[Author's note: Thanks to all who have commented. It's the sort of thing that keeps me writing and posting. I'm typing and editing as fast as I can so I can keep the story going and taking the time to comment feeds that muse.]
Chapter 2
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McGee and Ziva worked endlessly on Gibbs' request. They meticulously researched the backgrounds of every man in DiCarlo's operation, and after two weeks of painstaking interviews, follow-ups, and mid-night stakeouts, they finally found something. They took their information up to MTAC, which had become the unofficial headquarters of the black ops mission now known as Montague, after the Shakespeare play. Vance, Gibbs, Fornell, and Kort sat in the thinly upholstered yet highly comfortable leather seats observing the various plasma screens.
It was here that they witnessed Tony's indoctrination into the notorious DiCarlo family. The ruse was simple: Tony "Villani" posed as a liquor delivery man for one of DiCarlo's businesses. Essentially his cover was that of an underling who had recently moved from his slain uncle's New York liquor business to the DC Metropolitan area. When several "thugs" attempted to rob the bar at the same time he was delivering liquor, he sacrificed himself for the good of the family, or so that's what he led them to believe, and fought valiantly to protect his goods. His actions came to the attention of one of the lieutenants and because he thought Tony had moxie, the lieutenant made a few calls to New York, which the FBI artfully intercepted, and got the man transferred to their Washington DC operation on a permanent basis.
It all went down amazingly smooth, and McGee watched with fascination as Tony began ingratiating himself right into the hearts and minds of one of the most dangerous crime families on the East Coast. That kind of talent can't be taught, he thought.
"Boss?" McGee interrupted the men, "I think I have something. Bobby Villanova, aka The Hatchet Man, has had numerous run-ins with the police. The Baltimore police. They say he's linked to several murders."
"He is also a notorious womanizer," Ziva added. "He will chase anything in a skirt."
"He's not family, but he's worked his way up the ranks of the DiCarlo crime organization. According to the information written in one of the earlier arrest records in Maryland, he's not very well liked by the family, but he's gutsy and will do the 'dirty' work, so they keep him around."
"We can use that to our advantage," Fornell mused. "I'll get Agent Dalton to flirt with him, take a few photographs, then, when the proverbial shit hits the fan, Tony will accuse him of leaking information to the FBI, and he'll have photographs to prove it."
"How will DiNozzo do that?" Sacks asked.
"We'll have to work it so Tony recognizes him from his days in Baltimore."
"Tony's already been tagged to play pit boss at their casino tomorrow night. If he's there, we'll set the trap."
"Of course," McGee said, finally catching on. "Tony recognizes him, reports him to the big boss as a snitch, and Tony earns instant credibility."
"How fast can we get the information to DiNozzo?"
"Tonight. He's going for a workout; we'll relay it to him then."
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Right on time, Tony arrived at the gym. The gym wasn't one of those fancy fitness centers that sprouted up on every corner during the 90s; it was a hole-in-the-wall cement slab with old fashioned dumb bells and free weights with the occasional machine thrown in, and absolutely no cardio equipment; if you wanted to run, you ran outside. In the middle of the floor was a makeshift ring for the boxer wannabe's, and against the far wall was a row of metal lockers that had seen better days mostly due to people punching them instead of the bag twenty feet away. It had been easy for the FBI to install a few strategically placed hidden cameras in the place.
Tony opened the locker that he always used and saw the headphones connected to the music player. Not missing a beat, he tossed his bag in and with sleight of hand, managed to pull the player from inside his bag and stick the ear buds into his ears.
From MTAC, they could watch Tony but not hear him, and Tony could hear them, but not see them. The communication code they worked out was simple. He'd go to the one machine in the corner of the gym and select a weight. If he understood what was being said to him, he'd increase the weights for the next repetition; if he didn't like what was being said, he decreased the weights. He always did three reps, unless he didn't understand something, and then he would do four. It was a fairly simple code, even if it was one way.
Gibbs spoke into his ear piece, "Tony? If you can hear me, put the weight at 220."
McGee magnified the screen and watched as Tony slipped the pin into the 220 lb hole, and began lifting.
"Good. Bobby Villanova is the guy you want. When you get introduced around, you're going to recognize him as an FBI informant."
Tony increased the weights to 240 lbs, conveying he understood, and finished his three reps.
Gibbs continued, "Villanova goes back to your Baltimore days. Study the picture taped to the back of that thing you're listening to."
Tony increased the weights again and nodded his head like he was keeping beat to the music. Sitting on the bench, he fumbled with his MP3 player. To the casual observer, it looked like he was selecting different songs, but to the men and women of MTAC, he was studying a thumbnail photo of Bobby Villanova.
Gibbs sliced the air with his hand and the audio transmission was replaced with a popular beat. This particular gym was full of the Mafia, from the street soldiers to the lieutenants, and Gibbs and company didn't want to take any chances. The good thing about working with Fornell is that he didn't want to take any chances either. So far, so good.
They'd said what they needed to say so there was no reason to continue monitoring their undercover agent, but nobody gave the order to cut the visual transmission. They watched in silence as Tony moved from machine to free weights, pumping iron and working up a sweat. At one point, McGee piped in a Frank Sinatra song just so he'd have something familiar to listen to, and was rewarded with a smile of appreciation. An hour and a half later, he retrieved his duffel bag and left the gym, all under the watchful eyes of people on both sides of the law.
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Vincent DiCarlo, Jr. stood behind the man who sat at the monitor. The camera had been trained on the new guy, Tony Villani. Vincent was the boss's oldest son and self-proclaimed head of personnel. Anyone who came into the family, no matter the circumstances, landed on his radar. His brothers teased him about his paranoia, but he was next in line to run the family business and he wasn't about to let anyone interfere with that opportunity.
"What'd'ya think, Mr. DiCarlo?" the security man asked. "You think he's gonna be a problem?"
"I don't know. Seems okay to me, but we'll keep an eye on him. My brother's taken a liking to him."
"From what I've heard, he's a fairly likeable guy."
Vincent stared a moment longer, shrugged, and left.
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Tony showed up to the warehouse at precisely nine o'clock in the evening. He had already been fitted for a tuxedo and so getting inside was a breeze. What he didn't expect was for the show to be taken on the road.
He thought travelling casinos went out with the 80's, but evidently they were still alive and well. "Hey, Gordo," Tony said, annoying the hell out of the fat groundling. "Where're we going?"
"Th' name's Guido."
"Whatever. What's this all about?" he said, waving his hand towards the truck. "Where're we going?"
"On th' road."
"I can see that. Why?"
"Cuz the bossman's been gettin' pissed that ev'ry time he hosts gamblin' night, his warehouse gets raided by th' Feds."
Tony made his way around the cramped quarters in the trailer of the eighteen-wheeler. There were Roulette tables, Black Jack tables, Craps tables, and poker tables. In the corner, there was a bar with three barstools, and enough liquor to intoxicate every guest three times over.
The high-stakes gamblers began to arrive at ten, and the truck rolled out at eleven. "Where's the crew?" Tony asked.
Guido shrugged, "We make one stop. We'll pick 'em up then."
Sure enough, twenty minutes later the large eighteen wheeler ground to a halt. The rear door swung open and twelve people came on board. The door closed, and the truck jerked and sputtered on its way again.
"Hey, Tony!" Michel said, clapping him hard across the back. "I was hoping to see you on this one. You have any trouble with the tux?"
Michel was the son of Vinny DiCarlo, Sr. and his name was French because, as he liked to tell it, his mother was in love with Michel Magali, the famous French actor, when she was pregnant with him. Michel was her third son, which put him virtually non-existent as an heir, but he was outgoing and personable and of all the people Tony'd met so far, he had the most fun with Michel. He also had the best sense of humor and from the start, Michel had taken an instant liking to Tony.
"Nope," Tony smiled. "Just walked in and they fitted me right there on the spot. I could get used to this kind of treatment."
"Have you met my sister, Angela?"
Tony cast his eyes upon the raven haired beauty. "No, I can't say I've had the pleasure."
After introductions were made, she left, but not before giving the new guy a thorough once over, suggesting with her eyes what was on her mind.
"Who else is here?"
"Well," Michel began, "over there dealing cards behind the Black Jack table is Cab Carlson. He's insane; don't mess with him. Cutty is behind the other table."
"Cutty?"
"Don't ask. Let's just say when we need someone with a specialty, we call on Cutty."
"Oh," Tony said, understanding all too well what specialty he had.
"Spinning the wheel is Tara; Sam is spinning the other wheel, and Johnny and Bobby are working the Craps and poker tables."
Tony studied the poker table intently, so much so that Michel had to ask, "You okay? You look like you've seen a Fed."
"Is that Bobby Villanova?"
Michel stared at the table a moment longer before furrowing his brow and saying, "Yeah. You know him?"
"Sort of, only when I knew him he went by Robert. Let me guess… he came on board about ten years ago, keeps a low profile but does what's asked of him. Am I right?"
"Yeah, but how'd you know that?"
"Any chance I can talk to your father?"
Michel stepped back, his brow creased. "Are you nuts? Nobody talks to him, not unless you have—"
Tony raised his brows in answer to the unasked question.
"You have information on Bobby?" he whispered.
Again, Tony just raised his brows and took a sip of bourbon.
Michel shook his head. "You had better be sure, buddy, because if you go into my father making accusations like that, you've signed a death warrant—either yours or his."
"Oh, I'm sure."
~~TBC