Inherit the Mob (33 page)

Finding him had been a snap; Rand simply gave a doorman at the athletic club twenty dollars to call him when Grossman showed up. He had done the same at half a dozen of Grossman’s other haunts. Rand knew from experience that men, especially men as old as Al Grossman, were creatures of habit; they went back to the same places, mostly because they couldn’t think of anyplace new. This sort of insight into human nature was what made Rand an efficient practitioner of his art; to be an assassin, he always said, you have to be a people person.

Grady Rand loved his work. The money was good, the hours undemanding, and he was his own boss. But there was more to it than that. Contract killing enabled him to come into contact with fascinating people, and gave him a special, almost divine role in their lives. Death, like birth, was a great existential moment, and he, Grady Rand of Columbia, South Carolina, was its agent.

For that reason, Rand was choosy about his victims. In eleven years of more or less steady work, he had killed politicians and corporation heads, union officials and high-priced call girls, a professional basketball coach, the head of a major philanthropic institution and two left-wing priests. He had taken time with each one, tried to understand their characters and aspirations. Such personal involvement was, in Rand’s view, the difference between the true agent of death and a mere butcher.

That is what had made his present contract with Carlo Sesti so
frustrating. Shooting Mario Spadafore through a telescopic sight at two hundred yards and blowing up his brother, Pietro, had been little more than technical exercises; he had never even seen their faces.

And then there was Flanagan. Rand didn’t really blame himself for missing the lanky Irishman twice; your average layman didn’t understand how difficult it was to kill someone. Like any other assassin, Rand had his share of failures, and he accepted them philosophically. In a few minutes, with Grossman, he would get back on the scoreboard.

Grossman looked to Rand like a tough, lonely man. From the way his lips moved slightly when he was lost in thought, Rand could see that Grossman talked to himself, a trait they shared. He wondered what was going on in the old guy’s head right that second. Certainly he had no idea that he was going to die within minutes. Only he, Grady Rand, knew that, and the knowlege made him feel like God Almighty.

Rand felt no remorse and he knew he would feel none later. Grossman had to die eventually; death was simply a part of the natural scheme of things. It was better, he reflected, for the old guy to go out with a painless bang. It pleased him that he could do Grossman that favor; he looked like the kind of man that Rand would have liked as a friend.

The thought took him back to boyhood. After graduating from high school, Grady Rand had worked briefly as an ambulance driver. One day he had been called to the scene of a suicide. The victim was a girl he had gone to school with, an ex-cheerleader named Connie Berlow. Rand thought she was one of the cutest girls around, but he never found the nerve to ask for a date. She was the kind of girl who went out with football stars and rich kids, not with Grady Rand.

As Rand placed her body in the back of the ambulance, he noticed once more that she was very cute—and still warm. He knew what some guys would have done in that situation; they would have stopped on the way to the morgue, crawled in back of the ambulance and fucked her. Maybe, he reflected, that was the natural thing to do. But Rand had a different impulse. He found a deserted spot, lugged the inert Connie Berlow off the stretcher and propped her up in the front seat, next to him. Then he put his arm around her shoulder and drove, slowly and deliberately, through the Dairy
Queen, where his pals hung out. He was proud that she was with him in death, which, to his way of thinking, was a far more important time for her than, say, prom night. It made him feel very close to her, gave him a thrill of intimacy that he never achieved with living people.

That’s the way he felt about Albert Grossman. Of course Grossman was technically still alive, sucking the juice out of his clams, but Rand knew that for all intents and purposes he was already dead, like a zombie. And who was here with him, sharing his last moments on earth? Not his famous brother or his illustrious son but him, Grady Rand. He wished he could make his face look like a skull and grin at Grossman. He decided to kill him from the front, just to share a private moment with the tough old bird.

Al Grossman raised his hand for the check and glanced at his watch. There was plenty of time to go by the apartment and still make the game. He hated the Lakers, especially since they got Magic Johnson. He tried to picture the Knicks with Johnson in the backcourt, and he felt a flash of annoyance. How the hell could they have screwed up the franchise this bad?

Grossman walked out of the restaurant, past the arcade of shops, toward the escalator. The corridor was deserted except for a few derelicts looking for a warm place to sleep. Suddenly he heard someone call his name, and turned. He saw a tall, thin man in a tan windbreaker. Grossman had no idea who he was, but that wasn’t unusual. He knew a lot of people, and he had a poor memory for faces.

“Yeah?” he called. The man was perhaps twenty feet behind him.

“You’re dead, Al,” said Grady Rand, and pumped two bullets into his chest. The shots thundered in the underground passage. Rand saw the winos scramble in terror as Grossman hit the ground. Normally he would have gone over to check the corpse, but there was no time; the noise of the gunshots would soon draw a crowd. Besides, he had seen both bullets hit the old man directly in the heart. Rand holstered his revolver and walked briskly toward the Lexington exit.

A minute later, when Albert Grossman opened his eyes, he saw a circle of unwashed wino faces peering down at him. He could smell their foul breath. Jesus, he thought, heaven stinks.

“He ain’t dead,” he heard someone say, and Grossman realized
that it was true. He tried to sit up, but his legs were leaden and the bulletproof vest that had saved his life seemed to weigh him down.

Suddenly Grossman felt a sickening pressure in his chest, and the room began to spin. “Call an ambulance, shmendrick,” he murmured to the closest wino. “I’m having a goddamn heart attack.”

F
lanagan lay in bed and stared vacantly at the pictures of Martin Luther King and David Ben-Gurion on the wall of the Threkelds’ guest room. He had been staying with Boatnay and Arlene for a week, recuperating, and he was itching to leave. He had enjoyed spending time with his godson, Terrence, and the twins, but he felt better now, and he wanted to get back into circulation. Flanagan was certain that Boatnay would try to force him to stay another week or so, but he was planning to escape. With Pietro Spadafore and Jupiter Evans dead, this was no time to be an invalid.

Arlene knocked lightly and opened the door. She was a big, handsome woman with a strong nose, prominent jaw and no sense of humor. Her marital policy was total ethnic parity—Ben-Gurion next to King, a Barbra Streisand record for every Otis Redding, this year’s trip to Kenya offset by next year’s vacation in Israel. Arlene also insisted that Boatnay do exactly one half of the housework and what she called parenting, and the big police captain accepted the arrangement
with a docility that astonished Flanagan. Several times he had remarked on Boatnay’s dishpan hands or complimented him on his fluffy towels. Each time he had noticed that Arlene was not amused.

“Boatnay’s on the phone,” she now said. “He wants to talk to you.”

Flanagan picked up the receiver. “Hey, Boatnay,” he said.

“John, how long will it take you to get packed?” Threkeld asked in a preemptory tone.

“About ten mintues,” said Flanagan. “What’s the matter, is it Arlene’s turn to have a houseguest?”

Threkeld ignored him. “Get your things together, and I’ll be there in half an hour,” he said. “I’m going to take you up to Dad’s place.”

“Boatnay, will you tell me what the hell’s going on?”

Flanagan heard muffled voices in the background, and someone call Threkeld’s name. “What’s going on? You tell me. All I know is that they just found Albert Grossman in the basement of Grand Central Station. Shot, a professional job. You could be next, and I don’t feel like having my kids in the middle of some Mafia shooting gallery.”

“Is he dead?”

“Would have been if he wasn’t wearing a vest. They took him to Bellevue. Looks like he had a coronary. They got him in intensive care.”

“Does Gordon know yet?” Flanagan asked.

“I don’t see how he could,” said Threkeld. “It just came in about five minutes ago. But it’ll probably be on the radio anytime now. Where is Gordon?”

“I can’t tell you that,” said Flanagan. “But I’ll get in touch with him right away. Look, don’t bother to come all the way out here, I’ll take a cab. I’m not going to Morgan’s.”

“Well, you sure as hell can’t go home,” said Threkeld. “Besides, I want you where I can find you. This isn’t just your business anymore, it’s a mob hit, and I want to know what you know about it.”

“Right now I don’t know anything,” said Flanagan. “Give me a few hours and maybe I will. I’ll call you when I get where I’m going, let you know what I find out.”

There was a pause, and Flanagan knew that Boatnay was considering his options. “OK,” he said finally. “It’s a free country, you can
go where you want. But, John, I’m warning you as a friend, there’s a limit to how far I can go with you on this. If you try to take things into your own hands, you’re gonna wind up with me on your ass, you understand?”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Flanagan. “Oh, and, Boatnay—I didn’t want to say anything about this before, but I think you’re putting a little too much starch in the sheets.”

Flanagan hung up and began getting his clothes together. The stitches in his stomach still hurt, causing him to move slowly, but his mind was racing. Somebody had killed Mario and Pietro Spadafore. The same person had tried to kill him. And now a hit on Grossman. But who? The old man, Don Spadafore? Why would he murder his own sons? A rival Mafia Family? What interest would they have in Grossman and him? There was only one possible answer—Sesti. With the sons out of the way, he would take over when Luigi died. He must have put the blame for Mario and Pietro on Gordon and his old man. And on him. Carlo, you clever bastard, he thought; wait’ll I get my hands around your fucking Limey dago neck.

Flanagan dialed the apartment, and an old man’s voice answered. “This is John Flanagan,” he said. “I want to talk to Gordon.”

“He’s asleep,” said the voice. “Are you the guy came with Velvel to Max’s funeral? This is Abe Abramson talking.”

“Bad Abe! Yeah, I’m the one. Give me the address over there, I got to see Gordon right away.”

“Not so fast, wise guy,” said Abramson. “What’s the password?”

“Your mudda done it,” said Flanagan.

“Yeah, you’re the guy, all right,” said Abramson. “You want me to wake up Velvel?”

“First give me the address, I want to get going. Then wake him up. Tell him that somebody just shot his old man at Grand Central Station.”

“Shot what? Somebody shot Al?”

“That’s right, he’s in the hospital. Tell Gordon before he hears it on the radio, and then keep him there. Don’t let him go running out. I should get there in half an hour. Tell him I said not to make a move without me.”

“Wait a minute, what the hell are you talking about? Is Al all right? What hospital? Who shot him?”

“Not on the phone, OK? I’ll be there in half an hour and tell you everything I know. Just keep the lid on things.” Abramson heard the phone click.

“Was that Al who just called?” asked Harry Millman. He was sitting at a card table playing pinochle with Pupik Feinsilver, Sleepout Levine and Kasha. “You should of told him to bring over some broads.”

“No, it wasn’t Al,” said Abramson in a flat tone. “Al’s shot. Spadafore’s guys got him in Grand Central Station. He’s in the hospital.”

In the shocked silence, Abramson could hear Sleepout Levine’s dentures click, and Millman nervously shuffle the cards. Pupik Feinsilver was the first to speak. “Somebody’s got to tell Velvel,” he said. “Poor kid. First his girl, and now this.”

“Yeah, poor Velvel,” said Sleepout. He was already wondering what time the next plane to Florida was.

John Flanagan climbed out of the cab in front of the nondescript apartment building on Sixty-third. He looked up and down the street and saw no one. Satisfied, he squared the Borsalino on his head, and took the elevator up to the third floor.

Abe Abramson opened the door, and Flanagan saw the look of relief on the old man’s face. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Velvel ain’t taking the news too good. He’s in the bedroom.”

Beyond Abramson, Flanagan saw six dejected-looking old men sitting in the living room. The only one he recognized was Harry Millman. “I’m John Flanagan,” he said in a strong, confident tone. “I’m in charge now. First thing I’m going to do is talk to Velvel. Then I want to meet with all of you.” The old men looked at him vacantly and nodded; no one said a word.