“I don’t know … Castananza pulled his guys out first.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” said Castiglione gently. “But you’re way behind on this. Somebody used this to see what he could take that was worth more than Bernie’s money. When you had this sit-down and decided everything, who was the one that arranged it? Where was it held?”
“John Augustino got everybody down to Pennsylvania. We met in this bus he has.”
“It figures.”
“Why? The Langustos seemed to do all the talking, and they were the ones who brought Bernie into the city in the first place. Or their father was.”
“I’m talking about way before that. Bernie was from Pittsburgh. There was a meeting in the forties in Miami. The one who brought Bernie in and sold him to all of us was Sal Augustino, John’s father. The Langustos just had the job of keeping Bernie fed and protected because in those days we wanted him in New York. I’d say that the one you want to watch out for isn’t the one who’s doing the talking. It’s the one who’s sitting behind him and watching everybody’s faces. If Phil and Joe Langusto did all the talking, forget them. The one who’s getting ready to cut your throat is John Augustino.”
“I never would have thought of it that way,” said Molinari. He stared at Castiglione for a few seconds. “I know that when you came here, you didn’t get out of the life. I can see you still have money coming in, and somebody is telling you things.”
Castiglione’s face was empty of expression.
Molinari said, “I think maybe you still have people who work for you but don’t say they work for you. I think maybe, if you said the word, all of a sudden you would have some soldiers.”
Castiglione stared into his glass of wine. The time was here. “That’s a dangerous thing to talk about. If anybody thought there was a chance you wanted that, they’d get together and come for your head.”
Molinari shrugged. “If I get through this and they don’t, it won’t matter what they would have done.”
Castiglione lifted his wine glass, held the stem between his thumb and forefinger and twirled it, watching the wine try to catch up. “I’ve been here for a long time. The soldiers I had, they’re still where they always were. Their bosses probably don’t remember what family these guys belonged to before.”
“I want you to come back with me.”
Castiglione pretended to think about it. He had known that this day would come. After all these years sitting in the desert and waiting, it was all coming together. Molinari had no idea who he was asking for help. He was too young to remember. In a month or a year, all of the capos who had forced Castiglione to come here would be dead. Then it would just be Castiglione and Molinari, then just Castiglione. “I’ll try to help you,” he said.
“How many of these guys from the old days will come if you call? How many are you sure of?”
Castiglione pursed his lips. “Not many. Two hundred.”
Molinari’s heart began to thump. He had been right all along, but this was beyond his expectations. Let Augustino come; let all of them come. It just could be that when they did, the guys they had come to trust, the middle-aged, reliable ones who had worked for them for a dozen years, and before that had been part of the old Castiglione organization, would put the shotgun to the backs of their heads.
39
Phil Langusto stared at his brother, then at Tony Pompi. Their faces were expressionless. They didn’t want to come in and tell him anything that required them to draw a conclusion. They just wanted to pretend they were technicians, showing him facts and figures because facts and figures weren’t their fault. He waited impatiently while Pompi extracted the folded map from its envelope and laboriously unfolded it. His brother Joe took the other end of it, and they held it like a blanket and set it on the floor.
Phil walked to the edge of the map and looked down. It made him sick. The country looked like the body of a dead hippopotamus, lying there on its side with blood-red dots all over it. The spatters of red that had been concentrated on both coasts now overlapped into huge streams that ran down from Canada to Mexico in the west, and from New England to Florida in the east. But the part that had changed most was the midsection. There were dots on most of the major cities from Minneapolis to New York, and from the Great Lakes south to the Mason-Dixon line.
Phil said quietly, “This is what you wanted to show me?”
Joe nodded. “It was pretty much what we thought. They were on their way into the Midwest to mail the rest of the donations.”
Phil glared at Joe, then at Pompi. “What is it? Did you come in just to tell me that you were right and get a pat on the head? Do you have some new theory, some new plan?”
Joe stared down at the map regretfully. “Not exactly. We just thought it was time to show you what we were seeing.”
“I see a few thousand bright red dots. What do you see?”
Joe cleared his throat, nervously. “The map hasn’t changed in a few days.”
“What do you mean? It looks terrible.”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “It does. But what worries us is that it isn’t any more terrible than it was about a week ago.” He waited for Phil to catch on, but his brother’s eyes just burned into his. “We think they’re through mailing letters.”
Phil stared down at the map. “But there are still a few empty spots. Nothing down in here at all.” He pointed at the bottom of the map with the toe of his shoe, vaguely indicating Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana.
Tony Pompi said, “We noticed that too. But the letters have stopped. Either they weren’t going down there in the first place, or … ” He shrugged.
“Or somebody stopped them?”
Joe Langusto said, “Well, it’s a possibility.”
Phil walked to his desk and dialed the telephone. “Bobby?” he said. “Phil. Have you found him yet?” He listened for a few seconds. “What? Are you sure?” He stared at the floor for a moment and frowned. “Bobby, stay right where you are. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” He hung up.
“What’s that?” asked Joe.
“While you two have been playing with your map, a lot of stuff has been happening,” said Phil. “Things I don’t like.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“To start with, guys are getting pulled out. One minute they’re in an airport watching the baggage claim, and then next minute they’re upstairs buying a ticket out. Our own guys have been calling in from everywhere. They want to know what’s up.”
“What is up?” asked Joe.
Phil stared at him with an expression that was almost hatred. After an effort, the look softened, as though he had momentarily forgotten Joe’s face, then recognized it. “First it’s Castananza. All of his guys went in the middle of the night. Then it’s Catania: a few here, a few there, sneaking off. Then Delfina. None of them said a word to anybody.”
“Why would they do that?”
Phil backed to the chair by the phone, let his knees buckle, and sat down hard. He scowled into space, and then his eyes cleared. “They must have found it.”
“Found what?”
“What the hell are we talking about? Bernie the Elephant’s money.”
Joe shrugged. “I don’t see how you can—”
Phil sighed, then spoke to his brother patiently. “Joey, listen carefully, and think. Every family has been out searching for Danny Spoleto, for Rita Shelford, and for this woman who was mailing letters. Why would anybody stop looking?”
Light seemed to enter Tony Pompi’s eyes. “If they caught one of them!”
Phil nodded. “Or all of them. Anyway, they found the one who could give back the money.” He began again. “Now, we have another strange happening. Frank Delfina has disappeared.”
“When was he anything but disappeared? He travels all the time, like a salesman.”
“Since the minute the first of his guys started to leave, I’ve been calling, trying to reach him. His guys in L.A.
