something. I love you.”
“Yeah, I love you too,” she said with no change of expression on her face. “C’mere and give me a kiss.”
• • •
Inside one of the lusher residences on Key Biscayne, Anthony Gardella sat in air-conditioned comfort and sipped coffee brewed from choice blends. The host was Sal Nardozza, his contemporary and a cousin twice or thrice removed. Perched open on a marble table was a black-and-chrome briefcase overstacked with money, fifties and hundreds, half to be washed through a Miami bank and half to broker a cocaine transaction, the clients Cuban and Colombian. Earlier a third man had slipped quietly into the room to count the bills so that later there would be no misunderstanding. He had also shown Gardella a balance sheet, which Gardella had perused with the trained eye of an accountant and then returned without comment.
Now that their business was done, Nardozza lit a cheroot and sat back in his wicker chair. He was dressed casually, Florida-style, his shirt open to the silver floss on his chest. His voice was raspy. “I’m surprised you came down here yourself, but I’m glad you did. You’re staying for dinner, I hope. I’ll give you a good feed.”
Gardella shook his head. “My wife’s waiting for me at the hotel.”
“Have her join us, why not? I had a wife like you got, I’d never leave her alone.”
“We got reservations at a little place. Second honeymoon for us.”
Nardozza grinned respectfully. “You’re a lucky guy, Anthony.”
Gardella put his coffee cup down with care, centering it in the saucer. “There’s a Cuban calls himself Alvaro, used to dish out towels at the Sonesta. Check him out for me, will you?”
“No problem. Anything else?”
“How’s my brother-in-law doing?”
“Ty? I guess he’s doing okay. I don’t hear nothing bad about him. He’s tied tight with that spic Miguel, but I guess you know that.”
“Yes,” Gardella said, “I know that. What I don’t know is what Miguel wants with him.”
“You want me to check on that too?”
“No,” Gardella said. “My brother-in-law’s got a big mouth. He was up to something, you’d have heard.”
Nardozza assumed a sober expression. “I never asked, but how did Rita ever get hooked up with him?”
“Like she meets all her guys, Sal. She’s a lonely woman.”
“She dropped fifty pounds, she’d be beautiful.”
“Seventy-five’s more like it.”
“She’s still beautiful. She was growing up I had a crush on her, you remember?”
“I remember.”
“You give her my best, Anthony.”
“I will,” Gardella said, rising.
He rode back to his hotel in the car he had rented, Ralph Roselli at the wheel. Ralph Roselli carried two concealed handguns, one under his arm and the other inside his waistband. The weapons were also rented, from the same fellow who had given them the keys to the car. Ralph stayed in the lobby, and Gardella rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door to his room was open, and Jane Gardella was waiting for him, vivid, chic, eye-filling, dressed to the nines. “We’re late,” she said.
“They’ll hold the table,” he told her. “Let me look at you.”
She turned one way and then another and said, “Do you approve?” The question was unnecessary.
He said, “You make me feel ten times more important than I am.”
They held hands in the elevator. When they stepped into the lobby, she saw Ralph and stopped short. “Tony, do we have to bring him with us?”
“Yes,” Gardella said remotely. “For some funny reason I don’t feel right down here.”
• • •
From his room at the Howard Johnson’s, Christopher Wade punched out the private number of Russell Thurston. It was past midnight. After Wade identified himself, Thurston said, “I don’t mind you calling me at home, but not at this hour. I hope it’s important.”
“You’ve got pull inside the state police. I mean, you’ve shown that, right? Who’s it with, the
“Yeah, I love you too,” she said with no change of expression on her face. “C’mere and give me a kiss.”
• • •
Inside one of the lusher residences on Key Biscayne, Anthony Gardella sat in air-conditioned comfort and sipped coffee brewed from choice blends. The host was Sal Nardozza, his contemporary and a cousin twice or thrice removed. Perched open on a marble table was a black-and-chrome briefcase overstacked with money, fifties and hundreds, half to be washed through a Miami bank and half to broker a cocaine transaction, the clients Cuban and Colombian. Earlier a third man had slipped quietly into the room to count the bills so that later there would be no misunderstanding. He had also shown Gardella a balance sheet, which Gardella had perused with the trained eye of an accountant and then returned without comment.
Now that their business was done, Nardozza lit a cheroot and sat back in his wicker chair. He was dressed casually, Florida-style, his shirt open to the silver floss on his chest. His voice was raspy. “I’m surprised you came down here yourself, but I’m glad you did. You’re staying for dinner, I hope. I’ll give you a good feed.”
Gardella shook his head. “My wife’s waiting for me at the hotel.”
“Have her join us, why not? I had a wife like you got, I’d never leave her alone.”
“We got reservations at a little place. Second honeymoon for us.”
Nardozza grinned respectfully. “You’re a lucky guy, Anthony.”
Gardella put his coffee cup down with care, centering it in the saucer. “There’s a Cuban calls himself Alvaro, used to dish out towels at the Sonesta. Check him out for me, will you?”
“No problem. Anything else?”
“How’s my brother-in-law doing?”
“Ty? I guess he’s doing okay. I don’t hear nothing bad about him. He’s tied tight with that spic Miguel, but I guess you know that.”
“Yes,” Gardella said, “I know that. What I don’t know is what Miguel wants with him.”
“You want me to check on that too?”
“No,” Gardella said. “My brother-in-law’s got a big mouth. He was up to something, you’d have heard.”
Nardozza assumed a sober expression. “I never asked, but how did Rita ever get hooked up with him?”
“Like she meets all her guys, Sal. She’s a lonely woman.”
“She dropped fifty pounds, she’d be beautiful.”
“Seventy-five’s more like it.”
“She’s still beautiful. She was growing up I had a crush on her, you remember?”
“I remember.”
“You give her my best, Anthony.”
“I will,” Gardella said, rising.
He rode back to his hotel in the car he had rented, Ralph Roselli at the wheel. Ralph Roselli carried two concealed handguns, one under his arm and the other inside his waistband. The weapons were also rented, from the same fellow who had given them the keys to the car. Ralph stayed in the lobby, and Gardella rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door to his room was open, and Jane Gardella was waiting for him, vivid, chic, eye-filling, dressed to the nines. “We’re late,” she said.
“They’ll hold the table,” he told her. “Let me look at you.”
She turned one way and then another and said, “Do you approve?” The question was unnecessary.
He said, “You make me feel ten times more important than I am.”
They held hands in the elevator. When they stepped into the lobby, she saw Ralph and stopped short. “Tony, do we have to bring him with us?”
“Yes,” Gardella said remotely. “For some funny reason I don’t feel right down here.”
• • •
From his room at the Howard Johnson’s, Christopher Wade punched out the private number of Russell Thurston. It was past midnight. After Wade identified himself, Thurston said, “I don’t mind you calling me at home, but not at this hour. I hope it’s important.”
“You’ve got pull inside the state police. I mean, you’ve shown that, right? Who’s it with, the
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