A large beefy hand was on his shoulder.
“Hiya, sailor, first time in New York?”
Known as Moochie to his many pals in the metropolis and by less cordial monikers by the many villains he’d sent upriver, Detective Captain John Mariucci had collaborated with Ambrose very successfully on a couple of cases. All ancient history now. Moochie was somewhere north of five feet tall, a barrel-shaped individual with a full black mustache and skin the color of sun-bleached terra-cotta. His neatly trimmed black hair was shot through with grey now, but instead of aging him, it seemed to smooth out some of the rough edges.
Ambrose slipped Diana’s card back into his waistcoat and shook the man’s hand, trying not to wince at the pain. Moochie had the strongest grip of any man he knew outside of Stokely Jones, but Stokely, at least, knew how to keep his under control.
He turned to the bartender. “Two more just like this, please, and send them over to our table.”
“Okay, Chief,” Mariucci said after they’d been seated and he’d swallowed the top half of his drink, “Let’s skip the chase and cut right to the outcome. We’ll renew our acquaintance later. What are you doing in my town and how the hell can I help you do it? Women, a table at Rao’s, what are we talking here?”
Ambrose smiled and sipped the delicious gin. “Ever hear of a chap named Napoleon Bonaparte?” he asked.
“Yeah, I think that rings a bell. Short little guy, French, as I remember. Always had his hand inside his jacket like he was going for his frigging piece.”
“That’s the bird, all right.”
“He giving you a hard time, Chief Inspector?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, he is.”
“I’ll kick his ass.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Talk to me, Ambrose, but let’s order a steak first. My treat, by the way, you paid last time I was in London.” Ambrose didn’t argue about the menu or the tab. He was on Moochie’s turf and he knew better. Mariucci signaled to a hovering waiter and informed him that they didn’t need menus, just food. “Two New York strip steaks, rare, French fries, and two Sunset salads with Lorenzo dressing.”
“You want the steak and the chicken?” the waiter asked, scribbling on his pad. It wasn’t a problem, nothing was a problem, he just wanted to make sure he’d understood.
“I’m hungry, what can I tell you? Too much food, though, you’re right. So, hold the chicken in the Sunsets, and just bring the lettuce and cabbage part.”
“Very good, sir.”
Mariucci sat back against the banquette and surveyed the room. It was full of glamorous semifamous and famous faces and Ambrose was sure the seasoned captain could put names to most all of them. Then he looked at Congreve and said, “France has gone crazy, right? Fuck is wrong with those people? They forget a little beach resort called Normandy? Jesus. Speaking of France, you still wearing yellow socks all the time?”
“Certainly.”
“Show me.”
Ambrose stuck his foot out beneath the table and hitched up this trouser leg. He was wearing black Peale wing-tipped loafers and his signature yellow cable-stitched socks from Loro Piano. Mariucci shook his head and frowned. He and Ambrose had never seen eye to eye when it came to gentlemen’s attire.
“You are a total and complete piece of work, you know that? Now, you were saying about Napoleon?”
“He had a son. Not many people know that.”
“I’m one of those people.”
“The point is that there’s a line coming down through history from the emperor. A man named Luca Bonaparte, one of Napoleon’s direct descendants, is the reason I’m here.”
“Oh, yeah. The new head of France or some shit like that.”
“That’s my boy. He’s creating very serious problems for your country and mine.”
“In that case, he’s a dead man. You want some wine?”
“It goes without saying.”
“I’ll get us a nice Barolo. Or a Barbaresco. Any wine that starts with ‘B’ is good Italian wine. I told you that before, right? Tell me more about this Bonaparte guy.”
“He murdered his father. In Paris, thirty-five-odd years ago. Langley stumbled on an old Deuxième file when digging into Bonaparte’s past. You’ll see it later, I checked it with my hat. I’m actually here at the specific request of your CIA director, Patrick Kelly.”
“So you knew I got promoted?”
“I did not. What exalted status do you now occupy?”
“You said CIA is all. I’m now the Senior NYPD guy on the Federal Anti-Terrorist Advisory Council. ATAC. Which makes me sort of a half-assed fed myself. But with command of all the active-duty cops. Where in Paris did this murder occur?”
“At Napoleon’s Tomb in 1970.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Yes. At least two. A fellow named Ben Sangster. And his business associate, a chap by the name of Joe Bonanno. Both Americans.”
“You gotta be shitting me.”
“I assure you, Mooch, that is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Benny Sangster and Joey Bones, sure. I oughta know those two birds, I sent ’em both up. But I do recall at the trial some crap about them working a job in Paris. Something with the Union Corse. You know much about them?”
“A little. You can read much more in the file.”
“Tell me what you know about the Corse.”
“The French Mafia. Brutal, even older than the Unione Siciliano. Started in Corsica, birthplace of Napoleon, as you know. Back in the sixties and seventies, the Corse syndicate had extensive operations right here on the East Coast, mostly smuggling and drug operations. They sometimes worked as tools for European corporations, rather like the Yakuza does for Japanese businesses. The Corse is the only Mafia organization with a political agenda.”
“Political?”
“Yes. They funded and organized terrorist actions against non-Euro corporations. That’s where my boy Bonaparte first made a name for himself. Back then, the American families had a turf war going with them.”
“I see.”
Congreve said, “Are Sangster and Bonanno still incarcerated?”
“Incinerated for all I frigging know. I think they got ten to fifteen, something like that. Took a little time-out up at Attica. They’re probably out, far as I know.”
“I’d very much like to speak with both of them.”
“And when exactly would you like to have this little chat?”
“You think you can find them?”
“I can find anybody, Ambrose. Except Hoffa. Him I can’t fucking find to save my ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t find him, however. Lemme go make a call. When would it be convenient for you to interview these two jailbirds?”
“Tonight would be ideal.”
“So there’s really some kind of crisis looming?”
“Always, Captain,” Ambrose said, “History, as H. G. Wells once remarked, is always a race between education and catastrophe. Right now, catastrophe appears to be ahead by a furlong.”
Mariucci just looked at him, a smile in his eyes before he spoke. “I’ll make the call. Shouldn’t take five minutes. And don’t touch your steak until I get back, either. As Mrs. Mariucci of Brooklyn once remarked, ‘It ain’t polite.’”
The Bide-a-Wee Rest Home was on a dark side street off a major thoroughfare called Queens Boulevard. It was a squat three-story building with peeling stucco walls and a steeply pitched wood-shingled roof in need of repair. Congreve and Captain Mariucci had left the uniformed officer sitting behind the wheel of the brand-new Chevy Impala cruiser. They’d parked half a block away and walked. The captain’s idea, and a good one.
“Play your cards right, Ambrose, and you, too, can end up here,” the captain said as they made their way up the cracked and heaving pavement of the rest home.