Naked Greed

8

As Stone’s day ended Joan came into his office carrying a vase containing two dozen red roses. “Where would you like these?”

“At a nearby hospital,” Stone said, embarrassed.

“Be sure and read the card.” Joan left the roses on his desk and went back to her office.

Stone stood and walked around the desk and the huge bouquet. A card was nestled among the roses. It read: What a nice evening! More, please!

Stone’s nether regions tingled.

“Hey, nice!” a voice behind him said.

Stone whirled to find Dino standing behind him.

“You sending yourself flowers these days?”

Stone muscled the heavy vase over to a side table and relieved himself of the load. “A sort of joke,” he said.

Dino walked over to the vase and plucked the card from the roses. “Sounds like a grateful woman to me.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Stone asked irritably.

“I was in the neighborhood, and my alarm watch told me it’s the cocktail hour.”

“Help yourself and make me one,” Stone said, flopping onto the comfortable sofa.

Dino went to the cabinet that concealed a small bar and an ice machine, poured a Johnnie Walker Black and a Knob Creek, handed Stone his, then sat down. “I hear that Jerry Brubeck and Gino Parisi had an exciting day,” he said.

“And how did you come by that information?”

“I happened to have two detectives on the scene. They were going to call on the Bowsprit Beverages management and have a word with them, but as they were getting out of their car they witnessed a little scene.”

“What sort of scene?”

“There were four of them, and Gino was frightened enough to pull a gun on them. One of them produced a police baton and appeared to break Gino’s wrist. Words followed, and Gino took another whack to the knee and went down.”

“Anybody get arrested?”

“For what? Nobody got shot, and I’m sure Gino must have a license for his .38. He was pretty mad, though.”

“Parisi the younger and Ryan are still hanging around Pepe Perado, apparently waiting for a chance to get at him.”

“So the encounter in the garage was just preventative maintenance?”

“You could put it that way.”

“My detectives said the four explainers were the biggest, ugliest guys they had ever seen at one time in one place. How is it that you come to know such people?”

“I don’t know them, they were recommended by a friend.”

“Ah, a whiff of Mike Freeman is in the air,” Dino said, sounding amused. “I got a call a few minutes ago. Gino Parisi was heard speaking to a cousin of his from Brooklyn, not the nice part. Your name came up.”

“You’ve got Parisi wired?”

“Only his home, his office, and his car. We held off on the locker room at his golf club out of simple human decency. My guys don’t like to listen in on naked men.”

“How long?”

“Long enough.”

“What was said about me?”

“Let’s just say it was uncomplimentary. Apparently, either Ryan or Parisi the younger recognized you, and Gino put two and two together.”

“So?”

“So, I’d watch my ass, if I were you.”

“Parisi will get over it.”

“On his car phone he said he was having to use speakerphone, because his right hand wasn’t working. I think you’ll be on his mind at least until he can play ‘Chopsticks’ on the piano again. With both hands.” Dino took a swig of his scotch and nodded toward the roses. “Who’s the grateful woman?”

“Her name is Caroline Woodhouse. She works for Brad and Stan Kelly.”

“Sounds like you’d better get plenty of rest and exercise.”

“Exercise shouldn’t be a problem.”

Dino laughed. “What’s the calorie count on the missionary position these days?”

“Let’s just say that I lost a couple of pounds.”

Dino looked at his watch. “C’mon, I’ll buy you an early dinner. Viv’s flight doesn’t get in until later tonight.”

Stone drained his glass and stood up. “I’m game.”

They settled into a corner table at P. J. Clarke’s, and somebody brought them another drink.

“Tell me about Brubeck and Parisi the elder,” Stone said.

“They’re from the old-time mob tradition,” Dino replied. “Parisi’s father was Carlo Parisi — remember him?”

“The Butcher of Brooklyn? We were younger then.”

“Wasn’t everybody? Bowsprit Beverages was the old man’s business,” Dino said, “under another name. He delivered bootleg booze out of there in the twenties, slot machines and jukeboxes in the fifties, drugs in the sixties.”

“What’s the current Parisi dealing in?”

“Anything he can think of, apparently. Our organized crime division likes him for a couple of murders, too. Brubeck is the accountant and runs the legit stuff. He has a family connection, too, but he’s the more refined, commuter stiff from New Jersey. Parisi, on the other hand, remains ungentrified.”

“I guess I’m out of touch,” Stone said. “I didn’t know those guys still existed.”

“Parisi is doing what he can to uphold the family tradition. Brubeck just wants to make money and give it to his synagogue.”

“Haven’t you got enough on Parisi to send him up?”

“Parisi may be crude, but he’s not stupid. The call he made from his car was to a throwaway cell phone. He doesn’t care if we know what he does, as long as we don’t have enough evidence to convict him of it.”

“What about Ryan and Parisi the younger?”

“They’re carried on Bowsprit’s books as soft drink salesmen: you don’t need a license for that. They’re the kind of salesmen who walk into a joint and tell the manager he’s taking twenty cases of diet soda this week, whether he needs it or not. If he doesn’t buy, they break a bar mirror, and he signs the order, knowing it’ll be an arm next time and his neck the time after that.”

“What’s the relation between the two Parisis?”

“Father and son — the boy is Alfredo, called Al.”

“And the son continues the tradition?”

“I don’t think Al is being groomed for greatness. Gino must have married stupid — genes will tell every time.”

They ordered dinner.

“So, should I go armed?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

“For how long?”

“Until somebody zips Gino Parisi into a body bag.”

“Swell.”