A Five Year Plan

Chapter Four

‘So Jimmy. Whaddya think? Can I trust Delano to keep his fuckin’ mouth shut?’

Figaro looked up from his soft-shell crab salad, and into the large blue-tinted glasses worn by the man sitting opposite. Tony Nudelli was around fifty, with a face that had as many creases as his beige linen suit. They were lunching in the Normandy Shores Country Club, just a few minutes north of Bal Harbor. Through the arched windows of the restaurant’s Mizner-style layout, you could just about see Cher’s 86 million mansion over the bay on La Gorce Island.

‘Sure you can trust him. He spent the last five years keeping his mouth shut, didn’t he? Why the hell should he rat now?’

‘Because now I can’t keep tabs on him, that’s why. When his ass was in prison he knew that I could get to him. People I knew on the inside could fuck with him. Now that he’s outside he can do what he likes without watching over his shoulder, and I don’t like that. It does not sit well at ease with me.’

‘C’mon Tony. The Feds could have offered him protection if he’d wanted to spill his guts. A whole change of life.’

‘That’s like the menopause. It just means your fuckin’ life is over, in any meaningful way. You just ask my wife if that’s not true. I haven’t fucked her in ages. Naw Jimmy, most guys with blood in their veins would do the five years and take the money.’ Nudelli selected a toothpick from a silver holder and began to search for something stuck in his upper molars. ‘What about that? Did you pay him off? Was he happy?’

‘I think so.’

‘You think so?’ Nudelli snorted, inspected the shred of food on the end of his toothpick for a moment and then ate it. Shaking his head wearily he added: ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, if I wanna know what people think, I’ll read the fuckin’ Herald, OK? From you and your six-figure retainer plus expenses, plus bonuses, I want a little more than a farmboy grin and the seat of your fuckin’ pants. I want the laws of physics as described by Isaac Newton. If x then y. Do you copy?’

‘I’m certain of it,’ said Figaro.

‘You play poker, Jimmy?’

‘I’m not much of a card player, Tony.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. You say you’re certain of something, and yet you shrug like there were still a few doubts weighing on the padded shoulders of that expensive-looking suit of yours. Certainty looks a little more positive, Jimmy. Like you nod a couple of times? And smile some? Jesus, the fuckin’ weather man looks more certain of what he’s sayin’ than you do.’

‘Tony, if you don’t mind me saying, I think you’re being a little paranoid here. Believe me, Dave is very cool. While he was in Homestead he used his time to full advantage. Got himself an education, a diploma and a positive mental attitude. He just wants to get on with the rest of his life.’

‘Doing what, precisely?’

‘Precisely? I don’t know. Nor does he. Right now he just wants to chill out, spend some of his money—’

‘You paid him.’

‘I already said so. In cash. With interest. I asked him what he was going to do with it and offered him some financial advice. He said, no thanks.’

Nudelli looked thoughtful as he considered what Figaro was telling him. He emptied his wine glass and then flicked the crystal rim with his fingernail.

‘What were his exact words when he said that?’

‘What is this, exactly? Exact? I don’t know exact.’

‘Jimmy, you’re a fuckin’ lawyer. Exact is your middle name and the birthmark on your ass.’

‘He said it wasn’t exactly fuck-off money. He said it wasn’t the kind of money that buys you a lifestyle.’

‘Well that sure doesn’t seem like someone who was happy with his kiss-off.’

‘I’m quoting him out of context, you understand.’

‘I don’t care if you’re quoting him out of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations. What you described sounds like a man who’s just had a ten-dollar Coke.’

‘Tony, if you could have been there you would have seen a guy who was happy, believe me.’

The waiter appeared to refill their glasses with the California Chardonnay Tony Nudelli liked to drink. It was a little too oaky for Figaro’s better-educated palate. Like drinking liquid furniture polish.

‘Maybe not borne up to heaven in a whirlwind like Elijah,’ added Figaro, ‘but content, yeah.’

‘Is everything all right here?’ asked the waiter, fawning.

‘Fine, thank you, yes.’

‘Elijah,’ oozed the waiter. ‘That’s a lovely name, Elijah. Why couldn’t my parents have called me something like that, instead of John?’

Tony Nudelli sat back in his chair abruptly and glanced up at the waiter, his top lip drawn back with irritation from his yellowing and by now well-picked teeth.

‘Because your round white face with shit on it reminded them of a fuckin’ toilet bowl, you little cocksucker. And if you and your fuckin’ drippy personality ever interrupt my conversation in here again, I’ll fix it so that people get to callin’ you Vincent. On account of how you’ll only have the one fuckin’ ear to stick into other people’s business. Get it? Now fuck off before you chambré that fuckin’ wine with your hot jerk-off hand.’

The waiter made a hasty withdrawal.

‘I guess I’d better not order any dessert,’ chuckled Figaro. Part of him quite liked it when Tony Nudelli talked tough. So long as he wasn’t on the sharp end of it himself. It gave him a thrill to experience, albeit vicariously, the kind of power that Nudelli wielded.

‘Are you kidding? Pecan pie here’s the best.’

‘I was thinking he might try and get his own back in some plausibly edible, but disgusting way.’

‘People have wound up dead for a lot less.’

‘He doesn’t know that.’

‘You’re right, Jimmy.’ Snapping his fingers loudly, Nudelli waved the maître d’ over to their table. ‘Goddamn little faggot might Trojan horse just about anything into a piece of pecan pie.’

‘How are things here, Mister Nudelli?’

‘Louis, we’d like two pieces of pecan pie. And I’d like you to serve them to us yourself. Understand?’

‘Yes sir. Right away. It’d be my pleasure.’

The maître d’ disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Jimmy, let me ask you something.’

‘Sure, Tony.’ He chuckled as he caught sight of the cowed waiter. ‘I’m all ears.’

Nudelli glanced angrily after him.

‘Fuckin’ dipshit. Whassa matter with waiters in this country? It’s not enough you give ’em a tip. They want your goddamn assurance that you don’t think any the less of them for what they’re doing to make a buck.’

‘Don’t start me on waiters. The other day I order a steak at the Delano? And when the waiter brings it he tells me that the vegetables will be along in just a few minutes. I tell the guy, What is this? Am I supposed to eat this meal in instalments?’

Figaro laughed at his own story and laughed some more when he saw that it had amused Nudelli. Only he wished he’d thought to substitute another restaurant for the Delano. It was one of the smartest on South Beach, beloved of Madonna and Stallone, but the name didn’t help to take Nudelli’s mind off the one thing that was obsessing him right now, which was Dave Delano.

‘What was it that you wanted to ask me, Tony? Before we got started on shitty waiters.’

‘Just this. What’s the statute of limitations on murder?’

‘There is no statute of limitations on murder.’

‘And that’s precisely my point. Suppose Delano does decide to talk to the Feds?’

‘Take a chill pill, Tony. Delano’s no snitch.’

‘Hear me out Jimmy, like a good lawyer. Just suppose he does. For whatever reason. Let’s for the sake of argument assume that he holds my ass responsible for his period of incarceration. After all, jail does funny things to a man. Turns him queer. Makes him vengeful. Maybe he wants to take my quarter-mill and my liberty with it. I mean, what’s to stop him? Just answer me that, will ya?’

‘He probably holds me more responsible than anyone,’ shrugged Figaro. ‘After all, it was me representing him before that jury. But he isn’t going to do it, Tony.’

‘No, no, we’re not talking predictive sequences here. We’re addressing a hypothetical situation. You understand? Like we was two philosophers in a Roman sauna bath. What is there in the way of hard facts that enables us to say that it won’t ever happen that Dave Delano won’t decide to snitch? Wait, wait. I thought of something. Suppose he does something wrong. A crime. And the cops arrest him. His ass is going down for it. But he might not want to do any more time. And who could blame the guy after five years in the joint? Not me, for sure. But maybe, knowing this, the Feds figure to scare him into telling them what he shoulda told ’em in the first place. Trade his ass for mine.’

Nudelli slapped the table hard like he was killing a fly just as the maitre d’ arrived bearing two pecan pies.

‘What’s to stop him doing that, huh, Jimmy?’

‘Here we are Mister Nudelli. Pecan pie.’

‘Thanks Louis.’

‘My pleasure, sir. Enjoy.’

‘Well, when you put it as coldly as that Tony—’

‘I do put it as coldly as that, in a frosted glass with ice in it. What’s to stop him, eh?’

Figaro gouged a piece of pie onto his fork, but he left it lying on his plate for a moment.

‘Nothing. Except maybe he’s more afraid of you than he is of the cops.’

Nudelli raised his large hairy hands into the air and gestured in a way that reminded Figaro of the Pope benevolently greeting the faithful from the balcony of St Peter’s on Christmas Day. But the lawyer could see that there was nothing particularly benevolent about the way this conversation was headed.

‘You see? Maybe. We’re back with uncertainty again. You put your finger right on it, Jimmy. Maybe. Now put yourself in my position. I gotta family to look after, a business to run, people whose livelihoods depend on me.’ He sighed with loud exasperation and forked a piece of pie into his mouth. ‘You know what the problem is here? Language. The corruption of the fuckin’ language. Words don’t mean what they used to because of all the fuckin’ minorities we gotta tiptoe around — like we can’t say this and we can’t say that — and because of all the politicians who use language to say nothing at all. I give you a for instance, Jimmy. A guy says to a girl "Will you let me fuck you?" Now if she says "Maybe", you know it’s a real possibility. But if you were to say to some politician, "Will you build more schools and more hospitals if we vote you into office?" and he says "Maybe", then you know for sure that he ain’t gonna do it. For him, maybe means never. You see what I’m saying?’

Figaro was not sure that he did. There were times when he thought Tony Nudelli one of the sharpest clients he had, and others when he thought him as dumb as daytime TV. This extended thought had left Figaro wondering what Nudelli’s original point had been. But he nodded anyway and said: ‘Yeah, sure.’ He decided to try and steer the conversation to a different conclusion from the one he feared Nudelli still had in his malicious old mind.

‘You want me to have a word with Delano, Tony? Impress upon him the absolute necessity of keeping his mouth shut? He’s coming by the offices tomorrow to talk about some things. I can straighten him out then if you want me to.’

‘Willy Barizon,’ said Nudelli, shaking his head.

‘What about him?’

‘He’s half-brother of Tommy Rizzoli. The guy you put out of the ice business.’

Figaro smiled uncomfortably.

‘Tony, I advised him to sell the business in order that he might avoid a prison sentence, that’s all.’

‘Same thing. Anyway, I’m gonna get Willy to go and talk to Delano.’

‘Are you gonna whack him?’

Nudelli looked pained.

‘You should eat some of this pie. It’s the best.’

Figaro lifted the fork to his mouth. He had to admit it was good.

‘I hate to hear my attorney use a word like that,’ Nudelli said stiffly. ‘But no, I am not going to whack him. I just want Delano reminded, forcibly reminded, that he should still fear me.’ He licked his lips and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘I think maybe I want something sweet to drink, with my dessert. A glass of Muscat maybe. You like Muscat?’

Figaro shook his head.

‘Now where’s that cocksucker got to?’ he grumbled, looking around for the waiter. He stared back at Figaro. "Sides, I’d like to know more about these new friends of his before I even think of whackin’ him. I heard he shared a cell with some Ivan while he was in Homestead. And that this Ivan has some important New York connections. I’d hate to whack Delano and find myself with those Russian bastards comin’ after me. They like killing people. I think they like killing people more than they like making money. Well, blood will out I guess. Killing’s in their history. Making money never was.’

‘The room-mate’s name was Einstein Gergiev,’ reported Figaro. ‘People called him Einstein because he was a former physicist and computer guy before becoming involved with the Russian rackets. And then here in Florida.’

‘Clever son of a bitch, huh?’

‘He had some twin town scam going with the two cities.’

‘Which two cities?’

‘The two St Petersburgs.’

‘The one on the Gulf of Mexico I heard of, but where’s the other?’

‘In Russia. Northern Russia.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘It was quite a fraud, I hear. Cost the city of St Petersburg, the one in Florida, several million dollars.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Anyway, Gergiev was released six months ago and deported back to Russia. But I didn’t know he was connected in New York.’

‘All Russian wiseguys, the Redfellas, are connected there. Brighton Beach. You should see it. Fuckin’ Russkie home from home. Little Odessa they call it. Connected there in New York or in Israel. Tel Aviv. Half of them Jews that left Russia are connected. That’s how they got the money to get out in the first place.’ Nudelli shrugged. ‘I got this cousin in Tampa. Maybe he can find out something about this Eisenstein redfella. Where’s Delano staying?’

‘He said he was going to check into the Bal Harbor Sheraton.’

‘That’s a nice beach hotel. Classy. These days you can forget the Fontainebleau.’

Nudelli straightened in his chair. The waiter was in his sights.

‘Hey you, Elijah. C’mere.’

Seeing Tony Nudelli, the waiter backed toward the door of the restaurant like a quarterback searching out one of his receivers. Seconds later he was out of the door and running through the old world Mediterranean courtyard in the direction of Biscayne Bay.

‘Jesus,’ laughed Nudelli. ‘Whad I fuckin’ say?’