Sal Santucci settled into his waiting car and started issuing orders. All Ralphie could do was say, “Yes, sir. Right away, Mr. Santucci,” to the boss’ demands to get out of there now.
Ralphie started up the engine and began to ease away from the curb, waiting for a break in traffic. Madonna. There was a murderous look on the boss’ face; Sal Santucci was ready to explode and Ralphie was right in the line of fire. It’s no wonder I’m sweating rivers.
Jesus H. Christ. It went down just like those OCU bastards said it would. What the hell did I get myself into? Forget their witness protection bullshit. Ratting out Suave Sal Santucci could mean death, or even worse.
Ralphie gulped. A vision of being thrown into the trunk of a car, his cut-off balls stuffed in his mouth, went flying through his brain. Stay calm, man. It’s gonna be all right.
It was easy to tell himself to be calm but harder to achieve. The cops had him wired up the yin-yang and he had to act normal. In the mood Suave Sal was in, if he even thought something was a little off, Ralphie could end up in the East River in a heartbeat.
He darted a look in the rearview mirror and risked a question to try and keep things sounding routine. “So, Mr. Santucci, sir, where’re we going?”
“Just drive. And, Ralphie, shut the hell up.” Sal met Ralphie’s gaze with a hard, cold stare.
Ralphie nodded. He couldn’t stop sweating. The wetness poured down his back and over his chest, seeping around that wire. He was dying to turn up the air but didn’t want to do anything that would make the boss suspicious. Jeez, I’ll probably electrocute myself wearing this fucking thing. He sweated even more.
No one would ever accuse Ralphie of being a deep thinker, but today the synapses were all firing. He went over everything that had happened to him in the last few days. The cops had turned him easy. It was either offer up the boss or go to jail for that stupid ring heist with that Park Avenue prick. It wasn’t that he was a coward. Ralphie just hated being in the can, fighting off the fags, eating that crap food, wearing an orange jumpsuit for chrissakes. He couldn’t do it again. So, here I am. Those bastards wanted me to get the boss talking, get it all on tape. Whadda they think he’s gonna do? Say, “Hey, Ralphie, let’s go have a Remy and I’ll tell you all about my plans for the family.” Stupid pricks. They should be here right now and see the look on his face. Get him talking, yeah right.
“Everything okay?” He cleared his throat and looked in the rearview mirror. “You wasn’t in the restaurant for very long.” He tried to draw his boss into a conversation like those OCU idiots told him.
Sal looked up into the mirror again and those black eyes stopped Ralphie cold. He finally understood the meaning of the expression “if looks could kill.”
He glanced away and they drove on in silence. Every few minutes he imagined Sal Santucci’s eyes drilling into the back of his head, his hand reaching for the piece he carried tonight, placing it at the base of Ralphie’s skull, then shooting him clean through the brain with one bullet.
I shoulda let them throw me in the can. At least I’d know I’d be alive tomorrow.
* * *
What is with this kid and all his questions? Was he just stunad or was it something else? Sal knew Bennie and Vic watched Ralphie whenever he was in the club. He saw the high signs between them—a raised eyebrow, the cock of a head as if to say, “Keep your eye on him.” Something about him got on their nerves. Sal’s captains were there to protect him and his interests. They’d let him know if and when there was anything he needed to take care of.
Who was it who brought the kid into the crew? Sal tried to remember. Oh yeah, it was Joey Boy Four Toes. A good pinochle player, but a big mouth. Very unfortunate, what happened to him. Sal shook his head. It was over that construction project crap in Newark with the Jersey crew about six months ago. Joey just couldn’t shut his mouth about what the family was planning to do. So they shut it for him. Permanently.
Sal sat back. He’d deal with this Ralphie chidrule later, teach him some manners, explain about boundaries. Is this kid dirty, or am I just projecting my anger, as those shrinks would say? What did Benny and Vic really know? The kid was young. Maybe he was just trying to move up, be a good soldier and score points with the boss. Not like Mateo. Tonight was the last straw and now Sal had to decide what to do about it.
Sal had an intense moment of release when he crushed that DVD into a thousand pieces. It hadn’t lasted long. This whole operation was beginning to smell. Maybe it was time to cut his losses. The Jersey consortium would give him crap if the deal went south after the assurances he gave them at the meet earlier this week. As head of the Giambello family, he had made them a lot of money in the past and he’d find a way to weather their fury. It wasn’t going to be easy, though. This ATM racket could bring in billions. He’d have a lot of making up to do.
Beads of sweat trickled down Ralphie’s neck into his collar. I guess he got the message. Sal assumed he scared the shit out of the kid and smirked with self-satisfaction. At least he’d finally shut up.
Sal smiled. He thrived on terrifying people. Fear was the best way to maintain control and keep them in line. Just look at the McCorkendale bitch. First, they’d spotted her hanging around the Three Aces in different disguises; then she got hold of the DVD. She put her nose into his business on too many fronts. Sending the Jersey limo to almost run her down, then showing up at her house, frightened her out of her mind, and no matter how brave she acted, he still got the DVD back. His scare tactics didn’t work with Mateo, though. His nephew had disobeyed his order to stay away from Laurel Imperiole. There he was at the bar with her, having a drink. He threw it right in my face. Does he think he can cut off my balls and get away with it?
Sal picked up his cell and punched in a number. “Do it,” he told the person who picked up on the other end of the line. It hurt him to have to take this route, but it was best for the family. No one challenged Sal Santucci. It was done.
As he leaned forward to order Ralphie to take him to the club, he heard the screech of several sirens coming up fast behind the car. “Pull over. We’ve got company.” The flashing lights penetrated the tinted windows and cast their harsh glow over his face.
“Right away, Mr. Santucci.” Ralphie moved the big car over to the curb, shutting down the engine and jumping out quickly to stand guard.
Sal slid down the window a few inches and told Ralphie to open his door. He exited the car, straightened his jacket and cuffs, folded his hands in front of his crotch and stood, calmly waiting for the cops to make the first move.
They didn’t waste any time. “Sal Santucci, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud under the RICO Act.” It was a detective from the Organized Crime Unit, John Walter, who did the honors. Sal and he had met many times before in similar circumstances. “You know the drill.” Walter pushed him roughly toward the Mercedes. “Up against the car and spread ’em.” He patted him down and lifted his gun from the holster under his arm. “Well, well, a bonus charge.” He cuffed him. “It didn’t even ruin the line of your suit. You have the right …”
Sal tuned out the detective. He’d deal with him later. He cut his eyes to Ralphie, who stood there cuffed, but looking like a man who had nowhere to turn. He’d deal with him later, too.
Right now, there was one person on his mind. One person he’d make sure would answer for this. Her name was Helen McCorkendale.