“You truly believe it is possible?” Kadir said in Arabic.
Yousef nodded. “Properly placed within the base, the right bomb will topple the north tower into the south tower, bringing down both.”
Ramzi Yousef, a wiry, bearded Pakistani with piercing black eyes, had learned bomb making in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Just last September al-Qaeda had sent him here to bring jihad to America.
Aimal Kasi, another Pakistani, had been living in northern Virginia since his arrival two years ago. He wore a thick mustache rather than a full beard, and had traveled north this week to help with the bomb. He raised his palms toward heaven: “May Allah make it so.”
Kadir sent up a prayer as well. He had long dreamed of the towers’ fall, yearned for it, prayed for it.
Mohammed Salameh, a displaced Palestinian like Kadir, said nothing. He did not seem able to pull his gaze from the towers.
“But it will take a big one,” Mahmoud said. “And a big one will take money—money we don’t have.”
Ever the pessimist, Mahmoud Abouhalima towered over Kadir, Yousef, Salameh, and Kasi. He tended to keep his red hair covered but could not hide his red beard.
Yousef only growled in reply.
Kadir could not blame him. Misfortune had dogged their gamaii for almost two years now. The money from the Al-Kifah Afghan refugee fund had not been diverted toward jihad as expected. Sheikh Omar had been blamed for the brutal murder of the fund’s founder and booed off the stage of the Al-Farooq Mosque in Brooklyn. He had taken up residence here in Jersey City at the Al-Salam Mosque, but he longed to return to Brooklyn.
The FBI seemed everywhere, interfering with the finances of the fronts for jihad that posed as charities. They even blocked a recent money transfer from Yousef’s uncle, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, intended for purchase of the raw materials for the bomb.
“Look at them,” Yousef said, nodding toward the towers. “They stand there and mock us.”
Mahmoud raised his clenched fists. “And we do not need a fortune, just … just…”
“Just more than we have,” Yousef said. He turned to Kasi. “Didn’t you say your father left you money?”
“He did, but I invested it all.”
Kadir knew Kasi was part owner of a courier business.
“And you have nothing left?”
He shrugged. “It’s growing—I do a lot of the driving myself—but we make barely enough to survive.”
And then Kadir had an idea. “I know someone who might help us.”
“Who?” Mahmoud said.
“The man from Qatar.”
3
A little Dominican girl, black hair, black eyes, and a pink hair band, answered his knock on the rickety side door to the garage. Her face lit at the sight of him and she leaped into his arms.
“Jack!”
“How’s it going, Bonita?”
Not exactly statuesque at five feet, but she’d grown a good three inches in the two years or so since he’d saved her from slavery.
“Great! I’m a teenager next week.”
He feigned shock. “No! Thirteen already?”
He’d known that, but still found it hard to believe that she’d been not quite eleven when Moose had dragged her onto that Outer Banks sand dune. Jack had followed with a tire iron. Only he and Bonita had returned.
She posed. “Don’t I look it?”
She wore a baggy sweatshirt and jeans—necessary apparel in her brother’s unheated garage—but even so, Jack could see she was developing.
“You’re beautiful.” And she was. She lived up to her name. “And I can’t believe how good your English is. You couldn’t speak a word when we met.”
“Better and better.”
“Hey, Jack,” Rico said, wiping his hands as he approached with a barely noticeable limp. The lanky Dominican wore a concerned expression. “Julio send you?”
“No. Why?”
He shrugged, looking embarrassed now. “I’m a little late this month.”
Jack waved him off. “That’s between you and Julio. I’m not involved.”
Not true—not even close. Jack had wanted to help Rico start a landscaping business but they shared a checkered past and he’d known Rico would never accept a loan from him. So Julio had fronted Jack’s money; he collected the payments and passed them on to Jack.
“It’s that snow, man,” Rico said.
“What snow?”
“That’s the problem. We ain’t had no snow.”
Jack got it. Rico’s landscaping work dried up with the coming of cold weather and he depended on plowing parking lots in the winter. But this winter had been pretty dry so far.
“Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”
“Just tell Julio when you see him that it’s coming soon.”
“Sure. But don’t worry. He knows you’re good for it. And you know Julio by now. He’s pretty laid back about the whole thing.”
And why not? It wasn’t his money. But Jack wasn’t worried. Rico was a hard worker with a wide streak of macho honor. Probably starve before he welshed on a debt.
“Yeah, but I feel bad, you know?”
“I know. But anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I came to ask your permission to take your sister out for lunch and a movie for her thirteenth birthday.”
Bonita squealed with delight. “Yes-yes-yes! Can I go?”
Rico put on a dubious expression. “I don’t know … what movie we talking about?”
“Home Alone Two.”
He’d taken her to Wayne’s World for her twelfth. The Home Alone sequel had come out at the end of last year but was still playing in a couple of second-run theaters around the city. He figured Bonita would like it because of Macaulay Culkin and the Manhattan setting—the subtitle was Lost in New York, after all. And as for Jack, he loved the booby traps.
“Can-I-can-I-can-I?”
“I’ll have her home in time for dinner.”
“Please-please-please?”
“Oh, all right,” he said with exaggerated reluctance. “I’ll have bizchoco ready for you when you come home.”
She hugged her brother. “Thank you!”
Rico winked at Jack over the top of her head. “You keep her safe, yes?”
“Scout’s honor. I’ll pick her up here next week.”
4
“Who the fuck?”
Someone was knocking on the door.
Vincent Donato had been sitting at his desk in the office over the Preston Salvage garage working on the papers he’d show his accountant next week. He’d had a good year, better than ’91, so the question was how much to declare? The legitimate income paid the guys who worked the yard and did the pickups, but that was about it. Pretty much nothing was left over for Vinny. The under-the-counter business—the money laundering, the chassis recycling from the chop shops, the body disposal service—that was where the gravy was, and none of it was ever seen by the tax man. But sometimes he had to pad the legit books to keep them looking kosher.
He’d been having trouble concentrating because of the bundle he’d lost on the Super Bowl. Two weeks ago now but still it rankled. How could the fucking Bills lose three Super Bowls in a row? Three! He’d thought for sure this time they’d come out on top and had bet heavy. But no. Un-fucking-believable.
More knocking. He opened his top drawer and gripped the handle of his .45.
“Come in, dammit!”
A guy in dark blue warm-ups with white piping poked his head inside. His hands were empty but that didn’t mean he didn’t have something hidden in the small of his back.
“Mister Donato?”
“Yeah. Who wants to know?”
“I drive for Mister C. He wants to talk to you.”
Tony C? C as in Campisi? That Mr. C?
“He usually just calls.”
“He’s downstairs in the car.”
Shit! His crew boss had come here?
“You telling me straight?”
“Absol
utely.”
Vinny pulled on a Windbreaker but didn’t bother zipping it up. No way would it close over his gut. He followed the guy in the warm-up outside and down the open stairway to the parking lot to where Tony’s silver Continental waited. The driver opened the door and there, slumped in the far corner of the backseat, sat his capo, Tony “the Cannon” Campisi.
He looked like shit.
Vinny hadn’t seen him in a while and had kinda figured he wouldn’t be the picture of health—not after getting diagnosed with the Big Casino—but he hadn’t expected him to look this bad. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, his yellowish skin looked like it had been painted onto his skull.
“Hey, Vinny, thanks for meeting me here. Those stairs are a little much for me, you know?” His voice sounded like he’d been gargling sand. “Sorry we couldn’t do this at Amalia’s or someplace nicer.”
Vinny did a shocked double blink. Tony saying “thanks” and “sorry” back to back? In all the years he’d been in Tony’s crew he couldn’t remember hearing either one. Ever. Had the cancer spread from his lungs to his brain?
“Uh, yeah. No problem, Tony. I’da come over if—”
“Nah. Better this way. Siddown.” As Vinny eased his bulk into the rear, Tony waved off his driver. “Rocco, why don’t you take a walk while we talk.”
He said, “Sure, Mister C,” and closed the door.
Tony pointed to a small white paper bag on the seat between them.
“I brought those for you.”
The grease stains that dotted the bag gave Vinny a pretty good idea what was inside, but he looked anyway. He acted surprised at finding sugar-coated pastries.
He said, “Zeppole?” but was thinking What the fuck? Tony the Cannon did not bring gifts.
Okay, something was going on. The whole family had been a mess since Gotti got convicted on a slew of murders and a laundry list of other charges. Sammy the Bull, of all people, had ratted him out and the Chief had wound up sentenced to life with no prayer of parole. He was still trying to run things from inside but that wasn’t working out. The “administration” he’d set up with his brother and son and a couple of others was no substitute for one guy calling the shots from the front lines. Lots of infighting and maneuvering and ego wars going on at the top.
“I know you like them, but you ain’t ever had any like these. They’re from Fratello’s in Ozone Park—best bakery anywhere.”
Vinny had been trying to cut back but these smelled so damn good … he pulled one out and took a bite. Powdered sugar rained on his lap but who cared? They didn’t call him Vinny Donuts for nothing.
He offered the bag to Tony who shook his head. “Nah. I’m off my feed.”
Vinny tried not to stare as he chewed. “How’re you doing, Tony?”
“How’s it look like I’m doing? I’m fucking dying.”
“But I thought—”
“The chemo? The radiation? Didn’t do shit. Burned my skin and made me sick as a fucking dog and that’s about it.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t ever be sorry for me. I did this to myself. My doctor warned me, my wife warned me, my brother warned me, but I wouldn’t listen. I coulda quit but I didn’t want to quit. Cancer happened to other people, so why should I quit? Well, y’know what? The day they found that lump in my lung, I fucking quit. Cold turkey. Lotta good it’s gonna do me.”
Vinny didn’t know what to say.
Tony barked a harsh laugh. “You don’t know what to say, do you!”
Was he a mind reader now?
“As a matter of fact, no.”
Another laugh. “Nobody does! So don’t say nothin’. Just sit there and listen to me. We got a problem.”
Vinny had been wondering when this would come up.
Tony said, “I can see by your face you know what I’m talking about.”
“Tommy.”
“Yeah. Tommy. I put him in charge of the loans when I got sick and what happens? The vigorish dries up. What’s going on? I can’t believe he’s holding out on me.”
Shit. Not right for Tony to put him on the spot like this.
“Well…”
“Hey, look. I don’t like asking any more’n you like being asked. I’d handle it myself but I ain’t exactly myself lately, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“Tommy keeps telling me there’s no vig because nobody’s taking out loans. I can’t fucking believe it. There ain’t no shortage of losers out there, so there can’t be no shortage of loans. The reason I’m asking you is I know how you feel about Tommy—sorta the way I feel about Sammy the Nose, y’know? If he’s holding out—”
“Maybe he ain’t holding out, Tony. Maybe he ain’t going out. Maybe that’s the problem.”
Tony frowned. “I don’t get it.”
“He’s got a nice deal with his detailing operation. Maybe too nice.”
“Whatta y’mean?”
“I mean he’s sold a shitload of policies so all he’s gotta do is sit on his ass and collect. He ain’t chasing loans. If they come to him, fine, but he ain’t on the hunt.”
Shylocking had always been one of Tony’s main income streams. He had the games and the pony parlor and the fencing, but at ten or twelve percent interest per week, the shy business was like having a printing press for money.
Tony snorted. “His detailing operation. If he’s doing so well, how come my beak’s dry?”
When you had a side operation, you were supposed to let your crew boss wet his beak. Vinny always sent a piece of his salvage profits to Tony. Tommy was letting that slide, and Vinny knew a couple of reasons why. During the times they were in the same room or same car, the subject of Tony the Cannon would come up more often than not. Tommy would often say that letting Tony dip his beak in his detailing operation was a waste since the guy had “one foot through death’s door and the other on a banana peel.” But Vinny couldn’t tell Tony that. On the other hand, Tommy “Ten Thumbs” Totaro’s coke habit was no secret.
“I think most of the extra’s going up Tommy’s beak.”
Tony sighed. “I gotta tell ya, Vinny, that hurts. And to think, I helped him get into it.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “No good deed goes unpunished, huh?”
“I guess.”
’Specially where Tommy was involved.
“I just got an idea,” Tony said.
“Like?”
“What if Tommy’s detailing operation runs into some complications?”
And now Vinny got it. This whole dramatic scene—Tony coming to him, meeting in the car here in Canarsie so no one would know they’d talked, the zeppole, acting hurt and offended—was all a lead-in to this. He hadn’t “just” got an idea. His idea was behind his trip from Ozone Park.
Vinny played along. “You mean like what if a lot of the cars on the lots Tommy guarantees get mysteriously dinged and scratched?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, it would put Tommy behind the eight ball, I’d think.”
“Right where he should be. Can you and Aldo make it happen?”
Adding a little—or maybe a lot—of misery to Tommy Totaro’s life … Vinny didn’t see a downside to that.
Vinny had to smile. “I think we can arrange something.”
“How soon?”
“Tonight?”
Tony grabbed his forearm and squeezed. “That’s my boy.”
5
“So you think your partner’s cheating on you?” Jack said.
“I don’t think—I know he’s cooking the books.”
Jack had arrived at Julio’s early and seated himself at his table. Even after almost two years, he still couldn’t believe he had his own table in an Upper West Side bar. His prospective customer had arrived right on time and Julio had escorted him over. He introduced himself as Jules Willner. Jack usually didn’t ask for names but this guy had volunteered. He wore dark slacks and a maroon sweater under a herring
bone overcoat. And like the werewolf drinking that piña colada at Trader Vic’s, his hair was perfect.
After going through the usual I-was-expecting-someone-older dance, they’d got down to business.
Jack shrugged. “Well, if you know all that, what’s left for me to do?”
“I need a little justice.”
“Seems like lawyers and accountants can get that for you better than I can.”
“No. I don’t want anyone looking at the books.”
“But—oh.”
Willner nodded and waited for Jack to put it together. Pretty obvious: Willner and his partner had been cooking the books for the IRS and now Willner finds out the partner has been cooking them again. Filing suit and bringing in a forensic accountant would mean self-exposure.
“What sort of justice?”
Willner leaned forward. “I have a recurring fantasy. A dream.”
Uh-oh.
“And what would that be?”
“I keep dreaming of a fire.”
“Really.” Jack’s heart sank. Not the kind of work he was looking for. “How does that help?”
“We own a warehouse and I keep dreaming of it going up in flames—with my partner in it.”
So far he’d avoided mentioning the partner’s name. And this dream bullshit was his way of avoiding arrest just in case Jack was an undercover cop.
I never said to kill anyone. I was just relating my dreams.
Riiight.
“Would this warehouse in your dreams just happen to be insured?”
He nodded. “So’s my partner. We each have a policy with the company as beneficiary.”
A double payday.
“Because you’re both so valuable to the company.”
He smiled. “At least I am.”
Jack wanted to backhand that smile off his face. The guy could be telling the truth, or he could be the one cooking the books and his partner had found out and now the partner had to go. Either way, Jack wanted no part.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out.”