Codes Of Betrayal Part 2

NICHOLAS VENTURA'S LARGE SPLIT-LEVEL house was one of six in the private enclave known as Westwoods. Each house was set on a minimum three-acre lot; by common agreement, plans for each house had been submitted to a committee of residents for approval before being built.

At the entrance to the estates, there was a small booth manned by two men in brown uniforms who checked a clipboard at every arrival; each car was further carefully scanned by three or four men with scowling faces before being waved on toward the birthday celebration. Additionally, just outside the enclave, official surveillance was openly maintained by groups of government types equipped with video cameras, walkie-talkies, and whatever other equipment they deemed necessary. There was no communication among the various segments who, in one way or another, watched over the procession of those attending the Ventura seventy-fifth birthday party.

Ventura's immediate neighbors were a psychiatrist to the east, and a Wall Street attorney to the west. His back lawn touched hedges with those of a pediatrician who had written several popular best-sellers about raising children. Directly facing the Ventura property was the Tudor-style residence of a retired nightclub performer, who spent most of his life now playing golf.

Ventura knew the names and locations and boundaries of every resident in his community-within-a-community, technically part of Westbury, Long Island. He also knew each neighbor's gross and net worth and the various sources of their income. He could name the individual members of each household-family and hired help-and could describe each according to age, s.e.x, s.e.xual preference, appearance, and personality. He knew when and whom they entertained. He knew immediately if there was a change in the regular cook, maid, baby-sitter, groundskeeper, pool maintenance crew. If anything unusual happened, day or night, in the vicinity of the Ventura home, it was immediately noted and reported to him.

It wasn't that Nicholas Ventura was nosy, or even paranoid. He was neither. He headed one of the most powerful crime families in the eastern United States, and it wasn't just his personal safety that concerned him but the sanct.i.ty of his vast and widespread enterprises.

Nearly two hundred guests had been invited to the celebration, and there had been no "regrets" except on the behalf of one man who died the day before the invitation arrived.

Each arriving car, having pa.s.sed scrutiny, was directed to a red-vested attendant who accepted the key, held open the car doors, watched as the guests were waved toward the house by one of many neatly dressed, alert-looking young men wearing sungla.s.ses and speaking into walkie-talkies. In their self-importance, the guides never smiled, although they didn't look as unpleasant or threatening as the guys at the booth.

As Nick, Kathy, and Peter stepped out of their six-year-old, somewhat beat-up Volvo station wagon, one of the Ventura men approached.

"Jesus, Nicky." Fat Sam Lorenzo-who weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds but had once been very fat-pointed at the wagon. "I was gonna direct ya to the rear of the house. Thought you was a deliveryman."

Nick accepted the crus.h.i.+ng handshake and grasp of his forearms good-naturedly, then pulled away when he felt a cold strong hand on his neck. Someone obviously had beeped cousin Richie about his arrival.

Richie Ventura was almost as tall as Nick. Not quite, but almost. An inch under six feet to Nick's inch over. He was slightly heavier, which could have been due to the muscle he had developed over the years through weight training. Or to the huge appet.i.te with which he struggled all his life. His hair, dark with a great deal of gray, was swept back from his high forehead and held in place by spray. The thickness at the crown might have been a weave, but if so, a good one. Maybe, maybe not. He turned from Nick to Kathy.

"Will ya look at this one? She looks like one a' the kids she teaches." He caught her in a huge hug. He was not only impressed with Kathy, he had always been somewhat wary of her. She was a smart, educated lady.

Next, he turned to Peter. "Look at this kid-d.a.m.n," he bellowed, grabbing Peter into his arms, then pus.h.i.+ng him back. "They feed you some kinna growing beans or what? You gonna be taller than your old man."

"At least taller than you," Nick said with a smile. The cousins had never been nice toward each other. Ever.

Richie turned his full attention to Nick. He shook his head with a pained expression. His oldest son, Sonny, stood next to his father with the same expression on his face: amused disdain. Together, they looked like the same guy at age sixteen and forty.

"Hey, Pop, can't you get Nick a deal on a car? You see that station wagon they come in?"

Richie wrapped his arm around the kid's neck and told him to show some respect. He demonstrated by asking Nick how much he'd paid for the wagon new; when Nick said he'd bought it used, Richie gave up.

"Jeez, bet I pay more for a suit than you did for that wagon." He looked Nick over from head to toe, didn't have to say a word. He reached out and adjusted his tie and nodded approval. Of the tie. Not bad. He winked at Peter, smiled at Kathy, and told Sonny to escort them inside the house.

Despite the number of adults and children milling around the large entrance hall, the level of sound and activity was respectfully contained. Mothers hushed children, fathers grabbed at sweaty collars and glared at their well-controlled children, eager to join the festivities in the yard behind the house. All in good time; the procedure was orderly and on schedule. Members of the family and friends were escorted quickly into the library, where they could extend best wishes and beautifully wrapped gifts to Papa Ventura; he then dismissed them with a nod and a smile. Go enjoy. White envelopes were handed discreetly to one of Papa's aides.

Across the hall from the library, through a partially opened door, if anyone was indiscreet enough to look, could be seen a large, beautifully arranged dining room: a table set with magnificent linens, silver, china, crystal, under a glittering imported chandelier. There were some fifteen or so men seated around the table, each attended by his own people, whom they ignored as they spoke quietly to their table partners. They had been encouraged to eat until their host could join them. He had his hostly obligations. They were all well-behaved men; they drank very little wine, and ate sparingly, tasting every dish offered. But through all the courtesy and mannerliness in the room, there was also a feeling of tension, the electricity of a great ma.s.sing of power.

Nick stood with his back against a wall, scanning the crowded entrance hall, getting his bearings. He was approached by his great-aunt Ursula, Papa's older sister. She was a childless widow who had attended to the running of her brother's home from the time he lost his wife, some thirty years ago. Nearing ninety, she was still severely critical of window washers who left streaks; the cleaning women who missed dust; the gardener who failed to clear away clippings. Through the years, there had been so many cooks in and out of the house that it was finally decided she would be the main cook, with help from a docile cousin from the old country who lived in a small room at the far side of the house. (That cousin, in turn, was a.s.sisted by kitchen maids who actually did the work of peeling, slicing, chopping, dicing, and stirring that neither would trouble about.) Nicholas was an undemanding man with a moderate appet.i.te; anything pleased him, but he had learned how much happiness Ursula drew from the heavy, earthy foods she set before him.

She greeted Nick with a complaint. This was not her party. Richie had insisted on bringing one of the best chefs in Manhattan, along with his staff, to arrange the dinner: Nick listened to the criticism of the menu, item by item, and nodded sympathetically. When she pointed toward the yellow-and-white-striped tents outside, she whispered, There would have been h.e.l.l to pay if it had rained today.

Of course, it hadn't rained.

The old woman glanced at Kathy and Peter as they came alongside Nick. She had no idea who they were. In fact, she had no idea who anyone was or what they were all doing here. She'd have to find that stupid maid and ask her what all this fuss was about.

Kathy grinned. "She still looks hale and hearty and angry."

Nick focused on his wife. She really was pretty: her s.h.i.+ny shoulder-length hair framed her face, yet moved almost with a life of its own. She turned toward him, stopped for a moment by the expression on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just ... you look great."

There was a slight hesitation, a fleeting suspicion. Nick wasn't very generous with compliments these days. She answered too quickly, which was one of the problems between them.

"You sound surprised."

He took a deep breath and caught sight of Tommy the Dog Bianco waving him toward the door to his grandfather's library. While no one called him that to his face, Tommy's loyalty was so doglike and unwavering that the name was part of his personality.

He nodded at Kathy and Peter, then leaned close to Nick. "He's been asking for you, Nick-the old man," he said reproachfully. "You and your lady and the kid. C'mon, he's waitin' to see you."

The room was lined with expensive, wood, floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The books represented decades of collection, and they were matched with a wall filled with cla.s.sical records. Nicholas Ventura was a self-educated man whose culture had been painstakingly acquired.

The furniture embraced heavy English brocade and leather couches; s.h.i.+ning warm tables and expensive bra.s.s lamps. The room accommodated two fairly large, collector's quality Persian carpets; the paintings over the fireplace were not mere decoration but fine art. While he had hired decorators for other parts of his house, this library had been furnished over a period of years by Nicholas Ventura, whose tastes and require-merits were refined to a certain excellence.

Joe Menucci, fifty-two years old, stood guard over Papa Ventura as he had for nearly twenty-five years. He was not a physically imposing man, but it was known that he had achieved a black belt in karate and could be murderously swift if he needed to be. Everyone who knew him respected his physical achievements, but it was his reputation of being some kind of genius that gave him his nickname: Joe the Brain. It was said that Joe Menucci could recall every single word said in his presence. That he could listen to a boring televised political debate, turn off the set, and repeat every word spoken not only by the candidates but by the moderators. In real time. It would have been hard to find someone who'd seen Joe's talents in action, but no one was ever heard to question them.

The stories were based on a peculiar trick of nature. Joe had a very intelligent face. His eyes, large, s.h.i.+ny, and dark, seemed to reflect an alertness to everything around him from infancy on. The fact that he wasn't a particularly good student meant nothing. What could schoolteachers know of someone with such a blessed gift?

Joe Menucci was a good-looking man. His dark hair had receded only slightly; he kept his weight down with moderate exercise, and he had never been pa.s.sionate about food. He was a meticulous dresser whose clothes were made by Papa Ventura's own tailor.

If he appeared to be an extremely quiet man, it was because he had nothing to say. It was believed that he spent his time and energy absorbing everything everyone else said. When someone spoke in Joe's presence, his dark eyes focused on the speaker's lips, the way a deaf person tries to catch words as they form. There was a listening quality to his entire body. He seemed to pull every word into the very center of himself. He was always present at any meeting Papa Ventura held. Many a man spent a night terror-stricken at the thought that some offhand remark, softly spoken, would be spieled back to Papa Ventura in the privacy of his library by Joe Menucci.

Joe Menucci did have a real gift for understanding, installing, repairing, and adjusting any electrical or electronic system, no matter how complex. He had spent the morning setting up a number of video games in the playroom that existed for grandchildren, nieces and nephews, G.o.dchildren-any child attending his home. The kids loved this room better than any food or sweets.

He had installed a complicated PC system for Papa Ventura, complete with a shelf filled with software: Windows on the Whole Friggin' World. System this and System that. Papa had shaken his head. No. He had no need for anything like that. Joe could keep the d.a.m.n thing, which lurked in the corner of his office. If he needed information, he could watch over Joe's shoulder as diagrams and words and numbers and pictures appeared and disappeared on the screen in response to the touch of a finger on a key or the slide and tapping of the gadget Joe called a mouse. To Papa, it seemed like witchcraft, magic. He had other uses for his mind.

When Joe the Brain spotted Nick and his family, he immediately went to the side of his Don, rested one hand on the shoulder of a smiling guest, edged the man away just a little. He leaned forward, spoke to Ventura, gestured with his chin.

Joe whispered to Papa Ventura that someone had messed with the music system; would this be a good time for him to see to it? Papa nodded; his full attention was on his grandson.

The birthday host finished his conversation politely, and fixed his gaze on his grandson. As Nick approached, for the first time that day while receiving guests in this room the old man stood up and came forward, offering his embrace. He stared directly into his grandson's blue eyes and nodded with a deep satisfaction.

There was a strong resemblance between the two, not just in the eyes but in the firm chin, strong nose, and wide lips.

Nicholas Ventura had grown from an emaciated immigrant boy starving for all things, to a somewhat heavyset self-satisfied man who conceded nothing to age. His receding hairline emphasized an intelligent high forehead, and his remaining hair was carefully styled for maximum effect. He was immaculately groomed and his suit displayed taste and quality. Even at his age, his vanity was evident. He took pleasure in the sensation he created whenever he entered a room. He moved as a movie star, preceded not only by those who served him but by his own magnetic field of power.

"Papa," Nick told him, "you never change. How do you do it?"

"I change, Nicholas, I change. Except about one thing-I do not see you often enough."

He turned toward Kathy with an admiring expression. A courtly man, Nicholas Ventura was courteous and soft-spoken in social situations. He listened intently to whomever spoke with him as though the speaker was fascinating and what was said of great importance. He tried to put others at ease graciously, as the Pope with a group of nervous nuns.

Peter, his great-grandson, was a nice boy, more Irish-looking than Italian. He was tall for his age, and thin and intelligent. He was not afraid to admit that he loved to read; that he loved animals and nature. From the time he was a very small child, he had discussed these things with his great-grandfather, whenever they met. The Don listened to him seriously and asked his advice about his two water spaniels: be careful of heart worms, Papa; make sure they get their shots, and take their pills.

The boy took a deep breath and carefully recited his memorized birthday wish for the old man: good health, long life, happiness, and pleasure in friends and family. Peter's Italian was in a Sicilian dialect.

Smiling at Peter, who was slightly flushed, Papa said, "You didn't learn it from this one. He never could get the accent right." He poked at Nick, beamed at Kathy. "Look at this boy with the Irish face and the Sicilian eyes who speaks like a born peasant from the hills."

"But Papa, what are Sicilian eyes? You have blue eyes. My dad has blue eyes."

Nicholas laughed. "The blue eyes probably came from some crazy Norseman who must have stopped on my people's island a thousand years ago. All they left behind were some blue eyes, and maybe some broken hearts."

Papa nodded at Kathy and Peter. He could make his intentions very clear with the slightest gesture. It was time for him to visit with his grandson in privacy.

"You look good, Nicholas. You could do with a new suit or two."

"Thanks, Papa. Richie already told me that."

His grandfather brushed away the comment. It was of ho importance. There was something else he wanted to speak about. He turned his unnerving stare on Nick. It was as though he could see through a man's brain, picking up thoughts and intentions.

He spoke softly but it was clear he intended to be heard. "Nick, your wife is a very fine woman. A man must respect his wife in every way. Respect his home, his family. You keep your job out of your home, I am sure. Very much like the men out here. Business is business. But your wife, Kathy, she has a sadness, deep inside of her. She smiles a wonderful smile-a quiet smile, however. There is a sadness there, Nicholas. Are you having problems?"

Nick felt like a kid again. Caught. Found out. Just tell Papa. Don't lie, above all things; don't lie. Tell the truth so we can see how to work out the problems.

Finally, watching his grandfather sit on the couch and indicate an easy chair for him, Nick said, "Married people have problems, Papa. You know that."

"There is a deep sadness there." He hesitated, placed his fingertips together under his chin. "Is it the gambling?"

Nick shook his head decisively and watched as his grandfather relaxed. All things could be worked out.

"You know, Nicholas, when your grandmother was alive-may she rest in peace-nothing ever touched our home. I was a man, as you are, so there were women sometimes. But it had nothing to do with my wife, my children, my home. You understand what I'm saying? Your son, he is a wonderful, gifted boy. But he seems a little, what? tense, nervous, unhappy? That shows when there is trouble between mother and father."

"Papa, you should have been a psychologist. It's just the job. You know. The house. The kind of stuff I deal with every day. All cops have these problems. We'll work it out."

"Cops have divorce rates as high as doctors. Did you know that? Doctors have one of the highest divorce rates." He smiled, enjoying showing off.

Nicholas Ventura was a man people were anxious to please, for he had the power of life or death. While he spoke softly, his words carried great weight. Anyone who had ever underestimated him rarely had a chance to do so a second time.

He had lost two sons in an airplane crash and one son in Vietnam. His only daughter had died six months after Nick's father of the family weakness-a failing heart. One of his sons was disabled by this condition, which had been handed down through generations of Venturas. His father had died before his fortieth birthday. His own heart troubled him from time to time, but medication kept it under control. Several among his many brothers, nephews, and nieces suffered from the genetic condition that had claimed so many Venturas.

In his seventy-fifth year, he had lost none of the glamour of a truly powerful man. He had many intermediaries to protect him from minor annoyances, and he expected his life to run smoothly. He was in excellent health; accepted bifocals and a hearing aid when it became necessary. He'd had a hip replacement, but walked without a cane, limp, or shuffle. His tailor accommodated his extra weight artfully, as did his barber with his thinning hair. What he retained intact was his knifelike intelligence. He retained all that was important; stored away the information and details necessary for his survival and the survival of the empire he had built.

He studied Nick intently, as though looking for something. He nodded abruptly, gestured broadly. "Go. Enjoy my party. See some old friends, Nicholas."

Some of the people Nick had grown up with looked very much the same as when they were children, only bigger. Junior Caniello, now a large man but who still looked like a hulking boy whose mouth always seemed to be rimmed with crumbs, waved at Nick with a smile. He held up a plate laden with food and looked very happy. In spite of the thinning hair, expensive suit, aviator gla.s.ses, despite the fact that he was an attorney, he was still chubby, sloppy, nice-kid Junior Caniello.

Nick's eyes locked on Funzy Gennaro and he felt all the hatred that had never been resolved between them. For whatever reason, they had fought constantly as children, bloodied and bruised each other with punches and kicks at every opportunity. Funzy nodded at Nick. After all, they were grown-ups now. Funzy had a partners.h.i.+p in a woolen goods factory. He had three daughters and led a respectable life. But when their eyes met, for one split second, they were two boys in the schoolyard again, wary, eager, and ready.

He watched Kathy, a breath of fresh air among the women who huddled together outside the entrance to one of the tents. They kept checking on their kids and catching up on gossip. Richie's wife, Theresa, was still a pretty girl. She stood next to her three lifelong best girlfriends and they looked remarkably alike. Nick had known all four of these women when they were kids. Now they obviously shopped at the same dress shops, visited the same beauty salons. Each had married a neighborhood boy. They all lived within a cul-de-sac in Ma.s.sapequa, Long Island, and they all knew very little about what their husbands did for a living.

Nick glanced around the room checking out the various groups of men in their twenties, thirties, and forties. They were wire-tight guys wearing fifteen-hundred-dollar suits, Egyptian cotton s.h.i.+rts, silk ties and socks, and two-hundred-dollar shoes. Despite all the care and money and expert grooming, they were all a little out of whack. Just a little off. There was something primitive just under the surface being held in check. These guys were not very high up on the evolutionary scale. At any minute, they might forget themselves and begin to eat with their hands.

Many of the younger guys wore dark gla.s.ses, indoors or out, so that no one could see where the h.e.l.l they were looking. They glanced around constantly without seeming to move their heads. They rarely made eye contact with each other. To do so would be to lose the advantage by a split second. Even in a safe place like a celebration for Don Nicholas Ventura, it was important, maybe even vital, to see who was talking to whom, off in a corner, trying not to be seen; who was shaking hands just a little too long with someone not known to be a special friend or ally. Were things changing? Alliances being formed or destroyed? n.o.body trusted anyone else completely; if you did, you were a fool. Their world was in a constant state of flux, slow, tentative-someone might be trying out something new-or in an explosion of open violence, for all to see and think about. Those who didn't pick up the correct lessons rarely survived.

Nick watched Richie work his way through the crowd to his side. He put his hand on Nick's arm, ran it up and down. Nick stepped back, spread his arms.

"Wanna check me out, Richie? No wires. I do have my gun. Required, you know that."

"Hey, c'mon, Nicky, why the f.u.c.k would I check you out?" He b.u.t.ted his chin at the guests. "Brings back old times, all the neighborhood people being together like this, to honor the old man, huh, Nick?"

Nick glanced across toward the private dining room. "Not all old neighborhood people, Richie. Some guests traveled a long way."

Richie's smile was tight. "That's what they made the airplane for, Nick, so old friends get together from far away."

Nick dropped it. "So where's your father? I haven't seen him since last Christmas."

Richie's face changed. He looked sad. "My old man's not so good, Nick. Ya know, the heart. He can't travel from Arizona, too much ha.s.sle. He feels like s.h.i.+t he can't be with Papa on this day." Then, he brightened. "How's it with you, Nick, the heart? You got any problems? We're some family for that, huh?"

The only thing that surprised Nick was that his cousin hadn't pulled a face, shaken his head, and mentioned the fact that Nick's mother had died of the "family problem."

"I'm fine. You haven't got the problem either, Richie, right? Hard to have a heart condition with no heart."

Richie didn't answer. He seemed not to have heard. Nick glanced over his shoulder to where Richie was staring, and together they watched as Laura Santalvo walked into the entrance hall and through the crowd toward Papa Ventura's library.

She stared straight ahead and moved as though she was the only person present. A silence fell around her, a pathway cleared for her automatically. Laura seemed completely unaware of the sensation she created. It wasn't that she didn't realize the reaction around her; it just didn't matter to her. She headed toward her target without acknowledging anyone until she reached Tommy the Dog, who whisked before her into Papa's domain to escort others clear of the inner sanctum. He beamed as Laura leaned toward him, brushed his cheek with a kiss, and disappeared into the room with Papa Ventura.

CHAPTER 5.

NICHOLAS VENTURA AND LAURA embraced. She sat opposite him on the leather sofa, kicked off her shoes, and pulled her legs up under her. Laura Santalvo was family in every way but blood, and her presence seemed to lighten the very air around Nicholas whenever she was near him.

As she sipped her wine, watched him closely, spoke about her travels, he remembered vividly the first time they had spoken seriously together. Laura was thirteen years old when her father, Salvatore, had worked for Papa Ventura as a collector. One day, making a collection visit, Sal had been stonewalled. Two young punks who didn't understand the sacredness of the unwritten contract showed the older man the door. When he spoke reasonably to them, quietly, they broke both his knees with a baseball bat and then for good measure cracked his skull and dumped what they thought was his dead body in an empty lot. Where he was found by some neighborhood kids, only just breathing. The next day, the bullet-riddled bodies of the two punks were found in a parked car on a busy neighborhood street: message delivered and received by all who needed to learn from their mistakes.

What was left of Laura's father was a sh.e.l.l of a man, non-functioning, almost an infant. He needed constant care, and so his wife, who had three boys and a disobedient daughter to raise, sent Laura for a talk with Don Ventura. Who else could straighten out this girl?

He remembered the angry though frightened girl, biting hard on her lip; not letting the tears flood from her eyes. Her mother wanted her to drop out of school-to devote herself to the nursing care of her father, so her mother could get a job in the garment industry. Did Laura expect her brothers to nurse their father? She was the girl; it was her duty. He asked her what she wanted to do, impressed by the strength of her voice, the straightness of her back.

She wanted high school, and college or design school. She was smart, talented. She would not become an old woman caring and tending to a lost man's fading body. She would not.

Don Ventura listened closely; nodded; expressed some surprise at the girl's ambition; wondered where it came from. He told both the girl and her mother a solution would be found.

Someone's distant cousin came from Salerno to take care of Laura's father. Her mother was given a good paying union job. Her father was supplied with a small monthly "retirement" bonus. The sons were later set up in an auto repair shop of their own. And after high school Laura was sent to an eminent fas.h.i.+on studio in Milan, to learn the basics of fas.h.i.+on-design; sewing; the business of the industry. She was paid a small pittance as an apprentice, plus room and board.

When she was twenty, she was allowed to show some of her own basic dress designs at a renowned show held in Paris. She caught the eye-and interest-of an international group. She was invited to parties; was swept into an older, wiser, more experienced world than she had ever known.

Among her most ardent admirers was thirty-five-year-old Octavio of Florence-he said he was a prince, though he never really identified his pedigree. He was charmed by this pa.s.sionate-eyed little girl who spoke excellent French and Italian. He loved showing her off in her exquisitely designed outfits. He lent her good jewelry, one piece at a time. Simplicity must be her style; nothing to detract from her natural, incredible beauty.