3

AS HE HAD DONE with religious punctuality for more than a quarter of a century, Salvatore Padronelli, the Padre as he was called, planted his black Thom McAn shoes beneath the table of the private back room of Luigi's Trattoria on Mulberry Street. It was located one block from his modest two-story house in which he had resided for forty years. As always, the table was covered with a crisp checkered tablecloth. On it was the usual basketed bottle of Chianti, a container of standing breadsticks, and a half dozen small tumblers. The table was round. It could seat six comfortably.

The Padre always sat with his elbows on the table, and when he was not drinking or eating, he clasped gnarled stubby fingers. His face was thin, but he was not hollow-cheeked and he did not shave more than three times a week. It was not uncommon to see his chin stubbled with spiky gray hairs. His head was bald except for wisps of fine hair that lay helter-skelter on his pate. He wore dress shirts, old white-on-white designs, the cuffs frayed, button closed to the neck, but no tie. For some reason, he rarely wore jackets that matched his pants, much to the despair of his housekeeper, Mrs. Santos.

Rosa, his late wife, had kept him neater, well-shaven and well-groomed. Yet no amount of carelessness or lack of grooming could detract from the alertness of his green eyes, penetrating and predatory. The Padre was sixty-nine years old.

Another man sat at the table with the Padre. Angelo Petinno, a narrow, small-boned man with a thin mustache and a head of thick silvery hair. He had the look of a man who eschewed sunshine and fresh air. His skin was dead white. In bygone days he would have been referred to as the Consigliari, but the Padre had decreed that such nomenclature should be avoided wherever possible. This was America. The Padre was American-born. The time had come for the organization to disassociate itself from media clichés.

As leader, a kind of chairman of the board, the Padre, of course, demanded respect, but he drew the line on reverence. He knew that his power and his ability to delegate it were essential to the organization's health. He felt uncomfortable and distrusting when people treated him like some sainted Godfather of movie legend.

Angelo Petinno, his companion at the back-room table, was known as "the Pencil." He was called that not because of his mustache but because he was always making notes in pencil on little scraps of paper. The notes were indecipherable to anyone but himself and they reflected the various decisions and decrees handed down by the Padre.

These decisions were always scrupulously carried out by the Pencil through a network of underlings. The Pencil was an organizational genius. When he wrote something down on the Padre's orders, the Padre always considered it done.

No telephone calls were ever taken in the back room of Luigi's, although there was a pay phone for private use, but only in extreme emergencies. When someone called the Padre on the pay phone, its very ring constituted a four-alarm alert. All "business" was conducted by the Pencil in a small building two blocks away on which was posted a battered sign. It read "Import-Export." The phones there were swept three times a day for government taps, which meant a constant switching of lines.

Near the back door, which Luigi had had installed on the Padre's instructions, rested a little square table. When the Padre held court, two leathery-faced men of uncertain age sat at the little table. One was Vinnie Barboza. Only behind his back did they call him "the Prune" because of the peculiarity of his facial wrinkles, especially when angered.

Seated with him was Carmine Giancana, "the Canary," a nickname based upon his resemblance to the Italian fighter Primo Canero, for those who remembered. Often he was forced to dispel the confusion about the origin of his nickname, since Canary had other connotations.

Beneath their somber suits both men carried an enforcing mechanism known as the Magnum. For nearly a decade they had had little use for them, although the weapons were always kept carefully cleaned and oiled just in case.

At a table in the main room of Luigi's sat two other men. One was Rocco Mondavano, known as "the Talker" for his penchant for silence. The Talker talked only when absolutely necessary. He was the keeper of the gate. No one could speak to the Padre without the Talker consulting first with the Padre. He was the intermediary, a good choice, since it was the economy of language that particularly endeared him to the Padre. That and his swift expertise with the razor.

The other man was Benjy Mustoni, known since he was barely thirty as "the Kid." He was the second son of the Padre's lifetime friend Angelo Mustoni, deceased now for a dozen years.

The Padre had made his friend a deathbed promise, a contract of binding significance, to take Benjy under his wing. He had obeyed the promise warily. He used Benjy to deal with the new blood, usually sons and nephews of the old faithful who were scrambling to become "made" in the organization. Unfortunately for these younger men, the Padre never fully trusted anyone more than ten years younger than himself, which meant that the men close to him grew considerably grayer as time progressed.

This distrust of younger men had heightened after the death of his sons, Gino and Mario. They had been his blood heirs and they had died unnecessarily of the most potentially lethal of all terminal ailments—ambition. They had confused age with weakness, the old ways with stubbornness, the ancient methods with ignorance. Not that the Padre was an enemy of new ways of doing business.

His father had warned him that he must move with the times. This did not mean that to fulfill the terms of modernization he had to move out of his small house in Little Italy and live like a king in a palace on Park Avenue. The old neighborhood was a protected watershed where strangers came at their peril. These days he rarely went beyond its boundaries.

Perhaps the outside world had simply grown too big to understand. Perhaps men felt a need to belong to something they could touch and feel in their hearts. Perhaps such things as honor, loyalty, adventure, rebellion, and danger were more important than mere survival and safety.

The Padre's love and respect for his father had been intense. Not a day went by, even now, thirty years after the old man had died, when he did not measure his decisions against his father's. The man was, it was true, old country, his English poor, his dress sloppy, but his knowledge of men, his ability to lead and inspire were uncanny. To betray his father was inconceivable. Where had he gone wrong with his own sons?

He had warned them about dealing with heroin. It destroyed a human being's chance to survive, to fight back. Trafficking in these types of drugs went beyond the pale of legitimate plunder. His father had made that choice years before. He had reinforced these points to his sons again and again.

They had been murdered through a contract put out jointly by the black gangs of Harlem, and he had been obliged, as a solemn duty, to extract his revenge. It had been a bloody business, necessary, preordained. Step on my foot and I will cut off your head. Cut off my head and I will cut off ten of yours. It was the lesson of punishment learned at his father's knee.

He drank the first drink of the day and felt the sweet and gentle Chianti warm against his palate. The Pencil did not drink anything stronger than iced tea. Luigi waddled in from the kitchen, as he had done for twenty-five years, perspiring, wiping his chapped chunky hands on his apron.

"And how many today, my Padre?" was his invariable query.

Habit, Padre knew, was essential to firm rule. It encouraged the ritual of obedience. At that moment the Talker rose and moved into the room.

"The Chinee," he said.

The Padre nodded. Actually the Chinee, as he was called, was Japanese. The Padre quickly remembered his last name. Mr. Akito. He addressed all representatives of groups outside the family by either their formal title or mister.

A tiny, polite little man who served as the agent for their little dumping operation, the Chinee arranged with his co-horts in Japan to dump electronic equipment on American shores through the good offices of the Padre and his organization. The goods were actually shipped out of Japan for less than a quarter of their value, transshipped in mid-ocean, then moved through the organization onto the organization-controlled docks and into the so-called free market-place.

It was enormously complex and profitable, the kind of business that the Padre favored. He enjoyed duping governments and their bureaucratic and corrupt minions. Also, he liked the Chinee, liked his solemn little rituals.

"Ah, linguini with the white," Luigi said as he rushed back to the kitchen. As the Padre's caterer, Luigi's role was never to forget a guest's favorite dish or beverage.

In the doorway stood the Chinee, bowing with exquisite grace and politeness. The Padre and the Pencil stood up, although neither returned the bow, nor was it expected. The Padre directed the Chinee to sit on a chair beside him.

"With great respect, my friend," the Chinee said, executing another smaller bow as he sat down. The Padre poured him a drink. He lifted his glass, lowered his eyes, and sipped. The Chinee's precise textbook English amused the Padre and he felt himself obliged to emulate it.

"To you as well, Mr. Akito."

"And your daughter and grandson. I wish them great bounty and good health." The Chinee emptied his glass and the Padre refilled it.

"And likewise to your wife and children."

The best wishes continued, covering their colleagues and finally themselves.

Luigi brought their food. The Padre's lunch rarely varied. Broiled fish and buttered pasta. For the Chinee, he served the linguini with white clam sauce.

It amazed the Padre to see the anomaly of this Oriental eating pasta with such skill, never a strand unraveled. After a few mouthfuls, the Chinee put down his spoon and fork and delicately wiped his lips. The Padre, who had been eating sparingly more for form's sake than from lack of appetite, soundlessly put down his knife and fork.

"We have a troublesome problem, my friend," the Chinee began. His smile never left his face.

"Troublesome?"

"Three hijackings last week," the Chinee said, still smiling, his hands serenely clasped at the edge of the table. "They have knowledge beforehand of our movements."

"Someone on the inside?"

The Chinee nodded but did not move his hands.

"You think it is at our end?" the Padre asked. This was the first consideration. The crime of betrayal was one of the first magnitude.

"I am afraid this is true."

The Padre felt his stomach congeal; the bit of fish that he had ingested seemed to expand into a hard ball. Betrayal, unfortunately, was endemic to organizations such as his. Try as he might, there was no stopping it beforehand. One could only gamble on a man's character. Only in performance, the Padre knew, within parameters that required absolute obedience to the principle of loyalty, could a man be truly tested and judged.

"Have you any ideas?" the Padre asked.

"I do."

Both knew that the Chinee would not have come to the Padre if he did not have information on the culprits. Only the Padre was allowed to make decisions on enforcement. The Chinee drew a piece of paper from his pocket. On it was written the name of the perpetrator. The act of recording the name was not merely an allegation or even an indictment. It was a guilty verdict. He passed the paper to the Padre, who, in turn, passed it to the Pencil, who recorded it on another slip of paper. Then he burned the Chinee's piece of paper in an ashtray.

Dominic Tameleo was the name of the accused. The man's dark face sprang into the Padre's mind. A friend of Benjy. With great effort he forced his features to remain serene. Another second-generation member, he sighed, hoping it did not signify that the organization was at risk. It was one of his principal fears.

The Chinee resumed eating his pasta. The Padre continued to pick at his food. But his mind was already devising a plan. Enforcement did not always mean death. Indeed, elimination sometimes was less effective than a living example.

After a long silence, the Chinee emptied his plate and cleared his palate with the Chianti. Once again the Padre filled their glasses and they toasted the health of their respective families. Nothing more needed to be said on the issue between them. Someone in the Padre's organization had breached the code of honor, the contract. This must now be dealt with.

The transaction between the Padre and the Chinee was now officially over. The moment appropriate to departure had come. They stood up. The Chinee bowed, took two steps backward, bowed again, and departed.

When he was gone, the Talker appeared once again.

"Benjy," the Padre said. The Talker nodded, his eyes closing at the same time.

The young man came in from the other room. He was handsome, slender, and wore an expensive pin-striped suit cut in an Ivy League style, a button-down white shirt with a yellow tie that picked up the flecks of yellow in his hazel eyes. He was, the Padre knew, a ladies' man, a dangerous hobby in their line of work. Nevertheless, he had promised the boy's father, and to date the boy was a "made" member. He had killed on demand with his own hands. Such an act assumed a solemn entitlement.

"Tameleo," the Padre whispered.

"Him?" Benjy said, his lip curling, his Adam's apple jumping in his throat. "No way."

"Mark him, Benjy," the Padre said.

"But I..." Benjy's words suggested the kind of protest that had to be dealt with quickly.

"Mark him," the Padre whispered, narrowing his green eyes, focusing on the younger man. "I want everyone who sees his face to know." Benjy flushed, accepting the assessment.

"Hell, Tameleo should be wasted and dumped. The bastard."

It was Benjy who had sponsored him. The Padre studied him. Was his indignation genuine?

"Then go down the chain and finish it," the Padre said.

This meant that everyone who touched the goods would be eliminated. Purely business, the Padre sighed. Tameleo's facial scars would mark him forever. They would be deep and ugly, but they would send the message that would cause him to live in fear for the rest of his life. His legacy, to become a living example.

Luigi came in and took away the Padre's uneaten food. He also brought him another bottle of Chianti, a peeled peach in ice water, and a knife. It was approaching late afternoon. There were still many other people to see.

As he sliced his peach, the Talker came in followed by a large rough-looking man. He was about forty, with old-fashioned stained jeans and an oil-specked khaki shirt, a size or two too small, which showed off both his enormous biceps and a hard, pooching beer gut.

"Mozak," the Talker said.

The big man stood hovering over the table, looking down at the Padre, who searched him carefully for any signs of potential violence. The two men at the table behind them also tensed. The Padre saw Mozak take in the situation. He seemed to seethe with repressed anger.

"I got no choice. That's why I come here," he said. He had one of those flat Slavic faces, with deep eyes set wide apart.

"You must sit down, Mr. Mozak," the Padre said expansively, waving toward a seat. "Have some wine."

"I stand," the big man said. "One of your guinea boys come to my place and tell me I gotta shut down my trucks 'cause I got no permission to make my airport runs. I say shit to that. I work hard, buy five trucks, and I run where I want. There's enough business at the airport for everybody."

"Come sit down," the Padre said soothingly. "No problem that cannot be worked out."

The Padre's conciliatory attitude must have taken him by surprise. He stepped forward, then stopped abruptly, as if his legs had to be suddenly commanded to cease all movement.

"Look," the Padre said. "We're talking business. Like gentlemen."

The display of camaraderie seemed to placate the man for a moment. With caution, he moved to the table and sat. He looked at the Chianti bottle, which the Padre had just lifted, and sneered.

"I don't drink that piss," he said.

The Padre put the bottle down and called for Luigi. The man ordered double whiskeys.

"Just 'cause I drink your fucking whiskey don't mean I'm gonna take orders from anyone."

"I think you misunderstood our people," the Padre said, after Luigi had swiftly brought the man his drinks. "And maybe they were a little too, you know, pushy. They meant to say they wanted to buy out your business at a handsome profit."

"Why should I sell to you? I don't need no shit from bosses," the man grunted.

The Padre, from behind his tranquil smile, assessed the man. An immigrant. Ignorant. A hard case. But even the most brutish man was entitled to his say.

"The offer wasn't good enough?" the Padre asked politely.

"I don't remember no numbers," the man muttered.

The Padre looked toward the Pencil.

"More than he would make in five years," the Pencil said.

"That's a wonderful offer," the Padre said. "You want to work your ass off? You could start something elsewhere and still have some bread in your pocket."

"Shit," Mozak sneered. He slammed the shot glass on the table as if to emphasize his defiance.

The effort to ingratiate abruptly terminated. Why were people so opposed to reality, the Padre wondered. Airport cargo was the organization's franchise at Kennedy and La Guardia. Everybody knew that.

"You got a family?" the Padre asked. The change of tone confused Mozak.

"Yeah, I gotta family."

"You're not doing right by them."

The man stood up, his heavy bovine face flushed, his hands balled into fists. Behind the Padre the two men stood up, opening their jackets, displaying their Magnums.

"I ain't afraid," Mozak said, but his courage had waned.

At that moment the pay phone rang. It was such an uncommon happening that the Padre turned to it as if it were something human that had just made an insulting remark. But the ring was persistent. The men in the room froze, waiting for the Padre to react. He looked at the Pencil and signaled with his eyes. The Pencil rose and walked to the phone, lifting the receiver.

"Yeah," the Pencil said.

The Padre watched him.

"Who?"

"What about me?" Mozak snapped.

"I can't hear you too good," the Pencil shouted.

"I ain't afraid of you guys," Mozak said with bravado, trying to stare down the two men who had stood up. The Padre ignored him, watching the Pencil at the pay phone.

"Robert..." The Pencil was confused. He scratched his head. Then it dawned on him. "Robert!" He looked toward the Padre, whose heartbeat had already accelerated. The Padre stood up abruptly, rattling the table. Drops of Chianti fell on the white tablecloth.

"So what about me?" Mozak shouted.

"You?" the Padre said, shaking his head as he moved toward the outstretched receiver. "We'll fix it tomorrow," he said. "You go home."

You're finished, he thought. By tomorrow he would have no trucks left. He looked at the two men standing by the table. Without a movement of his features, the message passed between him and them. Mozak's eyes searched the faces of the men in the room, then he shrugged and stormed out, muttering under his breath.

With trepidation, the Padre took the earpiece from the Pencil. Sweat had already broken out on his back.

"Robert? This is your father-in-law," the Padre said, hearing the familiar whoosh of international long-distance.

"I didn't want you to hear it first from anyone but me," Robert began.