71

AT THE TOP OF the stairway, twenty-four steps up, another door greeted her. A foot above it, a security camera pointed down toward the street entrance. Richardson assumed she was being watched on a monitor since first ringing the bell and gaining entrance from Atwells Avenue. Once again, when a buzzer responded to her ring, she pushed the door open and went inside.

Her first reaction was one of surprise to how old and uninviting a reception area it was. There was just one small window in the room, facing the street. A plain walnut desk, somewhat beat up, sat a few feet away from the window, a matching chair behind it. The top of the desk was bare except for an old black rotary telephone, an empty plastic tray with a paper IN label taped to its front and a magazine, entitled NFL Football. No rug or carpeting was there to hide the well-worn hardwood floor. Several other wooden chairs, each with a cheap gray vinyl seat pad tied to it, were placed along the wall that continued forward from the entrance. The pale green walls of the room were entirely bare, although some discoloring in several places indicated the size of a picture or poster that once occupied the space. Richardson sat down in the chair farthest from where she entered. She could see several offices off a hallway to the right and realized they were located directly above the Abruzzi Bakery and its adjoining cafe.

Just then, Sandy Tarantino walked into the waiting room and introduced himself, adding, “Most everyone calls me Sandy,” as he shook hands with her. He led Jenna back to his office, the closest one to the waiting room. The contrast with the area in which they met startled her. A large oriental rug covered most of the floor space. Its deep pile made her wish she could take her shoes off and experience the luxury. Matching bookcases, made of a dark lacquered wood, lined the walls of the room except for the space behind Tarantino’s desk. There, a single large venetian blind covered the only window in the office. Its slats were tightly shut to keep the light out. A lamp, with a Tiffany style glass shade, sat on the corner of Tarantino’s busy desk, providing the work area of the room with sufficient illumination. A table, several feet from the desk, held a computer, a printer and a fax machine. Jenna noticed that two of the bookcases near Tarantino were filled with numbered volumes containing the cases decided by the Supreme Court of Rhode Island.

Once inside the office, he opened a door to the adjoining room. “Jenna Richardson is here, Pop,” he said. She noticed that the son waited in the doorway until his father came in, then closed the door behind him.

“I’m Sal Tarantino,” the older man said as he approached her, not offering his hand in greeting. Again, Sandy waited to see where his father sat before pointing to a chair for Jenna. She sensed that it would have been perfectly natural for Sal to make himself at home behind his son’s desk, establishing his authority in that manner. But he chose a side chair instead, and Sandy did the same. The two of them sat facing her, just a few feet away.

Jenna was struck by the differences in their appearance. Sal Tarantino, probably close to seventy she guessed, was tall and almost slim. A Pendleton style shirt and a pair of khaki pants with a large silver belt buckle lent a cowboy’s masculinity to his appearance. He walked erectly and sat the same way. His hair, receding at the forehead but gray only at the fringes, was slicked down with pomade. He was clean shaven, despite the fact that a beard would have hidden a series of unsightly red splotches that ran along the lower edges of his cheeks. But it was the senior Tarantino’s eyes that riveted Jenna’s attention to him. They were coal black, reflecting no light whatsoever, and seemed overly protected under almost semicircular thick hairy eyebrows.

The younger Tarantino, on the other hand, was both shorter and heavier than his father. He had a neat beard and mustache, but a bald spot in the middle of his head appeared to be advancing steadily toward the curly black hairline in front. He wore eyeglasses whose tinted lenses hid the true color of his eyes. Jenna wondered whether those eyes would have the same effect on her as his father’s. Sandy countered Sal’s casual look by being dressed in a traditional businesslike manner, his well-tailored suit receiving her unspoken admiration.

“Is it agreed that this discussion is off the record, that you won’t report meeting with us?” Sal asked.

“Of course,” Jenna answered. She felt as if he was staring right through her.

“Chief Quinn says you have a view of the Niro murder he thought we’d be interested in hearing,” Sandy said, to open the conversation.

Jenna said that was right, and when both men answered her with silence she proceeded to tell them everything she related to Quinn and Gaudette a week earlier.

“Since then,” she continued, “I also found out that Niro was using two all-night self-service gas stations in Providence for his pickups and deliveries. If you lost, you put your name and the cash you owed inside a sealed envelope and left it with someone at the station within two days. Whoever was on duty gave you a receipt for the envelope with his initials and that day’s date on it. Niro did the same thing with a payoff, except he just wrote the customer’s name on the outside of the envelope. I spoke to the attendants at each place. They told me the cars pulling in for that business were usually Chevys and Toyotas, not Lincolns and Lexuses. To me, that confirms the fact he was dealing with small bettors.”

“I congratulate you on that entire analysis, Miss Richardson,” Sandy said, when she finished. “We agree with your conclusion and are pleased to know we’ve got someone like you on our side.” He looked toward his father at that moment. “I’m sure my father is especially happy to hear that the direction in which he’s brought the Family over the past twenty years can now be seen very clearly by anyone taking a good look at the record.” As Sandy spoke, Sal Tarantino nodded his head up and down. “Since we’re on the same side in this matter, what is it we can do for you?”

Jenna looked straight at each of them, Sandy first, before answering. “I’m not sure there’s a right way to say this, but I was hoping that from the different view you have of these kinds of things—seeing them from the inside, so to speak—you might be able to tell me something that could help with my investigation. I’d like to find out who killed Niro and why. Someone must have been upset at his taking bets. But if it wasn’t you, who was it? I just feel there’s something here I’m missing.”

Sal Tarantino answered. “She wants our professional advice, Salvy. If we can help her, maybe we could go into a business of giving this kind of advice to the police. After all, there’s more and more crime every year. We could charge as much as the lawyers.” He laughed when he finished, breaking the tension Jenna was beginning to feel. Sandy smiled at his father.

“I’ll tell you this, Miss …” Sal had forgotten her name.

“Richardson,” she offered.

“Miss Richardson,” he continued. “Niro was shot by a pro. That whole scene was strictly by the numbers, except for Cardella getting hit too. But that don’t mean it was because Niro was booking football games. All we know is whoever did it wanted him dead for some reason or other. Or whoever paid someone else to do the job wanted to see him out of the way. He’s got a helluva good-looking wife. Maybe the man you’re after is nuts about her, whether she knows it or not. Maybe he decided that’s the only way he’s got a chance. See who she starts going out with in another month or so. But it could be some other reason. I don’t know. That’s what you or Gerry Quinn’s got to figure out.”

“I guess you’re right,” Jenna said. She hesitated momentarily before asking her next question. “Is there anyone in Providence who would be upset by the business Niro was doing?”

Sal answered her again. “Sure. Maybe one of those other barroom bookies thought Niro had the best place to operate out of and was jealous. Maybe this guy, whoever he is, wanted to grow his own operation. Look, I thought about that, but I can’t see any of them getting a professional hit man to do the job.” He frowned as he spoke and shook his head from side to side. “I can’t figure it out. And my son here, the Princeton graduate, doesn’t have the answer yet either. So it won’t be easy.”

Jenna realized that there was nothing more to discuss. She got up and thanked them for letting her come.

“You left out one thing before, Miss Richardson,” Sal said on their way to the door. “Of course, you wouldn’t know about it. Al Niro used to bet with us every week. Usually he came to the club over on Academy Avenue, just a few blocks from here. Right, Salvy?” Sandy nodded in agreement. “And he probably left us a good chunk of what he made on the telephone. So we didn’t have to go after his business. We got it indirectly, through him, without putting in the work. I don’t know who all the other local books are, but it’s probably the same story with them. Know what I mean? Bookies like to gamble. Easy come, easy go.”

“And I guess Rhode Island wants to make it easy for everyone to do all sorts of gambling,” Jenna said.

“Singer does,” Sal answered, “but Doug Fiore don’t. You should vote for Fiore.” He opened the door for her. “My Salvy and I thank you for coming,” he said. “And good luck.” As soon as Jenna started down the long flight of stairs, Sal smiled at his only son, followed it up with a wink and headed back to his office.