Mark pressed the message button, turning the volume up loud. He walked into the living room, sinking into a chair as the message played.
"Hello, Mark?" asked the familiar hoarse voice. "You there? If you're there, pick up. No? Oh. This is your President speaking. No wait, scratch that. Got in trouble identifyin' myself on tape before. Anyway, I got an important offer I'd like to make you. You probably didn't know it, but I had you checked out these past few months. You got a real weird personality profile there, buddy. Loyal to your friends, dismissive of your enemies. Like they don't rate spit. Did you know they were thinkin' of firin' you once 'cause they thought you were hidin' something from them? But you passed all the lie detectors for national loyalty and that secret-keeping stuff, so they decided to keep you on.
"Anyway, I got a proposition for you that I think we should talk about in person. I got a car that'll come and pick you up at ten tonight. You don't have to do anything but get in. I'll tell you what's what when you get here. Uh, I guess that's it. You still not there? I really hate these goddamn machines. Okay, see you tonight."
Two seconds more of dead air and the answering machine beeped off. With a click, it reset itself to 0 messages.
In the living room, Mark's eyes were closed. He still held his sandwich, but he hadn't taken a bite since the message had started playing. He suddenly wasn't very hungry.
Mark tossed the sandwich to the coffee table. In doing so, he bumped his cast against the arm of his chair. He winced at the pain.
Treating his broken arm very gingerly, he pulled himself to his feet. He needed a shower. But he'd have to cover his cast with something first.
Mark shuffled off to the kitchen. To dump the loaf of Wonder bread out of its long plastic bag.
Chapter 36
The black Cobra helicopter carried Don Anselmo Scubisci across the border into Canada. A private jet bought by Sol Sweet with Raffair money was waiting for him. Before the American authorities were aware of what had even happened, Don Scubisci was far over the Atlantic. In half a day, he was on the ground in Naples.
A black limo with darkened windows was there to meet him at the airport.
The estate of Don Hector Vincenzo was a well-guarded fortress nestled safely within gently sloping hills at the fringe of Naples where the edge of the old city met the azure waters of the Tyrthenian Sea. The limousine kicked up plumes of dust in its wake as it drove past the naked winter vineyards to the big old house.
An armed guard met Don Scubisci's car at the end of the great round drive. The Manhattan Mafia leader was led through the cool, drafty house and out onto a glass-enclosed patio that overlooked dormant vineyards.
Don Vincenzo was sitting at a white wrought-iron table. A glass of deep red wine sat at his elbow. Beside it was a cloth bag, knotted at the neck. "You have had a busy day, Anselmo," Don Vincenzo said. He did not look at the younger man, did not offer a seat. As the Camorra leader stared out over his fields, Scubisci stood uncomfortably before him.
No men toiled among the vines. A cold sun shone down on the hills of Naples.
"I had nowhere else to go," Don Scubisci admitted.
"So you come straight to me? Lead them to me, hmm?" He finally turned to the younger Don. His watery old eyes were flat.
Don Scubisci pressed his hands together. "Please, Don Vincenzo," he begged, his voice a painful rasp. "My own people will not accept the wisdom of my decision to join with you. They will see it as an act of betrayal. I wasn't safe in prison. Some force unknown to me has destroyed all we built together. They would have come to me eventually. This I know. I had to flee from them and from my own people."
He was practically in tears.
"Would you serve me faithfully?" Don Vincenzo asked. He tipped his head as he looked up at the sweating man.
A spark of hope. Don Anselmo nodded desperately. "This I promise, Don Hector," he pleaded. "You have my word."
"You are disloyal to your own blood, and you expect me to believe you will remain faithful to me?" Don Vincenzo said, with doubtful amusement. Hope burned away. The words would not come.
"Please, " Scubisci wept finally.
"You are Mafia. La Cosa Nostra. I am Camorra. It is my blood, my soul. We were enemies before either of us was born, Anselmo. It is the way of things." Don Vincenzo waved a sad apology. "Thanks to long-ago fate, your people thrived in America. And because of that, your Mafia Families ran the world. For a time. But your power wanes. In time it will be no more." He smiled his row of yellow-brown teeth. "But Camorra will thrive after you are gone."
Don Hector Vincenzo took a thoughtful sip of his wine.
"You were weak after your imprisonment, Anselmo," he said, putting the glass carefully to the table. "I saw opportunity in that weakness. Raffair was not the simple moneymaking scheme I claimed. Nor was it your stepping-stone to domination of the American market. It was designed specifically to weaken the Mafia. If Raffair was successful for a time, I reaped the benefits. If Raffair failed publicly-and such public failure always involves the authorities, Anselmo-it would be a black eye for the Mafia. Either way I win. But, I am afraid, there is no way for you to do so. I am sorry for this."
A subtle nod. Missed by Don Scubisci. The American Mafia leader was about to plead for his life once more when it was suddenly and abruptly ended.
The bullet hit Don Anselmo Scubisci in the back of the head. His forehead yawned open, and he sprawled lifeless to the cold patio.
As bits of flesh and brain were splattering to stone, the guard who had led the Manhattan Mafia leader through Don Vincenzo's home replaced his rifle on his shoulder.
Still seated, the Camorra leader picked up the cloth bag from the table. Old fingers tugged open the string at the neck. Taking the bag by the end, he shook it a few times over the body of Don Scubisci. A fat white pigeon dropped onto the back of the dead Mafia leader.
"See that they are buried together," he instructed. "Yes, Don Hector."
Another guard appeared. The two men dragged the body off the patio. After they were gone, another came up the side steps, pulling a garden hose behind him. He began hosing the small specks of Don Anseimo Scubisci's brains off the windowpanes.
As the man worked, Don Vincenzo took a sip of wine. Sunlight sparkled off the glass.
It was time to start thinking about tomorrow.
Chapter 37
"There was some men come lookin' for you," Johnny Fungillo's mother told him as he stepped through the back kitchen door of her Jersey City house.
Johnny's hand froze on the doorknob. "What men?" he asked, eyes darting over his shoulder. Beyond, his mother's Mercury sat in the cold garage.
"What do I know what men?" Mrs. Fungillo asked with a frown of her great jowls. "Men." She didn't turn to her son. At the stove, she continued to use a big wooden spoon to stir the caldron of tomato sauce that bubbled on the back burner. Johnny immediately regretted coming back for some clean clothes. He left the door into the garage open. Glancing back over his shoulder, he hustled over to his mother.
"These men," he asked. "Were they young, old, what?"
"What are you doing leaving the door open?" Mrs. Fungillo asked, unmindful of the anxious look on her son's face. "It's the middle of January." She tasted a spoonful of sauce.
"Ma!" he snapped, grabbing her by the biceps. She recoiled. Her son had a murderous glint in his eye.
"Whatsa matter with you, Johnny?" she asked, drawing her orange-stained spoon to her ample bosom. "You in trouble again?" She saw for the first time the big circular bruise on his forehead. "Where'd you get that?"