“I can make it appear anytime, any place, anywhere. Can you see it?”
Scanlon nodded.
“Good,” I said. “The
next
time, you won’t see the gun. You won’t see the man holding it. You won’t see me. The next time it will be just bullets.”
The man sat back and brought his hand and the gun back into the car and raised the window. I stared at Scanlon for a few seconds and then turned and walked back to the car, got in, and slammed the passenger side door. The car slowly pulled out and drove up Madison Avenue.
Frank Scanlon, once thought to be the most powerful and colorful man in New York, sat down on the steps leading to the Morgan Library and stared out at the streets of a city he once claimed as his own.
CENTRAL PARK, SEPTEMBER 18, 2002
12:24 A.M.
It was just after midnight and I was on the second hour of a long walk through Central Park. I needed some time alone, as the activities of the past few weeks had consumed all my time and energy. I knew the job I was given on Scanlon was a test, and I was pleased that I brought the matter to a successful conclusion.
In doing so, I realized that had been the moment I made my decision. For several years I had given a lot of thought as to what I would make of my life once my schooling was at an end. I’d thought about being a lawyer, but wasn’t certain I had the temperament for the job. I toyed with the idea of being a doctor, but it never went beyond that. Getting an MBA seemed a no-brainer since I could apply it to almost anything I chose to do. But what exactly would that be?
I knew what my uncle wanted it to be, or at least I think I did. He needed someone to step into his place when the time came and he was still young enough to groom his own successor. That right should have naturally fallen to Jimmy, and had he been born without his disability, I would probably have been interviewing at a few of the downtown accounting firms I keep my money in. But regardless how Jimmy might feel about being passed over, passed over he was going to be—if not by me, then by someone else. Uncle Carlo would never risk the future of his organization.
Now, I would be less than honest if I didn’t tell you how much I loved working the Scanlon job. I loved the planning, sizing up the adversary, trying to pinpoint his weak spots while being acutely aware of his strengths. And yes, I loved the danger, too. I chose the way to bring Scanlon down. The easy way would have been to take him out. Give the order, sit back, and wait for the hit to take place. But I’ve learned a lot from my uncle, not just his words, but also his actions. And I had learned just as much during my time in Italy watching the old Dons there go about their business. Toss in the books I was given to read about the men who established the international Crime Commission—Charles “Lucky” Luciano; the Chairman of the Board, Frank Costello; and the genius MeyerLansky—and the lessons were there to be absorbed.
You can always take someone out. If history has taught us anything, it has most certainly taught us that. From presidents to loan sharks, from popes to pimps, anyone can be brought down with a phone call and two bullets.
But not anyone can be put into such a corner, a tight spot from which there is no way out, and be defeated in so thorough a manner that he is left with nothing. That’s so much more fitting an end than leaving him facedown on a sidewalk. In a way, killing him lets him off the hook, death being the ultimate escape. But survival is a punishing weight he will carry for the rest of his life.
I walked past the shuttered children’s zoo and made my way down a dark winding path. I knew then that my life had been forever altered, my uncle and Frank Scanlon had together seen to that. When you come right down to it, the decision wasn’t such a difficult one. I might regret it one day, time would decide that. But back then, for that one moment, I knew there was no other way for me.
I would
Scanlon nodded.
“Good,” I said. “The
next
time, you won’t see the gun. You won’t see the man holding it. You won’t see me. The next time it will be just bullets.”
The man sat back and brought his hand and the gun back into the car and raised the window. I stared at Scanlon for a few seconds and then turned and walked back to the car, got in, and slammed the passenger side door. The car slowly pulled out and drove up Madison Avenue.
Frank Scanlon, once thought to be the most powerful and colorful man in New York, sat down on the steps leading to the Morgan Library and stared out at the streets of a city he once claimed as his own.
CENTRAL PARK, SEPTEMBER 18, 2002
12:24 A.M.
It was just after midnight and I was on the second hour of a long walk through Central Park. I needed some time alone, as the activities of the past few weeks had consumed all my time and energy. I knew the job I was given on Scanlon was a test, and I was pleased that I brought the matter to a successful conclusion.
In doing so, I realized that had been the moment I made my decision. For several years I had given a lot of thought as to what I would make of my life once my schooling was at an end. I’d thought about being a lawyer, but wasn’t certain I had the temperament for the job. I toyed with the idea of being a doctor, but it never went beyond that. Getting an MBA seemed a no-brainer since I could apply it to almost anything I chose to do. But what exactly would that be?
I knew what my uncle wanted it to be, or at least I think I did. He needed someone to step into his place when the time came and he was still young enough to groom his own successor. That right should have naturally fallen to Jimmy, and had he been born without his disability, I would probably have been interviewing at a few of the downtown accounting firms I keep my money in. But regardless how Jimmy might feel about being passed over, passed over he was going to be—if not by me, then by someone else. Uncle Carlo would never risk the future of his organization.
Now, I would be less than honest if I didn’t tell you how much I loved working the Scanlon job. I loved the planning, sizing up the adversary, trying to pinpoint his weak spots while being acutely aware of his strengths. And yes, I loved the danger, too. I chose the way to bring Scanlon down. The easy way would have been to take him out. Give the order, sit back, and wait for the hit to take place. But I’ve learned a lot from my uncle, not just his words, but also his actions. And I had learned just as much during my time in Italy watching the old Dons there go about their business. Toss in the books I was given to read about the men who established the international Crime Commission—Charles “Lucky” Luciano; the Chairman of the Board, Frank Costello; and the genius MeyerLansky—and the lessons were there to be absorbed.
You can always take someone out. If history has taught us anything, it has most certainly taught us that. From presidents to loan sharks, from popes to pimps, anyone can be brought down with a phone call and two bullets.
But not anyone can be put into such a corner, a tight spot from which there is no way out, and be defeated in so thorough a manner that he is left with nothing. That’s so much more fitting an end than leaving him facedown on a sidewalk. In a way, killing him lets him off the hook, death being the ultimate escape. But survival is a punishing weight he will carry for the rest of his life.
I walked past the shuttered children’s zoo and made my way down a dark winding path. I knew then that my life had been forever altered, my uncle and Frank Scanlon had together seen to that. When you come right down to it, the decision wasn’t such a difficult one. I might regret it one day, time would decide that. But back then, for that one moment, I knew there was no other way for me.
I would
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