Inherit the Mob (9 page)

“What can I do for you, Mr. Sesti?” Gordon asked, giving the last name a slight ironic emphasis, just in case.

“We don’t know one another, but I was a business associate of your late uncle’s,” he said. “I’m calling to express my condolences. I was at the funeral, of course, but I didn’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

“Very thoughtful of you.”

“Your uncle was a unique figure, Mr. Gordon, as I’m sure you know better than I. It was an honor to have done business with him.”

“I guess that depends on what kind of business you did,” Gordon said, keeping his voice neutral.

“That is the other reason for this phone call,” said Sesti. “Your uncle left several outstanding matters that need to be discussed. I understand that you are his beneficiary?”

Goddamn that Flanagan and his big Irish mouth, Gordon thought; this must be his idea of a practical joke. “Mr. Sesti,” he said, “no offense, but I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. My uncle’s beneficiary is his wife.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Gordon, but there are one or two matters
on which he was working with me and my associates that may not come within the competence of his widow.”

“One of those associates wouldn’t be Bill Buckley, would it?” Gordon asked.

“Buckley? Do you mean William Buckley, the commentator? No, indeed.” Sesti laughed, obviously amused by the notion. “I represent Luigi Spadafore. I assume you’ve heard your uncle mention him?”

Gordon felt a small shock. It’s starting, he thought. This is the way it starts.

“Ah, Mr. Gordon, I wonder if it would be possible for us to meet in the next few days. At your convenience, of course.”

“Meet where? A pizzeria in the Bronx?”

“The Bronx?” repeated Sesti in a frosty tone. “I was thinking more along the lines of lunch at the Harvard Club. Or at my office, if you prefer. I’m at Fifty-seventh between Madison and Fifth. That’s not far from you, I believe.”

“How do you know where I live?”

“I don’t, actually. I meant not far from the
Tribune
offices.”

“What do you want to talk about, Mr. Sesti? I mean, specifically.”

“I’d rather save that for lunch, if you don’t mind. Are you free tomorrow by any chance? Say, one o’clock?”

“All right, one o’clock. But not at the Harvard Club—they make you wear a tie. Let’s meet at Clarke’s.”

“P. J. Clarke’s it is,” he said.

“Will you be alone, or is Spadafore coming too?”

“Quite alone, Mr. Gordon,” said Sesti in his snooty British accent. “Mr. Spadafore rarely comes into Manhattan these days. I’ll look for you tomorrow, then?”

“How will we recognize each other?” asked Gordon, repressing an urge to ask Sesti if he’d be the Catholic wearing a rubber.

“Oh, I’ll recognize you, Mr. Gordon. You’re a public figure, you know. In fact, I believe I’ve seen you on Mr. Buckley’s television program.”

“Listen, Sesti, I just want you to know in advance, I don’t have anything to do with my uncle’s business.”

“In that case, ours will be a short meeting and, I trust, a pleasant lunch,” said Sesti. “Good-bye, Mr. Gordon. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gordon dialed Flanagan’s number at the paper.

“John?”

“Yes, Godfather,” he said.

“Come on, cut the shit. Who’s Carlo Sesti?”

Flanagan gave a low whistle. “You met Sesti already?”

“Tomorrow. He just called. What do you know about him?”

“He’s a colleague of mine,” said Flanagan. “Consigliere for Spadafore. Lawyer, got his own firm in midtown. Very smooth operator. Not as smooth as me, you understand, but right up there.”

“Jesus, will you stop fucking around? Do you know him or what?”

“I’ve met him a couple of times, just to say hello to. Once, a few years ago, I talked to him about a Teamsters pension fund story, but he didn’t give me anything. I doubt he’d remember.”

“Where’d he get that Brit accent?”

“Comes by it naturally. His father was Bruno Sesti, big deal in the Spadafore Family, ran their casinos in London for years. Young Carlo was educated at Downside and Cambridge, don’t you know.”

“And Harvard law,” Gordon said. “What else you got?”

“Nothing, really. I could call up his file, but I doubt there’s anything in it. He’s never been in any trouble, as far as I know. Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?”

“That’s all I need,” Gordon said. “Listen, get this Godfather shit out of your head, John. It was good for a grunt, but it’s not real, all right? I’m telling Sesti that I’m not playing and that will be that.”

Gordon spent the next morning working on his column, a piece about NATO and Reagan’s Falkland diplomacy. “The President, who made a career of portraying bashful heroes, seems at a loss to cope with the imperious Mrs. Thatcher,” he wrote. “President Reagan can no more contend with the British prime minister than actor Reagan could have handled Bette Davis—which is not at all. What she needs are not soft words about the Atlantic alliance but a grape-fruit in the face, à la Bogart.” Gordon chuckled; he would be hearing from the White House in the morning.

He turned off his electric typewriter, put a tan sweater over his blue button-down shirt, and caught a cab. He was a few minutes early, but he wanted to get to Clarke’s first, to size Sesti up as he came
in. Apparently the consigliere had the same thought; when Gordon arrived, he was already at the bar, with a glass of Perrier.

“Mr. Gordon,” he said, making it a statement. He had a firm, dry grip. Sesti was about his age, an inch or two taller and maybe twenty pounds slimmer. His dark hair was cut short and parted neatly on the left, his dark blue suit understated and elegant. Sesti’s even features and pale complexion made him appear more New England Yankee than Sicilian.

“Mr. Sesti,” Gordon said. “Sorry I kept you waiting.”

“I was early,” he said with a pleasant smile. “And please, call me Carlo.”

“OK, Carlo, let’s get a table and eat.” On the way down in the cab Gordon had imagined a confrontation with a slick Ricardo Montalban–type hood. But Sesti seemed so ordinary that the tension of the morning evaporated, and Gordon was suddenly hungry. “I can’t stay too long,” he said. “I’ve got to get back and finish a piece.”

“It must be very exciting, writing on foreign affairs,” said Sesti. “I read diplomacy at Cambridge. At one time I even considered a career in the State Department.”

“What happened?”

“I failed French,” said Sesti, dropping a bit of the British accent. When he laughed he showed white, even teeth, and he seemed surprisingly likable. Gordon realized that he was being disarmed, and cautioned himself to stay alert.

“I would have thought knowing Italian, French would be a snap,” he said.

“I’m sure you’re right, but, regrettably, I don’t know Italian,” Sesti lied. “I can understand a bit, but my parents used the language primarily to keep secrets from me.”

“Mine did the same thing with Yiddish,” said Gordon. “Not that there’s much use for Yiddish these days.”

“You didn’t speak Yiddish with Max?”

“Max and I never talked much,” Gordon said truthfully. “I think you may be overestimating our relationship. I really didn’t know him very well. Most of the last twenty years I’ve been overseas.”

“Yes, I know,” said Sesti. “Vietnam, Israel, the Soviet Union, London. The great and the famous. I envy you that, Mr. Gordon.”

“If I’m going to call you Carlo, you’d better call me William.”

“Not Bill?”

“William.”

“Well, shall we order?” he said, signaling for the waiter. “Since you don’t have much time …”

They ordered rare steaks and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. “I seldom have wine with lunch, but this is a bit of an occasion,” said Sesti, lapsing back into his British accent.

“Is it?”

“I think so. Let me be candid, William, it will save us both time. Mr. Spadafore knows about the will that your uncle left. He intends to honor the spirit of that document in principle.”

Gordon had been prepared for almost anything, but not this. A day before, he had listened to his father warn him about being assassinated; now, the killers were offering him a fortune.

“You mean, as a matter of principle, you’re turning over five hundred million dollars’ worth of business to me? Very generous, Mr. Sesti.”

The lawyer gave him a wintry smile. “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Mr. Gordon. I said ‘in principle.’ In other words, we accept the fact that you are, in fact, your uncle’s heir. But unfortunately there are no five hundred million dollars to be turned over. As things stand at the moment, the businesses your uncle owned in partnership with Mr. Spadafore now belong solely to Mr. Spadafore.”

“What you’re really saying is that I’m out,” said Gordon. “Goddamn it, Sesti, you could have saved us both time by telling me that over the phone. I told you yesterday that I’m not interested in the business.” He stood up, relieved and angry at the same time. “You can eat my steak, too, while you’re at it. And tell Mr. Spadafore that I hope they put him in jail.”

“William, please sit down,” said Sesti in a level tone. “I haven’t finished. Believe me, you misunderstand what I’m trying to say.”

Gordon lowered himself back into his seat. Round One, he thought, and I’m still in the ring. “OK, I’m listening.”

“Good. First, please realize that, whatever you may imagine, we are basically businessmen.” Gordon smirked, but Sesti held up a hand. “Granted, it’s an unorthodox business, which is precisely why
a document like your uncle’s is not binding. We intend, however, to treat it as a statement of intent, and to try to honor its spirit.”

“You’re talking in circles,” said Gordon. “Let’s get down to the proposition, if there is one.”

“All right. Clearly, Mr. Spadafore, having spent his entire life creating his conglomerate, is not going to simply turn over a portion of it to an inexperienced, if gifted, outsider. It would be unreasonable to expect that. All other considerations aside, our business is, not to put too fine a point on it, confidential. To bring a stranger, especially one with such illustrious credentials as yours, into the inner circle of our affairs would be exceptionally reckless. And Mr. Spadafore is not a reckless man, not by any means.”

Despite himself, Gordon nodded. The reporter’s side of his brain told him that Sesti was making sense.

“It would also be presumptuous of us to imagine that an internationally renowned journalist such as yourself would want to enter our world,” Sesti continued. “With that in mind, Mr. Spadafore has authorized me to offer you one of two propositions. The first is straightforward. We are prepared to make a cash settlement of one million dollars, deposited anywhere in the world, in return for all of your uncle’s documents and papers, and your promise to forget this conversation and anything you may have already learned about our affairs.”

“I’m not putting anything in writing,” Gordon said.

Sesti winced at this crassness. “Mr. Gordon, William, I assure you that your word is more than sufficient.”

“What if I took the money and held back some of the papers? Have you thought of that?”

“Naturally,” said Sesti. “But were you to do that we would, of course, have you killed.” He said it in such a neutral tone that it took a moment for it to register.

“How do you know I’m not recording this conversation, Sesti?” Gordon asked.

Sesti pointed to his briefcase. “I have a device that makes it quite impossible for you to do that. Please don’t misunderstand me. This is not a threat. You merely asked a hypothetical question, to which you received a hypothetical answer. You don’t imagine that a man like Mr. Spadafore would allow himself to be taken advantage of
without retaliation. But, I assure you, if you honor your part of the bargain, we will honor ours.”

“Would you be willing to deposit the money before you get the papers?”

“Simultaneously, I believe,” he said, “although we could work out the practicalities later.”

“You said that there were two propositions. What’s the other one?”

The waiter arrived with their food but Sesti ignored him, continuing to talk as if they were discussing stock prices. “Several months ago I had the occasion to look through a collection of your articles,” he said. “Over the past few years you’ve interviewed a great many heads of state.”

“Have I?”

“Thirty-seven, to be exact. Of course, several of them are now out of office. But there must be very few people alive who know as many world leaders as you do. Not to mention senior officials and military figures.”

“And …?”

The waiter was gone, and Sesti cut a small piece of meat, chewing it thoroughly as he let the question hang in the air. Finally he swallowed, took a dainty sip of wine and traced a small circle on the tablecloth with his finger.

“You may recall that a moment ago I alluded to our world—the world of your late uncle and my employer. It is, of course, smaller than your world. Occasionally the two met—in Cuba, for example, under Batista. But, for the most part, we have confined ourselves to our own circumscribed little planet.”

“Judging from what I’ve seen, it doesn’t seem so little or so circumscribed,” said Gordon.