Drink With The Devil

1995

SEVEN

PAOLO SALAMONE WALKED across the grass with his lawyer, Marco Sollazo. In spite of the Sicilian names, they were both good Americans born and bred. There the similarity ended.

Salamone was off the streets of New York’s Little Italy and he’d followed the usual Mafia route. First as one of the boys, the piccioti, gaining advancement and respect. He’d acted as an executioner three times, which had gained him entry into the family of Don Antonio Russo as a sicario, a specialist assassin. He’d been to prison twice on comparatively minor matters including drug dealing. His downfall occurred two years earlier when on taking out one of Don Antonio’s competitors, a street policeman had unexpectedly arrived on the scene. Salamone in a gun battle had received a bullet in the leg, which had put him down. Unfortunately, his own bullet had killed the police officer, who just happened to be a woman. His sentence of twenty-five years instead of life reflected the skill of his lawyer, Don Antonio’s nephew, Marco Sollazo.

The only reason Salamone had been transferred to Green Rapids from the Ossining Correctional Facility was because he had taken a full nursing course and was therefore thought of more use in the Green Rapids medical facility.

Marco Sollazo was thirty-five, a saturnine, rather handsome man in an Armani striped suit and college tie, dark hair swept back. A product of Groton and Harvard Law School, carefully nurtured by his uncle, he was Don Antonio’s pride and joy.

“Marco, you told me there was a chance you’d get me a rehearing. Involuntary manslaughter. Now you tell me I could be here another twenty-three years.”

“I’m doing my best,” Marco said. “It’s difficult.”

“Yeh, well I’m doing my best. I know plenty about the Family, but I don’t speak out.”

“Paolo, I don’t think Don Antonio would be pleased to hear you speak like that. It would distress him.”

Paolo said hastily, “Heh, don’t get me wrong, I’d never betray my Godfather. It’s just, like, I could do with some help here.”

“I know, I know.” Marco sounded sympathetic. “I’ll explore every avenue. I mean, the Don has much influence. Who knows?”

Salamone plucked at his arm. “What if I give you something good? Something real good?”

“And what would that be?”

There were prisoners and their visitors wandering everywhere on the grass and Salamone pulled Sollazo over to a bench and sat down. He pointed across to a man who was in his mid sixties with gray hair. The young, dark- haired woman with him seemed about twenty-five.

“Liam Kelly, he calls himself. The woman is his niece, Jean Kelly. She’s a theater nurse down at Green Rapids General Hospital.”

“So?”

“He’s doing twenty-five for shooting a policeman in Pleasantville ten years ago when he was robbing a bank. I met him in Ossining, then he had an angina attack and they moved him down here because of the hospital. I followed a few months later to join the staff. You see, we’ve got a good facility here, but Green Rapids is very special. Any problem and we send the patient straight down there.”

“So where is this leading?”

“The other month he had an attack. I should tell you they’re Irish, but not the usual kind. That funny accent they have in the north of Ireland. Anyway, he’s not in good health and he got a fever. They had him on a drip in a private room. I was night nurse at the time and had to check him out.”

“So?”

“When he was delirious he said all sorts of crazy things. Kept going on about some ship called the Irish Rose, and then he would say he was the only one who knew where it had gone down, the only one who knew where the gold was.”

There was a long pause. Sollazo sat there frowning. “The only one who knew where the gold was? He said that?”

“That’s right.”

“So what did you make of it?”

Salamone was enjoying himself. “I went to the prison library. We’ve got a great computer service here. I tapped in the Irish Rose name, and bingo.”

“Go on,” Sollazo told him.

“There was an item in the New York Times in the autumn of nineteen eighty-five. It seems a truck carrying fifty million pounds in gold bullion was knocked off up in the northwest of England on the coast. It said police inquiries indicated that it had put to sea on a ferry called the Irish Rose.”

“Then what?”

“The ship disappeared, but lifebelts and what was left of a lifeboat were washed up on the Irish coast. End of story.”

“And it said nothing about who was behind it?”

“Not a word.”

“Interesting,” Sollazo said. “Let’s take a walk.”

They strolled across the grass and passed the bench where Kelly and his niece were sitting, heads together. She glanced up casually and Salamone said, “Hi, Liam.”

“How’s yourself, Paolo?” was the reply.

Sollazo and Salamone passed on and Kathleen Ryan said, her accent more American than Irish now, “Who was that one, Uncle Michael?”

“Paolo Salamone. He’s a nurse in the hospital. We’ve something in common. We’re both doing twenty-five years for shooting a policeman, only in his case it was for shooting a policewoman. Anyway, how are you?”

“I’m fine. They keep me busy at the hospital.”

“Still no man in your life?”

“Too much bother.” She smiled. “Lucky I managed the job at Green Rapids. At least I can see you regularly.”

“And for how long, another fifteen years?” He shook his head. “You can’t waste your life like this, Kathleen.” He was angry now and stood up. “God, how could I have been so stupid? A small-town bank, I said. A piece of cake and then that policeman came round the corner.”

“It was just one of those things.”

“Well, thank God you managed to drive off and get the hell out of it.”

He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. She said, “You know you shouldn’t smoke.”

“So I can extend my life a year or two here in good old Green Rapids Detention Center?” He grinned wryly and dropped the cigarette to the ground. “All right, I’ll be good. Come on, I’ll walk you to the gate.”

There were a number of people going in the same direction and she noticed Salamone and Sollazo. They reached the security exit and paused. Ryan kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’ll see you Friday.”

She went through security and approached her car. As she unlocked her door she saw Sollazo walking towards a silver Porsche. He glanced at her casually, then looked away. For some reason it made her feel uncomfortable, and she got in her car quickly and drove off.

Sollazo watched her go and reached for his mobile phone and called his office. When his secretary answered he said, “Rosa, check the files for a report in the New York Times of a robbery in the north of England connected with a ship called the Irish Rose, which apparently went down at sea.”

“Very well, sir, anything else?”

“Yes, get our people in London to check for any newspaper stories there. They’ll probably be more detailed. I want this like yesterday.”