Liam Mulligan: Cliff Walk Part 4

"Ten years ago, when Maniella opened his f.u.c.kin' dives, couple of our boys paid them a visit. Said they'd be back every month to collect."

"How much?"

"Two grand per club."

"Sounds reasonable."

"We thought so."

"So what happened?"

"A couple weeks later, 'bout a half hour before the noon opening, a dozen guys with Navy SEALs tattoos come busting into Friction."

"Gra.s.so's place," I said.

"Now, yeah, but it was Johnny Dio's before he got whacked."

"Uh-huh."

"The bouncer tried to stop them at the door, so they tossed him into the parking lot like he was f.u.c.kin' trash. Tore the place up pretty good. Smashed all the liquor bottles. Threw barstools through the f.u.c.kin' mirrors."

"No s.h.i.+t?"

"Yeah. You ain't heard about this? We tried to keep it quiet, but I figured you mighta heard about this."

"Anybody get hurt?"

"A few cuts and bruises. Nothin' worth cryin' over. Before the c.o.c.ksuckers left, a couple of 'em climbed up on stage, unzipped, and p.i.s.sed on the stripper poles like they was f.u.c.kin' dogs."

"Marking their territory," I said.

"Dio figured right off Maniella must've sent 'em. Wanted to drive out to Greenville hisself and whack the sonuvab.i.t.c.h. After we got him calmed the f.u.c.k down, we asked Maniella for a sit-down."

"How'd that work out?"

"We invited the p.r.i.c.k to a nice meal at Camille's so we could explain the situation. Arena did most of the talkin'. Said if Maniella's clubs were doing as well as ours, he was raking in the f.u.c.kin' dough. Said two grand a month per club was a fair price for the right to operate."

"Maniella didn't think so?"

"He said the money was fair and that his boys would be by the first of every month to collect it."

"You're kidding me."

"Have I ever?"

"What did Arena say to that?"

"First he had to grab Dio by the legs to stop him from climbing over the table to get at the a.s.shole. Then he said no f.u.c.kin' way."

"And Maniella said what?"

"At first he just smiled and looked at us over the rim of his f.u.c.kin' winegla.s.s. Enjoying the moment."

"And then?"

"And then he rolled up his sleeve and showed us his Navy SEALs tattoo. Said he knew plenty of guys with the same ink. Said he figured a dozen was enough but that he had the scratch to bring in fifty of 'em if he had to."

"So Arena caved?"

"What the f.u.c.k could he do?"

"Arena and Gra.s.so still paying?"

"To Vanessa now, yeah. Every f.u.c.kin' month. But we never talk about it." He took off his gla.s.ses and rubbed his eyes. "It's f.u.c.kin' humiliating."

"Not like the old days, huh?"

"f.u.c.k, no," Zerilli said. "Back when Raymond L. S. Patriarca ran this town, no way anybody'd try somethin' like this. Bobo Marrapese, Pro Lerner, Frank Salemme, d.i.c.kie Callei, Red Kelly, Jackie Nazarian, Rudy Sciarra-just whisper the names of the guys in our crew and a d.i.c.k like Maniella would have p.i.s.sed his pants. But it ain't the 1970s no more."

"The ex-SEALs still around?"

"At least a couple are, yeah. Handling the collections."

I thanked him and got up to go.

"Hold on a sec," he said. "Could you use a GPS for the Bronco?"

"Don't really need one. I got a map of Rhode Island stored in my head."

"You go out of state sometimes, right?"

"I do."

He got up from his chair, unlocked the door to a little storeroom behind the office, and came back with a Garmin GPS in an unopened box.

"A thousand of 'em fell off a f.u.c.kin' truck in New Bedford last week," he said. "I bought 'em off the Arcaro brothers for ten cents on the dollar."

"What are you getting for them?"

"Forty bucks apiece, but yours is on the house."

If I turned it down, my friend would be insulted. "Thanks, Whoosh," I said. "And if you hear any chatter about the Maniella murder, give me a holler."

"Mulligan?"

"Um?"

"The gorillas who trashed Friction? We heard they signed on with Maniella after they got fired from t.i.tan and Blackwater."

"No s.h.i.+t?"

"No s.h.i.+t."

"Know what for?"

"You won't f.u.c.kin' believe it."

"What?"

"Excessive force," he said. "Or as they call it at Blackwater, too much of a good thing."

By the time I got to city hall, the planning commission meeting was under way. I hadn't missed a thing. Wouldn't have missed much if I hadn't shown up at all. Two hours of wrangling about the future of a vacant lot off Elmwood Avenue was worth just three paragraphs on the bomber page-B-17.

It was raining when I stepped out of the Dispatch's front door and dashed for Secretariat, and as I pointed him down Putnam Pike toward Greenville, it started coming down hard. The twenty-minute drive to the Maniellas' place on Waterman Lake took twice that. Should have used the GPS, because I was almost to Harmony before I realized I'd missed a turn in the dark.

I backtracked, found it this time, and rolled slowly down a country road, peering through sheets of rain for a glimpse of the white center-chimney colonial that had stood at the corner of Pine Ledge Road for two hundred years. When I saw it, I turned right onto an unpaved private track that the storm had churned into mud. It was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pa.s.s. A hundred yards in, it got narrower as it ran along the top of an earthen dike. The waters of Waterman Lake lurked on both sides, and I knew for a fact that Secretariat couldn't swim.

Rain caught the beams from my headlights and hurled them back at me, and halfway across, I lost sight of the road. I felt the Bronco dip as the right rear tire slid off the edge and grabbed air. I punched the gas, and the other three wheels slung mud as they fought to hold the road.

7.

The Stillwater River, a tributary of the Woonasquatucket, is just a creek, really, and in autumn it shrinks to a trickle. The earthen-and-masonry dam thrown across its course in 1838 is still there, holding back an amoeba-shaped lake of 270 acres. Waterman Lake is clean and the average depth is just nine feet, making it ideal for swimming and boating but unsuitable for disposing of a body.

The lake is privately owned, and so is the white-pine-and-maple-studded acreage that surrounds it. When I was a kid, most of the structures here were ramshackle summer cottages. In recent years, some of them had been ripped down and replaced by sprawling villas designed by architects who lifted their ideas from Philip Johnson and Frank Lloyd Wright. The biggest belonged to the Maniellas, or what was left of them.

Just past the dike, the dirt road curved to the right. Drenched pine boughs swished against Secretariat's side, giving him an overdue scrubbing as we groped our way in the dark. Soon, the road split into five dirt trails that stretched toward the lakesh.o.r.e like the fingers of an arthritic hand. The Maniellas' place was appropriately located at the tip of the middle finger, perched on a knoll overlooking the water.

When I pulled into the crushed-sh.e.l.l drive, the house looked dark and empty. I tugged the hood of my rain slicker over my head, sprinted through the storm, and climbed the stairs to the wide front porch. The doorbell chimed like Big Ben. No one answered. To be thorough, I sloshed around the house and peeked in the windows. Through a pane in the side door to the three-car garage, I could just make out the silhouettes of the year-old Maybach and the 2009 Hummer registered to Sal Maniella. Made me wonder how he'd gotten to Newport if he hadn't driven either of his cars. The stall reserved for Vanessa's Lexus was empty. Maybe he'd taken hers.

My jeans were soaked through with rain now, and the temperature was falling. I dashed for the Bronco, cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights and wipers, and could barely see the house through the winds.h.i.+eld. Risking the dike again would be pus.h.i.+ng my luck. I turned off the engine, opened my thermos, and sipped coffee for the warmth. It worked. It also triggered a gnawing pain just below my breastbone. I popped the glove box, cracked open a fresh bottle of Maalox, and took two big gulps. Then I let the seat down to catch a nap and wait for the rain to let up.

I'd just dozed off when Mick Jagger started growling the lyrics to "b.i.t.c.h," a ringtone that alerted me to the frequent late-night calls from that special someone.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, and received the usual salutation.

"You ... f.u.c.king ... b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

"Good evening, Dorcas."

"Who are you out s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g tonight, you p.r.i.c.k?"

"Five of the six p.u.s.s.ycat Dolls. Nicole Scherzinger couldn't make it."

"Always with the f.u.c.king jokes."

"Okay, you're on to me. Truth is, Melody Thornton couldn't make it, either."

"My lawyer call you today?"

"He did."

"And?"

"And I'm still not agreeing to lifetime alimony, Dorcas."

"You are such a p.r.i.c.k."

"I did offer all the child support you could possibly want. He thought that was generous until he remembered we never had any kids."

"You think you're funny? Because you're not."

"I keep telling you, Dorcas, things are going downhill at the paper. Chances are I'm gonna get laid off. Even if I don't, the Dispatch is likely to close down in a few years, and I have no idea what I'll do then."

"Not my problem, a.s.shole."

"Being a reporter is all I know, Dorcas. I've never been any good at anything else."

"You got that right."

"Do I need to point out again that you make twice as much money as I do?"

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

"Sleep tight, Dorcas," I said, but she'd already hung up.

The rapping on the car window startled me. I opened my eyes to see Captain Parisi knocking on the gla.s.s with his knife-scarred knuckles. Across the lake, the sun had crept over the horizon and was peeking through the pines.

"Mulligan?" he said as I rolled down the window. "The h.e.l.l you doing here?"

"Same thing you are."

I'd known Steve Parisi for years. Despite Fiona's grousing about the lack of results, he was a d.a.m.ned fine detective, although he did tend to be tight-lipped with the press. There was often a five-second delay before anything he said to me, as if he were afraid some juicy official secret would slip.

"House still empty?" he asked.

"It is."

"Doesn't explain why you're sleeping in a junk car in our favorite p.o.r.nographer's driveway."