Hot-Wired in Brooklyn

by Douglas Dinunzio

  I looked up, grinning. “Someone exactly like me. Me, myself, actually. Have a seat.”

  The waiter was there almost immediately, but Carlson waved him off.

  “Not hungry?” I asked. “I thought you ate here regularly.”

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “Humble pie, right?”

  “What exactly is this about, Mr….”

  I pasted on a pretend frown. “How quickly you forgot! Lombardi. L-O-M-B-A-R-D-I.”

  He stiffened. “What is this about?”

  “I bet you could tell me. You could use big words, like the ones they taught you at Harvard. I like big words myself, but they take so long to say.”

  “I’m interrupting a busy schedule to come here, Mr. Lombardi, and even you must be able to see that I don’t welcome your humor or your company. So get on with it, whatever it is.”

  “How about a game?” I said, still playing with the mashed potatoes. “It’s called ‘Ten Guesses.’ It’s like ‘Twenty Questions,’ but shorter.”

  Carlson didn’t answer, so I started playing “volcano” with my mound of mashed, scooping out the inside, filling it up with mushroom sauce, breaching the sides with my spoon and watching mushroom lava ooze down into the plate.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Lombardi…” He was going bright scarlet in the face now. I liked that.

  “Okay, we’ll play another game. It’s called ‘What if,’ as in, ‘What if your car wasn’t stolen from Flatbush like you said it was?’”

  His expression changed. A cross between fear and anger, and tipping toward fear.

  “What if you lost it outside a place called Victory Wrecking, down on Stillwell?”

  “All right,” he said. “Continue.”

  “I knew you’d want to. This is a fun game, isn’t it? Okay, and what if you left your expensive leather briefcase, the one with your initials in gold, on the seat? Was that real 24-karat gold? Nice buffed leather, too. Musta cost you.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Sure. Let’s say that’s where your car got ‘jacked, by three teenagers—Pulaski and associates. They had a little problem, though. They had to toss out the guy who was behind the wheel while you were inside the yard foreman’s shack paying for some pretty pictures.”

  “You’re exceeding my worst expectations of you, Mr. Lombardi. You’re even more loathsome a creature than I imagined.”

  “Every day in every way I’m getting better and better.”

  “So what is it that you want?”

  “Well, for openers, I want to know about the driver. I know his name’s Jorgenson, but what’s he to you?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “Close friend?”

  “A friend.”

  “How close? Kissing close?”

  “Your mind is in the sewer, Mr. Lombardi. An appropriate place for it.”

  “Okay, we’ll move on.”

  “You said you had something I’d lost. A briefcase. Shall we get to that?”

  “Sure, let’s.” I reached under the table, moved my coat onto the empty chair next to me and hefted the briefcase onto the table. The sight of it unhinged him, but he recovered well.

  “You’re willing to return it, then?”

  “Sure. I’ve already got a briefcase. And these initials are all wrong.”

  “So, how much do you want?”

  “In money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it is a real nice one, and those 24-karat gold initials, they gotta be worth somethin’. A small finder’s fee, maybe.”

  “Five thousand,” he offered without so much as a blink. I’m the one who started blinking. I let out a whistle, too. Somehow, he took the reaction to mean no. “All right,” he continued in a sanctimonious banker’s voice. “Ten.”

  As soon as he made that jump, I knew there was something more to this than dirty pictures. In that same moment, the game stopped being funny. Reading the alarm that flashed like nervous neon in my eyes, he knew it, too.

  “So, you don’t really know what is… was… inside, do you, Mr. Lombardi?”

  “No. I found it empty. What was in there besides pictures?”

  “I don’t think you want to know. Not unless you’re prepared to lose your life for the knowledge.” His tone was more edgy than threatening. At least, I figured the threat wasn’t his.

  “What’s this about, Carlson?”

  He almost smiled. “It is about… a critical lapse in judgment, leading to a series of bad decisions, crowned by an act of sheer recklessness.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “You’re not meant to.” He appeared to slump in his chair. A passing waiter approached as if to assist him, but Carlson waved him away.

  “You all right?”

  That brought a strange, self-indulgent laugh. “Everything is relative, isn’t it, Mr. Lombardi?”

  “If you’re in a jam, maybe I can help you, if it’ll also help Arnold.”

  “Arnold?”

  “The kid who stole your car, remember?”

  “And if it won’t help… Arnold?”

  “Then I’m afraid you’re on your own. No offense, but I don’t like you all that much, and I’m not prepared to die just to get in a little deeper with you.”

  “A wise decision.” His manner changed subtly, reflective rather than self-pitying. “This teenager, Arnold. Is he a relation?”

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “I hate his guts. I’m doing this for his family.”

  “You haven’t actually seen the photographs, have you?”

  “No. Arnold told me about them.”

  “Then he’s seen them?”

  “No. He’s like me. He doesn’t know what was in the briefcase.”

  A look of relief passed quickly over his face.

  “And the other two boys?”

  “At least one of them saw, probably both.”

  The look faded.

  “Blackmail’s a filthy business,” I said. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll burn those pictures if I find ’em.”

  “They’re not pictures of me, but of someone I care about very much.”

  “I’ll still burn ’em.”

  He relaxed, as if he’d temporarily lifted a great burden he knew would return soon enough. “You puzzle me, Mr. Lombardi,” he said with a hint of admiration. “Weren’t you just about to extort money from me because of the briefcase?”

  “It was just bait to get you here, to get you to tell me things I needed to know. To help Arnold.”

  “I’m genuinely sorry, then, that I can’t help you.”

  “You could maybe do me, and the kid, a favor.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, if there’s as much danger here as you let on, you wouldn’t want Arnold to die in Raymond Street for something he doesn’t know, would you?”

  “No.”

  “So, can you help him?”

  “I can have him isolated from the other prisoners, if you like.”

  “You know he only stole your car because he had to, because he was scared. You know he didn’t kill Shork, either.”

  “If you give me good cause to dismiss the charges, I will. But I can’t promise anything.”

  “Neither can I,” I said. I slid the briefcase across the table. He sighed, looked at it mournfully for a moment, then took it by the grip, stood up, and walked out of Fulton Joe’s without another word.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The phone was ringing when I got home. It was Gino. “Go see Father Giacomo,” he said, and hung up. He hadn’t said, “Now,” but with Gino that’s always understood. The day had turned colder, and I had my collar up for most of the six-block walk. A harsh wind whipped at my face. Gray, snow-bearing clouds rolled in, driven by an ill wind.

  Father Giacomo wasn’t in the rectory office when a Franciscan in a starched black habit greeted me. I sat in a chair by his picture window, watching
two other nuns take a chilly afternoon stroll in the rectory garden. The Franciscans ran St. Margaret’s, and they ran it efficiently. The garden looked welcoming and well-tended, even in winter. I turned my attention indoors. Pictures of graduating classes, going back to 1922, covered the walls of Father Giacomo’s office, my class of ’37 included. Row after row of alert, well-scrubbed teenagers wearing proudly the green and brown uniforms of the school with the same name. Future housewives, cab drivers, greengrocers, custodians, even a shamus, smiled down from the walls.

  “E-ddie. It’s-a so nice to see you!” Father Giacomo greeted me with a gentle bear hug. He was a robust, ever-smiling man, supremely secure in his faith, gentle, wise, as compassionate as Jesus. A millionaire in his heart, and a shoo-in for Heaven. He pointed to a pair of armchairs with a small table between them, and we made small talk until the sister returned.

  “You like-a little glass-a wine, Eddie?” he asked, nodding yes for me to the sister, who left promptly to fill the order. Father Giacomo grew his own grapes in a small arbor behind the church and made his own wine. You went to visit him, you drank it.

  “What’s the trouble, Father?” I asked.

  “It’s-a-sad-a world, when-a people got-a no homes, Eddie.” His eyes were suddenly awash with sympathy. “Our Lord a-Jesus, poor as-a he was, even a-he had a home.”

  “I don’t understand, Father.”

  “Somebody, he break into church last-a couple nights. I figure he gotta no home. Also, Mrs. Bellini, she sees-a, how you say, aggirava…”

  “Prowler?”

  ”Si. Prowler. In-a her backyard, two nights ago.”

  The sister returned with two ceramic demitasse cups, placed them on the table between us, smiled and left. The liquid inside them was dark red, with a smell like sweet burnt wood.

  “Has this man threatened anyone, stolen anything?”

  “No. He all-a-ways run away. Mrs. Panetta, she see him, too, goin-a through her trash. He just-a run.”

  “Maybe it’s that hobo again, the one you helped last winter.”

  “No. He settle down. Gotta job in-a some place called-a Pee-o-ria. Send-a me a post card just-a last week.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Got a wife-a, too, he says.” Father Giacomo’s eyes twinkled. “You getta married, start a family, too, Eddie. Like-a Gino.”

  “I’ll think about it, Father.”

  “Knights of-a Columbus, they gotta dance on Friday.”

  “Thanks, Father. I’ll try to make it.” I took a slow sip of the wine.

  “Tonight’s second-a night of the novena,” Father Giacomo continued. “Some-a the ladies, they say they don’t-a wanna come with a this-a prowler around.”

  He stood up. I stood up with him. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “You a-find him, don’t-a hurt him.”

  “Not unless he tries to hurt me, Father.”

  I ran into Angelo by the side of the church. He was pulling shards of glass from one of the small windows in the side door.

  “Hi, Ang,” I said. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Hey, Eddie! Whatcha doin’ over here?”

  “There’s a prowler around. Father Giacomo wants me to look into it.”

  “He busted this here window twice. I put new glass in yesterday, an’ he busted it again.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Ang. Maybe I’ll catch him tonight.”

  “You gonna put out some traps?”

  “He’s not a mouse, Ang.”

  He considered the idea and then laughed. “Hey, Eddie?”

  “What?”

  A little-boy grin spread across his face. “Tony says you got a girlfriend.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “You really got one? Who is she, Eddie?”

  “Didn’t Tony tell you?”

  “Uh uh, but Tony, he met her. She went for a ride in his cab, and she told him everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Told him about you and her. Tony thinks maybe you’re goin’ steady with her. They drove all over town. Tony said she wanted to know all about ya, ‘cuz you and her wuz gettin’ married. When ya gettin’ married, Eddie? Soon? Can me and Tony come to the weddin’? I wanna be best man. Anyway, I asked first.”

  “Whoa, slow down,” I cautioned. “Did you see this future Mrs. Eddie?”

  “Uh uh, but she’s real pretty, Tony says.”

  “What’s she supposed to look like?”

  “Long, black hair, real pretty face, Tony says. Name’s Charlotte.”

  “I’ll see you later, Ang,” I said, and walked away.

  “Remember, about best man. I asked first.”

  . . .

  It was overcast and prematurely dark when I got home. It would be snowing soon. Except for an occasional blizzard, like the one in ‘46—’47, Brooklyn didn’t experience snow in the extreme. I was wondering whether a snowstorm would aid or hinder me in tracking down the parish prowler. I could follow his footprints easily enough, but could I see him through all that white camouflage?

  I didn’t notice the light in my second floor window until I was right under it. That wasn’t how I’d left the place. It could’ve been Gino or Tony, or even Frankie up there; they all have keys. But they don’t usually come up unless the light’s already on. My mind dwelled just for a moment on Carlson and his warning: that I could be dead if I knew more about what was in the briefcase. Did I already know too much? Did somebody think I knew too much? But if somebody was up there waiting to silence me, why tip me off by turning on the light? I did a quick survey of the street, out of habit. No stray cars, nothing out of order.

  I didn’t have my gun. There was no reason to think I needed it at Fulton Joe’s or St. Margaret’s, but I might need it here. The downstairs was dark. That could mean the intruder or intruders had gone straight upstairs, which would give me the chance to get my gun from my desk drawer or the spare in the wall safe. That was, if somebody wasn’t hiding in the dark down there and using the light upstairs as a decoy.

  I decided to chance an entry. I opened the downstairs door slowly and let it swing open. I closed it just as carefully and listened for noises inside. My office was quiet and empty. I unlocked my desk drawer, pulled out my .38 and checked the cylinders. I closed the drawer without a sound and started slowly up the stairs. I was halfway up when I heard the radio, very low. One of the pop stations. Bing Crosby. I moved even more slowly to the landing and waited to the left of the door. Still nothing but the music. The door was already open an inch from the jamb, so I just pushed it the rest of the way.

  “Ooooo!” squealed the young woman who was sprawled across my couch. “Let’s see your other gun, too!”

  Charlotte, grinning, without a stitch.

  CHAPTER

  22

  My eyes settled on a familiar pair of well-formed, buoyant breasts, the nipples swollen and apple red. I fought the urge to let my eyes drift any lower. She was beautiful poison, and only a fool drank it.

  “How’d you get in here?” I asked icily.

  She stood up from the couch and wiggle-walked toward me. A stalking mode, breasts ands hips swaying together. “I picked your lock,” she said when she was in front of me.

  Her smooth ivory skin looked even whiter against her dark hair, and my eyes drifted downward in spite of my best intentions. “With what?” I asked.

  A sultry laugh followed. “I didn’t walk in here like this. Too cold. The picks are with my clothes.” She was near enough now to touch, but she stepped back to give me a better look. Her hand moved easily down her bare flank. I followed it to the inside of her thigh, past even whiter ivory, watching the tip of her index finger disappear into folds of pink flesh.

  “Maybe you should do more of that and leave saps like Arnold alone,” I said, walking past her into the kitchen.

  “This is just warm-up.”

  “Not for anything that includes me.”

  “You don’t want this?”

  I
pulled the kitchen curtains closed. “Sorry. Try next door.” I wondered for a moment what would happen if she took that suggestion literally. Mrs. Pellino, a sixty-year-old widow, lived one house down. One house up belonged to the spinster Cappoletti sisters and their invalid father. Whatever would they think if they saw Charlotte leaving my place, even fully dressed?

  Charlotte struck another pose and put on a pouty face. “You’re really going to pass this up?”

  “Exactly right. Where are your clothes?”

  She moved closer, cupping her breasts in her hands. “Come on, big boy, you want that drink now? You don’t have to be afraid of little Charlotte.”

  I pushed her away, harder than I meant to, and she landed on the rug in front of the sofa. She laughed at me from the floor.

  “Your clothes…”

  She was still laughing. She pointed to a small heap next to the couch.

  “Your sister know where you are?”

  Her tone turned quickly acid. “It’s not her business.”

  “It will be now,” I said, and walked to the telephone.

  “You’re calling my sister?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The hell you are!” She rushed me, tearing at the handset, and I pushed her away again.

  “Don’t care much for your big sister, do you?”

  “She’s an ugly cow,” she hissed, stepping back.

  “And I thought you were the one with the milk.” I put the handset down, and she relaxed. “Okay, then. Just put your clothes on and get out of here.”

  “Sure. Have it your way.” She dressed slowly, provocatively, like a strip tease in reverse. I wondered if she did anything—washing the dishes, cooking hamburgers, licking an envelope—without erotic overtones. To keep my moral defenses up, I turned my back to her and put the coffee pot on. I didn’t offer.

  “When’s your brother’s funeral?”

  “Saturday,” she said, as if I’d asked about a bus she never took.

  “You always grieve so hard?”

  She didn’t answer that one, so I sent out another feeler. “Been to see Arnold?”

  She laughed.

  “How about Chick and Teddy. Talked to them lately?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “In your own pants, or somebody else’s?”