“Those allegations have never been proven.”
“Your name was mentioned repeatedly during the Abello trial.”
A small but detectable edge crept into DeCarlo’s voice. “That was my father.”
Of course. Ben knew this guy was too young to be Tulsa’s top crime boss.
“My father, God rest his soul, was Albert DeCarlo the second. I’m Albert DeCarlo the third. Hence the nickname Trey. I inherited this business from my father, just as he inherited it from his father.”
“A dynasty,” Ben remarked.
“True enough. But I am not my father, Ben. Times change. I received my MBA at Princeton. I have a different approach to business. I’ve restructured the family operations into a more traditional corporate format. I’ve been attempting to redirect our activities into more legitimate enterprises.” He paused. “Not that they weren’t before. Only now, more so.”
“Sounds like the old mob with a new cover.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Everything is changing. It always has. The organization you call the mob was originally a secret society formed to protect poor and oppressed Sicilians from the French Angevins in power. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Somewhere along the way, the focus changed. And now it will change again. The truth is, the old businesses are dying out. We needed a new profit center. In this ever-so-liberal society of ours, prostitution is becoming an increasingly unnecessary commerce. And a dangerous one. Gambling is an overcrowded market—even the governments are players now.
“Do you realize various companies make tiny computers a gambler can hide under his pant leg to help him count cards at the blackjack table? The readout appears on an LED screen disguised as a wristwatch!” DeCarlo shook his head with disgust. “Games of chance perverted for personal profit.”
Ben found it hard to be sympathetic.
“And the drug trade, although lucrative—I’ve heard—has become too competitive. Now there’s the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese Triad, the Jamaican Posse, the Colombian Cali cartel—all squabbling over the same territory. Soon it will be impossible for anyone to make a profit.”
“Seems like the most logical plan for a Princeton MBA is to work a joint venture with the South American cartels.”
“You are not a stupid person, Ben.” DeCarlo opened a desk drawer and removed several files. “But let me assure you that I intend to engage in entirely legal business activities. Feel free to examine our portfolios. Securities, banking, real estate, entertainment. These have been part of the family business for some time, perhaps more as a mask than a genuine pursuit. But that is changing.”
“Well, if so, I wish you the best of luck.”
“Thank you.” DeCarlo’s eyes became tiny embers. “Regardless of the nature of the activities in which we are engaged, however, I would take very seriously any threat to my business or to my personal liberty. That, too, is a family tradition.”
Ben felt an involuntary shiver creep down his spine. He saw the bodyguards on either side of DeCarlo twitch, then take the tiniest step forward. Message received and understood.
DeCarlo rose to his feet. “But I like you, Ben, and I’m confident we won’t have any problems.” He walked around his desk. “Tell you what. My sister is getting married soon. Please accept my invitation to the wedding reception.”
“No thanks,” Ben said. “I’ve already seen The Godfather. I’d be bored.”
DeCarlo laughed. “It’s going to be a huge party, Ben. At the Twelve Oaks country club. There’ll be music, dancing, food, drink—after all, it’s not every day my baby sister is married. It might give you a better opportunity to see what Intercontinental Imports, and the new DeCarlo family, are all about.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’ll send you an invitation, just in case.”
He accompanied Ben to the door. “May I also send an invitation to a companion? A lady friend, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t—” Ben thought for a moment. “This gala is going to be at the country club?”
“Oh yes. We’ve reserved it for the entire day.”
“Pretty big bash?”
“The biggest Tulsa has ever seen. Or is ever likely to see.”
“Okay then. Send an invitation to Harriet Marmelstein.” Ben smiled. “I believe you have the address.”
19
JONES LEFT BEN A message on his answering machine: Alexander Moltke requested a meeting before the preliminary hearing, at 8:30 sharp, in the law library at the courthouse.
If Moltke wanted to talk, Ben reasoned, he must be planning to offer a deal. Thank goodness. Even if Ben didn’t like the offer, even if he turned Moltke down cold, the fact that it was proposed indicated the prosecution perceived some weakness in their case, some possibility of failure. That alone would make Ben breathe a lot easier.
At 8:35, Ben pushed open the library door. Before he had a chance to get his bearings, a stark white light blinded him. He could hear Moltke’s voice, reverberating through a microphone somewhere at the front of the room.
“Rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that in this court of law, this ingenious device by which we mortals achieve some measure of earthly justice, the guilty will be punished.”
Ben blinked his eyes, wiped away the tearing caused by the stinging lights. His vision began to clear. He was surrounded by reporters, armed with microphones and minicams and plastic hairdos.
The realization dawned on Ben slowly but certainly. It was a sucker play. This was a press conference, goddamn it. A press conference!
“I see my worthy opponent has arrived,” Moltke said, in his bombastic oratorical voice. “I must say, I sometimes despair of the direction our youth are taking. So much energy is channeled into pursuits of such little moral value. My opponent formerly practiced with one of the most distinguished firms in this city, but after that relationship was terminated, Mr. Kincaid was forced by economic circumstances to take cases such as this one, assisting certain liberal judges in their quest to return the guilty to the streets.”
“I resent that,” Ben said. The reporters parted, letting him move to the front. “The Constitution guarantee every accused person the right to counsel.”
“I’m not challenging the right of your client to counsel, son. I’m just glad I don’t have to be the one to do it. I don’t know how I’d live with myself, much less sleep at night.”
Ben’s face flushed with anger. “How can the court of law be an effective device to achieve justice if cheap politicians like you try to pressure lawyers to not represent the accused?”
The reporters pressed forward, minicams whirring. Someone from Channel 2 shoved a microphone under Ben’s nose. They were loving it—great fodder for the six o’clock news.
Moltke looked calmly into the cameras. “Now don’t get all riled up, son. You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” He leaned forward, his eyes steely and determined. “But rest assured, ladies and gentlemen, that justice will be done in Tulsa. The pernicious taint of South American drugs, destroying our children and poisoning our society, will be eliminated. That’s my promise to you.”
He straightened and smiled. “That’s all for now. I’ll answer questions after the hearing.”
Ben wasn’t normally given to bouts of claustrophobia, but he could swear the walls of the magistrate’s hearing room were closing in on him. The room was small to begin with, and was even more so now, with bailiffs, clerks, court reporters, newspaper reporters, and members of the U.S. Attorney’s office all jockeying for position. Everyone was talking at once; the cacophony was giving Ben a headache. He was queasy, sweaty, and nervous. And Christina was late. Again.