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Blake snapped two fingers at Falcone. ‘Another brandy.’ He turned to Fox. ‘There’s an old Sicilian saying, which you might appreciate, since I know you have a Sicilian mother. When you have sinned grievously, the devil is waiting.’
Fox laughed. ‘Would your devil be you or Sean Dillon?’
‘Take your pick. But God help you if it’s Dillon,’ Blake told him.
Fox leaned closer. ‘Let me tell you something, Johnson. I hope it’s Dillon. I’ve been waiting a long time to put a bullet in his brain. And in yours.’
Blake said, ‘You killed my wife.’
‘Your ex-wife,’ Fox said. ‘But it wasn’t personal. She got too close, that’s all. I wish you could have understood that.’ Fox shook his head. ‘You’ve caused me a lot of grief. Now you’ll have to pay for it.’ Fox smiled. ‘I hope Dillon is stupid enough to come. Then I’ll have you both.’
‘Or we’ll have you.’
Fox said to Falcone. ‘Take him back.’
He turned down the light, and Russo punched Blake in the belly. Blake doubled over and they took him out between them, feet dragging.
NEW YORK (#ua2effdb7-c4e7-572f-b0b9-b5317ef5163a)
2 (#ua2effdb7-c4e7-572f-b0b9-b5317ef5163a)
It was a wet March evening in Manhattan when the Lincoln stopped at Trump Tower, the snow long gone, but replaced by heavy, relentless rain. Jack Fox sat in the rear, Russo at the wheel, Falcone beside him. They pulled in at the kerb and Falcone got out with an umbrella.
Fox said, ‘You’re okay for a couple of hours.’ He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. ‘You two go and eat. I’ll call you on my mobile when I need you.’
‘Sure.’ Falcone walked him to the entrance. ‘Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.’
Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.’
He turned and went in.
The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn’t say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.
‘Hey, Jack, come in.’
His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. ‘Uncle, you look good.’
‘So do you.’ The Don offered him the magazine. ‘I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that’s all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn’t good.’
Fox waved his hand. ‘It’s innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I’m related to you. But they think I’m legit.’
‘You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think “innocuous stuff” is all she’s after? Don’t delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we’re respectable – property, manufacturing, finance – but we’re still Mafia, that’s what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she’s after something – and you…you’re a good boy. You’ve done well, but I’m not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.’
‘Uncle, please,’ Fox said.
The Don waved his hand. ‘A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you’re greedy. There’s nothing I don’t know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won’t hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.’
‘That’s our flagship casino, Uncle.’
‘Sure, but while you’re there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.’ The Don waved him back. ‘Don’t annoy me by denying it, Jack.’
‘Uncle.’ Fox tried to sound contrite.
‘Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That’s where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.’
‘As you say, Uncle.’
‘Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.’
Fox hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been like that.’
‘Then like what? Why should she be interested in making you look good? She’s in it for more. I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. This piece, it’s not so bad, all right, but what’s next? What’s behind the front?’ The Don shook his head. ‘She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.’
‘What would you advise, Uncle?’
‘Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.’ He reached for a pitcher. ‘Have a martini and then we’ll eat.’
Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn’t open. He’d served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.
A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he’d just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.
Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. ‘Terry, you look good.’
Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. ‘Aldo, you want something?’
‘Not me, but the Solazzo family would like a favour. You would never say no to the Don, would you, Terry?’
‘Of course not,’ Terry gabbled, reached for the whisky sour and swallowed it in one gulp.
‘Only in this case, it’s Jack Fox who wants the favour.’
Which was enough to almost give Terry a bowel movement. ‘Anything I can do.’
‘That goes without saying.’ Falcone patted his cheek and said to the barman, who was looking wary, ‘Give him another. He’s going to need it.’
The barman said, ‘Now, look, I don’t want any trouble in here.’
Russo leaned over the bar, his face full of menace. ‘Make him the fucking drink and shut up. Okay?’
Hurriedly, the barman did as he was told, his hands shaking.
Jack Fox was in the sitting room of his Park Avenue townhouse, on the second floor, enjoying a light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches, when Falcone brought Terry Mount in.
‘Why, Terry, you look worried,’ Fox told him. ‘Now why should that be?’ He bit into a sandwich, then Falcone took a wad of money from his pocket. ‘Aldo, have you won the lottery or something?’
‘No, Signore, but I think Terry has. There’s fifteen grand here.’
Fox nodded to the champagne bucket and Falcone poured him another glass. ‘Terry, I think you’ve been a naughty boy again.’
‘Please, Mr Fox, I’m just trying to make a buck.’
‘And so you shall.’ Fox smiled. ‘Two grand, Terry.’
Terry’s eyes rolled. ‘And what do I have to do for that?’
‘What you do best.’ Fox pushed a piece of paper across that had been lying on the table. ‘Katherine Johnson. Ten Barrow Street. Just on the edge of the Village. You’ll toss her place this afternoon.’
‘But that doesn’t give me time to prepare.’
‘For what?’ Fox said coldly. ‘It’s a small townhouse. She won’t be there. You boast that you can break in anywhere.’
Terry licked his lips. ‘What do I do?’
‘She’s a magazine reporter, so you’ll probably find an office, a computer, a VCR, all that stuff. Bring whatever disks you find. Bring the videos on her business shelf.’
Terry said, ‘People keep videos all the time. I mean, do I bring all of them?’
‘Be sensible, Terry,’ Fox said patiently. ‘I’m not looking for Dirty Harry or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Just use your brain, such as it is. The boys will take you, they’ll wait and bring you back. Anything you’ve got, I want by five o’clock. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me.’
Terry’s feet hardly touched the ground as Falcone pushed him outside.
He went to Barrow Street wearing a bomber jacket that said ‘Smith Electronics’ on the back. He didn’t bother with the front door, after three rings got no reply, but went down to the basement. There were double deadlocks, but they both responded to his touch.
He found himself in a laundry room and moved upstairs to the entrance hall. There was a parlour, dining room and kitchen, so he tried the stairs, the only sound disturbing the quiet the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. The first door he tried was the study. He saw shelves crammed with books and videos, a computer next to two video and disk machines, and a multiple tape recorder. He switched them all on and removed everything he found in them, placing his haul in the carry bag that hung from his left shoulder. He opened drawers and found more disks and cassettes, which he also took.
The rest really was frustrating. Rows of movies on video, rows of instructional tapes. He was sweating now and swung at the shelves and scattered videotapes across the floor.
Okay. So he’d done what Fox wanted. Time to go. There were some bottles on a side table, and glasses. He poured some bourbon, savoured it, and left by the same route, locking the basement door before returning to Falcone and Russo.
When they arrived at the Park Avenue townhouse, Fox was waiting eagerly. He took the disks and tapes Terry Mount offered and said to Russo, ‘Look after him.’ He turned to Falcone. ‘You stay. It could be bad.’
‘Then it’s bad for both of us, Signore.’ They had been friends since boyhood.
Fox started checking the disks, mostly work notes, letters, accounts, and quickly discarded them. Then he started on the tapes Mount had found in the tape recorder, and on the second struck pure gold.
At first, the sounds were of an innocuous conversation about family business and so on. The woman’s voice was very pleasant and intimate, and the man’s…
Falcone said, ‘Jesus, Maria, Signore, that’s you.’
There were restaurant sounds in the background, a little music. Fox said, ‘She was recording us.’
Suddenly, the tape changed. Now, the woman was clearly making notes to herself.
‘There can be little doubt that Jack Fox, in spite of the war hero and Wall Street image, is nothing less than the new face of the Solazzo family and the new Mafia. I’ll lull him to sleep with the first article in Truth and then hit him hard with the rest. There might even be a special on the Truth Channel in this. I’ve just got to take it easy, and flatter him. His vanity should take care of the rest.’
Fox switched off the machine. ‘The bitch.’
‘So it would appear, Signore. What should we do?’
Fox got up, went to the sideboard, and poured a glass of Scotch. He turned. ‘I think you know, old friend.’ He went to the telephone and punched in a number. ‘Katherine Johnson, please. Hello, Kate? Jack Fox. Would you be free for dinner tonight? I was thinking about that piece, and, what the hell, there’s some more you might be interested in…You are? Terrific. Listen, don’t bother going home. I’ll send a car. You come on over to Park Avenue and pick me up. We’ve just bought this new restaurant in Brooklyn, and I’d like to check it out. Will you help?…Great! I’ll send Falcone to pick you up.’ He put the phone down, surprised at the genuine regret he felt.
In that evening of dreary rain, darkness already descending, she sat in the rear of the Lincoln, a small, pretty woman of forty, with dark hair and an intelligent face. Russo was at the wheel and Falcone beside him. They reached the Park Avenue house and Falcone called Fox on his mobile.
‘Hey, Signore, we’re here.’ He turned. ‘He’ll be right down.’
She smiled and took out a Marlboro. Falcone gave her a light.
‘Thank you.’
‘Prego, Signora.’
He closed the glass divide between them, and a moment later, Fox arrived, wearing a black overcoat. He scrambled in and kissed her on the cheek.
‘Kate, you look good.’
The Lincoln took off.
‘You look pretty good yourself.’
He smiled amiably. ‘Well, here’s to a good night.’
At that precise moment, Terry Mount was swallowing another whisky sour in a downtown bar, aware of the bulge that seventeen thousand dollars now made in his right-hand breast pocket. He went out into the street, drew up his collar as rain dashed in his face, started along the pavement, and sensed someone move in behind him, and then a needlepoint going through his clothes.
‘Just turn right into the alley.’ He did as he was told, and found himself shoved against a wall. A hand searched. ‘Hey, seventeen grand. You were right.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a big black mother named Henry, and you wouldn’t want to meet me in the showers on Rikers Island.’
Terry was terrified. ‘I just did what I was told.’
‘Which means you know too much. Regards from the Solazzos.’
The knife went up through the breast bone and found the heart, and Terry Mount slid down the wall.
It was early evening and March dark on Columbia Street, Brooklyn, as the Lincoln turned right and pulled on to a pier where a few coastal ships were tied up. Russo switched off the engine. Suddenly alarmed, Katherine Johnson said, ‘What is this? Where are we, Jack?’
‘This is the end of the line, Signora. You sure played me for a sucker.’
She managed a smile. ‘Come on, Jack.’
‘Come on, nothing. I’ve had your house searched. Found your little tape recordings of us. Not that I said anything, but you sure did. Just take it easy and flatter me, huh? You shouldn’t have done that to me.’
‘For God’s sake, Jack, you’ve got to listen to me.’
