Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [29]
Jack nodded.
“That, my friend, is why the FBI thinks this guy is Iranian. Maybe they know more than that, maybe Leon’s report and the explosion dovetailed with something they already knew, someone they were already watching.”
“But it’s enough to trigger a good old-fashioned multiagency cover-up,” Jack said. “A bunch of local wackos seem a lot less threatening than an Islamic terrorist cell. And with only one man dead, people are bound to forget about this the minute some celebrity goes into rehab. It becomes a nonevent. And nonevents don’t threaten political careers unless someone wants them to.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a cynical bastard?”
Jack smiled and was about to respond when a voice rang out from across the dining room, calling Tony’s name.
They both looked up to see Danny Pescatori emerging from the kitchen with a grin on his face—a short, squat, powerful Sicilian who, along with his brother Carlo, had been running Pagliaci’s for over thirty years now, ever since their parents had retired.
Pagliaci’s on the Wharf was a San Francisco institution. It had been standing on this very same spot for nearly a century, serving Sicilian seafood that made your mouth water just thinking about it. It didn’t hurt that it boasted a view of two dozen bobbing fishing boats, Alcatraz Island, and the bay, stretching past the Golden Gate Bridge to the Headlands.
Jack had been coming here for longer than he could remember, and always found it difficult to say no to the shrimp. The Pescatoris made sure that he got the “A” shack supply, which was reserved for family and friends. Shrimp that always smacked of the sea. Briny, not slimy.
But it was Tony who was the mainstay here. He’d practically grown up in the place and the Pescatoris always treated him like a brother. He knew more about the wharf and wharf politics than anyone really should, and had once said to Jack, “If I told you even a third of what I know, I’d be in cement shoes before you could peel one of those shrimp you love.” In San Francisco, almost all Italians of a certain generation knew each other like extended family.
As Danny Pescatori emerged from the kitchen, he made a quick side trip to the front counter, then crossed the dining room toward them, waving a small card. “Hey, hey, Cousin, what did I tell you?”
Despite his mood, Tony’s eyes lit up. “The gala?”
Danny reached the table and dropped an invitation in front of him. “Next Saturday night, VIP entry.”
It was a black-tie dinner at the Legion of Honor that promised appearances by the governor, the mayor, two senators, a roster of movie and rock stars that would make Woodstock look like a block party—and the President of the United States himself. At $7500 a plate, only the top tier would be there.
Tony had been angling for this invitation for months. Not because he particularly cared about going—he wasn’t a fan of the current occupant of the White House—but because Darleen was hot to go and Tony knew he had to try to get them an invite.
Not surprisingly, Danny Pescatori had come through.
“I owe you, Cousin.”
“Shut up, you. The day you owe me anything is the day I retire.”
The sight of the invitation must have perked Tony up, because he suddenly declared that he was hungry.
As usual, they both ordered off the menu, Tony asking for Carlo’s special seafood sausages, while Jack decided to stick to the “A” shack shrimp, drenched in marinara. He also ordered the pup his usual hamburger.
The little guy actually licked his chops as if he knew exactly what was coming.
When Danny went to put in the order, Jack said, “So where were we?”
Tony sobered, pocketing his invitation. “Trying to pin down exactly what the FBI wants to cover up.”
“Well, whoever’s behind it is crazy if they think they’ve heard the last of it. We know their story’s bull, and if there’s any truth to Leon Thomas’s statement, I need to find out. I owe that much to Drabinsky.