24. Grant
Grant
The mood this evening is grim. We all stay in the kitchen, none of us wanting to be apart from the others. Eventually, I order us all to eat.
“We owe it to Sandro,” I say. “If we don’t look after ourselves, then we’ve already lost.”
The others fall in line. They know I’m right.
We decide on beef stew, because it’s simple and easy.
I set to peeling spuds, whilst Abe chops the beef into regular sized cubes.
We add carrots, onions, and celery, and we toss in some green beans that need eating up.
Halfway through the cooking we add in onion and garlic powder, dried thyme and rosemary, and a dried bay leaf for flavor.
Towards the end, Regan adds his favorite secret weapon—a splash of Worcestershire sauce—not too much, just enough to give it a little kick.
It was the right thing to do, but if any of us actually feel any better after eating, it’s only by a very little.
Maria’s hit the hardest, of course, and even though she’s trying her hardest to put on a brave face, she’s taking it pretty hard.
Hearing her papa cry out in pain like that when one of Tony’s thugs had hit him…
well, it was frustrating enough for the three of us, sitting there, not being able to do a thing about it.
But how much worse must it have been for her?
I can’t imagine what it must have felt like.
After dinner is over and everything’s been washed up and put away, we sit around the table, beers in our hands, to talk things through.
“The way I see it is this,” I begin. “Tony’s got the upper hand, and he knows it. He’s got clean away with Sandro as a kidnap victim, and he knows where we are, but we don’t know where he’s keeping Sandro.”
“He gave you that address,” mentions Regan, and I nod.
“Yes, Regan. But I reckon this guy’s a slippery sort of fella. I mean… if you’d kidnapped someone, would you tell your enemy where you were hiding him? Or would you give them a different address entirely?”
Regan nods his head slowly. “Yeah, you’re right, Boss. It would be the last thing I’d do.”
“Exactly.”
“Unless he’s double-bluffing,” says Abe.
“Could be, of course. But I don’t think it’s likely. Anyone here think Tony’s double-bluffing?” I look around the room, everyone shakes their head ‘No’.
“We’re agreed then. We don’t know where Sandro’s being kept. Probably somewhere in Brooklyn, but actually of course it could be anywhere.”
Silence, as we all absorb this information.
“Where is the address he gave you?”
“It’s here on this sheet of paper. I read out the address.
“Do you recognize it, Maria?”
“Yeah. That’s the family home, in Bedford-Stuyvesant.
It’s where Sal and Francesca—Tony’s parents—live.
Or at least, that’s where they were living, I should say.
Sal died soon after we came here, making Tony the boss of ‘The Firm’.
It’s an amazing place. It’s even got an outdoor terrace with a deck area and a hot tub. It’s huge.”
“How huge?”
“Well… you gotta remember that house sizes are different in big cities. It’s not like out here. So, in terms of ground area, it’s not even as big as this place.”
“Not so amazing then.” Regan smirks.
“Yes… but you see, it’s on six floors.”
“Six floors?”
“Yes. Well… five floors plus a basement. That’s how it works in New York, you build up instead of out. Or hadn’t you heard?” She grins, and it’s good to see she’s still able to crack a joke.
“Tell me about these six floors,” I say.
“Well, I only went there once, for a party. I didn’t get to see everything.”
“Understood. Just tell us what you do know, and we’ll fill in any gaps later.”
“Okay. Well… where should I start?”
“How about at the front door?”
“Which one?”
“What?”
“Well, there’s two, one above the other. The street-level front door, and the one you go up a flight of steps to. That’s the real front door. The one important guests go in via.”
“Well then start there.”
“Alright. So, like I say, you go up a flight of stone steps and there’s a beautiful old set of oak double doors set into a sort of stone mullioned archway—like in a church or something.
There’s a little entrance hall, and you go through a door into the main foyer.
On the left there’s stairs going up and also stairs going down, and beyond them is a guest cloakroom.
And then…” I close my eyes, trying to remember.
“Yes, then there’s a little office type room, where I think a couple of Sal’s—Tony’s now I guess—security guards used to sit around, playing cards and monitoring the security system.
On the right is the living room. It’s huge—open plan, I think they call it.
Very modern. All white-painted exposed brick walls and chrome-and-leather furniture.
Kind of Scandinavian style, I guess. Too cold for my liking, but I guess they must like it. ”
“Sure, sure. What else?” This might be useful, not that I could care less about the furniture or the wall colors, but the layout might prove useful if we ever have to drop in.
“Let me see. Beyond the big living room and the office is a kitchen. Big. Lots of fancy appliances. But I didn’t really see in there. And beyond the kitchen is a small deck area. I’m not sure, but I think that’s where the staff go for a smoke. That’s it for that floor.”
“Which floor is it?”
“Second. Below it is the first floor and the basement. Above it are the third, fourth, and fifth floors.”
“So, what’s on the third floor?”
“Third floor is the master bedroom.”
“Just that?”
“Kinda. I did see it, but only briefly. The bedroom itself is at the front, then there’s a huge dressing room—it’s like another bedroom, and it’s got one of those old-fashioned, roll-top baths in it—and the bathroom itself, of course.
And then beyond that is the big terrace I was telling you about.
The one with the outdoor tub in it. It’s huge.
Sun loungers, a barbecue—everything you could want. And that’s all for the third floor.”
“And the fourth?”
“I didn’t go up to the fourth floor. I think it’s just family bedrooms. I think that’s where Tony slept when he lived there with his parents. You know, a few years back, when he was younger.”
“Makes sense. How about the sixth?”
“Not sure. I think that’s where Sal—Jesus, I mean Tony, sorry—has his listening room.”
“His what now?” asked Regan, his face showing his puzzlement. “I’ve heard of a ‘reading room’ before, but what the heck’s a ‘listening room’?”
“Same concept, except music, I think,” says Maria. “They’re both big into Italian music… you know—Verdi, Puccini, Rossini, Vivaldi, Monteverdi—that sort of thing.”
“So, what exactly do they do in their listening room?” asks Regan, still mystified.
“Well…,” says Maria, “I suppose they listen to their music.”
“Obviously. I’m not a moron. But why do they need a special room just for that? That’s what I don’t get. How is it any different to listening to music in any other room?”
“Well, I’ve not been in it—I don’t think they allow anyone up there to be honest—but the room is a special room, and the hi-fi equipment is really expensive.”
“What do you mean, ‘a special room’?” I ask.
“I think it’s sound proofed, so they can play their music as loud as they like, and also so no outside noises can get in and err… spoil their enjoyment of the music. But it’s not just that. Tony told me that it’s set up with a special listening chair.”
“A listening chair? What the fuck? How the hell can a chair help you to listen? Have these guys got more money than sense?”
“Yeah, probably. But it’s not so much the chair itself that makes it a listening chair. I think it could be any chair, to be honest, although no doubt being the Moretti’s it’s a really expensive one anyway.”
“So why call it a ‘listening chair’ then?”
“Because it’s positioned at exactly the right place in the room where you get the best listening experience.
It’s all done with math and geometry and stuff.
And then you place your chair there, and you set up your very expensive hi-fi equipment, and that’s where you do your listening from. ” She says.
“Oh yes, and you put these acoustic things on the wall. Like egg cups, but made of foam, I think. They shape the sound, apparently. That’s what Tony told me, anyway. He was ever so proud of it all. Said it was like you were really there… at a live performance, I mean.”
“Ah, okay, I think I get it,” Regan grins. “Does this guy want to buy a bridge, by any chance? Because if so, a friend of mine has one for sale. Only one previous owner. Excellent condition.”
“Hahaha,” says Maria.
“Shut up, Regan, I say. “Let her tell her story. Do you know anything else about that floor?”
“Not really. I guess there must be at least one or two other rooms up there. But like I say, I’ve never been up there.”
Okay, we’ve done upstairs,” I say. “Now… what about the first floor?”
“I didn’t really go down there, either. I think it’s where Sa—Tony does all his operations, and I think there might be at least one bedroom for security guards to sleep when they’re not on duty. Maybe more. And there’s a back yard with a side gate for trash and so on. That’s all I know.”
“Got it. Okay Maria, that just leaves the basement. What do you know about the basement?”
“Not much. I never went down there either. In fact, to be honest, it always gave me the creeps.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, but I do know that those basements around there are massive, because I saw another one once. People use them as dens and games rooms, even home gyms… things like that, I think. And of course, there’s the boiler and the electrical stuff… things like that.”
“How do they get down into the basement?”
“Oh… you have to go down the stairs from the first floor. It’s a true basement. I mean, it’s actually completely below ground. No windows, or outside exits, or anything.”
“I see.” For a one-time-only visitor, Maria has an amazing memory of the place. This firsthand data from her really could prove to be gold dust for us.
“That was actually very interesting, Maria, thank you.” I stroke my beard, thinking hard. “Yes… very interesting indeed.” I look across at Abe and Regan, who’d also been fully absorbed in Maria’s description of Tony’s property.
“What do you think, guys?”
Abe shifts in his seat. “A few things spring to mind, mostly to do with the basement.”
Regan just nods.
“Yeah. Suddenly that idea of a double-bluff doesn’t seem so stupid, does it?”
“Indeed.” I nod, and Abe slowly nods his agreement too.
“So now we think the chances are Sandro is being held here, but down in the basement?” I say.
“Yes, I think so,” Regan confirms, and Abe nods again.
“Alright, what percentage likelihood are we putting on it, and is it a strong enough likelihood for us to act on it?”
“Seventy-five percent, Boss,” says Regan, promptly.
Abe—typically—takes his time, silently thinking it through. Eventually he looks up at us. “sixty-five to seventy percent. About two in three.”
“Alright.” I say. “And I’m in the middle at seventy to seventy-five percent. So we average at what… seventy-one, maybe seventy-two percent, agreed?”
“That’s about it.”
“Hmm… is that sufficient for us to act on?” I ask. “Because I’m not sure that it is. It would be an awful risk to take. What if we’re wrong?”
“What about me?”
“Huh?
“I said, what about me?” asks Maria. “It’s only my papa we’re talking about here. Doesn’t my opinion count?”
“Oh God! Sorry,” I say hastily, my hands raised in a gesture of apology. “Yes of course your opinion counts. Please tell us.”
“Okay,” she says. “I make it ninety percent.”
“Ninety? Why ninety, Maria? That’s very high.
“Yes, but you don’t know Tony. I do. Sure, he might use some other place if he was just anyone, and if Papa was just anyone.
But he’ll want Papa right there, next to him.
That way, he can act out his big ‘mafia criminal mastermind’ fantasies in front of him.
That way, he can drag Papa out from wherever he’s being kept locked up to taunt and tease him anytime he likes.
Yeah… actually, the more I think of it, the more certain I am.
I’m changing my answer to ninety-five percent. ”
I blink. “Okay, Maria. What you say makes good sense, and it changes everything. What do we think, team?”
We hesitate for a moment, then Abe offers out his hand.
I put out my own hand to grasp his, and Regan and Maria quickly follow suit.
The four of us clasp hands in a firm grip. There’s no going back now, and we all know it.
“Let’s do it.”