airport together.” Cirro arrived at Delfina’s side. Delfina said, “Let’s get to the airport, Mike.” The two walked toward the door for a few steps, and Delfina stopped. “The woman in the drawing. She’s the one that’s got to be behind all of it. Forget everything except her.”
While Cirro drove him to the airport, Delfina thought about the woman. His people were all looking for her full-time, and he was pretty sure that most of the soldiers from the other families were doing the same, but she had not been spotted since Milwaukee. It was time to make a bigger effort to get the rest of the world to help with the search. He took out a pen and a piece of paper and began to compose a new flyer. She seemed to be into disguises, so it should have her picture on it, but this time the artist would show other possibilities: long hair, short hair, blond hair, and sunglasses. Instead of just saying she was missing, it would say she was being sought for questioning. That implied the search was all legal, but didn’t actually say she had committed a crime.
Instead of just alluding to a reward, he would name one. A hundred thousand? No. It wasn’t enough. People got junk mail from magazine wholesalers every day that offered millions. Make it a half million dollars.
There was another thing, too—the place. People were already looking all over the country, but that haphazard method didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. He had to be selective. The first thing the woman had done was drag the girl up from Florida. People had forgotten that. Bernie had lived in Florida, and the girl had been born there, and that was where all of this had started. In a day or so, the girl’s mother was going to be taken off the count in a Florida prison, and there would be some kind of burial service. He would put down that she was believed to be in Florida. That wasn’t a sure thing, though. Where else?
Bernie had been killed in Detroit. There was still the chance that this whole scheme had been run by the Ogliaro family. Of course, Vincent Ogliaro was in federal prison, so if she was communicating with him, she wouldn’t go to Detroit to do it. He looked up at Cirro. “Tell me again. Where’s Vincent Ogliaro serving his sentence?”
“Marion, Illinois.”
He added that to his flyer: “Believed to be either in Florida or in the vicinity of Marion, Illinois.” Then he realized it was wrong. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. He should have paid more attention to the way the magazine clearing houses did it. The flyer had to make it sound easy, as though the very next step the person took was going to make him rich. He would do several different flyers. He would send one to Florida that said she was believed to be in Florida. He would send another to the upper Midwest saying she was probably in the Detroit area. He would send one to the lower Midwest saying she was likely to be near Marion, Illinois. Then he could begin to concentrate his men in the strip of the country she was almost sure to pass through at some point, the thin slice that ran from Chicago east along the bottom of the Great Lakes to New York.
30
Phil Langusto sat in the study of his house on Prospect Park and willed himself to believe that things were going the way they should. His brother Joe had the head for finance, and he and Tony Pompi were on top of this. But what they said seemed to him to be impossible to see as anything but a disaster. He glanced at his watch. He had been sitting here listening to them for only five minutes, but it seemed like five hours.
He said, “Joe, can you just let me know when you’ve got a name and a place? This is like having a sigmoidoscopy, with the doctors pointing out the sights on the television screen while they crank the camera gadget farther and farther up your ass.”
Joe said, “No, listen, Phil. I think we’re getting somewhere. Tony set up this company. It’s in the business of compiling information about charities. We’re telling charities we’re putting together the ultimate mailing list of big- time donors, and we’re going to give it to them if they cooperate. We’re using a regular boiler room, fifty guys on phones. The charities think we’re helping them, so they’re answering. They’re even calling us.”
“Yeah?” said Phil. “What are they telling you?”
“Big donations are coming in, sure. That’s the bad news. They’re all coming by mail. We tried a lot of ways of charting the charities that are getting them. Dead end. So we tried tracking the places where they’re getting mailed from. We have a pattern. One day, we’ll get a whole bunch from the West Coast. That ends. The next day, everything will be from the Deep South—Florida to northern Georgia. After that, there’s no mail from there at all.”
“This is going to kill me,” said Phil. “What good is this?”
“We’re making a map.”
“A map?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “If we can chart where these people have been, and what direction they’re going, we can just draw a line ahead of them to figure out where they’ll be tomorrow.”
Phil Langusto took his feet off his desk and sat up straight. Maybe Joe finally had something. “Have you got it with you?”
Joe nodded to Tony Pompi, who opened his big envelope, took out a large, white folded sheet, and began to unfold it. Phil Langusto’s eyes settled on his brother’s face, saw the expression of deranged cunning, and felt a tearing sensation in his chest. Joe had always been the smart one. It was Joe who had gotten the good grades in school, Joe who was supposed to go far. Joe didn’t belong in the real world. He was as intelligent as anybody needed to be, but he had been born with no instincts. It was like not getting a joke, or being tone-deaf. There was no cure for it.
The map just kept unfolding, until Joe and Pompi knelt on the big Oriental rug to tug the corners and straighten it. Phil stood and walked to the lower edge of it. The map was seven feet wide and five feet long, showing the whole country. Phil could see red dots sprinkled on the map as though they had been sprayed from a severed artery. The West Coast had been splattered. There were a few drops in Arizona and New Mexico, a big blotch on the upper Plains that ran to the Great Lakes, then a whole line of dots dripping up the East Coast from Florida to Virginia.
“See?” Joe asked expectantly. “We’re getting their act.”
Phil’s jaw tightened so hard that the muscles on the sides of his face hurt. “What the hell are you talking about? San Francisco, Miami, Atlanta, Minneapolis? What am I supposed to do with that?”
“The money is being mailed from those places, and there’s an order. We think somebody is driving around mailing the checks.” He pointed at the map. “It could be two cars. It doesn’t matter, though.”
“Joey,” said Phil, because calling him that always artificially induced patience: this was still his little brother. “You’re a smart man. I love you for it. But what I need you for right now is to find out for me what is going on—the big picture, you know? Somebody is tapping the money that Bernie the Elephant had, right? That much is for sure?”
Joe shrugged. “Of course. We were waiting to see big money moving. This is really big money, and it’s bouncing all over the place. We’ve got hundreds of guys keeping track of it.”
Phil said, “But you’re not telling me what I want to know. How does the scam work? They pull the money out of wherever Bernie deposited it, or invested it, right? They then donate it to, say, the United Way. No taxes, no questions. That makes sense to me. But how does the money complete the rest of the circle?”
Joe was still staring at his map with pride. “What circle?” he asked.
Tony Pompi said, “He means, how does it then get from the United Way back to these people who stole it. That right, Mr. Langusto?”
“Right,” said Phil. “How?”
Joe shrugged again. “We don’t know yet.”
“Guess!” Phil shouted. “Either of you.”
Tony Pompi looked nervously at Joe, who nodded. Pompi said, “We’ve got people on that, but these are honest-to-God charities. The only way we’ve thought of that makes sense is that these people have found some way to tap the accounts of the charities. If you send a check to the charity, they endorse it on the back by stamping it with an account number and the words ‘For Deposit Only.’ Their bank takes it and sends it back to your bank, which sends it to you.”
“I’ve got checking accounts, for Christ’s sake,” said Phil. “I know that much. So what?”
“You then have their bank branch’s location and the number of their account.”
“Then what? You cook up a fake check of theirs and write it to yourself?”
Tony Pompi looked at Joe for help, and Joe said, “The short answer is yes. Of course it would be more complicated than that.”
