The Union by Bruce Norman

An Interesting Life Taking a deep breath, I sighed deeply and knocked. When the door opened, the sunlight streaming through the windows hurt my eyes but I could still see the same crappy room I had seen so many times before traveling around the country on business. They all looked so boringly similar with the same bland decor and the same cheesy watercolors looking down at the same beige bedspread. This room however, was very different because there were two men standing in it. “Come in, Mr. Quinn,” the man said as he opened the door. It flashed across my mind that there should have been a tag line on those words like - said the spider to the fly. “I’m Bill Douglas with the FBI and this is Agent Felix Garcia with the Treasury Department. Please come in and sit down.” As I entered the room I nodded toward Garcia, but his coal black eyes just stared through a scowl as he sat down. I went over to the table by the window and pulled out the chair across from Garcia who sat there motionless. I smiled as I sat down crossing my legs and folding my arms across my chest. I was desperately trying to appear relaxed. “What can I do for you fine gentlemen today?” “You’re looking at seven to ten years in federal prison for bribery and conspiracy”, said Garcia as he pointed his finger at me. “Believe me, we can help you with that”, Douglas said as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Just tell us what you know about Renato Costa, Sammy Merzone, the Massarro crime family and their involvement with the Union.” Although I was physically in the room, my mind was thinking about everything that had happened. There was one thing I knew for a fact. If I continued to do “little favors” for people, it wouldn’t be long before I’d get my ass shot. I just wasn’t sure if that would come at the hands of the Justice Department or the mob. My name is Parker Quinn and five years ago, I was sitting in a beautiful office on the thirty-eighth floor of the newest building on Wall Street. By anybody’s definition, I had it good. I had the expensive high backed leather chair, a huge oak desk, an Oriental rug and all the other trappings of a successful Wall Street executive. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was becoming the living embodiment of an old saying and a Chinese curse. “Be careful of what you wish for” and “May your life be interesting.” There I sat, lost in thought. I just went through a messy divorce and seventeen years of ninety minute commutes. It gave me a desire for a simpler life away from the crowds and the noise of the city. I was staring blankly at my desk when the intercom jolted me back to the present. “Mr, Quinn. Jack Townsend is out here.” “ Okay.......yeah,.... please Ann, send him in.” Townsend and I had been friends for many years which was a bit strange because we were also fierce competitors in the investment management business. “You look like crap, Quinn” Townsend said as he stood in front of my desk. “Gee.......thanks, Jack” “You alright?” Townsend asked as he sat down. “Look Quinn, I know the divorce ripped you up but you gotta move on, pal.” “Yeah, I know Jack. But honestly, it’s more than that. I need to get out of the city and go someplace less---- well, less like this! I’ve had it. I need a change, Jack. If I don’t get out of this fucking place, I’m gonna go crazy.” “Quinn, listen to me. You busted your ass to get where you are. You leave now and you’re throwing all that away. Just hang in there. Pretty soon you’ll feel a whole lot better, I promise you.” “Jack, I appreciate your concern. I really do. But when I look around, I don’t particularly like what I see,” I replied as I leaned back in my chair. “Well, I think you’re crazy but if I hear of anything, I’ll let you know.” Two days later, Jack telephoned to say that he knew of a major firm in need of someone to go and straighten out a failing office in a “lovely little city” of about 100,000 people. The pay wasn’t great, but I knew I could build my own investment advisory business and get an override on the branch’s production. More important was the fact that I could get out of this rat race of a city. So, all in all, I didn’t think it was such a bad deal. The Lord may work in mysterious ways, but Chinese curses work in insidious ways because and as quickly as that, I found myself diving head first into an “interesting life.” Three years later, I was fairly well established in my new life in the “city”. I always laughed to myself when the locals talked about “going to the city” as if it contained a million people and was the center of the universe. But it really was a nice place.......at least from the outside. Now my commute was only five minutes and I got to play golf twice a week. I went to some very nice restaurants and had a decent social life. Things were definitely looking up. There were numerous opportunities for me to build my brokerage business. I found where all the old money in the city was buried, and by far the largest horde at nearly seven hundred million dollars, was the local labor union’s pension fund. This was no ordinary labor union with a few thousand members. Quite the contrary, because this union had been started and carefully built over many years by a single Italian immigrant, into a forty thousand member powerhouse covering three states. Getting the Union’s business would pay a small fortune in commissions. That Union was definitely at the top of my wish list but unfortunately at the top of the Union sat a very dangerous Renato Costa. It was midmorning on a lazy Wednesday and I wasn’t feeling particularly ambitious. It was one of those beautiful days when everything seems great because the weather was warm, the sun was out, and the leaves still had that bright green color that only happens in the early spring. When the phone rang I didn’t want to answer it for fear of losing the nice peaceful glow that engulfed me. Grudgingly, I slumped forward in my chair and my hand fell on the phone. “Good Morning. This is Quinn.” “Quinny” the voice crooned. I knew immediately who it was because if “Brooklyn accent” were ever represented in the dictionary, a picture of Nicky Tagliano would definitely accompany it. “It’s Nicky” “Hey. What’s up?” I met Nicky at a party about a year ago. He was like the brother I never had. There was just something about him that drew me like the moth to the flame. Nicky was known as the “Puerto Rican.” He was not, however, Puerto Rican. He was Sicilian. He got tagged with the name because his naturally dark complexion always made him look as if he just came off the beach. By anyone’s assessment, he was a handsome man and bore a striking resemblance to a young Jose Ferrer with black wavy hair going slightly gray at the temples and a salt and pepper moustache that lay trimly under an elegantly slender nose. I always wondered how Nicky was able to run a business and still have time to be the social butterfly of the city. I liked Nicky because he was the most naturally funny person I had ever met. When Nicky got into telling a story, he’d throw himself into it like a great stage actor and become a blur of waving arms and flashing eyes. Nicky once told me, that with my size and looks and with his charm we could have all the women we could ever want. “I got two guys for golf and I was wondering if you could get out this afternoon? Besides, I’ve got something I need to talk to you about.” I thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go. Hell, it was gorgeous outside, but my conscience didn’t want to allow me to leave work just to go play golf. But...... Nicky was connected to the Union and his closest friend was the number two guy. Although Nicky was ever present at Union functions, he didn’t actually work for the Union. In fact, for all his attempts to be the most stereotypical New York Italian on the planet, he was a successful pharmacist and owned three stores. I sensed that this might be an opportunity to get closer to the real action. “Yeah, why not. I wasn’t feeling all that inspired anyway,” I said sighing in resignation. “What time?” “Great! I’ll meet you at the city course around 11:30. We can grab a sandwich before we go out” “Sounds good.” I was looking forward to this. I loved golf. Nicky was certain to make me laugh, and who knew what devious little plot might be in the works. Turning down the street toward the golf course, I was looking at the old maples that had grown so large that they formed a rich green tunnel. It made me smile as I thought how much nicer this was than the concrete jungle I spent so many years in. By the time I reached the course, Nicky was already taking his clubs out of his Corvette. There was only one reason Nicky had that Corvette. He looked damned good in it, and that’s just what he wanted the ladies to see--- him with that suave Latin look, the perfectly tailored clothes, and his shiny red Corvette. The hell of it was... it worked! I could go into any crowded room and find Nicky’s newest love. She was sure to have a petite face, raven hair, and a body so thin that it looked like it was made from pipe cleaners. “Heyee.... my friend. How you doin?” Nicky called to me as I pulled into the space next to him. The greeting was standard Nicky. The “heyee” had to be slowly drawn from the throat. While the How you doin’ came out to mean, How you doin’? Cause I’m doin’ fine! There were two objectives to Nicky Tagliano’s golf game. First, was to shoot a low score and second, to harass the hell out of everybody around him. It was like playing golf with the Tasmanian Devil. Golf with him was three hours of one-liners and stories. He and I always had a good match, but there was no way I could match Nicky’s mouth or his attire. People joked that Nicky needed a separate house just for his clothes. Being impeccably dressed in finely tailored clothes was, in Nicky’s eyes, a basic human need. “What’s up?” I said as I hauled my golf clubs out of the trunk of the car. I didn’t want to sound too eager, but the suspense had been eating at me. “Let’s grab a sandwich. I’ll tell you later.” Nicky’s response left me with a slight twinge of regret that I might have appeared too eager. “Not a problem.” It was only a short walk up to the starters shack/ sandwich shop/ golf shop/ all around hang out for all the old “retired” Italian patrons. Inside, we met Gino Santori and Angelo Vito. Gino was a Business Agent for the Union and Angie was.....well, Angie. He wasn’t visibly employed, at least not that I could see, but he was a fixture at most of the Union functions. I was told that Angie took care of certain employer/employee problems--- whatever the hell that meant. Being the size of a small building, he was apparently well suited for the job. The golf bets were the standard buck a hole along with presses and double presses and carry forwards as usual. It really wasn’t the money that mattered. These guys would go to Vegas, drop ten grand, bang a couple of broads, and come home “winners”. It was all about bragging rights at the local bar after the game that meant everything. You get to brag a little, cry a little over the shot that just missed, and congratulate someone over that beautiful shot on such and such a hole. No one ever lost any real money and Nicky would always have a few great stories that everyone had heard a hundred times before. Yes, life was good. After Gino and Angie left the bar, Nicky leaned closer to me and in a low voice said, “Anthony needs a favor. Do you remember when you asked me to get that friend of yours in Jersey a job?” Nicky continued. How could I forget? Good old Eddie Ryan, my friend from North Jersey. He called with a tale of woe about being unable to get work. In another moment of soft heartedness, I said I might be able to help. So I called Nicky to see if he could talk to Anthony Traffarro. Traffarro was the number two man at the Unionand for the last ten years was the power behind the Costa throne. I thought it might be possible that Traffarro knew someone who was hiring. Nicky called back and said that a guy in Jerseyowed Traffarro a favor and could put Eddie on in the warehouse for a month and then get him on a truck. So I got the favor for Eddie and then good old Eddie returned it by quitting after one fucking day! But now I was obligated and with these people, it was a matter of honor. Ask a favor, do a favor. My sense of eager anticipation plunged into a sense of dread. What the hell did I get myself into? To say that theUnion had a bad reputation was a gross understatement. TheUnion had connections to the mob and there were more than a few bodies at the bottom of the river attributed to it. “Anthony’s wife needs a job,” Nicky said flatly as he reached for his beer. I felt a cascade of emotions. I was honored that Anthony Traffarro had asked me for any favor...... required or otherwise. I also knew I was finally moving closer to the inner circle and to my ultimate objective of getting some of the commissions on the seven hundred million dollars. But what job? How the hell do you employ the wife of Anthony Traffarro? What does she do? Does she know anything? I’m in the fucking securities industry for Christ’s sake. What the hell is everyone in the office going to think? Continues..