staggered to his feet as two uniformed policemen wended toward him. “The guy’s gone,” he said and stumbled away, again using an elbow, more emphatically this time. He bought a can of Coca-Cola, gargled a mouthful, and spat it into the gutter as his stomach turned. Somebody in passing brushed close to him.
“That’s no way to make a living,” Victor Scandura said from behind glaring spectacles and continued on. Then he stopped and looked back.
“You got something to say?” Wade asked.
“Another time,” Scandura said. “When you’re feeling better. ”
8
F LOWN UP from the New York office were four federal agents with newly contrived credentials that bore the seal of Suffolk County, Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Agent Blodgett met them at the airport, provided them with rented cars, introduced them into the lava flow of early Boston traffic, and escorted them to the Saltonstall Building, where they gathered into Christopher Wade’s outer office and stood stiffly in look-alike suits. Each had a background in accounting. Each looked dry, distant, and difficult — perfect for the task, Wade mused. He glanced at Blodgett and said, “I assume Thurston has briefed them.”
“They know their objective.”
“Which is?”
“To harass, to scare.”
Wade looked skeptical. “They can harass Gardella, but they won’t scare him.”
“They’ll make him uneasy,” Blodgett said in a tone low and authoritative. “That’s good enough for your purposes.”
“You hope.”
“You worry too much.”
“My nature.”
“Change it.”
“You sound like Thurston.”
Blodgett smiled, as if he had gotten a compliment.
Within the hour Wade and two of the four agents arrived at the drab premises of G&B Toxic Waste Disposal Company in East Boston. A tank truck was parked behind a chain fence that was warped in places. A no trespassing sign clung unsteadily to an unlocked gate that swayed open when Wade touched it. The three of them strode into a cinder-block building, followed a dim corridor to its end, and made a commanding entrance into a surprisingly neat and bright office, the furniture chrome and leather. Two women stared from their desks, and a small man with lank hair and a Givenchy necktie leaped up from his.
“Who the hell let you guys in?”
Wade seemed to smile. “You’re Rizzo, right? You’re the manager.”
“I’m the owner.”
“No, you’re the manager. You answer to Rita O’Dea, and she answers to her brother.”
The man instantly went on guard, eyes narrowing. His tie hung past his fly. His shirt was silk. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“Then you know why I’m here,” Wade said and glanced at the women, who averted their eyes. Both were attractive in hard, uneven ways. Wade noticeably admired each.
“This is bullshit,” the man said, and Wade returned his gaze to him.
“I saw only one tanker out there. Where’re the rest?”
“Hauling waste.”
“I heard they don’t go anywhere. They just drive out of state and leak a lot.”
“You hear wrong.”
Wade assumed a virtuous expression. “These are two of my assistants. This is Mr. Holly, that’s Mr. Haynes. They’re going to check your shipment records for the past year and audit your books. Figure them being here at least a month.”
The man’s eyes radiated contempt. “This is bullshit.”
“Don’t you believe it, Mr. Rizzo.”
“You got anything to show?”
Wade flashed a court order.
A half hour later, back in Boston’s business core, he left his car in a private lot and walked around the corner to an imposing office building of darkened glass, where on an upper floor Aceway Development Association had a suite, Anthony Gardella one of the principal owners, though not of record. The two other agents from New York were waiting outside the building for him. Their bogus names were Danley and Dane. The one named Danley glided forward, the dark glass reflecting his movement. “We just saw
“That’s no way to make a living,” Victor Scandura said from behind glaring spectacles and continued on. Then he stopped and looked back.
“You got something to say?” Wade asked.
“Another time,” Scandura said. “When you’re feeling better. ”
8
F LOWN UP from the New York office were four federal agents with newly contrived credentials that bore the seal of Suffolk County, Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Agent Blodgett met them at the airport, provided them with rented cars, introduced them into the lava flow of early Boston traffic, and escorted them to the Saltonstall Building, where they gathered into Christopher Wade’s outer office and stood stiffly in look-alike suits. Each had a background in accounting. Each looked dry, distant, and difficult — perfect for the task, Wade mused. He glanced at Blodgett and said, “I assume Thurston has briefed them.”
“They know their objective.”
“Which is?”
“To harass, to scare.”
Wade looked skeptical. “They can harass Gardella, but they won’t scare him.”
“They’ll make him uneasy,” Blodgett said in a tone low and authoritative. “That’s good enough for your purposes.”
“You hope.”
“You worry too much.”
“My nature.”
“Change it.”
“You sound like Thurston.”
Blodgett smiled, as if he had gotten a compliment.
Within the hour Wade and two of the four agents arrived at the drab premises of G&B Toxic Waste Disposal Company in East Boston. A tank truck was parked behind a chain fence that was warped in places. A no trespassing sign clung unsteadily to an unlocked gate that swayed open when Wade touched it. The three of them strode into a cinder-block building, followed a dim corridor to its end, and made a commanding entrance into a surprisingly neat and bright office, the furniture chrome and leather. Two women stared from their desks, and a small man with lank hair and a Givenchy necktie leaped up from his.
“Who the hell let you guys in?”
Wade seemed to smile. “You’re Rizzo, right? You’re the manager.”
“I’m the owner.”
“No, you’re the manager. You answer to Rita O’Dea, and she answers to her brother.”
The man instantly went on guard, eyes narrowing. His tie hung past his fly. His shirt was silk. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“Then you know why I’m here,” Wade said and glanced at the women, who averted their eyes. Both were attractive in hard, uneven ways. Wade noticeably admired each.
“This is bullshit,” the man said, and Wade returned his gaze to him.
“I saw only one tanker out there. Where’re the rest?”
“Hauling waste.”
“I heard they don’t go anywhere. They just drive out of state and leak a lot.”
“You hear wrong.”
Wade assumed a virtuous expression. “These are two of my assistants. This is Mr. Holly, that’s Mr. Haynes. They’re going to check your shipment records for the past year and audit your books. Figure them being here at least a month.”
The man’s eyes radiated contempt. “This is bullshit.”
“Don’t you believe it, Mr. Rizzo.”
“You got anything to show?”
Wade flashed a court order.
A half hour later, back in Boston’s business core, he left his car in a private lot and walked around the corner to an imposing office building of darkened glass, where on an upper floor Aceway Development Association had a suite, Anthony Gardella one of the principal owners, though not of record. The two other agents from New York were waiting outside the building for him. Their bogus names were Danley and Dane. The one named Danley glided forward, the dark glass reflecting his movement. “We just saw
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