Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The doorman at the Royal Plaza on 59th Street near Central Park was surprised when the well-dressed occupant of the Rolls Royce insisted the doorman park his car so that his chauffeur could accompany him.

The doorman agreed quickly. One does not argue with Rolls Royce passengers.

Felton made sure Jimmy was behind him before they both entered the plush Plaza lobby, with its heavy gilt-crested chairs, ponderous plants and effeminate room clerk.

The gun and shoulder holster fit neatly beneath the suit, and Felton and his driver attracted little attention as they stepped onto the elevator.

«Fourteenth floor,» Felton said.

Jimmy slipped his right hand into his black uniform pocket to adjust his weapon. Felton gave him a quick dirty look that told him the move was wrong.

The gold-tinted elevator screen doors opened into a small foyer. Every other floor opened to a hallway with rooms. But Felton had advised Viaselli when he rented the floor in the Royal Plaza to reconstruct the entrance, eliminating the hallway in favor of a box-like entrance with peepholes.

Felton waited in the foyer and winked at Jimmy who smiled back. They both knew the arrangement of the floor and knew that one of Viaselli's body guards right now was looking them over through a one-way mirror on their left. Felton adjusted his tie in the mirror and Jimmy made an obscene sign toward his reflection with a middle finger.

The door opened. A man in a dark pin-striped suit and a bluish silk tie invited them in.

They walked calmly like a team of dancers, never showing emotion or quickening their pace, into a large, well-lit overfurnished living room filled with clouds of gray smoke and enough men in business suits to start a convention.

Only it wasn't a convention. And when Felton and Jimmy stopped in the middle of the room under a gaudy chandelier, the talk suddenly stopped and the whispering began.

«It's him,» came the whispers. «Heah, that's him. Yeah. Shh. Not so loud, he'll hear you.»

A well-manicured little man with a black knotted Italian cigar stuck between his thin dark lips came over to Felton and Jimmy, waving a thin bony right hand and flashing a twisted smile.

«Eh? Come sta, Mr. Felton?»

Felton tried in. vain to remember the man's name. He smiled a guarded recognition.

«Can I get you something to drink?»

«Thank you, no.»

The man clapped one of his hands over his chest as if restraining a bleeding heart from bursting outward onto the gold yellow carpet. «I hate to mention this, but him»-the man said bowing slightly toward Jimmy, «this ain't no place for drivers. There's gonna be a meeting, you know.»

«I didn't know,» Felton said, looking at his watch.

«He gotta go.»

«He stays.»

The little man's expressive hands opened palm outward, his shoulders hunched. «But he don't belong.»

«He stays,» Felton said without expression.

The smile that never had been a smile disappeared as the thin dark lips tightened over yellow teeth. The right hand cupped toward its owner's face in a familiar Latin gesture. «Mr. Big's going to have something to say about this.»

Felton glanced at his watch again.

The little man retreated to a cluster of compatriots grouped around a sofa. They listened to him, casting sidelong glances at Felton and his chauffeur.

Jimmy busied himself by staring down everyone in that group.

Suddenly, there was a rustle in the room as everyone seated jumped to their feet and those standing unconsciously straightened their backs. They all looked toward the big double doors that had been flung open.

A man in a conservative gray suit and striped Princeton tie stood in a doorway and called out: «Mr. Felton.»

Felton and Jimmy walked across the living room to the doors, feeling all the stares of the men behind them. Jimmy stopped at the doors while Felton entered. Jimmy waited like a sentry and then, with his cold gray-blue Tennessee eyes, took on the whole room.

The double doors had always fascinated Felton. Facing the living room, they were gold-encrusted and ornate. But on the other side, they were fine, old, oiled wood, fit for any executive's office.

The air was different too. You could breathe without inhaling smoke from a dozen cigars. The floor had no carpeting and it creaked as Felton walked over to the end of a long mahogany table at the end of which sat a finely-groomed gentleman staring at a chess board.

He had deep, friendly, brown eyes set in a firm, noble Roman face. His hands were manicured, but not polished. His hair was long, graying at the temples, but combed conservatively with a part at the left side.

He had woman's lips, full and sensuous, yet there was nothing effeminate about him. Behind him, on the wall were pictures of a stately matron and eight children, his family.

He did not look up from the chess board, as Felton sat down in a chair at his elbow.

Felton inspected the face for aging, the hands for a tremble, the body movements for hesitancy. There were none. Viaselli was still a potent man.

«What move would you make, Norman?» Viaselli asked. His voice was even, his pronunciation Oxford excellent.

«I don't know chess, Carmine.»

«Let me explain it to you. I am under attack by the black queen and the black bishop. I can destroy the queen. I can destroy the bishop.» Viaselli's lips closed and there was silence.

Felton crossed his legs and stared at the figures on the checkered board. They meant nothing to him. He knew Viaselli wanted a comment. He would not give it.

«Norman, why should I not destroy the queen and the bishop?»

«If I understood chess, Carmine, I would tell you.»

«You would be a worthy opponent if you learned the game.»

«I have other games.»

«Life is not the limit of your endeavor, Norman, but the extent of it.»

«Life is what I make it.»

«You should have been an Italian.»

«You should have been a Jew.»

«It's the next best thing.» A warm smile crossed Viaselli's face as he pondered the board. «What I never could understand was your fondness for Southerners.»

«What fondness?»

«Jimmy from Texas.»

«Merely an employee.»

«Merely? It never appeared like that to me.»

«Appearances are deceiving.»

«Appearances are all there is.»

«I have your brother-in-law,» Felton said, anxious to end the philosophy.

«Tony?»

«Yes.»

«Ah, that brings back the problem of the black queen and the black bishop. Should I destroy them?»

«Yes,» Felton said, «but not when you're outnumbered.»

«Outnumbered?»

«Just you, me and your man. You're outnumbered,» Felton said nodding to the conservatively dressed gentleman at the door.

«And all my people in the living room?»

«An evening's entertainment for Jimmy.»

«I don't think so, but nevertheless, you are not the black queen and black bishop. You are my white queen, the most powerful piece on the board. For you to turn black would be disaster for me, considering that I am under attack.»

«I am under attack too.»

Viaselli looked up from the board and smiled.

Felton placed a hand on the table. «Who are we fighting?»

«I'm glad you said we, Norman.» Viaselli soffly clapped his hands. «I'm glad, and yet I don't know. A Senate committee is coming to our area, probably in two weeks. Yet we've been under surveillance now for five years. Does the Senate prepare that far in advance? No, I don't think so. And the investigations have been different. You have noticed. With the FBI and the tax men, investigations would end up in court. But these five years of men snooping around have not ended up in court.»

«You mentioned a Senate investigation?»

«Yes. The Senate is working its way east across country and will be here soon. All of a sudden there have been more people snooping around.»

«That accounts for the increase in targets in recent months.»

«I think so. But there's something else that's strange. You are under attack?»

Felton nodded. «Another family fight among you guineas?»

Viaselli's cheeks reddened, but he showed no other emotion. «No,» he said. «We have a new opponent. I do not know who or what he is. Do you?»

«I may know in a couple of days.»

«Good. I want to know too. Now you can return Tony.»

«Maybe.»

Carmine became silent. He had a way of silence that he could use more effectively than words. Felton knew that to reopen the conversation would give Carmine the edge. And all Carmine needed, despite Felton's feeling about how much he did for the man and how much the man needed him, was for Felton to make the first move and he would be lost.

It had been that way twenty years ago, only then Viaselli didn't have his headquarters in the Royal Plaza Hotel.