~ The Mystery Club And The Hidden Witness ~

by

Harley L. Sachs

Prologue

The face of the man behind the glass in the visitor’s booth was pale, haggard, and old. Gravity had caused his eyelids to droop and his cheeks to sag around his fleshy mouth. Age had made his eyes rheumy. One need not be an ophthalmologist to see that cataracts clouded his vision, or a doctor to suspect that he was ill. But neither gravity nor age had diminished his cruelty. Picking up the telephone, Patrick, "The Gimp" O’Donnel rasped to his visitor, "Where’s Marshall, my Jew mouthpiece?"

His visitor flinched. To put it in the parlance of the Brooklyn streets, he looked like ten Jews, an unfortunate model for stereotypes. Descended from Polish-Russian immigrants, this was a face that belonged in the long-obliterated inbred shtetls of Eastern Europe--pinched features, a thin nose, black curly hair. With little imagination one could visualize a scraggly beard, earlocks, and if not the wide-brimmed beaver hat of the ultra orthodox, at least a black leather cap like those worn by low ranked soldiers of the atheist Russian Mafia.

That was not the image Joel Melnik wanted to project. He was clean shaven, carefully dressed, an expensive shirt, gold cufflinks, a silk necktie. The only flaw in his appearance was the dandruff that showed around the collar of his jacket. Though his shoulders were narrow, an unfortunate genetic inheritance from ghetto ancestors, hidden under the expensive, conservative, three piece navy blue suit, the muscles of his arms and torso were lean and strong. Joel jogged early every morning and worked out several times a week at the health club

"Couldn’t make it, Mr. O’Donnel. Maybe you saw the papers. The Fulton Fish market thing."

"So who are you? His errand boy? Is this what I’ve come to? Is Marshall leaving me here to rot in the joint?"

"Marshall, er, Mr. Butwin, talked the prosecutors down to ten years. You could’a got the chair."

"Don’t tell me what I could’a got."

"You should be out in five, maybe three." He didn’t add, "with good behavior." Unless the parole board could be bought, O’Donnel didn’t look like a candidate for early parole.

"Christ, kid, I’m seventy-five years old. Ten years is a death sentence. I should be retired down in West Palm having coffee and a Danish by the pool with the boys. This joint is killing me."

Joel Melnik licked his lips nervously. "We may be able to get your conviction thrown out on a technicality. Then there’s your age and health to consider." It wasn’t unusual for the government to dump old prisoners whose health costs had become a burden on the taxpayers out on the street.

Patrick O’Donnel sighed. "That prosecutor is a vindictive bastard. An old man like me. They should have just let me alone, like Meyer Lansky. What harm could I do anybody? You think the State of New York is going to give me adequate medical care in this dump?" O’Donnel coughed and feigned a tear, the act that he had unsuccessfully performed under the skeptical scrutiny of the jury. "It’s a violation of my civil rights."

Joel Melnik knew that any alleged violation of the prisoner’s civil rights was nothing compared to the loss of lives of his seventeen known victims (never proved), not to mention a few others that were merely rumored. "Mr. Butwin is preparing your appeal. The witness was tainted, not credible. Marshall’s working on that."

"If he can find him."

Joel nodded. "If he can find him."

‘Him’ was Johnny Alto. With the Feds closing in he had made a deal: he’d turn state’s witness against O’Donnel in exchange for immunity from prosecution and protection from revenge. After the trial, he had disappeared.

Like Al Capone, it had been a tax evasion charge that finally nailed O’Donnel. After years of following the money, the government got a break in Johnny Alto. Alto’s specialty had been money laundering, so he had plenty of inside information on where O’Donnel’s money came from, how it got there, and where it went.

In arguing his own case with the deal makers, Alto had insisted he had done nothing different from major US corporations, establishing offshore offices to avoid taxes and SEC regulation. Alto’s activities were small change compared to the billions siphoned off by so-called legitimate CEOs who bilked the shareholders and employees of their 401k funds. He complained that the FBI were picking on him just because he didn’t have friends in the White House. They didn’t buy the argument, but they let the little fish go in order to catch the big one, O’Donnel.

O’Donnel put his face close enough to the glass for his breath to deposit a smudge of moisture. "Find Alto. I don’t care what protection the Feds give him. Before I go to my grave I want him dead."

Melnik suppressed a shudder. Prison walls might keep clients like O’Donnel inside but they were still dangerous. He might be behind bars in New York’s most notorious prison, but O’Donnel had connections outside, a long reach. "Right." In case someone was listening in he added, "You’re speaking figuratively, of course. You aren’t soliciting me to commit murder."

O’Donnel winked. "Oh, no, perish the thought. I’d never expect a shrimp like you to perform such a criminal act." He backed away from the glass. "Just find him. And don’t worry about the money. The money’s there. People owe me. Big time." His last word was lost as he hung up the receiver. "Kike." He blew Melnik a mock kiss. Then, as an afterthought, he picked up the phone again. "And tell Marshall no more errand boys. Next time he should come himself."