A String of Beads

12

 

 

 

This is pitiful,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “Dreadful. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. What am I going to say?”

 

“I’m sorry, Teddy,” said Donato. “I’m sorry. I sent six really good men. The idea was to avoid shooting up the whole city and making a lot of trouble for everybody, right?”

 

“Right,” said Mangeoli. “Was that too tall an order? Six picked men can’t go to a hotel where we know some guy is staying, and put him down quietly? This was a favor for a very important and respected man, a near neighbor we might need on our side someday soon.”

 

“It wasn’t too tall an order. We just didn’t know some crucial things, and it made all the difference. Nobody mentioned that the guy had a girlfriend with him in the hotel. She happened to go down to the lobby while Santoro and Molinaro were talking to the desk clerk, and made them somehow. By the time Santoro and Molinaro got upstairs to take the guy out, the guy and the girlfriend were out and driving away in a car.”

 

“Michael. My very good friend. Take a step back from all these details. Think about the magnitude of what’s happened to us. Our thing here in Cleveland was a force for a hundred years, an organization to be admired and feared. This was where Big Joe Lonardo put together the corn syrup monopoly. He dominated the corn liquor business during Prohibition.”

 

“And lost it in the corn syrup wars.”

 

“I’m talking about the size, strength, and importance of the Cleveland organization. Hell, the Statler Hotel was where the first national sit-down took place in 1928.”

 

“Well, it never actually took place,” said Donato. “Every-body got arrested before it got started.”

 

“That doesn’t matter. They all came, didn’t they? The most powerful, important men in La Cosa Nostra. They came here from New York, Chicago, Florida, everywhere. And in those days, you couldn’t just hop on a plane. You had to be sincere enough to spend a couple of days on a train. The point is the Cleveland organization was respected. Now we can’t take out one Indian from Buffalo and his girlfriend. We can’t do a simple favor for a very important ally. We’re a sad, diminished thing. We’ve got more guys in jail than on the street.”

 

“This isn’t just some unsuspecting dope. The guys said they tried to force him to pull over on the interstate, but he outmaneuvered them. Our guys followed the car to Route Eleven, then called ahead to set up a roadblock. The car blew right through before they were ready. This guy was going a hundred and ten. You can’t stop somebody like that quietly. It’s like flagging down a suicide bomber.”

 

“You’re not getting my point,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “Once there was Big Joe Lonardo, then Big Ange Lonardo. Then Big Al Polizzi. Have you ever heard anybody call me Big Teddy Mangeoli?”

 

“Those were big guys, that’s all. You’re like, five foot six.”

 

“Eight. Five foot eight. Jesus.”

 

“It doesn’t mean those guys were more important. It was descriptive.”

 

Teddy Mangeoli held him in his stare for a moment, and then walked across the carpeted office. He was usually happy when he was in this room. He loved being in charge of a bank, and he loved being its biggest shareholder. This morning the luxury of the office seemed to him to be an indictment. The man he was going to call was the head of the Arm in Buffalo. Just the sound of it made his spine tingle—the Arm. Lorenzo Malconi was from another generation, when men were a scarier species. Malconi had gotten where he was because he had burned some powder and he had dug some graves.

 

When Teddy Mangeoli got to the cabinet, he turned to Donato. “Give me some time alone. I don’t need anybody to watch me grovel.” He picked up the receiver of the special telephone that was swept by the security people every day, and dialed. He fought the feeling of shame and dread that seemed to double with each ring.

 

IN BUFFALO, ANDY SPATO PICKED up the telephone and said, “Malconi residence.” He listened for a moment, then said, “One moment please.” Then he walked out through the sliding glass door into the garden.

 

“Mr. Malconi?” Andy Spato stood holding the telephone with his big hand over the receiver. “It’s Teddy Mangeoli in Cleveland. Would you like me to have him call back?”

 

The old man opened his eyes, but didn’t move his head even a centimeter. He was tentatively ready for a disappointment or a new chore. Being a boss looked like being a king, but it sometimes felt like being everybody’s servant. You couldn’t just say you didn’t care what anybody’s problem was. He held out his hand.

 

Spato handed him the phone and backed away, his eyes still on Mr. Malconi, waiting for a nod from him. That was usually the signal that he was dismissed. When he saw the old man nod, he spun on his heel and stepped back toward the house. He went inside and closed the sliding glass door.

 

He took a last look at the old man sitting on the chaise longue in the garden with his feet up, wearing his comfortable old sport coat with the elbow patches and his leather driving slippers. For the hundredth time, Spato thought about how much like a kind elderly gentleman he looked. Spato could almost imagine a half dozen little grandchildren gathering around him to listen to a story. The truth was that he was probably surrounded by the ghosts of a few dozen people waiting for him to die so they could tear his soul to shreds. Spato went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had promised himself he’d have one while the old man had his afternoon nap.

 

In the garden, Mr. Malconi spoke into the phone. “Hello, Teddy.”

 

“Don Lorenzo, I’m calling you with a very difficult and humiliating piece of news.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“I would have come in person, but it would have taken longer, and I was sure you would want to know right away. It pains me to tell you that the small favor you asked was bungled.”

 

“Bungled?”

 

“Botched. Fumbled. I can’t think of any other way to say it. My guys failed you.”

 

“Should I be listening for a knock on my door, Teddy?”

 

“Oh, no, Don Lorenzo. Nothing like that. Six men were sent to look at the hotel registers in the Cleveland area where that phone call originated—three teams of two men. The target apparently had a girlfriend with him, and she accidentally saw one of the teams by the hotel computer. She and the target drove off at over a hundred miles an hour. Our guys had big-ass SUVs, and you know how bad those are for that kind of driving. They’re heavy, and have a high center of gravity. Mario Andretti couldn’t hold one of those fat pigs on a winding road at over a hundred. As it was, one of the SUVs had to be towed out of a ditch.”

 

“Anybody hurt?”

 

“No, thank God,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “It’s a blessing things weren’t worse.”

 

“Driving into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour?” said Mr. Malconi. “It’s a miracle.”

 

Teddy Mangeoli felt a wave of heat wash over him. That wasn’t what he had meant, and it sounded impossible, but it was too late to correct the impression. He could only hope that Mr. Malconi didn’t consider it a lie. “Anyway, the guy and his girlfriend are gone. We failed you, and I’m very sorry.”

 

“Do you know which direction they were going?”

 

“South on Route Eleven, toward West Virginia and Maryland.”

 

“Do they know who was looking for them?”

 

“I don’t see how they could,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “My guys were in identical black Escalades. Since we knew this target was a wanted man, I thought that might make our teams look like feds coming to arrest him. You remember when the FBI raided Danny Spoccato’s office in Newark? Big black SUVs. I saw it on the television news over and over. Now the Escalades are back where they came from, and the guys never got close enough to get identified.”

 

“Where did they come from?”

 

“A friend of ours has a Cadillac dealership.”

 

“A friend of ours?” A friend of mine was just a friend. A friend of ours was a member of La Cosa Nostra.

 

“Yes. Mike Donato.”

 

“Do you think he might be able to get me a deal on a new CTS-V sedan?”

 

“I’ll have one sent to you tomorrow. What color do you like?”

 

“They have a really deep black, but I like a nice dark gray, you know—conservative, like a good suit,” said Mr. Malconi. “But I wasn’t asking for a present.”

 

“It’s as good as done. It’s the least I can do to show you my regard. I know it doesn’t make up for the mistake.”

 

Mr. Malconi said, “Forget that other thing. It’s just a small favor for a friend of a friend. I’ll make another phone call or two to the people who live where the happy couple are headed. Somebody will see them at the right time and place, and that will be the end of it. These things can sometimes take a week or two. It’s not unusual.”

 

“Again, Don Lorenzo, I apologize.”

 

“Don’t give it another thought. I’ll talk to you after my new Cadillac arrives.”

 

The two men hung up. Teddy Mangeoli walked stiffly to his desk and sat down on the top of it, his mind churning. He had made mistakes, and sounded as though he was making excuses and lying. He had missed a chance to build a relationship with a man who had been a power practically since the beginning of time. What the hell had he been thinking? He should have sent a hundred men to the hotel district after this fugitive. It had been a huge opportunity, and he had left it to underlings.

 

Mike Donato opened the door a crack, only an eye visible. When he saw that Teddy Mangeoli had finished his call, he came in and shut the thick office door. “How did it go?”

 

“Rotten. I’m sure he thinks we’re stupid and worthless. I kind of misspoke and gave him the impression that one of the SUVs was driven into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour and nobody was hurt, so he thinks I’m a liar too.”

 

“I saw the one that they rolled over this morning, and it looks like hell. It will cost thousands of dollars to restore that paint job.”

 

“That reminds me. I told him we’d send him a new Caddy tomorrow. A CTS-V. Get somebody to drive it to Buffalo. And he’s particular about the color. He wants a nice dark gray, like a conservative suit.”

 

“He means Phantom Gray Metallic,” said Donato. “A new CTS-V. Those things start at sixty-four thousand bucks, and go up from there. I don’t even have Phantom Gray Metallic on the lot right now. And how the hell am I going to get one there tomorrow?”

 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Teddy. “If you have to get the right one from another dealer in Cincinnati or Columbus or someplace, do it. If you don’t have anybody to drive it to Buffalo, do it yourself. If you screw this up, we’re not going to get another chance with him.”

 

IN THE GARDEN BEHIND THE big brick house on Middlesex in Buffalo, Lorenzo Malconi closed his eyes again. He never really slept in the afternoon, but pretending to nap made people underestimate him and gave him a chance to think. Teddy Mangeoli was in a position that wasn’t warranted by his talents or his character. The next strong wind would blow him away like a brown leaf off a tree. But Lorenzo Malconi had never been an impatient man, and at this stage of his life he valued cunning above audacity. He would not be the one to send Teddy Mangeoli to the undertakers. Instead, he might be the one who waited until somebody else did, and then administer justice on the culprit and exert his moral authority over both families. That would depend on who moved first.

 

 

 

 

 

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