The Plan Page 17
"DiAgusta," he said to the recent arrival from Palermo, who found the name on his guest list and checked it, asking politely in his fractured English if the driver could let DiAgusta of at the main house and bring the car back down because it was going to get crowded up there.
Penny was in full mourning and greeted them all, thanking them for their condolences.
Mickey was in the study, receiving eachguest se rately, talking softly, assuring every one that his father had died in peace, that the family would endure.
Some had come out of respect, but all were looking forward to the open-casket funeral where they could make absolutely sure Joseph Alo was one-hundred-percent stone-cold dead. Then they would deal with Mickey and decide whether he was strong enough to hold on to what the Mos had.
Lucinda was upstairs. She had heard about her father's death on television and had come home to the big house to be with her mother. She had been trying to avoid her brother. They both happened to be in the kitchen at the same time and looked at each other without saying anything. She moved around him and out into the hall. People spoke to her and expressed condolences but largely ignored her. This was a time of sorrow, but it was also a time for politics. Any shift in power affected them all. New alliances were already being forged and tested. Lucinda had gone upstairs to be alone, trying to come to grips with the mixed emotions she felt about her brother's anger and her father's passing.
The funeral was at six. The church Mickey had chosen was a Gothic Catholic cathedral in downtown Trenton. Mickey had selected the church because it was large, but also because there was a protected side entrance that would make it difficult for the OCB surveillance cameras to get clear shots of the mourners.
At five in the afternoon, the pipe organ played a dirge for Joseph. Long-lens cameras rested on doorjambs of federal sedans. Blank-faced agents with buzz cuts watched, not bothering to disguise their presence.
The church was full. Late arrivals stood in the back, in silence. Many of the mourners crossed themselves and thanked God that Joseph Alo was really in the box.
Mickey spoke to them from the carved pulpit. The light refracted from the stained-glass Jesus on the cross threw a river of red across the floor in front of him.
Mickey spoke of the loss a son feels when his father passes, of the pure love that exists in a bloodline. He praised the guidance his father had given him. He said his life would never be as full as when his father was there to explain its inconsistencies and fight against its corruptions. It was a moving eulogy and would have been even more heartwarming if Lucinda hadn't been close enough to see Mickey's eyes. They were shining with excitement. Mickey Alo was finally in control and anyone who thought they could take his turf would be watching the parade from a skybox.
They put Joe in the ground as the sun was setting and returned to the Alo estate, where a tent had been set up over the tennis court. The space was warmed with party heaters. A band played peasant songs from Sicily. Penny and Lucinda roamed the periphery of the gathering feeling oddly out of place.
Penny went up to her room at nine, leaving Lucinda alone. After a minute, she found herself again face-to-face with her brother. This time, he smiled at her.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
Mickey took Lucinda's hand and led her out of the tent and around the side of the house. They stood listening to the music and laughter coming from the tent.
"That was really nice, what you said about Daddy."
"Thank you. Are we okay?" he said, looking at her carefully. "What I said the other day, I didn't mean it. I've been upset because of Pop. Can you understand that?"
"Yes," Lucinda said, realizing that she was now desperately afraid of her brother, that she was choosing her words instead of speaking her mind, that she wanted to get away from him.
He reached out and hugged her, but his eyes were cold and impersonal. "We're a team," he said. "I'd never let anybody hurt you. I'd never do anything to make you unhappy." He kissed her cheek. "I gotta get back. We'll talk after everybody leaves," he said, moving away.
She watched him go and then looked down. At her feet, she saw a faded wooden cross. She had made it when she was seven. She had knelt in her bathroom, crying, and nailed the wood together. She had painted the name on with her mother's nail polish. She had crept outside late at night and pounded it into the ground with a rock. She had prayed to God to take the soul of Mickey's dog. She had promised herself never to forget the puppy's happy face.
Her brother's voice rang in her ears… I'd never do anything to make you unhappy. But he had laughed after his dog had been shot. Somehow he found that funny.
She looked down at the weathered cross and knew everything he said was a lie. "What about Rex?" she finally whispered.
Chapter 34
ROUST
Kaz was good at rousts.Everybody started out with a pile of attitude-"I got my rights"; "I'm gonna call my lawyer." What you had to do was get the bandit s t o buy into the concept of fecal gravity.
"Shit runs downhill," he used to shout at the frightened felons who were trying to tough it out in Vegas in front of his elite "mob squad" of feds.
Usually he could turn them. He'd convince them they had a better chance with the Vegas DA than their own asshole buddies. Of course, most of them weren't very smart.
Brenton Spencer would be a lot tougher, but the thing about people involved in a criminal conspiracy was, they were always sure they were gonna get found out. That thought haunted them. Their own imaginations were what finally busted most of them. Brenton wasn't used to being interrogated, so Kaz had to get him away from his normal surroundings, find a place where he felt uncomfortable, and convince him he was involved in a federal crime.
Kaz had spent the last day setting up for the must. He'd called a friend in the federal prosecutor's office and explained what he needed. The closest thing they could find to a suitable crime was in Statute 348.7 of the Federal Election Code, which governs ballot box tampering and illegal voter registrations. Kaz had done a cut-and-paste job on the document, matching typefaces, inserting a paragraph saying that any person who attempted to unduly influence the outcome of a national election could be charged with felony malfeasance of the political process and violation of federal election law. Then he'd photocopied the document so that it was on one sheet of paper and looked official. He had that little jawbreaker in his pocket as he took the elevator up to UBC and got out on the Rim.
The first thing that struck him was that there were one hell of a lot of young people running around in a hundred different directions with no apparent destination. He grabbed a young man who was flying past.
"Looking for Brenton Spencer," he said.
"Oh God," the young man said, and ran off.
Kaz soon realized that this wasn't a room full of overeager yuppies. This was a room full of panicked people. He saw a crowd around an office door and elbowed his way in through the staffers until he saw a bald man in his late twenties, bent over the form of Brenton Spencer, who was lying unconscious on a white carpet. Steve Israel had his ear on Brenton's chest, listening for a heartbeat. Kaz was being pushed aside by some late arrivals trying to get a better look.
"It's okay," Kaz said. "I'm a doctor."
They immediately let him through and he moved to the fallen newsman.
"Anybody call the paramedics?"
"Three minutes ago," Israel said.
"What happened?"
"He's been having horrible headaches. He walked off the set, back to his office. When I came to get him, he was like this."
"Okay, gimme some room.. "
Kaz had done his share of field triages, both in the Korean War and a couple of major Bureau shootouts. He started with vitals. Brenton had a reedy heartbeat, weak and irregular, and his breathing was rasping and shallow. Kaz opened his mouth and pulled his tongue free, clearing the throat. He thumbed open Brenton's eyes. The right looked normal but the left pupil was dilated to the size of a small-bore pistol.<
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"Brain hemorrhage. Get on the phone and tell the paramedics to alert the hospital they're gonna need a head cutter with a catcher's mitt. This guy is critical."
The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. Kaz helped them get Spencer on the rolling gurney and load him into the ambulance. They tried to leave Kaz behind, but he flashed his lapsed credentials.
"FBI," he said. "Man's a material witness in a homicide. I'm coming." He didn't want to let Brenton out of his sight. The ambulance accelerated away from the curb and rushed across town, its siren heehawing at the traffic.
In the back of the ambulance, the vital signs were being relayed, by radio, to New York County Hospital, where the neurosurgeon was getting the operating theater ready. Kaz was concerned about the decreasing blood pressure and the irregular heartbeat.
The ambulance slowed down in traffic as critical minutes ticked by. The increasing pressure on Brenton Spencer's brain began to shut down precious nerve centers, obliterating memory, personality, and thought.
They screeched to a stop at the back door of the emergency room, the siren still wailing. Two attendants ran with the gurney, pushing it ahead of them into the waiting elevator.
"This is that news guy," one said as the elevator door closed, cutting them from view.
Kaz looked at his watch and pulled the phony criminal statute out of his pocket, ripped it up and sprinkled the shreds into the wastebasket.
He felt tired and angry. But the job was like that, he thought. Sometimes you were just too late with too little.
Ryan heard about Brenton on a news brief on TV and guessed it must have happened before Kaz got to him. He had been trying all afternoon to get in touch with Lucinda. He waited to call until Kaz left because he knew how the man felt about Mickey's sister.
He had tried the Alo house three times, but an unfamiliar male voice answered, so he'd hung up without saying anything. Then, on a hunch, he called his own answering machine in Malibu. After a few routine messages he heard her voice.
"Ryan, it's Lucinda. I need to talk to you. I borrowed my mother's cell phone, the number is: 609-555-9056. 'Bye." Her voice had sounded fragile, hesitant.
With nervous fingers, he dialed the number.
"Hi, I got your message," he said, his heart in his throat when she answered.
"I need to see you, Ryan."
"I'm at a hotel in Trenton called the Blue Rainbow. It's a little do e, so don't be surprised. Room five-ohsix."
"Can't we meet someplace else?"
"No. You'll see why when you get here."
"I miss you," she said, tentatively. The sentence hovered somewhere between a statement and a question. -
"I miss you, too. And, Lucinda, don't let anybody follow you."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before she said, "Okay."
He lay in the small room, unarmed, and hoped he hadn't just invited his own death. He knew Lucinda wouldn't betray him, but Mickey could have someone following her. An hour later, he heard a light rap on the door. He pulled himself up and, using the desk chair as a walker, moved slowly across the room.
"Yes?" he asked through the paint-peeled door. "Ryan, open up, it's me," she said.
He fumbled for the lock and swung the door open, throwing caution aside. She rushed into his arms, bumping into the chair, almost tipping him over.
She kissed him on the face, on the mouth. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He held her tightly. It was the first time since Matt died that he could feel pieces of himself start to come back together.
She closed the door and looked down at his leg, wrapped in gauze, colored by seeping blood.
"What happened?"
"It's a long story."
She helped him to the bed and sat beside him. "Was it Mickey?" knowing already that it was.
Ryan nodded. "He sent Tony after me and, if I hadn't run into this ex-FBI agent, I'd be dead."
She turned and faced him, her expression grave. "I've done the same thing you did with that little boy, Terry. I've pushed ugly thoughts about Mickey away. I've refused to deal with what I always knew was in him. And now I've looked into his eyes and seen things that scare me.
"I know."
"I want to be with you, Ryan," she said, charging ahead, thinking if she didn't say these words now, she might never find the chance. "I know this is right."
He reached over and held her hand. She paused for a moment before adding, softly, "I'm afraid now that I've found you, you'll be taken from me before I get the chance to make love to you."
He kissed her on the mouth and drew her to him. He had never felt such longing. She sat up, unbuttoned her shirt and removed it. Reaching behind her, she unsnapped her bra and let it fall. Her breasts were full and round and her nipples were thrusting out. She stood to unhook her skirt and stepped out of it. Then she turned to him, wearing only her panties. She unbuttoned his one-legged jeans and eased them carefully down over his bandaged leg. Then she moved into his arms, holding him tightly.
Ryan had been aching inside for so long, he couldn't believe the feeling of comfort, the loss of pain, just holding her gave him. She told him she would never leave him, that she was his for the rest of her life. He started to taste the salt from the tears that were running down her cheeks.
The lovemaking was slow and more consuming than he had ever believed possible. She moaned with pleasure as they exploded together in climax, reaching secret places he had never explored before. And then they held each other in silence, listening to their hearts beating in combined rhythms. No words could describe their feelings, but in that moment, without needing words, they pledged themselves to one another.
Chapter 35
ANOTHER WAY TO GO
Kaz came back to the room at the Blue Rainbow Hotel to check on Ryan. He'd been told by the intern on the fourth floor of County Hospital that the results of Brenton's surgery were problematic. The anchor had a dime — size aneurysm that had ruptured and knocked him flat.
They'd opened Brenton's skull and tied off the bleeding vein, but until he woke up, or didn't, they would have no way of knowing how much damage had been done. Ka z h ad tried to press the intern for a prognosis, but the youn g d octor had refused.
"Each one of these is a whole new deal," he'd fudged. "We can't tell how much damage was done before we released the cranial pressure."
Kaz had learned that the practitioners of the fine art of sawboning hated to be wrong, more than they hated socialized medicine. They also panicked over the possibility of a malpractice suit. Therefore, they rarely gave prognoses. So Kaz had learned to ask medical questions differently.
"If you saw ten cases with about the same degree of cranial hemorrhaging, how many of those ten would ever regain any reasonable sense of normalcy?"
By asking the question that way, Kaz was allowing the doctor to avoid comment on a specific case and, at the same time, allowing him to exhibit his vast knowledge of cerebral hemorrhages without running the risk of being wrong.
"I'd say about two or three in ten would get back to something resembling a normal life," the intern said, giving Kaz the answer to the question he'd asked in the first place.
Brenton Spencer had less than a 30-percent chance to wake up and start talking not very good odds.
The lobby was filling up with the press, so Kaz had gone back to the hotel to wait for news.
When he arrived, he found Ryan sitting up in bed, dressed in new clothes. Seated next to him, smiling, was Lucinda Alo. Kaz looked at them with disgust.
"Lucinda's going to help us," Ryan said, as Kaz scowled.
"I'm fucking delirious about that." Kaz moved to the window and, pulling the curtains aside, looked out into the alley, half expecting to see a dark sedan with two goombah hitters oiling silenced Sig-Sauers. The alley was empty.
"I assume you're Mr. Kazorowski. "
"That's right." Kaz closed the curtains. "Where'd you get the new duds?"
"You don't get it, do you? Her brother is trying to kill you. Why should she help you? Sicilians teach family loyalty from birth. . Nobody is ever allowed in between. But because you've got great teeth and sun-bleached hair you think this Mafia princess is gonna throw her family away so she can play house!" He started to collect his few belongings and jam them into his duffel bag.
"What'm I doing hanging with you? Good luck, but I'm outta here."
Ryan changed the subject.
"What happened to Brenton?"
"Brenton looks like a science fiction experiment. Got enough tubes comin' out of his head to plumb a duplex. We're probably not going to get anything outta him, but right now, he's all I've got."
"I had another idea. Cole Harris."
"Who's Cole Harris?"
"Cole Harris is a guy I knew in L. A. a while back. He used to be a reporter for UBC. Vidal Brown told me he was canned because UBC wouldn't run a series of stories he did on the underworld. Apparently, he accused Steve Israel of collusion with the mob and he was out on his ass before the end of the day."
Kaz stood looking at Ryan for a long time, not sure how to grade it. "That doesn't mean he knows anything about Brenton's connection to the mob or Haze Richards."
"Cole is one of those humorless bastards who thinks he's always right. If he thinks they fucked him, he'll be digging through their trash looking for evidence until he proves it."
"Where is he?" Kaz said, getting a little more interested.
"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out."
"Gonna take her with you?"
"Yes. I need help. I still can't walk."
"But you still can fuck, I bet," Kaz said, wishing immediately he hadn't.
"You're really something of an asshole, aren't you?" Lucinda said.
"You got that right. It's why I'm still alive. Assholes are hard to kill," Kaz fired back.
They glared at each other as a hooker screamed an insult through the wall.
"How do I reach you?" Kaz asked, relenting.