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Ride To Nowhere

By

Al Lamanda

Copyright by Al Lamanda

ONE

When the phone on the nightstand rang at ten thirty in the morning, Jack Saccani was lost inside his king-size bed with his face pressed against the pillow and his girlfriend Miranda Lopez, wrapped around his legs. She opened her eyes when Jack didn’t and pressed her leg against his back.

“Phone,” Miranda said.

Jack stirred, but didn’t move. Miranda stuck her foot in the small of his back to give him a good shove. “Answer the Goddamn phone.”

Jack opened his eyes, moved his arm toward the phone and answered it on the twelfth ring. “Yeah.”

On the other end of the phone was Jack’s uncle, Joey Falco. “Jack, it’s morning, for God’s sake. I need to talk to you.”

“Hold on,” Jack said.

He lowered the phone, sat up, reached for a pack of cigarettes by the phone and took the time to light one. “I’m here, uncle,” he said, blowing smoke.

Falco said, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Jack? Most people are out of bed by noon.”

Jack glanced at the alarm clock. “It’s only ten thirty.”

Falco said, “Listen to me. I need you at the restaurant for lunch.”

“Which one?”

“The Village. The old man will be there. You know how he is about wearing a tie.”

“I know he thinks it’s nineteen forty seven,” Jack said.

Falco said, “Just be dressed and ready by noon. I’ll send a car.”

Falco severed the call and Jack hung up the phone.

Miranda squinted at Jack. “What?”

“Nothing. I have to go to lunch.”

“Can I go?”

“Not this one,” Jack said and stood up.

***

Jack stood before the bathroom mirror to shave. At forty seven, his body was tight, the muscles coiled like an athlete. He scraped off the stubble, and then moved Miranda’s shit out of the way to step inside the shower. He picked up a bar of soap that smelled like oatmeal.

***

Wrapped in a silk robe, Miranda sat at the kitchen table and sipped coffee as she waited for Jack. At thirty one, Miranda had the dark good looks of a Brazilian model, although she was Mexican-American.

She was on her second cup when Jack came in wearing a dark suit with a red tie. She said, “The tie doesn’t go with the suit.”

Jack reached for a mug and filled it with coffee. He took a sip. It was the strong, Mexican stuff she liked.

“Why not?”

“Too red for the suit. You look like Michael Douglas in that old movie about Wall Street. Maybe the paisley?”

Jack sat at the table and lit a cigarette.

Miranda studied him for a moment. “Or the pale blue one you got hanging up in the closet. More modern looking.”

Jack nodded. “I have to eat lunch with my uncle.”

“That’s okay. Maybe I’ll have lunch with my mother.”

Jack sipped the Mexican coffee and thought for a moment. “I’m not sure what time I’ll be back. My uncle’s meetings can go all day.”

Miranda said, “Uh huh.”

Jack looked at her. “What’s uh huh mean?”

Miranda pouted for a moment and showed Jack her big, dark eyes. “It’s not a good time, Jack.”

Jack knew better, but couldn’t stop himself. “What is not a good Time?”

Miranda sipped coffee and looked at Jack over the rim of the cup. “When you asked me to move in with you, you said you would talk to your uncle about us.”

Jack shook his head. “This is business meeting. I’ll talk to him soon.”

“You said that months ago,” Miranda said.

He could see she was getting upset, that Mexican temper bubbling just below the surface. “You said you were ready to quit the business.”

“I know,” Jack said. “Soon.”

“How soon?”

“Very soon,” Jack said, knowing that was the wrong thing to say the moment he said it.

Miranda’s eyes went coal black, her temper lightning quick like a coiled snake striking at helpless prey.

“That’s bullshit, Jack,” she exploded. “You said you would tell this uncle you wanted to quit the business and settle down with me. That’s what you said.”

“I know what I said, but it isn’t that easy,” Jack took another sip of coffee.” My uncle, these are hard men. Change is something they don’t like.”

Miranda glared at him, wearing him down. “See how you like an empty bed.”

Jack couldn’t stop the smile from forming on his lips.

“Don’t even go there,” Miranda said.

“What?”

“What,” she said, mocking him. “How hard is it to tell a bunch of old, wrinkled gumba’s you have a Mexican girlfriend?”

Jack crushed out the cigarette and stood up and looked down at Miranda.

Miranda said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Jack reached for the opening of her robe.

She slapped at his hand, but not too hard.

“Oh no you didn’t,” Miranda said.

“What?”

Miranda picked up Jack’s hand from her robe and dropped it to his side. “What? What? Is that all you can say?”

“I can say you’re beautiful.”

The hard lines of Miranda’s lips quivered. She fought back the laugh caught in her throat. “You’re a fool, Jack. A big, dumb ass fool.”

Jack pulled her to her feet, felt inside the robe.

“Don’t you see I’m mad here,” Miranda said.

“I can never tell, not with that Latin thing you have going.”

“Well, take it from me, I’m mad.”

Jack nibbled on her neck. “I got a half an hour.”

“Go watch the news. You like that.”

Jack nibbled a bit more and she laughed.

“The road is closed with a big detour sign.”

Jack nibbled up her neck to her ear. “I need to change my tie, anyway.”

Miranda tried to sneak a slap to his face, but Jack picked off her hand in that bear claw of his and then gently twisted her hand behind her back, careful not to hurt her.

Her eyes told him she surrendered. “The hell with it,” she said.

***

The word was cuddling. That’s what they were doing now.

Miranda had the after sex flush to her cheeks as she rested her head against his chest and played with his chest hair. He felt her take hold of a single strand and yank it free.

“How come you don’t have any gray, a man your age?”

“I don’t know and I’m not that old.”

“A woman’s worst nightmare is seeing that first gray hair, especially if she has dark hair.”

“Like you,” Jack said.

Miranda sat up in bed. “What, you see one?”

“No, I meant dark hair like you.”

Miranda glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand. She jumped up from the bed. I don’t have time for a shower, thank you, Jack.

“It takes five minutes.”

“Not for a woman. I have to shave my legs.”

“Your mother checks your legs?”

“For later, for tonight.”

Miranda went into the bathroom to wash her face. Jack lit a cigarette and rested his head against the pillow. For most of his adult life, Jack had been a loner. Not that he was antisocial, he wasn’t. It was just that except for his uncle, he had little remaining family left. There were a few cousins scattered about, but he never saw them. Women were there when he needed them, waitresses and barmaids from his clubs mostly, but few, if any ever spent the night. Most of them had husbands or boyfriends they needed to get home to and those that didn’t were useless for conservation.

That’s why, in a sense, Jack felt lacking in his knowledge of women. Was it just Miranda, or did all women hang their wet pantyhose across the shower? Did they all have three types of hair brushes and bags of crap he was unfamiliar with? Did all women actually pay attention to the feminine products commercials on television the way Miranda did? She would scold him, telling him she wanted to see that, it might be something she could use for this or that infection or rash.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray by the clock radio and got out of bed. There would be more to learn, he told himself as he went to dress. A lot more.

***

Seated in back of Joey Falco’s Town Car, Jack tore open the thick envelope which always waited for him on the doorknob of his Brooklyn condo. The envelope was stuffed with reports of the previous nights financial transactions of Jack’s business holdings. The three pizza parlors and four drycleaners , fleet of twelve trucks, the linen service, waste removal service, two nightclubs, one DVD rental store. Missing were the gambling, prostitution and loan shark reports. They were kept in separate books.

From the front seat, the driver looked at Jack through the rearview mirror. “Nice to see you, Jack,” he said. “Nice looking tie.”

Jack looked at the pale, blue tie knotted around his neck

“Thanks,” Jack said as he lit a cigarette.

TWO

The driver glided the Town Car to the curb outside Joey Falco’s restaurant in Little Italy, Manhattan. As Jack exited, the driver said, “See ya, Jack.”

Jack stood for a moment and looked at the restaurant, its etched glass windows, a tourist trap for visitors who wouldn’t know the difference between real Italian food and the crap they shove in their microwaves.

Jack climbed the stairs and entered the lobby where a beefy bodyguard type greeted him. “The private room upstairs,” he said.

Another beefy type opened the door on the second floor for Jack where a large table was assembled for six. Jack took a mental roll call.

Joey Falco, sixty eight sat center stage. Anthony Andreoli, sixty seven, from Staten Island occupied the seat to the right of Falco. Next to him sat Christopher Columbus Castallo, a sixty nine year old mobster from Manhattan. Thomas Trattola was next in line, a cruel, sixty six year old Bronx, old timer who ran his family with a blow torch and a pair of pliers. To Falco’s left, Johnny Puzzudo, eighty four and grand master of the Bortoni crime family, looked at Jack. As Jack approached the table, he lit a cigarette.

Falco jumped on him. “The old man can’t take smoke, Jack.”

Jack tossed the cigarette in a water glass and sat opposite Falco in the only vacant seat left at the table.

Puzzudo grinned at Jack. “We ordered lunch.”

Jack looked at Puzzudo, his suit baggy over his bony frame. “This is the place to do that.” Jack said.

Puzzudo looked at Falco. “What did we order?”

Falco said, “You asked for linguini with clam sauce, Johnny.”

Jack’s eyes scanned the table. “I’m looking around this table and I’m not liking what I’m seeing.”

Falco said, “What does that mean, Jack?”

“This kind of power lunch means something is about to happen.”

“You got that magic eye, Jack,” Falco said. “Just like your father.”

“My father is dead.”

Puzzudo shifted his thin frame in his seat and leaned in close to Falco. “Who’s dead? Is somebody dead? Who, who?”

Falco sighed. “Nobody is dead, Johnny.”

Puzzudo said, “Then why we all here? This is like that time in forty six.”

Falco sighed “Everything’s fine, Johnny.”

Puzzudo grinned and Falco looked at Jack. “We have what might be called a situation,” Falco said.

“Might?”

“What your father would call a fixable problem.”

Jack took a sip of water from a crystal glass. “Whenever I hear my father mentioned twice in one day, it usually means I have to kill somebody.”

Puzzudo rocked back and forth in his chair. “Somebody is dead. Who? Who is dead?”

Falco wore his uncle smile as he looked at Jack. “I won’t try to bullshit You, Jack. These are hard times. Everything is all upside down and fucked up these days.”

Jack said, “Hard times? Every man in this room is a millionaire, including myself. What’s hard about it?”

Falco glanced around the table. Trattola, Castallo and Andreoli nodded their approval.

Falco said, “The federal government isY.”

Puzzudo’s eyes danced around the room. “The feds are here?”

Castallo said, “For God’s sake, somebody get Johnny his lunch.”

“What about the federal government?” Jack asked.

Puzzudo turned his bony frame toward Castallo “I want linguini, with clam sauce.”

“We told the waiter,” Castallo reassured him.

Jack looked at Falco and waited. He had no illusions about these men. Appearances aside, any one of them would kill you for a quarter. They had their hands in many pies and would rather send their children to prison than part with a slice of their wealth. The worst was Joey Falco, his father’s brother. He had a lifetime’s worth of connections in New York, Miami and as far reaching as Kansas City. He owned, or was partners in the drug trade, casinos, prostitution, legal and illegal, shipping companies, computer companies, construction and highway maintenance rooted in government contracts and even several law firm’s. There was nothing the man wasn’t into. Even the movie business, though Jack wasn’t sure how that connection worked.

Falco said, “You know, Jack, the old days are long gone. There was a time Johnny had a dozen shooters on the payroll and fifty more in reserve.”

Puzzudo looked at Falco. “I want some bread with some nice olive oil and garlic for dipping.”

Falco looked at Castallo. “Get the waiter to bring him some bread.”

Castallo stood up and left the room.

Falco said, “Are you listening to me, Jack?”

“You want bread for Johnny,” Jack said.

Falco said, “Don’t be a smartass, Jack. I was making a point about business. It’s more difficult and dangerous to get things done than fifteen years ago. I blame the Muslims.”

Jack couldn’t wait to hear this. He said, “Since when have we ever done business with Muslims?”

“Since after the war,” Falco explained.

“Which war?”

“The big one,” Jack, Falco held up two fingers. “W.W. Two. That war.”

Puzzudo said, “Fucking Mussolini,” and spit on the table.

Trattola rolled his eyes at Falco, and then used a linen napkin to wipe up Puzzudo’s green phlegm.

Jack said, “Uncle Joey, because I’m half Irish…”

Castallo returned with a large basket of bread and set it before Puzzudo. He poured olive oil onto a plate and then sat down.

Puzzudo ripped off a piece of bread, dipped it into the oil and placed it into his mouth. “Good.”

Jack said, “Because I’m half Irish, I’ve never been completely allowed inside your inner circle. I run the small time operations my father left me, strong arm the unions when necessary and grease a few local police captains and politicians. So, understand when I tell you I know nothing about Muslims except that some of them a pain in the ass, but so is pretty much everybody else.”

Falco said, “That isn’t exactly true, Jack. If I didn’t have complete trust in you and total respect for your talents, would I bring you big time contracts on a regular basis? It’s nobody’s fault at this table your father chose to marry a woman outside the race.”

“With all due respect,” Trattola pointed out. “Your mother was a beautiful woman. She couldn’t help being Irish.”

Jack looked at Trattola.

Trattola said, “But they loved each other and that’s all that matters.”

Jack said, “My mother shot my father with his own gun. She blew his brains all over the oak dresser which was a wedding present from my grandmother on the Irish side.”

Trattola waived a hand in the air. “Yeah, well,” he said.

Falco said, “About the subject at hand.”

“The Muslims,” Jack said.

“No, Jack, the federal government,” Falco said.

Dipping bread into olive oil, Puzzudo glared at Falco. “They put Capone away, those bastards. I spit on them.”

Falco placed a hand on Puzzudo’s bony shoulder. “No more spitting, okay, Johnny?”

Jack said, “What’s the connection?”

Falco kept one eye on Puzzudo, said, “For fifty years, our best supplier has been Afghanistan. That’s all changed now.”

Trattola said, “The fucking Army keeps burning the poppy fields so we have to look elsewhere to meet our demands and believe me the demand is high.”

“South America, Mexico, even Turkey,” Castallo said. “I can’t keep track anymore. I got accountants up the ass.”

“The problem is the borders,” Andreoli added. “Ever since 911 it’s almost impossible to bring anything into the country.”

Trattola pounded his hand on the table. “This homeland security thing is a fucking pain in my ass.”

Castallo said, “We have to grease a lot of palms to meet our need of two hundred keys a month. That raises street prices, the middleman isn’t happy, people look to rip our people off. Pretty soon, business will be done from a goddamn tank.”

Jack was both impressed and surprised. “That’s two thousand keys a year?”

“More if we can get it,” Falco said. “But, the risk is becoming unacceptable to the organization.”

“Drop out for a while until things cool off,” Jack suggested.

Trattola balked. “Drop a billion a year in street traffic?”

“It’s not like the casinos or unions,” Jack, Falco said. “If we drop out, somebody else moves in. It erodes our base. Next thing you know, somebody is muscling in on the legitimate end. The fucking Russians or Chinese. No, we can’t tolerate that”

“No,” Puzzudo said, even though he had no idea what anybody was talking about.

Trattola looked at Jack. “If we’re perceived as weak, it’s all over.”

Falco said, “We used to worry about the blacks until we made peace and do business with them. Today, it’s the Latinos.”

“They would cut their mother’s throat for a nickel bag, these fucking spics,” Trattola said. “If they take root, it would require an all out war to regain control.”

“Fucking spics,” Puzzudo said.

Jack waited for the old man to spit, but he seemed to lose his train of thought and ate some more bread.

“I thought the problem was the Muslims?” Jack said.

“He’s not paying attention,” Trattola said.

Falco looked at Jack. “He’s paying attention.”

Jack said, “If I was a full member of the organization, what I would suggest would be to increase imports to make up for the losses at the borders and keep that part of the business running at maximum capacity. You weaken the Latinos ability to generate cash and threaten our power base by decreasing their buying power and cash flow.”

Falco nodded. “There’s just one problem.”

“Which brings us to you,” Trattola said.

Jack looked at Falco. “I was wondering.”

Falco folded his hands together and his one carat, diamond, pinky ring stared Jack in the eye. Fifty grand wrapped around a little finger.

Falco said, “Do you know who John Teasel is?”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“He’s only the Attorney General, Jack.”

“For New York?”

“For Washington, Jack. The White House. He’s a member of the President’s Cabinet.”

“I don’t pay much attention to politics,” Jack said. “Only when I have to pay somebody off and even then barely.”

Trattola said, “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you vote?”

“Voting’s important,” Castallo insisted.

Jack looked at both of them. “I should vote for somebody who can put me in prison?”

“Forget the voting,” Falco said. “What’s important here is this Teasel is the most powerful attorney in the country. He’s spent the last two or three years tracking terrorists and not paying much attention to us.”

“And that’s a good thing,” Trattola said.

Jack turned to Trattola “So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Falco explained. “Is that the man is sick.”

“Developed a heart condition,” Trattola said.

“So serious, he has to step down,” Castallo smiled.

“And that,” Andreoli blared. “Ain’t a good thing.”

Jack looked at Falco, waited.

Falco said, “Which brings us to Mark Bierman. You do know who Mark Bierman is, don’t you, Jack?”

“If you’re talking about the two time ex-governor of New York, then, yes, I do,” Jack said.

“The word out of Washington is Bierman is the guy who will replace Teasel as Attorney General,” Falco said.

“And that is a bad thing,” Trattola said.

“For us,” Castallo added.

Falco said, “This guy Bierman is different. Even when he was governor, it’s not the usual bullshit with this guy. None of that social security, senior drug program crap with this guy. He’s anti crime all the way. Remember how he forced the mayor to clean up the mess in Times Square.”

“I wasn’t aware Times Square was all that clean,” Jack said.

“You serious?” Andreoli said. “They got a Disney store now and everything.”

Castallo smiled at Jack. “I brought my grandson there and he loved it. Bought him a Dumbo elephant that sings some small world bullshit.”

Falco looked at Castallo. “Can we forget the Disney store and elephants?”

Jack said, “Is there a point in here somewhere?”

“This Bierman,” Falco said. “Is already talking about what he will do if he gets the appointment.”

“Like?” Jack said.

Falco said, “Making it a priority to investigate organized crime. Possibly even putting together a senate committee to do the same. He has this idea organized crime undermines the government and weakens the country.”

“And we don’t do that?” Jack said.

“Not like that,” Falco said. “He has this idea that organized crime somehow strengthens the terrorist activity around the world because of the drug trade. That’s bullshit. We love our country as much as anybody.”

“Some accountant in Idaho wants to put some of our shit up his nose, that’s nobody’s business but his own,” Andreoli insisted.

Jack said, “They had these kinds of hearings before. A bunch of old senators ask questions nobody ever answers. The lawyers always plead the fifth.”

“Not this time, Jack,” Falco said. “With all this national security bullshit, the public will rally around this asshole if they believe the organization is a threat to their SUV’s.”

“Nothing is worse than pissed off soccer moms,” Trattola explained.

“Remember what they did to Gotti?” Castallo pointed out.

“I’m not ready to sit in prison while my face rots,” Andreoli said.

“Who is?” Jack wanted to know.

Falco said, “Right now congress is in recess for the summer. When they resume in the fall, that’s when Bierman will be nominated. If he gets the nod, that’s two years of this prick. Six if the president wins reelection.”

“By Christmas, he could be breaking our balls,” Trattola said.

“I love Christmas,” Puzzudo smiled. “The lights.”

Everybody looked at Puzzudo, and then focused on Jack. Falco said, “We can’t allow this to happen.”

“We can’t?” Jack asked.

“No,” Falco said.

“We took a vote,” Trattola said.

“Bierman must disappear before he gets appointed,” Falco said. “It’s the only solution.”

“That may be,” Jack said. “But what are you looking at me for? Between you five, you must have a hundred sociopaths who would love the chance to shoot him in the head.”

“No,” Falco said. “It must be blood.”

“I’m only half blood,” Jack said.

“Kill him with the Italian half,” Trattola said.

Falco silenced Trattola with a glance, and then looked at Jack. “Your father always said that loyalty counts for more than anything. You always remember that, Jack. He knew what he was talking about.”

“Loyalty to your blood, to your family,” Trattola said. “And make no mistake; we are your blood and your family.”

Jack knew a threat, even one disguised as an oath, when he heard one.

Falco said, “Now, about the accident.”

“What accident?” Jack asked.

“The one Bierman is going to have,” Falco told him.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Make him dead by accident, that’s your plan?”

Puzzudo showed signs of life. “Somebody have an accident?”

Trattola looked at Puzzudo. “Not yet.”

Falco said, “Jack, listen to me. It’s the only way. How will it look if the Attorney General, a man known to be tough on organized crime is killed by organized crime?”

“The feds even suspect the organization is behind his death, they will be so far up our ass, it will be like sphincter inspection on visiting day,” Castallo said.

“Right, Falco,” said. “Now for the good part. My third nephew Michael, you remember him? He’s an assistant DA in Queens.”

Jack said, “Your nephew is a DA? How the hell did that happen?”

“He worked several years in Bierman’s law firm as a paralegal,” Falco said. “Bierman ever wrote letters to get him into law school, and then sponsored him. I helped with his tuition.”

Jack said, “I’m notY”

“Hold on,” Falco said. “Let me tell it before you make judgments. Michael has political aspirations of his own. He’s thirty-five, the right age to run for mayor in two years. With one phone call, Bierman could make it happen.”

“Provided Bierman makes the call before I kill him,” Jack said.

“Right,” Falco nodded his head. “Mike’s a smart kid. He’ll go far in the organization with the right connections.”

Jack said, “How far is he going if his job is to put criminals in prison?”

“Mike is a good, loyal kid,” Falco said. “Remember what I said about loyalty.”

Jack looked at his uncle. “Then get Michael to kill Bierman.”

Falco shook his head. “No good, Jack. Mike’s an amateur. He has no head for this part of the business like you do. Besides, how will it look, the future Mayor of New York involved in the murder of his former boss?”

“It won’t look like anything,” Jack said. “If no one knows about it.”

Trattola said, “That’s what we’re talking about, Jack. A one hundred percent accident. Nobody must know, or even suspect it was a hit.”

Falco said, “It’s the only way, Jack. And it must be you.”

Jack said, “What kind of accident would you like Bierman to have?”

“That’s your department, Jack,” Trattola said. “We don’t want to know details.”

“Right,” Falco pointed a finger at Jack. “You devise a plan and then we’ll meet again. In the meantime, one million will be deposited into your offshore accounts. Any expenses bring them to me.”

“And don’t use your own people,” Castallo said. “This is a work alone job. No witnesses, no loose lips, nobody.”

Trattola said, “Right before Christmas a lot of people kill themselves anyway.”

“All that shopping for people you can’t stand,” Andreoli shrugged.

“It’s depressing,” Castallo said.

A waiter knocked on the door, then wheeled in a large serving tray.

Falco looked around the room. “We’ll continue this after lunch.”

Puzzudo looked at the waiter. “Do you have some of those little almond cookies?”