Nick had the feeling he'd had since childhood: his grandfather knew every thought, every deed, every circ.u.mstance of his life. Lying was not an option.

"Papa, they offered me a deal. I'm supposed to go to work for you and report to them. I'm to be their mole."

"What did your uncle Frank say to this?"

"He told me to be very careful. Papa, you're right, I should have come to you right away. I did a stupid thing. Okay, I'm turning to you now. I need money to get the h.e.l.l outta here. You can send me somewhere, where no one will find me. Let me live somewhere, get my head together, decide what to do. I'll get the money I owe. Tell them that out in Vegas-"

"By robbing the spies, Nicholas?" Nicholas Ventura spoke at a slow, determined pace. "No. No running away. I've been thinking this through for a coupla hours."

Christ. The old man had all the inside information that had been restricted to a handful of feds. Frank had said Ventura had a pipeline anywhere he needed one.

"This could be a very useful situation. You tell them yes-"

"Papa, I'd go to prison before I ..."

"You will keep quiet until I finish speaking," he snapped. "I will put you to work in my Queens real estate office. And you will come see me regularly. I will give you information, you will go to them with it." A slight smile pulled his thin lips; he was visualizing his future plans. "I will give you information they can act on. To my benefit and to the benefit of my colleagues-these c.h.i.n.ks are hard to impress. We can use the DEA to eliminate certain compet.i.tion. Christ, they're savages, these Chinese; they make the Colombians look like Boy Scouts."

"Papa, are you really going into the drug trade? I thought-"

"I deal in money. And companies. And markets." He slammed his fist on the desk. "How, where, from what source the money comes is not my concern. The end product, with which I deal, is green. I keep the economy going. I keep people working."

He sounded almost benevolent. The drugs were just an incidental way for him to distribute his good works.

"I will tell your cousin Richie that you work for me and he is in no way to interfere with you. He has his own work to do. And Nicholas, you will also bring me information from them; determine what they know or do not know about our operations. They gave you fifty grand, to get your house back. What did you think they'd want for their money?"

"I was going to give the money to Kathy. And ... run."

"Give it to Kathy and stay."

Ventura dialed; he hated the b.u.t.tons on the newer phones. His fingers. .h.i.t too many numbers at the same time. He waited throughout more than ten rings. It was 2:00 A.M.; Nick wondered who the old man was calling. Finally, he smiled and began to speak. Whoever it was must have come full awake at the sound of his voice.

"Marty, how are you? Listen, in a day or two my grandson, Nicholas, will stop by. You give him the keys to that nice little apartment in Forest Hills-by the tennis courts, yes." He listened; when he spoke again, his voice had tightened. "I know we have better apartments on Queens Boulevard. That is not what we are discussing. Good. Good. It's nice and clean, yes? Good. Anything he needs, you take care of for him, yes? Goodnight. Goodnight. Thank you, Marty."

He jotted a name and address on a slip of paper and handed it to Nick. "Marty Tortelli-at the agency, any time, whenever it's convenient. Go. Make your deal with the feds, Nicholas."

He spoke with the hard authoritarian voice of the patriarch, and Nick listened with respect as his future life was being worked out for him.

"Now for the rest of your problem, Nick, with the casino. I own a certain percentage of some casinos. We'll work it all out. Someday, you'll pay me what I take out of pocket. But there are conditions. You will not be permitted to enter any casino, not in Las Vegas, Atlantic City, any Indian reservation. No racetrack, no ball games of any kind. No card games. You're not even to buy a lottery ticket, capisce? I mean this very seriously, Nick. There will be no violation of these rules." He relaxed a little, thrust his hand out. "Your hand on this." His grip was strong; then he embraced his grandson.

"Nicholas, Nicholas. All will be well."

Nick held his grandfather in his arms; felt a remembered warmth and confidence fill him. But he pulled himself back abruptly, studied the sharp blue eyes. There were many Nicholas Venturas in this one body. Capable of many things.

As Joe Menucci drove him back to his house in Spring Valley, Nick felt a growing sense of numb unreality.

Then the bleakest, emptiest thought of all flooded through him. What the f.u.c.k did any of this matter?

CHAPTER 22.

NICK SPENT A LONG day trying to avoid people. Everyone knew something was up; word got around very quickly. When Ed Manganaro waylaid him in the parking lot behind the precinct house, Nick was abrupt.

"I'm outta here, that's all you need to know, okay? I turned in my papers. They got my gun and shield. I never wanted to come back, remember?" He turned, his eyes even with Ed's, and asked quietly, "You got any questions?"

"Yeah, Nick. About a hundred. I been hearing some bad things, and-"

"And you're my partner-were my partner. You're not involved in any of it. You're clean, okay?"

"Jesus, Nick, that's not what I'm worried about."

"Eddie, don't worry about nothin', okay. Don't waste your time. I'm moving out of the house. I'm telling you just so you won't be stopping over. Kathy's gonna sell it."

Ed put his hand on Nick's shoulder. "Partner, let's you and me sit somewhere and talk. How about we drive up to the Valley together and-"

"How about you go f.u.c.k yourself and leave me the h.e.l.l alone?" He turned away from the stricken look, the confusion, the wound. "Eddie, grow up. s.h.i.t happens, okay?" He held his hand up. "Not another G.o.dd.a.m.n word, Ed. Not one."

He didn't look in the rearview mirror as he pulled out. He knew Eddie would be staring after him.

Sitting at their family kitchen table, he signed over the house to Kathy. He also signed the divorce papers. The lawyers studied everything carefully, but Kathy shook her head when her guy pointed out something in small print. She just wanted out of there. She left abruptly without saying one word to Nick.

"Mr. O'Hara, your wife wants you to know you can take all the time you need. To move out of the house. Also that she's taking the dog and the cat up to Boston with her. That's all right?"

"Whatever she wants. I'll be cleared out by the end of the week."

He wrote his Forest Hills address on a sc.r.a.p of paper, just in case she needed him for anything.

It was a small apartment: tiny bedroom, twelve-by-twelve living room with one recessed wall containing a small gas stove, sink, and half-refrigerator. The furnishings were old but clean. The windows gleamed behind fresh, straight white curtains. The bathroom had been scrubbed. Whoever took care of the property had done a good job. In case his grandfather asked. The phone was installed and in working order, but Nick jumped when it rang unexpectedly.

"How ya doin'?"

"Home is where the heart is, right?"

Frank grunted. "Wanna have some supper? There's a great diner out on Queens Boulevard, not far from you."

It was a brand-new place, carefully designed to suggest the fifties. The menu was huge and the portions gigantic. Nick pushed the food around on his plate.

"How'd it go downtown this morning?"

"It went the way they wanted it to, okay?"

"Coleman isn't as bad as he seems, Nick." Frank picked up the large plastic menu and pointed. "Hey, they got some great desserts here. Did you see that revolving gla.s.s case by the entrance? Forget the seven layer and the cheesecake. Go for the Boston cream pie."

Nick studied his uncle. He was trying so hard. As if everything in his entire world hadn't changed. As if Nick was still the kid dazzled by Frank's charm and ability and success. As if Frank hadn't gotten him into something he wasn't at all sure about.

"Listen to me, Nick. I've waited for more than thirty years. When they took Danny out, I wanted to kill every last one-every s.h.i.t in your grandfather's 'family,' starting with him. But the time wasn't right. Peter was killed indirectly because of your grandfather's involvement in the bahania trade. That punk kid of Richie's dragged him into ..."

Nick thought of his grandfather's large blue eyes, blurred by emotion when he talked about Peter. Even if he hadn't loved Nick's father, he surely loved Nick's son.

"Don't tell me the DEA and the P.D. and the ATF and any other G.o.dd.a.m.n enforcement group hasn't got informants. What's the matter, you guys don't share information? Why me?"

"Because you are who you are. You can get in real close." Frank studied the menu for a moment, then, "So, when you gonna start in the real estate business?"

Nick pushed his plate back and drank some tepid water.

"Monday. They're getting me a license. I'm gonna hang around the office. Get the feel of the properties. I can't picture myself actually selling-" He slammed the gla.s.s down in exasperation. "Frank, this is getting very confusing. Papa is gonna feed information for me to pa.s.s along to Coleman. He wants me to get him any information about the DEA's actions. How the h.e.l.l am I gonna get anything to give him?"

"You're going back to college, Nick." Nick had attended John Jay College of Criminal Justice on and off for six years. He was just a few credits short of a degree.

"You're gonna take Const.i.tutional Rights and Liberties. Professor Thomas Caruso. Know him?"

Nick thought for a moment. "Yeah. I took a couple of Police Science courses with him, years ago. But-"

Frank blotted his lips and signaled their waitress, an alarmingly alert, stocky, middle-aged woman who studied their plates and bit her lip. How come these two big guys left so much food? She jotted down their order for coffee and Boston cream pie. Within moments she delivered and set the coffee and dessert before them. She looked each man in the eye. "Enjoy," she commanded.

"It gets a little complicated, Nick, but you can work it out. Tom Caruso. He's DEA. Deep undercover. Only a few people know about him." Frank tasted the cream pie, and smiled. "He's your man."

"Spell it out, Frank."

"Taste that, Nick, is that good or what? Well, you'll bring whatever Papa Ventura gives you to Coleman. Nothing else. Remember, Ventura's got a leak in that squad and he'll be checking you out. Your grandfather will give you real information, but only stuff damaging to his enemies. As far as Coleman and his team are concerned-that's all they get. Now, Professor Caruso, you give him all the information you find: names, locations, meetings, company organizations, officers, deals, whatever. Only to Caruso. And he'll give you some tips to give your grandfather."

"But, if there's a mole in Coleman's squad, won't my grandfather wonder where I'm getting my stuff from? He'll know it wasn't from them."

Frank shrugged. "You got a lotta connections in the department, right? So, what does that make you, a triple agent?"

"It makes me a sitting duck."

"Not if you're careful. And I know you,. Nick. You know how to play whatever game you gotta play."

"Right. I'm a natural-born gambler."

"No gamble, Nick. You're a team player. One other thing. You and me-we won't have any contact. a.s.sume your phone is tapped and you're being followed. You reach me only through Caruso. Until this is over."

"And when will that be?"

"You gonna leave that big chunk of Boston cream? That waitress will trip us on the way out."

Nick leveled a cold stare at his uncle and deliberately plunged his fork into the cake, stuffed it into his mouth.

"Jeez, you're a selfish little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you?"

CHAPTER 23.

VENTURA REAL ESTATE WAS housed in a storefront on Metropolitan Avenue, just beyond the fancy Forest Hills streets. The man there was Marty Tortelli, a mid-sixties, skinny guy who chewed on an unlit cigar that smelled terrible. No one would talk into a telephone after him: ashtray breath. He wore smudged gla.s.ses that needed cleaning and updating badly. He held everything he read at arm's length. He was out of the office more than in. He introduced Nick to Tessie Tortuga-"someone's aunt," Marty whispered.

Tessie was a slender woman, anywhere from mid-fifties to mid-seventies. With her dyed black hair, and carefully applied makeup, impeccable grooming, attractive clothing, and high heels, Tessie had a sparkle. She trailed a whiff of light, pleasant perfume as she showed Nick around the office.

She set him up at a steel desk in the front window, so he could gaze over Metropolitan Avenue. Across the street were a collection of taxpayers: small shops at street level, small apartments upstairs. The neighborhood was clean and orderly. No troublemakers allowed. Nick took an armload of file folders, fanned them out on his desk. There were properties recently sold, recently rented, on the market. There were client lists-potentials to buy, sell, or rent. Tessie kept the files. Anything you needed to know was in Tessie's head, if not in her files. She scorned the computer-so call her old-fashioned.

Nick spent a week or so studying the files, concentrating on houses and apartments. There was another large section of information on industrial properties handled by Ventura Real Estate.

He was driven around Forest Hills, then Forest Hills Gardens, by Salvy Grosso, a hulking man who looked fatter than he actually was. His face was very broad and featured a solid block of black eyebrows straight across his forehead. He had the wheeze of a smoker, although he had never been one. He was a toucher-your arm, your shoulder, your sleeve. When he knew you better, he might loop an arm around you.

Salvy spoke in a soft, confidential voice, occasionally cupping his hand around his mouth, just in case someone, somewhere, was curious about what he was saying. He drove through the Gardens like a tour guide. He had grown up in Woodside, Queens, and he felt that gave him, somehow, an insider's view. He stopped in front of a large house, mostly hidden behind bushes, trees, random plantings. Home of the first woman vice-presidential candidate. Neighbors went crazy when she was running: all the Secret Service, P.D., and media. If just for that reason, everyone was glad she lost. After all, Forest Hills Gardens was not happy with intruders. He pointed, vaguely, at what he said had been the home of a Transit Authority commissioner, "before your time, Nick." And you couldn't see it from here, but some older dame, a movie character actress, raised her kids here. And that actor from NYPD Blue, who claimed he came from hard times, he lived right in the heart of the Gardens. Some hard times.

It was a very quaint, self-contained old English Tudor village with an inn and a square and its own stop on the Long Island Railroad line. Salvy pointed out where the serial killer, Son of Sam, had murdered women on two separate occasions.

"Imagine a b.u.m like that?" Salvy seemed to take the violation personally. "Ya know, Nick, I figured the guy to be a cop, ya know?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, he hit his targets at all hours. I figured he must have worked different tours. He turns out to be just another post office nuthead. Do they get like that on their job, or does the P.O. attract them? What?"

They visited several of the newer high-rises on Queens Boulevard, a futuristic collection of gla.s.s and steel buildings that would fit right in with any newly reconstructed section of Manhattan: all the same, without character or distinctiveness.

"When I was a kid living in Woodside, I worked for a garbage collection company. We'd pick up from restaurants, and some real nice private homes around here. Most of this section was empty lots-some parking lots for car sales agencies. Ya see the Kennedy House over there? Christ, I remember when there used to be a big mansion; with beautiful lawns and gardens, and a three-car garage in back. Must have been more than an acre. I guess the old folks died and the next in line sold out. Probably got a fortune. The developers just leveled the house. Guy I worked for, he got some of the woodwork-doors, shutters, and stained gla.s.s. He had an in with the construction guys. Shame, though, huh?"

When Nick got back to the office, Tessie, with a big smile, jingled some keys at him, then, with a jerk of her head, indicated a dark blue Cadillac parked across the street.

"Company rented it for you, Nick. Can't have you representing us in an old station wagon."

He checked the papers. Long-term lease. On the company. As he walked out, a shiny black Jaguar blocked his way. The window slid down and there was Laura Santalvo.

"Nick. Come for a ride with me. I have something I want you to see."

She handled the Jag with great authority, as she did everything else. She cut across Queens Boulevard swiftly, pulled into the U-shaped driveway in front of one of the newer thirty-story co-ops Nick had seen earlier. She left the car where she had stopped. The doorman hurried to help her, bobbed his head up and down.

On the twelfth floor, Laura led him to a door at the far end of the hallway, which she opened.

"Never live next to an elevator. I don't care how quiet they are, you can still hear them. Or feel them."

She flipped on a series of switches that lit up a large entrance hall, a huge living room, connected to a good-sized dining room, with adjoining eat-in kitchen. She preceded him rapidly, opening a door to a dark bedroom: even with the lights the room was dim.

"Master bathroom," she pointed out. "There's another bedroom, a little smaller; can be a den or office or whatever. Has its own bathroom, plus there's a small lavatory next to a closet in the entrance hall. There's a well-stocked bar. TV built in; music system-" She stopped speaking and watched him closely.