Cone smiles and rises to leave. “You could do a lot worse,” he says. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Twiggs. You put in that electronic printing system. It’ll help.”
The senior partner shakes his hand fervently. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, Mr. Cone. It’s a pleasure dealing with someone who enjoys his work.”
“Do I?” Timothy Cone says. “Yeah, I guess I do.”
Neal Davenport is right: Sergeant Joseph D’Amato looks and dresses like a college professor. He’s a tall, gawky guy with a Mt. Rushmore face and big, spatulate hands. His tweed jacket has suede patches on the elbows, and his cordovan kilties are polished to a mirror gloss. He’s smoking a long, thin cigarillo, so Cone thankfully lights up his ninth cigarette of the day.
He calls the local deli for cheeseburgers, fries, a couple of dills, and four cold cans of Bud. They talk and eat at the same time, occasionally waving a pickle slice or French fry in the air to make a point.
“Those names you gave me,” D’Amato says. “All illegals. Members of the same Family.”
“New York?” Cone asks.
“Yeah, but not the Big Five. These schmoes belong to a second-rate gang, bossed by a slimy toad whose monicker is Alonzo Departeur. He’s not even an Italian, I’m happy to say, let alone Sicilian. He’s known as Fat Lonny, and if you ever see him, you’ll know why. The guy is obscenely obese.”
“This Family of his-what’re they into?”
D’Amato gestures with a pickle. “Think of them as hyenas, waiting around for scraps after the big Families make the kill. They couldn’t operate without permission of the heavies. And, of course, they pay through the nose for the go-ahead.”
“How do you know all this?” Cone asks curiously.
“Snitches,” the sergeant says promptly. “We have informants in every New York Family. We catch a guy pulling something foul, and we give him a choice: Either he does ten years in the slammer or he turns and becomes our property. You’d be surprised at how many of those scuzzes are willing to work for us; singing their rotten little hearts out. We’ve even got some of them wired.”
“Whatever happened to the code of silence?”
“Omerta? Forget it. Maybe ten years ago, but today it’s every pirate for himself. Organized crime is becoming disorganized crime. Anyway, the names you gave me are all associated with the Departeur mob, headquartered in New York but with people all over the country. They do routine collections for the Big Five and are allowed to run some drug deals, loansharking, extortion, and a few other things like restaurants, nightclubs, and after-hour joints.”
“Any connection with garbage collection?”
“Oh, yeah. And linen supply, liquor wholesaling, and some minor ripoffs of concrete companies, construction unions, plumbing contractors, and electrical equipment suppliers.”
“Anything on Wall Street?”
“Not to my knowledge. The Big Five keep a lock on that. The reason I’m telling you all this is that one of the biggies in the Departeur Family was, until recently, a hood named Vic Angelo. You probably read of how he was scratched outside the Hotel Bedlington not too long ago. His job was taken over by his underboss, Mario Corsini. And Corsini was one of the names on your list-so that accounts for our interest.”
“You think this Corsini arranged for Vic Angelo being chilled?”
“Definitely. It’s common talk on the street, but we can’t get enough real evidence to justify busting Corsini, let alone indicting him. But we keep hoping.”
“Is this Corsini into extortion of private carters and garbage collectors?”
“Sure he is. Why do you ask?”
So, for the second time that morning, Cone describes the activities of Sally Steiner, and how she’s been able to come up with those profitable stock tips.
“That’s lovely,” D’Amato says when Cone finishes. “I’d guess that she’s passing her inside information along to Corsini. For what reason I don’t know. Maybe she’s got the hots for the guy. Some women think mobsters are king shits.”
“Maybe,” Cone says, “or maybe he’s leaning on her, and those stock tips are what she has to pay to stay in business.”
“Could be,” the sergeant says. He blots his mouth delicately with a paper napkin, sits back, and lights another of his long cigarillos. “On the list you gave me, Mario Corsini’s address was given as Atlantic City. Actually he lives in Queens but probably bought his stock through an Atlantic City broker. No law against that. Maybe the broker’s a pal of his, or maybe one of the Departeur Family. Something bothering you?”
“I don’t know,” Cone says fretfully. “We’ve been blowing a lot of smoke, but there are damned few hard facts. It’s all ‘suppose’ and ‘maybe’ and ‘perhaps.’ I don’t think every private garbage and rubbish collector in New York is paying dues to the mob. I mean, we have no hard evidence that Mario Corsini or any other Mafia type is ripping off Steiner Waste Control. How can we prove a connection?”
Sergeant D’Amato gives Cone a soft smile. “About seven or eight months ago, Corsini brought a cousin over from the Old Country. It’s legal; the kid has all his papers. His name is Anthony Ricci. Anyway, in that list you gave me, there were two heavy stock buyers in Atlantic City. One was Mario Corsini. The other was Anthony Ricci.”
“So?” Cone says. “What does that prove?”
“Anthony Ricci works for Steiner Waste Control.”
“Let me buy you another cheeseburger,” Timothy Cone says.
Seven
“There you are,” Eddie Steiner says, gesturing. “In all your primitive glory.”
Sally stares at the completed oil painting propped on an easel. “Jesus!” she bursts out. “You made me look like a tough bimbo.”
“You are a tough bimbo,” her brother says. “But forget your vanity for a minute; what do you think of it as a painting?”
“It’s good, Eddie,” she says grudgingly.
“Good? The goddamned thing is magnificent. It’s just one hell of a portrait. The best I’ve ever done. Ever will do. But then I’ll never find a model like you again.”
She moves closer to inspect the canvas.
“Careful,” he warns. “Don’t touch. It’s still wet; I just finished it last night.”
“I’m going to have to lose some weight,” Sally says. “Look at those hips. And that ass. My God!”
“You’re just a strong, solid woman, sis. Don’t knock it.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I told you about that gallery in the East Village that wants to give me a show. I finally agreed. I’ll bet this thing will be the first to sell.”
“I hope you’re not going to call it My Sister or anything like that.”
“Nah,” he says, laughing. “I’m calling it Manhattan.”
Good title, she thinks. In the nude body of a thrusting woman, he’s caught the crude, exciting world she lives in. The colors are so raw they shriek, and sharp edges and jagged composition reflect the demonic rhythm of the city.
“Yeah,” she says, “I think you got something there. If no one wants it, I’ll buy it.”
“And cut it up?” he teases.
“Never. When I’m old and gray, I’ll look at it and remember,” she says, smiling. “Well, look, here’s a package for Paul. Cash and a note telling him what stocks to buy. Okay?”
“Sure. I’ll give it to him. He likes the idea of being the Boy Wonder of Wall Street. Listen, Sal, you’re not going to get into any trouble on this, are you?”
“Trouble? What trouble? I’m giving stock tips to a good friend, that’s all. Nothing illegal about that.”
“I hope not,” Eddie says. “I’d hate to visit you up the river on the last Thursday of every month, bringing you some of Martha’s strudel.”
“Not a chance,” she says confidently. “No one’s going to lay a glove on me.”
She walks back to the office, thinking of her portrait. It lights up that entire dingy apartment. The more she recalls it, the better she likes it. It’s Manhattan, all right, but it’s also Sally Steiner, shoving belligerently from the canvas.