Day of Reckoning. Jack Higgins

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      It was a wet March evening in Manhattan when the Lincoln stopped at Trump Tower, the snow long gone, but replaced by heavy, relentless rain. Jack Fox sat in the rear, Russo at the wheel, Falcone beside him. They pulled in at the kerb and Falcone got out with an umbrella.

      Fox said, ‘You’re okay for a couple of hours.’ He took a hundred dollar bill from his pocket. ‘You two go and eat. I’ll call you on my mobile when I need you.’

      ‘Sure.’ Falcone walked him to the entrance. ‘Please convey my respects to Don Solazzo.’

      Fox patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hey, Aldo, he knows he has your loyalty.’

      He turned and went in.

      The maid who admitted him to the top floor apartment was very Italian, small and demure in black dress and stockings. She didn’t say a word but simply took him through to the enormous sitting room with its incredible view of Manhattan, where he found his uncle sitting by the fire reading Truth magazine. Don Marco Solazzo was seventy-five years of age, a heavyweight in a loose-fitting linen suit, his face very calm, and his eyes expressionless. A walking stick with an ivory handle lay on the floor beside him.

      ‘Hey, Jack, come in.’

      His nephew went forward and gave him a kiss on each cheek. ‘Uncle, you look good.’

      ‘So do you.’ The Don offered him the magazine. ‘I read the piece. You look nice, Jack. Very pretty. Savile Row suits. Big smile. They talk about the hero stuff, decorated in the Gulf War, that’s all good. But then they have to mention the other stuff. That in spite of a name like Fox your mother was Maria Solazzo, the niece of Don Marco Solazzo. God rest her and your father. That isn’t good.’

      Fox waved his hand. ‘It’s innocuous stuff. Everybody knows I’m related to you. But they think I’m legit.’

      ‘You think so? This journalist, this Katherine Johnson, you think “innocuous stuff” is all she’s after? Don’t delude yourself. She knows who we are, in spite of our Wall Street interests. So we’re respectable – property, manufacturing, finance – but we’re still Mafia, that’s what gives us our power. That side is not for people such as her. No, she’s after something – and you…you’re a good boy. You’ve done well, but I’m not a fool. I know, beside the family business, that you have this factory in Brooklyn, the one that processes cheap whisky for the clubs.’

      ‘Uncle, please,’ Fox said.

      The Don waved his hand. ‘A young man wanting to make an extra buck I understand, but sometimes you’re greedy. There’s nothing I don’t know. Your dealings with the IRA in Ireland, for instance, that underground dump they have for the weapons they won’t hand over. The weapons you supply them. Your trips to London to the Colosseum.’

      ‘That’s our flagship casino, Uncle.’

      ‘Sure, but while you’re there, you organize armed robberies with our London connection. Over a million pounds cash two months ago from a security van.’ The Don waved him back. ‘Don’t annoy me by denying it, Jack.’

      ‘Uncle.’ Fox tried to sound contrite.

      ‘Just remember your true purpose. The drug business is no longer growing in America. You have to encourage its rise in Russia and the Eastern European countries. That’s where growth lies. Prostitution, leave to our Russian and Chinese friends. Just take a percentage.’

      ‘As you say, Uncle.’

      ‘Anything else is okay, but Jack, no more doing things behind my back.’

      ‘Yes, Uncle.’

      ‘And this reporter, this Johnson. Have you gone to bed with her? The truth, now.’

      Fox hesitated. ‘No, it hasn’t been like that.’

      ‘Then like what? Why should she be interested in making you look good? She’s in it for more. I’m telling you, she’s hiding something. This piece, it’s not so bad, all right, but what’s next? What’s behind the front?’ The Don shook his head. ‘She flattered you, Jack, and you fell for it. You better find out what she really wants.’

      ‘What would you advise, Uncle?’

      ‘Turn over her apartment. See what you can find.’ He reached for a pitcher. ‘Have a martini and then we’ll eat.’

      Terry Mount was very ordinary-looking, small and wiry, the kind of youngster who could have been a delivery boy for some deli. He was, in fact, a highly accomplished burglar and boasted that there was no lock he couldn’t open. He’d served time only once, and that was as a juvenile. His very ordinariness had saved his hide on many occasions.

      A nice touch two nights before had netted him fifteen thousand dollars, which he’d just picked up from his fence, so he was feeling good, sitting in a bar, relishing the whisky sour the barman was creating, and then a heavy hand touched his shoulder.

      Terry turned and his stomach churned. Falcone smiled. ‘Terry, you look good.’

      Russo leaned against the bar, his usual dreadful self, and Terry took a deep breath. ‘Aldo, you want something?’

      ‘Not me, СКАЧАТЬ