The Ghost Read online

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  “It’s like this,” Frankie said. “Willy’s mother was my sister Olga. And here’s the big secret in the family. It doesn’t matter now because it’s not then, in 1946 when we first got here. Now we’re all U.S. citizens. This is 1958. We got here, my sister and me, when she was already twenty-five and I was thirty. That was 1946, a year after the war. So now it would be twelve years ago. She got pregnant, and gave birth to Willy toward the end of 1946. She had been married to the Chief Aide of the Italian Ambassador to Lisbon. It was during Mussolini’s time. His name was Ustacio Travali. Ustacio, my sister said, was part of the Ambassador to Lisbon’s tight inner circle.

  “And that was the big secret we kept in the family because my sister thought that somehow we might have been suspected—even accused of being part of some spy ring because of the Ustacio/Italian/Mussolini connection. My sister knew that Ustacio had a Greek/Croation father and an Italian mother. So that’s where the Ustacio name came from. I eventually looked it up. It’s from the Greek. Ustacio means healthy and strong. Something like that. The scuttlebutt was that she met Ustacio when him and five or six hundred prisoners were released by the Italian prison commandant who had no use for the Nazis. When the commandant was informed that a Nazi unit was approaching the camp, he released them all. I don’t have any information of what happened to the commandant but I’ll bet he took off too. This was in Fontanellato near Parma. She told me the prisoners were like an assortment of allied soldiers including some Greeks.”

  “So, where’s the big secret?”

  “Okay. Here it is. The crazy thing is that Ustacio was a plant in the prison camp. He was actually some kind of big shot in Mussolini’s counter-spy operation. But when the commandant of the camp released everyone, Ustacio never had to run and hide. He just rejoined Mussolini’s spy group called OVRA. In Italian, it was called: Ogganizzazione per la Vigilanza e la Repressione dell’ Antifascismo. It roughly translates into something like: Organization for Vigilance and Repression of Anti-Fascism. It was really the Fascist or Mussolini’s secret police. Kind of like equivalent to the Gestapo in Germany or something like that.

  “My sister Olga met Ustacio at a dance. At first, she didn’t know anything about what he did. But he fell for her and she liked him too, so that was that.

  “Here’s where it gets really interesting. Believe it or not, Ustacio was in charge of some secret papers of the Wannsee Conference that was held outside of Berlin in 1942, in the place called Wannsee. It was where that ultimate cocksucker, Reinhard Heydrich who was Hitler’s Chief of the Security Service convened the Wannsee meeting. Its purpose was to knock off the Jews. And by the way, sometime thereafter in 1942, after the conference, Heydrich was assassinated; knocked off by Czech partisans in Prague. But at the conference, Adolph Eichmann presented the plan of how to do it—how to round up the Jews and others, and kill them. That’s part of the conference that was made public. But there was another secret part that was never made public.

  “Since Ustacio was that Italian Ambassador to Lisbon’s trusted Chief Aide, the Ambassador had Ustacio guard the papers. Olga told me that the Ambassador instructed Ustacio to consider guarding the papers to be his main job. Ustacio said the Ambassador told him that Hitler insisted that Mussolini should have the only other copy of the conference papers and that’s how the package of papers of the conference got to Italy. Ustacio said Hitler wanted Mussolini in on it so he sent the copy through Lisbon which the Ambassador to Lisbon was to hand over personally to Mussolini when the Ambassador returned to Italy. Ustacio said that Hitler wanted Mussolini to know that Mussolini’s name and the assurance that he would be kept alive were part of the secret papers.

  “But here’s where the story took a turn. The Ambassador died suddenly. My sister said Ustacio told her it was a heart attack. I always thought: ‘Who knows what it was? Maybe Ustacio killed him? Who’s to say?’ I say that because Ustacio decided to keep the package. Olga said that Ustacio had secretly read the part of the Wannsee Conference—the part that was always kept secret—secret, by the way, even to this day, as we’re talking now. But this was 1942 or ‘43, before the end of the war. Even then, Ustacio felt the war was lost.

  “Olga always said that Ustacio was very smart about politics. He told Olga that the papers were extremely important and that he was sure the war would be lost and that he decided to finally get out. Olga insisted he take me too. Somehow, he arranged it that along with me and Olga, we were able to just about completely disappear. Olga told me that a widespread search for us was an ongoing thing and that Hitler was out of his mind with rage about why we weren’t caught. He really wanted those secret papers.

  “The truth is we were working on a farm outside of Parma. It was a place where Ustacio’s parents would go on vacation when he was a child. Then in the middle of 1944 Ustacio saw the way to get out completely and he took us out. It’s a long story—a helluva story—but Ustacio, my sister Olga, and I, managed to get from Parma to Switzerland, then to Cuba, then to Canada and from there we slipped into the U.S. through the woods and into Plattsburgh, New York, and then made it right to New York City winding up in the Bronx, and as you know, still living on Third Avenue, listening to those elevated trains.

  “We travelled by boat, by car, by train, and even for part of the way by wagon. You might say that the whole thing was a back-road deal. But it was a nightmare. We were scared all the way. On the farm where we were stashed, near Parma, we kinda calmed down because we felt safe there. But to get where we got, that was a nightmare.

  “And wouldn’t you know it, just like that, when we were already in The Bronx, Ustacio disappeared. Vanished in thin air, and we never ever saw him again. I always thought either he was killed or that he headed back to Europe—maybe to arrange to sell the papers. Who knows. We just never heard from him again. Now, especially with what just happened to Willy, I’m thinking: Could there be a connection?

  “Anyway, before my sister died—she had pancreatic cancer and died within a month of the diagnosis—she gave the papers to Willy for him to hide in a place where they wouldn’t be found. Willy told me she said that the package of the papers could be sold for a lot of money and to guard the package. But Willy also told me that the papers must’ve been folded and wrapped tightly because the package was in a funny shape. He drew the shape for me and it was more like oblong.

  “I’m sorry to say that this happened on a weekend and as usual on the weekend, I was plastered, bombed out! So, she said I was a lost cause and trusted the whole thing to Willy. I always thought Willy hid the package in the house but I’ve looked for it all over the house and it’s nowhere. It’s not in the house. That I’m sure of. I needed to have Willy tell me what he did with the package but whenever I asked him about it he said he couldn’t trust me because I was so drunk on the weekends that he thought I might even show it to someone. He said he never opened the package to see what it was all about but I’m not sure I ever believed him. It could be that he said that so that I wouldn’t try to get out of him what the secret papers were all about.

  “Anyway, now if Willy can’t tell us anything, who can ever find the package? But I don’t care about that. Fuck the package. I just want my nephew to get better and be normal. The package means nothing to me.

  “So now you know something almost no one else does. I’m sick of all these Goddamn secrets anyway. Let the world know about those crazy Nazi mother-fuckers. The truth of it is that when I first heard that my sister said we could get a lot of money for it, I got excited about it. But after all this time I realized I wouldn’t know who to sell it to anyway.”

  “Okay, Frankie,” Mac interrupted, “I told you to keep it brief but I admit this was interesting. But I’ll bet what they did to Willy—are you ready for this?—was a message to you. From what you told me about the package it is what they’re after. And it could even implicate Ustacio. But I can’t believe that Ustacio would push Willy like that. If Ustacio’s alive and implic
ated he would probably guess that Willy was his kid, I mean his own flesh and blood. So, my guess is that Ustacio is gone—really gone—and that whoever got to Willy may have originally gotten to Ustacio a long time ago. Who knows? This is how detectives think, you know?

  “Information in those papers could probably implicate a lot of people—or maybe even some big shot who’s still breathing. Know what I mean? That means that you, Frank Carbone need to be closely guarded, because if they get their hands on you, you’ll be in a lot of trouble. Your life’s in danger, my friend. There’s no other way to say it.”

  “I’m not a potted plant, Detective. In a fight for my life, all I want to do is hit the guy with all my might right smack center in the jaw with a vicious uppercut that drives his jaw bone right into his brain. I’m not kidding. That’s the only thing I’d be interested in. He could get to me all he wants because all I want is that one shot to his jaw. Just one shot.”

  “Okay Frank, so you’re a tough guy. Everybody’s tough except when there’s an American Eagle Colt .45 staring you right in the face. Again, know what I mean? So, let’s not be a Hollywood tough guy. I’m putting you under police protection as of right now. I’ll get to the other stuff about Willy’s condition tomorrow, after we visit the hospital. We’ll all be there at ten in the morning seeing Willy and getting the low-down from the doctors. We have two guys there on duty twenty-four hours so, at the moment even if Willy’s not aware of it, he’s safe. Then we’ll reconvene—meaning get together again at the precinct. But first, immediately after the hospital we’ll be going to your apartment. No one’s allowed in yet, because we have it cordoned off and cops are guarding it. That means you sleep here tonight. We’ve got a room with cots. I’m sleeping here too. When Lyle gets back—if he gets back—we’ll have a lot to eat—that’s if we’re still awake. If not, then we’ll be hungrier in the morning.”

  “I hope I can sleep,” Frank answered. “My motor’s going fast and I’m not at all tired. The truth is that I got focused on what you were saying regarding how I might be in danger. I also noticed I was thinking about being in a fist-fight with whoever that bad guy was and hitting him a world-class right uppercut with everything I had right smack dab at his chin bone and driving it. Yup, really driving it!”

  I shook out of the thought and fixed on Willy. I thought: ‘Willy’s alive. That’s the important thing.’ But then I had another thought. I asked Mac if I could make a phone call.

  . 2 .

  WILLY

  “Frankie, Frankie, get up.”

  “I’m up. Been up all night—constantly checking my watch, all night. You didn’t have to wake me. I didn’t catch a wink.”

  “Oh yeah? Do you usually snore like that while you’re awake?”

  “C’mon, Mac, I was snoring?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The last thing I remember it was 4:20 am. I must’ve dozed off. What time is it?”

  “It’s seven. We need to be at the hospital at ten. Get into the bathroom, do your things, put your pants on, and let’s get some breakfast. We’ll talk over breakfast. Lyle’s waiting for us downstairs. He was sleeping most of the night except, like you, he says he was on guard most of the night.”

  Even at seven in the morning the precinct was already busy. Det. Lyle Davis was waiting and the three of us decided to head directly to the hospital and have breakfast in the hospital cafeteria. Tremont Avenue is not too far from Mosholu Parkway and Montefiore Hospital and it took only about fifteen minutes to get there. That early in the morning traffic was light and we flew. We didn’t talk in the car because we were all thinking the same thing. It was obvious.

  It was like when the pitcher is pitching a no-hitter and no one in dugout will say anything about it; even some radio announcers will hesitate. In other words, no one wants to jinx it. In the Bronx, that’s how everyone thinks. We were no different. No one wanted to mess with any kind of hex.

  Got to the hospital, parked the car, rushed into the lobby, headed straight for the information desk and asked about the condition of Willy Travali. The information guy was right on it. He dialed the phone, asked about Willy, listened to what the person at the other end was saying, and as he was hanging up the receiver he was smiling.

  “He’s resting comfortably, and the doctor will be visiting him within the hour.”

  We all looked at one another with relief but still with a sense of urgency. Mac broke the mood. He said: “Food, guys. Let’s go.”

  Then Mac started to say something and began with: “Guys,” and I realized he considered me to be one of the guys—one of the good guys, which as far as I was concerned, I was—especially when it concerned Willy.

  We proceeded to attack the hospital cafeteria. Even at that hour many tables were already taken with various hospital personnel eating and talking. It was like everyone was talking at once. Lots of noise. Both Mac and Lyle were big breakfast eaters. So was I. We ate and talked and were excited about the prospect of getting Willy to communicate but we were also worried about what the doctors would tell us. We were talking excitedly, but when the subject turned to what the doctors might tell us about Willy we got real quiet, actually, no one said a word.

  We were also more or less silent going up in the elevator. We reached the third floor—wouldn’t you know it, it had to be the third floor! There we were met by two officers. One of them was walking out of Willy’s room while the other one was sitting on one of the chairs outside of the room. Mac and Lyle knew the officers and both cops reported no unusual activity since they first arrived. They were now waiting for their relief team due at eight—at this point in about half an hour. Obviously, we were early.

  The three of us and one of the officers all entered Willy’s room. Willy was sleeping or unconscious—whatever. We couldn’t tell because to me he looked like he was sleeping because he was unconscious. He was all hooked up and there were tubes coming out of everywhere. He was also bandaged in a lot of places.

  At that point, we were all sitting around waiting for the doctor, when the nurse entered to tell us that the doctor, Dr. Fishman, was held up and would probably be there in about an hour. So, we waited for him in what seemed like too long a time. When he finally arrived, he introduced himself.

  “As Detective Davis here knows, I’m Dr. Arnold Fishman. I’m an orthopedic surgeon.”

  “Good to meet you doctor. I’m Loris McIver, Detective Davis’s partner.”

  Lyle then jumped in: “Doc, call him Mac. Forget the Loris. This gentleman here is the kid’s uncle, Frank Carbone.”

  Then Lyle turned to us and said that Dr. Fishman was the orthopedist who set his arm when he broke it in taking down a guy in a fight. Lyle quickly added: “In the line of duty.” The doctor interrupted Lyle.

  “Okay gentlemen, this is what we know. Willy has several broken bones. We’ve detected ten broken bones on the front of his body but nothing on his back. His knee is in bad shape but I can assure you that one is entirely repairable. His left ankle is broken, several bones in his hands are also broken, and he’ll need surgery on his chin. He lost three teeth, and he’s got a bad, very bad bruise on his forehead where we think he could have hit the ground after bouncing up from the first impact, taking a toll on his chin and mouth.

  “There are other breaks here and there including two toes and of course, his ribs. We’re taking X-rays on his pelvis which we’re fairly certain is also broken—similar to his knee and chin, and perhaps in more than one place. Oh yes, I should mention we also think he’s probably going to feel severe pain in the lower portion of his back but nothing is broken there. His spine is okay. So, all of this is in the positive column as far as cure, or shall I say perhaps reasonable cure, can be expected.

  “The main concern is that the forehead injury may indicate frontal brain trauma which isn’t yet measureable. What this means, with respect to what we feel we already know is that we’re pretty sure we may need to accurately diagnose whether Willy may be locked-in. Le
t me explain that. Locked-in means that Willy would be suffering from what we call a disorder of consciousness. Locked-in is frequently bad news. But in Willy’s case, we feel we may be more likely dealing with what we also consider to be an MCS—meaning Minimally Conscious State. At this point we can’t be sure. His heart rate is normal, and his blood pressure, believe it or not is also normal. He’s a strong kid.

  “Nevertheless, if this is a disorder of consciousness it means that his consciousness is inhibited. Usually this minimal conscious state would be separate from the locked-in condition but in Willy’s case, at least at this point, it may be that both or even perhaps neither are indicated; that is, the locked-in and MCS rather than reflecting two distinct conditions, could be only a single fused problem. My hunch is that Willy is not suffering from either. Also, at this point we don’t think Willy is in what’s known as a vegetative state. That sort of thing, a vegetative state, is diagnostically a guarded condition, meaning a poor prognosis. In other words, if it were the vegetative state, it most often would mean not good, like the worst news. You all should rest easy here because the hallelujah is—that’s not the case here.

  “At this point, what we need to see is whether Willy can communicate in any way at all—even as little as moving a finger or a toe or of course, a blink, or even communicate while sitting up and talking a little. If he can do the blink and/or the talking then of course we’d be able to communicate with him and he could eventually go home in one piece. You know, things such as whether he can at least smile or even cry, or make some kind of gesture or even talk a bit is what we call purposeful behavior, and all of that would be good news.”