and sleep, Flora had the distant urge to murder her wayward man. Just end it.

But there were the kids. And the surge in cash income in the Dominguez household over the past nine months made life much more comfortable for all. A new Cadillac Escalade, a boat, nice clothes, private schooling and, soon, a new house in the Galveston suburbs dampened thoughts of a divorce, at least for the time being. She was curious as to how a senior customs inspector could afford such luxuries on a GS-14's salary, but was afraid to ask. The good life sometimes had a way of dampening one's curiosity.

But the good life had just come to an end. Two ex-Spetznaz troopers, veterans of the Afghan war, saw to that.

They moved through the largely working class, Hispanic neighborhood, slithered effortlessly into the Dominguez home through the basement entrance, quietly shut the door to the children's bedroom, silently entered the master bedroom where Rick Dominguez lay in his underwear 316 JAMES

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snoring away, and expertly severed his jugulars and vocal cords while keeping his mouth shut in a hand lock-grip.

One of many lethal skills learned from the Afghans. They vanished like spirits in the night.

The wetness of her husband's blood didn't jolt Flora out of her slumber until the whole bed was soaked. She felt clammy dampness in the sheets, moved on her other side, then began to sense that she was lying in a growing pool of sticky liquid. She opened her eyes, but looked straight ahead, afraid finally to awake fully and discover what she would discover. Her arm was immersed in blood. She turned abruptly toward Rick. His head was bent sharply back. The gaping eyes and mouth reflected the last fleeting awareness of his life -- that of terror. A crescent-like gash just under his mandible spanned from ear to ear.

Flora bolted upright and released a single loud scream, then leapt from the bed. She covered her eyes, smearing them with blood. Hysteria began to grip her, panic would drive her to lose her mind, lose control.
Stop, Flora!

Think, Flora!
The thought then struck her that it was over.

No more Rick. No more cheating. No more beatings.

Rick's shady dealings ultimately led to this. She thanked God that the killers spared her and prayed to Him that the government and life insurance would reward her and the kids with a lifelong income.

She flung herself out of the room and grasped the banister to get hold of herself.
The kids! The kids!!
With a burst of adrenaline into her heart, Flora threw herself down the hallway to the children's bedroom. Ricky, Jr. and Marta Luisa were sound asleep. Flora carefully shut the door.

She lifted the phone receiver with trembling hands and called the police. "Get here quick, my husband's been murdered," she breathed calmly and hung up after giving her street address. Flora looked at herself in the hallway PERMANENT INTERESTS

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mirror. Intent on keeping her dignity, with deliberation, she pushed back her blood-caked, jet-black hair, took another deep breath and slowly walked to the bathroom.

Flora climbed into the shower.

Yakov's humiliation of Malandrino on this dead deal was complete. One shipment of grass sunk and one port of entry scratched.

From his headquarters at Al-Mac Construction, Al followed the latest developments like a general receiving situation reports from the front lines. And the news was not good. Yakov had taken over corrupt officials and labor leaders at the ports of New York and Bayonne, and cargo operations at JFK. Through better collaborative deals or strong-arm tactics, he took away longstanding partnerships and understandings that Al had had with other mobsters around the country. Malandrino-controlled warehouses and safehouses were blown to bits by ex-
Spetznaz
operatives, now Yakov's shock troops. Tough Russian hoodlums with little English were pushing Genovese and Malandrino wiseguys out of Javits Center operations and threatening to burn alive any Fulton Fish Market concessionaires who didn't pay protection money to them. In Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island and Newark, Slavic pitbulls hurled Malandrino-owned jukeboxes and other novelty machines out saloon and restaurant doors. The deal was easy: do business with Yakov, or risk having loved ones slaughtered or homes firebombed. The press was having a field day.

The authorities were perplexed and paralyzed, having devoted few resources to penetrating the clannish community of new Russian immigrants or the associated murky world of Russian organized crime.

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Al paced back and forth in his office, barking orders to this capo or that teniente. After the police interrogation following Wentworth's shooting the Russians, Al's paranoia of being surveilled by the FBI returned.

"Get Chuckie in here, goddammit!" he yelled at Bags.

He reverted to an old habit when his anxiety level reached crisis proportions. He devoured cannolli, washing them down with potent
digestivi
.