The Big Scam Page 9

  He had come to this store because should his offering somehow prove inappropriate, its package being printed in the mother tongue might lessen the degree of sin. When he saw that the price of a whole Prosciutto di Parma ham was over two hundred dollars, he asked for one to be wrapped up. When the owner held it out to him and began explaining in a voice made more passionate by his heavy accent that it came from the mountain region in Parma, Parisi’s thoughts wandered back to the previous day’s conversation with Danny DeMiglia about how he would never be part of the community.

  As he left, he noticed two old men sitting outside the pastry shop next door drinking espresso. One was reading La Gazzetta and seemed impervious to the other, whose lighted cigarette danced excitedly through the air as he spoke. The smoker stopped and eyed Parisi with some suspicion. Parisi nodded at him.

  Still a few minutes early, Parisi drove slowly through the neighborhood. At the houses that had yards, clothes dried on lines, rosebushes grew next to tomato vines and pots of basil. Occasionally, he spotted a small Saint Anthony shrine displayed with some prominence. In a small park, two men, wearing dark clothing in spite of the heat, sat staring at the pieces on a crumbling concrete chess table. The homes on the blocks immediately surrounding Anthony Carrera’s house were duplexes, some frame, mostly brick, tightly wedged up against one another, all painstakingly maintained.

  Don Carrera’s brick house was three stories. Its architecture and craftsmanship had been brought to the area by Italian immigrants almost a hundred years earlier. Around its perimeter was a waist-high brick wall with irregular diamond-shaped openings. Two gateless entryways led to a double set of stairs with wrought-iron railings that came up to a landing and then turned into a single staircase leading to the second-floor entrance. Along the second story, delicately shaped metal railings supported awnings across the entire front of the home. Although he had been there before, he had never really paid much attention. There were no elaborate gardens, no fountains or statues. Considering its size and who lived there, the house had an inviting simplicity. The owner did not think himself any more privileged than the men who played chess or sipped coffee.

  He drove back to the pastry shop. The smells were different from those in the grocery, but just as distracting—lemon, vanilla, cinnamon, and almond. The more perishable items, many of them covered with pastel icings, were displayed in spotless glass cases. Behind the counters, wire bins held loaves of bread, brown and crusty, some long and thin, gathered upright in their containers like tied sheaths of wheat. He chose one of the thick loaves that were stacked in the bin, reasoning that because there were so many of them, they had to be the most popular. He paid the clerk and told him to give the two men outside another round of espressos. Ignoring the smoker’s icy stare as he walked past, Parisi bid them both, “Buongiorno.”

  “How’s my niece?”

  “She’s terrific, sir. We just found out Friday, she’s pregnant.”

  “Salute. I hope it’s a girl, they’re a lot less trouble.”

  “From someone with four boys, I’ll take your word for it, but I think it might be a little late to change my order.”

  Anthony Carrera laughed carefully, conserving strength. He sat up a little straighter and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. The small movement exposed the paralysis in his left shoulder and arm, which lay disobediently at his side.

  “How are you feeling?” Parisi asked.

  “Every day I am a little stronger, except for this.” Carrera waved disgustedly at the arm. “But getting older is about making adjustments. I’ll be fine.”

  For fear of taxing the don’s strength, Parisi, like most of the other relatives, had not visited him since his stroke. Instead he had faithfully called once a week to pay his respects and give Carrera a brief, coded report of their business interests.

  Parisi was surprised by how good his uncle looked. He had lost some weight, the stroke burning off the bloat of too rich an existence, almost as if, as an ancillary benefit to his illness, he had been granted a small step back toward his youth. His jawline appeared harder, a knot of determined muscle pulsing at each of its hinges. “You really look good.”

  “Good genes are better than all the doctors in the world. I’m sure your concern for my health is sincere, but since you’ve come here during my illness, I have to assume it has something to do with business.”

  Parisi hesitated, still not sure of the propriety of bringing trouble at such a time. He smiled, shaking his head in admiration of the don’s ability to read people.

  “It’s all right, Mike, you’re my nephew. You can tell me whatever you need to.”

  Parisi explained the demands DeMiglia was making. As he was finishing, the don’s eyelids fell shut. Parisi thought he had fallen asleep, but as he rose from the chair, Carrera said, “You know this has nothing to do with you. It’s about him becoming boss.” He opened his eyes. “He thinks I am through. That leaves only you. He sees you as a final obstacle because we are related by marriage. So he orders you to do something he knows, in all likelihood, you won’t. In turn, that act of disobedience could be offered to the commission as proof of your disloyalty. You would be discredited, and because I made you a capo, I would be dishonored, making any future vote in favor of DeMiglia’s interests much more acceptable. It’s a very clever ploy. Everything is taken care of at the same time. I’m out, and he’s in, and you’re gone.”

  “The commission has to be able to see through that.”

  “He is very smart and has made friends on the commission. You remember when Frankie Falcone in Buffalo was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I’ve never really paid much attention to those kind of things.”

  “I’m aware of that. I hope, if nothing else, this problem has taught you to see that ignorance in this business can never bring bliss. Your survival is at stake. And to be honest, so is mine. What you need to know about Frankie’s murder is why. He ran his regime well for this family. He was a good earner and was always loyal, so it was both a personal and business loss for me. If I didn’t authorize it, then where did it come from? One of the reasons he was a good earner was because he would never back off when the other families wanted a piece of his action. Frankie was fearless. He was a pain in the ass to the other families, especially the Parrinos. Although they wanted him out of the way, they didn’t want to risk a war with us, so they went to someone in our family to get permission. It was still illegal, but at least they didn’t have to worry about a war.”

  “And you think DeMiglia gave them permission.”

  “By doing that he gains the Parrino vote when it comes time to appoint a new boss of this family. I suspect he has made similar deals with some of the other families. Once you are out of the way, he will be my successor.”

  “Why does he want to eliminate me? I have no ambition to become boss.”

  “He doesn’t know that for sure. When the opportunity presents itself, not many men in this business can resist. And there’s another benefit to getting rid of you. The loans and gambling you take care of are very low profile, not likely to bring in the government. And it’s almost two million dollars a year. He may have scoffed at it as small potatoes, but, unless I miss my guess, he wants it very badly. He’d be crazy not to.”

  “What can I do?”

  “First, you have to understand, panic is an enemy.”

  “Tony, I take care of your businesses. It’s like DeMiglia said, I’m more a bookkeeper than a gangster. I don’t know anything about the rest of it.”

  “Do you think I gave you that crew simply because you married my niece?”

  “I don’t know…yes.”

  “Before you came, everyone I put in charge of those interests stole from me. Not enough to do anything drastic about, but enough to be disrespectful. When I met you, I could see you had character.”

  “You’ve always treated me as if we were related by blood. That
means a great deal to me. Everything I have I owe to you. But being loyal to you and taking on someone like DeMiglia are two very different things. I barely get over on my own crew,” he laughed, “and they’re easy.”

  Carrera smiled softly. “It is the wise man who can see the genius in someone he fears. From him, he must try to steal some of that genius.”

  “How?”

  Carrera motioned toward the large table next to the bed. “Hand me that bowl with the nuts.” Carrera chose a walnut and handed it to him. “Break it open for me.”

  “Where are the nutcrackers?”

  “There are no nutcrackers. You’re on your own.”

  Parisi placed the nut between the heels of his hands, laced his fingers together, and applied as much pressure as he could. “I can’t do it.”

  “That’s right, you can’t. Not like that.” Carrera took back the walnut and picked out a second one. He manipulated them in his fist and then flexed his large, veined hand with surprising quickness. One of the shells shattered. He popped a piece of the walnut meat in his mouth.

  Parisi nodded that he understood the point of the demonstration. “But who could I use?”

  “Someone outside the family would be best.”

  “I got to tell you, Tony, this is scaring the hell out of me.”

  “Just remember, the more dangerous a man is willing to be, the more vulnerable he becomes. Violence is a weakness; it causes other weaknesses. You have to find them.”

  Parisi stood up to go. Carrera handed him two walnuts. “You are lucky, Mike, most men never get a chance to find out what they’re made of.”

  Parisi smiled. “If they live.”

  The don turned on his side and closed his eyes. “If you live.”

  After closing the door quietly behind him, Parisi stood in the hallway. Using one hand, he tried to break the nuts against each other. He repositioned them several times and squeezed as hard as he could, but nothing happened. Then he used both hands. One of the walnuts exploded into small pieces. I guess I’m someone who has to cheat a little.

  Outside Vanko’s office, a dozen or so desks for the squad members were jammed into the limited space. For the duration of the inspection Lansing had been given the one closest to the “vault,” a narrow room with cinder-block walls and a heavy-gauge steel door. Because of break-ins in the sixties, every FBI space, even one as detached from the daily treadmill as Global Fish, had been mandated to have an “extra secure” area where sensitive documents could be locked away. Inside the room was a six-hundred-pound safe with four drawers, one of which had been cleared out for Lansing’s files. He had been given a key to the door and the safe’s combination and was assured that the only other people who had access to it were Vanko and the squad secretary.

  Among the files Lansing had brought from downtown were the squad’s personnel folders. They were usually not allowed out of the office, but Lansing had asked Dreagen to make an exception. Part of the process was to interview each agent and analyze his or her performance—or lack thereof—since the last inspection. With the files in hand, finding inconsistencies would be markedly easier. For good measure, he was also given the expense and budget documents for the off-site, another exception Dreagen approved.

  The previous day, Lansing’s presence at the off-site had brought him an unexpected benefit. While he was retrieving a folder from the safe, Howard Snow had entered Vanko’s office, the back wall of which abutted the vault. Lansing realized he could make out a surprising amount of their conversation. The source appeared to be an electrical wall outlet. Using a penknife, he unscrewed the cover plate. The rest of their exchange, although slightly metallic, was clear enough to understand. As best he could tell, Vanko was providing Snow with a strategy to defeat the ongoing OPR investigation against him. He also had Snow initial a letter of commendation the SAC had sent for what Vanko referred to as the “Dimino scam.” Lansing made a note of the name and crouched down to put the plate back on the outlet. While trying to thread the single screw back into place, he imagined how he would look if someone walked in. The screw slipped between his fingers and rolled behind the safe. Unable to reach it, he just hung the plate on the outlet. It would make it easier to remove next time.

  Nick Vanko’s phone rang; it was Abby at the reception desk. She spoke in the low, unenunciated monotone. “That one you said was coming is here.”

  “Okay, bring him back.”

  Garrett Egan had been arrested, in a very public manner, by the Securities and Exchange Commission a week earlier for insider trading at a small Wall Street brokerage house. What the world had yet to learn was that he was an FBI agent working undercover in an elaborate sting operation designed to draw organized crime members into illegal transactions.

  Because of the government’s increasing success in prosecuting traditional Mafia crimes, mobsters had to find new sources of revenue. With increasing frequency, they were involving themselves in stock market fraud. Their most common ploy was a white-collar twist on one of their longtime staples—loansharking. They made loans to stockbrokers, most commonly for personal debt or business expansion. Then they would buy from them, under coercion, low-priced shares in a company before its stock went public. Through transactions that the brokers were forced to make among themselves, or in some cases faked transactions, the shares were rapidly inflated. The brokers were also made to recommend the stocks to customers, further driving up their price. The mobsters then sold everything, causing the over-valued stocks to nose-dive.

  Those in charge of the Bureau’s New York office ordered the few who knew about Egan’s arrest not to discuss it with anyone for fear it might be leaked to the press, but as usual, the “undisclosable” facts of the case swept through the office at the speed of light. Garrett Egan’s insider trading, executed using his undercover name, Sam Shelby, was not part of the FBI project. The arrest affidavit for Shelby stated that he had used information obtained from sources, still undetermined, to conduct personal trades in the market. During the last quarter, these transactions had netted him $268,000.

  Lansing watched from his desk as Abby led the new agent in the expensive suit into Vanko’s office. The inspector thought he knew who Egan was because his name had come up two days earlier during a conversation with the ASAC. Lansing had gone to see him seeking the exception to Bureau procedure concerning the removal of personnel files from the main office. “Bernie, to do this right, I’m going to need the files at the off-site.”

  “Not exactly kosher, but I think I can arrange it.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Your timing is good. That agent with the insider trading problem? He’ll be out there in the next couple of days. You’ll want his file, too. If nothing else, it’ll show a pattern that Vanko’s squad is a safe haven even for those who commit felonies.”

  “I appreciate the heads-up.”

  “Just remember, this conversation never took place.”

  Lansing flipped open Garrett Egan’s file to the photo attached to the inside cover. His face seemed older than the photo, which had been taken the day he was hired eight years earlier.

  Lansing was about to get up and, with as much casualness as he could summon, make his way into the vault. But he noticed T.H. Crowe staring at him. According to the files, Crowe was the oldest agent on the squad and apparently had been through enough inspections that they no longer intimidated him. Or had he seen Lansing in the vault, removing the cover plate and listening? He looked away and within a few seconds looked back. Crowe maintained his emotionless stare. Egan’s was a conversation he wasn’t going to hear.

  Vanko offered the newest arrival a seat. “Do you know anything about this squad?”

  “No.” Although just a single syllable, the answer was charged with resentment.

  “We work organized crime, the Galante family. Specifically, the Michael Parisi regime.”

  “Great, cops and robbers. That’s what I need to get my mind off my problems. This is go
ing to cost me a hundred thousand dollars in lawyer’s fees with no guarantee I won’t go to prison, so excuse me if I can’t get too excited about locking up some Italian who’s extorting money from some other guy who’s probably a bigger asshole than he is. Besides, I’ve spent a night in jail. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  This was not the first time Vanko had endured the diatribes of a reporting agent, and he knew that the source of Egan’s anger was more than his onrushing legal problems. Arrival at the squad was final proof of exile, of being jettisoned from respectability just as an agent was frantically searching for self-respect. The Bureau was in the process of turning its back on him, stripping him of the safety of its community, attempting to leave him with the perception that his only remaining duty was to go off quietly to whatever fate he had brought upon himself.

  Nine years earlier, after his accident, Vanko had been similarly excommunicated, exiled to the complaint desk, a cramped room that most agents couldn’t find if they wanted to. Call-in complaints were maddening. A high percentage of them were from the psychologically unstable, and the “legitimate” ones were usually too convoluted to be investigated or were completely without merit. And, of course, the more unqualified the complaint, the more outraged the callers were about being denied their “right to justice.”

  Vanko had understood the purpose of the reassignment and in a strange way agreed with it. When someone makes an error in judgment as large as his, he needs to be tested for resolve, to determine if he is in the midst of a disastrous pattern. In his case, a woman had died. The subsequent inquiry concluded that he was not at fault, but premature death, even when adjudicated, invariably left an aftertaste of suspicion.

  His scarred face hadn’t helped, either. It served as an indelible reminder of potential bad judgment. The complaint room was the perfect answer. Neither the public nor the other agents had to be exposed to his disfigurement or reminded of its origin. The bleak cubicle had been known to break the resolve of even the most unyielding probationers. But Vanko accepted the transfer, hoping that, if nothing else, its piercing loneliness would prove cathartic.