19

IT WAS THE FIRST day all week that any mail was delivered to the Pawtucket Store 24 mailbox rented in the name of Steve Pearson. Sandy Tarantino didn’t get to his office on Atwells Avenue until just after eleven that morning. He had already spent two hours speaking to several teachers at the private school in Riverside attended by his son. By the time he sat down at his desk, the two envelopes addressed to “Steve Pearson” were picked up by a messenger and were waiting for him. Neither one showed a return address.

He opened the first and found a handwritten letter, on yellow legal-size paper, from Tommy Arena. Arena wanted Sandy and his father to know that some agents from the Justice Department would be coming to Providence soon to see whether they could discover anything that would connect him with the Tarantino family. They were playing this game with his Union all over the country, Arena wrote. “It’s because the fuckers never did like the Teamsters, ever since fucking Bobby Kennedy.”

If they asked him any questions, Arena would say that he hadn’t spoken to Sal Tarantino once in all the years since Sal became a don, and that he bumped into Sandy occasionally at a restaurant on Federal Hill. If the agents wanted any history, Tommy would let them know that he and Sal worked for the same trucking company when they were younger. Later on, after Arena became a Union officer, Sal called him once in a while for a little help in getting a Teamsters job for one of his friends. Arena even found work for Sandy a couple of summers while he was attending Princeton. That’s how the two of them first met. He would deny that he ever set foot in the building where the Tarantinos had their offices. “Make fucking sure that anyone who works there says the same thing,” he wrote.

Arena also said he felt he should stop making collections for a while, at least until he heard that the investigation was over. He figured that if government agents started following him, they would see the small army of drivers calling on him at the warehouse and restaurants he used as offices. That could mean trouble for everyone, he said, not just him. All he had to do was notify the three freight warehouses he did business with and they’d get word to the drivers that all collections were being postponed. Arena wrote that when it was safe for him to start up again, he’d push his “clients” to pay everything that was due, retroactively.

“But don’t count on getting all of it. Some of these fucking independents don’t know how to save shit,” he noted. “And some of them drive a truck four days a week only because they found out they can’t fucking survive on three.” But he would find a way to pick up the summaries from the three warehouses every week, and he’d keep a running tab on what everyone owed.

Sandy knew that Arena was right about postponing his collections for a period of time. He was also well aware that his father didn’t trust the Teamster agent at all. If Tommy could use the investigation as a way of putting more than his share of the money received from the drivers and warehousemen into his own pocket, Sal Tarantino was sure he would.

The second envelope had a Washington, DC, postmark. Sandy opened it and took out a small piece of plain white paper. Written on it, in pencil, was “S.H. March 15.” That was all. Sandy knew exactly what it meant. He picked up the phone and dialed two numbers.

“Are you busy, Pop? I’ve got a couple of things to talk to you about.”

Sal Tarantino was sitting behind a huge oak desk. The many deep nicks that showed on top evidenced the fact that it was solid throughout, not a veneer over plywood or something just as cheap. Its back and sides displayed intricate floral carvings. It was the same desk that Tony Buscatelli used in running the Family for almost thirty-five years. Word had it that it was surreptitiously removed from the Senate President’s office at the Statehouse in the middle of the night and delivered to the senior Buscatelli as payment on a gambling debt.

“Come on in, Salvy,” his father said, as Sandy opened the door. He was the only one who called him by that name. For him, Sandy was too effeminate a name for a man. He also disliked “Junior” intensely, and gave his only son a different middle name than his own to avoid it. Still, since he was always “Sal” or “Salvy” himself to his friends, he understood the reason for the nickname.

Sal Tarantino wore a baggy woolen sweater over an open-necked beige shirt. He obviously hadn’t shaved for two or three days. A skin rash that worsened within the past year necessitated his washing his face six times a day. The ailment had him on the verge of growing a beard although he was never fond of the one worn by his son.

The man sitting in the large upholstered chair to Sal’s left got up. He appeared to Sandy to be about the same age as his father. He was dressed immaculately in a gray, pin-striped suit with a white shirt that looked as if it was being worn for the very first time. His flowered silk tie, in maroon and navy blue, was the perfect accessory. Sandy was quite certain he hadn’t seen him before.

“Vito, this is my son, Salvatore.” The elder Tarantino didn’t get up to make the introduction. “Salvy, I want you to meet Vito Recci. I would not have let him out of here before he got the chance to see you. Vito’s an old friend of mine. You would never know from looking at him that he grew up on the same block as me. We used to play ball together all the time. But Vito here got smart and took off for the West Coast after he got out of the Navy. Fell in love with Frisco when his ship got back from the Pacific, and kissed all us poor slobs in Rhode Island goodbye. Went from the smallest state to the biggest one, right Vito?”

Sandy walked over and shook hands with his father’s friend. He could tell immediately that the lush black hair on his head was an expensive toupee.

“I wanted Vito to stay and have dinner with us tonight. He could tell you some good stories about when we were kids. But he’s catching a flight out at three o’clock.”

“Yes, it’s important for me to get back to San Francisco,” Vito said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, young Salvy. Never hesitate to call on me if I can be of some service. I owe your father a lot of favors.” He turned to Sal. “Thank you for all your time today. We appreciate your help. Take care of yourself, and my regards to Concetta.”

Sandy watched as his father put down the cigarette he was smoking, got up from his chair and reached out for Vito’s hand. He could see how firmly each gripped the other. “And you send my regards,” Sal replied. Vito went over to the closet for his black woolen overcoat and left the room without saying another word.

“What does he do?” Sandy asked.

“Take a guess.”

“Okay, a wild guess. He’s in San Francisco. I say he’s a member of the Raffetto family.”

Sal Tarantino smiled. “You’re right. Another dividend from all that education I paid for. What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Hold it a second,” Sandy said. “What’s the help you’re giving him?”

“Just a favor between families,” Sal told his son. “One of their guys is AWOL. Vito is the one who convinced the Raffettos to give him a job. The kid comes from Woonsocket and went out to California with some local references. He learned a lot about the Family’s business and they’re afraid he might talk about it if he gets picked up for anything serious. It would help him cut a deal for himself. Vito asked me to just keep my eyes open and have someone fly him back to the coast if he turns up here. Nothing big.”

Sandy had no doubt that the Raffetto family would kill the guy if they got their hands on him. But if he said anything, he knew his father would just shrug and tell him that what goes on in other families wasn’t his business.

“He came all the way here for that?” Sandy asked.

“Of course not, Salvy. He came here because his mother’s still here. It was a chance to do some business and visit her at the same time. How do you think she felt when she saw how good her son looks? He told me he drove up in a limo just so all the old ladies in the neighborhood would have something to talk about. And he made sure she came out to the car when he left so they could see him give her a big kiss. Now she can tell all of them what a success he is in the computer business and they have to believe her. He made her feel like ‘Queen for a Day.’ Hey, I’m going to lunch in ten minutes. What is it you want?”

Sandy told him about the letter from Arena. “I can’t believe that guy writes the same way he talks.”

His father thought for a minute. “I told you before, Salvy I don’t trust that bastard anymore, not at all. He’s gotten too arrogant. Talks like he knows all the answers. Tell Eddie to see where he goes on the mornings he usually does his collections. Arena isn’t stupid, so have Eddie use a different car every time. Let’s be sure Tommy’s not trying to con us out of our share, even for a week. And tell everyone they never saw him here in the building, in case they get asked.”

“The other news, Pop, is that Spence Hardiman will be making his announcement on the fifteenth. We got a note in the mail today.”

“That’s two weeks before the deadline I gave him.”

“Right. Eleven days from today.”

“Good. You should talk to your friend, Fiore. Make sure he’s ready. I’ll bet Johnny Sacco already knows. I found out Hardiman has been keeping him up to date for a while. Is that everything?”

“That’s it.”

“I’m out to lunch. Just be across the street. You’re in charge.” He winked at his son and went to get his coat.

* * *

Sandy Tarantino left the office at six o’clock. Halfway home he turned into the parking lot of a large mall and went inside. All four telephones along the wall of the entranceway were being used. He waited until he could get one of the end phones so he could turn to the side and not be heard by someone next to him when he spoke. He dialed a number and had three quarters ready in his hand when the operator told him to deposit seventy-five cents. Someone answered and said “Yeah?”

Tarantino spoke softly. “Get hold of Joe Gaudette. Tell him I want my good friend to take the six o’clock Delta flight from Green to LaGuardia next Monday night. He should use the same name as last time. Have him go to the Ramada Inn next to the airport when he gets there and wait in the lobby. Let him know he’ll be back in Providence by eleven the same night. You got that? Okay, good.”