The Assassin

TWENTY-THREE

Matt woke instantly at the first ring of the telephone, and was instantly wide awake, and aware that he was in his armchair in the living room. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was quarter past eleven.

The telephone rang a second time. On the third ring, the answering machine would kick in.

Evelyn, of course. Who else? And Jesus, I don't want to talk to her!

He picked up the telephone a half second after the answering machine began to play his message.

He spoke over it. "I'm here. Hang on until the machine does its thing."

"Did I wake you up?" Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd asked.

"Yeah, but it's all right. What's up?"

"I thought if you didn't have anything better to do, you might want to put in some unpaid overtime."

No, as a matter of fact, I would not want to put in some overtime, paid or otherwise. But he wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.

"Sure. What's up?"

"Not to be repeated, okay?"

"Sure."

"I was not impressed with the two guys Olsen sent to relieve us at the airport. I know one of them, and he couldn't be trusted to follow an elephant down Broad Street."

"You want me to go out there? Lanza knows me."

"I thought about that. And decided it was worth the risk. But I wouldn't drive the Porsche."

Wohl doesn't know about this. If he did, he would tell me to stay at least five miles away from the airport.

As if he had read Mart's mind, O'Dowd said, "If there is any static, from Wohl especially, I'll take the heat. With a little bit of luck, no one will ever know about this but you and me. I'll be proven wrong about the guy I know."

"You'll have to explain that."

"If I'm wrong, and I hope I will be, the guys on Lanza will be able to follow him. If they can follow him, wherever he's going, fine, we'll hang it up. But if they lose him, which wouldn't be surprising, at midnight in that area, I want to be on him. Then I'll get on the radio and tell the other guys where he is."

"You want me to go with you?"

"No. I want both of us to follow him. That would have three people following him. I don't think all three of us would lose him. But if they did, and I did, and you didn't…"

"Okay. Where do I meet you?"

"There's an all-night diner on South Broad right across from the stadium. You know it?"

"Uh-huh."

"Twenty minutes?"

"I'll be there."

"Thanks, Matt. I've got one of those feelings about tonight."

"Twenty minutes," Matt repeated. "You still have Tony Harris's car?"

"Yeah," O'Dowd said, and hung up.

At ten minutes after eleven, Corporal Vito Lanza came out of the Airport Unit, went to the parking lot, unlocked his Cadillac, and entered the sparse stream of traffic leaving the airport in the direction of Philadelphia.

So did a four-year-old Pontiac, with two men in it; a new Ford sedan with one man in it; and a twelve-year-old Volkswagen driven by Detective M. M. Payne, who brought up the tail of the line.

Corporal Lanza took Penrose Avenue, sometimes known as Bridge Avenue, which carried him across the Schuylkill River to the stop light at the intersection of Pattison Avenue. Until this point, he had been driving in the left lane, and so had the Pontiac and the Ford. At the last moment, Corporal Lanza jerked the Cadillac into the right lane, and as the light turned red, he turned right onto Pattison Avenue.

The line of traffic closed up, and left the Pontiac and the Ford with no choice but to wait for the light to turn green again, with the hope that Corporal Lanza intended to get on South Broad Street, and that they could intercept him by following Penrose as it turns into Moyamensing Avenue, which angles to the right, and intersects South Broad Street at Oregon Avenue just north of Marconi Plaza.

Detective Payne, in the twelve-year-old Volkswagen, had not been able to get in line behind the Pontiac and the Ford in the left lane, and consequently was already in the right lane when Corporal Lanza abruptly moved into it.

He saw that the Pontiac and the Ford were trapped in the left lane, and thought, as the drivers of the Pontiac and the Ford did, that they could probably catch up with Lanza at South Broad and Oregon. But in the meantime, there was only one possible course of action for him to take, and he took it.

He drove the Bug onto the sidewalk, down the sidewalk to Pattison Avenue, and then down Pattison past the U.S. Naval Hospital and Franklin Delano Roosevelt Park to South Broad Street.

As he approached South Broad, as he saw Lanza's Cadillac turn left onto South Broad Street, the traffic light turned orange and then red. Matt ran it, which caused the horns of several automobiles to sound angrily. But he did not lose Lanza, even though Lanza was driving like hell.

Policemen tend to do that,Matt thought wryly, remembering his encounter with the State Trooper on the way to the Oaks and Pines Lodge,secure in the knowledge they are unlikely to get a ticket from a brother officer.

The traffic lights at first Oregon Avenue and then Snyder Avenue were green, permitting the Lanza Cadillac and the Payne Volkswagen to sail through without stopping. They were stopped at Passyunk Avenue and South Broad Street, however, which gave Detective Payne the opportunity to search in vain in his rearview mirror for either a Ford or a Pontiac.

Corporal Lanza turned left at the intersection of South Broad and Spruce Streets, and then wove his way around to the Penn-Services Parking garage, which he entered.

Detective Payne was familiar with the Penn-Services Parking garage, which was around the corner from the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel and not far from his apartment and the Union League Club. It was in the Penn-Services Parking garage that Mr. Anthony "Tony the Zee" DeZego had met his untimely end at the hand of assassin or assassins unknown. Where Matt found Miss Penelope Detweiler lying in a pool of her own blood.

Matt drove around the block until he saw Corporal Lanza come out of the building. Lanza did not look at the Volkswagen as it passed him.

Matt parked the Volkswagen illegally in an alley and ran down the alley and saw Lanza crossing a street. He followed him as discreetly as he could, very much afraid that Lanza would sense his presence and turn around.

But he didn't. He walked purposefully down a street and entered an apartment building. Matt looked around for a pay telephone but couldn' t see one.

He backtracked to the next block and found a tavern. He went inside, went to the phone booth, and searched his pockets futilely for coins. The bartender was visibly reluctant to make change for someone who didn't even buy a lousy beer, but finally came through.

Matt called Police Radio and asked the dispatcher to pass to William Five (Harris's radio call sign) his location.

Sergeant Jerry O'Dowd, in Tony Harris's Ford, pulled up in front of the tavern less than ten minutes later. Before he was completely out of the car, the Pontiac pulled up behind him, and two men Matt had never seen before got out of it.

"Lanza's in an apartment around the corner," Matt said to O'Dowd.

"Good man," O'Dowd said.

"Until you called me on the radio, O'Dowd, I didn't know you were in on this," one of the two men from the Pontiac said. He pointed at Matt. "Or him. He works for you?"

"Excuse me," O'Dowd said politely. "Sergeant Framm, Detective Pillare, this is Detective Payne."

Both men shook Matt's hand.

"It's a good thing we were, wouldn't you say, Framm?" O'Dowd asked. "You lost Lanza before you got to the Naval Hospital."

There was no doubt in Matt's mind that Sergeant Framm was the man O'Dowd would not trust to follow an elephant down Broad Street.

"I got caught in traffic…" Framm began.

"Nobody, Olsen or Wohl, has to know about this," O'Dowd interrupted. "Payne did not lose Lanza. Everything is fine."

"Yeah, well…Hell, all's well that ends well, right?"

"Show us the apartment, Matt," O'Dowd said, "and then you can get some sleep."

When Matt got back to the apartment, the red light on the answering machine was flashing.

"I knew you wouldn't call me back," Evelyn's recorded voice said. "What have I done wrong, Matt?"

Mssrs. Paulo Cassandro, Joseph Fierello, Francesco Guttermo, Ricco Baltazari, and Gian-Carlo Rosselli were sitting at a table at the end of the bar off the lobby of the Hotel Warwick.

Mr. Rosselli took an appreciative sip of his Ambassador 24 Scotch, set the glass delicately down on the marble tabletop, and consulted his Rolex Oyster wristwatch.

"It's almost one," he announced, and then inquired, "How long does it take to drive from the airport?"

"At this time of night," Frankie the Gut replied, "twenty minutes, thirty tops."

"You're saying you don't think he's coming here?" Mr. Cassandro asked.

"Do you see him?" Mr. Rosselli asked. He turned to Mr. Fierello. " Why don't you call your 'niece' and see if he's there?"

"I don't have the number."

"I got it," Mr. Baltazari said, and took a gold Parker ballpoint pen from his pocket, wrote a number inside a Hotel Warwick matchbook, and handed it to Mr. Fierello.

"That's right," Mr. Rosselli said, "I forgot. You know Joe's niece, don't you, Ricco?"

Mr. Fierello and Mr. Cassandro laughed, but it was evident that Mr. Baltazari did not consider the remark amusing.

Mr. Fierello got up from the table and went to one of the pay telephones in the lobby. He was back at the table in less than two minutes.

"He's there."

Mr. Rosselli nodded. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then nodded again. He stood up.

"Just in case, Ricco, I think you'd better give me the key to the apartment."

"You don't want me to go?"

"Paulo and I can handle it," Mr. Rosselli said. "And I wouldn't want that your jealousy should get in the way."

Mr. Cassandro and Mr. Guttermo laughed.

"Shit!" Mr. Baltazari said.

He removed a key from a ring and handed it to Mr. Rosselli.

"Take care of the bill, will you, Frankie?" Mr. Rosselli asked.

"My pleasure," Mr. Guttermo said.

Mr. Rosselli and Mr. Cassandro left the bar by the door leading directly to the street. They turned south.

"What do you want to do about the car, Carlo?" Mr. Cassandro asked.

"Leave it in the garage," Mr. Rosselli said, his tone suggesting the answer should have been evident. "Jesus, Paulo, you leave a car like a Jaguar on the street, you come back, it'll either be gone or there'll be nothing left but the windshield."

"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed, his tone suggesting that he regretted raising the question.

They walked to the apartment building in which Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer maintained her residence. There was a fouryear-old Pontiac parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street, but neither gentleman paid it more than cursory attention.

The interior lobby door was locked. Mr. Cassandro took a small, silver pocketknife, which was engraved with his initials, from his pocket, opened it, and slipped the blade into the lock. He then pushed open the door and held it for Mr. Rosselli to pass inside.

They took the elevator to the fifth floor, and walked down the corridor.

"Here it is," Mr. Cassandro said, stopping before the door to Apartment 5-F.

"Ring the bell," Mr. Rosselli ordered.

Sixty seconds later, Mrs. Antoinette Marie Wolinski Schermer, wearing a bathrobe, opened the door.

"Hi, ya, Tony," Mr. Rosselli said. "Sorry to disturb you. But we have to talk to Vito. Is he here?"

Mrs. Schermer looked distinctly uncomfortable. She stepped back from the door, and waited for them to come into the apartment, then closed the door after them.

"Yo, Vito! It's Gian-Carlo Rosselli. You there?"

"He's in the bedroom," Tony Schermer said. "Give him a minute."

"Take your time, Vito," Mr. Rosselli called cheerfully. "Put your pants on."

Mr. Cassandro chuckled.

"Can I offer you something?" Tony asked.

"You got a little Scotch and water, I wouldn't say no. Paulo?"

"Yeah, me too."

Tony went into the kitchen.

Corporal Lanza came out of the bedroom, which opened onto the living room, barefoot, wearing a T-shirt and his uniform trousers.

"Hey," he greeted his callers somewhat uncomfortably. "What's up?"

"Well, when you didn't show up at the Warwick, we figured, what the hell, we'll go see him. I hope we didn't interrupt anything?"

"Nah. The reason I didn't come over there-I wanted to-was I didn't have any decent clothes to change into at the airport, and I can't be seen drinking in uniform. They'd have my ass."

"I understand," Mr. Rosselli said. "Anyway, a cop would make the customers nervous."

"Yeah."

Tony came into the room carrying two glasses.

"Can I fix you one, honey?" Tony asked.

"Why not?" Vito replied.

There were several minutes of somewhat awkward silence while Tony went into the kitchen and made Vito a drink.

"Honey, there's no reason for you to lose your beauty sleep," Mr. Rosselli said. "We're just going to sit around and have a couple of shooters. Why don't you go to bed? When we need another, Vito'll make it. Right, Vito?"

"Right," Vito said.

"Okay, then," Tony said. "If you're sure you don't mind, Vito."

"Go to bed," Vito said.

When she had closed the door behind her, Mr. Rosselli said, "I like her. She's a nice girl, Vito."

"Yeah, Tony's all right," Vito agreed.

"Vito, I'm going to tell you something, and I hope you'll believe me," Mr. Rosselli said.

"Why shouldn't I believe you?"

"You should. When I asked you to come by the Warwick for a couple of shooters, a couple of laughs, that was all I had in mind. You believe me?"

"Absolutely. And I wanted to come, and if I had the clothes, I would have. Next time."

"Right. Next time," Mr. Rosselli said. "But between the time I seen you and the plumbers…what's all that going to cost you, by the way?"

"A fucking bundle is what it's going to cost me. Those bastards know they've got you by the short hair."

"Yeah, I figured. Well, what the hell are you going to do? You can bitch all you want, but in the end, you end up paying, right?"

"Right."

"Like I was saying, Vito, between the time I was at your house and tonight, something has come up. We got a little problem that maybe you can help us with."

"What kind of a problem?"

"You ever hear of the guy that broke the bank at Monte Carlo?" He waited until Vito nodded, and then went on: "We had a guy between nine o'clock and nine-fifteen tonight, that goddamned near broke the bank at Oaks and Pines."

"No shit?"

"Sonofabitch was drunk, which probably had a lot to do with it, a sober guy wouldn't have bet the way he did."

"Like how?"

"He was playing roulette. He bet a hundred, split between Zero and Double Zero. He hit. That gave him eighteen hundred. He let that ride. He hit again…"

"Jesus!"

"That gave him, what? Thirty thousand, thirty-two thousand, something like that."

Vito thought: Jesus Christ, that's the kind of luck I need!

He said, "I'll be goddamned!"

"Yeah," Mr. Rosselli agreed. "At that point, right, a good gambler, a goodsober gambler, would know it was time to quit, right?"

"You said it!"

"This guy let it ride," Mr. Rosselli said, awe in his voice.

"Don't tell me he hit again?"

"Okay, I won't tell you. With the kind of luck you've been having, it would be painful for you."

"He hit?" Vito asked incredulously.

"You understand how this works, Vito? Let me tell you how it works: A small place, like Oaks and Pines, it's not the Flamingo in Las Vegas, we have to have table limits."

"Sure," Vito said understandingly.

"On roulette, it's a thousand, unless the pit boss okays it, and then it's twenty-five hundred. Except:"

"Except what?"

"You can let your bet ride if you win," Mr. Rosselli explained. " You're a gambler, you understand odds. The chances of anybody hitting the same number twice in a row are enormous. And hitting it three times in a row? Forget it."

"Right," Vito said.

"The house understands the odds. And it would be bad business to tell the players when they're on a roll, that they can't bet no more, you understand?"

"I understand. Sure."

"By now, the pit boss is watching the action. They do that. That's what they're paid for, to make judgments, and to keep the games honest…you would be surprised, even being a cop, how many crooks try to hustle someplace like Oaks and Pines…"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Vito said solemnly.

"So the pit boss is watching when this guy hits three times in a row. And he knows he's not a crook. He's a rich guy, coal mines or something, from up around Hazleton. But when this guy says 'let it ride'…and he's got thirty-two thousand, thirty-three, something like that, the pit boss knows he can't make that kind of a decision, so he suspends play and calls Mr. Clark. You know Mr. Clark?"

Vito shook his head, no.

"Mr. Clark is the general manager of Oaks and Pines. Very fine guy. So the pit boss calls Mr. Clark, and Mr. Clark sees what's going on, and he makes his call. First of all, he knows that the odds against this guy making it four times in a row are like…like what? Like Paulo here getting elected pope. And this guy is a good customer, who'll be pissed if they tell him he can't make the bet. So he says, ' Okay.' Guess what?

"You won't believe it. Double Zero. It pays sixteen times the thirty-two, thirty-three big ones this guy has riding."

"Jesus!" Vito said, exhaling audibly.

"Can you believe this?" Mr. Cassandro asked rhetorically.

"So that's eighteen times thirty-three, which comes to what?"

"Five hundred big ones," Vito offered, making a rough mental calculation.

"Closer to six," Mr. Rosselli said.

One of these days, Vito thought, I'm going to get on a roll like that.

"So, as I understand it, this is what happened next," Mr. Rosselli went on. "Mr. Clark has just decided he cannot let this guy let six hundred big ones ride. Maybe the fucking wheel is broken. Maybe this is one of those things that happens. But Oaks and Pines can't cover a bet like that, and even if it means pissing this guy off, Mr. Clark is going to give him the money he's won: you understand, Vito, we have to do that. We run an absolutely honest casino operation. Mr. Clark has just decided to tell this guy he's sorry, that's all the casino can handle…"

"I understand."

"When the guy starts pulling all the chips toward him, Mr. Clark figures the problem has solved itself, so he don't say nothing. The biggest problem he figures he has is how to tell this guy that he don' t have six hundred big ones in cash in the house, and he's going to have to wait until tomorrow… you understand how that works, don't you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," Vito confessed.

"I'm surprised, you being a cop," Mr. Rosselli said. "But let me tell you. If there is a raid, by the local cops, the state cops, or the feds, and the feds are the ones that cause the trouble, they're always after gamblers when they should be out looking for terrorists… If there's a raid, they confiscate the equipment and whatever money they find. So naturally, you don't keep any more money around than you think you're going to need."

"Yeah," Vito said thoughtfully.

"I don't mind telling you how this works, because you're a good guy and we trust you. What we do up there is keep maybe fifty big ones in the cashier's cage. If somebody has a run of luck, and there's a big dent in the fifty, which sometimes happens, then we have more money someplace a couple of miles away. We send somebody for it. You understand?"

"Yeah, sure."

"In the other place, there's a lot of money. Two hundred big ones, at least. But not enough to pay off this character who's won six hundred big ones. You understand?"

"So what do you do?" Vito asked, genuinely curious.

"You know what the interest is on one hundred big ones a day?"

"What?"

"I asked if you ever thought how much the interest on a hundred thousand dollars is by the day?"

"No," Vito said, now sounding a little confused.

"A lot of money," Mr. Rosselli said seriously. "And on a million, it's ten times that a lot of money."

"Right."

"So keeping two hundred thousand around in a safe, without getting no interest, is one thing, it's the cost of doing business. But a million dollars is something else. You can't afford to keep a million dollars sitting around in a safe someplace not earning no interest, just because maybe someday you're going to need it. Right?"

"Right," Vito replied.

"My glass's got a hole in it or something," Mr. Rosselli said. " You suppose I could have another one of these, Vito?"

"Absolutely. Excuse me, I should have seen it was empty."

"Get Paulo one too, if you don't mind. He looks dry."

Vito took the glasses and went into the kitchen and made fresh drinks.

He wondered for a moment what Gian-Carlo Rosselli wanted from him, wondered if despite what he had said at the house about not having to worry about making the markers good, he was here to tell him that had changed and he wanted the money, but that was quickly supplanted by the excitement of thinking about this guy at Oaks and Pines who had hit four times in a row.

Jesus Christ, winning six hundred big ones in four, five minutes! If I had that kind of luck, I could get my own place somewhere, maybe in Bucks County. And have enough left over to invest, so there would be a check every month, and I wouldn't have to raise a finger.

He carried the drinks back into Tony's living room. Gian-Carlo Rosselli had moved to the couch, and now had his feet up on the cocktail table. Vito, after a moment's hesitation, sat down beside him.

"I was telling you about this guy who hit his number four times in a row," Mr. Rosselli said.

"Yeah. I sure could use a little of that kind of luck."

"Yeah, you could," Mr. Rosselli said significantly. "Luck's been running against you, hasn't it? How much are you down? You mind my asking?"

"No. I don't mind. I'm down about twelve big ones."

"What the hell, it happens, but twelve thousand is a lot of money, isn't it? And what are your markers?"

"I think it's four thousand," Vito said, hoping that it looked as if it was unimportant to him, and that he had to think a moment before he could come up with the figure.

"Yeah, right. Four thousand," Mr. Rosselli said. "Pity it's not a hell of a lot more. We could call them, and pay off the million two we owe the guy at the Oaks and Pines."

"Million two?" Vito asked. "I thought you said he won six hundred big ones."

Mr. Rosselli looked as if he were surprised for a moment, and then said, "No. It's a million two."

"You said the general manager cut him off," Vito said.

"Mr. Clark. What I said, I guess I stopped before I was finished, was that Mr. Clarkwas going to cut him off, but when he started collecting his chips, he figured he didn't have to. And then the guy changed his mind…"

"He bet six hundred big ones?"

"No. Just the bet. Just the thirty-two thousand whatever it was. He took the nearly six hundred thousand off the table, and then said, 'One more time, just to see what happens' and bet the thirty-two thousand."

"Don't tell me he won?"

"He won. Which meant another nearly six hundred thousand we owed him. Altogether, it comes to a million two."

"And then the manager shut him off?"

"Then the guy said he was going to quit when he was ahead."

"And walked out with a million two?"

"No. He's a good customer. He knows how it works, and he sure didn't want to take a check. You pass a check for that kind of money through a bank, and the IRS is all over you."

"Yeah," Vito said. "So what did Mr. Clark do?"

"He took the croupier out in the woods and shot him in the ear," Mr. Rosselli said, smiling broadly.

Mr. Cassandro laughed appreciatively.

"Kidding, of course," Mr. Rosselli went on. "No, what Mr. Clark did was make a couple of phone calls to get the money."

"I thought you said there was only a couple of hundred big ones in the other place," Vito asked.

'There was," Mr. Rosselli replied, and then asked, "Vito, what do you know about offshore banks?"

"Not a hell of a lot," Vito confessed.

"The thing they got going for them is their banking laws," Mr. Rosselli explained. "They don't have to tell the fucking IRS anything. How about that?"

"I heard something about that," Vito said. "Fuck the IRS."

"You said it. So what happens is that if you have to have, say, a couple of million dollars where you can get your hands on it right away, instead of a safe, where it don't earn no interest, you put it in an offshore bank, where it does. Understand?"

"Yeah," Vito said appreciatively.

"So Mr. Clark makes the telephone calls, and says he needs a million two right away to pay a winner, and it's set up. It's really no big deal, it happens all the time, not a million two, but five, six hundred big ones. Once a month, sometimes once a week. It goes the other way too, of course. Some high roller drops a bundle, and we put moneyin the offshore banks."

"Yeah, sure," Vito replied.

"But this time, we run into a little trouble," Mr. Rosselli said.

"No million two in the bank?" Vito asked with a smile.

"That's not the problem. The problem is moving the money. A million two is twelve thousand hundred-dollar bills. That's alot of green paper. You can't get that much money in an envelope, and drop it in a mailbox."

Vito tried to form a mental image of twelve thousand one-hundreddollar bills. He couldn't remember whether there were fifty or one hundred bills in one of those packages of money with the paper band around them. But either way, it was a hell of a lot of paper stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills.

"So what we have is people who carry the money for us," Mr. Rosselli said. "I guess, you're a cop, you know all about this?"

"No," Vito said honestly. "I figured it had to be something like that, but this is the first time I really heard how it works."

"It's a problem, finding the right people for that job," Mr. Rosselli said. "First of all, you don't hand a million dollars to just anybody. And then, with IRS and Customs watching-they're not stupid, they know how this is done-you can't use the same guy all the time, you understand?"

"I can see how that would work," Vito said.

"Anyway, the way it usually works, we take the money out of the bank, offshore, and give it to one of our guys, and he goes to Puerto Rico, and gets on the plane to Philly, and somebody meets him and takes the bag."

"Yeah," Vito said.

"The problem we have is that we think that IRS is watching the only guy we have available," Mr. Rosselli said.

"Oh," Vito said.

"So the way those IRS bastards work it is they make an anonymous telephone call, anonymous my ass, to either Customs or the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, and tell them somebody, they give a description of our guy, is smuggling drugs. So when he's picking up his bag at the carousel, they search his bag. The Narcotics guys don't have to have the same, what do you call it, probable cause, that other cops do. You know what I mean."

"Probable cause," Vito said. "You need it to get a search warrant."

"Well, they don't need that. They can just search your bags, ' looking for drugs.' They don't find no drugs, of course, but they do find all that money."

"And then what happens? You lose the money?"

"No. Nothing like that. It's just a big pain in the ass, is all. They take it, of course. And then you have to go to court and swear you won it gambling in Barbados or someplace. And you have to pay a fine for not declaring you have more than ten thousand in cash on you, and then you have to pay income tax on the money. Gambling income is income, as I guess you know."

"Yeah, right. The bastards."

"But there's no big deal, like if they caught somebody smuggling drugs or something illegal. The worst that can happen is that they keep the money as long as they can, and you have to pay the fine."

Mr. Rosselli took a sip of his drink.

"Vito, you got anything against making a quick ten big ones?" Mr. Rosselli asked.

Vito looked at him, but did not reply.

"The four you owe us on the markers, and six in cash. It'd pay for your plumbing problem."

"I don't understand," Vito said softly, after a moment.

"Now, we don't know for a fact that this is going to happen," Mr. Rosselli said. "But let's just say that the IRS does know our guy who will have the million two in his suitcase. And let's just say they do make their anonymous fucking telephone call to Customs or the Narcotics cops, giving them his description and flight number. Now, we don'tknow that's going to happen, but we're businessmen, and we have to plan for things like that."

"Yeah," Vito said softly.

"So what would happen? They would wait for him at the baggage carousel and search his bags, right?"

"Right. I've seen them do that. Sometimes they call it a random search."

"Right."

"So they search his bags and find the money, and we have to go through the bullshit of paying the fine and the income tax on a million two. And also have to get another million two out of the bank to pay the guy in the Poconos. Right?"

"Yeah, I understand."

"So, I figured we could help each other. We don't want to take the chance of having to go through the bullshit thatmight happen. Including paying the IRS tax on a million two of gambling earnings. And you need money for your fucking plumbing, and to make good the four big ones you owe us."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just make sure when our guy's airplane lands at Philadelphia, one of his bags don't make it to the carousel. There will be nothing in his other bag but underwear,if and I keep saying,if they search it."

Mr. Rosselli paused.

"Look, Vito, we know you're a cop and an honest cop. We wouldn't ask you to do nothingreally against the law, something that would get you in trouble with the Department. But you got a problem, we got a problem, and I thought maybe we could help each other out. If you think this is something you wouldn't want to do, just say so, and that'll be it. No hard feelings."

Vito Lanza looked first at Mr. Rosselli and then at his hands, and then back at Mr. Rosselli.

"How would I know which bag?" he asked, finally.

"Jesus, Carlo," Mr. Cassandro said to Mr. Rosselli as they left the apartment building. "I got to hand it to you. You played him like a fucking violin!"

"That did go pretty well, didn't it?" Mr. Rosselli replied. "And he wants in. That's a lot better than having to show him the photographs and the Xeroxes and all that shit."

"Yeah," Mr. Cassandro agreed.

"It's always better," Mr. Rosselli observed philosophically, "to talk people into doing something. If it's their idea, they don't change their minds."

Neither Mr. Rosselli nor Mr. Cassandro noticed that the four-yearold Pontiac was still parked halfway down the block on the other side of the street.