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.
Willy 'Four Breakfasts' Barizon got his nickname from the time when he ate four whole cooked breakfasts -- two eggs sunny side up, two strips of bacon, a sausage and hash browns each -- in a Denny's on Lincoln Avenue. A little over six foot three, he weighed around 230 pounds in his shorts and 250 when he was dressed, the extra twenty being mostly referable to the two handguns he wore underneath his loose, Hawaiian style shirt. His tongue was a couple of sizes too large for his face, which meant he spoke out of the side of his wet-looking mouth as if he still had one of the breakfasts pouched in the other cheek, like a chaw. His black hair was naturally curly although the cut made it look as if he'd just had a permanent, with small dreadlocks that hung loosely over the tops of his elephantine ears, like a Hasidic Jew's. With a passing resemblance to a budget-sized giant, Willy Barizon was a hard man to miss. Besides, it was a while since he had done this kind of work, and he had forgotten how to be subtle. The ice-trucking business had been all front. Looking tough when you turned up to collect was nearly all you needed to know. It was rare that you actually had to smack someone.
Dave made Willy the minute he saw him. Or rather, he made the look the big man received from the bell-boy when Dave came out of the hotel restaurant and asked the front desk to send the fax he had written out in neat Cyrillic capitals while having his dinner. Five years of watching his ass in Homestead had given Dave eyes in the back of his head. The bell-boy might as well have shot a neon arrow into the big man's chest. 'There's your mark. Go get him.'
Dave stepped into an elevator car alongside a woman with hair as tall as a chefs hat. What was it with Miami women and big hair? With one eye on this confection of hair and the wizened doll beneath it, he pressed his floor button and stood back in the car as the woman selected her own floor. Then she moved to one side as Willy joined them. It was a second or two before he thought to press a button himself, which more or less confirmed Dave's suspicion that the big guy had been waiting to follow Dave up to his room. But the question of motive still eluded him. Not a cop, that much was certain. A cop would have pinched him in the lobby. And for what? Suspicion Grand Theft Auto? As the doors slid shut, Dave turned toward Willy Barizon and held out his left wrist to display the watch he had bought in the Bal Harbor Mall that same