The Undertaker

“You wanna know what's goin’ on, or you wanna keep with the wise cracks?” His eyes flashed and I could see even Parini had his limits. “You gotta figure there ain't nuthin’ those East Coast Families would like better than to pop one of them cruds, right? Nothin’ they wouldn't do or pay, to crack that “shield of invincibility” the Feds got wrapped around the program. ‘Cause most of those mopes were screw-ups to begin with, bottom feeders, low-lifes. Well, if they're dumb enough to get caught on some Federal beef, you gotta figure that out of 6,500 of them, there must be dozens and dozens of them stupid enough to screw up again and leave a trail even we could follow.

“Somebody's gonna call an old girlfriend,” he went on. “Or he'll lay down a bet with a bookie back east, deal some coke for a little cash, or free-lance a burglary. Maybe his wife's gotta see her mother. Or he can't live without some of that special linguine from Georgio's back in Bayonne. I don't know, but out of 6,500 there's gotta be some do that, right?” He waited until I shrugged. “Well, so far there ain't been one. Every time we get close and one of those guys blows his cover or wants to quit — and that does happen — the guy suddenly vanishes.”

“Maybe they moved them some place else,” Sandy said.

“Or maybe he has an “accident,” under some other name,” I chimed in. “Him and his wife.”

“Or maybe you finally found one of them and got rid of the guy,” Sandy said.

“Nah.” Gino caught Sandy's eyes in the rear view mirror. “If we want some mope dead, we pop him in a restaurant or we put a bomb under his car, something big and splashy. We don't fake no cheesy car accidents or hide the bodies, because when we hit a guy, it's to make a point, to make an example for all the others. And we don't take out his old lady. That ain't our style. We don't do that, but Tinkerton does. He don't like loose ends.”

Sandy looked over at me, then at Parini in the rear view mirror. “Now, wait a minute. You're saying the government's killing their own witnesses?”

“What? You think they're too good for something like that?” Parini barked. “Grow up, Sweet Pea. Compared to them, we're amateurs. Besides, they were “former” witnesses. After the Senate Hearings and the trials, they ain't no use to the Feds anymore, except to prove we can't touch them. Other than that, they're just more mouths to feed. And as for ones that get out of line or try to take off? What do you think?”

“I think they disappear up in Oak Hill under somebody else's name,” I answered. “A name and an identity that Tinkerton's computer picks out.”

“If that's what it takes to keep the Feds record “spotless,” who's to care? They were as good as dead, anyway.”

“I don't get this,” Sandy interjected. “You said Tinkerton is a lawyer with a big law firm in Columbus. He isn't a Fed.”

“Who says?” Parini countered. “My guess is Tinkerton's running some kind of top-secret disposal squad for them. Him, Greene, Varner, and Dannmeyer — they're mechanics, contract help, whose job it is to clean up those embarrassing little problems the official agencies won't touch, like runaways or the guys who won't follow the rules. But don't kid yourself, one way or the other, he's government.”

“Zero Defects,” I suddenly remembered.

“What's that?” Parini asked.

“There's a plaque in Tinkerton's office — and a tattoo on Dannmeyer's arm – they said “Zero Defects.” I gave Tinkerton some static about it. He said it means they don't make mistakes and they didn't tolerate people who do.”

“Zero Defects, huh? Sounds like him. He's an arrogant bastard.”

“I looked up Tinkerton's background,” I told him. “He was FBI, US Attorney, Justice, and the Marines, probably intelligence, because he said he had interrogated a lot of people. I think most of them ended up dead.”

“You're nuts, both of you,” Sandy said.

“Oh, yeah?” Parini leaned forward on an elbow. “Let me tell you about Louie Panozzo. He was a gutless little accountant who got sloppy. The Feds nailed him on wire fraud, petty stuff, but when they threatened him with ten to twenty in Danamora, he caved and copped a plea. First, he talked to that damned Hardin Commission, then he ratted out Jimmy in court.”

“I know,” I replied. “I read the clippings.”

Sandy made eye contact with me, but she never said anything about the accounting records or the printouts we had just sent to Hardin. Neither did I.

“Six months later,” Gino went on, “Jimmie's locked away in the Federal pen in Marion and Louie's doin’ 1040's in that hole-in-the-wall accounting office in Columbus. Anyway, last month, that little rat has a change of heart and calls Jimmy's lawyer, Charley Billingham, a big rainmaker with Steiner, Ernst, and Billingham in New York.”

“That's the bald-headed guy we saw on TV yesterday,” Sandy crowed.