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Feds deny wiring wise guy's wazoo
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June 17, 1999 |
May I take a brief moment to exclaim, "God Bless the Associated Press!" Let
my song ring across the mountaintops, o'er the valleys wide, from glen to
glade. I sing this praise with tears of gratitude drooling down my cheeks,
shivers of thanks coursing through my fragile frame. There I was, facing a
hungry, immovable beast (Tyrannosaurus Deadlinehorribilis), its fangs
gnashing impatiently, its laser red orbs burning a hole in my wretched soul, and me with no flocking idea what I was going to feed the famished,
slathering monster commonly known as "The Thing that must always be satiated." Then, suddenly, a lovely ripe peach rolled out of the info-orchard of AP
stories that incessantly hum across the wire and came to rest against my
big toe. It was one of those succulent morsels, a piece of data-fruit that
is rarer than duck lips and an even greater delicacy. It leapt directly at
me from betwixt the grim war reports and dull pronouncements from over-eager politicians. The story's simple title -- "Feds: No Bug in 'Mobster's' Butt" -- was an elegant invitation to read a penetrating, true-life account of intrigue, accusation and denial, gangster vs. government, an insider's report from one of crime's darkest alleys. The austere beauty of such concise, direct journalism is not necessarily
enhanced by over-analysis. Yet one would be remiss not to linger upon that
headline. Consider it. Rotate it, if you will, in your mind. It cannot be
improved upon. It's perfect. It does everything a title should do: It sums
up the report without revealing too much, while inviting the reader into an
irresistible cavern of exhilarating reportage. Then came the dateline -- "Tuesday, June 15, 1999; 5:53 p.m. EDT." Straightforward, crisp, businesslike, accompanied by the city of origin -- "WORCESTER, Mass." (even Gabriel García Márquez couldn't do much
with that) -- followed by a dynamite lead, tight enough to wring tears from
Clark Kent: "There's no bug in a reputed mobster's buttocks, the government says." And from that point on there's no looking back -- we know
we're in the hands of a master (to whom, sadly, we cannot pay homage by name, as the story carried no byline). And for the tale itself? It seems a certain alleged goodfella by the name
of Vincent "Gigi Portalla" Marino claims a federal drug agent once
informed him that a tracking device was inserted where the sun don't shine
while Marino was undergoing surgery to remove a bullet from his posterior.
It's not a happy story, but it is an intriguing one. And let's stop right there for a moment. Might the device have been designed for listening rather than tracking? If so (and every possible twist and turn, every dim corrugation, needs to be explored in a story such as this), important questions
remain. Would the audio recordings obtained in this fashion be of Dolby quality? And which hapless, low-level G-men would be forced to huddle in the sound room for endless hours as Mr. Portolla performed his
daily ablutions? Indeed, one can imagine the chaos -- and sheer terror-- that might ensue when Marino voiced a hankering for chili con carne. | ||
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