“What’s the matter, Nelson?” Sergio asked. “Don’t tell me this newspaper scribbling scares you.”
“I think you’re taking this much too lightly,” his lawyer replied. “We can’t afford to make any mistakes that could threaten our key connections.”
“What are you trying to say?” Sergio’s ice-blue eyes seemed to pierce van Mieren. Nelson shuddered. It was inconceivable to imagine what would happen if someone who really knew something decided to get out. Vincent Levy, for example. Would he risk the reputation of his bank by publicly supporting Sergio? Never! Levy was a businessman, and he wasn’t Italian. He was a Jew. If push came to shove, he would switch sides to ensure his own survival. But it was pointless to argue with Sergio because he refused to accept any reality but his own. Nelson realized that Sergio had stopped heeding his advice a long time ago.
“Nothing,” he said, “you’re right. Chances are that no one will still be talking about this in a few days.”
Sergio smiled.
“Nelson, my old friend, you’re not going to lose your nerve on me, are you? Speculation over whether I have something to do with the Mafia is less damaging than the testimony of a man who knows facts and figures. The dust around Zuckerman will settle, and then the bootlickers from politics, justice, and the administration will return. Ancient human greed has always bound them to me.”
He stood up and stared out the window. Even if they avoided him for a while, they would never revoke their loyalty. One person who had planned on doing so was now lying stiff and cold in the morgue at the Department of Forensic Medicine. Sergio Vitali was no one to mess with.
“What about the woman?”
Sergio looked at Nelson in surprise.
“Alex?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing. What about her?”
“Is she on your side?”
“I don’t know.” Sergio shrugged his shoulders. “She does her job, and she does it well. I don’t talk about my business with her.”
Nelson breathed a sigh of relief. He had secretly feared that Sergio had given in to weakness and let her in on his secret business deals.
“Are you worried that I would risk everything because of a woman?” Sergio laughed out loud.
“Well,” Nelson replied, “after all, you toyed with the idea of confiding in her.”
“But I decided against it. It was a sentimental moment. It passed.”
He sat down at his desk again, but the smile had vanished from his face and made way for a grim expression.
“Get me McIntyre on the phone,” he said to Nelson. “I’d better talk to him before he flips out.”
“Sergio!” Paul McIntyre exclaimed in a low voice that had the sound of sheer panic. “Have you read the paper?”
He didn’t hear the typical arrogance in McIntyre’s voice.
“Yes,” Sergio replied, “I have. Is there something in it that should interest me?”
“Jesus.” McIntyre lowered his voice to a nervous whisper. “Zuckerman is dead! No more investigation committee! Kostidis is mad as hell, and now they’ll certainly come after me.”
“Nonsense. Who would come after you?”
“The US attorney, Kostidis—who knows!”
“Nobody will come, Paul, I can promise you that. Now calm down. I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Calm down!” McIntyre laughed desperately. “The entire city is standing on its head, and you tell me to calm down!”
“How was your vacation?” Sergio leaned back into a comfortable position in his chair; he put his feet up on the reflective top of his mahogany desk. “Was everything arranged to your liking?”
McIntyre instantly got the hint. He hesitated for a moment; then his voice sounded calmer.
“Of course. It was perfect, as usual. My wife even went diving.”
“I’m glad. I hope that she spent a lot of money.”
“Hmm…yes…”
“I heard that another little tidy sum has been transferred to your account in Georgetown.”
“Great.” McIntyre was still tense, but he had himself under control again.
“Paul,” Sergio said, “I need a favor. A friend of mine has a small problem.”
The buildings commissioner was silent. These words coming from Vitali were familiar and were meant as anything but a request. However, Vitali rewarded those who did him favors royally. McIntyre was aware of that. He’d complied for the first time with one of Vitali’s requests about fifteen years ago, when he was a clerk at the Department of Buildings, and he had never regretted it. He was able to send his kids to private schools instead of the run-down public schools, and his family vacationed at hotels Vitali owned throughout the world. In addition, they were always treated as if they were Vitali’s close relatives. McIntyre had by now added a respectable chunk to his retirement savings. Although he still needed to be careful not to live beyond his means, he would retire in luxury.
“So what can I do for you?”
“Charlie Rosenbaum is having problems with his new skyscraper on Fifty-Second Street,” Sergio began.
“For heaven’s sake! God knows that I can’t do anything about that! The mayor himself just asked last week whether Rosenbaum had applied for a retroactive permit.”
Sergio felt the hot anger rise up in him whenever he heard of this man. Kostidis! Didn’t he have enough work on his hands without assuming the jobs of the attorney general and the buildings commissioner?
“And?” He forced himself to remain calm. “Did he?”
“No.”
“See? Go ahead and issue a permit for him now. Kostidis has other things on his mind at the moment and won’t ask again for a while.”
“Impossible!”
“I’m not familiar with that word, Paul.”
“This could cost me my job.”
“I’ve promised my friend I’d put a good word in for him.”
Rosenbaum had offered Sergio two magnificently run-down apartment buildings in Morrisania and Hunts Point at a truly special price in return for his help as an intermediary with the Department of Buildings. Of course, Rosenbaum couldn’t possibly know that these areas of the South Bronx were earmarked as priority redevelopment projects in city hall. In a few years, perhaps even sooner, these properties would be worth hundreds or even thousands of times more after the decrepit apartment buildings were demolished. Sergio owed this information to his absolute favorite informer sitting right in Kostidis’s office. This informer made up for all the trouble Sergio had with the mayor. A strange twist of fate had made Zachary St. John’s old college friend a member of Nick Kostidis’s inner circle. It was easy enough for Sergio to recruit the unhappy man with St. John’s help. In addition to regular payments, Sergio promised he would support his ambitious political aspirations. Thinking about this made Sergio smile in satisfaction. He had an eye and an ear directly in the mayor’s office. He’d never before had a mole that far up the ladder in city hall. Whatever Kostidis did, Sergio was immediately informed about everything and able to take countermeasures, if necessary. Without a doubt, the 107th mayor of New York City would go down in history as the least successful of them all.
“So, Paul, how about it?” Sergio asked. McIntyre sighed, and Sergio knew that he had won. The buildings commissioner argued a little for appearance’s sake.
“By the way,” Sergio said, playing his trump card, “I found that house your wife has been dreaming about for years. Right on the coast of Long Beach with an ocean view. It’s a real beauty, with its own dock and private beach.”
This eliminated any remaining doubts.
“Okay,” Paul McIntyre said, giving up his resistance, “tell Rosenbaum to call me.”
“You’re my friend, Paul.” Sergio tapped the miniature bronze Statue of Liberty on his desk with the toe of his shoe. “And you know that I never forget my friends.”