Khasi Zelman and Tapo Pashkov were walking west on Boston Street in downtown Chandler, heading toward Peixoto Coffee Roasters. Pashkov was telling his boss everything that happened the night before, explaining how Tommy Bracco broke into his home while pretending the FBI was sitting outside.
“Is that even legal?” Pashkov asked.
“Of course not,” Zelman said opening the door to the coffee shop and gesturing for Pashkov to enter. “But I’ll have our lawyers look into it. Especially if this Tommy guy was representing the Feds.”
Once inside, Pashkov took his hands out of his pockets and rubbed them together. It was Arizona, but still winter.
While they perused the coffee menu, Zelman said, “You did the right thing telling me about this.”
The guy made it sound like Pashkov was hiding something and decided to come clean about it. “What do you mean? How else would I respond?”
They placed their coffee orders and went to the back of the shop to wait for their drinks.
When they were away from prying ears, Zelman said in a low voice, “All I am saying, two million dollars is a lot of money. That was brave of you to turn it down.”
“Of course,” Pashkov said. “I wouldn’t even be in America if not for you. I owe you everything.”
This brought a smile to Zelman’s face. “I am glad you remembered that.”
“They will not stop with me,” Pashkov said. “They will go after the rest of the crew.”
Zelman stared off in thought. “Good observation. They started high on the food chain, but will almost certainly search for a weak link.”
“What about Jerry?” Pashkov asked, then immediately regretted using Zelman’s son as an example of a weak link.
Zelman gave Pashkov a stern look. “Jerry has nothing to do with our business. Don’t even suggest that he—”
Pashkov gently held Zelman’s arms to keep them from gesticulating. “Relax,” Pashkov said, nodding toward a police officer who just entered the coffee shop. The officer eyed them warily before approaching the counter.
“I was merely trying to protect Jerry,” Pashkov explained. “Do not get so defensive.”
They remained quiet for a moment until Zelman said, “I would like to know more about this book that Perrino wrote. What other things did this Bracco guy say about it?”
“Nothing, really. Just some stories about my boxing back home.”
Zelman squinted. “How did Perrino even find out about that? Half of your fights were in a barn with thirty people cheering.”
“I wondered about that too,” Pashkov said. “Perrino had us investigated. Maybe he used the FBI?”
“I do not like the sound of that one bit.”
“It seemed like he was trying to impress me with his knowledge. For example, he knew I liked Liza Smirnov.”
“The singer?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.”
“I have the feeling he told me much of what he knew. If not all of it.”
The barrister announced Zelman’s order and he squeezed past the officer to retrieve his coffee, getting another cautious glare before handing a cup to Pashkov and heading back outside.
“It was almost like that cop knew who you were,” Pashkov said.
“It did seem suspicious.”
They headed east toward Arizona Avenue, the morning sun hitting them in the face.
“Listen,” Pashkov said, “we need to discuss the missed payment.”
“No, we do not,” Zelman said, shutting it down.
“I am just saying. The crew is asking me questions and I do not know what to tell them.”
“Tell them they will receive their full share, plus a nice bonus for the wait.”
Pashkov liked the answer to that, so he let it go. Although he was beginning to sense an end coming and for the first time felt like he needed to plan for a future without Entertainment Resources.
“We need to be prepared for the Perrinos’ next move,” Zelman said. “Their act yesterday at the hangar was just the beginning. We need to keep our crew together. No one goes anywhere alone. I have one transaction which will put all this behind us. I did not authorize the Perrino attacks without a plan.”
“One transaction?”
“Yes, it is something I’ve been working on with a third party.”
He left it there, not explaining anything, and that made Pashkov even more certain the end was coming sooner than expected.
“Relax,” Zelman said affably. “It is a one-time agreement with a different group of characters. There is no reason to be distrustful.”
“Of course,” Pashkov said.
They were about to get in Zelman’s BMW when they spotted a note under the windshield wiper. Zelman retrieved the paper, then frowned. He walked around to the curb and noticed the back end of his car extended two feet over a red stripe that designated a fire lane.
The officer from the coffee shop walked in front of Zelman’s car, staring at him the entire time with a coffee in each hand. He walked over to his cruiser and handed his partner a container of coffee through the driver’s side window, then walked around and got in the passenger seat. As the cruiser pulled away, the officer driving the vehicle saluted Zelman.
“They are trying to send a message,” Pashkov said as the cruiser drove away slowly.
“It is harassment,” Zelman said. “I will get my attorney on it right away.”
As they stared at the cruiser, Pashkov added, “Maybe, there is a better way to do this. These Bracco cousins seem to be the root of all of our problems.”
“Do not worry,” Zelman said. “I already have Malkin taking care of that for us.”
* * *
Nick and Matt returned to the Perrinos’ house around 7:30 a.m. with containers of strong coffee and bags under their eyes from the long night. Walking up the driveway, they noticed a large wreath of flowers on the front lawn surrounding a Yankees jersey with the number 5 monogrammed.
“Who’s that from?” Matt asked.
“Pete DiMaggio,” Nick said. “Dom’s grandson.”
“As in Joe DiMaggio’s brother Dom?”
Nick nodded. “Pete is very close with the Perrinos. The DiMaggios were Sicilian as well.”
Matt shook his head. “You Italians. Did Rocky Marciano come to your baptism?”
Tully stood guard at the door with a cannoli in one hand and his pistol in the other.
Nick patted the guy’s belly and said, “Easy on the sugar, big guy. You need to keep that diabetes in check.”
“I don’t have diabetes no more.”
“Since when?”
“Since I started seeing a new doctor.”
“Sure,” Nick muttered. “Doctor Pepper maybe.”
When they got to the kitchen it was already full of family members mulling around the island bar, grabbing pastries, and making small talk. Angela was the only one seated at the table, steam rising from her ceramic coffee cup. They were all waiting for Nick to address the gathering.
Nick placed his coffee on the table and looked to Angela, who said, “All right, listen up.”
The room became still. There were thirty of them, including Cara, who leaned against Tommy for support.
“I need to ask you a serious question,” Nick said, scanning the room, making eye contact with each person. “One of our own has been brutally murdered. Three of us, actually. Slain by the hands of Chechen mobsters with no sense of honor or dignity. Men who move through life like a Rhino in the Serengeti. Brazen. Bold. Unafraid of their actions.”
Nick watched the faces in the room grow dark with anger.
“The question I have to ask,” Nick continued. “What would Sal do?”
The group remained stoic, waiting for Nick to get there.
“Would Sal have sent a crew to the Chechen’s headquarters to start a firefight? Would he have insisted we arm ourselves and march into enemy territory and damn the consequences? Huh? Is that what he would’ve done?”
Nick pointed to Eddie. “When you were fourteen and a car driven by Dom Lucia ran you off the road, did Sal get physical retribution?”
Eddie looked away, not wanting to remember.
“No,” Nick said. “He went to the Lucia’s and gave them an option. Give him a piece of their vending business or risk a protracted street war that no one would win. He was strategic and tactical. He never acted in haste.”
Sal’s spirit seemed to settle over the room. Nick was reminding them he was once part of the inner circle. There was very little he and Tommy didn’t know growing up around the Perrino family, and this was his way of refreshing their memory.
“Now,” Nick said. “You’ve already tried it your way. Can we please try it mine?”
“Yeah, but can we skirt the law, like they do?” Jackie asked the question everyone wanted to know the answer to. “Will you look the other way?”
Nick sighed. He took a sip of his coffee, then looked down at Angela, who seemed interested in his answer. “Let me put it this way,” he said. “If there’s any skirting to be done, I’ll be the one doing it. I don’t want anyone else going rogue on me. I know the law and I will be the one who stretches the boundaries, not you. Does everyone understand?”
No one spoke, so Nick took that as confirmation.
“Good,” he said. Now he just needed a plan that could actually work without him losing his job. Or his life.