Thomas Perry - Blood Money

“Yeah, yeah.” The bored, ironic tone shocked Di Titulo. He turned and saw that it was Victor Catania, from New York. “Bernie’s dead, and you’re sorry.” Two or three of the younger men stiffened, their shoulders flexed down from their necks, and their hands suddenly looked very empty. But Catania paid no attention. He adopted a parody of Augustino’s master-of-ceremonies tone. “And let me take this heartfelt opportunity to say I told you so. And I told Bernie so, too. I had computer experts, I had everything set. Everything he knew could have been on disks by now, but the old bastard thought he was immortal. First, he had to take time to get everybody’s permission, he had to have time to collect his thoughts, he had to be sure everybody was happy.”

“It wasn’t his fault that he got shot, Victor,” said DeLuca.

Catania rolled his eyes. “So he got shot. The man was seventy-two years old. If it wasn’t that, it would have been a coronary.” Di Titulo noticed that the slim, erect Catania had not taken wine like the others. He was drinking bottled water.

Molinari said, “He’s dead, and when we’re through talking, he’ll still be dead. I could have gone across town to hear Catania say he told me so. I thought I got invited here because somebody had a plan.”

It was Phil Langusto who spoke. “Let’s get to that. From the beginning, we all assumed that nobody dropped the hammer on Bernie without thinking he had a way to get to that money.”

The others considered the statement self-evident, so only a few nodded or mumbled affirmative words.

“And everybody was watching to see the minute when any big money got moved. We’ve had a lot of cooperation, a lot of tips. And today seems to be the day. Big money is moving.” Langusto paused. “Only it ain’t all moving in one direction.”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Catania.

“It’s complicated,” said Langusto. “My brother can probably explain it better.”

Joe Langusto cleared his throat. “Here’s what we’ve seen so far. Somebody, somehow, got a list of the accounts where our money was stashed. The accounts are being closed.”

Catania interrupted. “If you know it’s our accounts, why couldn’t you take it first?”

“We didn’t know,” said Joe Langusto. “You got a guy inside a brokerage. He notices a sell order on a big account. It’s been there since the fifties, and it’s got nine million in it. Because he belongs to us, he runs a credit check on the account owner. Besides this nine million, this man has got nothing. He’s got no record of charging anything, because he’s never had any credit cards. He has no driver’s license, no car registered to him. Pretty soon you realize you’re looking at a man who never existed. But the money is already gone.”

DeLuca said, “Nine million? That’s not necessarily ours. It could be some civilian.”

“We’ve found a lot of these guys over the past few days. The money goes to a bank, then to some strange place—a corporation, some nonprofit organization. We’ve been trying to hunt down the accounts, find out where the money is going from there. So far we’re not up with it. My guys tell me it’s the kind of thing where it takes months to follow the trail, and when you lose it at any point, you’re done. We don’t need anybody’s help to do the tracing, but we’re picking up odd things. Al, I think you found one.”

“Yeah,” said Castananza. “My guy Di Titulo found something.” He looked at Di Titulo. “Tell them.”

Di Titulo had been rankling at the little lecture. Listening to Joe Langusto was like listening to all the New Yorkers he had ever met. Everything there was bigger, better, and closer to the action. Everybody else was a yokel. And these bosses were worse. Catania, the Langustos, Molinari all spoke with the assurance that each of their families was big—four or five hundred instead of sixty or eighty—and there were five of them in one city. But when he heard his name, his resentment turned to fright.

He straightened. “I’m on the board of a charity in Cleveland. Today they got a donation of four million, which is about a year’s goal. The money came from a man named Ronald Wilmont. I tried all afternoon to get information about him, but couldn’t find any. I called a few other charities, and every one I called had gotten a big donation today from some person or group they never heard of.”

“My dog had fifty fleas today,” Catania announced. “So did all the other dogs in the neighborhood.”

“I don’t get it,” said Molinari. “What the hell is going on?”

Catania smirked. “Nothing. Forget it. You got a year with big ups and downs in the stock and bond markets. The big ups, people make money. The big downs come because they sell. When they do, they got to pay taxes on the profits. So they take a charitable deduction.”

DeLuca had been lost in thought. “I’m not so sure. Four million to some charity in Cleveland is nothing. You’re right. But I got a little story too. I’ve got a construction company. My Chicago office got a call today from a guy who ferrets out jobs for me. The Red Cross has been talking about a new building for ten years. Today, they say they have the money in hand, and they’re preparing specs. An hour later, I get a call about renovating an old building for a Boys and Girls Club.”

“More fleas in Chicago,” said Catania. “Look, I’m as sure as anybody that our money is going to start moving eventually. But when it does, it’s not going to a charity in Cleveland.”

Di Titulo took a chance and spoke. “May I say one more thing?”

Nobody responded, but Catania watched him with suppressed amusement.

“There are a lot of reasons why they might do something like this.”

“Such as?” Catania looked eager. Di Titulo decided he was waiting to prove Di Titulo was an idiot—a small-town idiot.

“One is just what you said—the IRS. I don’t know how much money Bernie the Elephant was holding, but this might be a way to launder it. You have fake people donate it to a fake foundation. The fake foundation hands five percent of it to a real charity. Maybe it pays ten percent to a phony management company that owns the building it doesn’t occupy, ten to an advertising company that’s supposed to bring in new donations, twenty-five percent to imaginary employees, fifty percent to fake charities. You end up with ninety-five percent of the money, because it never left your hands. The imaginary donor owes no taxes: he gave it all to charity. The foundation has met federal standards by a mile. They only have to give away five percent a year. The best part is, it’s July. Nobody has to file any papers until next April.”

The men in the bus were suddenly animated. Advisers and counselors whispered to bosses in muffled tones. Finally, Molinari began to scowl. “You know a hell of a lot about this stuff, don’t you?”

Di Titulo’s heart stopped for a moment, then began again at a quicker tempo. He could think of nothing to say.

Al Castananza shrugged his big shoulders to settle into his seat more comfortably. “That’s one of the things I have on my mind. Somebody blew up Di Titulo’s new Caddy today. I would like to say two things. The first is that nobody in my organization killed Bernie or moved any of the money. Killing my people doesn’t help anybody.” The men in the bus watched him in silence, as though stricken by a common paralysis. “The second is that if anybody wants to play with bombs, I got guys who can do that kind of work too.” His eyes flicked to Catania and bored into him. “I got one who could drop the Empire State Building so the top hit Thirty-ninth Street.”

Catania held up both hands and shook his head. “Hey! Al! I didn’t do that.”