My Honorable Brother Read online

  Tarantino didn’t say anything. He thought he knew where Hardiman was going with this. But one of the lessons his father had taught him was never to speak too soon. “Sometimes,” Sal had cautioned him, “they’ll know just from looking at your face that you’re not happy with what they’re saying and they’ll change it halfway through. So be patient. Don’t interrupt. You’ll always get your chance to talk.”

  Hardiman was becoming uncomfortable with Tarantino’s silence and the fact that his effort to be friendly didn’t have any effect. The ominous smile was still visible on his visitor’s face. “I’m sure this isn’t something that has to be decided today,” he continued. “I’ll think over everything you’ve said and give Sal a call. Tell him he can expect to hear from me in a few days.”

  Tarantino started to get up. Hardiman thought the meeting was finally over. But just as the Senator began moving away from his desk, Sandy was on top of him, grabbing his shirt and tie just a few inches below the older man’s neck. Hardiman couldn’t believe what was happening. He felt stabs of pain as Tarantino’s strong hold on him seemed to be pulling hairs from his chest.

  “We’re not asking you to do us a favor, Senator,” Sandy hissed into his face. Hardiman could feel a few drops of spittle land on his cheek. “You’re goddam through here when your term’s up. That’s been decided. My old man got you elected and now he’s telling you it’s over. Don’t give us any of that ‘I’ll call him later shit.’ There’s nothing to talk about.”

  Tarantino kept a tight grasp on Hardiman while he spoke. But as he held on, his hand shook back and forth so that his knuckles kept pounding into the Senator’s chest. Hardiman thought about shouting for help but was afraid to do it. He knew things would get a lot worse for him if Sal’s son were arrested in his office for an assault. There’d be no way to stop the publicity and Sal Tarantino would become his enemy. That’s one thing he didn’t want. He’d just have to hope this nightmare was almost over.

  Suddenly, as if he’d read the Senator’s thoughts, Tarantino’s free hand whipped across Hardiman’s face, slapping his left cheek with a force that made the Senator’s head jerk back. The blow would have sent him sprawling on the floor if Sandy hadn’t been holding onto his shirt and tie.

  “Do you understand me now?” Sandy asked. He kept his voice low. “We’ll give you the time frame to announce to the folks back home that you’ve decided not to run for a second term. My father will let you know. So get used to the fact that you won’t be campaigning again next year. Do you hear me loud and clear, Senator?”

  Hardiman had to swallow before he could answer. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Okay.”

  At that, Tarantino released his hold. Tears had filled Hardiman’s eyes just seconds after he’d been struck and were slowly rolling down his cheeks. He seemed oblivious to it and made no effort to wipe them away. Tarantino walked over to the closet where he hung his suit jacket earlier, slipped it off the hanger and put it on. He looked in the mirror on the back side of the closet door and straightened the knot in his tie before returning to where Hardiman stood. The Senator hadn’t moved.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Senator. Just listen to what my father tells you. Because if you don’t, you know what can happen. We wouldn’t want it to come to that—you and Sal have known each other a long time—but business is business. Sometimes things get out of hand.”

  Tarantino hesitated a few moments before extending his right hand to the Senator. “Thanks for the meeting,” he said.

  Like a beaten fighter who has gotten up off the canvas dazed and unsteady on his feet, Hardiman shook the hand that had just disrupted his world. “Okay,” was all he could say again.

  3

  AT SEVEN O’CLOCK ON a raw evening in early December, Doug Fiore hurried down the steps of the Spalding National Bank building. He was wearing a black Burberry raincoat and carrying the extra-large size briefcase favored by litigation lawyers. A Yellow Cab was waiting for him at the curb. Fiore looked younger than his forty-four years, and his handsome face still showed evidence of the flattering tan he acquired in St. Maarten over a five-day Thanksgiving holiday. He said nothing on entering the back seat of the late model Chevrolet, but noticed that the driver was Asian. Probably one of those Vietnamese who’ve been moving into the west end of Providence, he thought. He had driven through that neighborhood on several occasions and felt sorry for the people, mostly new immigrants, who were crowded into the many dilapidated buildings there.

  The cab drove east along Kennedy Plaza and took a left turn in front of the United States District Courthouse. One block later it turned left again along the far side of the plaza and onto Sabin Street. It passed the rear entrance of the Providence Herald building and slowed down for several groups of pedestrians crossing the street, headed for the hockey game at the Civic Center between the hometown Bruins and the visiting team from New Haven. Accelerating slightly, the Chevy made a right turn onto Atwells Avenue, but stopped almost immediately for a traffic light just beyond the Holiday Inn at the entrance to Interstate 95. The driver crossed the bridge over the highway and passed under the pineapple-topped concrete arch dominating the entrance to Federal Hill. This was the area known informally in the city as the Italian section, but to Rhode Island law enforcement agencies and the FBI, it was the backyard of the Mob.

  Fiore leaned forward slightly as he looked out at the passing storefronts. He was tense most of the day, thinking about the meeting he was summoned to attend. When he returned Joe Gaudette’s call, he was given a choice of two dates, a week apart, for the meeting. The later time was more convenient for him, but Fiore didn’t want to chance displeasing Tarantino by keeping him waiting. He quickly decided to cancel the dinner date he had with a client and be available earlier.

  The taxi moved down Atwells Avenue. Its left headlight illuminated the center strip, painted green, white and red, the colors of the Italian flag. Soon the low commercial buildings in the heart of the shopping district gave way to a disorganized mixture of single family and two family homes that alternated with four and six unit apartment houses. Fiore hardly noticed as the driver turned left and traveled several blocks before making another turn onto Broadway. But his attention returned as the cab suddenly slowed and began entering a wide driveway. The building was an old Victorian. It had two flights of stairs leading to an entrance in front, and a side door on the lower driveway level that received most of the traffic. Fiore had been there several times in the past. The dark green awnings that provided shelter from the rain at both entrances informed the public in large white letters, visible at night in the glare of several spotlights, that the establishment was the Vincent A. Milano Funeral Home.

  The driver eased past the entrance and continued on into the parking lot. Fiore reached for his briefcase on the seat beside him, his anxiety increasing. As the cab made a slow U-turn in the large yard and headed back toward the street, he counted a dozen other vehicles parked there. The Chevrolet came to a stop, and an attendant wearing a heavy black woolen coat and a Russian style fur hat that partially covered his ears opened the passenger door for him.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said, and continued without waiting for a response. “The wake is being held in the first room on the right. Toilet facilities are at the end of the hallway.” The words were spoken in a monotone, as if prerecorded. Fiore thanked him and entered the building, uncertain what to do next. The sign on a metal stand at the entrance to the room on his right indicated that a wake was in progress for a Dominic Sabatini. The name meant nothing to him. Still, as Gaudette didn’t tell him where Sandy Tarantino would be, and as he saw no activity farther down the corridor, he joined the mourners in the room.

  Gray, metal folding chairs were set out along the walls on three sides. Fiore saw several faces turn in his direction as he entered, then look away when they didn’t recognize him. Sandy Tarantino was not in the room. He took off his raincoat and draped it over one of the chairs. He placed his briefcase on the
floor, under the same chair, and hesitated for a few moments, as if waiting for someone to approach him. When no one did, he silently cursed to himself about having to be where he was, but took a deep breath and walked toward the front of the room.

  The casket rested on a low platform built against the far wall. It was almost totally surrounded by bouquets of flowers, several in the form of a wreath. A woman, dressed entirely in black, her face covered by a veil, sat on a dark vinyl chair immediately to the left of the bier. Her hands were folded in her lap, her head bent forward slightly. Fiore guessed that she was Sabatini’s widow.

  He knelt before the casket and crossed himself, but did not look at the body. He closed his eyes and remained in that position for less than half a minute. When he got up and started to turn away, the woman spoke. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly. Fiore caught himself quickly, moved to where she sat and said he was sorry for her loss. He could see through the veil that she was somewhere in her forties, close to his own age.

  “Did my husband go to you for legal work, Mr. Fiore?” she asked. Her voice was just above a whisper.

  Fiore was momentarily confused. He was certain he had never seen her before, but she obviously knew who he was. He searched his brain for a connection to the name “Sabatini,” but came up empty. Suddenly, the flash of a smile on her face made him realize that she was playing a game for his benefit. It must have to do with Sandy, he thought, and knew he had to go along with it.

  “Yes, he did,” he answered, smiling momentarily himself. “On several occasions.”

  “I’m glad he went to the best.” She took his hand, as if she were being consoled and was thanking him for something kind he said. “Down the hall there’s a door marked ‘Employees Only.’ It’s just after the ladies room. Go in there and wait. But please, first express your condolences to Dominic’s family. That’s them sitting by the window.” She let go of his hand and raised her voice slightly. “It was very nice of you to come. God bless you.”

  “Thanks,” he replied. Fiore considered acknowledging her role with a wink, but reminded himself that she was still mourning a dead husband. He made a mental note to find Sabatini’s obituary in the newspaper and perhaps send a donation in his memory to a local charity. “Take care,” he said, and walked over to the window.

  A man sat between two women, all of them elderly. The women were both overweight and looked uncomfortable on the small chairs they occupied. One held a man’s white handkerchief in her hand and used it alternately to dab at her tears and blow her nose. The other held a large pocketbook on her lap with both hands. The man’s wide, striped tie was long out of fashion. It was knotted poorly at his neck, revealing the unbuttoned top button of his shirt. Fiore shook hands with each of them and offered his sympathy. He assumed that two of them were Sabatini’s parents and that the other woman was either a close aunt or the dead man’s godmother. They said nothing to him in response, but just moved their heads up and down as he played out the mourner’s role for their benefit by assuring them that he would always treasure his friendship with “Dom.”

  Fiore retrieved his coat and briefcase and found the room to which he was directed. A ceiling light was on when he entered and closed the door behind him. A long glass-topped wooden table occupied the center of the room, surrounded by eight red plastic chairs, the kind that could be stacked one on top of the other. Although functional, they were totally out of place next to the imposing table made from a fine-grained dark wood.

  The room had no windows. There was an old Whirlpool refrigerator to his left. The droning sound it gave off seemed hardly worth its obviously small capacity. A food-market shopping cart to one side of the refrigerator contained opened packages of small paper cups, paper plates, plastic utensils and napkins. He guessed that the funeral home employees used the room for lunch or a quick snack at break time. There was nothing there to encourage them to linger when they finished eating. Mahogany paneling extended from the crown molding below the ceiling all the way to the baseboard on all four walls, interrupted only by a narrow piece of chair rail about three feet above the floor. Fiore assumed that the elegant space, not visible from the outside, was planned originally to host clandestine meetings.

  “Hello, good buddy.”

  Fiore was startled. He turned around quickly, in time to catch Sandy Tarantino pushing a panel back against the wall. Nothing on that section of mahogany identified it as a door. He was certain that someone would have to open it again from the other side when their meeting was over.

  Doug moved quickly to greet his friend. “Sandy. Good to see you.”

  Tarantino took Fiore’s outstretched hand and held it firmly in his own as he shook it. The vise-like grip into which Doug’s fingers had entered reminded him again of the strength of his former roommate, the only member of the Princeton wrestling team who didn’t lose a single fall in four years of varsity competition.

  “I’m great, Doug, just great. Thanks for coming tonight. Sorry about all the intrigue, but I had no idea where we’d meet when Joe set up the date with you.”

  He walked over to the door, pushed the button in the handle to lock it and steered Fiore over to the table where they took seats across from each other. “The guy they’re waking is Dominic Sabatini,” Sandy said. “He was the construction worker you may have read about who had the ditch collapse on him in Pawtucket a few days ago. The poor bastard suffocated before they could dig him out. We grew up on the same street. I even dated his wife a couple of times in high school. She was one knockout broad in those days. I called and told her to use this place when I heard about Dom. He had some life insurance through his union—something like ten grand—but we’ll help her out with what she needs until she’s back on her feet. That fucking construction company he worked for is going to pay through the nose for this. Fiore understood that the company’s immediate problem would come from the Tarantinos.

  “Anyhow,” Sandy continued, “I had one of the guys show Barbara Sabatini your picture and tell her what to say to you. You never know who’s watching, Doug. I assume I’m being followed everywhere I go. And it’s a wake, so any of them could just walk in here like they know the Sabatini family and look around. That’s why I wanted to be sure you paid your respects. If you’re ever asked what you did after you spoke to the widow, your answer is that you went upstairs to say ‘Hello’ to your good friend Vincent and then took a cab back downtown. He’d swear to the same thing.”

  Tarantino got up and started moving back and forth along his side of the table. “I’ve got to exercise this left leg a little. There’s a problem with some discs in my back and it shoots pain through my knee like it was a torn cartilage or something. They’re scheduling me for an MRI. Ever had one, Doug?”

  “No,” he said. He rapped the side of the table with his knuckles. “No reason for one yet. Knock on wood.”

  “It’s murder if you’re claustrophobic like me. You’re like a torpedo they shove into a hole in a machine. It’s pitch-black in there and you can’t move. If I didn’t take some Xanax, I’d be screaming for them to pull me right out. I’ve been through it six times already. My wife calls me ‘The King of the MRIs.’ ” Sandy laughed and Doug smiled back.

  Fiore looked at the man he first met twenty-five years earlier, in the second semester of their freshman year in college. Sandy was probably thirty pounds heavier now than in those days, up to about 220, Doug guessed. He still wore the beard and mustache he initially showed off to Fiore about seven or eight years ago. His face was slightly flabbier than back then, especially in the jowls, and the black hair he combed straight back started from higher on his forehead. But the eyes that always grabbed your attention and said, “Look right here, you fucker, when you’re talking to me” hadn’t changed at all. They were the color of the darkest roast coffee beans, ready as always to pull you into a sinkhole.

  The two of them took the same political science elective that second semester. They were part of a study group wi
th several other classmates but didn’t socialize otherwise. When the Brown University basketball team played at Princeton, they were both in the sparse crowd that showed up to watch. At halftime they bumped into each other and discovered that each had roots in Rhode Island.

  After that, they began meeting at the athletic center a couple of nights a week for some one-on-one basketball, and their friendship grew. Tarantino had his own car, a three-year-old Plymouth coupe, and Fiore drove to Providence with him for several weekends at home. Doug intended to live in a dormitory again for his sophomore year, but Sandy called him during the summer and suggested they share an off-campus apartment.

  “You can use my car when you need it,” he said, sensing Fiore’s hesitation.

  That clinched it. “You’ve got yourself a roommate,” Doug said.

  They kept the same apartment for three years. But back in Rhode Island during summer breaks, neither ever visited the other at home. Fiore recalled that when they briefly discussed their families, Sandy said only that his father was in life insurance.

  Together, they made frequent trips into New York and loved everything the City had to offer. Partying and chasing girls came naturally and easily, and they made many friends at Columbia and NYU. They never bothered reserving hotel rooms on those trips. There was always someone who would let them crash. When they went their separate ways with girls after a party, the standing arrangement was to meet the next day at noon at the main entrance to Madison Square Garden. That location was chosen with the hope that the Celtics would be in town to play the Knicks, and if they were doubly lucky, to get their hands on two tickets to the game.

  As graduation from Princeton approached, Sandy and Doug both knew they wanted to go on to law school at Columbia, if it accepted them. With excellent college records and high LSAT scores, each applied to just Columbia and one “safe” school.