Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller Read online

  The car pulled up in front of the steps that led to the massive oak doors, and as Anthony and I stepped from the back seat, one door opened and Uncle Michael trotted down the stairs to greet us. Today’s toupee featured wavy, copper tresses that made Uncle Michael’s head look like a basketball. I managed to keep a straight face as Michael greeted me, but I could see the grin on Athony’s face as he watched me take in the latest ‘do.

  “A red-head, huh?” I managed to ask as I studied the wig. The color wasn’t bad, I decided, but it was all so round.

  “Annie’s idea,” Michael replied. “I’m not sold on the color myself.”

  We climbed the steps together and found Gulia just inside the door. The Febbo matriarch still looked beautiful, despite the stress of the last few months. Her silken hair was pulled back into a bun, though a few strategic pieces still framed her face which looked like something one of the Italian masters would have painted. She shared the gray-green eyes with her son, and at the moment, they were locked on the face of her only male child.

  “How did it go?” she asked with just the slightest hint of an accent.

  “The usual,” Anthony replied after he had placed a kiss on her cheek. “But Hunter put an early end to it and told them we won’t be back unless they have something new to discuss.”

  Gulia graced me with a stunning smile and placed one of her delicate hands on my arm.

  “Thank you, Hunter,” she said. “I’m quite sure my son would have done something foolish by now if you hadn’t been there to help him.”

  “That’s what they’re counting on,” I replied.

  Gulia patted my arm then turned an inquisitive glance towards her son.

  “I just have some business to talk to Hunter about,” Anthony said. “We should still be able to make dinner with dad tonight.”

  “I’ll get started, then,” she replied as she slipped her arm through Uncle Michael’s.

  The pair walked towards the room that I always thought of as the piano room, even though the well-polished piano that called it home was nearly lost in the vast expanse. Anthony tugged on my arm and we started up the stairs and towards the office that now served as Anthony’s home base as it had once served Salvatore. We walked past the long line of old portraits and turned down the side hall. The door to the office was open, which seemed unusual to me until I realized that almost every time I had been to the room before, Anthony or Salvatore had already been there.

  Anthony walked in first, his fingers already working to undo the knot in his tie as he slipped behind the desk. He dropped the tie onto the desk, and then removed his jacket and placed it more gently over the back of his chair. As I closed the office door, I heard one of the drawers in the desk open, and then Anthony produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “Compass Box Hedonism,” I said as I picked up the bottle. “Very nice. What did I do to deserve this?”

  Anthony grinned as he opened the bottle and poured us each a hefty dose.

  “We need to celebrate,” he replied. “We haven’t been able to do that in what feels like forever.”

  We saluted each other, then took our first sips. At only twenty years old, there was still a sweetness to the blend, one that reminded me of honey and white flowers, but there was a depth and richness as well. And it was smooth, without the peaty harshness that figures so heavily in other whiskeys.

  “I like the way you celebrate,” I noted as I studied my glass.

  Anthony laughed, and we both finally sat down. I took another sip as I waited for my client to explain his next plan. The thoughtful look was back on his face, and I thought he might have forgotten I was there as he stared out the window and watched the birds in the garden. I carefully set my glass down on the edge of a notepad, and that seemed to rouse my client from wherever he had been.

  “You mentioned you had something else you wanted me to take a look at,” I said.

  “It’s something my father started, actually,” Anthony replied as he scratched at an earlobe. “Part of his plan to go legit.”

  “Shouldn’t Landis be handling it then?” I asked.

  Lyle Landis had been the Febbo attorney for years and hadn’t been happy when Anthony had declared me to be the new personal attorney, or at least Anthony’s personal attorney.

  “He’s not talking to me right now,” Anthony huffed. “And while he’s still handling my father’s affairs, this one seems to have come to a standstill.”

  “That would be a breach of his duties,” I mused. “You could probably fire him finally.”

  “It’s tempting,” Anthony replied. “But first things first. I need to make sure this deal goes through.”

  “So tell me about the deal,” I said as I leaned back in my chair.

  The maroon leather chairs were far more comfortable than the hard plastic ones provided by the FBI, and the soothing green walls and dark wood were a welcome change from the plain beige of government buildings. Add in the sound of happy birds just outside and the sunlight streaming through the window and I was content. I should have known better, of course, because even the simplest of tasks is more complicated when the Febbos are involved.

  “Dad had everything set up,” Anthony replied. “And he’d finally found the perfect place to make it happen.”

  “Is this the winery?” I asked.

  “No, not exactly,” Anthony replied. “See, one of the things he wanted to do was expand the product list for Campania Olio. Although the company is mostly an olive oil importer right now, he thought it would make sense to add balsamic to that. He even had this whole idea sketched out where you could sell them together in little packages. You know, like gifts to give the hostess, that kind of thing.”

  Anthony started to poke through the papers on his desk while I started to envision a trip to Italy, perhaps to close a deal on the supplier of balsamic vinegar with a side trip to London to visit Liz Bennet, my law school buddy, sometime lover, and one-time co-counsel on Anthony’s murder charge. Or maybe Liz could visit me, somewhere in the south of Italy, or maybe Tuscany would be nicer. I tried to remember where Modena was, since most of the balsamic vinegar imported to the United States seemed to come from there.

  “Here,” Anthony said as he pulled out the sheet he had been looking for and passed it to me.

  It was a mock up of various bottles for the vinegar, along with suggested ways to package it with other Campanio Olio products. The most complicated was a basket that included samplers of the various salamis, a variety of toasted nuts, a bottle of the companies top tier olive oil, a bottle of the soon to be added balsamic vinegar, and a bottle of wine from the family’s ancient vineyard. I knew Gulia’s father still made wine in Italy, but it was only recently that Salvatore had started the process to import it to the U.S. It looked like the vinegar was the next phase in Salvatore’s plan, and I had to admit, I’d seen much less impressive baskets offered for sale around the city at ridiculously high prices.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” I replied as I studied the images and tried not to picture Liz’s long legs in a bikini somewhere on the Italian coast.

  “I think so, too,” Anthony agreed. “Of course, the kicker is always the taxes.”

  “Naturally,” I agreed. “And I’m sure you’re already paying a hefty amount for the wine.”

  “We are,” Anthony sighed. “Nothing you can really do about that, since it’s a luxury item. But dad had a brilliant idea for the vinegar.”

  “Oh?” I pressed as I tried to hold onto the image of Liz in a bathing suit.

  “See, if you bring over ingredients rather than a finished product, you don’t have to pay as much in taxes,” Anthony explained. “You get the discount because you’re hiring Americans.”

  “Right,” I agreed as I tried to search my memory for what I could remember from the tax code.

  What Anthony was describing was typically used by large corporations, like Ford or GE, who produced parts overseas and then brought them to
the U.S. to assemble the final product. It didn’t always work out to be cheaper for every product, which is why companies like Apple still did their entire production overseas, but if you could convince the IRS to grant you special status, it was an easy way to claim that ‘Made in the U.S.A.’ label for cheap.

  “Turns out, you can get it for agricultural products as well,” Anthony was saying. “It’s harder to do, since most foodstuffs that are imported aren’t converted into anything, but dad already had Landis put the paperwork through. All we need to do is seal the deal on the property.”

  “The property,” I mumbled. Suddenly Modena seemed much further away.

  “Yeah, dad had the site picked out,” Anthony replied. “How much do you know about balsamic vinegar?”

  “It tastes good, when you get the really good stuff,” I replied. “And I’ve had some that was infused with raspberries on top of plain vanilla ice cream that was one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. That would be about all I know.”

  Anthony laughed and took the last sip of whiskey from his glass.

  “Top tier balsamic is amazing,” he declared. “I mean, I know you’ve had a couple of things that my mom has put together that uses balsamic.”

  I nodded to show that I could indeed remember a certain tangy and delicious dressing as well as the glazed chicken she had served on top of a bed of fluffy rice.

  “You can make wine vinegar from any grapes,” my client continued with a glint in his gray-green eyes, “but for balsamic, you can only use the must of certain Italian grapes. And it has to be aged in the appropriate types of barrels for a certain period of time. So the must might be stored in an oak barrel for part of the time, and then it gets moved to a barrel made out of apple wood. It’s a whole, long process, and dad had even lined up a cousin of mine to help oversee the whole thing. Turns out, this cousin has been making vinegar for one of the big companies in Italy but dad convinced him to come here and lead the Febbo venture into making balsamic vinegar.”

  “Wow,” I said when Anthony stopped and looked at me.

  “Right?” he agreed with enthusiasm. “Now, we can’t claim to be from Modena or one of the other regions, but we can beat them at their own game.”

  “So, what are you importing?” I asked.

  “The must,” Anthony replied. “Basically, the juice, skins, stems, every part of the grape when it’s pulled from the vine. We have enough Trebbiano and Lambrusco grapes on our properties in Italy to start our own production, and if it goes well, we’ll either have to expand the plantings or buy grapes elsewhere.”

  “A real family affair,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah,” Anthony laughed. “Grandfather Regio will be in charge of the harvest and making sure that the must is properly prepared for shipment. Then Campania Imports will bring the must here, with minimal taxes, for the aging and fermenting process. We’ve got all the barrels and other equipment sitting in a warehouse and Tomas, that’s my cousin, is ready to hop on the next flight if we can have the deal done.”

  “So what’s this deal?” I asked as I bid farewell to the idea of an Italian holiday. But maybe, I thought, a trip to California instead? That was the heart of wine country in the United States, and certainly plenty of high-end balsamic vinegars must be made there as well.

  “Dad had a spot picked out,” Anthony said. “See, the vinegar needs a place with a constant temperature in order to ferment properly. In the old country, they use caves a lot.”

  “Okay,” I replied as I tried to remember if California had a lot of caves.

  “He also wanted something out of the spotlight, where the land might be a little cheaper,” Anthony continued.

  Well, that eliminated the entire state of California. Maybe Washington state or Oregon? They were both heavy wine producers now.

  “He even made a payment on the property,” my client said. “But if we don’t reach a suitable arrangement by the end of the week, the seller can walk away from the table and keep the money.”

  “How much money?” I asked.

  “Enough,” Anthony replied. “Enough that we’ll take a hit if we don’t finish the deal, and it will be hard to find a way to go forward with this plan this year.”

  “I’m surprised Landis would let that slide,” I commented.

  “It’s definitely something we need to talk about,” he replied. “But after the deal is done.”

  “Of course,” I agreed quickly. “So where is this property that Salvatore wants?”

  “There’s a small town nearby,” Anthony hedged. “Barely a speck on the map, called Folsom.”

  “Like Folsom Prison?” I asked as I shifted back to thoughts of a California visit.

  “Yes, but closer,” Anthony said. “In fact, the flight’s pretty quick, though you’ll have to rent a car to drive the rest of the way.”

  “Anthony,” I sighed. “Just tell me where I’m going.”

  “West Virginia,” my client replied with a grin.

  Somewhere, I could have sworn I heard a banjo, though it was quickly drowned out by a trombone making that distinctive wamp, wamp sound. I wasn’t heading to the west coast to enjoy some fine wine, good food, and visions of lovely surfer girls walking along a sandy beach. Instead, I was heading into the mountains and the heart of Appalachian culture. I picked up my glass and downed the last of the whiskey while I plotted the quickest way to be done with this task.

  Chapter 2

  “So,” I stalled as I set my glass down. “West Virginia. Do they have a lot of caves there?”

  “Don’t know,” Anthony said breezily. “What dad put money on is an old coal mine.”

  “Aren’t those hazardous?” I asked. “You know, cave-ins and that kind of thing. Not to mention methane and the chemicals they must use…”

  “Dad did a pretty thorough check of the property,” my client assured me. “He’s had a geologist study the mines and the surrounding land and he hired a company to test for various chemicals. It’s all good, especially since the main purpose is to turn the mines into storage areas. It’s perfect for aging, and I’m thinking once we get the balsamic vinegar up and running, we can use some of the other mines for other things. Maybe like storage units we could rent out. You’ve seen those old salt mines out west that they use for storing documents and old movie reels, right?”

  “I’ve heard about them,” I said.

  “So I’m thinking we tell our customers that they can buy storage space in our mines,” Anthony continued. “They could keep their wine or vinegar in there. Anything that needs a steady temperature.”

  “Won’t most of your clients have wine cellars?” I asked. “And will they really want to store it in West Virginia? How will they get to it?”

  “Obviously, it would only be for really nice bottles of wine,” Anthony replied. “Something the owner plans to keep for a long time. When they’re ready to drink it, they would make a request with us and we could arrange to have the wine delivered.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said skeptically.

  “There’s still a lot of details to work out,” Anthony admitted. “But the production of the vinegar is all set. We just need to complete the deal.”

  “If you’re sure you want to go through with this,” I hemmed.

  “I am,” Anthony insisted. “I want you to take a final look at the property, make sure all the paperwork is set, and then sign the deal.”

  “I’m not sure I’m authorized to do that,” I replied.

  “The land is being sold to the company,” Anthony said as he shuffled the papers on his desk one more time. “As the controlling shareholder, I’ve named you as the representative of the company in this matter, with full authority to complete it.”

  He passed a sheet of paper to me which, as promised, identified me as the representative of Campania Olio Imports.

  “I’ve got other copies,” Anthony added. “So take that one with you in case anybody asks.”

  “You mentioned the deadline is a
pproaching,” I noted.

  Anthony opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a file folder which he also passed to me.

  “That’s all of the paperwork,” Anthony explained. “Including the reports from the geologist and the chemistry lab. You can look through that on the plane, but basically, we have until the end of the week.”

  “The plane,” I murmured as I picked up the file and flipped through the pages. “I guess this means I’m leaving soon.”

  “You’ve got a flight first thing in the morning,” Anthony replied. “I’ll email the ticket to you. I thought about booking one for today, but I wasn’t sure how long we were going to spend at the FBI building.”

  “Thanks,” I said in a voice that was somewhere between sarcastic and acquiescent.

  Anthony grinned again as I tucked my official representative form into the folder and tried very hard not to look disappointed.

  “I hear it’s pretty nice this time of year,” Anthony said. “Up in the mountains, it’s still on the cool side but everything will be blooming.”

  “Have you been to see the property?” I asked.

  “No, no time,” Anthony replied quickly. “Plus, I don’t want to be away that long. In case dad wakes up.”

  “Right,” I sighed as I stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll go home and pack.”

  Anthony nodded but offered nothing else. Our meeting at an end, I nodded to my client, then made my way back to the stairs and the front hallway. I risked a glance into the piano room, but Gulia and Uncle Michael were nowhere to be seen and I couldn’t hear their voices. I was tempted to venture deeper into the house, as far as the kitchen at least, so I could say goodbye, but I suspected my ride back to Brooklyn would get impatient if I took too long. With another sigh, I crossed the black and white floor and opened the front door.

  The black Chrysler 300, the mainstay of the Febbo fleet, was parked by the fountain. I spotted the driver, a young guy whose name I could never remember, checking the fender and using a chamois to remove any dirt he found. He looked up as I started down the steps and waved to me, then quickly stepped to the rear passenger door and held it open for me.