‘What was it that you wanted to ask me, Tony? Before we got started on shitty waiters.’
‘Just this. What’s the statute of limitations on murder?’
‘There is no statute of limitations on murder.’
‘And that’s precisely my point. Suppose Delano does decide to talk to the Feds?’
‘Take a chill pill, Tony. Delano’s no snitch.’
‘Hear me out Jimmy, like a good lawyer. Just suppose he does. For whatever reason. Let’s for the sake of argument assume that he holds my ass responsible for his period of incarceration. After all, jail does funny things to a man. Turns him queer. Makes him vengeful. Maybe he wants to take my quarter-mill and my liberty with it. I mean, what’s to stop him? Just answer me that, will ya?’
‘He probably holds me more responsible than anyone,’ shrugged Figaro. ‘After all, it was me representing him before that jury. But he isn’t going to do it, Tony.’
‘No, no, we’re not talking predictive sequences here. We’re addressing a hypothetical situation. You understand? Like we was two philosophers in a Roman sauna bath. What is there in the way of hard facts that enables us to say that it won’t ever happen that Dave Delano won’t decide to snitch? Wait, wait. I thought of something. Suppose he does something wrong. A crime. And the cops arrest him. His ass is going down for it. But he might not want to do any more time. And who could blame the guy after five years in the joint? Not me, for sure. But maybe, knowing this, the Feds figure to scare him into telling them what he shoulda told ’em in the first place. Trade his ass for mine.’
Nudelli slapped the table hard like he was killing a fly just as the maitre d’ arrived bearing two pecan pies.
‘What’s to stop him doing that, huh, Jimmy?’
‘Here we are Mister Nudelli. Pecan pie.’
‘Thanks Louis.’
‘My pleasure, sir. Enjoy.’
‘Well, when you put it as coldly as that Tony—’
‘I do put it as coldly as that, in a frosted glass with ice in it. What’s to stop him, eh?’
Figaro gouged a piece of pie onto his fork, but he left it lying on his plate for a moment.
‘Nothing. Except maybe he’s more afraid of you than he is of the cops.’
Nudelli raised his large hairy hands into the air and gestured in a way that reminded Figaro of the Pope benevolently greeting the faithful from the balcony of St Peter’s on Christmas Day. But the lawyer could see that there was nothing particularly benevolent about the way this conversation was headed.
‘You see? Maybe. We’re back with uncertainty again. You put your finger right on it, Jimmy. Maybe. Now put yourself in my position. I gotta family to look after, a business to run, people whose livelihoods depend on me.’ He sighed with loud exasperation and forked a piece of pie into his mouth. ‘You know what the problem is here? Language. The corruption of the fuckin’ language. Words don’t mean what they used to because of all the fuckin’ minorities we gotta tiptoe around — like we can’t say this and we can’t say that — and because of all the politicians who use language to say nothing at all. I give you a for instance, Jimmy. A guy says to a girl "Will you let me fuck you?" Now if she says "Maybe", you know it’s a real possibility. But if you were to say to some politician, "Will you build more schools and more hospitals if we vote you into office?" and he says "Maybe", then you know for sure that he ain’t gonna do it. For him, maybe means never. You see what I’m saying?’
Figaro was not sure that he did. There were times when he thought Tony Nudelli one of the sharpest clients he had, and others when he thought him as dumb as daytime TV. This extended thought had left Figaro wondering what Nudelli’s original point had been. But he nodded anyway and said: ‘Yeah, sure.’ He decided to try and steer the conversation to a different conclusion from the one he feared Nudelli still had in his malicious old mind.
‘You want me to have a word with Delano, Tony? Impress upon him the absolute necessity of keeping his mouth shut? He’s coming by the offices tomorrow to talk about some things. I can straighten him out then if you want me to.’
‘Willy Barizon,’ said Nudelli, shaking his head.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s half-brother of Tommy Rizzoli. The guy you put out of the ice business.’
Figaro smiled uncomfortably.
‘Tony, I advised him to sell the business in order that he might avoid a prison sentence, that’s all.’
‘Same thing. Anyway, I’m gonna get Willy to go and talk to Delano.’
‘Are you gonna whack him?’
Nudelli looked pained.
‘You should eat some of this pie. It’s the best.’
Figaro lifted the fork to his mouth. He had to admit it was good.
‘I hate to hear my attorney use a word like that,’ Nudelli said stiffly. ‘But no, I am not going to whack him. I just want Delano reminded, forcibly reminded, that he should still fear me.’ He licked his lips and then wiped his mouth with a napkin. ‘I think maybe I want something sweet to drink, with my dessert. A glass of Muscat maybe. You like Muscat?’
Figaro shook his head.
‘Now where’s that cocksucker got to?’ he grumbled, looking around for the waiter. He stared back at Figaro. "Sides, I’d like to know more about these new friends of his before I even think of whackin’ him. I heard he shared a cell with some Ivan while he was in Homestead. And that this Ivan has some important New York connections. I’d hate to whack Delano and find myself with those Russian bastards comin’ after me. They like killing people. I think they like killing people more than they like making money. Well, blood will out I guess. Killing’s in their history. Making money never was.’
‘The room-mate’s name was Einstein Gergiev,’ reported Figaro. ‘People called him Einstein because he was a former physicist and computer guy before becoming involved with the Russian rackets. And then here in Florida.’
‘Clever son of a bitch, huh?’
‘He had some twin town scam going with the two cities.’
‘Which two cities?’
‘The two St Petersburgs.’
‘The one on the Gulf of Mexico I heard of, but where’s the other?’
‘In Russia. Northern Russia.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It was quite a fraud, I hear. Cost the city of St Petersburg, the one in Florida, several million dollars.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Anyway, Gergiev was released six months ago and deported back to Russia. But I didn’t know he was connected in New York.’
‘All Russian wiseguys, the Redfellas, are connected there. Brighton Beach. You should see it. Fuckin’ Russkie home from home. Little Odessa they call it. Connected there in New York or in Israel. Tel Aviv. Half of them Jews that left Russia are connected. That’s how they got the money to get out in the first place.’ Nudelli shrugged. ‘I got this cousin in Tampa. Maybe he can find out something about this Eisenstein redfella. Where’s Delano staying?’
‘He said he was going to check into the Bal Harbor Sheraton.’
‘That’s a nice beach hotel. Classy. These days you can forget the Fontainebleau.’
Nudelli straightened in his chair. The waiter was in his sights.
‘Hey you, Elijah. C’mere.’
Seeing Tony Nudelli, the waiter backed toward the door of the restaurant like a quarterback searching out one of his receivers. Seconds later he was out of the door and running through the old world Mediterranean courtyard in the direction of Biscayne Bay.
‘Jesus,’ laughed Nudelli. ‘Whad I fuckin’ say?’
Chapter Five
Dave had missed the ocean, even one as busy with people and boats as the one off Miami Beach. Sandwiched between the pale blue sky, and the pink rock dust that passed for sand, the gray snakeskin-colored sea rolled toward him in white scribbles of water. In Homestead he had often imagined having this view again. But it was not his regained sight of the ocean that served to underscore his freedom, but its accompanying salty smell and visceral, breathy sound. He had forgotten that part. Back inside the four walls of his hotel suite, luxurious though it was, it had been all too easy to conjure the nightmare of being in his cell again, in the same way that an amputee could still feel the severed limb. He had only to close his eyes and listen to the air-conditioned silence. But here on the beach, with its sounds and the smells thrusting in upon his consciousness, the feel of the wind in his neatly cut hair, and the late afternoon sun warming his smoothly shaven face like the hot plate of a giant stove, it was impossible to mistake his surroundings for anything but the outside world. Dave lay on his beach towel and breathed deep from the sky above him. He didn’t even read. His other neglected senses wouldn’t allow him to concentrate on anything but where he was and what that meant. A few days’ relaxation in Bal Harbor would help him to begin dismantling the walls inside his head. After that he could go to work.