Scarpelli

By E. Michael Abel

Carmine Angelo Scarpelli, a tormented widower and devoted father and grandfather, was the respected head of a New York crime family, which he ran from his backroom office in the Bronx pizzeria and from his vacation home in Lower Saranac Lake, New York. With the blessing of the Columbian drug lord, Santiago Garcia, Scarpellis largest criminal enterprise was moving pure cocaine from Colombia, South America, to New York then further on to Boston forcing the blackmailed chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, Congressman Jonathan Burnham to front the distribution point: the Brooklyn wholesale fruit warehouse. Scarpelli didnt stop there. He knew enough about the congressmans son, Johnny Burnham, a DEA Special Agent in the Manhattan Division DEA interdiction team, headed by Special Agent in Charge, Jack Finch, to turn Johnny into an informant for the Scarpelli familys local drug operations. But like Finch, Scarpelli also had a problem: a DEA informant within his own family. How both men were to solve both problems so that Finchs career would be saved; and Scarpellis operations would continue to succeed, that was the question.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503564626

E. Michael Abel

E. Michael Abel is a criminal defense trial attorney practicing in Florida. It was this unique perspective that led to his first fiction novel, Flushed Out!: A Novel of International Crime and Intrigue, which received excellent reviews from both readers and the media alike. Abel’s writing style, which he describes as a “fly on the wall” approach, places the reader right alongside his characters. His current novel, Scarpelli, proves to be equally successful. Born in New York City, Abel graduated from the City College of New York. After college, he attended the Tufts University School of Dental Medicine in Boston, Massachusetts, and then practiced dentistry. After a number of years and seeking a change in career, Abel returned to Boston and entered New England Law (then New England School of Law). Abel has also been a guest speaker, a lecturer, and an adjunct university professor who taught criminal law. He lives outside Tampa, Florida, with his wife.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T HE THREE WELL-DRESSED men were huddled together in a close circle. They were standing in front of the domed United Nations General Assembly building along First Avenue between East Forty-second and Forty-eighth streets in Manhattan, just as they had planned. Behind them, the flags of the United States and Uruguay were flapping from their identical flagpoles in the gentle May breeze. To anyone eying the men, the conclusion would be that they were diplomats of some sort. That was the idea. The men were not discussing foreign relations between members of the United Nations Security Council, increasing food supplies to Third World countries, or making efforts at decreasing hostilities in the Middle East. It was coc aine.

Okay, we are in agreement. We will be responsible for delivering the merchandise to you and as much as you can handle, and you will be responsible for its distribution. I will relate this to those responsible when I return to Bogotá tomorrow. José Garcia, brother of the Colombian drug lord, Santiago Garcia, said to the man representing the Scarpelli New York crime family.

Excellent. We will contact you when we’re ready for the first delivery, very shortly, the Scarpelli capo replied, in his most polite and most respectful voice, to the nameless Colombian. The third man, who was from Boston and would eventually receive the weekly kilos of the drug for further distribution into New England, just listened and nodded in agreement.

The meeting ended as abruptly as it began, without any parting words and only a handshake, as all three men walked their separate ways: the Colombian headed back to his hotel in midtown, a short distance away; the other grabbed a cab for the trip to LaGuardia Airport to return to Boston; and the capo walked to East Forty-fifth Street and Third Avenue to meet his car as previously arranged.

For the first time, Salvatore Pasta Riccatonni had his doubts as he thought about the amount of time that had passed, the planning, the effort, and the money that was spent along with the help of the extorted chairman of the United States House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence in setting this whole thing up. Damn, I hope this works, he said to himself as he arrived on the street corner, knowing he already had given all the credit for the flawless plan to his don.

The driver of the new dark blue Lexus which had been monotonously circling midtown Manhattan and traveling up Third Avenue to East Forty-sixth Street, down Second Avenue across East Forty-fifth Street, then back to Third for the past thirty minutes finally spotted the man waiting on the corner and immediately pulled over to the curb. Riccatonni walked over to the car and got into the backseat for the drive back to the Bronx.

How’d it go, Pasta? The driver asked without thinking who exactly was in the backseat, numb from the ongoing circling.

None of your fucking business. Just drive like you’re suppos’ ta. Pasta meant it.

Pasta thought back about how for most of his life, he was mistakenly called Sal Rigatoni. It’s Riccatonni, not Rigatoni, you dumb shithead! Get it right! was his typical response to the incorrect pronunciation. The nickname Pasta stuck as he made his way up the ranks of the Scarpelli crime family. His predictable response at the mispronunciation ended along the way as his nickname, both feared and respected in criminal circles, became well known.

As the car headed up the FDR Drive toward the Bruckner Expressway and into the Bronx, Riccatonni took off his suit and changed into his more comfortable street clothes: a pair of gray slacks and the black-white-and-gray, vertical-striped silk button-down, short sleeve shirt which were both folded neatly next to him. No sense sticking out like a sore thumb in this monkey suit, he thought once when he finally arrived back.

Pull over, Pasta ordered the low-level driver and only one of Pasta’s fifty-man crew as the car finally reached its destination. And don’t forget my clothes.

Very good, Mr. Riccatonni, the driver answered. He dared not make the same mistake twice; he forgot respect was everything to these men of honor.

The car pulled over and stopped at East 189th Street and Hoffman Street, and Pasta got out. He walked the three blocks across Arthur and Hughes Avenues to Belmont Avenue. As ironic as it seemed, considering the world of crime he was involved in, Pasta still considered himself a patriotic American in the land of opportunity. As he glanced up at the Belmont Avenue street sign, he once again thought about his favorite musical group. What a great country! Only here could this kid Dion DiMucci, singing with his friends on Belmont Avenue, make it like he did. Dion and the Belmonts… What a fucking great group! Pasta reached 188th Street and approached the take-out-only storefront pizzeria Pizza One Eighty-eight.

CHAPTER 2

J OSÉ GARCIA SAT in the royal blue seat of Avianca’s flight 21 in the jet’s business class, neatly folded that day’s copy of the Wall Street Journal , and placed it behind the braided elastic cloth compartment in front of him. He then took off his black reading glasses, folded them, and purposely and slowly placed them into his starched white shirt pocket. He felt and heard the landing gear come out of the Airbus A300 undercarr iage.

Finally, he said to himself as the almost-six-hour nonstop flight from JFK in New York was coming to an end. Through the corner of his eye, he saw the flight attendant move forward with the cart and approach.

A washcloth before we land?

Yes, please, he responded as the attendant lifted the silver cover and, with a pair of tongs, handed him a neatly rolled and moist washcloth. As José wiped his hands and face, he looked out the window as the jet now made its rapid decent.

He had traveled perhaps hundreds of thousands of miles on behalf of his brother, Santiago. Even so, as he looked outside the window, he was in total awe of the jet’s wheels gently touching down only a few feet beyond the multiple broad, white lines at the beginning of the runway; but at the same time, he was concerned about the speed of the jet once on the runway and whether or not there was enough runway left for the jet to finally slow down to a safe speed. Now with the engines blasting in reverse, José unconsciously pushed back into his seat as if he could help the jet slow down. Once the jet slowly made its way to the terminal and he heard the announcement from the flight attendant over the speaker, in both Spanish and English, José’s body finally relaxed.

Welcome to Aeropuerto Internacional El Dorado, Bogotá, Colombia. Thank you for flying Avianca. The next announcement included a third language, Portuguese, Brazil’s national language, but was ignored by José. For those travelers continuing to Rio de Janeiro, please remain onboard.

José got up and reached for his matching grey, herringbone Armani suit jacket neatly folded in the seat next to him, which he also purchased; he never wanted company on any business trip. As a business-class passenger, he exited the jet first. It was twelve fifty in the afternoon, and the airport was bustling as he walked down the long concourse to the waiting SUV outside.

The driver of the G550 Mercedes with the engine still running had parked in front of the airport’s main terminal and under the gray metallic El Dorado sign. The second man waited patiently as he leaned against the front passenger door. Both the SUV and the man were deceiving.

The body of the Mercedes was armored completely with the bulletproof polycarbonate-sandwiched windows and the most important four-run flat tires with the built-in polymer donuts. The man, although dressed casually in a light blue shirt and tan slacks, still couldn’t hide the bulge under his brown sport coat—holding the 9mm Glock 17 Gen4 with the hollow-point bullets, one bullet always chambered. This was, after all, Bogotá.

Señor Garcia, welcome back! the waiting man said.

Thank you, Miguel. José handed him the baggage claim. Por favor?

Miguel took the claim ticket and, at the same time, opened the rear door as José got in and sat back on the heavily stitched brown leather seat, exhausted from the two–day round-trip from Bogotá to Manhattan and back again. The armored door slammed closed with a heavily muffled sound.

Paulo, how are you? José asked the driver sincerely.

Fine. No complaints, the driver answered as he automatically put the SUV in drive and released the emergency brake, his eyes darting all around and making certain nothing suspicious was occurring now that José was inside. It was Santiago Garcia who insisted Paulo take a professional course in evasive driving before he could ever get behind the steering wheel. Miguel returned soon afterward and placed the suitcase in the back of the SUV.

The SUV left the airport and made its way down Calle 26 and out of the city, drove south on Boyacá, and turned west on I-40 toward Ibagué. After four hours, the SUV turned off the highway and, getting higher into the mountains, eventually made its way along the now bumpy, potholed dirt road. It was forced to stop at the heavy and electrified double metal gates with the razor–sharp concertina wire on top. They had arrived.

One of the two guards carrying the Stoner 63A light machine gun with a two-hundred-round box magazine attached to it approached the SUV. Paulo lowered both the black-tinted driver and passenger rear windows as the guard looked inside. Satisfied, the guard nodded to the other guard, who pressed the hidden button as the right-sided metal gate opened. The SUV continued up the driveway then stopped.

Santiago Garcia’s house, (mansion really) never failed to impress José even though he had been there thousands of times over the years. He faced the pure white right– and left-sided opposite front steps with the custom-made twelve-inch, white Carrara marble balustrade rails which lead to the matching large marble front landing. Out of habit, José looked up at the two-story, eight-bedroom, eight-full-bath, mustard-colored stucco house with the white trim and the dark brown barrel tiled roof. Watching the surrounding area with their reliable Steiner 20x80 military binoculars, the ever-present armed guards on top continuously paced back and forth on the walkway.

José stood in front of the two matching, heavily carved large, eight-panel imported brazilwood doors with the solid gold knockers. Like the SUV, the doors were also deceiving: they were custom-made with the steel plates sandwiched in between. José pushed the matching solid gold doorbell button on the right side.

This was the one thing he hated about the house as he thought I can never hear the doorbell. How the hell am I supposed to know if it’s working! As it turned out, it was working because a man dressed in a white shirt, black bow tie, and black pants which were exposed below the pure white jacket opened the door and greeted. José noticed that the man’s jacket was a size too big in order to hold his sidearm, which was secured in the black shoulder holster.

Señor Garcia, please come in. Your brother is outside on the veranda.

Thank you. José entered and followed the man who led him through the house.

Santiago Garcia, a youthful–looking fifty-two-year-old at five feet eleven inches, was sitting under the portico in the teak lounge chair that was resting on the twelve-by-twelve-inch-square imported Italian tile floor. Dressed in his custom-made matching top and swimsuit (a Cabana set, he called it), Garcia looked out at the pink marble Greek-toga-dressed woman water fountain, a gift from a European associate who had a propensity for smuggling ancient artifacts. The statue is perfectly centered in the large rectangular pool, he thought as he watched and listened to the pool water as it poured out of the jug on the woman statue’s right shoulder. He looked down at the imported Cuban Cohiba Robusto cigar in the ashtray next to the solid gold lighter, both resting on the matching teak table, and decided not to take another puff. José pulled up a matching chair and sat beside his brother.

How was your trip? Santiago asked.

Exhausting, but productive, José admitted.

Good. So tell me… Where are we with this new venture of ours?

José proceeded to tell Santiago everything that was discussed in front of the United Nations the day before, not leaving out a single detail.

Mr. Scarpelli is an innovative don. Do you think this plan of his will work? Santiago turned business-like and serious.

I do. This concept—they called it hiding in plain view—is different. No hidden compartments in a car or truck, typical things the Americans are likely to look for. We deliver the yeyo to New York. From there it goes to the city of Boston, in Massachusetts, then to the northeast part of the United States. We will make significant inroads in that part of the country.

Santiago reached for his Apple iPad on the table next to him and tapped on Google maps. He zoomed in on the region of the country his brother mentioned.

This is a large section of the country, Santiago commented as he looked at the map of New England. He completely trusted his brother’s judgment. All right, I will contact Mr. Carmine Scarpelli and inform him that I approve of his plan. Well, José, it seems we are now in the fruit business. How about some lunch?

No thanks, Santi. I want to get back. José dreaded the trip back to Bogotá, which always seemed longer, and wanted to get going as soon as possible.

Both men got up and walked back to the front door together and kissed each other on the cheek. Santiago watched as his brother got back into the SUV as he drove off. He walked slowly through the house as he returned to the veranda and, in a rare moment, reflected upon his life as he sat back down.

Santiago was the oldest of two brothers and a sister. The children of Enrique and Esmeralda Garcia. Santiago pictured the large four-bedroom apartment in the Chapinero section of Bogotá, which at the time was in the city’s most exclusive area. He smiled to himself when he thought about how upset he was at having to share a bedroom with José. Their father was an accountant for an international import and export firm while his mother stayed at home and raised the children. He did well. Very, very well, Garcia said to himself; then he added, life was good.

Santiago was always physically fit as he was an avid football player (or soccer as the Americans called it). Although his parents were proud of the fact he was the captain of his school’s team, they always emphasized the importance of Santiago’s education.

Santiago was admitted to the exclusive private school Colegio Nueva Granada, on Carrera 2E, the one he walked to everyday. His parents wanted Santiago to obtain the best American–style college preparatory education available. They were right about their belief in good education, of course, because he turned out to be an excellent student academically. He graduated and, with his parents’ blessing, was admitted to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, known by all as simply MIT. Santiago Enrique Garcia loved math and devoted his studies to becoming an electrical engineer. It was during his junior year at MIT that his life changed.

Santiago? his uncle Alfredo asked on that fateful Saturday morning as Santiago answered the telephone. He knew his uncle had been crying.

Yes. What’s wrong?

You need to return to Bogotá. Please! As quickly as possible. Alfredo paused and inhaled deeply. Your parents have been involved in a terrible accident. Their car was hit broadside by a truck!

Santiago was dumbstruck. Are they okay? Are they hurt?

They have been injured, but you need to get here, Alfredo lied. He knew both had died but didn’t want to upset Santiago any more than necessary. He’ll find out soon enough, he thought as he imagined the scene which was to take place. Santiago arrived two days later and was picked up by his uncle at the airport, leaving his books and his love of engineering behind.

Santiago returned to the present he knew would be only momentary and walked over to the outside bar. He poured the top-shelf Bacardi 151 rum into the Waterford Crystal glass, took out some ice cubes from the stainless steel refrigerator, poured not more than a double jigger full of cola, and returned to his chair and his thoughts. He refused to think about his parents’ funeral and instead pictured his uncles, both Alfredo and Simon, at the kitchen table, talking and really guiding Santiago. He pictured this scene so vividly as if it all happened the day before.

Santi, we—you—must be realistic. Simon started to lay out the future plans. Alfredo and I have decided that my family will take in Jorge and José—

—and we will take Anita. She’ll get along well with my daughters. And yourself, of course, will live with us as well, Alfredo interjected, needing to get this unpleasantness over with as quickly as possible.

Santiago remembered he had tears streaming down his face while listening to his uncles. As he sat poolside, he still believed, as a devout Roman Catholic, it was divine intervention by God that the college student instantaneously turned into the head of what was left of the Garcia family.

Fine. I will get a job and help both your families support my brothers and sister. Both your families will take whatever furniture we have that you think is necessary and sell the rest. Whatever money my mother and father had will be distributed two thirds to you, Uncle Simon, for Jorge, and José. One third to you, Uncle Alfredo, for Anita. I will find my own apartment and begin a new life.

It was not long after that Santiago realized, as the now self-appointed head of his family, that his new life would be far from what he imagined. He closed his eyes, remembering the park bench conversation several years later which changed his life.

Santi, his cousin said, everyone knows you’re working hard at the factory, and your money is being given—as you promised—for your brothers and sister. God, forgive me for saying this… But both Alfredo and Simon are having financial difficulty keeping up with the expenses even with your help.

It was true, Santiago realized. His two brothers showed promise academically: Jorge wanted to become a doctor while José was committed to the practice of law. Although Anita was not going beyond her high school education (few women even considered the thought back then), Santiago still felt obligated to provide his sister with a nice dowry when she got married—just like his father, Enrique, would have done and certainly would have expected Santiago to do the same. He realized he needed more money.

Santiago started his career in the narcotics business after being hired by Alvarado Alverez, the second-in-command of the cocaine operation. It was his cousin’s recommendation after explaining his situation to Alvarez that got him hired.

Santiago was responsible for purchasing everything needed in the production of converting the coca leaves into the final product: pure cocaine. He was provided an office—a small folding card table, a chair, a telephone, and a notebook—located at the site where the drug was manufactured, deep in the forest and high in the mountains outside Tenjo, Colombia.

Alvarez watched Santiago closely in the beginning and soon realized he had a natural ability to negotiate the prices for the bulk purchases of sodium carbonate, kerosene, sulphuric acid, acetone, and other chemicals and solvents necessary to turn the coca leaves into the paste then finally into the yeyo. Eventually, he climbed up the ranks in Alvarez’s organization. The money Garcia made could never compare to what he could ever hope to earn as an electrical engineer.

Santiago’s memories continued to come to the surface as he sipped his rum and cola, and he thought about the first time he was ordered to kill someone. It came so easily that first time, he reflected. He recalled firing the pistol not more than three inches from a man’s forehead. He was surprised that the entry was just a small, dark bloody spot; yet the back of the man’s head formed a large hole as bone and brain matter splattered out. Now, years later, sitting poolside, he thought about the numerous murders he committed. What an angry man I was back then!

Santiago Garcia had no regrets, however; and he was proud of the fact that he was able to put Jorge through medical school and that he was able to give Anita and her husband not only a magnificent house as a wedding gift, but also a small fortune in cash—all through cocaine, which the newlyweds never questioned. Still, as he sat poolside, he forced with all his inner strength to suppress the thought of what his parents would have thought if they were to see what their beloved oldest son turned into—going from a promising electrical engineer into a killer and a drug lord. Papa, Mama, I had to support our—your—family. I’m sorry. He, then, made the sign of the cross on his chest for his sincere mea culpa.

José was another matter for whom Santiago always regretted how things turned out. Just as Santiago did for Jorge, he also paid for José’s law school education as well. José became a successful and well–respected trial lawyer in Bogotá; and his name and reputation spread not only locally, but also nationally.

José, I need your help… for a friend. Santiago remembered that very first request he made of his brother.

Santi, anything, his brother answered without hesitation.

That first criminal trial on the drug-related charges was over in less than a day, the man overjoyed at being found not guilty. José was paid handsomely by his client—who, unknown to José, was Santiago.

Over time, more and more criminal trials followed. And with each successful trial, José’s once flourishing private legal practice started to die. He became known as the cartel’s attorney, and José realized that suddenly his only clients and source of his now huge income came from drug dealers. Eventually, José had no other choice but to close his practice and become Santiago’s most trusted confidant.

It’s all my fault, Santiago suddenly blurted out as he returned from his dreamworld back to reality. He looked up as the sound of the helicopter flew overhead.

Fucking Policia Nacional, he said to himself as he picked up the disposable phone for his call to the Bronx pizzeria and Carmine Scarpelli to confirm their plans.

Carmine?

Santiago, how are you?

Carmine’s question made him think to himself, I really don’t know how I am as he quickly glanced around his surroundings. Fine. Friday. Two weeks. Three men. Total sixty, as agreed, to start. How do you, Americans, say? Cash on Delivery as always.

Excellent! We’ll be expecting it… But are these men… trustworthy? Carmine was concerned since the men delivering the cocaine would come directly to the Brooklyn warehouse.

Ah, my friend Carmine, always cautious. I can assure you these men have been working for me for quite a while. Let’s say they have more stamps on their passports than Rick Steves. Santiago referred to the popular host who