My Honorable Brother Page 3

  “Fuck it,” Sandy said sarcastically, “if I can’t get into Columbia or BU with these grades, I’ll follow my father into the life insurance business.” They laughed at that, but Vietnam was still going strong in 1969, and Fiore often questioned whether they could get deferments. Doug reminded his roommate that if both law schools rejected them, they’d be buying life insurance instead of selling it and marching off to Vietnam. Tarantino never seemed worried about it, and asked Doug at one point for the address of his local draft board. By the time they had their degrees from Princeton, deferments came through for both of them. Fiore was never aware of the pressure Sandy’s father put on the officials of the two boards to make sure that his son and his son’s best friend weren’t drafted.

  Columbia admitted them both. They rented an apartment within walking distance, at the corner of Broadway and 84th Street. Although the first year was difficult, they finished near the top of the class and still found time for fun. When exams were over, they returned to Providence to spend the summer clerking in law firms. Each was selected to serve on the Columbia Law Review in the fall, and that helped open doors to the better law firms. Fiore chose Walters, Cassidy & Breen from the three offers of employment he received. It was the second largest in Rhode Island, and gave him the chance to pick up experience in several different areas of the law.

  Sandy told Doug he took a job with Tecci & Tecci, two brothers who had a small office just above the Roma Pasticceria on Federal Hill. Doug knew the location because the Roma was the best Italian bakery on Atwells Avenue. But when he checked the lawyers’ directory to find out more about the firm, he discovered that it wasn’t listed. No one he spoke to at WC&B ever had a case with the Teccis. Most assumed it was a Mom and Pop type office that drafted wills, did some immigration work and handled personal injury claims for people in the neighborhood. Doug couldn’t understand what Sandy hoped to get out of that experience.

  A month into his clerkship, Fiore read about the sudden death of Anthony Buscatelli, head of the Rhode Island crime family. Buscatelli’s fatal heart attack was the subject of a large bold headline in the Providence Herald the morning after his demise. The story reminded readers that his only son died several years earlier in an automobile accident. “It remains to be seen,” the report concluded, “who will assume leadership of the Rhode Island Mafia.”

  About a week later, following the wake and funeral which were attended by well-known Mob figures from New York, New Jersey and Massachusetts, word filtered across Interstate 95 to the Herald newsroom that Salvatore Tarantino was chosen to replace Buscatelli. Doug noted the similarity of the surname to his roommate’s when he saw the article in the paper. As he read what was written about the State’s new “crime boss,” he was stunned to learn that Tarantino had two children, “a daughter, Ottavia, and a son, Salvatore Michael, known as Sandy.”

  Fiore waited two days before calling Tecci & Tecci, still uncertain of what to say to his roommate about what he now knew. The man who took the call told him that Sandy was unavailable, and Doug left word for him to call back. When the call wasn’t returned after a week he tried again, but a different male voice informed him that Tarantino was out of the office and hadn’t said when he’d be back.

  Fiore was alone in the firm’s library at eight o’clock on a Friday night when the switchboard operator paged him for a telephone call. He guessed that it was one of his basketball playing friends wanting to know if he’d be at the “Y” in time for his pick-up team’s nine o’clock game. He gave his hunch a shot. “Hello, Butchie,” he said into the receiver, and recognized Tarantino’s answering laugh immediately.

  “No, it’s not Butchie. Goddammit, Doug, if I thought you were going to become a fucking big firm nerd workaholic, I’d never have studied for exams with you and given you the benefit of my probing and incisive intellect. If that’s what you’re going to do in this life, it’ll be better if you flunk out of law school and become a more meaningful member of society.”

  “Funny guy,” Doug answered. “Shit, Sandy, I called you almost three weeks ago. Where’ve you been?”

  The levity in Tarantino’s voice disappeared immediately. “Busy, Doug, really busy.” There was a pause. “I guess you read the article, huh?”

  “Yeah, I read it. And all these years you wanted me to believe that your old man was in the life insurance business.”

  Since the story about the senior Tarantino first appeared, Fiore hadn’t thought about Sandy’s past references to his father’s occupation. But at that moment he suddenly recognized the subtle humor in a Mafia captain, and possibly a hit man for all he knew, being characterized as a life insurance salesman. Something in his gut told him that Sandy was aware of the connection he just made between the phony story he was given in the past and the reality of the situation. He was right.

  “I’m sorry, good buddy,” Sandy said, “but the truth just wouldn’t have made for great conversation. And I was sensitive enough about it to want to be accepted for who I was, not feared or rejected because of my family. You probably wouldn’t have told me to go fuck myself as many times as you did, often to my benefit, if you wondered how thin-skinned I was or whether my father taught me how to use a little muscle to win an argument. That’s the way it had to be.” Then the flippancy returned again: “Anyhow, the next time you tell me to go fuck myself, I may have to have you iced.”

  Fiore laughed. “I’ll try and remember that.” He countered with his own jab at humor. “I guess every great friendship has to be tested, and it looks like ours failed miserably.”

  Tarantino hesitated but didn’t take the bait. His voice became serious. “Listen, it’s going to be a while before the two of us can sit down and talk about things. What’s happened to my father is changing my life in a lot of ways. Right now I’m at the lowest rung of the apprenticeship-training program. There’s an awful lot I’ve got to learn, especially in the time that’s left before it’s back to school.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got to decide when to leave for New York.”

  “That’s the main thing I called you about. I’m through with Columbia. My father wants me close to home so we can talk face to face every day. Don’t ask me to explain that. It gets complicated and he won’t take ‘No’ for an answer. Anyhow, I’m transferring to BU in September. If there was a law school in Providence, I’d be staying right here. You’ve got to understand that not everyone who worked for Tony Buscatelli is overjoyed with Sal Tarantino taking over the operation. He’s worried about a few of the unhappy ones going off half-cocked and doing something stupid before he gets established. That’s why I have to have protection whenever I’m away from home. I fought like hell against it, but my dad shot down every argument I made. It wasn’t exactly like moot court, if you know what I mean.”

  Fiore smiled and took advantage of the pause that followed Sandy’s last words. “Look, all I know about your father is the stuff that was in the paper. There was nothing there about him ever spending time in prison or being indicted for anything. I assume he must have some brains if they made him head of the Family. But any way you look at it, it’s still the Mafia, crime incorporated as far as the public’s concerned. Are you telling me you’re going to be part of that just because you’re Sal Tarantino’s son?”

  Sandy anticipated the question. “Not exactly, Doug. I’ve drawn some lines that I won’t cross, and my father feels the same way I do. We’ll talk about it when I see you, and I’ll fill in all the details, but not now. Listen, when you get back to New York, let me know your address if you don’t stay in the same place. Don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch. A guy in my position never knows when he may need a good lawyer.”

  “Do you want me to say anything if anyone in class asks about you?”

  “No sweat. Just tell them I decided I’d be happier selling insurance than chasing ambulances. Don’t say anything about BU And do me a favor, okay?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Make it whole life, not term
insurance.”

  “You’re a real comedian. Listen, Sandy, take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will, old buddy. Thanks.” He took a deep breath and raised his voice sharply. “Now get back to work, you fucking nerd.”

  “Go fu …” But before Doug could get the words out, he heard the click at the other end.

  4

  FIORE WATCHED AS TARANTINO took a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator and pulled two paper cups from a package in the shopping cart. He brought the cups over to the table and filled them.

  “It’s a Soave Bolla,” he said. “Good stuff. But I didn’t ask you to come so you could hear me complain about my health.”

  Sandy sat down, pushing his back into the wide slats of the plastic chair as firmly as he could, his feet flat on the thinly carpeted floor for additional support. He knew it was time to get down to business. He raised his cup. “Salut.”

  “Salut,” Fiore responded, and made a motion with his own cup toward Sandy before taking a sip.

  “Question for you Doug. Have you been to any of the slot machine parlors that have opened around the State?”

  Fiore wasn’t sure whether this was more small talk or whether the evening’s agenda had begun. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “I just heard about them in the last month or so. But you know me. I like sure things, not stupid bets. I probably haven’t spent ten dollars on lottery tickets since they started selling them twenty years ago, or whenever it was.”

  “Smart man. That probably means you haven’t lost any money on the Jets either. What a fucked-up football team that is. But let me tell you something you may not know. Do you have any idea how the slots got started in Rhode Island?”

  Fiore shook his head. “No idea at all.”

  “Then I think you’ll find this interesting.” Tarantino took another sip of wine before continuing. “I’ll try and make a long story short, so bear with me. The first parlor—it was really what we’d both call a joint—opened up in Newport. The guy behind it was some relative of the mayor there. He offered to give back forty percent of the net to the town. The town didn’t have to do a thing for its money except look the other way and let him stay open. The place was right on Thames Street. That meant every tourist who went window-shopping along the main drag could see it, step inside and leave a few bucks there. You know how hard up Newport’s been for money. The teachers there went on strike for six weeks last fall before they caught on that they weren’t going to get more than a token raise if they picketed forever. Narragansett Sailboat and P. P. Cummings both shut down within the last fifteen months, and they were two of the biggest boat makers in the State. Unemployment in Newport was running at something like ten percent. That’s a hell of a lot of people out of work, looking for benefits. And benefits cost money. So the mayor said ‘Okay,’ to his cousin, or whatever he is, and told the cops to stay away from the place. The money probably gets entered on the town’s books as some sort of fee or taxes.”

  “I didn’t know they had them in Newport,” Fiore said.

  “Yeah, they do.” Sandy took a deep breath. “Then, about three months later, another slots parlor opened up in Westerly. Same story. A poor town that the recession was making poorer every day. The biggest employer there is the Bromfield Company. It makes those camouflage uniforms for the Defense Department. It got into financial trouble, went bankrupt and laid off a couple hundred people while the lawyers are getting it reorganized. Again, the town is getting a big piece of the money pie from the parlor operator who picked up on what was happening in Newport. So everybody’s happy, especially the local politicians who don’t have to talk about raising taxes. The cops make believe there’s still a convenience store at that location. Only in Westerly, instead of catering to tourists with money to blow, it’s different. There, it’s a case of someone local with just five bucks in his pocket, or her pocket, to give the ladies their due, throwing eight or ten quarters into a slot machine hoping to make a great big ten dollar hit. Five minutes later they’re wondering what they can put on the table for dinner with what they’ve got left. But the way they see it, the odds of having three oranges come up on a one-armed bandit are still better than hitting four out of six numbers in the lottery.”

  “It’s sad,” Fiore said. “Half the stores on the main drag in Westerly are boarded up. It’ll be a disaster area if Bromfield can’t make it back.”

  Tarantino picked up his wine again and held it in his hand as he continued talking. “The story gets even better,” he said. “Just after the slots got started in Westerly, a State rep filed a bill in the House to allow casino gambling in Rhode Island. He’s talking about craps, roulette, blackjack, the whole thing, at the option of each town. The difference, of course, is that the city or town would run the operation and take all the profits instead of sharing it with some entrepreneur who came out of the woodwork to make a fast buck.” Sandy took a sip from his cup and put it down again.

  “The Senate got pretty much the same bill a week later, courtesy of Millard Brickman, that great statesman from Warren.”

  “Not the brightest bulb in the room,” Fiore interjected.

  “That’s no secret,” Tarantino answered. “He probably thinks the town could open up a Las Vegas style casino just a mile off the Swansea/Warren exit on I 195 and catch everyone from Rhode Island and Massachusetts driving toward the beaches and the Cape. Anyway, it looks right now like the House would go for the legislation while the Senate’s against it. But neither one is anxious to have a vote too soon. The smart money says there won’t be a vote on any of the bills until after the election next November.

  “Meanwhile, two other slots have opened since the legislation was introduced, one right up the road in Pawtucket. And believe it or not, while gambling is still illegal in this great little state of ours unless you’re betting the lottery, every one of those joints is being allowed to operate.”

  Sandy got up and began pacing along his side of the table again. “No one is doing a damn thing about it. Every town needs the money so bad they just shut their eyes and stick out their hands, palms up. And someone with clout has told the State Police to look the other way. So tell me, Doug, how do you think my old man feels when the cops drive right past an illegal-as-hell slot parlor on the way to harassing a room full of people at one of our Family’s private clubs?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “What really pisses me off is that they show no fucking appreciation for what my father’s done in the years he’s been running things. You can’t compare the sources of our income today to what they were under Tony Buscatelli twenty years ago.”

  “I know that,” Fiore said.

  “Anyhow, the slot machines aren’t the big issue. They hurt our take because it’s another option the gamblers have if they feel like a little action and don’t want to come to one of our clubs. But it would cripple us if the State decides to get into blackjack, craps and roulette, the heavy stuff. I’ve told you before, that’s a big part of what the Family relies on for our basic operating income. That, and the sports betting. Competition from the State would give my Family one hell of a problem. All our investments in legitimate businesses are gravy when things are going well. It’s where the bonuses come from. But we’ve had some big losers in the last few years too. We can’t afford to kiss that kind of gambling money goodbye. What some of these Statehouse morons are talking about doing could even start a little war within the Tarantino family if there was any kind of push from one group to get back into drugs or prostitution.”

  Fiore listened to everything carefully and thought he saw where Sandy was heading. “We’ve got two lawyers in my firm who hold seats in the House,” he said. “I can talk to them when the time’s right, if this ever comes up for a vote. I’ll even twist their arms if I’ve got something to use, but I can’t guarantee they’d vote against it. And I’ve never lobbied for anything up at the Statehouse, so I don’t think I’d do a very good job at it.”

  Sandy smiled. “Good try, Dou
g, but you’re not even warm. Here comes the bottom line.” He continued pacing as he spoke. Fiore leaned forward in anticipation, resting his arms on the table. “My father knows there’s got to be a strong voice in Rhode Island against the State going into gaming operations. And it has to be the voice of morality. It has to convince the people that the State would just be encouraging the poorest members of society, the ones who gamble the most and can’t afford it, to go even deeper into the hole by making casino games available to them all over the place. Gambling is a sickness, a disease, and they shouldn’t be exposed to it every time they walk out their front doors.

  “That speaker would have to make our so-called leaders understand that eventually those folks will become wards of the State. They’ll have to be fed, clothed, housed and given health care out of public funds. It will end up costing the taxpayers more than what the State takes in from gambling.”

  “That’s for sure,” Fiore said.

  “And besides, there’s the bureaucracy that would have to be set up to run it. You know what that means. It’ll be full of former politicos and other hacks who’ll get all the good jobs through their friends in power, whether or not they’re qualified. If some commission says it can oversee casino gaming with 200 employees, you can bet your ass there’ll be twice as many feeding at the trough within two or three years.”

  Sandy was standing behind his chair, his hands pressed against the top of it. He looked down at his friend and waited until he caught his eye. “That’s the message that has to get delivered, Doug. It’s pro Tarantino family all the way, but no one will be thinking of us when they hear it. They’ll be too concerned and upset about the idea of their own tax dollars going to support the people who live on the edge. What they’ll be saying is, ‘Don’t take my hard-earned money and spend it on welfare.’ And the argument that will persuade them from supporting any casino bill has to come from one person.”