"LOYALTY"
An excerpt from president emeritus
John A. Curry's crime novel
Editor's note: Loyalty can be purchased for $15.95 from the publisher,
1stBooks (812-339-6000 or <www.1stbooks.com>)
or for a different amount from booksellers Barnes and Noble, Borders, or
Amazon.com.
Chapter twenty-nine: As Jack drove toward Charlestown across the Mystic
River Bridge, the report of the shooting death of real-estate businessman
James A. Flaherty of Jamaica Plain at a Saugus motel led the morning news.
People had to wonder what such a prominent Boston businessman was doing
at a sleazy Route 1 motel, Jack thought. Most of them would come to the
same conclusion over time, he surmised. Most would think a jealous husband
had exacted vengeance, particularly when the motel owner was questioned
and revealed that Jimma was a perennial, every Friday night. Only the woman
changed.
Those in the know would either be convinced or suspect a gangland killing
had occurred, for example the police on Jimma's payroll, as well as some
of the honest ones. Yet there would still be doubts. An investigation would
follow, but with some luck the idea of a womanizer caught in the act might
prevail. For many years, Jimma had been able to avoid press coverage. He
had no criminal record and had even played a small role in supporting charities
in the city. If today's papers and the radio news were indicative, then
the story would center on the killing of a respected businessman caught
in a sleazy circumstance.
He parked in front of the warehouse on Medford Street and then tapped
twice on the glass door. From within, someone rolled up the front door,
and, as he entered, a scowling Vin Sullivan pressed a button to bring the
door down.
Every key family member stood around inside, talking in small groups,
clapping their gloved hands together. When he walked toward them, the talk
ceased. He sat on a crate, beckoning them to do the same. Together, they
formed a semicircle, staring in anticipation at him.
He made eye contact with each of them before he began to talk. With
Vin Sullivan, who was the most dangerous of the group, and the most fiercely
loyal to Jimma. With Ray Horan, now and probably always his most trusted
friend and associate. With Freddie Quinlan, a solid soldier who could easily
transfer loyalty. With Chris Kiley, one of the best of the team leaders
whose influence on the waterfront was critical. With Joey Dunn, baby-faced
Joey who organized the various numbers runners within their boundaries.
With Stevie Guptill, relied on by the group to control the pimps and prostitutes.
All were there with the exception of Paulie Cronin, who along with Vinnie
served as a key enforcer for their extortion enterprise.
The events of the long twenty-four-hour period were now beginning to
wear on him. He needed sleep, some opportunity to rest, and yet was pleased
that he had planned this long day well. Tommy had emerged the victor in
the most important fight of his life, and Jimma Flaherty lay dead. As with
most situations in life, there had been surprises. He had not planned on
the Ryans' quick retaliation, but now he could use their killing of Leo
as an emotional weapon in his presentation today. Next he would take care
of the Ryans.
With the men it was important that he explain the circumstances simply
and clearly. He took them through the key events, emphasizing Jimma's collusion
with the Ryans regarding the fight; his failed attempt to turn Connie Ryan;
the attempt on his brothers' lives in New York; the death of their respected
friend Leo at the hands of Johnny Ryan. Should they have bowed to the orders
of a New Yorkbased family-Irishmen, like themselves? Bullshit. Jimma
had betrayed him and his family, and, indirectly, their entire family.
Jimma's actions had led to Leo's death. There was still unfinished work,
he reminded them. He would see Sally Cardoza this very noon. And then there
was the matter of the Ryans, which he would take care of himself, he told
them, his voice strong and confident. He covered all the bases both logically
and emotionally. He was logical when the issue required it, but in the
main, appealed to their emotions, which, as most leaders understand, is
the key to commanding power.
When he had finished, they reacted as he had anticipated. All of them.
His comments about the importance of stability in their operation in the
time ahead were well received. They agreed Jimma had failed both him and
them, and they sought vengeance for the death of a friend they all loved.
In the end they encouraged his visit to Cardoza and awaited his orders
regarding the Ryans.
Only Vin Sullivan remained both quiet and uninvolved. He glared at Jack
as pledges of allegiance were proffered from each lieutenant in turn. He
twitched in his seat on top of an orange crate. And Jack studied his every
movement, half listening to the show of support being rendered by each
of the others in turn.
"And you, Vinnie, your own feelings truly? I would appreciate your
own thoughts."
"You want me to be honest, Jack?" retorted Vinnie, squinting
in Jack's direction.
I'd like you to be dead, Jack thought. But this was not the time. He
never did like the enforcer's manner or methods and wondered if he could
ever fully trust him in the time ahead.
"Of course, Vin. We all know of your high regard for Jimma, which
we all shared. What do you think?"
"You shouldn't have killed Jimma, Jack. Whatever. He was good to
you, to me, to everyone here." He raised his hand, panning the room.
"I would have liked to hear his version of all this."
Jack nodded his head, in acknowledgment. "I understand, Vinnie.
He was good to me and meant a lot to me. I don't want any of you to think
that I'm unappreciative of Jimma. Let's talk about that for a minute. Vinnie
here says I should not have killed Jimma. I want you all to understand
I took this action-an action I believe was necessary-reluctantly. I balanced
his goodness toward you and me, and his leadership of our family, against
this weakness, this caving in to New York groups that, frankly, care nothing
for us, for our family, or for you, Vin. And, of course, I take this betrayal
personally. It's my brother Tommy we're talking about. My brother should
step aside for a New York Westie who dictates to us? Are we supposed to
stand still when Leo is killed-Leo, who we all admired-and when my other
brother is a target, as well? I don't think so, Vin. But, I understand
your feelings. If this morning you want to walk away from us, I understand.
And I promise you, no repercussions. I respect your feelings and only ask,
as I ask of all those present today, for your loyalty and friendship, should
you decide to give it to me and stay with me."
He had isolated the fuck, he thought. Whatever Vin decided was immaterial
to him. If he left, good riddance to bad rubbish. He would just have to
make sure he stayed out and caused no harm. If he stayed, he would never
again trust Sullivan. He would try to work with him but would protect his
back at all times.
Vin searched the crowd, seeking support for his point of view. Seeing
none, he reacted as Jack had anticipated. "Jack, I'm satisfied. It's
just hard for me to see Jimma Flaherty as you describe him. But he's gone,
and I harbor no ill feelings, except toward those New York bastards who
caused all this."
Jack nodded in agreement. "Thanks for your confidence, Vinnie.
And I appreciate your support, and the support of each of you here today.
For now, I ask that you each continue to function as you have. First thing
I am going to do is even things up with our New York friends."
They looked at each other, pleased. He knew and they knew a soldier
could be sent, but if that individual failed, it would reflect on him.
No, at this stage, their own leader would be the one to seek vengeance.
And in his fulfillment of that quest, he would truly become their leader.
None of them could picture Jimma taking such a risky step himself.
They each stood in turn, walking toward him, extending their hands in
recognition of new leadership, embracing him one by one in a sign of support.
Pledges of loyalty. The ritual of friendship. All to be kept in proper
perspective, he thought as he received them.
Salvatore "Salvy" or "Sally" Cardoza walked into
Jimmy's Harborside Restaurant on Northern Avenue as if he owned the popular
eating place. From his vantage point at the bar, his back to Boston Harbor,
Jack looked across at the Mafia leader. Now in his early fifties, of medium
height, Sally walked like a patrician, a man of proud bearing. His slicked-back,
brilliantined black hair parted almost in the middle made him appear otherworldly
in contrast to the short haircuts preferred by most men in 1962. As he
removed his Chesterfield, Jack waved from the bar, signaling him over.
Muttering a grudging hello, Cardoza sat beside him. His skin, almost
brownish-yellow, called immediate attention to his badly damaged yellow
teeth, stained by the constant Havana cigars he favored. His eyes showed
no emotion and divulged no signs to be read of his intent.
"So we now have the trouble, Jack?" he inquired, not bothering
with any social amenities. "What the hell happened?"
Jack related the series of events succinctly, ending with his meeting
with the family in Charlestown. He took care to report with the same mix
of logic and emotion he used with the family members, but he related the
information more slowly and carefully. As he spoke, Cardoza toyed with
his drink, his eyes straight ahead, studying the luncheon customers who
entered across from them.
He weighed the story carefully, sipping his club soda, occasionally
nodding at Jack, never once interrupting him. When Jack finished, he pointed
to the tables. "Let's get something to eat. A piece of fish. They
have the best here."
They sat in the bar area at one of the small tables with a perfect view
of the harbor. Fishing boats approached the tall windows, their heavily
clothed occupants waving to the restaurant patrons. In the far distance
a cargo ship weaved through the cold, gray waters on its way to the Atlantic.
"Jimma respected all boundaries, Jack. You prepared to do likewise?"
Cardoza asked, finally speaking to the central issue.
"Sally, I intend to operate as before. There should be no problems
with our arrangements. I'll honor all commitments."
Cardoza nodded. "I'll report to Gennaro with my opinion that this
change was necessary, and also with my strongest recommendation that we
proceed with our arrangements."
"I appreciate your confidence, Sally."
"Don't take it as such, Jack. To me it's not a matter of confidence
or lack of confidence in you. Only time and events to come will determine
whether you earn our confidence. To me, it's a matter of expediency. A
need for stability for now. You follow politics, Jack?"
"I do," he answered.
"Then what do you see ahead for this country of ours?" Cardoza
asked, his eyes dead cold like those of a fish out in the harbor, Jack
thought.
"Under Kennedy?"
"Yes. Under the bleeding-heart liberals. What do you see?"
"A continuation of the Cold War in the years ahead. Possible entanglements
like with Korea in the '50s, a war in another country, probably a limited
nonnuclear war."
"And the cities?" Cardoza asked.
"The population is going to continue to change and racial tensions
will increase. A very difficult time ahead for a city like Boston."
"And what about our business?"
"Richer profits than ever before but more trouble than ever before
as well. We'll see the formation of splinter groups, offshoots. Among my
own people, we'll see Irish gang wars. The established groups like ours,
the Winter Hill gang in Somerville, McLaughlin in Charlestown, we're all
going to face challenges from the upstarts."
Cardoza once again simply nodded. "Very good. You don't know Gennaro
Biggio well, do you, Jack?"
"Hardly at all."
"He said much the same two years ago prior to Kennedy's election,
when most were anticipating a continuation of the quietly conservative
'50s. He's a great man, Jack. He also speaks of erosion of authority. The
loss of respect for the church, the breakdown of discipline in schools,
parents so money crazy they both work, no one responsible for the children,
and that fucking crazy music they play. We're heading down like the Romans.
"Winston Churchill once said that the best way to predict the future
is to study the past. He was right, but I would add to that. We learn from
the past, but we never return to it. Once down this road, there is no turning
back. So you see, unfortunately, drugs are our future. I regret it, and
I had hopes it would not be so, that our traditional lines would hold,
but Gennaro is right. What do you think?"
"Like you, Sally, I regret the direction. But we'll be left behind
if we're not involved. Although our national leaders forbid drug dealing,
they're already involved with a piece from the dealers and eventually will
be in even deeper."
Sally puffed on his cigar and nodded. "Jack, I appreciate your
asking for this meeting so quickly. I'll speak with Gennaro and assure
him we can work together. In turn, we ask for your respect."
Jack extended his hand. "You will always have that, Salvatore."
"And what of the Ryans?"
Jack knew Gennaro Biggio and Salvatore Cardoza could care less if groups
of crazy Irish-American gangsters wanted to clip each other. Let the stupid
Micks murder each other, they would think, as long as it didn't affect
their business.
"That is my problem to solve, Sally, and I will solve it."
John A. Curry, LA'56, MEd'60, MEd'63, H'96, is president emeritus
of Northeastern. He was born and raised in Lynn, Massachusetts. He lives
on Boston's North Shore, where he is now at work on his second crime novel.
Return to top
of page