Sons and Princes (16 page)

8.

Despite its great success, Junior Boy DiGiglio was not content as his family entered the new millennium. He was sixty-six years old, and he had no heir. And there was no one in sight that fit the necessarily giant-sized bill. Frank’s son had shown promise. Cautious, reserved, disciplined, and with an inner toughness like his dad, he had gone to college in California, where he met and married, had a child with Down Syndrome, and decided not to return East. Aldo’s two sons, now in their early forties, were undisciplined, arrogant hotheads. Corrupted early by money and power, their antics were an embarrassment to the don – drunk and partying, they had recently crashed a boat into the dock at a marina at the shore – and a constant source of friction between him and his brother. Aldo had been the same way as a boy, but their father’s steady, quiet anger had eventually scared him into manhood. Junior Boy did not expect the same thing to happen to his two nephews.

Without the right leader, the family would fall apart, succumb to the pressures of the American popular culture. Personal ambition and greed would prevail over loyalty and honor. The family would descend to the level of the Sopranos on television, where made men had sex in front of one another with strippers in the back rooms of bars, and where young women were beaten to death with golf clubs in parking lots for no reason. The fear of a such a future for the DiGiglios kept Junior Boy up many long nights in the winter and early spring of 2003.

With the botched double murder in Alpine, the don’s brooding over succession to power quickly took a back seat to much more urgent concerns. The don had yet to speak to Labrutto face to face. First Rocco and then Aldo had met with him and extracted his story: Scarpa was forced by Mickey at gun point to drive to the cliff, with the nowdead Woody Smith following. Rodriguez was supposed to jump out, which would be Smith’s cue to ram the car over the edge. At the lookout, Scarpa went wild inside the car. Mickey had to shoot him in order to get free. Chris Massi had shown up unexpectedly with Scarpa. He disappeared soon after Scarpa and the girl went out. Labrutto did not know where or why.

On the Sunday following the murders, Junior Boy sat at his massive desk in his study and went over this story one more time in his mind, deciding again that it was half truth and half lie, that it was a virtual certainty that Labrutto had betrayed him somehow. He would not lie to Aldo, and thus to the don, to cover up a venial sin. The true story would be revealed soon enough. Matt’s birthday party was getting underway. Labrutto was there. Aldo had been instructed to bring him into the study at three o’clock. The surveillance van that had been appearing at irregular intervals at the curb near the entrance to the house’s long driveway had arrived at noon. But Labrutto was a relative, and the party was good cover, and the house had been swept for listening devices early that morning. It was now two forty-five. The knock on the door was premature, but it was time to get to the bottom of this situation. He would learn the truth, if not today then very soon, and the process of protecting himself and the family would begin. If Labrutto had to go, so be it. Aldo would have to accept it, and his wife would never know the truth. The income Labrutto brought in would be missed, but the man would certainly not be. The world would be a better place without Labrutto and his misfit sidekick.

But it wasn’t Guy Labrutto who Aldo led into the room. It was Joseph Massi, Chris’ younger brother, Joe Black Massi’s junkie son.

Aldo directed Joseph, beautifully dressed, his face pale, but otherwise handsome and immaculately groomed, to a leather chair facing the don. He placed a small cassette recorder, a remote mike with duct tape on it, and a DVD on the desk in front of Junior Boy. Then he went to stand behind Joseph. The French doors behind Junior Boy’s desk gave onto a stone terrace littered with dozens of potted plants and flowers basking in the spring sunlight. Junior Boy rose and swung the doors shut. While the doors were open, a gentle breeze, along with noise from the party on the wide, flagstoned patios and lawns below, had drifted in to the don as he sat alone at his desk. Now the room was quiet and still. The don returned to his seat, and looked at Joseph and then at Aldo.

“He asked to see you,” Aldo said. “I said sure and had Nicky search him.”

Junior Boy stared down at the three items on his ornate, marquetry-embossed blotter, then back up at Joseph.

“Ed Dolan,” Joseph said. “You know who I’m talking about?”

“Yes,” Anthony replied. “I know who he is. What about him?”

“I think he killed my father, and now he wants to kill Chris, or put him in jail forever. I made a deal with him. I would talk to you with a wire on if he’d leave Chris alone. There’s backup outside. Now that the wire’s been cut, they’ll be in here any second. I did this for Chris, Junior Boy.”

DiGiglio stared calmly at Joe Black Massi’s second son, understanding, after hearing this incredible but obviously true statement, why the young man sitting across from him was so pale and on edge.

“The gray van left about a half hour ago,” Aldo said, “and the grounds have been swept all day, including the woods.”

“Talk to me about what?” Junior Boy asked.

“The murder of Nick Scarpa and Allison McRae.”

“To implicate me?”

The don did not receive an answer. Young Joseph was a blood relative to his grandchildren, and had been to a dozen family parties. He had never been searched, and, apparently, did not know about Junior Boy’s policy of searching everyone who asked for a private meeting. “Tell me what Dolan said. About me,” Junior Boy said.

“He thinks you ordered the killings because Nick and Allison found out about the film. The one on your desk. ‘Candy Meets Ron.’ It’s a snuff film.”

“What’s a snuff film?”

“A girl gets killed while having sex.”

“A girl gets killed while having sex?”

“Yes, shot in the head. It’s a thing some guys get off on.”

Anthony shook his head. This was the kind of thing he had been brooding about all winter, America’s insane appetite for sex and violence. What better way to combine the two than in a film such as Joseph Massi had described? He was angry now, although he didn’t show it.

“What does it have to do with me?”

“Guy Labrutto made it. His albino friend stars in it. Dolan knows that you and Labrutto are in the porn video business together. He thinks this is one of your products. Chris took it from Labrutto’s house on Monday, while the murders were taking place.”

“How did Dolan get it?”

“I gave it to him.”

“To set me up?”

“To save Chris. I didn’t think you’d let Labrutto make a film like this. I assumed you’d be shocked and angry when I told you about it, that Dolan would come up empty.”

“Does Chris know you’re doing this?”

“No.”

“Where is he now?”

“Junior Boy. They know I’m here. You have to let me go.”

“We’ve been looking for him.”

“Leave him alone. He doesn’t know anything. This was all my doing.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

Joseph shook his head, slowly, and looked at his watch.

“No,” he said, “I was trying to save Chris’ life. It looks like Ed Dolan set me up. He wants you, too, Junior Boy. It’s not just cops and robbers with him. He’s possessed.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Junior Boy said, nodding, and then, looking up at Aldo, he said: “Make it neat and quick, and far away.”

“You want him to talk some more?”

“No.”

“Tell us where his brother is?”

“No. Go.”

“Let’s go,” Aldo said, tapping Joseph on the shoulder and then, when he was on his feet, guiding him to the far rear corner of the room and down the stairway that led to the garage directly below them.

Far away was DiGiglio family shorthand for a hit in which the body was never found. In special cases, such as those involving the family’s renegade drug dealers in the sixties, the body needed to be found, for the message that it sent. Otherwise, a body and its location were evidence, and there was no need to hand the police their first clues in a murder investigation.

Junior Boy was not without sympathy for Joseph Massi. He had made a play for his brother’s life and would pay for it with his own. He had not fallen apart or begged. It was for those reasons that he ordered Aldo not to torture him to extract information regarding Chris’ whereabouts. His death would be as painless and honorable as possible under the circumstances.

Chris and Joe Black were also on the don’s mind when he gave those orders to Aldo. But he did not dwell on the Massi family very long. There was other business to attend to, like watching “Candy Meets Ron,” which he did on the DVD player Teresa had given him last year, along with twenty-five or thirty of his favorite movies, as a Christmas present. When he was finished, he called Nicky Spags on his cell phone and asked him to bring Labrutto in.

“I just watched this,” Junior Boy said when Labrutto was seated in front of him, holding up the DVD in its clear plastic case. “’Candy Meets Ron.’”

“Thank God it turned up,” Labrutto replied. “You have to destroy it.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you make it?”

“No. Mickey did, before he came to work for me. I told him to get rid of it. He said he would, but I know now he never did. How did you get it?”

Junior Boy stroked his chin with his thumb and forefinger and stared at Labrutto for a long moment before answering, keeping all emotion out of his eyes.

“Mickey’s your albino friend?” he said, finally.

“Yes.”

“Did you confront him?”

“Yes. He said it was a leftover copy.”

“He wasn’t trying to sell it?”

“He says no.”

“Are there other copies?”

“No.”

“Other films?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you tell Aldo at first that Chris Massi was at your house on Monday?”

“I didn’t know he would show up with Scarpa. He disappeared right after Nick and the girl went out. When I realized he took the film, I panicked. I thought he might bring it to the police. I tried to track him down to get the film back, but when I couldn’t find him, I decided to tell Aldo. That’s it, that’s the truth. I panicked.”

Labrutto seemed pleased with himself at the telling of this lie.

“And the thing on the cliff?” Junior Boy asked. “What happened?”

“Scarpa went nuts. It was botched. I’m sorry, Junior Boy.”

“You know you need my permission to do a hit?”

“Yes, of course, but they were stealing. I thought you’d approve.”

“If it looked like an accident, I’d never find out.”

“Yes, that was the idea. I wanted to solve it easily and quickly, with no headaches for you or anybody else.”

He was gaining confidence, this Labruttto. More pleased with himself by the minute.

“Did Massi say why he came along with Scarpa?”

“No, maybe they’re old friends. I don’t know.”

“So you were stuck with him?”

“Right. I couldn’t let him go out with Nick and the girl. I offered him a drink.”

“Well, there’s no harm done,” Junior Boy said. “But I’m sending someone to live with you. You teach him the pornography business, he’ll teach you the ways of the family. You bring in a lot of money for us, and I want it to stay that way. I can’t have any more fiascoes like this one.”

“You mean live with me at my house?”

“Yes. I’m told it’s a big house.”

“Fine. Good. Who will you be sending?”

“I’m not sure yet. Probably Rocco.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“I see.”

Labrutto, the don knew, did
not
see. He was confused, no longer quite so pleased with himself, which is how Junior Boy wanted him to be. Was Rocco Stabile a blessing or a curse? Would he – Labrutto – soon be made a member of the family, or dead? Did the don believe him or not? He had no choice but to go along, to let Stabile, potentially his killer, into his home. To protest would be a sure sign of guilt, and, worse, to reject a gift offered by Junior Boy: the possibility of being asked to join the DiGiglio family, of becoming a made man.

“Who knows,” Junior Boy said, watching Labrutto as he sat in obvious dismay, “maybe, we can come up with something for you to do for the family, something you can make your bones on. Let me think about it.”

“Thank you, Junior Boy.”

“One last thing,” the don said, holding the DVD out toward Labrutto.

“Yes?”

“How do you break these things?”

“You want it destroyed?”

“Yes.”

Labrutto took the DVD from the don’s extended hand, removed it from its case, and, using his two hands, snapped it into several pieces. As he did this, Junior Boy watched, taking note of Labrutto’s stubby, hairy hands. When he finished, the don smiled for the first time, but it was not a warm smile, not a smile meant to encourage confidence or a sense of security. Far from it.

9.

The next day, a week to the day from the murder of Nick and Allison, Chris went out early to buy coffee and a bagel at a bakery on Elizabeth Street around the corner from La Luna. He had gone out twice in the past few days, both times to see how Michele and John Farrell were doing, which was both good and bad. Though her physical injuries were beginning to heal, Michele, terrified by the memory of Mickey Rodriguez breaking her door down and repeatedly pounding her face and head with his fists, craved her heroin more than ever. This was not the time for a forced withdrawal, especially without the help of methadone, which Farrell could not get without a prescription.

When her small stash of dope ran out, Farrell went on the street and bought more, cooking and injecting it himself, trying to spread out the time between fixes as much as possible. He would wean her gradually, he said, but in a week or two, she would be strong enough to go out on her own, and how could he then prevent her from selling her body to get high? In addition, though there was a good deal of leeway in his
emeritus
status, he could not stay away from LaSalle indefinitely. On reflection, Chris realized, the scenario on Suffolk Street was mostly bad. Michele would soon be among the walking dead, and Farrell could be arrested for what he was doing, and, worse, tossed out of the Christian Brothers in disgrace after fifty years in the order.

On Friday night, Chris had had dinner with Joseph, Vinnie Rosamelia and Lou Falco in Lou’s apartment. Although Joseph had a high tolerance for heroin, and could function almost normally under its influence, Chris could tell that he had started using again. He could spot the signs, where others might not, especially in his brother, who was fastidious about his appearance: the long sleeved shirt, the tiny pupils, the lack of interest in food, the slower speech patterns. In the past, Chris would immediately raise the issue, get in Joseph’s face about it, but on Friday, he didn’t. Even when they were alone at the end of the night saying goodbye, he let it go.

There was something else in Joseph’s eyes besides the glaze of heroin, and something in his voice, as well. Chris had not been able to put his finger on it. Fear, bitterness, resignation? Something new and unusual was lurking beneath his brother’s customary casual hipness. Chris, losing patience, and getting claustrophobic holed up in La Luna’s back room, had announced his intention to leave Lou’s the next day, Saturday, to find a more comfortable place to live, but Joseph had prevailed upon him to stay at least over the weekend.

Chris had not spoken to Joseph since, and, returning from the bakery, sipping his coffee in what passes for dawn’s early light in New York, he made up his mind to immediately check into a decent hotel and call his brother. His share of the proceeds from the sale of his parents’ house had arrived in his bank account, and so money was, for once, not an issue. He did not doubt the seriousness of the trouble he was in. He continued to assume that someone in the DiGiglio-Labrutto-Barsonetti triangle wanted him dead. He would be foolish to act on any other premise. But a week of inactivity was enough. It was time to be proactive; precisely how, he did not know, but he would figure that out once he was settled someplace with some air and light, where the thinking would be easier, less oppressive.

He assumed that the Barsonetti proposal was now moot, and his reaction to this thought was one of disappointment. He looked back with something like nostalgia to the day – just a week ago – when the only problem on his plate was whether or not to become a hitman for the Mafia.

These were Chris’ thoughts as he reached the corner of Elizabeth and Hester streets, where he stopped to take another sip of coffee. When he finished, bringing the Styrofoam container slowly away from his lips, his attention was drawn to a petite blonde woman confronting Lou Falco in front of La Luna. It was Marsha Davis, and she was shouting at Lou, who was trying to quiet her, holding his arms out in the classic “there’s nothing I can do” configuration. Marsha, hugging a large tan envelope to her chest, tried to step around Lou, who blocked her way, the two of them moving in dance-like tandem for a few seconds, stopping abruptly when Chris approached.

“Chris,” Marsha said, “tell this man who I am.”

“What are you doing out?” Lou said to Chris.

“I go out every morning for coffee,” Chris replied. “This is Marsha Davis, Joseph’s girlfriend.”

“We have to talk, Chris, please,” Marsha said.

“Let’s go inside,” Lou said, dragging them both into the restaurant.

Lou locked the door behind them and then guided them to a table in the back corner, flicking on the lights – in wall sconces at intervals around the rectangular room – along the way. The round table was set with a service for four over a white tablecloth. Chris sat in the corner, with Marsha opposite him and Lou to his right.

“What is it, Marsha?” Chris said. “You don’t look good.”

“When Joseph left yesterday morning, he gave me this envelope. He said if he hadn’t returned by ten p.m. to give it to you.” She handed Chris the envelope. “I was up all night. When he didn’t come home, I took a cab down here.”

Chris slit open the envelope with a butter knife and extracted its contents: a letter to him in Joseph’s handwriting, three copies of “Candy Meets Ron” and three mini-cassette tapes in opaque plastic cases. Clipped to the letter was a check for a hundred thousand dollars and change payable to Joseph from the lawyer in Jersey who handled the sale of Rose and Joe Black’s house. It was endorsed on the back by Joseph to the order of Christopher Massi.

Dear Chris
, the letter said,

If you are reading this, then I am dead. Don’t waste your time trying to find me, thinking that I am alive. I’m not. Listen to the enclosed tape and you will understand what happened. I have been thinking lately about my life, and I finally realized the only person who ever really loved me was you. Mom hated pop and used me as a weapon. Pop had no room for a weakling son in his heart. You were a great athlete, then a big lawyer. You could have dismissed me from your life, but you never did.

I also realized that I was a junkie, which must sound funny since I’ve been a junkie for fifteen years, but not until this week did it hit me that I really am one, that I’ll always have to inject heroin into my veins. I returned your love all these years by sticking a needle into my arm. I tried to make up for it by helping you in this situation you’re in, but I failed. I have to give you some advice: Ed Dolan will not fight you clean, so don’t fight him clean. Don’t rely on the courts or the law. You are in a different kind of battle with him. I remember when you beat him up after pop killed his old man. You came home with your hands all bruised and bloody, and you were heartsick at what happened. You hated pop. But you were wrong to feel that way. Pop fought for his life, and now you have to fight for yours.

With love, your brother,

Joseph

When Chris looked up, Marsha was crying, and Lou was shaking his head.

“What is it?” Lou asked.

“Do you have a tape player for these?” Chris asked, pointing to the cassettes.

“It’s upstairs,” Lou replied. “I’ll get it.” He rose from the table and went into the kitchen, where there was a stairway that led to his apartment on the floor above.

Marsha was wiping her eyes with the napkin from her place setting. When she finished, Chris handed her the letter. She read it, and then said, softly, “I loved him, too.”

Chris did not reply. He felt, irrationally, that by remaining silent, he was keeping Joseph alive. Lou returned with the tape player and inserted one of the cassettes, pressing the play button and adjusting the volume.

“Joseph Massi,”
they heard.

“Ed Dolan.”

Pause.

“You look good. Have you quit using?”

Pause.

“You haven’t changed.”

“You want some kind of royal treatment? You’re a junkie. State your business...”

They listened to the full conversation between Joseph and Dolan at Dolan’s office, then inserted the other two tapes, which turned out to be copies of the first. Then Chris put the tapes, the DVDs and the letter back in the envelope.

“Can I borrow this?” he asked Lou, picking up the tape player.

“Yes.”

Chris put it into the envelope, which he then clipped shut.

“Is he dead?” Marsha asked.

“Yes,” Chris answered. “Ed Dolan is a federal prosecutor here in New York. He sent Joseph into Junior Boy’s house wearing a wire. He probably figured if he got something on Junior Boy, fine; if the wire was discovered and Joseph killed, that would be fine, too. I was an assistant U.S. Attorney for five years. Dolan never would have gotten approval for that kind of an operation. There was never any backup. He didn’t count on Joseph taping their conversation, though.”

“And Junior Boy is some kind of a mobster?”

“Yes, the real life kind.”

“How can you be sure?”

“That Joseph is dead?”

“Yes.”

“I know Junior Boy. No one gets a private meeting with him without being searched first. Once the tape was found, he would have to kill Joseph. He could never let it get out that he let someone caught with a wire live. It would be a sign of weakness, an encouragement to others.”

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Lou said.

“But what’s to be done?” Marsha said. “Shouldn’t we notify the police. Where’s Joseph? Where’s his...his body? We surely have to find his body and bury him.”

Chris and Lou looked at each other. It would be a miracle, they knew, if Joseph’s body were found.

“We’ll have a service some day, Marsha,” Lou said, “but it’ll have to wait. For now, we don’t want anyone to know what we know. Not the police, not your doorman, no one. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You’re saying that both Dolan and DiGiglio would want to kill anyone who knows what we now know.”

“That’s it exactly.”

“But why would this Dolan man do such a thing?”

“My father killed his father,” Chris said, “gunned him down in a bar. He’s hated me and my family ever since.”

“The fucking bloody swine,” Marsha said.

“Will you be all right, Marsha?” Chris said. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but it’s not safe here, and I have things to do.”

“I’ll get a cab.”

“Do you have someone you can be with?” Lou asked.

“Yes, but I’d rather be alone.”

Marsha rose, as did Chris and Lou. At the front of the room, sunlight was streaming through the restaurant’s picture window, casting the words “La Luna” in shadow across the first row of tables. The mundane, as it is wont to do, had bumped up hard against the sublime. Another day, like millions of others before it, was beginning, but this one without Joseph Massi, a failure in many respects, but one who had managed to be a friend, a lover and a brother, respectively, to the three people who stood, brokenhearted, facing each other in the shadows at the back of the room. It was a morning each of them would remember vividly for the rest of their lives, especially Chris, who, in the time it took him to read Joseph’s letter, had gained and lost a brother. It had fallen to him to be the last living member of his small family. A torrent of memories, of Rose, Joe Black and Joseph, both bitter and sweet, were pushing hard against his heart, but he held them back. He had to get away, to a place where he could grieve, and think, and plan his revenge.