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  WHITE STAR

  A NOVEL

  JAMES THAYER

  White Star © 2015 by James Thayer. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Visit James Thayer's web site at www.jamesthayer.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thayer, James

  White Star: a novel/James Thayer

  To my daughter

  Annemarie Patricia Thayer

  Thanks to

  Peter Crow, C. James Frush, Sally A. Martin,

  John D. Reagh III, Jay McM. Thayer, John L. Thayer, M.D.,

  Laurie Dinnison Thayer, Dexter A. Washburn, Mark A.

  Washburn, Robert O. Wells, Jr., and my wonderful and

  remarkable wife, Patricia Wallace Thayer.

  There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and like it never care for anything else thereafter.

  —Ernest Hemingway

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  PART ONE

  LIVING SAPPHIRES

  If you fear the wolves, don't go near the forest.

  —Russian proverb

  CHAPTER ONE

  The star appeared in the void where none had been before, flickering as it struggled to life, sending forth delicate tendrils of light that lanced the eternal darkness. Then the star burst to full radiance, filling the vault of heaven with opalescent rays.

  "Are you kidding me?" Anna Renthal whispered. "Origami?"

  Owen Gray looked down at his hand. The star rested in his palm. Startled, he flicked his fingers and it fell to the table where it lay lifeless and tiny.

  She leaned slightly along the prosecutors' table toward him, looking at the jury as it filed into the courtroom. "It's a pissant hobby for a grown man, if you ask me." She spoke almost without moving her lips, her eyes following the jurors as they took their seats.

  "Goddamnit." Pete Coates was also whispering. "None of the jurors is looking at us. We've lost."

  "Number eight just smiled at Owen," Anna Renthal insisted.

  Coates said out of the side of his mouth, "Number eight sat there for sixteen weeks and wet her pants every time Owen took the stand. She's in love with him. Sure she's going to grin."

  Anna Renthal asked, "You okay, Owen?"

  Gray looked again at the paper star. He had no recollection of folding it. The star often appeared at times of stress, emerging from whatever piece of paper was in front of him.

  Gray shook his head. "Three years' work on the Chinaman all boils down to whether a juror smiles at me."

  He ran a finger along his nose. Even this small motion required an effort. Eighty-hour weeks had worn him shiny. He had caught himself in a mirror that morning. He seemed to have aged five years during the trial. The new lines around his eyes looked permanent. His black hair still had the tight waves, only there was less above his temples. He had seen so little sun during the trial that his skin had faded to a prison pallor. Gray had a thin dagger of a nose and slate-gray eyes. A grin would have softened the sharp angles of his face, but in front of a jury his expression was always carefully deadpan.

  The jurors moved more slowly than in days and months past, taking their time, enjoying their portentous arrival. Gray glanced over his shoulder at the courtroom's gallery.

  There was not a seat to be had, not a square foot of the back aisle unoccupied, and there was not one sound or movement from the spectators. All the throat clearing, fingernail clipping, tooth sucking, knuckle cracking, and butt scratching were at last quelled. Even the pencil hands of the media sketch artists were motionless.

  Carmine "Chinaman" De Sallo had been charged with thirty-eight counts, everything from money laundering to hijacking to racketeering to conspiracy. The jury had deliberated eight days. De Sallo faced eighty-eight years in prison. "He deserves life in the electric chair," Anna Renthal had said.

  The spectators were arranged as if at a wedding. Wiseguys were shoulder to shoulder in the gallery on the defendant's side of the courtroom. Federal agents and New York City police sat on the other side, behind the prosecutors' table.

  De Sallo had packed the courtroom day after day with his soldiers. They were referred to as "our friends" and "nice guys" on the three hundred hours of tapes Owen Gray had listened to preparing for the trial. Pete Coates had once said that if a computer could eliminate the profanity from the tapes, there'd only be six hours left.

  Detective Coates was the NYPD case officer, allowed to sit at the prosecutors' table. He had tiny features—pinprick eyes and a splinter of a nose, so small that his head appeared to have swollen around his face. His hair was a dun color and was as short as a drill instructor's. His chest had the dimensions of an oil drum, and his coat sleeves were two inches too short. He wore a sagging gray suit. His blue-rimmed spectacles were surprisingly stylish, given the sprung and faded look to the rest of him.

  Also at the table, for the first time since the trial began, was Gray's boss, Frank Luca, the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York. He had said nothing since the judge had reconvened the court to hear the verdict. Newspaper columnists judged that Luca's senatorial ambitions depended on De Sallo's fate.

  But this was Owen Gray's case. He was an assistant U.S. Attorney and the chief prosecutor, the mastermind of the government's massive effort to put Carmine De Sallo into prison. Anna Renthal was his able co-prosecutor. She had postponed her wedding and honeymoon because of this trial. Her walnut-colored hair was pulled back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a gray suit with a white cotton blouse buttoned to the neck. Her lip gloss was neutral, no color. At the beginning of the trial Gray had told her, "You want this guy to do time, don't let the jury see you looking like a Bergdorf mannequin."

  As the last of the jurors filed into the box, Gray said in a low voice, "I'm going to indict Pots next. Jesus, that guy sets me off."

  Joseph "Pots" Asperanti was in his usual position directly behind De Sallo. He wore glasses with amber lenses and a silk handkerchief in his suit pocket. Once a month he hosted a poker game, and when he had lost everything in his wallet he would put his wife into the pot. The winner disappeared into the bedroom for twenty minutes, collecting the wager from Pots's wife. At trial, every time he found Owen Gray looking in his direction Pots mouthed a kiss.

  Next to Pots was Danny Garbanto, known as the Boatman because it was thought he piloted the De Sallo runabout that dumped bodies into Jamaica Bay off Howard Beach. FBI agents called the bay the Jamaica Cemetery. Also in the room were Luigi Massarli, a De Sallo soldier said to have a collection of four thousand handguns, and Dominick "Four Nines" Rompuni, a spallone (a
money mover, from the Italian for smuggler), who performed countless transactions involving $9,999, one dollar less than the amount federal law required banks to report.

  A dozen other wiseguys had visited the gallery every day, but the star was Chinaman De Sallo, and he never let the limelight drift from him. Each day his measured gait, imperious nod, and sanguine smile told his audience and jury that he fully expected an acquittal. He would not be inconvenienced, as Vito Genovese and Anthony Salerno had been, forced to run their organizations from prisons.

  The source of De Sallo's nickname had been a matter of endless speculation among the prosecutors, police, and agents. Finally, informer BQ 6675-TE (BQ for the FBI's Brooklyn-Queens office, and TE for top echelon, the highest rank the FBI assigned an informer) revealed the solution. The informer was now almost eighty years old and had made his bones the same year as De Sallo's father. In 1966, the father and the informer visited Carmine at St. Luke's Hospital, where Carmine had just had a cancerous testicle removed. The first words out of his father's mouth on seeing Carmine were "Well, kid, we'll just have to call you the Chinaman. Won Hung Lo. Get it? One hung low." The name stuck.

  Each of De Sallo's suits cost more than Gray made in a month, and the gangster never wore shoes unless they were made from some endangered species. His only jewelry was a pinkie ring. An NYPD telephoto showed it to be a Harvard class ring, unusual for a man who had left school forever after two and a half years in sixth grade at Brooklyn's P.S. 209.

  The NYPD claimed De Sallo had four toupees, each with slightly different length hair. He rotated the wigs once a week so it appeared his hair was getting longer between alleged visits to his hairstylist. A plastic surgeon had strengthened his chin and added a slight cleft. His eyes were feminine, with long lashes. His eyebrows appeared plucked. De Sallo's delicate eyes had occasionally emboldened his underworld enemies to make mistakes, usually fatal.

  Chinaman was six feet four and weighed somewhere between three hundred and three fifty pounds. The U.S. Attorney's office had a pool on what his prison weigh-in would be. Gray had paid his five dollars, and if De Sallo flattened the scales at 342 at the penitentiary strip search and medical, Gray would be five hundred dollars to the good.

  On the other side of the courtroom aisle were the feds and cops—the operations supervisors of the Drug Enforcement Agency and Customs Service and many of their agents, deputies from the U. S. Marshal's office, the chief of the Southern District Organized Crime Strike Force, and at least two dozen agents from the Manhattan and Queens-Brooklyn FBI offices. Ninety FBI agents had worked on the investigation, fully a quarter of the agents in the Bureau's New York criminal division. Twenty New York City police detectives had joined them, and most were in the courtroom. Also in the spectator section were representatives of the Italian Treasury Police and the Italian Anti-Mafia Commission. Reporters filled every spare corner of the courtroom, ready to lift cellular phones from their pockets to call their newsrooms.

  The judge said, "Mr. Foreman, I understand you've reached a verdict."

  Gray turned back to the jury. His breath was shallow, and he felt as if he were wearing a jacket three sizes too small. He whispered, "Here we go, Anna."

  The foreman, juror number three, replied, "We have, Your Honor."

  This criminal trial had been the longest ever in the Southern District of New York. Judge Robert Kennelly had withered and grown smaller as the trial played itself out in front of him. The bags under his eyes had lately come to resemble black oysters. "Please hand your verdict to the clerk."

  The clerk stepped toward the jury box.

  "Please, God," Anna Renthal breathed, her eyes closed in prayer. "Call my beloved parents to your kingdom today if you must, but convict this bastard. Mom and Dad live at 1441 Harrison Street, East Orange, dear Lord."

  All FBI and DEA and NYPD eyes were on De Sallo. The mobster's expression as he realized he'd never again terrorize his beloved Brooklyn streets would be the agents' and officers' reward for their years of work.

  The clerk took the slip from the foreman, then stepped to the elevated dais. Judge Kennelly reached across the bench for the paper. With his face professionally impassive he opened the slip to read it.

  Count one was conspiracy, the easiest of the prosecution's burdens. If De Sallo walked on the conspiracy count, he'd walk on them all. Everyone in the courtroom knew it.

  The accused and his attorneys rose from their chairs. De Sallo stood with his back as rigid as a fireplace poker. His expression was one of sublime confidence, as if he owned the jury, the judge, the building, and all of Foley Square outside. De Sallo's battery of lawyers, arrayed at the table across the courtroom from Gray, each had an impeccably British name and a clock running at three hundred dollars an hour.

  "Ah, goddamnit," Coates muttered. "Number ten just winked at that piece of dirt Chinaman."

  "Contact lens problems," Gray whispered hopefully. "She's had trouble before."

  The judge passed the slip back to the clerk. "You may read the verdict."

  Gray glanced at his superior, Frank Luca. The U. S. Attorney dipped his chin. Christ, Gray thought, he's watching me, not De Sallo. Three years' work, and it's come down to this second.

  "In the matter of the United States versus Carmine De Sallo," the clerk intoned. "On count one, we the jury find the defendant. . ."

  Frank Luca inhaled sharply, the first sound he had made since arriving at the prosecutors' table.

  " . . . not guilty."

  Gasps filled the courtroom. Then dazed silence. Then the room erupted. The wiseguys hooted and whistled and applauded. A defense lawyer raised his arms into the air like a sprinter first to break the finish-line tape. Journalists reached for their phones. Another lawyer hugged De Sallo, carefully. Several spectators began a rhythmic "Chinaman, Chinaman, Chinaman," clapping their hands in time to their chant. Some jurors grinned. Others wept.

  Owen Gray's face flushed so rapidly that it felt bloated. He sagged back into his chair.

  Boatman Garbanto called out, "Attaway, boss."

  Luigi Massarli hollered, "You banged them, boss."

  Pots Asperanti blew a particularly juicy kiss at Gray.

  That is, half the courtroom erupted. The agents and cops slumped as if in unison. Some leaned forward, arms on the seat back ahead of them, hands limp. Some closed their eyes.

  "I'll be go to hell," Pete Coates said. "The puke is going to walk."

  The judge pounded his desk with a gavel. After a moment a semblance of order settled on the courtroom.

  Next was a related RICO charge. The court clerk read, "On count two, we find the defendant not guilty."

  Another smattering of applause. De Sallo brought his arm up to check his wristwatch as if he had other plans, an impressive display of impertinence.

  Next was the kidnapping charge. "On count three, we find the defendant not guilty."

  A line of sweat formed on Gray's forehead, and a hum of humiliation sounded in his ears, muting the rest of the clerk's recital. Anna Renthal involuntarily leaned into him. Too weak to offer support, he leaned with her.

  The clerk's voice seemed far away. "Not guilty. . . not guilty. . ."

  "Jesus," Anna said miserably. Her face had gained a yellow malarial hue. "I think I'm going to vomit."

  Ignoring the clerk, Carmine De Sallo pulled a photo of his daughter from his wallet to show one of his lawyers.

  Judge Kennelly angrily twirled his gavel. When the acquittal on the last count was read, the judge said, "I'm going to poll the jury on my own motion. Juror number one, is that your verdict and the verdict of the jury?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  Kennelly went through the list of jurors. Each affirmed the verdict.

  One of De Sallo's lawyers then said, "Your Honor, I move to exonerate bail."

  "Granted. Mr. De Sallo, you are released." The judge thanked the jury, then asked, "Is there anything else to come before the court today?"

  "Yeah, Your Worsh
ip," Pots Asperanti said. "I move that the chief prosecutor, Mr. Gray here, take a vacation, maybe to Fantasyland down in Florida."

  That passed as high humor in half the courtroom. The laughter raised more color in Gray's face.

  The judge dismissed court on his way to the door and disappeared into his chambers before the bailiff could call out, "All rise."

  Gray squeezed Anna Renthal's hand. He put his notes into his leather accordion briefcase. He ventured a look sideways at the chair where his boss had been sitting. Frank Luca had already slipped out of the courtroom.

  Pete Coates had followed Gray's eyes. "Luca wants to avoid the reporters. Smart guy."

  The detective patted one of Gray's shoulders, then joined the other cops and agents as they left the courtroom. Gray and Anna trailed after them. The paper star was left on the prosecutors' table.

  The crowd was slowed by reporters who shoved their microphones into De Sallo's face the moment he reached the hallway. Camera flashes came as steadily as a strobe light. De Sallo pushed ahead, his troupe in tow.

  With reporters shouting questions, the crowd passed down the marble hallway. De Sallo remained silent but waved his hand like a Rose Parade queen. On the ceiling intricate flowers were patterned on squares of green and red and were bordered with painted gray mazes, and to Gray seemed suffocating. He and Anna Renthal shuffled along at the end of the throng.

  "We'll wait two years, then indict him again," Anna said with false cheer. "We'll get him next time, Owen."

  "Yeah, you bet we will." His voice was doubtful.

  They passed the metal detector. The guard, from a private security company, thrust a notepad and pen at De Sallo, who paused to sign it.

  The guard beamed. "My kids'll be thrilled."

  A bottleneck developed at the revolving door. Gray and Anna Renthal were the last to push through. Outside they passed between two of the fourteen columns fronting the building. Topping the columns were Corinthian capitals, each with rows of acanthus leaves appearing to have wilted in the summer heat. Above the columns, carved on the entablature in block letters, was "United States Court House."