Jack Higgins: Day of Reckoning

The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn't say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

'Hey, Jack, come in.'

His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. 'Uncle, you look good.'

'So do you.' The Don offered him the magazine. 'I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that's all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn't good.'

Fox waved his hand. 'It's innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I'm related to you. But they think I'm legit.'

'You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think "innocuous stuff" is all she's after? Don't delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we're respectable — property, manufacturing, finance — but we're still Mafia, that's what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she's after something — and you… you're a good boy. You've done well, but I'm not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.'

'Uncle, please,' Fox said.

The Don waved his hand. 'A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you're greedy. There's nothing I don't know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won't hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.'

'That's our flagship casino, Uncle.'

'Sure, but while you're there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.' The Don waved him back. 'Don't annoy me by denying it, Jack.'

'Uncle.' Fox tried to sound contrite.

'Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That's where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.'

As you say, Uncle.'

'Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.'

'Yes, Uncle.'

And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.'

Fox hesitated. 'No, it hasn't been like that.'

'Then like what? Why should she be interested in making You look good? She's in it for more. I'm telling you, she's hiding something. This piece, it's not so bad, all right, but what's next? What's behind the front?' The Don shook his head. 'She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.'

'What would you advise, Uncle?'

'Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.' He reached for a pitcher. 'Have a martini and then we'll eat.'

Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn't open. He'd served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.

A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he'd just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.

Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. 'Terry, you look good.'

Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. 'Aldo, you want something?'

'Not me, but the Solazzo family would like a favour. You would never say no to the Don, would you, Terry?'

'Of course not,' Terry gabbled, reached for the whisky sour and swallowed it in one gulp.

'Only in this case, it's Jack Fox who wants the favour.'

Which was enough to almost give Terry a bowel movement. Anything I can do.'

'That goes without saying.' Falcone patted his cheek and said to the barman, who was looking wary, 'Give him another. He's going to need it.'

The barman said, 'Now, look, I don't want any trouble in here.'

Russo leaned over the bar, his ugly face full of menace. 'Make him the fucking drink and shut up. Okay?'

Hurriedly, the barman did as he was told, his hands shaking.

Jack Fox was in the sitting room of his Park Avenue townhouse, on the second floor, enjoying a light lunch of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches, when Falcone brought Terry Mount in.

'Why, Terry, you look worried,' Fox told him. 'Now why should that be?' He bit into another sandwich, then Falcone took a wad of money from his pocket. 'Aldo, have you won the lottery or something?'

'No, Signore, but I think Terry has. There's fifteen grand here.'

Fox nodded to the champagne bucket and Falcone poured him another glass. 'Terry, I think you've been a naughty boy again.'

'Please, Mr Fox, I'm just trying to make a buck.' 'And so you shall.' Fox smiled. 'Two grand, Terry.' Terry's eyes rolled. 'And what do I have to do for that?'

'What you do best.' Fox pushed a piece of paper across that had been lying on the table. 'Katherine Johnson. Ten Barrow Street. Just on the edge of the Village. You'll toss her place this afternoon.'

'But that doesn't give me time to prepare.'

'For what?' Fox said coldly. 'It's a small townhouse. She won't be there. You boast that you can break in anywhere.' Terry licked his lips. 'What do I do?'

'She's a magazine reporter, so you'll probably find an office, a computer, a VCR, all that stuff. Bring whatever disks you find. Bring the videos on her business shelf.'

Terry said, 'People keep videos all the time. I mean, do I bring all of them?'

'Be sensible, Terry,' Fox said patiently. 'I'm not looking for Dirty Harry or She Wore a Yellow Ribbon. Just use your brain, such as it is. The boys will take you, they'll wait and bring you back. Anything you've got, I want by five o'clock. I'm sure you won't disappoint me.'

Terry's feet hardly touched the ground as Falcone pushed him outside.

He went to Barrow Street wearing a bomber jacket that said 'Smith Electronics' on the back. He didn't bother with the front door, after three rings got no reply, but went down to the basement. There were double deadlocks, but they both responded to his touch.

He found himself in a laundry room and moved upstairs to the entrance hall. There was a parlour, dining room and kitchen, so he tried the stairs, the only sound disturbing the quiet the grandfather dock ticking in the hall. The first door he tried was the study. He saw shelves crammed with books and videos, a computer next to two video and disk machines, and a multiple tape recorder. He switched them all on and removed everything he found in them, placing his haul in the carry bag that hung from his left shoulder. He opened drawers and found more disks and cassettes, which he also took.

The rest really was frustrating. Rows of movies on video, rows of instructional tapes. He was sweating now and swung at the shelves and scattered videotapes across the floor.

Okay. So he'd done what Fox wanted. Time to go. There were some bottles on a side table, and glasses. He poured some bourbon, savoured it, and left by the same route, locking the basement door before returning to Falcone and Russo.