Free The Big Scam by Paul Lindsay Page A

whenever I ask, I’ve been given the distinct impression that I didn’t want to know.”
    Lansing’s lips tightened with determination. These were exactly the kinds of potentially embarrassing things an inspector worth his salt uncovered. “Well, it sounds like something I’m going to want to find out.”
    â€œLet me warn you, Chuck, you’re going to get the runaround. I get it when I ask, and I’m on the home team. Maybe they’ve got something on the SAC because anytime somebody tries to hold them responsible for anything, he jumps up in their defense.” Dreagen thought throwing the SAC in as a possible trophy couldn’t hurt.
    â€œI’ll stay out there the entire month if I have to.”
    Perfect, Dreagen thought. All today’s problems were about to take each other out.

8
    THE MORNING’S TABLOID HEADLINE READ:
    MOB GOES FROM MAKING LICENSE
    PLATES TO … MAKING LICENSE PLATES
    In an almost bullying departure from the delicately hammered rhetoric of FBI spokespersons everywhere, James Wade of the Manhattan office was quoted in the article as saying, “Because we feel the FBI is largely at fault for the lack of entrepreneurial opportunity that organized crime faces these days, we’re going to urge the United States Attorney’s office to show Mr. Baldovino some leniency. Possibly allow him to plead to a lesser offense, something like interstate transportation of counterfeit instruments in a pink cake box.”
    Released that morning on bail, Manny Baldovino stared out the narrow front window at the Sons of Catania Social Club. Some of the others from Mike Parisi’s crew sat around a table behind him, arguing and laughing over a pinochle game. Never before had Manny understood the luxury of their idleness, and he now admonished himself for not enjoying it more when it had been his. He stood close enough to hear them, but kept his back turned in self-exile as punishment for embarrassing himself and his friends.
    Outside, evenly scattered clouds, their undersides flat and gunmetal gray, covered the neighborhood with alternating patches of dry, blanched sunlight and pewtered opacity. Back in the kitchen, sauce was cooking. The oily singe of garlic, the sweet pungency of tomatoes—it reminded him of Sundays at his mother’s house, the ultimate safe harbor of his life. Squinting out at the recurring cycle of light and dark, he imagined each a silent frame, each a day and then a night, flickering by, distancing him from his problems.
    â€œHey, Manny, quit watching out the window,” Gus Dellaporta said. “You expecting the FBI? Oh no, that’s right, you wouldn’t know them if you saw them. For future reference, they’re the ones with the cake boxes.” A spattering of laughter erupted as Baldovino turned around and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Dellaporta sat with his thick hands folded gently in front of him like a boxer lowering his arms to taunt an opponent with superior skills. But Baldovino could see that it was not done maliciously, but rather to show him he was among friends, and the mistakes they all made were inherent in trying to exist outside the law. Dellaporta was calling for return fire.
    â€œIf all it took was cake boxes to figure out who the FBI was, Gus, you’d be the most valuable guy in the outfit.”
    Even Dellaporta had to laugh. “Come on and sit down. Use those hands for something besides slapping yourself around. Play some cards. This’ll go away, you just have to get off it.”
    Dellaporta stood up and stretched. As always, he was wearing a sport coat over his 270 pounds, this one powder blue. It was all he ever wore, even during a snowstorm. He squatted down and bounced to loosen his heavily muscled thighs. For his size, he was remarkably light on his feet. At parties or weddings, those who knew him looked forward to the moment when he had had enough to