A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(50)

“This isn’t just some unsuspecting dope. The guys said they tried to force him to pull over on the interstate, but he outmaneuvered them. Our guys followed the car to Route Eleven, then called ahead to set up a roadblock. The car blew right through before they were ready. This guy was going a hundred and ten. You can’t stop somebody like that quietly. It’s like flagging down a suicide bomber.”

“You’re not getting my point,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “Once there was Big Joe Lonardo, then Big Ange Lonardo. Then Big Al Polizzi. Have you ever heard anybody call me Big Teddy Mangeoli?”

“Those were big guys, that’s all. You’re like, five foot six.”

“Eight. Five foot eight. Jesus.”

“It doesn’t mean those guys were more important. It was descriptive.”

Teddy Mangeoli held him in his stare for a moment, and then walked across the carpeted office. He was usually happy when he was in this room. He loved being in charge of a bank, and he loved being its biggest shareholder. This morning the luxury of the office seemed to him to be an indictment. The man he was going to call was the head of the Arm in Buffalo. Just the sound of it made his spine tingle—the Arm. Lorenzo Malconi was from another generation, when men were a scarier species. Malconi had gotten where he was because he had burned some powder and he had dug some graves.

When Teddy Mangeoli got to the cabinet, he turned to Donato. “Give me some time alone. I don’t need anybody to watch me grovel.” He picked up the receiver of the special telephone that was swept by the security people every day, and dialed. He fought the feeling of shame and dread that seemed to double with each ring.

IN BUFFALO, ANDY SPATO PICKED up the telephone and said, “Malconi residence.” He listened for a moment, then said, “One moment please.” Then he walked out through the sliding glass door into the garden.

“Mr. Malconi?” Andy Spato stood holding the telephone with his big hand over the receiver. “It’s Teddy Mangeoli in Cleveland. Would you like me to have him call back?”

The old man opened his eyes, but didn’t move his head even a centimeter. He was tentatively ready for a disappointment or a new chore. Being a boss looked like being a king, but it sometimes felt like being everybody’s servant. You couldn’t just say you didn’t care what anybody’s problem was. He held out his hand.

Spato handed him the phone and backed away, his eyes still on Mr. Malconi, waiting for a nod from him. That was usually the signal that he was dismissed. When he saw the old man nod, he spun on his heel and stepped back toward the house. He went inside and closed the sliding glass door.

He took a last look at the old man sitting on the chaise longue in the garden with his feet up, wearing his comfortable old sport coat with the elbow patches and his leather driving slippers. For the hundredth time, Spato thought about how much like a kind elderly gentleman he looked. Spato could almost imagine a half dozen little grandchildren gathering around him to listen to a story. The truth was that he was probably surrounded by the ghosts of a few dozen people waiting for him to die so they could tear his soul to shreds. Spato went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had promised himself he’d have one while the old man had his afternoon nap.

In the garden, Mr. Malconi spoke into the phone. “Hello, Teddy.”

“Don Lorenzo, I’m calling you with a very difficult and humiliating piece of news.”

“What is it?”

“I would have come in person, but it would have taken longer, and I was sure you would want to know right away. It pains me to tell you that the small favor you asked was bungled.”

“Bungled?”

“Botched. Fumbled. I can’t think of any other way to say it. My guys failed you.”

“Should I be listening for a knock on my door, Teddy?”

“Oh, no, Don Lorenzo. Nothing like that. Six men were sent to look at the hotel registers in the Cleveland area where that phone call originated—three teams of two men. The target apparently had a girlfriend with him, and she accidentally saw one of the teams by the hotel computer. She and the target drove off at over a hundred miles an hour. Our guys had big-ass SUVs, and you know how bad those are for that kind of driving. They’re heavy, and have a high center of gravity. Mario Andretti couldn’t hold one of those fat pigs on a winding road at over a hundred. As it was, one of the SUVs had to be towed out of a ditch.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No, thank God,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “It’s a blessing things weren’t worse.”

“Driving into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour?” said Mr. Malconi. “It’s a miracle.”

Teddy Mangeoli felt a wave of heat wash over him. That wasn’t what he had meant, and it sounded impossible, but it was too late to correct the impression. He could only hope that Mr. Malconi didn’t consider it a lie. “Anyway, the guy and his girlfriend are gone. We failed you, and I’m very sorry.”

“Do you know which direction they were going?”

“South on Route Eleven, toward West Virginia and Maryland.”

“Do they know who was looking for them?”

“I don’t see how they could,” said Teddy Mangeoli. “My guys were in identical black Escalades. Since we knew this target was a wanted man, I thought that might make our teams look like feds coming to arrest him. You remember when the FBI raided Danny Spoccato’s office in Newark? Big black SUVs. I saw it on the television news over and over. Now the Escalades are back where they came from, and the guys never got close enough to get identified.”