When Nicholas Ventura was tense, the very air within his home changed. Best to stay out of the way, as Joe Menucci did when he left Nick standing in the doorway of the library. One or two of the outside men, who usually came into the kitchen for some coffee during the evening, stayed outside. Ventura watched as Nick entered the room; his eyes focused on his grandson’s face, but he went right on speaking softly into the phone, in a very controlled tone. The conversation ended quickly and Ventura replaced the receiver. He stood up and seemed frozen inside his body. There was a slight twitching along his jawline. His breath hissed in and out.
When he backhanded Nick across the mouth, the blow wasn’t very hard, just unexpected. Nick could not remember his grandfather ever striking him before.
“Stupid,” the old man said. “Stupid.”
It was one of the worst charges he could lay on Nick: stupidity.
“The gambling—you said no problem, eh? You come up short a hundred fifty thou and you don’t call me, you don’t tell me, I gotta hear about it long distance from some people don’t like me, no more than I like them. And you go like a common street punk, hold up a goddamn spic restaurant and walk right into a trap. Christ, Nicholas, never, never did I think of you as stupid.”
He walked to his desk, yanked open the top drawer and removed a folder; flipped it open, handed Nick a copy of his canceled bank account and his signed agreement for the fifty thousand loan on his house.
Nick stared at the documents. “How …?”
His grandfather’s lips drew back. “How, how, how? You don’t know yet that I can find out anything I need to know? A man who wins a hundred fifty big doesn’t walk away from the table out there. One cut, double or nothing. No way a gambler could resist, huh? One cut, double or nothin’—my God, Nick.”
He picked up his glass and swallowed some mineral water, then looked Nick over. “You look like shit. You look like garbage. Tell me what the fuck have you got in your head?”
There was an energy coming from him that would be powerful in a man twenty years younger. He removed his fashionable wire-framed glasses and stared at his namesake.
Then, quietly, he asked, “What would you have done, Nicholas, if you had won the money on the cut? Would you have walked away with the three hundred thousand?”
Nick turned away from his grandfather, who reached out with surprisingly strong hands and clamped his shoulders. There was a softening, now. The old man’s face showed more than anger and disappointment. It showed concern.
“Probably not, Papa. Probably not.”
“It’s like the junkie’s high and then it’s gone and things are worse than ever. This is the kind of kick you need, the gambling? How long does it last, Nicholas, from race to race? Game to game? Cut to cut?”
He sat behind his desk, motioned Nick into a chair facing him.
“Nicholas, your grandmother and I, we had eight children. Two girls died before they were a year old. The two oldest, born in this country—your uncles Raymond and John—died in that Washington plane crash. They were delivering some money to certain people. They came in for a landing and the plane got caught in something called wind shear. Some people survived. My sons didn’t.” He looked squarely at Nick. “The money was never found. Maybe it was, but I never saw any of it.”
“Papa, is that why you gave up flying? Didn’t you used to go down to the Caribbean? Once or twice to Italy?”
Ventura didn’t like being interrupted, but he shook his head. “I will never set foot on a plane again. Every coupla years, we drive down to Florida; once took a boat to the Bahamas. But no flying.”
He picked up the story of his children. “And then your mother, my only daughter, died.” He touched his chest. “Her heart. She was my treasure, Nicholas. You’re not supposed to have favorites, but she was the light of my life. My other two sons—Dominick and Mario—they ‘lost touch.’” His tone became venomous. “They are
citizens,
Nicholas. Senior citizens now, but still running companies I set up for them. Businesses paying millions in taxes; giving employment to hundreds of people; money to charities. Huh—good citizens, living off of Papa’s investments.
“I try to help everyone. I’ve paid for colleges for many of your cousins. They are doctors and lawyers and businessmen now. Even teachers. They’ve done well with my help, whether they want to acknowledge it or not. Only you, Nicholas, never accepted or asked anything from me. Even now. When you got
real
trouble, you didn’t come to me. Why? Are you ashamed of me? My two businessmen sons are. They changed their names, did you know that?” He shook his head wearily.
“I don’t like to ask for help, Papa. I never have. I got into this, I have to get out of it myself.”
“Yes, you’ve done a helluva job getting out of it yourself. Nicholas, what do you think family is for?”
Nick looked up. “What about Vincent? You haven’t mentioned Richie’s father.”
His grandfather’s eyes glared steadily, then he blinked. “He has a bad heart. What killed your mother stopped his life. He’s been like an old man since his early thirties.” He raised his chin suspiciously. “Why did you ask about Vinnie?”
“No reason. You just didn’t mention him, that’s all. Like he was dead or something.”
“No. Vincent is alive. Nicholas, I know what pain is and what happens to a man when he loses a child.
I know.
But you have to make a choice: to throw away your own life, or get on with it. There’s nothing you can tell me about the pain. Never a day goes by when I haven’t had at least one single moment remembering them. All of them: the tiny babies; my dead sons; my daughter; your father. They are with me, as Peter is with me now. And with you. That will be forever, I know this. But is that what you chose for yourself? To become a bum? A degenerate gambler? A loser? Because if that is all you have learned about life, I have taught you nothing. The world is bigger than you and me.” He waved his arm in a broad sweep. “There is a whole world out there, Nicholas, that you know nothing about. What the hell—in the end, we all die. Why not see a little more than what you’ve already experienced?”
Nick stood up and walked to the fireplace. “I don’t have many choices at this point, Papa.”
“I know. They’re talking about putting you in prison. Do not look so surprised. I know what I need to know.”
Nick had the feeling he’d had since childhood: his grandfather knew every thought, every deed, every circumstance of his life. Lying was not an option.
“Papa, they offered me a deal. I’m supposed to go to work for you and report to them. I’m to be their mole.”
“What did your uncle Frank say to this?”
“He told me to be very careful. Papa, you’re right, I should have come to you right away. I did a stupid thing. Okay, I’m turning to you now. I need money to get the hell outta here. You can send me somewhere, where no one will find me. Let me live somewhere, get my head together, decide what to do. I’ll get the money I owe. Tell them that out in Vegas—”
“By robbing the spies, Nicholas?” Nicholas Ventura spoke at a slow, determined pace. “No. No running away. I’ve been thinking this through for a coupla hours.”
Christ. The old man had all the inside information that had been restricted to a handful of feds. Frank had said Ventura had a pipeline anywhere he needed one.
“This could be a very useful situation. You tell them yes—”
“Papa, I’d go to prison before I …”
“You will keep quiet until I finish speaking,” he snapped. “I will put you to work in my Queens real estate office. And you will come see me regularly. I will give you information, you will go to them with it.” A slight smile pulled his thin lips; he was visualizing his future plans. “I will give you information they can act on. To my benefit and to the benefit of my colleagues—these chinks are hard to impress. We can use the DEA to eliminate certain competition. Christ, they’re savages, these Chinese; they make the Colombians look like Boy Scouts.”
“Papa, are you really going into the drug trade? I thought—”
“I deal in
money.
And
companies.
And
markets.”
He slammed his fist on the desk. “How, where, from what source the money comes is not my concern. The end product, with which I deal, is green. I keep the economy going. I keep people working.”
He sounded almost benevolent. The drugs were just an incidental way for him to distribute his good works.
“I will tell your cousin Richie that you work for me and he is in no way to interfere with you. He has his own work to do. And Nicholas, you will also bring
me
information from
them;
determine what they know or do not know about our operations. They gave you fifty grand, to get your house back. What did you think they’d want for their money?”
“I was going to give the money to Kathy. And … run.”
“Give it to Kathy and stay.”
Ventura dialed; he hated the buttons on the newer phones. His fingers hit too many numbers at the same time. He waited throughout more than ten rings. It was 2:00
A.M.
; Nick wondered who the old man was calling. Finally, he smiled and began to speak. Whoever it was must have come full awake at the sound of his voice.
“Marty, how are you? Listen, in a day or two my grandson, Nicholas, will stop by. You give him the keys to that nice little apartment in Forest Hills—by the tennis courts, yes.” He listened; when he spoke again, his voice had tightened. “I know we have better apartments on Queens Boulevard. That is not what we are discussing. Good. Good. It’s nice and clean, yes? Good. Anything he needs, you take care of for him, yes? Goodnight. Goodnight. Thank you, Marty.”
He jotted a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Nick. “Marty Tortelli—at the agency, any time, whenever it’s convenient. Go. Make your deal with the feds, Nicholas.”
He spoke with the hard authoritarian voice of the patriarch, and Nick listened with respect as his future life was being worked out for him.
“Now for the rest of your problem, Nick, with the casino. I own a certain percentage of some casinos. We’ll work it all out. Someday, you’ll pay me what I take out of pocket. But there are conditions. You will not be permitted to enter any casino, not in Las Vegas, Atlantic City, any Indian reservation. No racetrack, no ball games of any kind. No card games. You’re not even to buy a lottery ticket,
capisce?
I mean this very seriously, Nick. There will be no violation of these rules.” He relaxed a little, thrust his hand out. “Your hand on this.” His grip was strong; then he embraced his grandson.
“Nicholas, Nicholas. All will be well.”
Nick held his grandfather in his arms; felt a remembered warmth and confidence fill him. But he pulled himself back abruptly, studied the sharp blue eyes. There were many Nicholas Venturas in this one body. Capable of many things.
As Joe Menucci drove him back to his house in Spring Valley, Nick felt a growing sense of numb unreality.
Then the bleakest, emptiest thought of all flooded through him. What the fuck did any of this matter?
N
ICK SPENT A LONG
day trying to avoid people. Everyone knew something was up; word got around very quickly. When Ed Manganaro waylaid him in the parking lot behind the precinct house, Nick was abrupt.
“I’m outta here, that’s all you need to know, okay? I turned in my papers. They got my gun and shield. I never wanted to come back, remember?” He turned, his eyes even with Ed’s, and asked quietly, “You got any questions?”
“Yeah, Nick. About a hundred. I been hearing some bad things, and—”
“And you’re my partner—
were
my partner. You’re not involved in any of it. You’re clean, okay?”
“Jesus, Nick, that’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Eddie, don’t worry about nothin’, okay. Don’t waste your time. I’m moving out of the house. I’m telling you just so you won’t be stopping over. Kathy’s gonna sell it.”
Ed put his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Partner, let’s you and me sit somewhere and talk. How about we drive up to the Valley together and—”
“How about you go fuck yourself and leave me the hell alone?” He turned away from the stricken look, the confusion, the wound. “Eddie, grow up. Shit happens, okay?” He held his hand up. “Not another goddamn word, Ed. Not one.”
He didn’t look in the rearview mirror as he pulled out. He knew Eddie would be staring after him.
Sitting at their family kitchen table, he signed over the house to Kathy. He also signed the divorce papers. The lawyers studied everything carefully, but Kathy shook her head when her guy pointed out something in small print. She just wanted out of there. She left abruptly without saying one word to Nick.
“Mr. O’Hara, your wife wants you to know you can take all the time you need. To move out of the house. Also that she’s taking the dog and the cat up to Boston with her. That’s all right?”
“Whatever she wants. I’ll be cleared out by the end of the week.”
He wrote his Forest Hills address on a scrap of paper, just in case she needed him for anything.
It was a small apartment: tiny bedroom, twelve-by-twelve living room with one recessed wall containing a small gas stove, sink, and half-refrigerator. The furnishings were old but clean. The windows gleamed behind fresh, straight white curtains. The bathroom had been scrubbed. Whoever took care of the property had done a good job. In case his grandfather asked. The phone was installed and in working order, but Nick jumped when it rang unexpectedly.
“How ya doin’?”
“Home is where the heart is, right?”
Frank grunted. “Wanna have some supper? There’s a great diner out on Queens Boulevard, not far from you.”
It was a brand-new place, carefully designed to suggest the fifties. The menu was huge and the portions gigantic. Nick pushed the food around on his plate.
“How’d it go downtown this morning?”
“It went the way they wanted it to, okay?”
“Coleman isn’t as bad as he seems, Nick.” Frank picked up the large plastic menu and pointed. “Hey, they got some great desserts here. Did you see that revolving glass case by the entrance? Forget the seven layer and the cheesecake. Go for the Boston cream pie.”