Orsatti promised. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Joe Romano’s office was modern, all white and chrome, done by one of New Orleans’s most fashionable decorators. The only touches of colour were the three expensive French Impressionist paintings on the walls. Romano prided himself on his good taste. He had fought his way up from the slums of New Orleans, and on the way he had educated himself. He had an eye for paintings and an ear for music. When he dined out, he had long, knowledgeable discussions with the sommelier about wines. Yes, Joe Romano had every reason to be proud. While his contemporaries had survived by using their fists, he had succeeded by using his brains. If it was true that Anthony Orsatti owned New Orleans, it was also true that it was Joe Romano who ran it for him.
His secretary walked into his office. ‘Mr Romano, there’s a messenger here with an airplane ticket for Rio de Janeiro. Shall I write out a cheque? It’s COD.’
‘Rio de Janeiro?’ Romano shook his head. ‘Tell him there’s some mistake.’
The uniformed messenger was in the doorway. ‘I was told to deliver this to Joseph Romano at this address.’
‘Well, you were told wrong. What is this, some kind of a new airline promotion gimmick?’
‘No, sir. I –’
‘Let me see that.’ Romano took the ticket from the messenger’s hand and looked at it. ‘Friday. Why would I be going to Rio on Friday?’
‘That’s a good question,’ Anthony Orsatti said. He was standing behind the messenger. ‘Why would you, Joe?’
‘It’s some kind of dumb mistake, Tony.’ Romano handed the ticket back to the messenger. ‘Take this back where it came from and –’
‘Not so fast.’ Anthony Orsatti took the ticket and examined it. ‘It says here one first-class ticket, aisle seat, smoking, to Rio de Janeiro for Friday. One way.’
Joe Romano laughed. ‘Someone made a mistake.’ He turned to his secretary. ‘Madge, call the travel agency and tell them they goofed. Some poor slob is going to be missing his plane ticket.’
Joleen, the assistant secretary, walked in. ‘Excuse me, Mr Romano. The luggage has arrived. Do you want me to sign for it?’
Joe Romano stared at her. ‘What luggage? I didn’t order any luggage.’
‘Have them bring it in,’ Anthony Orsatti commanded.
‘Jesus!’ Joe Romano said. ‘Has everyone gone nuts?’
A messenger walked in carrying three Vuitton suitcases.
‘What’s all this? I never ordered those.’
The messenger checked his delivery slip. ‘It says Mr Joseph Romano, Two-seventeen Poydras Street, Suite four-zero-eight?’
Joe Romano was losing his temper. ‘I don’t care what the fuck it says. I didn’t order them. Now get them out of here.’
Orsatti was examining the luggage. ‘They have your initials on them, Joe.’
‘What? Oh. Wait a minute! It’s probably some kind of present.’
‘Is it your birthday?’
‘No. But you know how broads are, Tony. They’re always givin’ you gifts.’
‘Have you got somethin’ going in Brazil?’ Anthony Orsatti enquired.
‘Brazil?’ Joe Romano laughed. ‘This must be someone’s idea of a joke, Tony.’
Orsatti smiled gently, then turned to the secretaries and the two messengers. ‘Out.’
When the door was closed behind them, Anthony Orsatti spoke. ‘How much money you got in your bank account, Joe?’
Joe Romano looked at him, puzzled. ‘I don’t know. Fifteen hundred, I guess, maybe a couple of grand. Why?’
‘Just for fun, why don’t you call your bank and check it out?’
‘What for? I –’
‘Check it out, Joe.’
‘Sure. If it’ll make you happy.’ He buzzed his secretary. ‘Get me the head bookkeeper over at First Merchants.’
A minute later she was on the line.
‘Hello, honey. Joseph Romano. Would you give me the current balance in my current account? My birth date is October fourteenth.’
Anthony Orsatti picked up the extension phone. A few moments later the bookkeeper was back on the line.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Romano. As of this morning, your current account balance is three hundred and ten thousand, nine hundred and five dollars and thirty-two cents.’
Romano could feel the blood draining from his face. ‘It’s what?’
‘Three hundred and ten thousand, nine hundred and five –’
‘You stupid bitch!’ he yelled. ‘I don’t have that kind of money in my account. You made a mistake. Let me talk to the –’
He felt the telephone being taken out of his hand, as Anthony Orsatti replaced the receiver. ‘Where’d that money come from, Joe?’
Joe Romano’s face was pale. ‘I swear to God, Tony, I don’t know anything about that money.’
‘No?’
‘Hey, you’ve got to believe me! You know what’s happening? Someone is setting me up.’
‘It must be someone who likes you a lot. He gave you a going-away present of three hundred and ten thousand dollars.’ Orsatti sat down heavily on the Scalamander silk-covered armchair and looked at Joe Romano for a long moment, then spoke very quietly. ‘Everything was all set, huh? A one-way ticket to Rio, new luggage … Like you was planning a whole new life.’
‘No!’ There was panic in Joe Romano’s voice. ‘Jesus, you know me better than that, Tony. I’ve always been on the level with you. You’re like a father to me.’
He was sweating now. There was a knock at the door, and Madge poked her head in. She held an envelope.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Romano. There’s a cable for you, but you have to sign for it yourself.’
With the instincts of a trapped animal, Joe Romano said, ‘Not now. I’m busy.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Anthony Orsatti said, and he was out of the chair before the woman could close the door. He took his time reading the cable, then he focused his eyes on Joe Romano.
In a voice so low that Romano could barely hear him, Anthony Orsatti said, ‘I’ll read it out to you, Joe. “Pleased to confirm your reservation for our Princess Suite for two months this Friday, first September.” It’s signed, “S. Montalband, manager, Rio Othon Palace, Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro.”
