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Prologue
Transcription of Field Account: Staff Reporter Elena Alvarez to Chicago Tribune City Desk 10:35 p.m., Tuesday, September 12, 2000
I’m in a small park across the street from the old Victorian. Everything over there is illuminated by an eerie blend of flashlights, searchlights, and police or ambulance bubbles, oscillating red, white, and blue. It’s fairly quiet now except for the whump-whump-whump of the helicopter above me, and an occasional moan or cry for help. I can see six people down on the front and side lawns. Paramedics are moving from body to body, sometimes stopping to help, sometimes moving on. There was definitely gunfire in or near the house, and that’s where several members of the citizens group were hiding. I have no word on injuries or fatalities inside. There’s a green sedan wrapped around a tree trunk to my left, completely burned out but still smoldering. There were at least two fatalities. Police officials are telling me that Darlene Forrester may have been in that car. It seems incredible that I was meeting with her, just yesterday. It seems incredible that anyone—even a crime syndicate—would attack a group of volunteers. As a suggestion, the headline for this story could simply be Accidental Soldiers. May 1997
ean Palmeiri had dreaded the call for weeks. His carefully structured life would soon be turned upside down. “Augustino wishes to see you at once.” “Is he suffering?” “He is stoic, but it breaks my heart.” “I can be there tonight, mother.” “Good. He will meet with you tomorrow, at sunrise of course.” “Of course.” Over the years, his father had enjoyed many negotiating triumphs over those who used poor judgment regarding drink and sleep. Dean knew the tactic. “He offers use of the jet.” “Thank you. La Guardia.”
Dean Palmeiri paused at the sliding door leading onto the stone terrace of their West Palm Beach estate. He could see his father’s ever-present straw hat just above the back of the wheelchair, as the old man looked toward a sunrise already throwing scarlet spears across the Atlantic. A bright yellow umbrella emblazoned with the family crest guarded a fully set table beside him. Umbrellas on the patio’s remaining eleven tables had been lowered, wrapped in plastic. Dean processed both sadness and apprehension as he visualized the ghosts of the glory years: Flags and pennants snapping in the sea breeze. His father moving among tables heavy with food and drink. Music, chatter, laughter, and at the gathering’s edge, the subdued voices of serious men. It would be Dean’s daunting task to resurrect those ghosts. Dean approached, oddly tentative. “Good morning, father.” The wheelchair turned. As always, the broad-rimmed hat was jaunty—wrong somehow above a face so gaunt and gray. “Greetings, son. Join me.” His father turned to the table, carefully prepared a croissant, then sipped slowly, first coffee and then grapefruit juice. Dean poured his own coffee and waited, wondering whether the delay indicated reluctance, even now, to yield leadership. “We have known this day would come…” Augustino paused, pale blue eyes troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. “But I have decided to offer a new life, not this one.” Dean felt his own brow furrow as he pondered an unlikely introduction from a man born to centuries of tradition. His father continued, his voice soft, his eyes now on the sea. “A new world calls for new vision. Too many in my generation do not understand the changes.” His father paused again, this time wincing as if warding off pain. Dean waited, confusion deepening. Augustino said, “Power waning is power doomed, son. Potent young elements attack us. Law enforcement encircles us.” Now his father’s eyes met his squarely. The weary voice grew more intense. “It is my wish that you start afresh in a new city. Use your education. Use new technology. Honor your heritage, but set a new course. On the old path I see only ruin.” Dean scrambled to adjust. “What becomes of the Miami operation?” “The Russo Family will assume control of those avenues that are viable. The rest will be closed.” “And my funding?” “At least four hundred million, perhaps more. Of course, your mother and sisters will be comfortable.” Dean focused on his coffee cup, analyzing. “I would need Vincent.” “Yes. With no offense intended, son, you need young Caldarano’s strength.” “He’s in Chicago, deeply involved.” “I’m aware. It is important that you show him a new way.” Dean Palmeiri analyzed swiftly, knowing that his father would not abide a period of contemplation. He vastly preferred this vision, even if vague, to the life he had dreaded. Dean fully understood the economic choice, although unspoken. He could be equal heir with his four sisters, or sole heir to $400 million, perhaps more. “I will pursue your vision, father.”
Dean Palmeiri had no difficulty arranging a meeting with his potential partner. “Vince, I’d like to get together in the next few weeks—to talk about a whole new syndicate.” “You couldn’t have called at a better time,” said Vincent Caldarano. “I’m looking for a new life. This one may kill me.”
Caldarano and Palmeiri, friends since boyhood, met for three weeks at a Caldarano-owned estate in Bermuda. They based portions of their plan on the 1931 formation of the National Commission, founded by Bonanno, Luciano, and others to control expansion and minimize warfare among the Sicilian families. But their headquarters would be high-tech, located in Seattle, operating under the name McBride Communications, outwardly a public relations firm of national scope. Front businesses would hide the activities of a carefully selected set of leaders in all major cities. An annual convention in Bermuda would allow leaders to exchange proven ideas for business expansion. Dean Palmeiri would operate from the Seattle facility. Vincent Caldarano would transition gradually as he wound down family duties in Chicago. When they returned to the States, the long-range plans for the New Commission were complete. They called their syndicate NewComm.
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Excerpt: Accidental Soldiers |
