8
T he Holland Tunnel was less than two miles from my apartment, and luckily for me there was a flight out of Newark, just on the other side of the river. I was in Raleigh/Durham in time to catch the late news coverage of the “continuing plummet of BOS stock.”
My visit to Tony Martin was all the more timely, but a decent night’s sleep had been impossible. I couldn’t stop wondering what those stock analysts would have said if they had heard rumors that BOS/Singapore was directly connected to the disappearance of billions of dollars tainted by the Cushman scheme. If they had known about my ride through Times Square with a gun to my head. If they had known what I was doing in North Carolina.
“Turn here,” I told the taxi driver.
“That’s the road to the prison.”
“That’s where I’m headed,” I said. “Central Prison Hospital.”
Tony Martin was one of the lucky ones. His plea of guilty to the charge of murder in the first degree had landed him in the custody of the Florida Department of Corrections, where he would have been treated just like any of the other 800,000 inmates nationwide who suffered from chronic illness that required regular medical attention. Two years into his sentence, when the disease progressed, strings were pulled for transfer to a facility that could better treat his cancer. Central Prison in North Carolina had a 230-bed hospital and an even bigger one under construction, and it was just minutes away from the Duke University Medical Center in Durham for more specialized treatment. It was about as good as it got for inmates who required maximum-security confinement. It was the best deal around for a seriously ill mobster who was without health insurance and had lost his entire life savings to Abe Cushman’s Ponzi scheme.
The taxi stopped at the entrance gate to the prison grounds. Directly ahead was a sprawling redbrick building that looked like a multilevel office complex, but for the guard towers, sharpshooters, and double perimeter of chain- link fence topped with razor ribbon. The corrections officer at the checkpoint was telling the cabdriver how to get to the hospital on the other side of the parking lot when my BlackBerry rang. It was Lilly.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Atlanta.” I lied. It was getting to be a habit, and I didn’t like it. But the truth was not an option.
“You need to come back to New York.”
“I’ll be back tonight,” I said.
“Come as soon as you can. Everything’s changed.”
The guard at the gatehouse allowed my taxi to pass. I wasn’t entirely comfortable talking in a cab, but the driver was having a heated cell phone discussion about his fantasy football “mock draft”-whatever that was-and seemed sufficiently distracted. I spoke as softly as I could.
“What do you mean everything’s changed?”
“I was so sure I was right.” She was talking fast, which was what Lilly did when she got nervous. “Tony Martin was Tony Mandretti, Mandretti worked for the mob, the mob killed Collins for losing their money with Cushman, and now the mob is after me to get its money back. Now that’s all out the window, and I don’t have a clue who is trying to get back the two billion dollars that Gerry Collins funneled through me.”
The cab stopped, and my heart thumped. It was freaky the way Lilly had mentioned Mandretti’s name the moment I had arrived at Central Prison.
“Slow down, Lilly. Why is that out the window?”
“I was lying in bed, going over in my mind everything the guy in Times Square said to you. His exact words. He said: ‘It’s time to see the money. Cough it up, or you will both end up like Gerry Collins.’ ”
“Right, I remember.”
“Don’t you get it?”
I didn’t see her point at all, but even with the cabdriver trying to work out a fantasy trade for Peyton Manning, I wasn’t in a position to talk about it. Lilly was talking too fast for me to jump in anyway.
“He threatened to do the same thing to you and me that he did to Gerry Collins.
“I’m not sure you can make that leap of logic,” I said.
“Yes. That’s clearly what he was saying. You have to take into account the way he said it, not just what he said.”
“I agree, but still… I’m not sure.”
“This is so obvious to me. If the guy who killed Gerry Collins is still out there-threatening you, threatening me- then Tony Mandretti is sitting in jail for something he didn’t do.”
“Lilly-”
“I know, I know. The man entered a guilty plea, and I understand he lost all his money to Cushman thanks to Gerry Collins. But I don’t care. Something’s not right.”
The cabdriver was off the phone. He called my attention to the meter, which was still running. “Sir, if you’re gonna sit here and talk, I gotta charge you.”
“Lilly, I need to go. I’ll be back in New York early this evening.”
“I’m scared. Maybe it’s time to go to the police.”
“You’re ignoring your own instincts,” I said, lowering my voice, my hand over my mouth to prevent the cabdriver from overhearing. “You said it yourself before: he threatened to kill us if we call the cops. It’s too soon to say he’s the same guy who killed Collins.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“Lilly, don’t!” My tone was harsher than I’d intended-harsh enough for the driver to throw me a look in the rearview mirror.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot on my plate today. Please, don’t do anything while I’m away. Don’t worry about going over to the hotel to check out. Just stay in the apartment until I get back.”
She didn’t answer right away. When she finally did, it was in a weak voice. “If you really think that’s the right thing.”
“I do. It’s okay. We’re going to be just fine.”
“I want us to be more than just fine.”
It was a nice sentiment, just enough to ease some of the tension. “Me, too,” I said. “I’ll call you this afternoon from the airport.”
We said good-bye, and the driver turned off the meter.
“That’ll be fifty-two fifty.”
I paid and asked him to come back in an hour for my trip to the airport. I grabbed my bag and started up the sidewalk to the visitation center, where visits to both the penitentiary and prison hospital were coordinated. The corrections officer seated on the other side of the Plexiglas divider looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”
I had to catch myself and make sure I asked to see Tony Martin, not Mandretti. The officer inspected my bag, checked my identification, and gave me a printed form to complete. My name wasn’t on the list of preapproved visitors, so there was even more paperwork. He made a phone call while I was filling it out, and he seemed a bit flummoxed after hanging up.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“Have a seat, please. Someone will be out to see you in a minute.”
I went with the flow and found a chair by the vending machines. I checked my watch. Lilly had sounded completely freaked on the telephone, and I wondered how long it would take her to call again to see when I was coming back to New York. I felt guilty again for having lied to her, pretending that I didn’t know that Tony Martin was Tony Mandretti. She was so sure of her detective work on the mob connection to the Cushman money, but she was still poking at the tip of the iceberg.
I knew all about Tony Mandretti, the former New York mobster who had become Tony Martin upon entering the witness protection program. More than a decade had passed since Mandretti’s testimony against the Santucci family. It had been front-page news, though many in law enforcement had been opposed to a deal that, in their view, didn’t give Tony enough jail time. I had no firsthand knowledge, but those same critics must have seen it as
