The Big Scam Page 11

  Finally the banker straightened up. “This all seems to be in order, Mr. Baldovino. I assume you’d like to retrieve the contents of your box?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you have your key?”

  Manny gave his friendliest smile. “Hey, Mr. Jordan, it’s been twenty years. Who knows where it is? Hell, I’m not sure where I parked my car.”

  Jordan went on as if Manny hadn’t spoken. “We’ll have to drill out the lock. There’s a hundred-dollar fee involved.”

  Baldovino handed over two of the fifties Parisi had given him. “Perfectly understandable.”

  A half hour later Jordan shut the door to the small private room in the safe deposit vault. Manny put the long box on the table and waited a few seconds before opening it. He mumbled out loud, “Don’t get your hopes up. If it was that valuable, Pop would not have left it here. He would have spent it. Or told me or Ma where it was.” On the other hand, his father was a saver and had died without warning. Maybe it was an inheritance, the kind that couldn’t be taxed. By having Manny’s name on the signature cards, it was tantamount to a will without all the legal intervention. Even if nothing of value was inside, the contents were something his father thought worth preserving, and that alone would be worth the trip.

  He swung the lid open. On top sat several banded bundles of currency under which were maybe twenty pieces of jewelry. While he wasn’t an expert, most of it looked to be of fairly good quality. He lifted out the cash. It was all ten-dollar bills, and as he fanned through them, he could see they were Silver Certificates. The face value totaled twenty thousand dollars, but because they were old bills, they might be worth more. He began to fill the plastic grocery bag he’d brought with the cash and jewels. Then he slid his hand under the half of the top that wasn’t part of the hinged lid to check for anything he might have missed. He felt a flat, thin book with a cloth cover and pulled it out. A smile overwhelmed him. In a voice intended to be just loud enough for his father to hear, he said, “You’re going to change my luck, aren’t you, Pop?” He sat down.

  The first ten pages or so were columns of figures, precise accountings of outstanding loans, payments, and other gambling income and the date, each neatly entered in his father’s handwriting. Manny recognized them as old numbers accounts along with some loansharking balances next to names he had never heard of.

  The mob hadn’t bothered with the illegal lottery in decades, so the book had to be at least twenty years old. That meant the ledger might have been the original reason for renting the box. If so, it had to have some value other than long-expired accounts.

  He thumbed through it. The rest of the pages except for a couple at the end were blank. Tucked inside the back cover was a piece of paper folded into quarters, its creases worn through in places. He unfolded it carefully.

  The left-hand edge looked like it had been torn away. What remained was about the size of a half sheet of typing paper and appeared to be a hand-drawn map. Age had faded the ink to a cocoa brown. An undulating line had the number “28” written just above it. Another, that ran parallel to the first, was marked “Esopus Creek.” Next to it were some crudely drawn objects that Manny thought might represent trees. Below the line marked “28” was another, long and curved, which was marked with short perpendicular lines, the traditional symbol for a railroad track. He looked closer and saw that an X marked a blank area above the three linear designations, north if the map was oriented properly. It didn’t seem to have any specific relation to any of the landmarks.

  Written in a different ink, not quite as aged, along an edge was “Lulu’s map.” It appeared to be his father’s handwriting. “What is this?” he asked aloud.

  He picked up the notebook and turned to the last few pages. His father had written:

  October 23—Me and Auggie got the map from Tony Luitu as collateral on overdue loan. His mother was Marty Krompier’s sister. He gave it to her the night he was shot. Luitu found it in her papers after she died. Says he never told anyone.

  October 25—Me and Auggie head to Phoenicia to look. Map confusing. Can’t find a thing. Need someone who knows the area and can be trusted.

  November 17—Feds busted Auggie. Had Gleason go see him in jail and ask where his half was. Said it was in his numbers ledger. The Feds took it as evidence.

  June 8—Auggie sentenced to five years. Had Gleason petition to get Auggie’s book back. Denied because his conviction was under appeal and had to retain all evidence. Have to wait until Auggie comes out.

  It had to be a treasure map. Suddenly the boundless fantasy of buried treasure returned him to his childhood. He could feel his heart accelerate, almost audibly. New opportunities sprang from that box, and, more important, different endings.

  Then Manny stood up. He was suspicious of unrestrained elation. Whenever those small chain reactions of anticipation started pounding in his chest, he reminded himself to apply the brakes. Whatever this was, his father had thought it valuable. Normally that would have been good enough for Manny, but it had been forgotten in the bank vault for twenty years. Maybe it was no longer worth anything. Maybe what had been hidden had already been found. Then possible scenarios started multiplying faster than he could keep track of them. He’d have to take it to Mike Parisi—he’d figure it out.

  Baldovino got to the Sons of Catania late the next morning. He had overslept, the first good night’s sleep in a long time. As soon as he walked in carrying the plastic bag from the bank, Gus Dellaporta, from his usual seat at the card table, said, “Manny, the fuck you going?”

  “Nowhere, why?”

  “You’ve got your Puerto Rican two-suiter.”

  Everyone laughed. In response, Manny good-naturedly shot out an arm, slapping the elbow with the traditional up-to-here salute. “I guess we know how you did in Atlantic City,” Dellaporta replied.

  In the back room Tommy Ida was sitting at a side table reading as usual. Parisi was pouring a cup of coffee. “Manny, you’re back already? I thought you were going for a couple of days.”

  “Something came up.”

  Parisi could see the excitement on his face. “Something good?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

  Parisi watched over his shoulder as Manny put the bag carefully on the table. He finished pouring the second cup and brought it over to him. “You didn’t hit the jackpot in Atlantic City, did you?”

  “I don’t know.” He heard Ida put down his magazine and get up. Manny took out the stacks of silver certificates. “My old man had a safe deposit box with these in it.” He laid out the jewelry on the table next to the money. There were a dozen rings, mostly with good-sized diamonds, an emerald brooch, and the rest were expensive-looking gold watches.

  Ida picked up one of the bundles and riffled through the bills. “Uncirculated, sequential silver certificates. In mint condition.”

  “That’s good, huh, Tommy?”

  “How much is there?”

  “Twenty Gs.” The men from the other room started filing in.

  Ida said, “I’m no expert, but with crisp, uncirculated silver certificates, I think you’ll be able to sell them for—these are legit, right?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “I mean they’re not from some old kidnapping where the FBI is just waiting for the serial numbers to show up. That’s why they always used sequential numbers, they were easier to record. Your old man was never involved in anything like that, right?”

  Manny took half a step back from the table. Maybe his luck wasn’t changing after all. Ida laughed. “Manny, I’m just jerking you around. Your old man was a hell of a lot smarter than to get caught with dirty money. Besides, these are old enough that the statute of limitations ran out a long time ago.”

  Baldovino chuckled. “You had me going, Tommy. So what do you think they’re worth?”

  “Maybe two or three times face value. Maybe more.”

/>   The others started picking up the bundles and some of the jewelry. Jimmy Tatorrio slipped a woman’s diamond ring on his little finger and held it under the light. “This stone is very clean.” He picked up the emerald brooch. “This stuff is good quality.”

  “The fuck you get it?” Dellaporta asked.

  “My father had this safe deposit box for twenty years. In New Jersey. The rent finally ran out on it, and the bank asked me to come and clean it out.” With everyone now giving him their full attention, Manny couldn’t help but orchestrate a little drama as he removed the final item from the bag with two fingertips.

  “The fuck is that?” someone asked.

  Manny unfolded the piece of paper and laid it on the table with the reverence due a religious artifact. “That is a map. I think to something valuable. I think, I don’t know. It’s pretty old. Maybe it’s worth nothing.”

  “Mind if I look at it?” Parisi asked.

  “That’s why I brought it, Mike.”

  Carefully, Parisi picked it up. “Lulu’s map. This was some broad’s map? You know who Lulu is?”

  Manny shook his head. “Not a clue.”

  “Maybe your old man had a little something on the side,” Dellaporta offered.

  Manny felt a small burst of anger. “I never saw anything to indicate that.”

  “Hey, he was your father, I think he had more style than to shove it in your face.”

  Baldovino’s eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, Parisi intervened. “Manny, what’s in the book?”

  “There’s some stuff in it about the map.” He handed it to Parisi.

  Parisi looked at the handwriting. “This is your father’s writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he’s the one who wrote ‘Lulu’s map.’ Same handwriting, same color ink.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” Parisi read the dated entries out loud and everyone tried to decipher their terse description and language.

  “Wasn’t Auggie G. your father’s partner?” Tatorrio asked.

  “Yeah, Auggie Grimaldi. He was a lot older than my dad. He died in the joint, serving time for making book. And my old man’s lawyer for a lot of years back then was that Patrick Gleason guy.”

  “Phoenicia, anybody know where that’s at?” Parisi asked.

  “I think it’s up in the Catskills,” Dellaporta said.

  “But we still don’t know what it’s a map to.” All at once everyone noticed Tommy Ida. He was leaning back against the chair with a smug expression across his face.

  “What?” Parisi demanded.

  “Lulu isn’t a woman. It’s Lulu Rosenkranz. He was Dutch Schultz’s right-hand man. This is a map for Schultz’s treasure.”

  “Dutch Schultz’s treasure,” Dellaporta said. “Yeah, I remember hearing about that. He buried a chest somewhere.”

  “In Phoenicia,” Ida said. “Treasure hunters have been looking for it since him and Lulu were murdered in the thirties.”

  “What’s he supposed to have buried?” Parisi asked.

  “Cash, gold, diamonds, whatever. He had a big trial coming up and was afraid of going to prison and didn’t want it stolen. They say he was a cheap bastard, never spent a dime, so I guess it made sense to everyone that he wouldn’t leave it laying around.”

  Dellaporta and Tatorrio moved closer to get a fresh perspective on the map, which had suddenly become more valuable. “The fuck’s it supposed to be worth, Tommy?” asked Dellaporta.

  “Supposedly, it was worth millions back then, so it could be worth maybe ten times as much now.”

  Tatorrio whistled. “That’s a lot of ching.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Parisi said. “This sounds like bullshit. All those people looking all those years, somebody would have found it.”

  Ida said, “Maybe they couldn’t find it because they didn’t have a map. At least not this one.”

  “According to the ledger, half a map,” Parisi corrected. “If it’s even legit. This guy Tony Luitu might have been running a scam on Manny’s father—no disrespect, Manny—an overdue loan, they might have been getting ready to bust him up, and he was just trying to buy some breathing room.”

  “Let me see if I can’t check some of this out,” Ida said. “If we can find out who Luitu is and this Marty Krompier, maybe something’ll match up.”

  “How’re you going to do that?” Parisi asked.

  “I’ll run over to the library.”

  Dellaporta gave a short, hard laugh. “You think they got books on this stuff?”

  “Maybe. If not, they’ve got free Internet service. That’s where I was running all the addresses we were going to use for those home equity scams. If there’s any information available on this, that’s where it’ll be.”

  “How long you going to be?” Manny tried to disguise his excitement.

  “If there’s a computer available, an hour, more or less.”

  “Hey Tommy, they got any magazines there?” Dellaporta asked.

  “Not that you’d like.”

  “The fuck you know what I’d like?”

  “All theirs have words.”

  13

  JACK STRAKER AND HOWARD SNOW SAT DOWN across from Vanko who asked, “Is the inspector out there?”

  “His Majesty, Charles the Sniveler?” Straker said. “I saw him leave about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Jack, we’re trying to lull this guy to sleep. Please don’t go twisting his nipples.”

  “Nick, he isn’t about to go to sleep with his career making all that noise.”

  Vanko looked at Snow. “Any chance you can help keep your partner in check?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll just use the same approach I did when I got him to baby that Mercedes.”

  Vanko shook his head. “After I’m fired, I’m going to look for a job working with adults.”

  “That’s the attitude, Nick,” Straker said. “Screw him.”

  “Actually, I’ve got you in here because of another problem. Something to keep idle hands busy. The SAC wants to see what we can do about the Judge Ferris disappearance.”

  “Let me save you some time,” Straker said. “It was Danny DeMiglia, in the library, with the candlestick.”

  “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been in a courtroom, but juries have this quirk about not voting guilty based on hunches, even if they are yours, Jack.”

  “I thought the state police were taking the lead on it,” Snow said. “At least they’re the only ones I see on the news talking about it.”

  “This would be more of an unofficial inquiry.”

  “In case you’re wondering, Howie,” Straker said, “that means, Let’s have the expendables do something stupid and see if it works. If it doesn’t, it’s not like they’re losing real agents.”

  “Like you’d want it any other way,” Snow said.

  Vanko handed a sheet of paper to Straker. “I reviewed the intelligence file on DeMiglia. That’s a list of his known associates. I’m sure you could charm one of them into helping us. And for the time being, this is just between the three of us.”

  “Because of the new guy? What’s his name—Egan?” Straker said.

  “Let’s just say not all loyalties have been established yet.”

  As the two agents were leaving, Abby appeared in the doorway. “You didn’t tell me we were getting another agent.”

  “Why, is someone here? No one called me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, bring him back.” Vanko settled behind his desk. “What’s his name?”

  Over her shoulder, Abby laughed and said, “Sheila.”

  Vanko bolted to his feet. He had never had a female agent on the squad; he had never even considered it. As a rule, women in the Bureau didn’t get into trouble, which was the usual route to the Opera House. Dropping a woman into the midst of his little penal colony could cause problems. It was difficult enough keeping the troops focused on the task at hand without a pair of breasts distractin
g them. He walked out through the hinged door to the reception area. “Hi, I’m Nick Vanko.”

  The woman emerged from a shadowed corner, and Vanko was struck by how plain her face was. While none of its features were particularly unattractive, its composite was one of overwhelming ordinariness that would be difficult to memorize. Her age was hard to judge. Her skin was coarse and stippled and had a worn maturity to it that he suspected had haunted her even in childhood. At the same time, it did not have the looseness of middle age. Surprisingly, she wore no makeup, as if she had surrendered all social expectations and had convinced herself that appearance and its eventual purpose, companionship, were no longer a possibility, or even a desire. She was noticeably underweight, and from her baggy black pants suit, he guessed that she had lost a good deal of the weight recently. Her slender figure didn’t seem to have a curve to it, but it was impossible to tell under the shapeless clothing.

  Although he had deflected a thousand reactions to his own face, he could not pull his eyes from hers. Then he noticed her hair. He could see that given a little care, it would have been striking. It was rich and thick, but it appeared to have been pushed into its present disorder with the towel that had dried it. Was she afraid that exhibiting its fullness would further diminish her face? Her eyebrows and lashes were dark and lustrous and made her skin seem even paler, irreparably coarser. Her pupils, bezeled by pure cognac irises, were widely dilated and gave her a look of hollow distraction, of chronic exhaustion. The survivor of a catastrophe, or possibly still in its grasp.

  An agent’s appearance was a difficult thing to stereotype, but Vanko started to wonder if she even was an agent. She seemed to possess none of the requisite hauteur of authority that was issued with a badge and gun and, with rare exception, jealously maintained.

  She extended her hand and looked at him like no one had since the accident, totally free of discomfort. “Sheila Burkhart.” Her voice was worn out, husky, yet sensual.