Absolution

by Henry Hack

  “Uh, no.”

  “Nobody does, because nobody got caught. Three zips imported from Palermo did it, and got clean away. Galante was set up by the other bosses and by his own men. His two armed bodyguards, sitting close by at the same table, were not shot and did not shoot back at the zips while they were whacking their boss right in front of them.”

  “A zip is a hired killer from Sicily?”

  “Usually, although some come from the Italian mainland as well. The zip name comes from zipper, the rushing noise a zipper makes when being opened or closed. It refers to the fast speech of the Sicilian dialect which is difficult to follow, even by Italians.”

  “Are you making all this crap up just to scare me, Mike? And if not, where the hell did you learn all of this trivia?”

  “It’s not made up, and I learned right here on the streets of New York that I have worked on for twenty years. Unlike you, I don’t hide in the sanctuary of the church.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry, Frank. I was going to add that you should get out more often, but that would be terrible advice right now.”

  “Zips. Sent from Palermo by the cardinals in Rome. Sent to whack me. It is difficult to fathom they would go to such lengths.”

  “Why? They are protecting their fiefdom, their money, their power, and their control, like every despotic centralized regime has done throughout history.”

  The Bishop smiled and said, “I believe I detect the voice of Mort Stern in there somewhere. Did the old survivor teach you that while you were sweeping his floor? You didn’t learn it at Bishop Loughlin.”

  I smiled back at him remembering those days in the candy store. I said, “He sure did, but now I want to impress upon you the need to call me immediately if you spot a tail.”

  “And what exactly am I looking for? What does your typical zip look like?”

  “You may be smiling, Frank, but this isn’t funny at all. And a zip is usually a young guy with typical Italian features.”

  “Just like me?”

  Now it was my turn to smile. I said, “Yeah, Frank, but their hair is black, not gray, their noses aren’t as large as yours, and they are much better-looking.”

  I left the Bishop’s office hoping he had gotten the message. Obviously I had convinced myself, as I drove away with one eye on the rearview mirror.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  Furio Vazzo had flown from Palermo, Sicily to Newark, New Jersey with a passport and NY State driver’s license issued under the name of Joseph Giordano, with a Brooklyn address. After landing, Furio proceeded to the Avis car rental counter, rented a mid-size sedan, and drove south on the Jersey Turnpike getting off at Exit Eight. A short drive from the exit took him to a Marriott Fairfield Inn where a room awaited him under his assumed name. About an hour after his arrival, he opened the door to a knock and Renzo Turano, who had arrived from the Philadelphia airport in his rental vehicle, walked in. The two friends embraced and enjoyed the beers Renzo had purchased from the market in the motel’s lobby, as they awaited the arrival of their contact, the man who would lay out the details of their mission.

  At a few minutes after eleven p.m. Gianni Trapani, who had arrived from Palermo at JFK airport in Queens, knocked on their door and was respectfully ushered inside where he was warmly greeted by his two hired zips. The three of them got right down to business, speaking in their native tongue. Trapani produced maps and photos of Bishop Manzo’s residence at the cathedral and the streets of the neighborhood. He said, “The people who hired us feel it would be difficult to find someone easily compromised in the Bishop’s inner-circle of friends. Time is of the essence, so the three of us will do a close surveillance of the cathedral and of the Bishop’s comings and goings. If we feel we can break into his residence without triggering an alarm, we will kill him as he sleeps.”

  “Is there something he has which we must recover?” Vazzo asked.

  “Yes, but that is a secondary consideration. If conditions are such that we can get in the Bishop’s quarters and convince him to hand the item over, a printed list of names most likely kept in his safe, we should do so. But the goal is to kill him regardless of our success in retrieving that list. If we have to do it in broad daylight on the street, then that’s what we will do. We leave for Brooklyn early tomorrow morning. Get a good night’s sleep. We will meet in the lobby at seven a.m. I’ve reserved some rooms for us at the downtown Ramada in Brooklyn. We’ll individually scout out the cathedral and the streets of the local neighborhood and meet back there at 3:00 p.m., check-in time. See you tomorrow.”

  After Trapani left for his room next door, Renzo Turano said, “Furio, what do you think about killing a Bishop?”

  Furio chuckled, “We’re getting twenty-five grand apiece for this hit with half up front. I’d kill the fucking Pope for that much.”

  “Me, too. We’re already going to hell anyway. What’s the devil going to do? Make the fire hotter?”

  They got into their individual queen-size beds and were soon asleep dreaming of the girls and cars they would buy back home with their new fortunes.

  . . .

  After five full days of surveillance, the three Sicilian imports discussed their observations and conclusions. One, it would not be possible to break into the cathedral and kill Manzo inside. There were CCTV cameras everywhere. The doors and door locks were sturdy and all the doors and windows were alarmed. There appeared to be no easy access to the roof. Two, the man who had visited the cathedral’s door that led to the Bishop’s quarters on three occasions was a cop. Renzo had twice tailed him back to his office in Queens and both times he parked in a spot reserved for Queens Homicide before entering the building. Three, that cop had walked with the Bishop to a restaurant called the Lotus Blossom for lunch one day. Four, after conveying all this information to his employer in Rome, Gianni Trapani was instructed to do the hit on the street at their first opportunity and, if possible, take out the detective, as well. And a few days later that opportunity arose.

  As the Bishop and the cop exited the cathedral and walked the street toward an obvious lunchtime destination, Trapani called his two zips and said, “I’m assuming they are going to lunch. When we see where they go, we will plan to hit them when they exit the restaurant. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  Furio picked up his cell phone and Trapani gave him the name and location of Giacomo’s restaurant as soon as he observed the two enter it. He said to Furio, “When they come out, hit the gas and drive your car over the curb and take them both out. Then jump out and run around the corner where Renzo will be waiting. I will be one block up from Renzo in case something goes wrong. Drive directly to our hotel. Flights are being arranged for later today. Any questions?”

  “No,” Furio said. “See you shortly.”

  . . .

  For the next few days, Bishop Manzo did as I instructed. If he went out for lunch, he was accompanied by Brian or one of his four Auxiliary Bishops. Most of the days he had lunch sent in. When he bedded down for the night he made sure to engage all the electronic security systems. So far, so good, but the big question remained unanswered by him. When was he going to pull the trigger? And how? I picked up the phone and dialed his private number. When he answered, I put those questions to him. He said, “I’ve been thinking of nothing else, and I finally have a plan. I’m ready to pull the trigger, as you so aptly put it, but I want to run the scenario by you first.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. How about lunch at Giacomo’s?”

  “That’s not the place we ate at a few weeks ago, which was pretty good.”

  “No, but I’m a Wop, you know. I need my fix of good pasta every so often. It’s right around the corner from the
Lotus Blossom.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there at twelve-thirty.”

  “Get there early and scout the place out for possible assassins from Rome.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, my friend. Until those records are out in public view, you’re probably not a target, but then again they might take that pre-emptive strike I always worry about.”

  “Maybe I’ll get there before you, and check behind the toilet tank for a gun Rome had someone tape there. Who knows, they could have gotten to you, right?”

  “Yeah, if the price was right. But the Corleone family offered a paltry hundred bucks for your untimely demise. I declined while awaiting a much higher offer.”

  He laughed and said, “See you tomorrow. Bring your appetite, I’m buying.”

  . . .

  Unknown to the Bishop, I had brought my two sergeants and two top detectives in on the situation, and for a reason that had hit me like a bolt of lightning a few days ago. If Frank was a target, couldn’t I be also?

  I was a known friend of the Bishop. I had made several visits to the cathedral. Brian had noted that. I’m sure his four Auxiliary Bishops noted that. If any zips were tailing me or watching the cathedral, they would have noted that. And I was mentioned in the letters to the NYPD detective brass. The assumption had to be made that the Bishop had confided everything he knew in me, his trusted friend in the NYPD, even though he told Chief O’Connor otherwise. I took necessary precautions and prepared copies of everything for each of my four trusted co-workers and explained it all to them in detail. Sergeant Harry Megara was the first to speak. He said, “All I gotta say, Boss, is there’s never a dull moment working with you. How do you get involved in all of this weird shit?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “And you’re meeting Manzo tomorrow to listen to his plans?” Richie Paul asked.

  “Yes, we’re having lunch at Giacomo’s, and I don’t know what he has in mind. There are several options open to him.”

  “Such as?” Harry asked.

  “He can call the chief of detectives and give him possession of the list and request criminal investigation of the allegations. Or he could visit with the editor of the New York Times and have the paper expose the whole scandal and force the NYPD to take action, if the chief balks.”

  “Is there a chance he will take no action at all?” Charlie Seich asked.

  “I presented him with that option, but told him that would not change his dangerous situation. If they are going to whack him they might do it soon, before he has a chance to release it. That’s why I’m going to try to talk him out of calling Chief O’Connor.”

  “I’m not following you, Mike,” John Micena said.

  “He calls O’Connor. O’Connor calls the PC. The PC calls the Cardinal. The Cardinal calls Rome. Rome orders the hit.” I was contemplating who would be the first to call me crazy, or a conspiracy nut, or a paranoid fool, but they merely nodded their heads until Harry said, “Yeah, it could happen that way.”

  “What if the Times or other media outlets want no part of this?” Charlie asked.

  “I guess he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it,” I said.

  “Mike, are you coming back here right after your lunch?” Harry asked.

  “I might stop at the Bishop’s office first in case we have to make further plans. I’ll be back after that.”

  “Call me right after you finish lunch and tell me what you decide.”

  “Worried about me, Harry?”

  “Yeah, be careful, Mike. As you yourself thought, you could also be a target. Tomorrow they have a chance at both of you together. In a public place.”

  “I’ll be on my toes, don’t worry.”

  I saw Harry’s eyes narrow and he said, “Wait, change of plans. John, Richie, I want you out there at Giacomo’s tomorrow for surveillance and close protection. One of you inside and one outside on foot.”

  “Harry,” I said, “that’s not necessary.”

  Ignoring me he continued, “Start the stakeout at 11:30, I’ll join you a few minutes later. Charlie, you run the squad.”

  “Harry, I –”

  “Be quiet, Mike. I’m directing my detectives to an assignment, and I’m not asking your permission. Got it?”

  I smiled and said, “Got it, Sergeant.”

  . . .

  I arrived at Giacomo’s right on time and went inside not noticing any of my men, or any suspicious-looking zips for that matter, on the street as I did so. When I walked in, Bishop Manzo waved at me from a booth near the back of the restaurant. As I moved toward him I passed John Micena at a booth directly across from Frank’s. He had a salad in front of him and a glass of red wine next to it. I slid in the booth across from Frank, and after we exchanged greetings, I said, “Let’s order our lunch, and then we’ll talk.”

  As the waiter brought us wine and salads, I noticed him place a huge bowl of pasta covered with red sauce in front of John Micena, whose face lit up in a big Italian smile. “What did you give that customer?” I asked the waiter, pointing to John.

  “Rigatoni and our famous meatballs, sir.”

  “I’ll have the same, but better make it a half portion.”

  “Baked manicotti, please,” said the Bishop.

  The waiter left and I said, “What’s your plan?”

  “I gave this careful thought including your option of doing nothing and opting for the promotion. I immediately ruled that out. These victims, children may I remind you, need justice. Children, Mike! I want these priests prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. I want to see them taken out of their sanctuary closets in handcuffs and made to do the perp walk. This abuse has to end. The church must be cleansed so it can move on to a better future.”

  It was obvious to me he had chosen his course of action and nothing I could say would dissuade him. I said, “How are you going to go about it?”

  “I’ll call Chief O’Connor and arrange for him to take possession of the records and tell him of my strong desire to prosecute all of these deviants as soon as possible.”

  “I suggest you deliver them to him personally at his office in One Police Plaza and give him that message in person. I’ll drive you over there when you’re ready.”

  “Right after lunch I’ll make the call to him, and try to get them to him this afternoon.”

  I didn’t envy Chief O’Connor having an atomic bomb dropped on his desk. What would he do? If it were me, I’d run it down to the PC’s office the minute the Bishop left and drop the bomb on his desk. And what would the Irish Catholic Police Commissioner, Sean Flanagan, do? Why he’d place a call to the Irish Catholic Archbishop of New York, John Cardinal Callahan, and ask for guidance. And then what would the Cardinal do?

  “Your decision has been made, Frank. I’m relieved, and I’m hungry.”

  We ate our meals, but declined dessert, opting only for double espressos. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Micena sticking his fork into a big slice of tiramisu. Where the hell does he put it all? The check came and Frank grabbed it and slid his credit card into the leather folder. “Compliments of the Diocese,” he said.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As we left Giacomo’s, John was settling with the waiter, and as we walked south on Jay Street, I noticed Richie Paul across the street walking with us. It was a beautiful midsummer day, not too hot and little humidity, and a gentle westerly breeze blew the puffy clouds across a clear blue sky. I wondered what the reaction would be when the bomb hit. Would Frank and I be afraid to make this walk a week from now? Would –

  “Mike!” Frank screamed and I felt a violent shove from him a
nd the roar of a car engine whose front fender grazed my hip. I hit the cement hard and rolled into the wall of a building, hearing a thunderous crash next to me. After a minute, I managed to sit up, groggy, trying to clear my head when a pair of arms helped me up. “Mike! Mike! Are you okay?”

  Those words were distant in my brain and I suddenly realized what had happened, and recognized my deputy through my foggy vision. “Harry! The Bishop!”

  “It doesn’t look good, Mike. We got an ambulance responding already. A civilian called immediately after the crash.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “A car jumped the curb and clipped him bad.”

  “An accident?”

  “No way. As soon as the car stopped, the driver got out and ran like hell. Paul and Micena took off after him. Mike, we gotta get you checked out. You could have a concussion.”

  “My head is starting to clear up a bit, and –”

  “Mike, what is it?” Harry yelled as I sat back down on the sidewalk and put my head in my hands. “Mike, are you okay!”

  “Shit, Harry, I was supposed to watch out for him, but he saved my life. He must have caught a glimpse of that car bearing down on him before I did, and he shoved me out of the way. I should have taken that hit, not him.”

  “Mike, as we said before, you both could have been targets, and I’m betting you were.”

  I stopped a sob from emerging from my throat as a wave of hatred and determination washed over me. “Harry, I’m going to get these assassins one way or another. They will pay for this dearly.”

  “I’m with you on that. I hear the ambulance now.”

  “Help me up. Bring me to the Bishop.”

  Frank was lying on the sidewalk next to the car that had hit him. The front end of the car was crumpled into the façade of a brick building, its radiator hissing steam into the air. The Bishop’s body was covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth from the restaurant. Two uniformed officers from the 84 Precinct stood by. I identified myself and asked the question I already knew the answer to. “Is he dead?”