'Consequently,' he continued, 'the Roses were contacted at a hotel in Paris. The St. Louis, it's called. An old gun sellers' hangout through several wars now.
'The Roses were given one month to prepare an outline for a plan that would achieve results agreeable to both sides at this table. they declined making an appearance at this meeting, however.'
The consigliere looked up again. He then began to read from twenty-odd pages sent to him by the Roses. The pages outlined two rough plans for the proposed operations. One plan was titled 'Systematic Government Assassinations,' the other was simply called 'Machete.'
Also included in the brief was a list of pros and cons for each plan.
In fact, what seemed to impress both sides gathered around the table-what had impressed Goldman himself-was the seriousness with which both theoretical plans had been approached and researched. they were referred to specifically as 'rough,' 'experimental,' but the outline for each seemed obsessively airtight. Typically Damian Rose.
'The final bid they put in for this work,' Isadore Goldman reported, 'is one point two million. I myself think it's a fair estimate. I think it's low, in fact.... I also think this man Damian Rose is a genius. Perhaps the woman is, too. Gentlemen?'
Predictably, Frankie Rao had the first word on the plans.
'Is that fuckin' francs or dollars, Izzie?' he shouted down the wooden plank table. 'It's fuckin' dollars those loonie tunes are talking about, isn't it?'
Goldman noticed that their man, Harold Hill, seemed startled and upset by the New York mobster.
The young man who looked like Montgomery Clift broke into a toothpaste smile, however. Brooks Campbell. Good for you, Isadore Goldman thought. Smart boy. Break the goddamn tensions down a little.
For the first time since the meeting began, most of the men at the long wooden table laughed. Both sides laughed like hell. Even Frankie Rao began to howl.
As the laughter died down, Goldman nodded to a dark-haired man who sat very quietly at the far end of the table. Goldman then nodded at their side's chief man, Harold Hill.
'Does the figure include all expenses?' was Hill's only question. The young man at his side, Campbell, nodded as if this were his question, too.
'It includes every expense,' Isadore Goldman said. 'The Roses expect this to take approximately one year to carry out. They'll have to use twenty to thirty other professionals along the way. A Who's Who of the most elite mercenaries.'
'Dirt cheap. ' The quiet, dark-haired man suddenly spoke in a deep, Senate floor voice. The man was Charles Forlenza, forty-three-year-old don of the Forlenza Family. The boss of bosses.
'You've gotten us a good price and good people, Isadore. As I expected.... I can't speak for Mr. Hill, but I'm pleased with this work myself. '
'The price is appropriate for this kind of guerrilla operation. ' Harold Hill addressed the don. 'The Roses' reputation for this sort of complex, delicate work is excellent. I'm happy. Good.'
At this point on February 24, 1979, the United States, through a proprietary company called Great Western Air Transport, entered into one of the more sting alliances in its two-hundred-year history: a large-scale working agreement with the Charles Forlenza Family of the West Coast. The Cosa Nostra.
For both sides it meant that they could immediately farm out some very necessary dirty work.
Neither the United States nor the Forlenzas wanted to soil their hands with what had to be done in the Caribbean during 1979.
That was why they had so very carefully sought out Daniian and Carrie Rose. Les Dements, as the couple was once called in Southeast Asia. The Maniacs.
Two hours after the meeting in southwestern Nevada-on the way back to Las Vegas-a silvergray Buick Wildcat stopped along a long stretch of flat, open highway. The youthful chauffeur of the car got out. He went to the back door of the sedan and opened it. Then Melo Russo politely asked his boss to get out of the car.
'Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?' Frankie Rao said to his driver, a skinny young shark in reflector sunglasses.
'All right, so fuck you, then,' Melo said.
He fired three times into the backseat of the Buick. Blood spattered all over the rear windows and slowly rnisted down onto the light silver seat covers. Then Russo dragged Frankie the Cat's body outside and put it in the trunk of the car.
It had been quietly decided at the farmhouse meeting that Frankie Rao was an unacceptable risk for Harold Hill and the nice young man who looked like Montgomery Clift.
'Typical, ' Isadore Goldman muttered somewhere out on the Nevada desert.
CHAPTER Two
Once-in France, this was-in June or July-Damian had gone on a tirade about how perfect our work in Cambodia and Vietnam had been. How it bothered the hell out of him that no one could know. That there was no way to capitalize on the work... Funny quirk (twist): In a French village, Grasse, we sat in an espresso house. Damian conversed in English with a very polite street cleaner who spoke no English at all. He told the man every last detail about the Caribbean adventure. 'Geniel Demon! Non?' he said in French at the end of it. The poor confused street cleaner smiled as if Damian were an insane little boy....
The Rose Diary
June 11, 1979; Paris
Three months after the Nevada meeting, in the fashionable St.-Germain section of Paris, Damian Rose swung back and forth on a rope hammock from Au Printemps. The hammock was tied to a heavy stonework terrace. The large pigeon-gray terrace overlooked the Jardin des Tuileries, the Seine, the Louvre. The scenery of Paris was as
