44

George F. Mallon was deeply impressed by the outside and inside of Gennaro Fustino’s New Orleans house. He was taken into Gennaro’s office by the elderly woman in a Victorian maid’s uniform who answered the front door. It confirmed his hunch that people of real wealth and taste did not have butlers. But even if he fired his butler, where could he get a woman as distinguished as this one to answer the door? The uniform alone bespoke a long tradition.

He was admitted to a large room with fourteen-foot-high tiers of books lining three walls, the fourth being made of glass and having a glass door that led to a patio that could only be described as being the epitome of gracious living. There was something of old Europe about the charm of this place, he thought, although to get a climate like this you’d have to go to North Africa.

A round, quite overweight, sixtyish man came into the room. Aristocratically, he didn’t apologize for keeping Mallon waiting. He sat behind the enormous, bare desk and smiled.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Fustino,” Mallon said.

The plump man nodded benignly.

“I am sure the mutual friends told you about the reason for this visit?”

Gennaro nodded.

“My son—my only son—is in a great deal of trouble, and I can assure you, Mr. Fustino, that every charge against him is the result of a criminal conspiracy.”

“Why not?” Mr. Fustino said. “For the sake of discussion.”

“On the surface, my lawyers tell me, the case seems to be hopeless, but, on the other hand, they said if you could be persuaded to take an interest in it, what could seem to be miracles could be performed.”

Mr. Fustino shrugged.

“Can you help my son?”

“Those things are very difficult, if they can be done at all. Maybe it’s better to find out how the court is gonna handle your son’s case before thinking about any appeal?”

“What happened to my boy is a deliberate consequence of my being one of two candidates for the office of mayor in the City of New York in the elections held this week. My opponent denies it—I have met with him and made the accusation to his face—but who else in this world would do such an infamous thing—and for what reason?”

Mr. Fustino made an abrupt moue as if in sympathy.

“I say to you my son was brutally, criminally, and unjustly framed, Mr. Fustino. I think that is the word. He had his life ahead of him. But now, instead, he faces up to 150 years in prison. He must be freed or spend that life behind bars, and since it has been so expertly arranged through due process that he most certainly will not be freed, then urgent steps must be taken.”

“What steps?”

“I—ah—looked you up, Mr. Fustino. I am a man of the world and I did not rely alone on the counsel of my lawyers. I—ah—understand that you are—ah—able to make certain contacts with key elements and—”

“Key elements?”

“The Mob, I think they are called. People who are adept at bribery and coercion, people who think nothing of suborning public officials.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I don’t know any people like that.” He winked.

“I see that we understand each other. Very well.” He removed a long, brown, oversized legal envelope from his side pocket. He slid it across the desk to Gennaro. “In that envelope you will find one hundred thousand dollars. I am pleading with you to agree to pass that along to the right parties inside the—uh—Mob who will know the who, what, why, when, and where concerning precisely the right people in your state’s police and judicial systems who can bring about the early release of my boy.”

Gennaro swept the envelope into the top drawer of his desk with a move so fast it was difficult to know that it had really happened except that the envelope was no longer there.

“You mean you want to bribe people to persuade them to go lightly with your son?”

“I mean they must be bribed so that they will free my son.”

“I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mallon. May we meet again in the near future.”

George F. Mallon held up a hand. “There is one more thing, Mr. Fustino. I have been wondering if—in the course of your contacts in the milieu—”

“The what?”

“The underworld—what I referred to as the Mob—”

Gennaro made a gesture to indicate his understanding.

“—if you could find me what is known among those people as a hit person.”

“A hit person?”

“You know what I mean,” Mallon said grimly.

“Why?”

“Because I have been thinking about the trouble my son finds himself in and it all goes back to one man.”

“One man?”

“A man we need feel no compunction about rubbing out, as they say in the underworld. He is himself a killer, and because it was my declared intention to unmask him and to prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law, his people caused my son to be framed and brutalized.”

“His people?”

“The mayor and others. He is a criminal who is employed by New York mobsters. His name is Charley Partanna.”

Gennaro’s face remained impassive.

“I want to talk to someone in the New Orleans underworld, far removed from the New York mob, who will take on the assignment of rubbing out Mr. Charley Partanna.”

“Charley Partanna.”

“That is his name.”

“You feel this man costed you the election, Mr. Mallon?”

“Yes. And I would be less than human if I did not admit to a need for vengeance for that, too. As well as what he brought upon my boy.”

Gennaro wheeled his swivel chair around so that he could stare out at the patio, his back to Mallon. He rolled his eyes to the heavens.

Mallon said, “Can you arrange such an introduction, Mr. Fustino?”

Gennaro turned his chair around to face Mallon and said, “What is this? Whatta you think I am? How can you ask me such a thing?” He winked again.

“Thank you, Mr. Fustino, and good day to you.”

When George F. Mallon was gone, Gennaro took the exposed reel of film out of the 8mm movie camera that had photographed and recorded Mallon and his measured words. Then, picking up the telephone, he asked that his driver, Gus Fangoso, be sent in. He slipped the negative reel into a heavy manila envelope and addressed it. When Gus came in, Gennaro gave him the envelope.

“Take it to Jerry at the lab. Make one copy. Bring the negative back to me and take the print to Angelo Partanna in New York. Then come back here. I’m gonna need you to drive me out to the track tomorrow.”