Robert Tanenbaum - Act of Revenge

“He’s in rare form,” said Roland. “I like grimy tentacles.”

“Bloated parasite isn’t bad either,” said Karp. “But twenty-four RICO indictments seems kind of slim for how long he’s been hacking at this.”

“All you need is one good one,” said Roland. “Ah, here’s the charts and the pointer. I always like the way he snaps his little car aerial out. Do you think it has sexual connotations, these guys and the pointers?”

Colombo had gestured to one of his minions, who had thrown back the cover from a stack of large charts on an easel, and Colombo was indeed probing it with a gleaming extensible steel pointer. First he poked a chart depicting the organization of the Bollano family, then one showing the various businesses it controlled, then a chart summarizing various pieces of paper evidence, phone taps, and grand jury testimony, tying reputed members of the Bollanos to this or that restaurant, laundry, or trucker. It went on, and grew tedious. It seemed that a large number of people with Italian surnames (many bearing colorful sobriquets pronounced by the U.S. attorney with obvious relish) had indeed been very naughty. They had bribed platoons of petty officials and had made threatening calls to good citizens and hadn’t paid their taxes and had lied like bandits under oath. Not much juice here yet. The TV people began looking at their watches. Colombo appeared to sense this and moved toward his punch line, snapping his pointer in with a sharp click and turning back to face his audience.

“How did Salvatore Bollano assemble this vast empire of crime?” he demanded rhetorically. “By violence, by murder, and the credible threat of violence and murder. Now murder, as you know, is not a federal crime. But ordering murder to prevent testimony to a federal grand jury is a federal crime. Three weeks ago Edward Catalano was scheduled to appear before a federal grand jury. As noted in the chart I just showed you, Mr. Catalano, street name Eddie Cat, was one of Salvatore G. Bollano’s closest associates. He knew where the bodies were buried, and I mean that literally, and he was going to tell what he knew. He never got the chance because he wound up with five bullets in his head on the night before his scheduled appearance. Recently, however, a witness has emerged, a witness who will lay the murder of Eddie Cat at the doorstep of none other than Salvatore G. Bollano. This witness is a Chinese illegal alien named Willie Lie. .” This stirred up a murmer of nervous laughter, and Colombo waited, unsmiling, for it to die away, before continuing.

“Mr. Lie has testified before the federal grand jury, and on the basis of that testimony we issued indictments and have arrested Mr. Joseph Pigetti on charges of conspiracy, interference with a federal prosecution, witness intimidation, and kidnapping in connection with the abduction and murder of Edward Catalano. That concludes my presentation, and I am open for questions at this time.”

“Oh, shit, it’s going to be a feeding frenzy,” said Roland as a forest of hands shot up from the ranks of the press.

No one asked about the various indictments, the ostensible purpose of the press conference. What they wanted to know about was the murder and the mysterious witness. Where was this witness? In protective custody. Why wasn’t Pigetti being charged with murder? Colombo was happy to explain that murder was not a federal crime. Murder was, of course, a crime under state law, and the witness, Mr. Lie, had approached the district attorney’s office with his information, but the district attorney had refused to act on it. Pandemonium, shouts, urgent wavings. Colombo picked one and got the obvious: why did the district attorney not act?

“I have no idea,” said Colombo, his expression indicating that he had a very good idea. “In general, federal investigations enjoy excellent cooperation with local law enforcement, using both state and federal statutes against defendants of this type. After all, we’re all on the same side. There are exceptions, of course, in cases where organized crime has compromised local law enforcement organizations.”

“Son of a bitch !” said Roland, loud enough to draw curious stares from several journalists.

The follow-up question was a no-brainer. Are you implying that this is the case with the New York D.A.? Through a half smirk Mr. Colombo declined to imply anything, asserting that he was interested only in evidence, but that the D.A.’s investigation of the Catalano murder seemed to be in some disarray. The police had come up with a good suspect for the trigger man, but the D.A. had declined to arrest this person. Was there an active federal investigation of the New York D.A.? Mr. Colombo reminded the assembly that grand jury procedures, especially as regards investigations in progress, were closely sealed, but that he intended to vigorously pursue any and all lines of inquiry, no matter where they led, and that was all the time he had for questions, thank you.

“I guess we saw how the pros do it,” was Karp’s comment as they weaved through mobs of rushing journalists.

“Yeah, a truly brilliant job, the little fuck. He just about accused us of sleeping with the Mob. Jack’s going to have twins. And he knew about the Marky Moron business, too. Shit!”

“Hey, we did the right thing there. Cops talk, and Tommy’s always got his ears open for bitching about his colleagues,” said Karp as they passed through the lobby of the Federal Building. “The story is the putatively mobbed-up D.A. won’t get tough with the Bollanos, so the feds have to step in.”

“Yeah, and he’s going to pressure us to give state grand jury immunity on the Eddie Cat hit. And not just for the Chinaman. He’s going to want us to walk Joe P. on it, too. He’ll be glad to forget a murder or two or three provided someone drops a dime on the Sallys.”

They paused outside the building, before the long, rusted steel Serra sculpture, another federal creation that no one liked but everyone had to live with.

“Don’t worry, Roland,” said Karp soothingly.

“Easy for you to say. Frank Anselmo is flashing his famous I-told-you-so smile and telling everyone you fucked us up.”

“Time is on our side,” said Karp.

“Is it? You mean, if we find this Lie is dirty in a previous life. I wish I was as sure as you.”

“I met him.”

“You did. What are you going on, your famous instinct?”

“That, and the fact that the guy asked for me. Why me?”

“You’re in the papers, on TV.”

“Yeah, but so are you, so’s Jack, for that matter. No, the connection has to be Chinatown, the Chens, Marlene, Lucy. . something. I live around there, so I’ll be more. . what? More sensitive to the plight of a poor illegal immigrant gangster? Easy to get to if I don’t do what they say? Anyway, the guy’s not what he seems, and it’s just too damn convenient him turning up to pin it all on Joe P.”

“I’d like to get my hands on the shooter. By the way, Lie has got a solid alibi. On the night of he was gambling. A couple dozen great and near great of Chinatown saw him.”

“So we’re looking for two other guys. I assume the cops are on it?”

“Balls to the wall, or what passes for it nowadays, but no real leads,” said Roland glumly. “How’s V.T. coming on the paper?”

“I was just going to go see him,” said Karp as the two men entered the courthouse via the special D.A.’s entrance on Leonard Street. “Come on along.”

Roland checked his watch. “I’d love to, but I got to see Judge Paine on something. Be nice to have him up there if we ever get a defendant on Catalano.”

Karp made a sour face.

“What, you don’t like Paine? Heshy Paine? He’s got the world’s biggest hard-on for the Mob.”