Inside Job Page 16
As he drove down the winding road through the woods, he wondered how Laganello, Hardesty, and Ricci were doing.
Chapter Twenty
Laganello drove south on Interstate 5 from Los Angeles to Laguna Beach in his new Mercedes-Benz sedan. He wore faded blue jeans and a yellow short-sleeved shirt. The sun was bright and the sky was clear. He passed the industrial towns of Irvine and Costa Mesa with their industrial stink and then he saw the hills of Orange County.
Turning off the big Interstate highway, he drove over a narrow road that wound through the Laguna hills. High up on the hills were housing developments where the prosperous local people lived in spacious stucco homes designed in the style of Mediterranean villas. Everything looked new and clean, so different from the filth of Manhattan’s West Side. Maybe after a while he’d move his family down here from the place they had in Santa Monica. He was glad to be in California. He’d always wanted to live here.
He came to a stoplight, and beyond it he could see the Pacific Ocean. Yes, his kids would love it here. So would he. Turning left when the light went green, he continued a few miles down the road until he came to a modern shopping center landscaped with palm trees. It looked like a Spanish mission. Crossing the highway, he drove into the shopping center, found a parking spot, and got out of his car. He didn’t bother to lock it. That wasn’t necessary in Laguna Beach.
He walked toward the Paloma Bank, nestled in a corner of the shopping center. Entering, he was struck by its difference from New York banks, which were filled with pale people who looked down and out. The folks in the Paloma Bank wore expensive resort clothes, and were tanned and relaxed. They looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, and they didn’t. It seemed almost incredible to Laganello that a place like Laguna Beach could exist in the same country as New York City.
The walls of the bank were covered with paintings, for Laguna Beach had an art colony. He walked to the section of desks where the loan officers were, and stopped before the desk of an attractive blonde woman with a beautiful suntan.
“I’d like to see Joseph Tramantano,” Laganello said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes.”
She picked up her phone, pressed a button, and murmured into it. Then she hung up and looked at Laganello. “His office is through that door back there.”
Laganello walked between the rows of desk to the door, opened it, and entered a sparkling office area. He found a receptionist and told her he had an appointment with Joseph Tramantano. She pointed to another door. He knocked on it and a man told him to come in.
Tramantano sat behind his desk, a spidery man in a tan suit, white shirt, red tie. He had a thin mustache, black hair, and big ears. Laganello shook hands with him and took a seat in front of his desk.
“What can I do for you?” Tramantano said.
“A friend of mine in New York said you might be able to help me with a problem I’m having.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“ Dino Santucelli.”
Tramantano narrowed his eyes. “How do you know Santucelli?”
“I come from his neighborhood in Brooklyn. We grew up together.”
“What’s the problem you want to see me about?”
“I got some dirty money that I want to have cleaned. Santucelli said you could tell me how to go about it.”
“How much you got?”
“ A million bananas
Tramantano whistled. “That’s a lot of bananas.”
“Sure is.”
“Where’d it come from?”
“A robbery.”
“What robbery?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“You’d better say, otherwise I won’t know how to clean it.”
“Have you heard about the robbery at police headquarters in New York?”
“Sure.”
“That’s where it came from.”
Tramantano smiled appreciatively. “That was a big job.”
“The biggest.”
“So you used to be a cop, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“How come?”
“After I got out of the Army, I didn’t feel like getting an ordinary job, and I didn’t want to go into the rackets either.”
“Looks like you’re in them now.”
“Looks that way.”
“Where’s the money now?”
“In my house.”
“You’ve got to get it out of there.”
“Where should I put it?”
“Here.”
“Under whose name?”
“Under a special numbered account known only to you and a few of us here. The account draws no interest, and in fact, you gotta pay us interest. Ten percent a year.”
“That’s a big cut.”
“No it isn’t. Not when you consider that it’s safe in a bank instead of your closet.”
“How do I get it here?”
“We’ll pick it up in one of our trucks.”
“An armored truck?”
“Are you kidding? You don’t think your neighbors would get suspicious if an armored truck pulled up in front of your house?”
“Then how do you do it?”
“We send a regular truck, and you have the money in regular cardboard boxes. We load the money into the truck and go to a warehouse, where it’s transferred into an armored truck. Then the armored truck comes here and unloads it. There’s no strain and no pain.”
“What does that cost?”
“Ten percent.”
“Looks like you’re gonna ten percent me to death.”
“Then do it some other way.”
“There isn’t any other way, and you know it.”
“Then stop complaining.”
Laganello lit a cigarette. “You’ve told me how to make the money safe, but how do I make it clean?”
“You buy a business someplace, like for instance a Laundromat. Suppose you take in ten thousand a week legit. Well, you just add another ten thousand a week from your stash. It’ll take a little while, but that’s how you clean it.”
“How do I buy the business?”
“We’ll lend you the money.”
“At ten percent?”
“What else.”
“Looks like I don’t have any choice.”
“You really don’t. But look at it this way. After all’s said and done you’ll wind up with about half the money free and clear. That’s about half a million dollars. You’ll be able to invest it in stocks and bonds or local real estate and double your money in ten years. You’re on easy street, Laganello. Stop complaining.”
“You’re right, but I hate to give up any of the money, because it wasn’t exactly easy to get it.”
“Let me tell you something. It’s easier to get it than keep it. A lot of guys have gone to jail because they didn’t know how to keep what they stole. Do you know if the cops are after you?”
“I’m not being followed. I know that for sure.”
“How can you know that for sure?”
“I used to be a cop myself. I know how they operate.”
“They know you used to be a cop too. If they’re after you, they’ll be very careful.”
“I’d spot them. I was a good cop.”
“I’ll bet you were. Well, when can we pick up the money?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“We’ll need a little more time than that. How about Friday?”
“What time?”
“Around noon?”
“Okay.”
“Have the money in cardboard boxes.”
“Right.”
Tramantano stood behind his desk and held out his hand. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” he said.
“Same here.”
The Sleepy Hollow was one of those Greenwich Village bars where you have to walk down a few steps from the sidewalk to get to the door. Inside was a long bar on one side an
d some booths in back. The juke box played Earth, Wind, and Fire, and there was a sprinkling of patrons at the bar and in the booths. It was a racially mixed crowd, and a lot of the conversations had to do with horse races and football games.
In one of the booths sat Hardesty, staring into a glass of booze. His hair was mussed and he needed a shave. A cigarette dangled out the corner of his mouthy He wished desperately that he’d never got mixed up in the holdup. The knowledge that the N.Y.P.D. was looking for him was ruining his sleep and making him extremely paranoid.
A pretty black girl entered the bar, looked around, and spotted him in the back booth. She walked toward him, attracting admiring glances from a few of the guys sitting at the bar. She wore a white skirt and a brown leather sports jacket, a purse slung over her shoulder.
“Hi, Richard,” she said, sliding into the booth opposite him.
He looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I’ve been calling you for three days, and you haven’t answered. I went to your apartment but you had your locks changed. How come you had your locks changed?”
“I felt like it.”
“ You got another girl friend?”
“No.”
“You look like hell. What’s wrong with you?”
“I haven’t been feeling well.”
“You got to a doctor?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you ought to?”
“Get off my case, will you?”
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” the girl asked. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“I told you I’m not feeling well.”
“You’ve been a mess ever since you quit your job. You running out of money?”
“No.”
“No? How come?”
“Stop asking me so many goddamn questions.”
“I want to help you, Richard. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
“You look like you haven’t been eating right.”
“I haven’t.”
“Let’s go to a restaurant. I’ll buy you a steak.”
“I can buy my own steaks.”
“C’mon, let’s go.”
“This is a restaurant.”
“The food’s shitty here.”
“I’m not hungry anyway.”
She looked at him. “You’ve got to pull yourself together, Richard.”
“I am together. Listen, do you want to do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Get lost.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But Richard.
“I said get lost. I want to be alone, okay?”
“You sure you want that, Richard?” Her eyes were misty with tears.
He stared at his drink. “Yeah, that’s what I want.”
“If I go, I’m not coming back.”
“That’s okay by me.”
“I’ve never begged a man for anything in my life, and I’m not going to start now.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay. Goodbye.”
“So long.”
She stood, adjusted her shoulder bag, and walked toward the door, a tear trickling down her left cheek.
Hardesty kept staring at his glass of booze.
Chapter Twenty-One
Detective Pelletier sat behind the wheel of his unmarked Plymouth and pushed his fedora on the back of his head. It was six o’clock in the evening - time to knock off, but he thought he’d see who was next on his list. He was parked outside an apartment building in the Melrose Park section of Queens, and had just talked to a cop who’d been assigned to the Property Room three years before. Now the cop rode in a patrol car in Brooklyn, and said he had been on duty the night of the Property Room robbery. Pelletier would check that out tomorrow.
There were sixty-five names on the list, and he had already checked into fourteen of them. Now he looked to see if there was anybody who lived in this part of Queens. His finger moved down the list and stopped at the name of Anthony Ricci, who lived at 15-31 Junction Boulevard and had been one of those laid off in the massacre six weeks before.
Pelletier debated with himself whether to go right home to his bachelor apartment in Lower Manhattan, or see this Ricci guy. Oh what the hell, he didn’t feel that tired. He decided to check Ricci out.
The address turned out to be a single family wooden home in Corona, not far from the colossus of twenty modern buildings that comprised Lefrak City. Pelletier parked in front of a hydrant, pulled down his OFFICIAL POLICE INVESTIGATION sign on the visor, got out of the car, approached the house, and rang the bell.
A bony old man with a mustache opened the door. “ Yeah?”
Pelletier smiled. “Hi, I’m looking for Anthony Ricci. He home?”
The old man looked at him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”
Pelletier showed his badge. “Police.”
The old man smiled. “Oh, you’re a friend of Tony’s?”
“Not exactly. Is he home?”
“Nope.”
“You know where he is?”
“I think he’s staying with that girlfriend of his. The airline stewardess.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“Over on Northern Boulevard someplace. I’ve got her phone number in case you want it.”
“Yes, I’d like to have it.”
“Why don’t you come in? What you say your name was?”
“ Detective Pelletier.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“French. My grandparents came to this country from France.”
The old man led Pelletier across the enclosed porch into a living room that was dark, and to the kitchen that was brightly-lit and smelling of spicy food. An elderly lady was sitting at the table.
“This is a friend of Tony’s,” the old man said.
“Oh hello,” the old woman said, nodding her head.
“He’s trying to get in touch with Tony. Do you know where his girl friend’s number is?”
“It’s right by the phone.”
“Oh yes, here it is.”
The old man picked up a piece of paper and brought it to Pelletier. There was a phone number on it and the name Dawn. Pelletier copied the number. “Do you know what Anthony is doing these days?” he asked, taking off his fedora.
The old lady chortled. “If you’re his friend, you probably know better than us.”
“I never said I was his friend, ma’am,” Pelletier said.
“I thought you did.”
“No, your husband did.”
The old man looked at Pelletier. “Then what do you want him for?”
“I want to ask him a few questions.”
“He’s not in any trouble, is he?”
“I don’t know, but if you can help me, you’ll be helping him. Does Anthony have a job?”
“No, he’s on unemployment,” the woman said. “He won’t take a job.”
“What unemployment office?”
“The one here on Northern Boulevard.”
“Do you know where he spends his time?”
“Well, he spends a lot of time with his girl friend, the stewardess.”
“You ever meet her?’’
The old lady shook her head vigorously. “He’d never bring her here.”
The old man cleared his throat. “Tony hasn’t been right since he lost his job with the police. I’ve never seen a person change so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he’s in a bad mood all the time. Drinks too much. His uncle offered him a job in his fruit and vegetable business, but Tony turned it down. He hasn’t been like this since he came back from Vietnam.”
“I’d like to ask you one last question,” Pelletier said. “Do you know where he was last Monday night?”
The old man looked at his wife. “He wasn’t here, that’s fo
r sure. He hasn’t been here in about two weeks. I imagine his girl friend would know.”
Pelletier smiled. “That you very much for your help, folks. I’ll be going now, and I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” the old man said.
Pelletier returned to his car and wondered whether to check out the stewardess or go home and have dinner. Too bad about this Ricci guy losing his job. Pelletier wondered what he’d do if the N.Y.P.D. ever dumped him. He wondered if he’d be mad enough to commit a robbery.
He decided to grab a bite at a fast food joint and try to find the stewardess. He drove north and noticed a Greek restaurant on a corner a few blocks away. Parking in front, he went inside and sat at the counter. When the counterman came, he ordered a souvlaki sandwich and a coke. He ate quickly and went on his way.
His next stop was the 23rd Precinct in Queens. He went up to the Detective Division, identified himself, and called a special number in the New York Telephone Company. He asked the person who answered to give him the address and apartment number of the stewardess’s phone number. He got the information and learned that her name was Dawn Pfeiffer.
He went back to his car and drove to the address.
Parking in front of the building, he entered the lobby, showed the doorman his badge, and took the elevator to the stewardess’s apartment, hoping she was home. He pressed the button on her door. He heard her footsteps.
“Who is it?” she asked.
He held his badge in front of the peephole. “Police.”
She opened the door a crack, a wholesome-looking brunette who looked fresh off the farm. A chain kept the door from opening wider. “What is it?”
Pelletier took off his fedora. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
“Anthony Ricci.”
Her eyes widened. “Is he in trouble?”
Pelletier smiled. “It’s just a routine investigation. Is he there by any chance?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“In Miami.”
“When did he leave for Miami?”