“It’s a loose end, Berti. It’s something I need to take care of soon and I’m trying to do the right thing. I can’t leave the situation as it is for too long.”
Berti Ristani had no business agenda he wanted to bring up with Buda, and he was mildly offended that Buda kept bringing up this Grazdani issue. He’d been enjoying talking to Buda about old times when they both first arrived from Albania. Back in those days it was no easy thing getting to America. Both had been lucky. On top of a common past, Aleksander Buda was one of the crew leaders Berti respected, and he’d been pleasantly surprised when Buda showed up unannounced.
“Okay, let’s find out. I know no one by that name specifically, but I do have two of my best guys with a similar name. But it’s not Albanian. It’s Italian. Anyway, I might complain, but I appreciate your concern like this. There’s been far too many blood feuds. Thanks for coming to talk to me.”
“It’s nothing, Berti. It would be foolish to act any other way.”
Ristani shifted his weight forward and the chair complained again. He placed his fleshy arms on the table and punched a button on an intercom.
“Drilon, can you come in the office for a second?”
Ristani looked at Buda.
“Drilon, one of my most loyal guys. He and his brother, who’s out on a job.”
“Anything special?”
“Not really. He runs a bunch of books in South Jersey, down to Philly. Friday nights, he likes to collect. He’s smarter than a whip, in contrast to Drilon, who, as the saying goes, is not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Oh, Drilon, come in here.”
Drilon was used to being called into his boss’s office from his perch near the building entrance numerous times each evening he was on duty. Usually Ristani wanted something to eat, and this was what Drilon expected on this occasion. He walked into the office and saw the back of a figure seated in front of Ristani’s desk.
“Drilon, Mr. Buda has a question.”
Buda? Had Drilon heard correctly? The man twisted in his seat and Drilon saw the scar on his forehead. It was Aleksander Buda, a serious dude. What did he want?
“Simple question,” Buda said without emotion. “Do you know anyone named Pia Grazdani?”
“Say that again,” Drilon said. He thought he was hallucinating.
“Pia Grazdani.”
He’d heard correctly. The name triggered a movie that played in fast-forward in Drilon’s head. Twenty or so years ago, at least, Drilon had been drinking, drinking a lot. He goes home where he lives with his brother, Burim, and his brother’s wife, Pia, and there’s Pia looking as hot as you like almost without a stitch on, and Burim’s out of the apartment running some errands like he was always doing trying to rise up in the Rudaj organization, one of the most notorious early Albanian mafias. But the bitch rebuffs his advances even though she was asking for it and digs her nails into his chest, like deep, and Drilon sees red. Goes berserk. What happens next, he certainly didn’t plan. He grabs his gun in a rage and shoots her in the forehead. Blam. Story’s over. But her kid’s there—little Pia. He considers shooting her too except he can suddenly hear people next door, so instead he hits her in the head with his gun, trashes the apartment, and takes the $500 stash that the brothers had hidden in the stove. He goes back to the bar where he was drinking, drinks more, stays until it closes, sleeps an hour on a park bench, and goes home to raise the alarm that his sister-in-law was murdered by intruders.
The fallout turned out to be a breeze. Burim accepted the intruder story as he was happy enough to be done with his wife and had been thinking seriously of dumping her, and the Rudaj organization and crew took care of everything. There was no investigation, no nothing. As far as anyone was concerned, Pia had just disappeared, leaving her daughter behind.
Did Buda mean either of those Pias?
“So?” Buda said. He’d noticed Drilon’s pause and blank expression. “Do you know a Pia Grazdani?”
Drilon felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His face flushed, he could feel it. Three questions immediately crossed his mind: One, was he talking about Afrodita, his little niece, or Pia his sister-in-law? Drilon hadn’t given either of them a thought in more than twenty years, but one was dead and the other, who knows? Two, had Buda asked Burim the same question? And three, what the fuck was the correct answer?
“Er, I don’t think so,” Drilon said. “Why do you ask?”
Drilon had spoken to Buda, but it was Berti Ristani who spoke up.
“He’s asking because he wants to know. I’m asking you too, Drilon. I haven’t called your brother, because he’s busy at the moment. I assume you’d know if either you or your brother is related to this girl. The surname is pretty similar.”
“Let me think, we got a big family,” Drilon said. So Burim didn’t know—that was to his advantage. And perhaps it wasn’t her at all. But Drilon feared it was the girl—whose mother he murdered, a secret he’d managed to keep all this time. But if Aleksander Buda was asking about her, she probably was halfway in the ground already. Drilon could see no reason to rock the boat. There surely couldn’t be anything connecting him to the girl. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the name.”
“You certain about that, Drilon? You took long enough thinking about it.”
“You know me, boss, I’m not the brightest guy. Like I said, we got a real big family, but mostly back in the old country.”
“So I’ve heard,” Ristani said conversationally.
“That’s right, boss.”
“What’s your family name?” Buda said. The expression on his face had changed not at all the whole time.
“Graziani,” Drilon said. It had been Burim’s idea to drop Grazdani after the Rudaj crew had been broken up and many of its members sent to jail. Graziani was the name Burim came up with when he asked Ristani for work years back. It was the surname of one of his favorite Italian soccer players, and he always liked the fact that it was close to his name too, off by only a single letter.
“It’s close but different. Italian instead of Albanian,” Berti said. “Close but no cigar. Thank you, Drilon.”
Drilon left the room. He was sweating and the color had faded from his face. He wanted to hide as far away from Buda as possible until the man left.
“Anyone else you need to ask?” Buda said.
“No, I know all the other guys’ families and have never heard of a Grazdani.”
The men hugged briefly, Buda having difficulty getting his arms around Berti.
“Let’s not be strangers,” Berti said, waving.
Buda got in his car, but before he drove away, he called Fatos Toptani, his most trusted man back in the Bronx. In the Buda organization, Fatos was number two.
“It’s me. I need to get hold of someone right now. Name is Burim Graziani, one of Ristani’s crew. He’s working down in South Jersey.... No, no, nothing heavy, I just need to ask him a question. Yeah . . . Something ain’t right here.”
From his office, Ristani waited a couple of minutes till he thought Buda had left the premises, then made a phone call of his own.
57.
GREEN POND, NEW JERSEY
MARCH 25, 2011, 8:52 P.M.
Prek was pleased to leave the tense atmosphere of the house even to undertake the menial task of cleaning out the van, something Neri should be doing. Prek was going crazy just sitting around, waiting for Buda to call to give either a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. The other two numskulls could not stop talking about sex and who was going to be first even though the woman was no longer in their sight.
In a closet in the house he found a mop and bucket and an inventory of cleaning supplies, including a battery-operated hand vacuum mounted on the wall. Prek filled the bucket with water and poured in a generous quantity of Pine-Sol, loaded up the gear, and walked out to the van. In the morning, they would take it to a car wash and take care of the outside of the vehicle; for now Prek wanted to make sure the interior was free of any trace of the girl. H
e vacuumed the cab and washed down all the surfaces with Windex. When he was finished he moved to the back to continue his work when his cell phone rang.
At last, he thought.
Neri Krasnigi got up from the couch in the living room, went to the window, and watched Prek get in the back of the van with his wet mop. There’s Prek doing women’s work, he thought to himself. It seemed appropriate. He hadn’t been able to get Pia out of his mind, and he also felt slighted by Prek’s attitude toward him. Through the whole job, Prek had ordered him around, throwing stuff at him in the van, giving him the toughest part of the mission but showing him no respect at all. Even when Prek told him he did a good job it was in the tone of voice you’d use with a puppy who was taking a piss outside.
Neri had forgotten the initial terror he’d felt after he shot the student. Now he was feeling bold, accomplished, entitled—feelings that had heightened when he chugged down the last of the Red Bull. Perhaps he had a chance to show up Prek and have some fun in the process, even if it would have to be a private triumph.
Neri went to check on Genti, who’d fallen asleep on one of the sofas. With Prek out of the house and busy and Genti asleep, Neri thought he could risk a quickie. After all, what could Prek do? Neri slipped a hand into his jacket to briefly fondle his gun. It gave him courage. He was his own boss.
Being careful not to make a sound that might wake Genti, Neri slipped into the master bedroom and went over to the bed, took a good look at Pia. She was again supine, clearly breathing, but she looked as dead to the world as she had when they’d first brought her into the house. Tiptoeing, he went back to see what Prek was doing and when he walked to the kitchen window, he could see the van’s doors were open with someone inside. With Prek attending to his housekeeping duties, Neri thought he was safe for at least ten or fifteen minutes. With mounting excitement, Neri went to the front door and threw the dead bolt. Then he quickly tiptoed back into the master bedroom, literally shaking with excitement. He closed the door.
So what does that mean for us?” Prek asked Buda. He wasn’t sure he understood what his boss was trying to tell him.
“It means we don’t do anything with the girl till I figure out what’s going on with this moron Drilon.”
“You’re sure he was lying?” Prek couldn’t understand why someone might lie when asked a direct, simple question about whether someone was related to them or not.
“I’m pretty sure. Everything about his behavior told me he was lying. When I asked him a direct question, he hesitated and then started stammering that he didn’t know if he was related or not. It was obvious to me he knows the name. And it’s practically his name. If you’re gonna change your name, change your name.”
“And his boss didn’t say anything?” Prek asked, meaning Berti Ristani.
“Nothing. Either he didn’t notice or he didn’t want to say anything with me sitting there. I bet it’s the latter because he’s not stupid. It’s this Drilon guy who’s stupid.”
“Why would he lie about something like that? He must know what the implications are.”
“I would assume as much,” Buda said. This, of course, was the question that was nagging at him. If Drilon Graziani was lying, it meant whatever he was trying to conceal from his boss was more important to him than this girl’s life, even if she was a relative. Paradoxically, that fact made the girl suddenly more valuable to Buda, even if he didn’t know why. This was the reason it was so important for him to talk to Burim Graziani, if that was actually his name. Buda figured that Ristani had also realized Drilon was lying, which had an entirely separate set of consequences.
Buda himself didn’t appreciate being lied to, especially by a subordinate, and he wouldn’t want to be in Drilon’s shoes if Buda was right about his supposition. It also put Buda in a tricky position. His visit was probably now the cause of a problem within the Ristani crew. He hoped Berti didn’t blame him for that.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Buda said, meaning that he wasn’t comfortable having even this guarded a conversation over a cell phone line. “I’m coming up there to the summer house. Just make sure our guest is treated as a guest until this is cleared up,” Buda said.
“Will do,” Prek said, ending the call. He’d left Genti in charge in the house, and he trusted him, for the most part. But he thought he’d better check.
Immediately after talking with Prek, Buda got another call on his headset.
“Aleksander, it’s Berti. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother, Berti,” Buda said.
“I talked with Burim,” Berti said. “I asked him about Pia Grazdani, wondering if he’d ever heard the name. And you know what? He said he did. Can you believe that?”
“No,” said Buda, but he could.
“Then Burim called back and said one of your guys tried to call him.” Berti said nothing more and left the statement hanging in the air. Buda thought he’d better play it straight.
“I did have one of my guys call Burim,” Buda admitted. “You know as well as I do, Berti, Drilon acted strangely to my question. My sense was that he was lying. I figure that’s your business, him lying to you, but he lied to me too. If I could ask the brother, maybe I wouldn’t have to bother you directly. But I have to find out so I can deal with the woman I’m holding without starting a blood feud.”
“I appreciate that, Aleksander. Of course, none of us want another blood feud: Albanian brother against Albanian brother. Of course I noticed Drilon was lying, and I called him back after you left and asked him again. I said, ‘No fucking around,’ and he said yeah, well, maybe he did know a Pia Grazdani. He tried to say he’d forgotten because he hasn’t heard the name or seen the girl for twenty-some-odd years.”
Buda was relieved that Berti was seeing it his way.
“So what do we do, Berti?”
“You hold on, I can conference you through to Burim.”
“I need to make another quick call first,” Buda said.
“Okay. Do what you need to do, then call me right back.”
Buda was navigating a complicated course but calmly made his call to Prek. When Prek picked up, Buda spoke and didn’t give Prek a chance to respond. He told Prek that he had to talk to a man named Burim Graziani before he could say yea or nay about Pia Grazdani. He said he was about to talk with him, so he’d be getting back to Prek straightaway with a final answer. “Hold the course with our guest for another half-hour or so,” Buda said. “I thought I’d also let you know I’m only about a half-hour away. I’m in Wayne, on Route 23. I’ll be back to you shortly.”
As soon as Prek hung up from Buda the second time, after being told to hold the course, he jumped out of the van. For a moment he stood and listened. He had expected to hear muffled conversation from his two sex-starved underlings, but he heard nothing, which was disturbing. A half-hour earlier the men had been unable to stop talking. With gathering urgency, Prek headed for the front door, hearing in his mind Buda telling him the woman was to be treated as a guest.
With his intuition setting off alarm bells, Prek reproached himself: He should not have left the two alone no matter how much he had wanted to get out of the house. He went to open the front door and found it locked.
“What the . . .” he said. He ran around the corner of the house directly to the window of the master bedroom. Neri hadn’t even bothered to close the drapes. Prek banged twice on the window, then ran back to the van, grabbed his gun from the glove compartment, ran back to the window, and smashed it with the butt of the gun. He was furious. Reaching in awkwardly, he fired off a single round.
58.
TURNOFF ON ROUTE 23
WAYNE, NEW JERSEY
MARCH 25, 2011, 9:19 P.M.
I understand you’re trying to reach me,” Burim Graziani said.
“Berti, are you still on the line?” Buda questioned.
“I’m getting off. You two men talk.” There was a click when Berti hung up.
“Yes, I ne
ed to talk to you,” Buda said to Burim. “We haven’t met each other, right?”
“No, I don’t believe so. But I know who you are, of course.”
In their line of work, everyone knew Aleksander Buda. This was going to be a complicated conversation, Buda could tell. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t also too compromising. Cell phones could be hacked, even new cell phones like the one Buda was currently using.
“For that reason, we need to be careful.”
“I understand.”
Neither of them was willing to start. Burim had been shocked to get Ristani’s call. He had been in his car, driving back to Weehawken from South Jersey where he’d concluded his business early. Ristani’s question had shaken him so much he nearly rear-ended the truck in front of him. “Pia Grazdani?” he’d repeated out loud, and he thought of his wife, not his daughter. He remembered her fiery personality, the fights, how Pia stayed out all night to party, leaving him alone with the baby. His sudden fury meant he wasn’t listening properly to what Berti was asking him.
“She’s about twenty-five,” Berti had said. “Apparently quite beautiful. Burim, shit, can you hear me?” The connection had not been good, going in and out. It was at that point that Burim realized Berti wasn’t talking about his late wife, but rather about his daughter, Afrodita Pia Grazdani.
Buda cleared his throat. “Berti told me you recognize the name Pia Grazdani. Is there any relation?”
“I remember her by a different name,” Burim said. “Afrodita, which is what I called her. Her middle name was Pia, like her mother. She was my daughter.”
Afrodita. The kid had been a pain in the ass almost as much as the mother since she’d inherited her mother’s personality. Drilon had been the only one who got along with her. A miserable little thing, very demanding at a time when Burim had been too busy trying to make the grade in the Rudaj organization. He’d had no time for a kid. After she’d been taken away by city services, Burim told himself that he’d go and get her back when he was legal in the country, but when he got his green card, he decided he was happier as a man without the burden of responsibility. Then he had to drop out of sight as Burim Graziani and he never got around to establishing his new identity beyond getting a driver’s license in case there was ever a traffic stop. He imagined he’d now have to explain all this to Berti Ristani, something that was a bigger issue to him than the fate of his daughter.