Inherit the Mob (19 page)

Throughout high school, John Flanagan and Boatnay Threkeld were best friends. The balance of power between them was almost even. Flanagan was a brilliant student, who effortlessly got straight
A’s and edited the school paper, but Threkeld was an A student, too, mostly through diligence. Flanagan was also a good jock, both as a fearless 160-pound tight end on the St. Ben’s football team and as an amateur boxer. Sports bored him, though, and after his junior year he quit the football and limited his fighting to an occasional scrap after school.

Boatnay Threkeld, on the other hand, was the greatest athlete in the history of the school, and one of the best the city had seen in a decade. In his senior year he averaged over two hundred yards rushing as a halfback, scored twenty-eight points a game playing center on a mediocre basketball team and, in the spring, set the New York City scholastic record for the hundred-yard dash. By the time he graduated, he was six foot four and weighed 220, and he was approached by almost every major college in the country.

Morgan Threkeld and John Flanagan took over the job of dealing with the recruiters. Assistant coaches from all over the country came to the Shrimp Hut. They found Morgan to be a slow, deferential colored guy who averted his eyes when he talked to white men and called them “sir.” “I wants my boy to stay right here,” he said to recruiters from out of town; and “I wants my boy to get far ’way from this place,” he told the representatives of local colleges.

Flanagan would appear on cue. Morgan introduced him as “Mr. John,” Boatnay’s best friend, and Flanagan would enthusiastically take the side of whatever recruiter happened to be there. Morgan’s resistance would seem to weaken in the face of Flanagan’s arguments, but never quite to the point of giving in. Afterward, Flanagan was invariably contacted by the coaches. “The old man listens to you,” they said, white guy to white guy, and winked.

“I can convince Morgan,” Flanagan told them, “but I got a problem with Boatnay. He knows his old man’s a dimwit, and he doesn’t want to leave him all alone.”

“Something can be arranged,” the recruiters said.

“Your campus sounds beautiful,” Flanagan said. “I might like to go there myself.”

“Something can be arranged,” the recruiters repeated.

In April, Morgan, Boatnay and Flanagan sat down with a list of more than ninety offers. After due deliberation they settled on an Ivy League college that was offering two full scholarships, a new Oldsmobile
for Boatnay, a used Ford for Flanagan, jobs for both of them keeping seaweed out of the football stadium, and carte blanche at a local clothing store. There was also a clause guaranteeing Boatnay five hundred dollars per touchdown and a flat five thousand dollars if the team made a bowl game. Finally, there would be a twenty-five-thousand-dollar nonrepayable loan to Morgan Threkeld from a school-spirited Wall Street alumnus.

Morgan poured each boy a small glass of champagne. “Mr. John,” he said in his Stepin Fetchit voice, “you certainly is one smart white boy.” He smiled broadly and sipped the champagne. “Yass indeed, you can be my jockey if you never win a race, you can be my gambler if you never pull an ace, and you can be my lawyer if you never win a case.”

“Mr. Threkeld,” said Flanagan, returning the toast, “it’s a pleasure to be of service to such a deserving Negro scholar-athlete.”

John and Boatnay lived together throughout college. Threkeld was a two-time all-American, and Flanagan editor of the college newspaper, which he used to promote Boatnay for the Heisman Trophy, sending clips each week to the wire services and putting together a brochure on Threkeld’s career that he forwarded to sportswriters around the country. When Threkeld won the award, beating out an Italian quarterback from Notre Dame, both boys took it as a lesson on the power of the press.

After college, Boatnay Threkeld was drafted by the Detroit Lions. It was in the days before big contracts, and he actually took a cut in pay to play pro ball. He stayed with the Lions for six seasons, attended the University of Michigan Law School part time, and quit football the day he passed the bar. Flanagan, using his old man’s contacts with the printers’ union, got a job as a city reporter on the
Tribune
. When he returned to New York from Vietnam, Boatnay was already back in the city, one of the youngest—and by far the most famous—homicide detectives on the police force.

The two men picked up their relationship where it had left off. Flanagan made sure that Boatnay Threkeld’s cases and career got maximum press coverage; in return, Threkeld provided Flanagan with scoops that left his competitors on other papers cursing. But this pragmatic cooperation did not obscure the genuine friendship they felt for one another. Flanagan was the best man at Boatnay’s
wedding, to a Jewish attorney named Arlene Lichtenstein, and he was godfather to their first son, Terrence. Boatnay, although he didn’t know it, was the sole beneficiary of Flanagan’s modest estate.

Morgan Threkeld interrupted Flanagan’s train of thought by taking the empty glass out of his hand and setting a fresh Jameson’s in front of him. “Hate to see a man daydream on an empty liver,” he said, and Flanagan laughed. He touched Boatnay’s massive forearm, and the cop, who had been talking to an old man about automobiles, turned toward him.

“Boatnay,” he said, “I need a little help.”

“Parking ticket, short-term loan or kidney donation?” he asked with a smile. Flanagan rarely asked for help, and Threkeld wanted to make it easy for him.

“Nothing that specific,” Flanagan said. “It’s more in the nature of keeping your eye on a situation.” He hesitated for just a moment, not because he didn’t want to go on, but to lend a dramatic touch to the conversation. “How much do you know about Spadafore, these days?”

“Luigi Spadafore?” said Threkeld. “Not much. Some. Why, you working on an organized-crime series?”

“Why do you think it would be a series?” asked Flanagan.

Threkeld laughed. “I know you’re too smart to risk your ass for one measly little story,” he said.

“Is he really that dangerous?”

“Does a big wheel roll?” said Threkeld. “Heck hell, yeah, he’s dangerous. His line of work, you don’t get to be an old man if you’re not dangerous.”

“Max Grossman died the other day,” said Flanagan.

“Yeah, I read it in the paper.”

“He was Gordon’s uncle.”

“Read that too. So what?” Threkeld sounded casual, but Flanagan could see that he was listening hard.

“Spadafore came to us with a proposition,” said Flanagan. “A business-type thing.”

Flanagan saw the lids on Threkeld’s eyes drop halfway, not certain how much he wanted to hear. Boatnay was Flanagan’s best friend, but he was also a police captain, and a lawyer. That was the difference
between Threkeld and Gordon, Flanagan thought; Boatnay was a cautious man.

“What do you mean ‘us,’ John?” he finally said.

“Well, he came to Gordon first, and I’m acting as his adviser,” said Flanagan. “Gordon’s a good guy, but he’s been abroad all his life. He doesn’t have much experience with guys like Spadafore.”

“And you do? Listen, you ain’t messin’ with football coaches, man. You let your mouth start writin’ checks, these guys gonna make your ass cash ’em.” Flanagan just grinned and Threkeld sighed. “You better tell me what this is all about.”

Flanagan shook his head. “I don’t want you involved. The deal is legal, at least in New York. But I don’t think you really want to know any details and, anyway, it’s still too early.”

Threkeld looked relieved. “What do you want, then?” he asked.

“I want you to keep that Chippewa ear of yours to the ground,” Flanagan said. “If you hear anything unusual about Spadafore or Carlo Sesti, let me know. It’s just a precaution at this point, but what the hell.”

Threkeld’s gaze fell to the Borsalino perched on the stool next to Flanagan. “That your hat?” he asked. Flanagan grinned and nodded.

The police captain shook his large head in dismay. “Man, we’re almost fifty years old,” he said. “Almost fifty, and you’re still out here playin’. When you gonna grow up, John?”

Flanagan reached over, picked up the hat and put it on his head. “It’s too late for that, Boatnay,” he said. “I’m too old to grow up.”

O
n Saturday afternoon at five o’clock, the caterer arrived with two assistants. He was a slender, self-important man, who asked Gordon to show him the kitchen, regarded the small room disdainfully and said, “I’m certainly glad we arrived early.”

“It’s only dinner for four,” said Gordon.

The two helpers set boxes and cartons on the kitchen counter while the caterer, whose name was Armand, went into the living room. He stood, hand on hip, looking at the round dining table in the corner and shaking his head.

“Something the matter with the table?” Gordon asked.

“Not if you happen to be one of King Arthur’s knights,” said Armand. “Round table, round plates, round glasses. Circles, circles, circles.”

“Work it out, Armand,” said Gordon. “I’m going in the bedroom to watch the UCLA–Notre Dame game.”

Through the door, Gordon heard the officious little caterer calling
out orders to his helpers. There were sounds of furniture being rearranged, and china being set in place. Gordon remained in the bedroom, showering between halves, and changing out of his jeans and sweater into a quiet dark-blue business suit, he ventured into the kitchen for a beer. Four large steaks were set out on the counter, four giant potatoes were wrapped in tinfoil, and china and silver were piled neatly on the Formica-topped kitchen table.

On the way back to the bedroom he saw Armand, hands on his cheeks, staring once again at the dining room table, which he had moved next to the sliding glass windows of the patio. A vase of yellow and red flowers stood on the table.

“It’s beginning to come together,” the caterer said. “Placing the tulips just off center softens the circular effect, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, good job, Armand,” said Gordon.

Flanagan arrived at seven. He had obviously had a few drinks, and he immediately poured himself another from one of the bottles of Jameson’s that Armand had set out. “I love a party,” he said to Gordon. “I’m going in the kitchen to check out the food.”

Gordon went back in the bedroom to put on his shoes, and the caterer, who had already sent his helpers away, fussed with the table, moving the flowers an inch or two in either direction. He and Gordon were both startled by the sound of Flanagan’s voice. “Shit!” he bellowed.

Gordon raced into the kitchen and found a red-faced Flanagan already screaming at the caterer. “Smell these goddamn steaks,” he said, thrusting one at Armand. “They’re spoiled, you little fruit fly. They smell like shit!”

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with these steaks,” said Armand. He bent over the meat, and suddenly wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“You see, you little homo, they smell like shit,” yelled Flanagan.

Armand flushed. “I don’t understand it,” he stammered. “These are the finest cuts available. I picked them out this morning myself. I just don’t understand—”

Enraged, Flanagan swept his arm over the table, knocking knives, forks, spoons and china cups to the floor. “Goddamn it, get this shit out of here, you moron,” he screamed. Armand started to say something, thought better of it and bent down to gather the silverware.

“Wait a minute, John,” Gordon said, looking at his watch. “They’re going to be here in half an hour, what are we going to do without food?”

“You want to serve Luigi shit steak?” said Flanagan. Gordon couldn’t remember ever seeing him so angry. “Damn, Gordon, I told you I’d take care of things and I fucked up.” He kicked a piece of broken china all the way across the kitchen floor.

“Relax, relax,” said Gordon. “There’s still time to run out and pick up some steaks someplace.” He turned to Armand. “You know a good butcher in this neighborhood?”

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to prepare your meal now,” said the little man with as much dignity as he could muster. “I don’t enjoy being called a queer.”

“I said ‘homo,’ you little homo,” Flanagan bellowed. “I don’t want you touching my food. Just take your little dishes and your little spoons and get the fuck out of here. Look, Gordon, help him clean up this stuff and I’ll run out to the gourmet store, pick up something nice. Don’t worry, it’ll be all right.”

Flanagan scowled at the caterer one last time, and banged out of the apartment. At the corner of Seventy-ninth and Columbus Avenue he stopped and reached into his pocket, taking out a small jar which he had filled with dog manure in Gramercy Park.

Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of man? Flanagan grinned to himself. The dog shit had been a last-minute improvisation, but he had been planning to torpedo the evening ever since his invitation to Spadafore. He wanted to pick a fight with Sesti, that smug, phony Englishman. “
Mano a mano
, consigliere,” he said softly. “Just you and me.”

Flanagan was aware that he had no good reason for wanting to take on the Spadafore Family, and he was too honest with himself to pretend. He was going to war for the same reasons that men have always gone—to test himself, to assert the force of his will, and for the plain unadulterated hell of it. He tossed the jar of dog shit into the trash basket and began to hum to himself—“Don’t cook tonight, call Pizza Delight”—as he wiped his guilty fingers with a Rinse ’n’ Dry pad.