Play Dead

“Then why don’t you start by asking for him and see how that goes? Oh, and they said you should come alone and unarmed.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That not only will you not bring a gun, you probably won’t bring any balls.”

“Thanks, Vince.”

Before he gets off the phone he makes me repeat the “I’ll give the story to Vince” pledge, which I willingly do. Vince is a major pain in the ass, but the next time he doesn’t come through for me will be the first.

I call Marcus and give him the evening off. Ever the responsible bodyguard, he presses me about why, and I’m forced to tell him. He reluctantly agrees, and I only hope he’s telling me the truth.

I show up at the restaurant at the appointed time. It has been on this downtown street for more than fifty years and is said to have extraordinary Italian food.

I just hope Clemenza left me a gun in the bathroom.

I’ve worn fairly tight jeans and a thin pullover shirt. I’m not trying to make a fashion statement; I’m just not a big fan of getting frisked by burly men, and I’m hoping this will render that unnecessary.

It doesn’t work. I’m not in the door for twenty seconds before I’ve been frisked and ushered into a back room, where Dominic Petrone sits having a drink with two other men. He moves his hand almost imperceptibly, and they get up and leave the table. Three of Petrone’s people take positions around the room, with their backs to the walls.

“Sit down, Andy,” says Petrone.

“Thanks, Dominic,” I say as I do so. “Try the veal. It’s the best in the city.” He doesn’t seem to get the Godfather reference, which is just as well. But Sam Willis would have gotten it.

“Vince says you’re here to help me.”

“I was hoping we could help each other. I have some information you can use, and hopefully you can get information that I need.”

“Let’s start with me,” he says.

I’m not going to get rolled here. “Do we have a deal?”

“Let’s start with me,” he says again, with a little less patience.

“Dominic, the way I envisioned this is-”

“You don’t trust me?” he asks.

I just got rolled. “Of course I do.” Strangely enough, I do trust him, though I know that were it in his best interests, he would kill me without spoiling his appetite.

I pause a moment to try to control the tremor in my voice. What I’m about to say can have serious repercussions, most notably to me.

“In the course of my investigation of the Evans case, I’ve learned that you have been sending large amounts of money, in small-and medium-sized bills, out of the country.”

Petrone doesn’t flinch, nor does he blink. He simply waits, probably deciding in his own mind how I am to be killed.

I continue. “I have not told anyone about it, but I have also learned something else. There is about to be an intense investigation into unusual activity down there, and if you have any cargo there or ready to be shipped in the next few days, it might pay to pull it back immediately.”

“And you are the reason this investigation is taking place?” he asks, his voice completely calm.

I shake my head. “I have told no one about this other than you,” I say, and for the moment that is true.

“And the information you need?”

“Four companies-I’ve brought the list with me-have been bringing goods into this country through the Port of Newark. They came in through Keith Franklin’s section. I need to know what was in those shipments.”

“And how would I know that?” he asks.

“You wouldn’t. But I’d bet that you have the people down there that could find out.”

He thinks for the moment, then takes a pen out of his jacket and writes something on a piece of paper. Hopefully it’s not my eulogy.

He hands me the paper, and I see that it has a phone number on it. “Call me tomorrow at five p.m.,” he says.

“I will. Thank you.”

I walk out into the main area of the restaurant. One of Petrone’s men points with his hand toward the exit door, which I will be thrilled to use. Before I go, I point toward the bathroom door. “My brother better not come out of there with only his dick in his hand.”

He apparently hasn’t seen the movie, either.

* * * * *

BEFORE CALLING JEFFREY Blalock to the stand, I ask for another closed hearing.

I start off by bringing Hawpe up to date on what we have now learned about Stacy’s identity and background, and I again ask that Blalock be allowed to state his view that she had to be under the protection of WITSEC.

Hawpe, of course, objects. “Your Honor, as you know all too well, we have been over this ground. There was a specific denial in your court from the lawyer representing the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“I now believe she was parsing her words, Your Honor.”

“What do you mean?”

“I checked the transcript. She phrased her denial quite precisely.” I look at my notes and read the words she used. “The woman known in this trial as Stacy Harriman was never under the control of the U.S. Marshals Service in the witness protection program.”

“How is that parsing her words?” the judge asks.