by Henry Hack
“When do you want to move ahead with the law firm?” Charlie asked.
“Since you’re a client, why don’t you make the call to Howie? Set it up for you and me to meet on Wednesday or Thursday next week.”
“What do I tell him when he asks why we want to meet?”
“Tell him we’re bringing in, oh, maybe fifty million dollars for him, in one neat pile that will barely fit on his oversized desk.”
“That should get his attention,” John said.
Charlie made the call and we were given an appointment on Thursday morning, September 28, at ten a.m. with Howie saying, “What the fuck? Are you jerking my chain, or what?”
We all laughed at our memories of the street-wise former prosecutor and I said, “Charlie, how did that tough Jew end up as a partner in that white-shoe law firm anyway?”
“They needed him to head up a new criminal division at the firm. It seemed many of their clients needed the expertise of a good defense attorney. They figured instead of referring them out, they’d keep it in house. Make more money that way, I figure.”
“Listen, guys, I’m taking tomorrow off and next Monday. I need a four-day weekend. And Vivian needs it more.”
“Going away?” Richie asked.
“I thought of the Catskills. Should be great weather this time of year in the mountains. I’ll call her now, and she can search for a place for us. She’s good at that.”
“Why don’t you blow outta here after lunch?” Harry asked.
I looked at my trusted deputy CO and said, “Thanks, Harry, I believe I will.”
. . .
Vivian was ecstatic at the idea of a mountain getaway and got right on to her laptop to search out vacancies. In less than an hour she was back with lodge accommodations near the upstate town of Kerhonkson. “It’s a second-floor, one-bedroom unit, and we can eat our meals at the lodge’s restaurant if we go for the inclusive package.”
“Do it,” I said. “We’ll relax on rocking chairs on the porch and take long walks in the woods.”
“This is unlike you, Mike, to want to leave the gritty streets of the city. What’s going on? Did the Bishop’s death affect you more than your stoic face is showing? And the day of the wake you had a mysterious conversation with that Brian and you said you’d tell me about it later. What was all that about? It’s later, isn’t it?”
“Hold up, Viv. You sound like a vicious interrogator from Internal Affairs. Give me a break.”
“Give me some information.”
“How about tomorrow when we’re in the seclusion of the Catskills? I’ll give you the information you want, all of it. All the treachery and sordidness of what has been going on.”
“Oh, dear, maybe I was too pushy. Maybe I –”
“No, I want you to know. You have to know. I am about to plunge into new territory and take up a crusade begun by Bishop Manzo, and I need your support.”
“You know I’ve always supported you. Whatever you have to do, go do it, and you can count on me to be in your corner and have your back. Always.”
I grabbed her close and kissed her firmly on her lips.
“Wow, what gives?”
“You may never want to kiss me again after I tell you what I’m going to do.”
“Nonsense, let’s have a glass of wine.”
THIRTY-ONE
We got up to the lodge early Friday afternoon, and after checking in, we took a stroll around the grounds and surrounding area sucking in the mild, late summer air. After over an hour in the great outdoors we went into the bar and had a cocktail. I said, “How about we grab another drink and go sit out on the verandah where I will tell you my tale of woe.”
“Good idea,” she said as we headed inside the lodge.
Vivian asked for a pricey, chilled, oaky chardonnay which I had never heard of until we started dating. I opted for a Jack Daniels and soda. We spoke in generalities about our kids, their college plans, the house, and then she said, “How about you, Mike? What are your plans?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was looking at all the brass at the funeral. Some of those guys wearing eagles and stars didn’t look much older than you. Some looked younger. Tell me again, why you won’t take the captain’s test?”
“I have a great position where I am the boss. I have a take home vehicle and I make captain’s money already which my position calls for. I work mostly days with weekends off, except when we get a real whodunit. And I love digging my teeth into a real mystery homicide. Does that explain it?”
“I guess so, but unless you become a captain you can’t become an inspector or a chief, right?”
“Right, if one wanted to be one of those ranks.”
“And you don’t?”
“No, and I have dozens of reasons why not, the chief one being I don’t want to be involved in the political power plays and intrigue that goes along with those positions. I came on the job to be a cop – to do police work – not to be a politician.”
“I’m not sure I fully understand that.”
“Let’s adjourn to our rocking chairs. Perhaps you’ll have a much better understanding of why I despise the higher ranks when I finish my story.”
After we settled in, our chairs facing some awesome mountain scenery, she said, “I’m ready for your tale of intirgue, darling.”
“I won’t repeat what you already know about Manzo, and who he was, and our meeting of revelation. He told me some stuff – horrible stuff of what was going on in the church – and backed it up with documentation. And when the church rebuffed his pleas to face their problems and clean up their act, they killed him.”
“Wh-a-a-t?”
“And they almost killed me. And maybe they’ll try again if that was their intent, especially after I expose them for what they are.”
“You expose them?”
“I promised Bishop Manzo I would not let his mission die with him. I intend to keep that promise.”
“Even if it puts you in danger of death?”
“Yes, now listen to the whole story, and then tell me your thoughts.”
A half hour later, when I had finished with all of it, she said, “I believe I want another glass of wine.”
After I returned to the porch with her drink, two were enough for me, Vivian took a sip, looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me exactly why you are doing this mission?”
“What do you mean? I told you –”
“You told me you promised the Bishop you would not let his mission die with him, and you would fulfill it.”
“Right.”
“I ask again, why?”
“Vivian, I’m not following you here.”
“Who is he to you that you should take up this cause? Maybe get yourself killed in the process? Why do you owe him anything? After all, he participated in a burglary that got your parents killed, didn’t he? And you forgave him? You absolved him? What in the world did he ever do for you?”
I know my wife, and this rapid fire line of questions had a meaning, and an end game, and an answer that would come as soon as I responded. I said, “I guess he gave me some humanity, and an example of what a truly decent human being is.”
“Not bad, Mike, but you should have said, he was a truly decent God-loving human being. And by giving him the gift of absolution, a gift only you could have given him, he gave you his gift to you right then and there. He gave you back your soul.”
I normally would have countered with my standard atheistic retort, I have no soul, my dear, but I hesitated, looked at her for a moment, and refl
ected on the events that brought me and Frank together and how our lives had meshed and intertwined. I said, “Maybe he did.”
“Maybe it wasn’t destiny that brought Bishop Manzo into your life, honey. Maybe it was God. Now, before you get in a huff, I said God. I didn’t say religion. You don’t need to be a Jew who belongs to a synagogue, or a Catholic who belongs to a parish, or a Lutheran who goes to the local church, for you to believe in God. Look out there, Mike. Look at the mountains, and the trees, and the blue sky. God created them. The One who all our religions believe in. The one and only Supreme Being, a part of whom is inside all of us, even cynical you. And if you deny His existence, you are saying all of this – life, the earth, the stars, the whole shebang – it’s all here because of some freak accident. I don’t think so. Our existence has a reason and a purpose.”
I learned a long time ago you cannot win an argument with a true believer. They had blind faith in God’s existence. I didn’t, although at times I wish I had. I needed proof, and it never manifested itself. I said, “I hope He exists, Viv, and I hope Frank Manzo has a prominent place with Him in Heaven. I truly do.”
“I know you do, dear, and with your newly restored soul you will fight the fight for Bishop Manzo and slay the dragons of evil.”
“Wasn’t it St. George who slew the dragon way back when?”
“Wise guy! For someone who trivializes religion, you seem to know a lot about it.”
“Drummed into me at an early age, back when I was a true believer.”
“I guess you were, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, all the way. Truly believed in God, Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Ghost – all of it.”
“What changed your mind?”
“The death of my parents and the irrefutable logic of the Old Survivor, Mort Stern.”
She nodded and said, “Now think about this a minute, Mike. If your parents hadn’t been killed, Giuseppe Mastronunzio would not have been at the scene. He may not have joined the Marines, or maybe he would have, and made it a career. Or maybe he would have gone to college. But I seriously doubt he would have entered the priesthood to eventually become the Bishop of Brooklyn. And you would have been raised in the Jewish faith and would not have become a policeman because the reason to do so, the death of your father, would not have existed. You would not have met Mort Stern either. Your destiny would not have been fulfilled.”
“My destiny? You mean the exposure of the deviants in the Catholic Church and the fulfillment of Bishop Manzo’s quest is my preordained destiny?”
“Exactly.”
“So my destiny was already determined by some mysterious set of circumstances?”
“Or by God,” she said with a big smile.
I smiled back and said, “How about we eat a light supper and hit the sack early?”
“Sounds good. We can get an early start and get out and about in nature all day”
. . .
After a sumptuous breakfast buffet, surprising myself at how much I gulped down, I said, “I guess I didn’t eat enough for dinner last night.”
“Neither did I,” she said. “I’m going back for some more French toast. It’s the best I’ve had in ages.”
We finished up and headed out on an easy – so it said – two-mile trail which looped back to the rear part of the lodge. “You look relaxed,” I said.
“I am. Being out here in God’s country puts me at ease and I’m thinking maybe you are not in danger at all.”
“Oh? Tell me why.”
“You’ve been too close to this. Assuming the facts are as you related them last night –”
“Just the facts, ma’am,” I said mockingly.
“The police top brass is not in any danger from you because they passed the smoking bomb to the Cardinal. Rome believes all the copies of the lists have been accounted for. Case closed.”
“You don’t understand the paranoid personalities of the brass. If they even think I may have held a copy back, I’m a liability to them.”
“How? Why? They passed the lists on and destroyed the letters, and what they believe are the original return receipts. What exactly is their exposure?”
I thought it over. Vivian certainly had a valid point. I said, “I may be safe from the brass, but what about the church? Maybe the Cardinals in Rome are not convinced. As one of my guys said, ‘A zip could be on his way right now to finish the job.’”
“On what basis? Cardinal Callahan had to have assured Rome all copies were now accounted for. He wants out. He wants to retire to wherever cardinals retire to. Did you see him at the funeral mass? He’s old and shaky. He couldn’t even preach the homily.”
“You are starting to make some sense, my dear, but –”
“But nothing. And you have forgotten one other possibility.”
“Which is?”
“Maybe the clan of Cardinals will study the documents, make the Pope aware of it, and clean house on their own.”
I smiled, looked up, and began to sniff the air – loudly.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Sniffing the air for the telltale signs of burning marijuana. For there is no doubt you are definitely smoking dope.”
She laughed at that and said, “It is a possibility, isn’t it?”
“And it’s also a possibility a Hollywood producer will knock on my door tomorrow and offer to make me a star.”
“You’re handsome enough, my dear, but maybe not smart enough, because when you get that list out in public, you will be bulletproof. Isn’t that what you told Bishop Manzo?”
“Yes, it was.”
“So there.”
“So there?”
“Go for it. Take up the sword for the murdered Bishop of Brooklyn. Bring those deviant bastards to justice. Make the Church of Rome pay through the nose. Lead the charge for those hundreds of abused children who have had no one in their corner. Be their champion. Turn over the rocks those slimy priests have been hiding under. I’ll be at your side – and your back – all the way, Lancelot.”
I was speechless. Who was this woman I was married to all these years? Wow!
“What do you have to say now, Michael?”
I grabbed her in a bear hug and held her tightly. There was nothing to say. Wow!
PART SIX
THE AVENGER
(FALL 2000)
THIRTY-TWO
On Tuesday morning, I was refreshed and juiced up by the support of Vivian, and my cause was now clear in my mind. Harry came into my office and said, “Don’t you look happy. I guess there was some good hanky-panky going on over your long weekend?”
“Yes there was, my good man. My wife is a wonderful woman.”
“Uh, you told her the works?”
“All of it, and she’s behind me one-hundred percent.”
“Good for her, and good for you. I bet you can’t wait for Thursday.”
“You said it, Harry. Now fill me in on the homicide numbers of the past few days. Business must go on, you know.”
There were no real whodunits in my absence, so after Harry left I focused on my upcoming meeting with Howie Stein. What would his reaction be? Would they accept the case? What would the results be? What –?
“Mike!”
I was startled out of my reverie and snapped my head up to see Harry standing in my doorway, white-faced and distraught. “What is it, Harry? Jeez, you look like you’ve seen Frankenstein.”
He reached out his hand to me which clutched a bunch of papers. “Mike, these orders just came over the machine.”
I grabbed them and said, “Tell me.”
“You’ve been transferred, Mike. To the 50 Squad in the goddamn Bronx. And it’s effective next Monday.”
I took the papers from Harry and scanned down the list of promotions and transfers to my name. Son-of-a-bitch! They didn’t wait long to stick it to me. “Sit down, Harry, let me see what else is on these pages.”
Promotion orders start with the highest rank and work their way down the ladder. There were a handful of promotions to the chief level, none above two stars. Then came the inspectors, and I didn’t have far down the list to spot, “Elliott, Raymond, from Deputy Inspector to Inspector.” I jumped to the transfer list and saw, “Elliott, Raymond, Inspector. From Internal Affairs, to the Office of Chief of Personnel.”
“Look at this, Harry. The bastard sold us out. He buried his lists of deviants and got rewarded with a cushy job at One Police Plaza.”
“He got rewarded, and you got screwed, Mike.”
I scanned further and saw what happened with my transfer. My friend, Lieutenant Bert Simmons, got promoted to captain and was transferred to the 113 Precinct as the executive officer. “They could have put me in his spot at the 106 Squad, but no, they transferred the lieutenant from the 50 Squad there and sent me to the Bronx to replace him.”
“Coulda been worse, I guess,” Harry said. “They could have sent you to Staten Island.”
“They wanted me out of Queens and Brooklyn, that’s obvious.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t believe there is anything I can do. My rabbi, the only hook I ever had on this job, is now dead and buried. And, figuratively speaking, so am I.”
“Hey, Mike, I didn’t look to see who is taking over here.”
I scanned the next page of transfers and finally spotted it. I said, “Here it is, Harry. McAuley, John. Lieutenant. From the 25 Squad to Queens Homicide, designated commanding officer.”
