“I’ll take it,” Menzies said.
The salesman tried not to hyperventilate. This was his second truly breathtaking sale inside of a week; his Christmas bonus was growing quickly.
“Please have a seat at my desk, sir,” the salesman said, “and we’ll complete the paperwork and registration.”
Menzies sat down, answered the man’s questions, and wrote him a check.
Later, on his way back to the Park Avenue apartment, he allowed the joy of freedom and wealth to wash over him. Certainly, years before, he had not planned to commit an act that would send him to prison, but, having lost control of himself on that fateful day, he had planned this outcome for twelve years. It had taken him less than a month to demonstrate his value in the prison offices; it had taken him the mandatory two years to win a small measure of freedom as a trusty; and it had taken him little longer to win the financial trust of Captain Warkowski, the warden, and a number of other prison administrators. He had, in fact, won their devotion by advising them to get out of the stock market shortly before the 1987 Reagan crash. That coup, combined with the bull market of the nineties, had allowed him to increase his wealth tenfold and that of his new clients, as well. Seven years before, with the kind help of Eloise Enzberg, he had had his name legally changed. By the time the governor, on the recommendation of the grateful warden and the parole board, had approved his unconditional release, Mitteldorfer had become the most popular man in Sing Sing.
As he neared his apartment building, he realized that his elation had overwhelmed his good sense. He could not afford to be seen by the doorman wearing brand-new clothing on the day of his wife’s grave illness. He waited around the corner until Jeff had to walk up Park half a block to find a taxi on a cross street for a resident, then he ducked into the building and went up to his apartment.
There he found his computer, which had been delivered and installed in his absence, and his files and records. He went through them carefully, weeding out anything with the name Mitteldorfer on it, shredding the documents before stuffing them into garbage bags. Then he fired up his computer and visited his investments. The market was holding up nicely, he was pleased to see.
He had some lunch, then answered the house phone.
“Mr. Menzies, it’s Jeff, at the front door. A gentleman is here with your car.”
“Yes, Jeff; tell him I’ll meet him in the garage.”
“Yes, sir.”
Menzies rode the elevator down to the basement, where the salesman went through all the Mercedes’s features and controls. He wanted badly to drive the car, but that would have to wait until his driver’s license had been issued. He did not wish to allow even the possibility of a brush with the law. He thanked the man and returned to his apartment.
He rang Jeff on the house phone. “There will be some parcels delivered later today,” he told the doorman. “Things I bought earlier in the week.”
“Of course, sir; I’ll bring them right up when they arrive. And how is Mrs. Menzies doing?”
“I’m afraid she has had a stroke,” he replied. “I’m very concerned about her, and I’ll be leaving in just a few minutes to be with her.”
“I’ll remember her in my prayers,” Jeff said.
“You do that, Jeff,” Menzies replied. He hung up the phone with a smile on his face.
27
DINO WALKED AROUND THE MERCEDES, considering it carefully. “Jesus, it’s a sinister-looking thing, isn’t it?”
“The only exterior differences from the standard E Class are the side moldings and the front air dam,” Stone replied, opening the car door. “And the black, rear-seat glass. Of course, under the hood it’s a whole new ball game.”
“Let me drive,” Dino said.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Stone said. “You always drive as if you’ve just stolen the car; the only way you’ll ever get your hands on this car is on a track, if you want to go to that much trouble.”
“You’re a real pain in the ass, Stone,” Dino said, sliding into the passenger seat. “You know that?”
“I know,” Stone said. “I’ll get us to the Brooklyn Bridge, and you’ll have to direct me after that. I’ve never been farther into Brooklyn than the River Cafe.”
“And that’s not very far,” Dino said. “Drive. I’ll watch our ass; I don’t want anybody tailing us to the Bianchi place.”
Stone pulled away from Dino’s apartment house. “This is going to be an interesting dinner,” he said. “I’ve never met your father-in-law.”
“You’re a lucky man,” Dino said. “He’s a poisonous old son of a bitch. Don’t let him offer you any work; he’ll own you before you know it. He’s never let me forget how we got the apartment.”
“How old a man is he?”
“He won’t tell anybody, but he’s got to be seventy. You’d think a lifetime of crime would show up in his face, but there’s no justice. By the way, assume that anything you say is going to be overheard by representatives of one or more branches of the federal government.”
“He’s wired?”
“Probably not, but he never really knows. That little anxiety is probably the only punishment he’s ever going to receive in this lifetime.”
“Surely the feds are going to get him one of these days; they get them all, eventually.”
“Don’t count on it, pal. An FBI man told me a few weeks ago that they’re still not even sure that he’s Mob. I mean, he’s got a miniconglomerate of legitimate businesses that never break a law or fail to pay taxes, so he can explain his lifestyle. He does business with the city and the state, and he never tries to bribe anybody. Every conceivable law-enforcement agency has been through every company with a fine-toothed comb, and they’ve never found a thing. Last time the IRS audited one of his businesses, he got a half-million-dollar refund.”
Stone laughed aloud. “He sounds like a real piece of work.”
“Listen, he’s made enough legit bucks to live like a goddamned Florentine prince. He’s got a palazzo in Venice, which ain’t exactly Mafia country; he’s got an oceanfront house in Vero Beach, Florida, where no mobster has ever shown his face. I don’t think he’s ever even been to Sicily, where his people come from.”
“If he’s done so well legitimately, then why does he stay mobbed up?”
“I’ve got my theories about that: to begin with, his first money came from his father, who was one of the originals, right out of Prohibition. Eduardo, though, went to Columbia and got both a law and an accounting degree. What he was learning, I figure, was how to hide the sources of the money, and this was during the Hoover years, when there wasn’t even supposed to be a Mafia, according to that jerk, J. Edgar. Eduardo, when he got out of college, never went near anything that could be identified with the Mob, except his father, who died at sixty, when Eduardo was in his late twenties. By the time the FBI started paying attention, he was so far removed from anything crooked and the past was buried so deep that they were never able to get anything on him.”
“Then how does he run the family?”
“When he wants something done, he whispers into somebody’s ear, and that guy whispers into another ear, and so on, until the source of the order is obscured.”
“Why hasn’t anybody ever given him up?”
“The young goombahs are so stupid that they can’t connect him with the family any better than the FBI. When one of them gets turned and testifies, he knows nothing to tell. I mean, they know, but they don’t know.”
“And why haven’t some of the guys closer to him had him capped?”
“He’s too smart; he makes them so much money they’ve got nothing to complain about. And my guess is he’s already got the succession worked out, so that there won’t be any big-time squabble when he finally dies, if he ever does.”
“Why do you think he invited me to dinner?”
