Beirut Incident

Chapter 4

I'm not quite sure how we got to the subject, but we spent the next twenty minutes or so discussing Jerusalem. Louie had just returned from there, and T had once spent two weeks there, courtesy of Mr. Hawk's organization.

We toured the city conversationally, sightseeing in the Mosque of Omar and at the Wailing Wall, pausing at the Court of Pilate and Ruth's Well, following the stations of the cross up the Via Dolor and into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which still bears the carved initials of the Crusaders who built it in 1099. For all his effusiveness, Louie had a good grasp of history, a reasonably perceptive mind and a rather blasé attitude about the Mother Church. I was beginning to like him.

It took me a while to get the conversation going the way I wanted, but I finally managed it. "How long you going to be in Beirut, Louie?"

He laughed. Life, I was beginning to gather, was just one big lark to Louie. "I'm going back at the end of this week. Saturday, I guess. Sure had one hell of a time here, though."

"How long you been here?"

"Just three weeks. You know… a little business, a little fun." He waved expansively. "Mostly fun."

If he didn't mind answering questions, I didn't mind asking them. "What kind of business?"

"Olive oil. Importing olive oil. Franzini Olive Oil. Ever hear of it?"

I shook my head. "Nope. I'm a brandy-and-soda man myself. Can't stand olive oil."

Louie laughed at my weak joke. He was the type who would always make a poor joke seem worth a laugh. Good for the ego.

I pulled a crumpled pack of Galoise from my shirt pocket and lit one while I happily set about making unexpected plans to become buddy-buddy with Louie Lazaro, the laughing boy of the Western world.

I knew Franzini Olive Oil, all right. Or at least I knew who Joseph Franzini was. Joseph «Popeye» Franzini. A lot of people knew who he was. These days he was Don Joseph, head of the second largest Mafia famiglia in New York.

Before Joseph Franzini had become Don Joseph, he had been «Popeye» throughout the underworld on the Eastern seaboard. The «Popeye» came from his very legitimate olive oil importing and marketing business. He was respected because of his ruthless integrity, his ritual adherence to the Mafia law of omerta, and his efficient business methods.

When he was thirty years old, Popeye had been stricken by some disease — I couldn't remember at the moment just what — that had forced him off the streets and into the administrative end of organized crime. There, his fine head for business proved invaluable and in a very short time he was able to achieve a position of real power in the gambling and loan-shark rackets. He and his two brothers built their organization carefully and solidly, and with business acumen. Now, he was Don Joseph, aging, querulous, jealous of the rights he had worked so hard to attain.

It was Popeye Franzini — Don Joseph Franzini — who was behind the move to reinforce the American organization with young blood from Sicily.

I had gone looking for some kind of an entré into Sicilian circles in Beirut, and it looked as if I had hit the jackpot. Certainly, Beirut was a logical port of call for an olive oil dealer. A good bit of the world's supply comes from Lebanon and its neighbors, Syria and Jordan.

But the presence of Louie Lazaro of Franzini Olive Oil at the same time the Mafia was funneling its new recruits through Beirut stretched the coincidence ratio too far.

I had another thought, too. Louie Lazaro might be more than just the bon vivant he appeared to be. Anyone who represented Popeye Franzini would be competent and tough, even if — to judge by the verve with which Louie was attacking the bottle — he tended to drink too much.

I tilted back on the heels of the little wire chair I was sitting on and tilted my glass at my new amico. "Hey, Louie! Let's have another bottiglia di vino"

He roared delightedly, slapping the table with a flat palm. "Why not, compare! Let's show these Arabos how they do it in the old country." The Columbia University class ring on his right hand belied his nostalgic reference as he signaled for the waiter.

Three days with Louie Lazaro can be exhausting. We saw a soccer game at the American University, spent a day visiting the old Roman ruins at Baalbeck; we drank too much at the Black Cat Café and the Illustrious Arab, and made it to just about every other bistro in the city.

During those three hectic days, I learned quite a lot about Louie. I'd thought he had Mafia written all over him, and when I found how deeply it was etched, all the bells started ringing. Louie Lazaro was in Beirut on Franzini Olive Oil business, all right — representing his uncle Popeye. When Louie dropped that bombshell over a fourth carafe of wine, I prodded my wine-fogged memory for information on him. Popeye Franzini had raised his brother's son, I remembered from a report I'd read at one time. Was this that nephew? He probably was, and his different last name, then, was most likely a minor cosmetic change. I didn't press him for a reason why he was called Lazaro and not Franzini, figuring that if it was relevant, I'd find out soon enough.

So I had virtually fallen into the hands of my ticket to Franzini's pipeline. My convivial, jesting companion, who gave a first impression of being a comic-opera Mafioso, must be pretty damned sharp under that talkative, wine-drinking mien. Either that, or Uncle Joseph had managed to shield his nephew from the ugly realities of organized crime, shuttling him safely into a legitimate end of the family operation.

Toward the middle of the afternoon on our third day of carousing, I made my move to determine the extent of Louie Lazaro's involvement in Uncle Joe's extra-legal affairs.

We were in the Red Fez, each table tucked into its own little walled niche, rather like stalls in a cow barn. Louie was sprawled loosely in his chair, one lock of black hair beginning to droop over his forehead. I sat erect but relaxed, my forearms on the little wooden table, drawing on what felt like my fortieth Galoise of the day.

"Hey, fella!" Louie burbled. "You're okay." He paused, examining his watch as people do when they're conscious of time, even when they're thinking in terms of days, weeks, or months instead of hours, minutes, or seconds. "We oughta get together back in the States. When you goin' back?"

I shrugged. "Know where I can get a good passport?" I asked casually.

He raised his eyebrows, but there was no surprise in his eyes. People with passport troubles were a way of life with Louie Lazaro. "Don't you have one?"

I sipped at my wine, frowning. "Sure. But…" Let him draw his own conclusions.

He smiled knowingly, waving his hand in dismissal. "But you do come from Palermo, right?"

"Right."

"And you grew up in New Orleans?"

"Right."

"Four years in the French Foreign Legion?"

"Right. What have you been doing, Louie? Taking notes?"

He grinned disarmingly. "Ah, you know. Just makin' sure T got things right."

"Right," I said. I knew where his questions were heading — at least I hoped I did — even if he didn't want to get to the point right away.

He picked up the cross-examination like any good prosecutor. "And the last couple years, you've been… uh… hanging round Beirut?"

"Right." I poured some more wine into each of our glasses.

"Well." He dragged it out, looking thoughtful. "I could probably arrange it if you really want to get back to the States."

I glanced over my shoulder just for effect "I sure as hell have to get out of here."

He nodded. "Maybe I can help you, but…"

"But what?"

"Well," he grinned that disarming grin again. "I don't really know much about you except you got a lot of guts."

I weighed the situation carefully. I didn't want to play my trump card too quickly. On the other hand, this could be my cracking point and I could always — if events warranted it — eliminate Louie.

I pulled the metal cigar tube out of my shirt pocket and dropped it carelessly on the table. It rolled over once and stopped. I stood up, and pushed my chair in. "I've got to go to the John, Louie." I patted him on the shoulder. "I'll be back."

I walked off, leaving the little tube worth, eventually, about $65,000 on the table.

I took my time, but when I got back Louie Lazaro was still there. So was the heroin.

I knew from the look on his face that I'd made the right move.