Fool's Errand Read online

  ALSO BY JEFFREY S. STEPHENS

  Rogue Mission

  Targets of Revenge

  Targets of Opportunity

  Targets of Deception

  Crimes and Passion (A Robbie Whyte Mystery)

  A POST HILL PRESS BOOK

  Fool’s Errand

  © 2020 by Jeffrey S. Stephens

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-64293-738-1

  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-739-8

  Cover art by Cody Corcoran

  Interior design and composition by Greg Johnson, Textbook Perfect

  This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Post Hill Press

  New York • Nashville

  posthillpress.com

  Published in the United States of America

  “Every good deed a man does is to please his father.”

  —Maxwell Perkins

  For Blackjack…Now we’re even.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About The Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was September of 1979, and my father had been dead more than six years when I discovered his letter. I can still imagine him sitting down to write it, enjoying the prospect of carrying his secret to the grave, leaving behind a mysterious legacy, creating a puzzle for me to solve, all of that. I don’t believe he intended to cause me the trouble he did, but he had to realize that once I found the note I would have no choice—I would have to chase after the clues he provided, fumbling for answers no one was willing to give, tracking down an international theft that happened decades before.

  By then I had a successful career in advertising, my life was on a decent course and—to the great relief of my mother—I had navigated the dangers his life posed for me. When his letter surfaced, all of that was turned upside down.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should begin, I suppose, by explaining the ruckus at my cousin Lena’s wedding.

  It was a wintry Saturday afternoon in March, a couple of years before my father died. The day was cold and, although my cousin Lena had her heart set on an outdoor wedding, she was already well into the third term of her pregnancy, so waiting for warmer weather was out of the question.

  As my father was so fond of saying, timing is everything.

  Lena lived with her parents in Rockland County, which is on the other side of the Hudson River from New York City. My Uncle Vincent and Aunt Mary were proud of their home, even if it looked like all the other homes on their street. It was a modest split-level covered with aluminum siding, set on a half-acre of lawn and trees in the midst of a quickly growing suburban sprawl, but, compared to our cramped apartment in the southwest corner of the Bronx, it seemed like a palace in the wilderness.

  A distinction not lost on anyone in my family. Especially my father.

  The morning of Lena’s wedding, my father, mother, sisters and I prepared for the day, vying for time in our one bathroom, as it became increasingly steamy with each shower. We dressed in our Sunday clothes, which was all sorts of fun for my sisters, but an awful inconvenience for me. I was in from college for the wedding and, although I remembered to bring my sport coat and a clean shirt, I forgot a tie, which meant I had to wear one of my father’s. This was an issue, not only because our taste in clothing was far from the same, but because he was finicky about his wardrobe. He went on about the stains, burns or other havoc I might inflict on his precious silk, eventually handing me some dark blue relic that widened to about eight inches at the bottom and probably last hung around his neck when he saw Sinatra at the Paramount.

  Finally, when everyone was ready, we trudged down three flights of stairs single file, piled into my father’s big, blue-green Oldsmobile 98, and headed off to join the festivities.

  ***

  ARRIVING AT THE SMALL CHURCH, we found it was already packed and the opening sermon had begun. Unlike the rest of my father’s relatives, my immediate family was never religious. My mother is not Catholic—she’s not even Italian—so it was never a big part of our lives. All the same, Uncle Vincent saved us a space in the first pew, from which we had a good look at the priest, an elderly gentleman with a pleasant smile who seemed intent on moving the service along as swiftly as possible. Perhaps, given the size of Lena’s midriff, he feared she might give birth right there in front of God and the entire congregation.

  The sacred formalities complete, we made our way back to Uncle Vincent’s, where everyone poured into the house, jamming the place to the rafters.

  Lena’s wedding reception was a family affair, with no caterers, waiters, bartenders or other hired help. Mismatched dishes, serving plates and glasses were borrowed from various relatives, which was fine, because it was the food that mattered, and the food was wonderful. It was presented in a huge buffet, featuring lasagna with marinara sauce set beside a large bowl of meatballs, and a huge tray of sausages and peppers that sent the aroma of garlic and sautéed onions floating through the house like a sweet mist. Baskets of large, crusty Italian breads were everywhere, accompanied by condiments, such as black olive spread, caponata and other dark concoctions I found inedible throughout my childhood. Thick discs of spicy red pepperoni were alternated with small, milky white slabs of provolone in a pattern that spiraled around a large platter like fallen dominoes. There were wooden boards featuring prosciutto, salami and crumbly chunks of parmigiana and Romano cheeses. And, as I say, there was bread everywhere.

  Chianti flowed freely from large jugs as the adults in the group got themselves pleasantly ubriaco. As they moved from one noisy conversation to the next, they left half-finished glasses of wine sitting on tables and credenzas and shelves, finding clean goblets and filling them again. The younger kids were having a good time sneaking sips from the abandoned glasses, and I wondered how many of them would wind up doubled over in the backyard by the end of the night.

  Grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles took their rightful places on the comfortable couches and chairs in the living room, while aunts, uncles, cousins and assorted others roamed about. The Serious Men, such as my father, Uncle Vincent and my older cousins, took over the dining room, where they showed their real mettle by hitting the scotch bottle as soon as we all settled in.

  Serious Men, as my father explained to me innumerable times, are distinct from other men, who were not to be considered serious. It had nothing to do with a somber affect or an underdeveloped sense of humor, although that was often part of the profile. It had to do with an attitude toward life and career choices. Corporate workers, for instance, could never be considered Serious Men or, for that matter, Action Guys, another important designation. Corporate types were t
ied to their desks and did not enjoy the freedom of time and movement essential to being a Serious Man. Civil servants, the oxymoronic title given government employees, similarly could not be Serious Men, unless they were on the take.

  Serious Men and Action Guys could hold jobs, just not the nine to five variety. That was the domain of Working Stiffs, who aren’t available to meet for espresso at eleven in the morning, or to sit through weekday lunches that last three hours, starting with whisky, moving to red wine and finishing up with anisette and coffee. These gatherings, built around discussions of Big Deals, necessarily exclude the Working Stiffs, not only because they have to be back at the office in an hour, but also because Working Stiffs are, by definition, small thinkers.

  From what I’ve seen over the years, Serious Men rarely get anything serious done and Action Guys seldom swing into action. Serious Men certainly discuss serious matters quite a lot, and once in a while an Action Guy will engage in some violent endeavor, but mostly they just talk, scheme, argue, eat and drink. They really ought to be called Get-Together Guys, because that’s what my father and his cohorts would do, get together. From time to time he would bring me to lunches where I heard talk of a lot of big plans and great ideas, most of which were big and many of which indeed sounded great. Unfortunately, I never heard of a single plan or idea at any of those lunches that came to anything. As you’ll come to see, the brawl at Lena’s wedding was caused in part by the discussion of a Big Deal my father mentioned, which turned out to be the same Big Deal he wrote me about in the letter I found all those years later.

  Sorry if that sounds confusing. In my family, as in so many others, we really needed to pay attention.

  The fact that my father never told me about his Big Deal before he died, choosing instead to leave me a letter I would have to figure out for myself, was the sort of contradiction that defined him. If he wanted me to do something about the stolen money, you might think he would have mentioned it to me somewhere along the line. He did not. He was a mass of paradoxes.

  I’m not bragging, for example, if I say he was possessed of a surprisingly agile intellect, since he was also capable of revolting ignorance. On the one hand he could be warm and generous, but on the other, was such a racist that he judged almost everyone first by ethnic makeup, usually with some negative connotation. We had more than one argument where I accused him of bigotry, but he insisted he treated every group pretty much the same. He was just as likely to call an Italian a wop as he was to insult a black man, Jew or Puerto Rican, which in his mind meant he was fair.

  Go figure.

  He adored reading Yeats and Shelley and Keats, yet he sometimes earned his living by breaking a stranger’s arm for not paying a gambling debt or smacking someone around for falling behind on the payment of usurious interest charges they owed to his boss.

  That said, he couldn’t bear it if someone didn’t like him.

  When I was ten or eleven, there was a mentally challenged man who used to round up shopping carts at the local supermarket and roll them back inside, two or three at a time. As far as I could tell, that was the guy’s entire job. Every time my father and I went to that store, to pick up milk or bread or whatever, he would give this man a big, smiley greeting. The man never responded, never changed his facial expression—he had serious issues, for God’s sake—but it really bothered my father that the man was not friendly toward him. As far as Blackie was concerned, the man shouldn’t allow a slight case of Down’s Syndrome to interfere with their relationship.

  To each his or her own contradictions.

  ***

  MY FATHER WAS THE YOUNGEST of the three Rinaldi children, Uncle Vincent the oldest, my Aunt Anna in between. His given name was John but most people called him Blackie, or sometimes Blackjack, owing in part to his love of gambling but mostly because of his appearance. He had a dark complexion and eyes that seemed to be made of polished ebony, shining with an intense quality that made it clear he was not someone you wanted to cross. He wasn’t as tall as he claimed, at least three or four inches under six feet, but he was broad shouldered and powerful. He had a large nose, small mouth, a cleft chin and straight, jet black hair, those last two features convincing his mother he looked like an Italian Cary Grant. As the baby of the family he was his mother’s adorato, for whom she chose Santo as his confirmation name, which ought to tell you something.

  I have to say, I never saw any particular resemblance to the actor, but he did have the cleft chin, and he always got the hair right.

  The afternoon of Lena’s wedding, as others occupied the rest of the house, Uncle Vincent was holding court in the dining room, seated at the head of the table. My father was to his left and their father, known to everyone as Pop, was to his right. My grandmother had died years before, and Pop was almost ninety by then. The rest of us seated around Uncle Vincent’s oversized dining room table were all men, young and old, talking and laughing and passing around bottles of booze and wine and beer, all one big happy family.

  Happy, that is, until my cousin Frank slapped my father across the face.

  The dining area was not large to begin with and, with all the extension leaves inserted in the table, the chairs were pushed to the outer limits of the room. The walls were adorned in an ornate floral print of dark reds and golds, and a brass ceiling fixture with a dozen small lights hung low over the center of the table, all of which made things seem even closer. Anyone wanting to leave his seat would need the cooperation of at least three other people, unless he was prepared to climb over them.

  The table was covered with a white linen cloth that seemed big enough to do service as a circus tent. By the time everyone had eaten, it was soiled with spots of wine, coffee and various tomato sauce drippings, littered with ashtrays, wine and liquor bottles and covered with broken walnut shells, torn orange peels, espresso cups and every imaginable type of drinking glass. Conversation flew back and forth in this direction and that, interrupted only by calls for the bottles that were in constant motion as they were handed around. Some of the men were smoking cigarettes, the noxious fumes forming a gray-brown cloud that hovered over the table, feeling thick enough to threaten rain.

  My father and uncle were drinking Johnnie Walker Black Label, the scotch of choice for special occasions in the Rinaldi clan. Pop was sipping Chianti and repeatedly announcing, to anyone who would listen, that he never indulged in hard liquor, not like his sciocco sons.

  Given the quantity of liquor being consumed, the cast of characters in attendance and the cramped room, it was obvious to me, long before the slap occurred, that there was simply no way the evening was going to end quietly. There were forces at work that only a fool would call chance. Even Joe Btfsplk could have made book on the outcome.

  “You’re the best friggin brother in the whole world,” my father said for about the nineteenth time in the past hour. He gave the statement special emphasis by gathering Uncle Vincent into an affectionate headlock. “Don’t you worry. Don’t any of you worry. Blackie’s gonna take care of everybody,” my father told us. “Benny and I have you covered. You wait and see.” Then he gave his brother’s head another squeeze.

  My father was bigger than my uncle, not in height but in brawn, and with each drink and renewed declaration of fraternal affection, Blackie became increasingly physical.

  My uncle disliked roughhousing, particularly since he had a back problem that caused his neck to remain painfully stiff. And, while that suited his personality—when he voiced an opinion, his posture gave the statement a haughty air—it was not helpful to have his brother draped around his shoulders.

  None of this was lost on my father.

  When he told us again how terrific Vincent was, he made it sound as if you’d have to be an idiot not to realize that my uncle was America’s poster boy for Big Brother of the Year. He followed the statement with another bear hug, followed by a little pinch of my uncle’s cheek and a se
ries of gentle love smacks.

  Blackie was a great button pusher, he really was, but if there was one guy on the planet he could not get to, it was his older brother. When my father let go of my uncle to have a taste of his scotch, Uncle Vincent simply sat back and sipped his own drink.

  “I remember when we were kids,” my father told the group, “I remember how Vincent took care of me.” He moved his head side to side, looking into the distance in that way people do when they’re so drunk they’ve lost their ability to focus. “Took care of me,” he said again, followed by yet another headlock and a soft little smack on Vincent’s face. “Now I’m gonna take care of him and everybody else in the family. Everybody. Am I right Vincenzo?”

  My cousin Frank, Vincent’s son, was a year older than I and far better suited to my father’s peculiar world than I would ever be. Deciding it was time for him to get in the act, he said something like, “Hey, Uncle Blackie, you’re always talking bullshit about your big deals. What the—,” but Uncle Vincent cut him off in mid-sentence.

  “Mind your business son. If you want to sit with the men, then act like a man.”

  It was, as they say, too late.

  Blackie was already glaring at his nephew, a withering stare that everyone in the room knew was no sort of bluff. Say what you might about my father, his bite was definitely worse than his bark.

  “You little snot nose,” Blackie hissed across the table. “Who the fuck are you to talk to me that way?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I saw you with shit in your diaper, and as far as I’m concerned you’re still not man enough to wipe your own ass.”

  We’d all had a lot to drink, as I’ve explained, but when Frank started to get out of his chair I began sobering up fast.

  Frank said, “Maybe you should keep your hands off—”

  “Siddown,” Uncle Vincent hollered at his son. “What’s between me and my brother is just that—between brothers.” He pointed a finger at Frank. “Don’t make me say it again.”