were alone in the big club room except for the flunky with the J.D. from Yale, who was keeping an eye on us from the entrance hall. But I thought the place might be bugged, so I whispered.
'But I thought you hated Tescione and all he stands for. You keep saying he's a disgrace to Italian- Americans. That he-'
'Yeah yeah, I know. But right now I need him; I need to muddy my feet a little. just keep-'
'I know: eyes and ears open, mouth shut.'
He nodded in silence and the rosewood door swung open again. Mr. Aldorfer came forward, making as much noise as a cat, and requested that we accompany him. I set down the half-finished drink (the way they poured them, it had to remain half-finished if I wanted to walk) and followed Joe's wide form through I the rosewood door.
We entered a dark and narrow hall. Stairs rose at the end of it. As we began to climb a faint beeper went off. Mr. Aldorfer apologized and requested that we accompany him back into the club room, which we did.
'I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen, but one of you- perhaps you, Mr. Brindelli- seems to be in possession of, ehhh… some sort of firearm. Correct?'
'Oh, I forgot,' said Joe, drawing back his coat and producing his nine-millimeter Beretta. 'Was on a stakeout; I don't usually carry a gun. Here.' He removed the magazine and snapped back the slide, flinging out the chambered round, and then handed the empty gun to Aldorfer, who carried it over to a cabinet with a look of fear and distaste, as if it were a black mamba.
'Don't be fooled by that,' whispered Joe. 'He's probably trained to pump the whole clip into a twelve-inch circle at sixty feet.'
We tried the stairway again and this time reached the top. In the upstairs hall a man sat in a big leather chair. There was none of the Ivy League about this fellow. He sat in a big chair because he needed it. And he wasn't a WASP either. He looked like Primo Camera. He glanced up at us as we walked by. His expression was totally blank. Aldorfer knocked at the third and final door, and opened it. We went in.
It was dark inside. The only illumination came from a desk lamp that threw a small circle of yellow light down on the desk top, and from the skyline of Boston and the harbor that was visible as a panorama through the wide plate-glass windows that swept around two sides of the spacious office. I was told later that the glass was bullet- proof. The tall man sat silhouetted against the city lights. The setting seemed appropriate, I thought, for a man of great power and perhaps, metaphorically speaking, a man of darkness.
He rose and shook hands with us. His grip was firm; the hand was wide, strong, and dry. I was looking dead level into the face of Paul Tescione, fourteenth most powerful underworld figure in America and the world. He was very handsome. If an Italian man can keep his hair and stay thin, he is usually good-looking. Tescione was as thin as Jacques Cousteau, with strong, sharp features, dark skin, and snow-white hair. His suit was cut perfectly in the European style, but not flashy. He looked like an ad out of GQ.
We sat down, Joe and Paul facing each other across the wide desk, with me on Joe's right and Aldorfer on Tescione's right. It was a little like a chess game. Joe and Paul would be the caporegimes, the warlords, and Aldorfer and I were the consiglieri, or counselors who were to sit in on any important meeting for protection and to listen carefully so that afterward, in discussions and decision making, we could clarify points, remember details. It was very Old World. It seemed to me like a pretty good system.
Tescione broke into a wide grin that revealed perfect teeth and a touch of gold work on his upper bicuspid. He slapped his palms gently but decisively down on the desk.
'So! Carmen DeLucca. Tell us about Carmen DeLucca, Mr. Brindelli.'
'He's alive. You knew that didn't you?' said Joe.
'I have heard that. Very, very recently I have heard that.'
'Okay,' said Joe softly. 'Well it's true. He didn't die down in Jersey. He's alive and he's been up here. Now I came here tonight to ask you something and to tell you something, okay?'
''Okay,' said Tescione, his eyes never leaving Joe. I don't think he had blinked in two minutes.
'Friday before last, Andy Santuccio was murdered up in Lowell.'
Tescione's eyes blinked and fluttered down briefly to gaze at the desk top before returning to Joe.
'I know. I was at his funeral; God rest his soul.'
'The same people who killed him killed another friend of mine, and a friend of the doctor's here too. The man who killed Andy is Carmen DeLucca.'
Tescione's eyes widened slightly. He put his palms back down on the desk top and leaned over close to Joe, still looking him square in the eye.
'We know he killed him,' Joe continued. 'We have laboratory proof. Now what I wish to ask you is, do you know who had DeLucca kill Andy?'
'No. But I do know one thing.'
'What's that?'
'That if he were in this room now I would kill him. And if you tried to stop me I would kill you first, then him.'
'Do you know what Andy Santuccio had in the Boston Public Library that people would kill for?'
'I know his father had important papers from the Sacco and Vanzetti trial. That is, if you could call such an outrage a trial.'
'Yes. I know that too. But do you, or anyone you know, have any idea exactly what part of the papers could have caused his death?'
'No;' said Tescione, who sank slowly back into his chair and propped his chin on his knuckles. 'Until a week ago I thought DeLucca was dead. I don't know why anyone would have Andy killed. He was a friend of mine and a good man in the community. Did you know that at the time of his death he was working on a housing project for the elderly?'
Tescione opened a silver case at his elbow and drew out a black-and-gold cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth and patted his pockets. Joe put his Orsini lighter on the desk top and slid it over to Tescione. Having lighted the cigarette, Tescione began to slide the lighter back, but Joe pushed it away.
'Keep it,' he said.
Tescione held the lighter up and examined it.
'But this is a very expensive lighter, Mr. Brindelli. I can't-'
'No, please. Keep it. I got plenty.'
Tescione pocketed Joe's lighter as a man brought a carafe of coffee and four cups. He detained the man by his sleeve, got up and walked with him a few steps, and whispered some instructions. Then he returned to the desk and poured coffee for all of us. I wanted a cigarette. I haven't had one for twelve years and it takes a helluva situation to make me think about them. But now I wanted one. A Camel. Joe sighed.
'Then,' he pursued, 'who had DeLucca kill Andy, and why?'
'I don't know,' replied Tescione, setting down his coffee cup and dragging on the Du Maurier cigarette. 'And also I don't think I know anyone who knows.'
Joe looked blankly, and bleakly, ahead with his Thousand-Yard Stare. 'I guess I have no alternative but to believe that.'
For a second a look of annoyance crossed Tescione's aquiline face, then it was replaced by a smile. I could see how people could be afraid of him.
'Then believe it. Because it is true,' the man said, thumping his palms down on the table. 'Now. You have asked me. You said also you were going to tell me something.'
Joe hesitated for a moment, then crooked his finger at Tescione as a signal for him to lean over the desk, which he did. Joe leaned over too until they were cheek to cheek, as if embracing. I heard him whispering right into Tescione's ear. The whispering stopped; the two men began to part, then Joe grabbed Tescione by the shoulder and drew them close again. The whispering continued. Then the men sat back and Tescione nodded slowly at Joe.
'Very well,' he said. 'Then it appears, Mr. Brindelli, Mr. Adams, that our business is concluded. Thank you very much for the visit. And thank you for the fine lighter too.'
'Don't mention it. Enjoy it.'
We shook hands. The attendant returned. to take the coffee tray and leaned over and whispered quickly to Tescione, who nodded and smiled at him. Then he left, and we followed. Mr. Aldorfer led us back downstairs and
