Chapter 37
I FELT MY cell phone vibrate in my pocket but ignored it, every bit of me focused on Carmine Noccia the way a mongoose might focus on a particularly mesmerizing cobra. In too many ways, Carmine was the epitome of the New Age mobster. He came from a long line of organized criminals, stretching back generations through Vegas to Chicago to New York to Palermo.
But he personally exhibited none of the old Mob’s more stereotypical traits, the “deze and doze” accent, the cultured attire of a die-hard strip club fan, the spontaneous and ruthless acts of violence against all debtors and perceived traitors. Carmine had gone to Dartmouth, had done a stint in the marines as a commissioned officer, mustered out as a captain, and had even attended Harvard Business School for a semester. He’d studied the ways of the elite and wore their fashions, manners, dialect, and affectations as an almost flawless persona.
“It’s been a long time, Jack,” Carmine said, his dark agate eyes betraying nothing, the muscles in his exfoliated cheeks betraying nothing. His hand reached for mine. “Always a genuine pleasure.”
“Why would you post bail for Tommy, Carmine?” I asked, shaking his hand with zero enthusiasm.
His grip firmed as he smiled. “Tommy and I go way back, remember?”
“I remember you wanting his legs and arms broken for welshing on bets.”
“You always buy into such dramatic nonsense, Jack,” Carmine replied, releasing his grip and making a dismissive gesture. “Be that as it may, regarding Tommy, stuff happens, and allegiances change when circumstances warrant it. That’s the mark of a pragmatic leader. And I very much consider myself a pragmatic leader, able to deal with changing circumstances.”
I made every effort to show no reaction, but I got the subtext of his reply as if he’d tattooed it on my skin. Earlier that year, Carmine had used leverage that I resented to force me and Private to track down a hijacked truck full of contraband prescription painkillers with a street value of thirty million dollars. We found the oxycodone shipment but used a remote third party to report its whereabouts to the local DEA office. They’d seized the stash before Carmine’s men could get to it. I knew Carmine suspected me of a double cross, but I also knew he had no proof of it. Or at least, that was what I believed.
I’d regrettably come to know the mobster when Tommy was mainlining his gambling addiction and into Carmine for six large. I’d gone to Vegas and paid my brother’s debt, doing it for the benefit of my long-suffering sister-in-law and nephew, not Tommy. I hadn’t been free of Carmine since.
And now he had coughed up Tommy’s bail. Why? The mobster was all about leverage, so that was what this was at some level. But designed to lift what? Or move whom? And for what reason? Revenge? Against me?
“You honestly think you’re getting that bail money back?” I asked.
Carmine adjusted the French cuff of his custom shirt. “The difference between you and me, Jack, is that I rarely bet unless I know what horse is going to win. Emotion plays no part in it. Anyway, I have to be going, give Tommy a ride home. Great seeing you. Let’s catch up real soon, shall we?”
Before I could reply, my cell phone vibrated again in my pocket and Carmine moved by me as if I were now some stranger on the street. I checked caller ID, hit ANSWER, and watched Carmine disappear toward the elevators.
“What do you know?” I asked.
Del Rio said, “Come to the pier. I want to run my plan by you.”
“I’m on my way.”
“You might want to pick up a five-millimeter neoprene wet suit with hood and booties on your way.”
“I suppose a swim is unavoidable in this case.”
“I’m hoping less of a swim and more of a skim, Jack.”