with retro dance music. "The question is, what are we gonna do about these towelheads?" he shouted.
Chet didn't say anything, but he was pretty sure towel-heads were Indians.
When no one in the room dared answer, Gasta made a frustrated gesture with his free hand and stumbled to the bar to make another drink. He looked like he was having a hard time lining the ice cubes up with the glass.
Chet wondered how long he'd have to work for Gasta before he finally figured the man out. Carlo was the only son of the highly respected and now dead Carlo Gasta senior, an extremely powerful organized-crime figure from New York. As nearly as Chet could tell, though, the younger Gasta had little in common with his father. While Carlo senior had shunned the spotlight, his son had never met a camera he didn't like. He seemed to think he was a movie star and could often be found having drinks with semifamous actors and actresses at the most exclusive restaurants in town. The public had always been fascinated with the Mob, and Carlo junior was about as Mob as you could get.
So far, the best the L . A . cops had been able to do was to pick him up for a few bar fights and for kicking a dent in the car door of a woman who had cut him off in traffic. Nothing had stuck, though. As soon as the witnesses and victims found out who he was, they tended to become very forgetful. So he continued to operate right beneath the noses of federal and local law enforcement, taking great pleasure in driving both absolutely nuts.
Chet couldn't bring himself to be too critical of people who were drawn to Carlo's persona, though. It was partly that persona that had attracted him to the man. That and the rumor that Gasta was trying to make a splash in the heroin trade. At first the idea of hitching his wagon to Gasta had seemed like a hell of a good one. Now he wasn't so sure.
The more time he spent around the mobster, the more evident it became that Gasta was nothing more than an insecure little boy. Even worse, he was stupid--a real card-carrying moron. He didn't do what he did for money or even for power, really. He did what he did to get attention. And that was a dangerous addiction for a career criminal. "Chet! What the fuck are you doing sitting there, staring at your feet! Are you even listening?"
Chet straightened up abruptly and lied. "Yeah, I'm listening, Carlo. But I'm thinking there isn't a whole lot we can do right now. Mohammed said he'd have the stuff in a week. I figure we give him a week. If he doesn't deliver, then we start making a plan."
"Bullshit! If we just sit here and take this kind of shit, we look weak. We end up with those dune coons laughing at us."
If nothing else, Gasta was an encyclopedia of ethnic slurs.
"The people I'm dealing with expect things to get done--you understand that, Chet? I don't like having to explain delays. When I have to start explaining delays, I start flicking killing people."
And there, in a nutshell, was what made Carlo so intriguing. Who were these people he was "dealing with"? As near as Chet could tell, most of Gasta's schemes were no more profitable or successful than last night's drug deal, but there always seemed to be money lying around. Everybody got paid; there were cars, houses, women. And when a few million was needed to buy a vanload of heroin, well, that just suddenly appeared too.
Where it all came from continued to be a mystery to Chet, despite having been recently promoted to a position that allowed him to keep a watchful eye on the organization's accounts. Despite his press, Gasta was really just another small-time dumb-ass wiseguy, but the people supplying him with his cash might not be. And those were the kinds of people that Chet was very anxious to meet.
Chapter 9
THE corridor had no windows or inhabitants and was starting to look as if it had no end. Beamon stayed alongside Laura Vilechi as she closely followed the young woman ushering them through the CIA's Langley
Chet didn't say anything, but he was pretty sure towel-heads were Indians.
When no one in the room dared answer, Gasta made a frustrated gesture with his free hand and stumbled to the bar to make another drink. He looked like he was having a hard time lining the ice cubes up with the glass.
Chet wondered how long he'd have to work for Gasta before he finally figured the man out. Carlo was the only son of the highly respected and now dead Carlo Gasta senior, an extremely powerful organized-crime figure from New York. As nearly as Chet could tell, though, the younger Gasta had little in common with his father. While Carlo senior had shunned the spotlight, his son had never met a camera he didn't like. He seemed to think he was a movie star and could often be found having drinks with semifamous actors and actresses at the most exclusive restaurants in town. The public had always been fascinated with the Mob, and Carlo junior was about as Mob as you could get.
So far, the best the L . A . cops had been able to do was to pick him up for a few bar fights and for kicking a dent in the car door of a woman who had cut him off in traffic. Nothing had stuck, though. As soon as the witnesses and victims found out who he was, they tended to become very forgetful. So he continued to operate right beneath the noses of federal and local law enforcement, taking great pleasure in driving both absolutely nuts.
Chet couldn't bring himself to be too critical of people who were drawn to Carlo's persona, though. It was partly that persona that had attracted him to the man. That and the rumor that Gasta was trying to make a splash in the heroin trade. At first the idea of hitching his wagon to Gasta had seemed like a hell of a good one. Now he wasn't so sure.
The more time he spent around the mobster, the more evident it became that Gasta was nothing more than an insecure little boy. Even worse, he was stupid--a real card-carrying moron. He didn't do what he did for money or even for power, really. He did what he did to get attention. And that was a dangerous addiction for a career criminal. "Chet! What the fuck are you doing sitting there, staring at your feet! Are you even listening?"
Chet straightened up abruptly and lied. "Yeah, I'm listening, Carlo. But I'm thinking there isn't a whole lot we can do right now. Mohammed said he'd have the stuff in a week. I figure we give him a week. If he doesn't deliver, then we start making a plan."
"Bullshit! If we just sit here and take this kind of shit, we look weak. We end up with those dune coons laughing at us."
If nothing else, Gasta was an encyclopedia of ethnic slurs.
"The people I'm dealing with expect things to get done--you understand that, Chet? I don't like having to explain delays. When I have to start explaining delays, I start flicking killing people."
And there, in a nutshell, was what made Carlo so intriguing. Who were these people he was "dealing with"? As near as Chet could tell, most of Gasta's schemes were no more profitable or successful than last night's drug deal, but there always seemed to be money lying around. Everybody got paid; there were cars, houses, women. And when a few million was needed to buy a vanload of heroin, well, that just suddenly appeared too.
Where it all came from continued to be a mystery to Chet, despite having been recently promoted to a position that allowed him to keep a watchful eye on the organization's accounts. Despite his press, Gasta was really just another small-time dumb-ass wiseguy, but the people supplying him with his cash might not be. And those were the kinds of people that Chet was very anxious to meet.
Chapter 9
THE corridor had no windows or inhabitants and was starting to look as if it had no end. Beamon stayed alongside Laura Vilechi as she closely followed the young woman ushering them through the CIA's Langley
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