The Reunion (13 page)

Dunlevy rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, another bottle of scotch?”

Johnson let go with a burst of pained laughter. “I'm afraid so.”

“So what type of submarine are we talking about?” the agent asked.

“At first Andy thought, like I did, that it was a Becuna-class sub, based on the length and displacement. But that wouldn't have made much sense.”

“Why not?” Carolyn asked.

“Those subs were the Navy's workhorses in the Second World War, but the design was no secret. You certainly wouldn't run the risk of breaching American water to snag schematics. The Electric Boat and the Portsmouth shipyards were spitting out Becuna-class subs in the thirties. Hell, the Germans copied the hull design for their U-boats. Andy determined from the ballast tank arrangement it was a tench-class sub. More specifically, the
USS Corsair.
”

“Tench-class?” Carolyn asked. “I'm sorry, I don't know much Naval history.”

“Only ten were commissioned before the end of World War II. In fact, the
Corsair
didn't leave dry dock in Groton until the first part of 1946. It's basically a souped-up Becuna, a little faster, more maneuverable, with longer patrol endurance. I could see why the Germans wanted the information.”

“And do any of the messages give a specific location for the rendezvous?”

“Yes,” he said, punching a few more keys. “The latitude and longitude are in message three. I'm guessing it's somewhere off the coast of New England. Connecticut, maybe.”

Carolyn stood and, from over Johnson's shoulder, intently gazed at the computer screen. “Could you find the specific rendezvous spot?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It's easy enough to do with my world map program.”

Johnson punched in the coordinates and a map appeared. A deep shade of blue filled most of the screen, designating ocean. To the left of the water, the outline of the three states started to dissolve onto the map. First it was Massachusetts, then Rhode Island, and eventually Connecticut. When the locator program finished churning, it announced its completion with a loud chime.

“There, see it?” Johnson asked, pointing to a speck slowly appearing on the screen. “X marks the spot.”

“Where exactly?” Dunlevy quizzed.

“Right along the Connecticut-Rhode Island border. If I had to guess, I'd say about three to five miles off the coast of Watch Hill, Rhode Island.”

***

Two hours into the drive, both Carolyn and the child were sound asleep. They were traveling south on Interstate 95 at about seventy miles an hour, and had just passed the
WELCOME TO NORTH CAROLINA
sign when the cell phone started to ring.

“Agent Dunlevy,” he whispered, not wanting to wake them.

“Boss, it's Franklin. AFIS got a hit on our fingerprints from the truck in Atlantic Beach.”

Dunlevy's eyes grew wide. “Really? What's the name?”

“Joseph Anthony DeMichael. Last known residence, Providence, Rhode Island.”

The senior agent was startled. “Book us two tickets to Providence for tomorrow morning. I should be back in the office in about two hours.”

22

Providence, Rhode Island

Even though the tourists never noticed, Federal Hill was a rough place. People from the outside called it Little Italy. They came for dinner and the quaint shops along the cobblestone streets. Yet, in the back rooms of those same stores and restaurants, labor deals were cut and highway contracts awarded. Long-time residents of the neighborhood were family, rewarded when they were good, punished when they were bad. No one was immune from the rules of Federal Hill.

Forty-seven-year-old pastry chef Anthony DeMichael was clearly a product of his environment. Anthony did have an arrest record, but a modest one, all property crimes and no felony arrests after the age of twenty-four. All things considered, he was a respectable citizen of “The Hill.”

There were three men in the bakery, but Dunlevy had no doubt which one was DeMichael. He was a short, heavy man wearing a white tee shirt, a white apron, and a red bandanna. His thick hands and forearms were speckled white with flour up to the elbow. An anchor tattooed on his left shoulder hinted at a stint the military.

Dunlevy and Franklin strolled up to the counter, feigning interest in the muffins and cakes.

“What can I get you?” DeMichael asked as he approached.

“Are you Anthony DeMichael?” Dunlevy asked.

An eyebrow went up. “Who's asking?”

Dunlevy flashed his badge. “Martin Dunlevy. I'm with the FBI. We need to visit with you about your brother.”

Anthony had four brothers, but didn't have to ask which one. “Follow me. I need a cigarette break anyway.”

Anthony led them through the kitchen to the loading dock behind the building. He flipped over a plastic milk crate and sat down, lighting up a cigarette. “So, what's Joey done this time?”

“I'm not sure he's done anything. We just want to know where he is,” Dunlevy replied.

DeMichael raised both hands to the sky and shrugged. “What am I, his keeper? I don't know where the fuck he is. He don't call me.”

“When did you see him last?” Franklin asked, his notebook open.

“I don't know. Easter maybe? He used to come around on all the holidays, but since dad died he don't. He can't stand ma, and, to tell you the truth, we ain't that close.”

“You have a phone number, an address maybe?” Dunlevy asked.

DeMichael didn't answer. “Let me ask you a question. What is it you guys think he's done?”

Dunlevy shot Franklin a look. He didn't want to reveal too much.

“His fingerprints turned up in a stolen vehicle in North Carolina,” Franklin answered.

“North Carolina? Joey never goes no further than Jersey.”

“Well, we have his prints in the pick-up,” the agent stated.

Anthony thought about this scenario a moment. “What? Business so slow at the FBI they've got you guys chasin' after car thieves now? That don't sound right.”

“We believe the truck was used in a homicide,” Dunlevy said.

Anthony threw the cigarette into the alley and hastily stood. “That's bullshit! Joey's a pussy. If you raise a fist to him, he'll run away. Hell, we thought he was queer until he was seventeen. He wouldn't kill nobody.”

Dunlevy moved toward him. “Look, if you want to do your brother a favor you'll help me find him. Maybe this is all bullshit. There could be a logical explanation for his prints being in that truck. But right now we've got to talk to him and find out,” he said.

“Like I said, I don't have no address.”

“How about a work number or address? What's Joey doing for money these days?” Franklin asked.

Anthony scratched his head. “Well, when he's really having a hard time he'll come help out in the bakery, but he hasn't done that in years. He's worked on and off at Vocatura's since he was a kid.”

“Where?” Franklin asked.

“Vocatura's.” Anthony reached into his pocket and produced another cigarette. “It's a big supermarket chain, the largest in Rhode Island.”

“A grown man sacking groceries?”

DeMichael's laugh turned into a smoker's cough as he brought his lighter to the tip of the Marlboro. “No, I'm sure he did a lot of sacking as a kid, but he's done it all in that store—night manager, stocking shelves. He drives a truck when they need him to. He's even done some personal jobs for old lady Vocatura. She took a shine to him when he was a teenager.”

“Vocatura. Why do I know that name?” Dunlevy asked aloud.

“They've got at least a dozen stores across the state. You can't go anywhere in Rhode Island without seeing one.”

“No, that's not it.”

“Maybe the TV commercials.”

Dunlevy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I thought I heard the name on the radio coming over here.”

Anthony smiled. “Mrs. Vocatura's grandson. He's running for the senate. His ads are on the TV and radio all fuckin' day.”

Franklin scribbled on his notepad. “This grandma still alive?”

Anthony took another long drag from his cigarette. “Oh yeah, the queen bee is still kickin'. She lives in the castle, lookin' out over her kingdom, Watch Hill.”

23

Westerly, Rhode Island

The makeup girl used a brush to swirl a little more powder near the part line on his forehead. There was a spot that was still catching the light. This was the third time makeup had to be reapplied during the two-hour shoot. The candidate was becoming annoyed.

“Vinny, I'm only gonna do one more take. I've got a busy afternoon,” Manny barked.

“We've got plenty of time,” his little brother said. Vinny nodded to the director, a signal to get on with it.

The video commercials were easy. Vinny simply hired a freelancer from one of the television stations in Providence, and Manny would recite the twenty-five seconds of copy in three or four takes and be done with it. This film crew from New York, however, was another matter.

A consulting firm had been hired out of Hartford. The company pushed for 35mm film spots. They would be rich and add texture, the experts promised. A professional announcer would also be brought in to tag the commercial. Before all was said and done, the time-consuming shoot would set back the campaign more than twenty-five thousand dollars.

“Counting down, Mr. Vocatura. In five, four, three, two…”

The steadicam operator started walking backward. Manny was one of the few candidates who actually seemed at home in front of a camera. He could easily walk and talk along the busy street, comfortably gesturing to the environment around him.

“When I was a boy of about seven or eight,” said Manny, “I used to sit out here on the stoop of my dad's grocery store and watch all the cars go…”

The blare of a car horn stopped everyone in their tracks. The driver rolled down the window and yelled, “Go kick some butt down there in Washington, Manny!”

Manny smiled and waved to the constituent, hiding his annoyance. This would be take twenty-four. The denim button-down shirt and the khaki slacks would have been considered too informal for most politicians, yet for Manny it had become a uniform of sorts. His casual and youthful appearance had won votes in his bid for the statehouse six years ago, and would no doubt be a major plus in his campaign for the United States Senate.

Manny's career in state government had really been uneventful, yet Rhode Island seemed to love him. They loved him back in 1981 when he led the URI basketball team to the Sweet Sixteen in the NCAA tournament for only the third time in the school's history. And there were even open arms in the face of failure when the five foot eleven point guard came home from Boston after being cut by the Celtics.

Nobody really hated Manny. His Q-rating, according to his overpaid consultant, was off the chart for a politician. And in a state known for public corruption, his popularity was truly astonishing. The fact that the retiring U.S. senator had already thrown his support behind Manny was of little consequence; the polls revealed he was popular enough to unseat the incumbent with twenty-four years seniority. Of course, Manny would never have challenged Edmond DaSilva. The senator was his godfather and one of his family's closest friends and advisors.

The director complained he was losing his light. The candidate knew he had several good takes in the can, but apparently not good enough for his little brother. Everyone on the makeshift set could see the special relationship Manny had with the camera. He was ordered to try again. The candidate positioned himself in front of the steadicam operator. The director's left hand was high in the air, and when it dropped both men started walking—Manny forward, the cameraman backward.

There was no TelePrompTer because Manny didn't need one; he was speaking from the heart. The sincerity was genuine and his story true.

“When I was a boy of about seven or eight,” he told the camera, “I'd sit out on the stoop of my dad's grocery store on State Street and see the cars backed up every morning heading across the Pawcatuck River into Connecticut.” He gestured to the bridge behind him as the cameraman moved in for a close-up.

“People were off to work at the Electric Boat in Groton or the textile mills in New London. That was thirty years ago, and yet many of us still have to cross state lines to bring home a livable wage. I know, because members of my family have had to do it, too.”

The traffic was thick behind Manny. As the cars crossed the bridge, the director held his breath, hoping no one yelled out or honked again.

“Our license plates may read
THE OCEAN STATE
, but we can be so much more. Certainly we want families from neighboring states to enjoy our miles of pristine coastline, but it's time to develop a reputation for technology and education.”

Manny paused for effect and looked past the lens, directly at his constituency. “It's a goal that's in our reach, now more than ever, but to get there I need your help in November.”

Everyone on the shoot stopped to applaud. Even the small crowd that had gathered seemed impressed.

“Way to go!” Vinny shouted above the applause. “That was the one!”

Manny's campaign strategy seemed to touch a nerve across Rhode Island. The state of just twelve hundred square miles, much of it prime beachfront property, had been, for at least two centuries, the playground for the affluent from neighboring states. In many respects, nothing had really changed in the past seventy-five years. New Yorkers still seemed to love the beaches of Newport, Watch Hill, and Block Island, and many locals continued to carve their existence from the scraps the summer tourists threw their way.

Manny had no interest in the accolades. “Let's go, Vinny,” he demanded, making no attempt to hide his frustration. He got behind the wheel of his brother's black Grand Cherokee, smiling and waving to fans and staffers as he drove away, cursing under his breath.

“We are way behind schedule, Vinny. I can't waste time like that,” he scolded.

“You let me sweat the schedule. It's coming together. I can just feel it.”

Manny's brow furrowed. “This is May. The primary's in June. Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he warned.

“You know you can taste it. Nobody can touch you,” his brother promised.

Manny gave in to a smile. His little brother was right but he didn't want to verbalize it. The candidate had never been that cocky. He truly wanted a chance to make a difference.

At the turn of the century, while Rhode Island's elected officials were busy lining their pockets, politicians in neighboring states were building a strong industrial base. In Connecticut, the Groton Electric Storage Battery Company, with the help of federal money, was merged with the New London Shipyard. The end result was a company known today as General Dynamics, the world's largest builder of submarines, and still one of Connecticut's largest employers.

In Manny's hometown of Westerly, people were more than willing to cross state lines and make the twelve-mile commute to Groton for one of those jobs. Manny's claim that both his grandfather and great uncle toiled at the submarine assembly to start their grocery empire was a bit of an exaggeration. Both men did put in twenty hours a week at the plant to help with the effort, but their career paths had been put in motion long before the war. Still, it made for great copy. The spin masters did everything in their power to cultivate Manny's blue-collar appeal, even though his family was one of the wealthiest in Rhode Island.

***

The battalion of yellow school buses came every day. No matter the month or the weather, thousands of school children arrived each morning to tour the capitol. Edmund DaSilva stood at the window of his senate chambers to listen to the shouts of the excited children as they jumped off the bus and scurried in every direction. The kids always seemed to bring a smile to his face, and today was no different.

There were few personal mementos in his office. Had his wife been alive, she would have been hurt. The senator did display a group picture of his two daughters and their respective families, but the photo most prominent in his chambers was the one of his two godsons, Manny and Vinny.

No one doubted his love for his girls—the senator had even grown to accept the men they had chosen to marry—but the DaSilva girls shared few interests with their powerful father. The senator had raised two very spoiled housewives, grown women with children of their own who were now the worry of their husbands.

The privileges of the club were many. Fifty-yard-line seats to any Patriots game or the use of the owner's box at Fenway were just a phone call away, perks wasted on a house full of women. As young boys, Manny and Vinny would jump up and down and squeal with delight at the prospect of watching Louis Tiant pitch for the Red Sox against the visiting Yankees. To his girls, sporting events were merely public appearances to be tolerated but certainly not enjoyed.

“Look at them all!” DaSilva yelled at the window. Millie, his personal secretary, stood behind him. “I think there's a special program today in the House,” she said, glancing over his shoulder.

“Any calls?”

Millie looked down at her clipboard through the wire-rimmed bifocals that made her look older than her sixty-two years. “Vinny called about that fundraiser in Cranston. They're expecting a full house and want to make sure you'll attend.”

“When is it?” DaSilva's mind tended to wander.

“Saturday the seventh, at eight that evening.”

“Okay. Call back and tell them I'll be there.”

The phone didn't ring much in the office of a lame duck United States senator. There had already been one retirement party and he was expecting several more. He had been told the president would even present a proclamation in the Rose Garden in honor of his years of service.

DaSilva didn't want to wait until he was too old. He considered has-beens like Jesse Helms and Strom Thurmond to be chronic hangers-on. Becoming the punch line of a joke for David Letterman would have been an unfitting end to his legacy. He was leaving on his own terms and hand-selecting a replacement: a godson, a boy he took pride in helping mold into a good and honest man.

There was only token opposition in the June primary, and the Republican candidate was a joke. November would be a cakewalk. If there ever was a shoo-in, Manny Vocatura was the guy, and Edmund DaSilva couldn't have been more proud.