Infernal - Страница 12

Jack knew the feeling. "Don't we all."

"You don't have to play cute with me. I don't know exactly what you're into, but I can make guesses. Word gets around and word is you ain't no guy to mess with."

Jack kept his underworld contacts and acquaintances in the dark as to the details of how he made his living, but every so often he'd drop hints to leave the impression that he had his hand in some smuggling and fencing with a little grift thrown in just for fun.

He shrugged. "Can't believe everything you hear."

Joey's smile was tight. "Okay. Play it your way. Just let me know you hear anything. You decide to mix it up, I want in on the damage. Big time."

Jack slapped him on the upper arm. "You'll be the first guy I call."

"About what?"

Jack turned and saw Tom standing behind his right shoulder, sipping coffee from a paper cup.

Joey smiled. "This guy's got to be your brother, right?"

Jack felt as if he'd been slapped.

"What? Yeah. Joey, Tom. Tom, Joey Castles." As they shook hands Jack said, "How come he's 'got to be' my brother?"

Joey's eyebrows shot up. "You kidding? Like peas in a pod, man. Shit, you two could be identical twins except for, well, I mean, okay, Tom here is a little older and a little, um, bigger—"

A lot bigger, Jack wanted to say.

"—but no question you're brothers. Hey, what're you looking at me like that for? You can't see it?"

Jack shook his head and glanced at Tom who was shaking his head.

"I'm better looking," Tom said. "But what'll you be the first to know about?"

Joey stared at Tom. "You want in? You may look like Jack, but can you hack what he hacks?" He grinned. "Hey. I'm a poet."

"'Hack'?"

Oh, shit. Jack knew the track this train was on and needed to stop it fast. Keeping his hand out of Tom's line of sight, he made a cutting motion, but Joey didn't see it.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure you know this, but let me tell you as someone was there: Right from the start your little brother made it clear that he should not be messed with. Hit him with a hammer, he came back with a sledge, know what I mean?"

Jack felt Tom's eyes on him.

"Really."

"Yeah, so now nobody, I mean nobody comes at Jack 'less they're some kinda/essoAie."

"Is that so? Doesn't sound like your typical appliance repairman."

Joey gave Tom a You-kidding-me? look. "Appliance repairman? Where'd you get that—?" Finally he spotted Jack's hand going cut-cut-cut. "Oh, yeah, well, I was speaking strictly in a business sense. You got something broke you want fixed, you call Jack. He, um, clobbers the competition. Yeah, that's it. Clobbers 'em. I'm speaking pricewise, of course."

Joey was starting to sound like Jon Lovitz. Any second now he'd be saying "Yeah, that's the ticket."

Just shut up, Joey. Shut. Up.

He could see that Tom, who'd probably heard every possible lie in his years on the bench, wasn't buying.

"I see. But just what is it that Jack is going to call you about?"

Joey looked uncomfortable. "Oh, nothing much. Just talking a little business. Probably not the right time or place." He turned and started off. "Nice meeting you. Stay in touch, Jack. I mean that."

They watched Joey Castles head downtown on First, then Tom turned to Jack.

"Mind telling me what that was all about?"

Very much, Jack thought.

"Just small talk."

"Well then, what was he talking about? Hit you with a hammer and you come back with a sledge. What's that mean?"

"Just running his mouth."

"Like hell. By the way, in case you didn't realize it, your friend Joey is a lousy liar."

"Actually he's pretty good—if he's got a script."

Tom gave him a baffled look. "Now you're doing it too—what the hell are you talking about?"

Jack repressed the reflex to stonewall his brother. Maybe if he started talking about Joey's line of work it would divert Tom from what Joey had said about him.

But he couldn't seem too agreeable.

He shook his head. "I don't know if I should talk about Joey's occupation. I mean, what with you being an officer of the court and all."

Tom wanted to hear about this Joey character. He didn't look like he belonged on The Sopranos exactly, but Tom had seen enough louche types to spot one a light year away.

"Don't worry about that. I'm not a judge up here. Not even licensed to practice. Just another plebeian. And let me tell you, I've already guessed your pal isn't a neurosurgeon. What's he do—sell stolen hubcaps or something?"

Jack hesitated, then, "He's a bidonista."

"What's that mean?"

"Joey says it's Italian for grifter."

"He's a scam artist?"

Jack nodded. "Family tradition."

Tom treated himself to a pat on the back. But this raised a number of troubling questions. The big one: Jack had told this scam artist he'd be "the first to know." Know what?

Maybe things were starting to add up, disconnected pieces beginning to form a picture. Jack's leaving the family and hiding out in New York for fifteen years… everyone had wondered where he was and what he was doing. The word had come that he was an appliance repairman. Yeah, sure.

Tom had a growing conviction that his little brother was living, as they say, on the wrong side of the law.

It explained everything.

Jack pointed to the traffic lights on First Avenue. They'd turned red.

"Let's cross."

Tom held back. "We're walking?"

"I'd rather not talk about this in a cab."

Now this was interesting. Tom weighed which he wanted more: a warm cab or a peek into his brother's secret life.

No contest. He hunched his shoulders against the chill and stepped off the curb.

"Okay. Let's go. Start talking."

"Well, Joey's last name isn't Castles."

As if I didn't know, he thought.

"Let me guess: It's Castellano or something like that."

"Castellano—right. Very good. His older brother Frankie was killed along with Dad."

It shouldn't have come as something of a shock that other people had lost family members too, but Tom had been focused on Dad.

Not that that should surprise anyone, he thought.

He was always taking heat for being self-centered. Privately he agreed—nolo contendere—but made a point of blustering about the unfairness of the charge whenever one of his wives brought it up.

"Shit. Too bad. They were close, I bet. Not like us."

Jack gave him a long look. Was that regret in his eyes?

"No. Not like us."

Tom didn't want to get onto that subject.

"So what were these brothers into?"

"Their father, Frank Senior, used to run one of the original telephone booth scams out of Florida."

Florida…

Tom shivered as they started up 29th Street. A lessening of the wind here between the avenues made the air seem warmer, but not a whole hell of a lot. He could use a little Florida himself right now.

"Connected?"

"Yes and no. He wasn't in the outfit, but he paid them a piece of the action to, you know, avoid trouble."

"Telephone booths… I've had a lot of scams come through my court, but that's a new one."

"No, it's an old one. It's passe now. But back in the day Big Frank would take out ads in small town papers all over the South and in the Midwest offering to sell people phone booths."

"Phone booths? What would anyone want—?"

"Just hear me out and you'll know. The pitch was you could buy as many as you wanted; you could install them yourself or, for a small percentage, Big Frank's company would handle installation, maintenance, and collect all those coins. Once you were set up you'd have a steady stream of cash without lifting a finger. All you'd have to do was sit back and start counting your money. Everybody's dream, right?"

"And people fell for that?"

"Enough to make Frank Castellano rich."

"You mean people would see this ad, write out a check, and just send it to him?"

"Not with the price Frank was asking. No, the really interested ones would call the toll-free number, and if they sounded like live ones, Frank would buy them a plane ticket, fly them down, and show them around his telephone booth plant."

Tom was nodding. "I'm getting the picture. A Big Store."

He'd always found scams fascinating—the more elaborate, the better.

"Right." Jack gave him an appraising look. "So you know a Big Store when you hear it. Interesting."

"Everybody who's ever seen The Sting knows that."

"But they don't know it's called a Big Store. Anyway, Big Frank's first Big Store was a rented warehouse outside Fort Myers. He'd tour the people through, pass them by lab-coated technicians working on circuit boards, show them a sample booth and dozens of big wooden crates ready to be shipped, tell them how he's swamped with orders and having trouble keeping up with demand. He'd set the hook by telling them how the first people to place booths get the best locations; the johnny-come-latelys would have to take the leftovers."

"And so they started writing checks."

"Big ones. Thousands and thousands."

Tom had the picture now: "But the booths never showed up."

"Never. When folks started to complain, Frank put them off as long as he could. When they finally came looking for him, Frank was gone. He'd moved his operation to the other side of the state."