Johnny Porno

by Charlie Stella

  Billy knew then he didn’t have long before he’d be forced to resign. Colleagues on the police force had warned him against retributions. So long as Eddie Vento had a tape of police misconduct in a bar under surveillance, those within the wiseguy’s circle were not to be harassed in any way, shape or form. Billy also knew that guys like Sean Kelly were more interested in protecting their own dirty money than helping a fellow cop.

  That had been before. Since he’d become a civilian again, Billy figured he could do whatever he wanted.

  Earlier this evening he’d driven to Canarsie and parked on the same street where he’d nearly run John Albano over almost a week ago. Without the old man blocking the stoop, Billy had walked inside the building, then up the stairs to where Albano lived. A few seconds later he was inside the apartment.

  Except for a mostly empty refrigerator with some questionable leftovers, the apartment was neater than Billy had expected. Albano used a hamper to store his laundry and kept his sink clear of dirty dishes. The floors were also clean. Billy was extra impressed when he saw the bed was made.

  He spent four hours waiting in Albano’s apartment after his initial walkthrough. Billy was conscious of pacing the floor and spent most of the time sitting on a folding chair he’d found in the bedroom. It was close to ten o’clock when he finally gave up. Albano’s murder would have to wait yet another day.

  Half an hour later Billy pulled into his driveway and noticed the lights were out. He peeked through one of the garage-door windows and saw Kathleen’s Karmann Ghia was missing. Then he went inside the house, turned on the kitchen light, and saw the note taped to the refrigerator door.

  * * * *

  After learning about the dirty detective on Eddie Vento’s payroll, Special Agent Stebenow became fearful for informant Bridget Malone’s life. Two years earlier, in a Philadelphia investigation against the mob there, a thirty-three year old father of four informant was used as bait when his name was purposely released to the local media as a witness for the prosecution in a local mob trial.

  Bernard Dillon was executed outside his South Philadelphia home the same night his name was made public. A clerical error was offered as the excuse for the release of his name, except Stebenow knew it was bullshit. When the surveillance cameras that had been positioned across the street from Dillon’s home failed to capture his murder, the case was closed and the federal prosecutor moved on to another. Four kids had lost a father in the collateral damage of the overzealous prosecution.

  Dillon’s needless death had haunted Stebenow ever since. Tonight, after a protracted argument with his wife over her unwillingness to see him since their separation, he told her he was quitting the bureau at the end of the month.

  “And how do you expect to live?” she’d said. “You’re going to have to help me until I’m working again.”

  “I’m going to teach again.”

  “You’re crazy. That’s a big cut in salary. Wouldn’t you be better off transferring within the Bureau?”

  “We already talked about this. No.”

  “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “And I can’t stand to hear about it anymore.”

  Stebenow smirked on his end of the line. It had become his wife’s mantra, complaining about his inability to cope with his job. Tonight she’d seemed more mean-spirited than usual.

  “I don’t want to fight about it,” he’d told her.

  “You’re the one called me.”

  “I was looking for support.”

  “Then you called the wrong person,” his wife had said before hanging up.

  That had been an hour before he left his apartment. Tonight Stebenow was determined to keep Bridget Malone from suffering a fate similar to that of Bernard Dillon. Tonight he was following the man he believed posed the greatest threat to her safety, NYPD Lieutenant Detective Sean Kelly.

  Cautious of being spotted by the Internal Affairs detectives investigating Kelly, Stebenow began his surveillance from a car parked up the street from the bar he’d followed Bridget Malone and two of her girlfriends to earlier the same day. The three women sat at one of a few outdoor tables bounded by a rope and chain fence.

  According to Bridget, Kelly had met her a few days ago after she’d spent time at the same bar. Assuming most people were creatures of habit, the special agent was guessing Kelly had already trailed her to the bar and would do so again. Less than two hours into his surveillance, his hunch proved right.

  Kelly showed up wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap, a multicolored Woodstock T-shirt, gray sweatpants and high-top sneakers. He took a seat on a bench outside a pizza parlor directly across the street from the bar. The dirty cop used a newspaper to shield his face.

  Stebenow couldn’t push his luck too long; Internal Affairs surveillance might spot him. If Bridget didn’t leave before long, he’d have to get her attention and make sure she returned to her apartment. A few minutes before midnight he was forced to move faster than he’d imagined.

  * * * *

  Detective Sean Kelly had called in a favor with an Irish street gang from Manhattan earlier in the day and was waiting for it to arrive as he nursed his second Coke in less than half an hour. He’d followed Bridget Malone earlier in the week from her apartment to the bar across the street and had figured she’d be there again when she wasn’t working at Fast Eddie’s.

  Kelly could retire in just a few more years and he wasn’t about to let some cocaine addict porno-queen wannabe take him down, not when he was so close.

  The man he was waiting for finally showed a few minutes before midnight. Billy Quinn was a short, pug-nosed brawler with a prison scar across his forehead. He was missing several teeth and had already been drinking.

  Kelly moved his conversation away from the pizza parlor to the curb. He stood behind a parked van to hide from view.

  “You got something?” he asked Quinn.

  “A shiv,” said Quinn with a strong brogue. He opened his right hand to show Kelly.

  “It’s the table in the middle, so you’ll have to haul ass once you do it. Subway’s up the block around the corner to the left. You can duck in there or keep running, whatever you prefer, just don’t head back this way. That mug you got isn’t going to be hard to forget.”

  Quinn pulled a stocking from his pants pocket. “What this is for,” he said. “It’s on and off before they know what all.”

  Quinn turned to look across the street.

  “Keep looking here at me,” Kelly said. “It’s the one with the dark hair. She’s with the two blondes.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bridget, why?”

  “Because I’ll call to her right before so she turns and makes it easy.”

  He swiped his right thumb across his throat.

  “Jesus Christ, telegraph it why don’tcha,” Kelly said.

  “Don’t worry, I know what I’m about,” Quinn said. “Or maybe you wanna give it a go?”

  Kelly ignored the thug. “Give me until I’m at the end of the street behind you,” he said. “I’ll start walking in a second. Soon’s I reach the corner I’ll lift my arms up over my head like I’m yawning. That’s when you move.”

  “Got it.”

  “You sure?”

  “I just fuckin’ said so, yeah?”

  “Yeah, I guess you did,” Kelly said.

  He started walking and was halfway up the street when he saw a black guy get out of a car parked across the street. Something about the guy wasn’t right. They made eye contact and Kelly quickly looked away. A few steps later he did a quick pirouette, as if he’d forgotten something and Kelly saw the black guy was waving to the women at Bridget’s table. Then the guy stopped and turned toward Kelly again.

  “Fuck,” said Kelly a moment before he turned around again and started walking. He was fifty feet from the end of the block when he decided to raise his right arm up. He didn’t look back until he mad
e it to the corner. When he did, it was because the gunshot surprised him.

  * * * *

  “Kelly’s the one said it isn’t natural you’re not chasing women?” Mark Liston asked. He tapped the ash off his cigarette into the ashtray he held on his right thigh and took a long drag.

  “Healthy,” Brice said. “Kelly said it isn’t healthy I’m not chasing gash.”

  “Gash?”

  “What he calls it. Said I should be using the car to get laid unless I was one of those car buffs gets wood looking at racing magazines.”

  “We should do it on the hood of the car and send him a picture,” Liston said. “Which do you think would make him gag first, that we’re men or because I’m black?”

  “Both,” Brice said. “At least at first. After a while, though, I think it’d be you.”

  “The honky. Probably cheats on his wife with prostitutes, your boss.”

  “Probably, except I doubt he pays them.”

  Liston rubbed Brice’s neck with his right hand. “What about Levin?” he asked. “You seem to like him.”

  “He’s alright, I think,” Brice said, “except he’s being careful and I can’t figure why. He’s been around long enough to know whether Kelly is dirty or not, but he won’t come out and say it. It’s like he wants me to decide for myself.”

  “Maybe he’s doing you a favor.”

  “What he said about him taking the flack if Kelly finds out he’s looking into things without keeping him informed. Levin also knows something about the guy Kelly seemed interested in, Johnny Porno.”

  “Where do they get their names?”

  “I don’t know, but they are catchy.”

  Liston ran his hand up through Brice’s hair. Brice leaned his head back and enjoyed the moment.

  “Maybe Levin is protecting you.”

  “Maybe.”

  Brice leaned back into the neck massage.

  “And you’re sure Kelly is dirty.”

  “Pretty sure. And if he is, I’m not safe.”

  “You mean us?”

  “I mean me.”

  “Because you don’t count us or because you want to be chief of police some day?”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll settle for my twenty and a pension.” Brice leaned over to check the time. “What time is it?” He saw and said, “Shit. I gotta go.”

  “Why not sleep in and leave in the morning?”

  “Because if I oversleep it’s not like I can catch up in half an hour. Stamford is an hour out doing seventy without traffic on ninety-five.”

  Brice was out of the bed and heading for the bathroom. Liston crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, set it on the night table, and got up to gather Brice’s clothes. It was a few minutes before midnight. They had spent less than two hours together.

  The toilet flushed and another minute passed before Brice returned from the bathroom. Liston handed Brice his pants.

  “Be careful with your boss,” he said. “I don’t like the way he sounds. You trust Levin, stay close to him.”

  Brice was putting on his shirt. “I’m not sure I trust either of them,” he said. “Levin’s definitely more tolerant, but I’m not anywhere near willing to test him with this.”

  “I hate when you put it that way. It isn’t this, Steven. It’s us.”

  “Not to them.”

  “You don’t know that yet.”

  “And I’m not willing to find out.”

  The two men kissed on the lips before Brice headed out of the bedroom with Liston following. They stopped at the door and kissed again, embracing one another this time.

  “Be careful,” Liston said.

  “I will,” Brice said.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Brice headed down the hallway toward the elevators while Liston watched from the doorway. Brice pressed the button for the elevator and turned to look back at his lover. The two men stared at one another until Brice smiled. Then the elevator doors opened and he stepped inside the car.

  Chapter 32

  He was up early to make sure the car was okay and found old man Elias waiting for him on the stoop.

  “Don’t tell me you just got home,” John said.

  “Alright, I don’t tell you.”

  John remembered he owed the gas station money. “Can you lend me a few bucks?” he asked.

  “How much?”

  “Thirty’d probably do it.”

  “How’s forty?”

  “I don’t need forty.”

  “Take it anyway.”

  “I’ll have it for you tonight.”

  “Did I ask when you’d have it?”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Elias had his wallet out. He pulled two twenties from inside. John saw the old man had left himself a few singles.

  “You sure you’ll be alright? Don’t short yourself for me.”

  “Take it,” said Elias, waving the money.

  “Thanks,” John said. He took the cash, pocketed it and headed across the street to his car.

  “Hold on,” Elias said.

  John stopped to listen.

  “I see somebody around here again. Somebody looking for you, I think.”

  “Somebody who?” John said.

  “I know his name I tell you. I don’t know.” The old man touched his chest. “I feel it, eh? Somebody drives by, is looking. Couple of times now. I see him. He sees me.”

  “I have no idea,” John said.

  Elias tapped his forehead. “Be careful,” he said. “Your head, eh?”

  “I will,” John said.

  “Make sure.”

  John drove to the gas station, paid the balance he owed for the tires and filled his tank. He was determined to get an early start and went to Williamsburg to have breakfast around the corner from the bar. He would verify the Saturday counts as soon as Eugene opened the bar, then start on the new stops Vento had said he could finish before noon.

  He thought about what had happened the night before, how things had started so great and then turned to crap so fast he still couldn’t believe it. One minute he was making love with a woman he genuinely felt for and an hour or two later it was over and he was on his way home alone.

  Melinda was on his mind when he walked in the bar a few minutes after nine and saw Nick Santorra was wearing the whistle around his neck. John ignored the man and picked up the Saturday head count from the bartender. He was shocked when he saw the totals. If Sunday was anything close to Saturday, he would be carrying close to thirteen thousand dollars at the end of the day. The amount made him uncomfortable.

  He left the bar before nine-thirty and used the BQE through Queens to the Grand Central Parkway. There was a Mets home game against the Giants that would generate traffic around the stadium later in the afternoon, but it was city-bound traffic returning from the Hamptons that would create problems later in the day.

  It was a fast drive to the south shore where he collected from the new stops first. The films and cash were waiting at each location when he got there. He was finished before one o’clock. Then he started on his regular route and had to backtrack to the north shore.

  The Meadowbrook Parkway was crowded heading towards Jones beach. John was grateful he was heading in the opposite direction. He thought about Nick Santorra and the whistle he had worn at the bar. Was it a threat of things to come? Was Santorra behind the assault the other night? It was more than possible, considering Santorra couldn’t handle his own dirty work. Fifty bucks to a guy desperate enough was all it would take to dole out a beating. Considering the situation, John figured Santorra had hired a goon to do the job he couldn’t do himself.

  John also figured he’d have to be extra careful with the Buick when he parked it the next few nights. He was thinking he might pay the gas station where he’d bought the retread tires a few extra bucks to let him park there the next week or two.

  He brought the windows all the way down and enjoyed the breeze as he took th
e exit for the Long Island Expressway. It was another hot, humid day. Although the weather forecast didn’t include rain, it felt as if a thunderstorm was imminent.

  John passed a station wagon filled with kids wearing baseball uniforms and thought of his son. He remembered how enthused his boy had been about going to the Yankees game later in the month. He would have to bring a camera and take some pictures. It was to be the last year the Yankees played at the stadium before renovations began. He knew Little Jack would appreciate the history when he was older.

  He made it to Kings Park with a few minutes to spare. He took Kings Park Boulevard to Old Dock Road and found the warehouse where he’d dropped the film off the day before. A group of men were exiting the warehouse doors in the rear. John pulled up behind a box truck parked in the loading dock. He saw three men carrying posters and then another man examining a pair of the white panties. He wondered if Nick Santorra had spelled Linda Lovelace’s name right on those.

  A few minutes later, after finding his way through the loading dock, John spotted the guy in charge. Chris Cowans was disconnecting the projector while another man sold posters at the table where refreshments had been served. John saw there was beer, soda, potato chips, peanuts and sandwiches and wondered if Eddie Vento had a piece of the concession as well.

  “Johnny Porno, right?” Cowans asked.

  “The name’s Albano,” John said. “John Albano.”

  “Sorry,” Cowans said. “The guy on the phone said....”

  “What time you start?”

  “Early. First showing was ten. Then another at noon. Yesterday we had five, though. Was a good night.”

  “They hitting you for the concession?”

  Cowans motioned at the table. “Just the beverages,” he said. “We have to buy from some distributor in Valley Stream. It’s a few cents more than I could probably get it here, but we’re making out alright.”