"Come this way, Mr. Brindelli," he said, leading us through the thickly carpeted office to a solid oak door in the back. This door was thick-paneled white oak mounted on heavy brass hinges. It looked bullet-proof. I found out later it was. The attendant heaved it open and it hissed against the hydraulic closer.
We found ourselves in a large, dimly lighted club room that was plush indeed. Burgundy pile carpeting. Walnut bookcases. Brass and pewter sconce lights. Leather club chairs. Ten-man walnut conference table with club chairs neatly arranged. Illuminated globe. It could have been the Harvard Club, except it was newer.
"Gee Joe, this is really tweedy. Veddy British."
"Yeah. Too bad it's High Sicilian. Listen, you're to be my man in, this little visit. My witness. My second. Capish? Keep your eyes and ears open, and your mouth shut afterwards. Capish?"
We sat down in two of the leather club chairs. The guy who showed us in, the Sorcerer's Apprentice, asked us if we cared for anything to drink. I asked him if he could fix me a dry Beefeater on the rocks. He said no problem, took Joe's order, and oiled off. '
"He's not even Italian, Joe; he looks like a Swede or somethin."
"Oh yeah. The big guys always hire WASPy help. That peon's probably a Yaley."
"Uh, Joe? Would you mind explaining-"
"Not now. It'll be quick, I promise. just keep your eyes and ears open, mouth shut."
I sipped my drink. A polished rosewood door swung open and a tall, distinguished-looking man oozed forward on the thick carpet.
"Mr. Brindelli?" he said in a silken voice. "And Mr. Adams?"
We stood and shook hands with the man.
"I am Bernard Aldorfer, Mr. Tescione's personal assistant. We are honored by your visit, gentlemen. Mr. Tescione is in a brief meeting and will be with you shortly."
I had heard the name Tescione mentioned more than once by Joe. I had also heard it on television, read it in the papers.
"Ehhh… Mr. Tescione wishes me to ascertain the precise nature of your enquiry, Mr. Brindelli, so that, ehhh… he may be of more service to you in the short time he has at his disposal."
Joe leaned forward and looked into Aldorfer's eyes.
"Tell him it has to do with Carmen DeLucca," he said quietly.
Mr. Aldorfer's eyebrows went up; he slid the soles of his wing-tip brogues nervously on the burgundy pile carpeting.
"I, ehh… see. Well, I shall go and inform Mr. Tescione then. We won't keep you waiting much longer."
"You both are very kind," said Joe. I could see he meant it sincerely. I leaned over and whispered to him. We were alone in the big club room except for the flunky with the J.D. from Yale, who was keeping an eye on us from the entrance hall. But I thought the place might be bugged, so I whispered.
"But I thought you hated Tescione and all he stands for. You keep saying he's a disgrace to Italian-Americans. That he-"
"Yeah yeah, I know. But right now I need him; I need to muddy my feet a little. just keep-"
"I know: eyes and ears open, mouth shut."
He nodded in silence and the rosewood door swung open again. Mr. Aldorfer came forward, making as much noise as a cat, and requested that we accompany him. I set down the half-finished drink (the way they poured them, it had to remain half-finished if I wanted to walk) and followed Joe's wide form through I the rosewood door.
We entered a dark and narrow hall. Stairs rose at the end of it. As we began to climb a faint beeper went off. Mr. Aldorfer apologized and requested that we accompany him back into the club room, which we did.
"I'm terribly sorry, gentlemen, but one of you- perhaps you, Mr. Brindelli- seems to be in possession of, ehhh… some sort of firearm. Correct?"
"Oh, I forgot," said Joe, drawing back his coat and producing his nine-millimeter Beretta. "Was on a stakeout; I don't usually carry a gun. Here." He removed the magazine and snapped back the slide, flinging out the chambered round, and then handed the empty gun to Aldorfer, who carried it over to a cabinet with a look of fear and distaste, as if it were a black mamba.
"Don't be fooled by that," whispered Joe. "He's probably trained to pump the whole clip into a twelve-inch circle at sixty feet."
We tried the stairway again and this time reached the top. In the upstairs hall a man sat in a big leather chair. There was none of the Ivy League about this fellow. He sat in a big chair because he needed it. And he wasn't a WASP either. He looked like Primo Camera. He glanced up at us as we walked by. His expression was totally blank. Aldorfer knocked at the third and final door, and opened it. We went in.
It was dark inside. The only illumination came from a desk lamp that threw a small circle of yellow light down on the desk top, and from the skyline of Boston and the harbor that was visible as a panorama through the wide plate-glass windows that swept around two sides of the spacious office. I was told later that the glass was bullet-proof. The tall man sat silhouetted against the city lights. The setting seemed appropriate, I thought, for a man of great power and perhaps, metaphorically speaking, a man of darkness.
He rose and shook hands with us. His grip was firm; the hand was wide, strong, and dry. I was looking dead level into the face of Paul Tescione, fourteenth most powerful underworld figure in America and the world. He was very handsome. If an Italian man can keep his hair and stay thin, he is usually good-looking. Tescione was as thin as Jacques Cousteau, with strong, sharp features, dark skin, and snow-white hair. His suit was cut perfectly in the European style, but not flashy. He looked like an ad out of GQ.
We sat down, Joe and Paul facing each other across the wide desk, with me on Joe's right and Aldorfer on Tescione's right. It was a little like a chess game. Joe and Paul would be the caporegimes, the warlords, and Aldorfer and I were the consiglieri, or counselors who were to sit in on any important meeting for protection and to listen carefully so that afterward, in discussions and decision making, we could clarify points, remember details. It was very Old World. It seemed to me like a pretty good system.
Tescione broke into a wide grin that revealed perfect teeth and a touch of gold work on his upper bicuspid. He slapped his palms gently but decisively down on the desk.
"So! Carmen DeLucca. Tell us about Carmen DeLucca, Mr. Brindelli."
"He's alive. You knew that didn't you?" said Joe.
"I have heard that. Very, very recently I have heard that."
"Okay," said Joe softly. "Well it's true. He didn't die down in Jersey. He's alive and he's been up here. Now I came here tonight to ask you something and to tell you something, okay?"
"'Okay," said Tescione, his eyes never leaving Joe. I don't think he had blinked in two minutes.
"Friday before last, Andy Santuccio was murdered up in Lowell."
Tescione's eyes blinked and fluttered down briefly to gaze at the desk top before returning to Joe.
"I know. I was at his funeral; God rest his soul."
"The same people who killed him killed another friend of mine, and a friend of the doctor's here too. The man who killed Andy is Carmen DeLucca."
Tescione's eyes widened slightly. He put his palms back down on the desk top and leaned over close to Joe, still looking him square in the eye.
"We know he killed him," Joe continued. "We have laboratory proof. Now what I wish to ask you is, do you know who had DeLucca kill Andy?"
"No. But I do know one thing."