Hostage

11

Friday, 11:40 P.M., Eastern time

8:40 P.M., Pacific time

New York City

VIC CASTELLANO

His wife was a light sleeper, so Vittorio “Vic” Castellano left their bedroom to take the call. He put on the thick terry-cloth bathrobe, the birthday present from his kids with Don’t Bug Me embroidered on the back, and gimped alongside Jamie Beldone to the kitchen. Beldone held a cell phone. On the other end of it was a man they employed to keep an eye on things in California.

Vic, seventy-eight years old and two weeks away from a hip replacement, poured a small glass of orange juice, but couldn’t bring himself to drink it. His stomach was already sour.

“You sure it’s this bad?”

“The police have the house locked down with all Benza’s records inside, including the books that link to us.”

“That sonofabitch. What’s in his records?”

“They show how much he kicks to us. I don’t know if it’ll show business by business, but it’s going to show something like that so he can keep track of where his money goes. If the Feds recover this, it will help them build an IRS case against you.”

Vic poured out the orange juice, then ran water in the glass. He sipped. Warm.

“It’s been how long this is going on?”

“About five hours now.”

Castellano checked the time.

“Does Benza know that we know?”

“No, sir.”

“That chickenshit sonofabitch. Heaven forbid he call to warn me like a real man. He’d rather let me get caught cold than have time to fuckin’ prepare.”

“He’s a piece of shit, skipper. That’s all there is to it.”

“What’s he doing about it?”

“He sent in a team. You know Glen Howell?”

“No.”

“Benza’s fixer. He’s good.”

“Do we have our own guy there?”

Beldone tipped the phone, nodding.

“He’s on the line now. I have to tell him what to do.”

Vic drank more of the warm water, then sighed. It was going to be a long night. He was already thinking of what he would say to his lawyers.

“Should we maybe get our own team in there?”

Beldone pursed his lips, then shook his head.

“We’d have to get the guys together, plus the five-hour plane flight; not enough time, Vic. It’s Sonny’s show. Sonny and Glen Howell.”

“I can’t believe that chickenshit hasn’t called me. What’s he thinkin’, back there?”

“He’s thinking that if it goes south, he’s going to run. He’s probably more afraid of you than the Feds.”

“He should be.”

Vic sighed again, then went to the door. Forty years as the boss of the most powerful crime family on the East Coast had taught him to worry about the things he could control, and let other people worry about the things he couldn’t.

He stopped in the door and turned back to Jamie Beldone.

“Sonny Benza is an incompetent asshole, and so was his fuckin’ father.”

“The Mickey Mouse mob, Vic. Brain damage from all the tan.”

“If it goes south, Sonny Benza isn’t goin’ anywhere. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If they fuck this up, they gotta pay.”

“They’ll pay for it, skipper.”

“I’m goin’ to bed. You let me know if anything happens.”

“Yes, sir.”

Vic Castellano shuffled back to his bed, but could not sleep.