Hollywood Tough

Chapter 41

The jet was a shiny new green-and-white fourteen-passenger Challenger. Shane sat across from Dennis Valentine, who had elected to shed his Hollywood plumage; no white on white for this visit. He was now in pinstripes. His tailor-made suit draped his scrupulously maintained body like a charcoal-gray paint job. His ruby cuff links danced and twinkled. Silvio Cardetti and Little Mo were decked out in Gotti-esque double-breasted black. They sat a few seats back, near the rear of the cabin, playing cards.

The cuisine was tofu and brown rice. Colonel Sanders and the Frito Bandito had missed the flight.

The plane thundered down the Burbank runway, lifting off toward the purplish mountains to the east. In a gesture that symbolized the entire trip, Dennis threw his Hollywood trade papers aside and picked up the Wall Street Journal.

Conversations with Dennis, when they weren't on business, were usually on fitness. As soon as the wheels were up, he launched into a primo riff on vascular health.

"People don't know how important it is," he said. "You got guys walking around, their ankles all swollen, and you know what causes it?"

"Bad shoes?" Shane asked, trying to field an easy grounder but missing the ball.

"Fuck no. Lack of diosmin. It's a flavonoid. Flavonoids are microscopic water-soluble pigments and there are over four thousand kinds. Diosmin is the most important flavonoid 'cause it makes the veins in your lower limbs elastic. You find it mostly in rosemary leaves, but it's gotta be chemically micronized, so its small enough for the body to process."

"I won't forget that," Shane said. "But scotch tastes better and does the exact same thing. Makes your lower limbs rubbery as hell."

"I know you're just fucking with me, but one day, some vascular surgeon is gonna be stripping your veins and you're gonna wish you'd listened."

Shane couldn't take this all the way to Jersey, so he told Dennis that he'd only had two hours' sleep, lowered the seat on the comfortable jet, and closed his eyes. As he tried for unconsciousness, his mind kept circling the tragic memory of Carol White. Maybe it was the close proximity to the man he suspected of having her killed, or maybe it was because he was headed to Carol's hometown in Teaneck. Whatever the reason, the pictures and remembered sounds of her haunted him.

The beauty contest winner who came to Hollywood to be a star but ended up with a King Kong habit, turning tricks for a bunch of curb-crawlers on Adams Boulevard.

He thought about the slender thread that was binding all of them to their futures. Chooch had risked everything to save Delfina. She was still in psychological shock, choosing a world of soft shapes and blurry sounds over a more brutal set of memories that, if confronted, might destroy her. Delfina had done no wrong, a victim of nothing more sinister than her relationship to American Macado.

Unlike Delfina, Carol had made horrible choices. She had tried to drown the ache of her life's mistakes by shooting up. But she'd also been too vulnerable. Carol White had "loser" written in invisible ink on her forehead, in letters only predators could see. Sadly, her weakness had led her to the garage in Rampart as surely as this jet was taking them back to Teaneck where her tragic journey began.

Shane half-opened his eyes and peeked under his lids at the handsome mobster who worried about how much diosmin he was getting. Shane wondered if the thread holding Dennis to his future was as slender as the ones holding Carol and the rest of them. He wondered if there was too much lead in a 9mm bullet for a vegetarian.

Then Shane fell asleep. He dreamed about a lot of things, most of them aimless and jumbled. But as they were landing in Newark, one dream stuck with him. He was riding in a parade with Chooch and American. They'd been in a barrio bouncer, a low-rider splashed with a sparkle paint job. The car would rise up on its rear axle, then come down again, bouncing over and over. American Macado was driving, wearing a vest with beautiful silver conchos.

"Ain't this tits?" Amac said, grinning.

Suddenly, the Challenger's wheels touched down and they had landed.

A black limousine with two chase cars was waiting on the tarmac as the jet taxied up and they deplaned. It was cold in New Jersey. Frost clung stubbornly to the ground. Silvio and Little Mo got into the lead car as Shane and Dennis climbed into the Lincoln stretch.

"Only takes about ten minutes from here," Dennis said. "When I was a kid, I owned this county. Had a little Corvette, red with white seats. Bagged more pussy than a cat doctor."

"Didn't have a numero uno?" Shane asked, thinking of Carol.

Dennis looked over at him, his eyes a little distant. "There were a few who thought so, but a guy like me, I've got to taste everything; gotta eat at all the restaurants. Know what I'm sayin'? Pussy is cuisine."

"But is it vegetarian?" Shane deadpanned.

"You love to bust my balls, don't you?"

"Hey, Dennis, you know how it is. A slow-moving target is always gonna draw fire."

Valentine looked over at him, and for a minute, Shane didn't know which way it was going to go. Most made guys and mob smart-heads had an instinct for who was an employee and who was a player. Once they had you down as an ass-kisser, you were never going to hear anything but orders. He needed to get Dennis on even ground, so he would eventually open up and say something meaningful for the little mike hidden in the cell phone on Shane's belt.

He thought it was significant that Silvio hadn't run the wand over him before they boarded the plane in Burbank. Maybe that meant he was gaining some trust and respect. By verbally jabbing Valentine, Shane was hoping to set up the feeling that they were equals. Of course, the downside to that was he could go too far and truly piss Dennis off. Then, instead of equal ground, he'd be getting hallowed ground.

Shane watched as a slow smile broke on Dennis Valentine's face. "I like you," the handsome mobster said.

Don Carlo DeCesare lived on a ten-acre estate at the foot of the Saddleback Mountains. As they pulled up, Dennis told Shane that the houses located at all the strategic spots surrounding the property had been bought by the DeCesare family, and that only confirmed or made soldiers lived in these homes. These DeCesare wiseguys got beautiful bargain housing, but in return, they had a responsibility to protect the estate. Dennis explained that nobody could get close to the Don or his family without the soldiers getting plenty of advance warning.

Standing at the large security gates, stamping their feet to ward off the cold, were two unmade DeCesare wannabes-cugini. The limo's windows were lowered so the two young guards could see that it was Dennis, then the caravan was waved through. They drove up a long, manicured drive, where several men in coveralls were busy planting spring flowers. Even though the afternoon April temperature was still in the mid-forties, the gardeners were kneeling, digging holes in freezing ground, putting hundreds of multicolored impatiens in the sculptured flower beds that adjoined the driveway.

The house was architecturally magnificent; a castlelike structure of gray stone. Turret towers guarded all four corners. A massive arched door with carved panels dominated the front porch. The only thing missing was a drawbridge, but the array of auto-mags in the hands of four young Mafia hitters on the porch had eliminated the need for a moat.

There were two older men standing with the others, both in their fifties, both wearing boxy suits. One of these capos walked down the gray stone steps and opened the door of the limo.

"Uncle Pietro…" Dennis grinned as the man stuck his fleshy, cologne-drenched face into the car.

"You look like you got a suntan out on da Coast," Uncle Pietro said, smiling.

"Nobody should lay in the sun-ages the skin and causes cancer. I use an indoor tanning product." After delivering this health warning, Dennis piled out of the limo with his briefcase, followed by Shane. Once they were standing beside the car, Dennis turned to his uncle and introduced Shane. "Uncle Pietro, this is the man I told you about, Shane Scully." Dennis turned to Shane: "Uncle Pietro was my baby-sitter growing up. His job was to follow me around, make sure I stayed healthy and out of trouble, right, Pete?"

"You took some serious looking. after, bambino." Pietro grinned. "Chased his ass all up and down the state fixing messes."

"God knows how many illegitimate babies he buried." Dennis was enjoying the memory.

"Hey, all I did was ditch the evidence."

They were both grinning and laughing. Shane pasted a smile on his face, but he really wanted to slug both of them.

Suddenly, Dennis switched the subject. "How's Uncle Carlo?"

"Y' know, I guess he's doing good as can be expected. He's through with his chemo, but with all the other stuff he takes he's sick a lotta the time. He's having lotsa trouble with his legs now, clots and shit. Doctor's got him on blood thinners." Shane wondered if the Don was getting enough flavonoids.

They moved into the house and stood in the large entry hall. There were half a dozen fifteenth-century suits of armor lining the parquet floor. An arched window at the end of the hall looked out on the rolling hills and the Saddleback Mountains beyond.

"Sorry, but we gotta check for bugs," Pietro said to Shane. He motioned to another cugino standing nearby, wearing slacks and a polo shirt. He had short, dark hair and huge biceps. In his right hand was another 2300 Frequency Finder. The feds must have been having a sale on the damned things. Shane spread his arms and let the machine run over him.

"Nothing," the 'cugino said. "He's clean."

"I think we should take a closer look, Frankie," Pietro cautioned.

"Guy's okay, Uncle Pete," Dennis said, but the capo shook his head.

"He's still a cop, Denny. Is it okay, Mr. Scully? You don't mind, do you?"

Shane shrugged. "Fine with me." But it wasn't; it pissed him off.

Frankie led the way to a bathroom off the entry hall. Once they were inside, the wanna-be wiseguy closed the door. "Mind stripping down?"

"Yeah, I mind. But I'll do it." Shane took the StarTAC phone off his belt and handed it to Frankie, then removed his coat, shirt, and pants. Finally, he was standing in his shoes, socks, and underwear, feeling ridiculous.

"Turn around please," Frankie said, holding the StarTAC, which contained the very thing he was searching for. Frankie inspected him for a wire and finally nodded. "Okay, thanks. You can get dressed."

Shane put on his clothes, then held out his hand for the phone.

Frankie returned it, and as Shane clipped it on his belt, he turned it back on.

"You don't pack?" Frankie asked, referring to the fact that Shane had no weapon.

"Not outta state. Besides, I figured you wouldn't let me bring one in here anyway."

"Good thinking…"

Shane followed Frankie into the entry hall, where they rejoined Dennis and Pietro.

"My uncle is waiting to see you. Come on," Dennis said.

They walked down a beautiful flag-draped hail, passing under an ornate stone archway. Dennis stopped at a pair of carved oak doors and hesitated for a second before knocking. The doors opened immediately, and they were facing another steroid-fed side of beef in a painted-on suit.

"How ya doin', Kerry?" Dennis said.

"Hangin' in. You look good. L. A. must agree with ya." "Yeah, but Lynette is breakin' my chops out there. She shops all day."

"Broads." Kerry smiled, motioning them inside a large dark den.

It took Shane's eyes a minute to adjust to the low light. The room was lined with bookshelves and was underfurnished. A huge antique desk and chair sat against one wall. An oxblood-colored sofa and two club chairs were positioned across the room. In several spaces on each book-lined wall, magnificent oil paintings hung in dimly lit alcoves. All were of elderly men in various kinds of period-dress. Two of the more recent paintings depicted stern-faced characters in expensive suits from the twenties and forties. Shane didn't have to ask; he knew he was looking at the criminal bloodline of the DeCesare family. Seated by the window in a wheelchair, with his back to them, was a small, frail old man: Don Carlo DeCesare-Little Caesar.

"Uncle Carlo, it's Dennis."

The old man slowly pivoted the chair to face them. Shane tried not to gasp, but half the Don's face had been surgically altered. Welts and scar tissue dominated everything below his nose.

Dennis moved across the room to his uncle's wheelchair and whispered something to him; the old man nodded. Then Dennis turned and motioned for Shane to approach.

"He wants to meet you."

As Shane walked toward them he became aware that someone else was in the room; a slender, dark-haired young woman with glasses, who looked to be about twenty.

"This is Don Carlo's daughter, Celia," Dennis said. "She talks for my uncle. He signs."

"She does what?"

"My uncle lost most of his tongue and vocal cords to cancer."

Shane looked at the scarred face of the Don and tried to deal with this new fact. It appeared he would be forced to converse with this girl, instead of the Don, himself. Would recordings containing only Celia's voice hold up in court?

Shane crossed the room and stood in front of the wheelchair. Up close, Don DeCesare's destroyed lower jaw and the deep scars on his neck were ghastly and disfiguring. Shane was trying to collect his thoughts. This changed everything.

Arnac's wisdom rang in his ear. As(es, asi sera. Just keep going, he told himself. He nodded to the old man, who returned the gesture.

"Uncle Carlo, this is L. A. detective Shane Scully, who I told you about."

Suddenly, Don Carlo began signing with his fingers. Celia, who was sitting a few feet away, next to the window, translated for him.

"He says he is glad to meet you." Her voice was soft and whispery; echoing strangely in the high-ceilinged room. "It's my pleasure," Shane replied.

The Don nodded. He looked at Shane with sharp, piercing eyes, while he signed at his daughter.

"I am pleased that you and your wife have agreed to help my nephew with his new venture in Los Angeles," Celia's sweet voice translated.

"Alexa is the head of Detective Services Group. DSG supervises all the detectives on the LAPD, so she's in a terrific place to handle any investigation if someone in that union complains," Shane replied.

The Don signed again and Celia spoke:

"What Dennis has accomplished in Los Angeles is remarkable. I have convinced the brotherhoods in D. C. to stand aside, and not make trouble once special deals are cut with the IATSE unions. I am pleased you and your wife have accepted my payment, and will guarantee that Dennis is never prosecuted."

What payment? Shane thought. We could sure use the rest of the fucking money. But rather than bring that up, he said, "Whatever happens, we'll make certain that your nephew is safe."

The Don signed slowly, forcing them to stand patiently in silence.

"It is important for you to understand that since money has changed hands, our deal is now sealed. It cannot be undone. Any failure to perform services as agreed will result in your death, and the death of your family." It was strange to listen as this slender girl's soft voice conveyed a death threat against his loved ones. Celia continued. "This is not only a threat, but a necessary part of the agreement. Dennis will soon be taking over for the family and all efforts must be made to protect him."

"I understand," Shane replied.

Don DeCesare held out a frail hand, palm down. It was a strange gesture and Shane wasn't sure what the old man wanted.

"He wants you to kiss his hand," Celia said. "It is our custom to seal an agreement."

So, feeling foolish, Shane bowed his head and kissed the old man's hand. As his lips brushed against the cold, papery skin, he wondered at the evil the Godfather had done in his lifetime. He stepped back and the Don made a few more trembling hand gestures.

"Thank you. I must talk to my nephew alone," Celia translated.

Shane turned and left the room.

He walked back to the entry hail where he stood alone, listening to voices coming from a side room. Shane wondered if the crafty old Don had really lost his vocal cords or if he had learned sign language just so he could hold sensitive meetings with a family interpreter doing the talking so as to avoid the risk of being caught on tape.

The StarTAC unit had shot their conversation into space and back to the monitoring room at ESD in L. A. But could Shane prove that it had really been the Don who had said those things? He had only recorded his own voice and Celia's. Hell, he probably couldn't even prove Don Carlo had been there. It would be Shane's word against theirs.

He was angry and depressed as laughter swelled in the adjoining area, so he walked in that direction and soon entered a large living room with turn-of-the-century furniture and a fifteen-foot-high vaulted ceiling.

Pete, Paulie, and Frank were seated around a marble-topped table, next to a large plate-glass window, playing some kind of European card game. On the other side of the glass, Shane could see more rolling lawns and even a few white-coated animals that, from a distance, looked like sheep or even llamas.

Shane sat on the arm of a nearby chair, watching the game.

"Is the Don gonna be okay?" he finally said, breaking the ice.

"He's not doin' too hot, but he's a tough old man. Surprises us all the time," Pietro said.

"This is beautiful here. I understand Dennis went to high school out in Teaneck."

"Yep, sure did," Pietro said, smiling. "He was some kinda hot shit back then. Captain of the football team, good shortstop in baseball, pretty much had his way with the ladies." Then he turned to another old capo whom Shane hadn't noticed, sitting in a wing chair by the fireplace. "Hey, Norm, remember that girl from Trenton, came down here, camped out in front of the driveway? Jesus, she was so stuck on Denny, she slept there for two days…

wouldn't go away." Norm laughed and just nodded. "I went down and threatened this bitch, but she still wouldn't leave. She was willing to die to get in here and see him."

"Yeah," Shane smiled. "Nicholas said Dennis always had lotsa girls." Shane was fishing, hoping one of these goombas would hit the line.

"Who's Nicholas?" Pietro said as he laid down some cards and said "Banco." Then scraped a pile of chips off the table.

"Nicholas was a real good friend of Dennis's in high school."

"I don't think so. I spent mosta my time sweeping up after the kid back then. I don't remember no friend named Nicholas. What's his last name?"

"Marcella."

Pietro was now shaking his head and smiling as he stacked his winnings.

"Something funny?"

"Ya mean Nicky? That pathetic little prick was never friends with Dennis. Who told you that? Dennis used to terrorize him, made him eat his lunch off the floor in the school cafeteria. Shit like that. They called him Nicky the Pooh 'cause the guy was so pathetic. Denny fucked him over constantly while all the kids laughed. I told Dennis back then that he should cool it. You never know with people. You can push 'em too far. Some little nothing guy will snap, come off hot, get a gun, ka-boom, you're in the obits."

"Nicky wasn't his friend?" Shane asked.

"That little schmuck was so piss-in-his-pants scared a Dennis, he used to shake when he was around, y' know? And Dennis just thought it was funny. Used t' make him wash his car and shine his shoes. Sometimes forced Nicky t' follow him around at school on his hands and knees barking like a dog. Everybody thought it was funny, but I seen the look in that little guy's eyes. You should never push anybody that far 'less you're gonna clip him after. Course, Dennis, he was only seventeen then. He thought nothing could ever happen to him. You grow up, you learn." Now Pietro was dealing again, flipping cards onto the table. "Last I heard, Nicky Marcella went out to L. A. to live with his married sister. Just goes t' show ya. What kinda limp dick moves in with his sister?" The talkative capo took some chips and tossed them into the center of the table.

Shane picked up a magazine and sat on the sofa a few feet away to wait for Dennis while the card game continued.

Why was Nicholas Marcella out in L. A. throwing parties for a man who had once made him crawl on his hands and knees and bark like a dog? Shane tried to concentrate on the magazine, but his mind wouldn't stop circling this strange new fact.