Inherit the Mob (10 page)

“I’m speaking relatively, of course. Our business is highly lucrative, but limited. Our foreign connections are largely with, for want of a better term, members of the underworld. But, of course, the real money, the enormous money, and the freedom to earn it, is controlled by governments. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

“We’ve made considerable progress since the days of prohibition,” said Sesti, “thanks to pioneers like your uncle, Mr. Spadafore, Meyer
Lansky and a few others who saw that we required national cooperation to prosper. But this is a new era, William, an international era. To take advantage of its potential requires sophistication, access, expertise. Once—and I’m being blunt now—we needed Jews to handle our money and our legal work. Today, as you see, we have produced our own lawyers and business managers. But we have yet to produce a generation of international diplomats.”

“Too bad you failed French,” Gordon said. The lawyer acknowledged the joke with a small smile, but his eyes remained serious.

“I’m very good at what I do, William, but I don’t imagine that I could duplicate your exceptional experience. As I say, very few men of our generation are as well known and respected internationally. Normally, it would be unthinkable for us to come into contact with a man such as yourself, but you are your uncle’s nephew and, by the force of that coincidence, here you are.” He opened his hands and smiled, and for the first time he seemed very Sicilian.

“So, you want me to bribe Maggie Thatcher, or Brezhnev maybe? Come on, Carlo, you’re smarter than that. At least you seem smarter.”

“No, nothing as grandiose as that, William. But we both know that there are a number of places—say, in Latin America, the Far East, Africa perhaps—where there are people in high positions who are, or could be made to become, let us say, amenable to various sorts of business opportunities. They may control small countries, but even the smallest, poorest country is vastly richer than the Brooklyn docks or the Truckers Union. Handled properly, an operation of the kind I envision could be profitable beyond the wildest dreams of even your uncle or Mr. Spadafore.”

“And you want me to handle it, is that it?”

“Handle it, no. With all due respect, you have no training for that side of the business. What I’m proposing is that you take on the role of foreign minister. Locate areas of opportunity. Sound out potential associates. Ensure entrée. And, just as important, keep us from making awkward mistakes.”

“Out of curiosity, what would my share of this international operation be?”

“Twenty-five percent. One quarter of perhaps three billion dollars a year, perhaps many times that. It would make you one of the
richest men on the planet. And as a warrant of our good faith, we would be prepared to give you a lump sum of, say, three million dollars.”

“And what if I took the three million and didn’t deliver?”

Sesti shook his head, and for the first time in the conversation he seemed a bit exasperated. “William, I’ve already answered that. Please don’t make me say it again.”

“What about my uncle’s papers?”

“No, those we must have in any case. That is not negotiable.”

Gordon was struck with a sudden thought. “Tell me something, Carlo, was this my uncle’s idea?” he asked. “Is that why he left me his share of the business?”

A shadow of caution came over Sesti’s eyes, like a window shade dropping. “I never discussed this with your uncle,” he said. “Nor, to my knowledge, did Mr. Spadafore. In fact, I must tell you that Mr. Spadafore is skeptical about this proposal. He is, for all his vision, an old-fashioned man in many ways. Distrustful of outsiders. Your uncle was an exception, of course; they were boys together. My first proposal is unconditional, but the second is contingent upon Mr. Spadafore’s approval. He’ll have to be convinced that you are whole-heartedly and irrevocably committed to our world, as it were.”

“ ‘Make my bones’ is the phrase, isn’t it?”

“A vulgar expression,” said Sesti. He took another bite of steak and fastidiously wiped his thin lips with his napkin; watching him, Gordon realized that he had barely touched his own meal. “I can assure you that you won’t be required to do anything violent, now or ever. That isn’t your nature; we understand that.”

“I have a couple of practical questions,” said Gordon. “First, would you want me to leave the paper?”

“Yes. You’d need more independence than it allows. A senior fellowship at a foreign policy research institute would be more suitable. We can, of course, arrange that, although I assume you could do so just as easily.”

“Another thing. If I were interested—and I’m saying if—I’d want to bring someone with me, another reporter who was with me in Vietnam.”

“Yes, John Flanagan. Well, you would be free to run your side of the operation as you see fit. But you must understand that you will
be absolutely accountable for the discretion of whomever you choose. Absolutely accountable.”

“Last question. Supposing, again, that I’m interested. What next?”

“I’ll arrange a meeting with Mr. Spadafore. But, William, bear in mind that no such meeting can take place unless you’ve decided affirmatively. I promise that there will not be any additional conditions or obligations. My proposal is solid. But he can, of course, say no. If that happens, we will revert to proposal number one.”

“I’ll think about it and let you know, Carlo,” said Gordon. He raised his hand for the waiter, who moved toward the table with alacrity. “Please, William, this is my lunch,” said Carlo Sesti.

“Wrap this steak for me, will you?” Gordon said to the waiter. “And give my friend the check.”

W
hen Gordon walked into his apartment, the phone was ringing. He let it go six more times before picking it up.

“Hello, John,” he said.

“Don Velvel,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”

“Just a wild guess,” Gordon said. “And I told you, cut out this Don Velvel stuff. This whole situation is getting less and less funny.”

“Rough meeting with Sesti?” asked Flanagan, all the frivolity leaving his voice. He may have been playing make-believe gangster, Gordon thought, but when it came to getting information, he was an old pro.

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’ve got to finish this damn article on NATO and the Falklands, and then I’ve got a talk show to tape at six. Some Middle East discussion. So I’ll be tied up.”

“What about later on? I could meet you downtown, around eight, get a bite to eat.”

“I’d like to, but not tonight. Jupiter.”

“Doesn’t she have a nickname?” asked Flanagan. “Jody, or Jupy or something?”

“No, she likes Jupiter.”

“Yeah, no lie. She likes the hell out of Jupiter. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’d be better off right now concentrating on business instead of mooning over that muff-diving girlfriend of yours.”

“OK.”

“OK, what?”

“OK, I forgive you for saying so.”

“How about, OK, I’ll take your good advice.”

“How about, OK, get your ass off the phone so I can do some work? I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

It usually took Gordon about three hours to write his column, counting four or five coffee breaks, a telephone call or two and at least one trip to the bathroom. Abroad, Gordon had learned how to write under daily deadline pressure, sometimes in frontline conditions. Sitting in a padded chair, in his own apartment, providing two opinions a week on obscure subjects was, by comparison, a leisurely task.

But today, for some reason, the words wouldn’t come. He was suddenly struck by how little he actually knew about the Falkland Islands, NATO, or anything else for that matter. The revelation that he had won Pulitzer prizes because of the intervention of two old Jewish hoods in New York had shaken his normal self-confidence, and now he tried to type it back.

“In the absence of any proof to the contrary, the leadership of NATO must assume that the Soviets may be preparing to support Argentina as it has other Latin American nations hostile to the West.…” He looked at the phrase and frowned. How the hell did he know? Really know. Gordon had been around news all his adult life—wars and revolutions, coups and campaigns; had read purloined documents and exchanged information with smooth-faced diplomats in cozy bars—and always he had reported with an authority that approached omniscience. But, he now realized, he hadn’t even understood the basic facts of his own life. Maybe Reagan was as complex and deceptively bland as his uncle Max. Perhaps the British generals were as smoothly lethal as Sesti and his boss. He
finished typing the article with leaden fingers, conscious of not only how little he knew but how little it mattered. His father’s line about newspapers came back to him; “They wrap fish in them, boychik,” the old man once said. That’s what his work was, he thought miserably—decorating paper for mackerel.

At five-thirty, Gordon left for the public television studio where he was scheduled to take part in a discussion on the Arab-Israel conflict. The cab was overheated, the driver a young Soviet immigrant who smoked cigarettes with the windows rolled up. Gordon, happy to find a fellow addict, took out a Winston and idly blew a few smoke rings, which wafted through the open bulletproof partition into the front seat.

“Circles,” the driver said, noticing. “I too.” He blew his own rings and, with his left hand, tried to push them into the backseat for Gordon’s inspection. They dissolved into clouds of acrid smoke.

When they stopped at a light the driver turned and said, “I can blow box, too. You believe this?” Gordon shook his head. “Watch,” said the cabbie. He inhaled some smoke, puckered his lips and exhaled, moving his head in a rectangular way. “See, the smoke box,” he said happily. “You don’t know this trick?”

“I know the name of the capital of Albania,” said Gordon.

“I know capital of Connecticut. Is Gartford,” said the driver. “My brother lives in Gartford. He teach me this trick. For single bars. To get girl’s attention.”

Gordon looked at the cabbie’s license. His name was Jacob Gurashvili, a Georgian Jewish name. “Jacob, when did you leave Tiflis?” he said.

“How you know I from Tiflis?”

“A trick,” Gordon said. “Like the squares. You can use it to pick up girls.”

“How I know where to say?” the driver asked grinning. He had a gold tooth in front, and his eyes were slightly crossed. He looked, Gordon thought, a little bit like a good-natured pirate. For a second, he was tempted to invite him into the studio and present him to Marty Bronstein as a visiting expert from the Soviet Union. For the first time that day, he smiled.

The meter read $4.50. He handed Gurashvili a twenty. “Keep the change,” he said. “And just guess Tiflis. It usually works.”

The cabbie regarded the bill with wonder. “Maybe I wait for you,” he said hopefully. “Private.”

“I’ll be about an hour,” said Gordon.

“One hour, one more twenty dollars bill,” said Gurashvili. “Off clock.” He gestured to the ticking meter and flashed Gordon a grin pregnant with complicity.

“What the hell,” said Gordon. “Why not?” The paper would pay, after all. Besides, for some reason the thought of this cheerful, gold-toothed pirate waiting for him outside the studio reassured him.

“Drive around, if you want,” he said. “Just be back by seven.”

“I wait here,” said Gurashvili, pulling out a thermos and a well-worn copy of
Penthouse
. “Coffee break, U.S. style.”

In the small studio, Gordon was greeted as an old friend by the receptionist. “The others are already here,” she said. “You know the way back to Marty’s office.”

Marty Bronstein was the moderator of
Wide World
, a weekly foreign affairs show. An intense, balding man about Gordon’s age, Bronstein taught international relations at Columbia. His specialty was explaining the world in terms of American sports. Urgent international problems were always “fourth and goal,” world leaders either all-stars or bush-leaguers, bumbling diplomats “couldn’t hit a layup.” Recently, Gordon had heard him describe the pope as a “Vince Lombardi–like leader.”

Gordon’s fellow panelists that evening were Amnon Noy, an Israeli professor on a sabbatical at NYU, and George Haladi, head of the Arab-American Human Rights Commission. Gordon had never met Noy, a slightly built, mild man with thinning sandy hair, but he knew Haladi from past encounters. He was an outgoing type with a loud voice and a mock humility that put Gordon off.

“Well, it is the famous Mr. William Gordon,” said Haladi, shaking hands with a strong pumping motion. “Perhaps you can explain to a primitive Arab what it means to say that Yasir Arafat is a lifetime two thirty-five.”

“Lifetime two thirty-five
hitter,
” corrected Bronstein. “It’s a baseball term meaning mediocrity.”

“And what is the phrase for an excellent player?” asked Haladi.

“Three hundred hitter,” said Gordon.

“Not lifetime?”

“Yeah, a lifetime three hundred hitter,” said Bronstein.

“And who would you consider a lifetime three hundred hitter in our region, Professor Bronstein? Mr. Menachem Bee-gin?”