It was an unfair question posed to a scared, deeply troubled, and irrational person, and she didn’t like him asking it. She just shook her head. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.
Harry spoke slowly, and there was no doubt he knew exactly what should be done next. “Reggie has told me that she’s discussed the witness protection program with you. Tell me what you think.”
Dianne raised her head and bit her lip. She thought for a few seconds and tried to focus on the tape recorder. “I do not want those people,” she said deliberately, nodding at the recorder, “following me and my children for the rest of our lives. And I’m afraid that will happen if Mark gives you what you want.”
“You’ll have the protection of the FBI and every necessary agency of the U.S. government.”
“But no one can completely guarantee our safety. These are my children, Your Honor, and I’m a single parent. There’s no one else. If I make a mistake, I could lose, well, I can’t even imagine it.”
“I think you’ll be safe, Ms. Sway. There are thousands of government witnesses now being protected.”
“But some have been found, haven’t they?”
It was a quiet question that hit hard. Neither McThune nor Lewis could deny the fact that witnesses had been lost. There was a long silence.
“Well, Ms. Sway,” Harry finally said with a great deal of compassion, “what’s the alternative?”
“Why can’t you arrest these people? Lock them up somewhere. I mean, it looks as if they’re just roaming free terrorizing me and my family, and also Reggie here. What’re the damned cops doing?”
“It’s my understanding, Ms. Sway, that one arrest was made last night. The police here are looking for the two men who burned your trailer, two thugs from New Orleans named Bono and Pirini, but they haven’t found them. Is that correct, Mr. Lewis?”
“Yes sir. We think they’re still in the city. And I might add, Your Honor, that the U.S. attorney in New Orleans intends to indict Muldanno and Gronke early next week on charges of obstruction of justice. So they’ll be in custody very soon.”
“But this is the Mafia, isn’t it?” Dianne asked.
Every idiot who could read the newspapers knew it was the Mafia. It was a Mafia killing by a Mafia gunman whose family had been Mafia hoods in New Orleans for four decades. Her question was so simple, yet it implied the obvious: The Mafia is an invisible army with plenty of soldiers.
Lewis did not wish to answer the question, so he waited for his honor, who likewise hoped it would simply go away. There was a long, awkward silence.
Dianne cleared her throat and spoke in a much stronger voice. “Your Honor, when you guys can show me a way to completely protect my children, then I’ll help you. But not until then.”
“So you want him to stay in jail,” Fink blurted out.
She turned and glared at Fink, less than ten feet away. “Sir, I’d rather have him in a detention center than in a grave.”
Fink slumped in his chair and stared at the floor. Seconds ticked away. Harry looked at his watch, and zipped his robe. “I suggest we meet again Monday at noon. Let’s take things one day at a time.”
30
Paul Gronke finished his unexpected trip to Minneapolis as the Northwest 727 lifted off the runway and started for Atlanta. From Atlanta, he hoped to catch a direct flight to New Orleans, and once home he had no plans to leave for a long time. Maybe years. Regardless of his friendship with Muldanno, Gronke was tired of this mess. He could break a thumb or a leg when necessary, and he could huff and puff and scare almost anybody. But he did not particularly enjoy stalking little kids and waving switchblades at them. He made a nice living from his clubs and beer joints, and if the Blade needed help, he’d just have to lean on his family. Gronke was not family. He was not Mafia. And he was not going to kill anyone for Barry Muldanno.
He’d made two phone calls that morning as soon as his flight arrived at the Memphis airport. The first call spooked him because no one answered. He then dialed a backup number for a recorded message, and again there was no answer. He walked quickly to the Northwest ticket counter and paid cash for a one-way ticket to Minneapolis. Then he found the Delta counter and paid cash for a one-way ticket to Dallas — Fort Worth. Then he bought a ticket to Chicago, on United. He roamed the concourses for an hour, watching his back and seeing nothing, and at the last second hopped on Northwest.
Bono and Pirini had strict instructions. The two phone calls meant one of two things: either the cops had them, or they were forced to pull up stakes and haul ass. Neither thought was comforting.
The flight attendant brought two beers. It was a few minutes after one, too early to start drinking, but he was edgy, and what the hell. It was 5 P.M. somewhere.
Muldanno would flip out and start throwing things. He’d run to his uncle and borrow some more thugs. They’d descend upon Memphis and start hurting people. Finesse was not Barry’s long suit.
Their friendship had started in high school, in the tenth grade, their last year of formal education before they dropped out and began hustling on the streets of New Orleans. Barry’s route to crime was preordained by family. Gronke’s was a bit more complicated. Their first venture had been a fencing operation that had been wildly successful. The profits, however, were siphoned off by Barry and sent to the family. They peddled some drugs, ran some numbers, managed a whorehouse, all cash-rich ventures. But Gronke saw little of the cash. After ten years of this lopsided partnership, he told Barry he wanted a place of his own. Barry helped him buy a topless bar, then a porno house. Gronke made money and was able to keep it. At about this point in their careers, Barry started his killing, and Gronke established more distance between them.
But they remained friends. A month or so after Boyette disappeared, the two of them spent a long weekend at Johnny Sulari’s house in Acapulco with a couple of strippers. After the girls had passed out one night, they went for a long walk on the beach. Barry was drinking tequila and talking more than usual. His name had just surfaced as a suspect. He bragged to his friend about the killing.
The landfill in Lafourche Parish was worth millions to the Sulari family. Johnny’s scheme was to eventually route most of the garbage from New Orleans to it. Senator Boyette had been an unexpected enemy. His antics had attracted lots of negative publicity for the dump, and the more ink Boyette received the crazier he’d become. He’d launched federal investigations. He’d called in dozens of EPA bureaucrats who’d prepared massive volumes of studies, most of which condemned the landfill. In Washington, he’d hounded the Justice Department until it initiated its own investigation into the allegations of mob involvement. Senator Boyette became the biggest obstacle to Johnny’s gold mine.
The decision had been made to hit Boyette.
Sipping from a bottle of Cuervo Gold, Barry laughed about the killing. He stalked Boyette for six months, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that the senator, who was divorced, had an affinity for young women. Cheap young women, the kind he could find in a bordello and buy for fifty bucks. His favorite place was a seedy roadhouse halfway between New Orleans and Houma, the site of the landfill. It was in oil country, and frequented by offshore roustabouts and the cute little whores they attracted. Evidently, the senator knew the owner and had a special arrangement. He always parked behind a garbage dumpster, away from the gravel lot crowded with monster pickups and Harleys. He always used the rear entrance by the kitchen.
The senator’s trips to Houma became more frequent. He was raising hell in town meetings and holding press conferences every week. And he enjoyed the drives back to New Orleans with his little quickies at the roadhouse.