A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(51)

“Where did they come from?”

“A friend of ours has a Cadillac dealership.”

“A friend of ours?” A friend of mine was just a friend. A friend of ours was a member of La Cosa Nostra.

“Yes. Mike Donato.”

“Do you think he might be able to get me a deal on a new CTS-V sedan?”

“I’ll have one sent to you tomorrow. What color do you like?”

“They have a really deep black, but I like a nice dark gray, you know—conservative, like a good suit,” said Mr. Malconi. “But I wasn’t asking for a present.”

“It’s as good as done. It’s the least I can do to show you my regard. I know it doesn’t make up for the mistake.”

Mr. Malconi said, “Forget that other thing. It’s just a small favor for a friend of a friend. I’ll make another phone call or two to the people who live where the happy couple are headed. Somebody will see them at the right time and place, and that will be the end of it. These things can sometimes take a week or two. It’s not unusual.”

“Again, Don Lorenzo, I apologize.”

“Don’t give it another thought. I’ll talk to you after my new Cadillac arrives.”

The two men hung up. Teddy Mangeoli walked stiffly to his desk and sat down on the top of it, his mind churning. He had made mistakes, and sounded as though he was making excuses and lying. He had missed a chance to build a relationship with a man who had been a power practically since the beginning of time. What the hell had he been thinking? He should have sent a hundred men to the hotel district after this fugitive. It had been a huge opportunity, and he had left it to underlings.

Mike Donato opened the door a crack, only an eye visible. When he saw that Teddy Mangeoli had finished his call, he came in and shut the thick office door. “How did it go?”

“Rotten. I’m sure he thinks we’re stupid and worthless. I kind of misspoke and gave him the impression that one of the SUVs was driven into a ditch at a hundred miles an hour and nobody was hurt, so he thinks I’m a liar too.”

“I saw the one that they rolled over this morning, and it looks like hell. It will cost thousands of dollars to restore that paint job.”

“That reminds me. I told him we’d send him a new Caddy tomorrow. A CTS-V. Get somebody to drive it to Buffalo. And he’s particular about the color. He wants a nice dark gray, like a conservative suit.”

“He means Phantom Gray Metallic,” said Donato. “A new CTS-V. Those things start at sixty-four thousand bucks, and go up from there. I don’t even have Phantom Gray Metallic on the lot right now. And how the hell am I going to get one there tomorrow?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” said Teddy. “If you have to get the right one from another dealer in Cincinnati or Columbus or someplace, do it. If you don’t have anybody to drive it to Buffalo, do it yourself. If you screw this up, we’re not going to get another chance with him.”

IN THE GARDEN BEHIND THE big brick house on Middlesex in Buffalo, Lorenzo Malconi closed his eyes again. He never really slept in the afternoon, but pretending to nap made people underestimate him and gave him a chance to think. Teddy Mangeoli was in a position that wasn’t warranted by his talents or his character. The next strong wind would blow him away like a brown leaf off a tree. But Lorenzo Malconi had never been an impatient man, and at this stage of his life he valued cunning above audacity. He would not be the one to send Teddy Mangeoli to the undertakers. Instead, he might be the one who waited until somebody else did, and then administer justice on the culprit and exert his moral authority over both families. That would depend on who moved first.





13



They were in Cleveland,” said Mr. Malconi.

“They?” said Salamone. “I thought he was alone.”

“No. He made a phone call to his mother that came from the hotel district just outside of Cleveland. Some men went to check whether the guy was staying in one of them. He had come with a girlfriend, and she had done the registering, so it took a while to find the right room. By the time the guys got there, he and his girlfriend had slipped out.”

“So they got away?”

“I know,” said Mr. Malconi. “I was a little surprised myself. It sounded to me like the Indian drove fast, and none of them had the balls to drive as fast as he did. It stands to reason that Teddy’s guys weren’t anxious to die to please me, but I like to see men who don’t give up that easy.”

“Should I be getting my crew to start looking?”

“No, no,” said Malconi. “Teddy says the guy and his girlfriend were heading south out of Ohio toward West Virginia or Maryland, and I called some friends of ours down there just before you called me. I think we’ll hear some good news before too long. They can operate better than we can on their own ground, and we won’t waste our guys’ time on the Indian when they could be up here earning money.”

“I understand. Thank you for doing me the honor of telling me this. We’ll just sit tight until you tell us different.”

“You know,” said Mr. Malconi. “There is one thing you can do for me while you’re waiting. This guy Crane considers you his partner, right?”

“A silent partner,” said Salamone. “I get ten percent.”