Stepping over, MacCleary took the envelope. He was slipping it into his coat pocket when something suddenly occurred to him.
"Oops. I forgot."
MacCleary fished beyond the envelope Smith had given him, digging deeper into his coat pocket. He pulled out a plain white envelope and tossed it across Smith's desk.
"Present from an old pal of mine," Conn said. "Just what the doctor ordered. You do not want this guy filling your high-blood-pressure prescriptions."
With slender fingers Smith peeked into the envelope. With an approving nod, he closed the flap. Smith rounded his desk and walked MacCleary to the door. His latest secretary didn't look up as the two men exited the office. She continued typing diligently away, engrossed in her menial work. Smith allowed a brief glance of approval at the woman before turning his full attention to MacCleary.
"Good luck. And be careful."
MacCleary gave a tight smile. "Always am," he said.
For men who had shared so much of life, nothing more needed to be said. MacCleary left the office suite.
Once he was gone, Smith gave a final glance at his latest temporary secretary.
The woman was working steadily away, clattering on her clumsy manual typewriter. She didn't give the impression of someone trying to look busy in front of her employer. She seemed genuinely engrossed in her work. A conscientious employee. A minor miracle in this day and age.
Smith turned wordlessly from the outer room. He closed the door to his own Spartan office behind him, shutting out the staccato clatter of the typewriter.
Back at his desk, he settled in his chair.
The plain white business envelope MacCleary had passed to him sat over the spot where his computer monitor was hidden. With one hand he drew the envelope to him.
Lifting the flap, Smith shook the envelope. A single, small object fell out into his open palm.
This was the final part of CURE's ultimate safeguard. Smith had ordered MacCleary to get one for each of them.
Smith had expected it might become necessary when he assumed the directorship of CURE. But the probability had become a definite the moment CURE had been granted permission to take on an enforcement arm.
Smith held the small white pill between thumb and forefinger. If not for the shape, it might have been mistaken for an ordinary aspirin. The pill had been fashioned in the shape of a tiny white coffin.
It was the only way out of CURE Harold Smith or any of them would ever know.
Wondering how long it would be before one of CURE's inner circle would have to fall on the sword, Smith gently tucked the cyanide pill into the pocket of his gray vest.
Chapter 13
Don Carmine Viaselli wasn't afraid.
Given the same circumstances, other, lesser men might be afraid. But they were men of small minds and low character. They were not men like Carmine Viaselli.
Had someone else been in his shoes, Don Carmine actually wouldn't have blamed them if they felt afraid. After all, as the capo di tutti capi of the New York Mafia, he had plenty he could have been scared about.
There were the other Families. Nearby he had to worry about the Renaldis of Jersey, the Constazas of Philly and the newly empowered Patriconnes of Rhode Island. As the East Coast Families grew stronger, each of them threatened the territory of New York's Don Carmine.
Closer still were the factions in his own crime Family. In particular the Scubiscis in Manhattan were making noises. Pietro Scubisci still professed loyalty to Don Carmine, but he was showing all the signs of someone starting to flex his muscle. He was angling to take over from Viaselli.
Although the local police weren't a big problem, they still needed constant watching. Yes, anyone who mattered was already on the payroll. But every once in a while some young hotshot got it in his head that he was going to take on Don Carmine's operation. This was always a concern, since the lid had to be kept clamped tight at all times. If a cop got too full of himself, he quickly found himself walking a beat in Spanish Harlem. Or, in the case of the more stubborn members of the New York Police Department, he'd find himself walking the special beat-off a pier into the Hudson River.
The regular cops were a concern, but they weren't anything to be scared of. With them it was like trying to herd rats. A lot of scratching and clawing. A pain in the ass that had to be kept in line.
For other men these worries piled up into fears. Next came ulcers, heart trouble and an early grave. That was the usual route for ordinary men. And, the truth be told, until one year ago this was the route Don Carmine was taking.
"Carmine, you don't look so good," the traitorous Pietro Scubisci had said one afternoon, back when headaches were things to worry about for Don Carmine Viaselli.
They were meeting at Don Carmine's 59th Street fortress on the fourteenth floor of the Royal Plaza Hotel.
Carmine had just returned from the bathroom. In his hand, two Alka-Seltzers fizzed in a Waterford glass.
His deep eyes, which usually betrayed false warmth, were sickly. The healthy color of youth no longer brushed his ashen cheeks. Over the past decade he had steadily shed weight-at first a good thing, but now it was too much. In late middle age he seemed a husk of the man he had once been.
"I'm fine," Don Carmine grunted.
This Pietro Scubisci was forever looking for an opening, for a weakness in his Don. Carmine would have eliminated him, but Scubisci was well connected and respected. It would be hard to remove him without creating yet another headache. So he endured the conniving viper in his midst.
"No, really," Scubisci insisted. "You look kinda bad. You sure you feeling okay?"
He was only pretending to be concerned. Always with Pietro Scubisci there was the conniving undertone.
As he spoke, Scubisci fished around in a paper bag that he'd brought up to the apartment. The bag was stained dark. When Scubisci moved it, a slick line of grease stained the coffee table's glass surface.
"No, I'm not okay," Don Carmine admitted. "What I'm sick of is you and that paper bag of yours. Why you always gotta bring that bag with you all the time?"
"My wife makes the best fried peppers you ever tasted," Pietro Scubisci insisted. "Whatever you got's making you sick, they'll fix you right up." He produced a shriveled greasy green wedge from his omnipresent bag, offering it to his Don. "I promise you, Don Carmine, you ain't had a fried pepper till you had one of my Francesca's fried peppers."
Carmine's stomach rebelled at the smell. "Get that thing away from me," he snarled.
Scubisci shrugged. "You don't know what you're missing," he said, popping the fried pepper into his mouth. Crunching the paper bag shut, he put it down near his shoes.
Don Carmine didn't even care that the noxious-smelling bag would certainly stain his rug. With one hand braced on his knee he slugged down his Alka-Seltzer, wiping his mouth with the cuff of his dress shirt. The liquid left a thick, salty taste on his tongue.
"They're after us, Pietro," Don Carmine said, placing the crystal glass to the coffee table with a click.
"Who?" Pietro Scubisci asked.
"The government," Carmine said softly.
Scubisci snorted. "What's new?" he said. "I been around this longer than you. I seen enough of these G-men, all thinking they're hot-shit Eliot Nesses. All I know is they come and go and we're still here."
Pietro Scubisci had a habit of speaking like the old authority on all things Mob related. He was only ten years older than Carmine, but looked much older. Scubisci had looked like an old man since his twenties.
"Something's different now," Don Carmine insisted. "I've noticed it in the last five years, maybe a little more. The government's getting too good. They're coming after us on all fronts. Things they shouldn't know, they're finding out. I'd say they were getting lucky, but I don't believe in luck, Pietro. I think there's something big out there. Something that's going on where we don't see it."