by David Stever
Mike slid in opposite me. “Jesus, Johnny. The guy blows his brains out in front of you?”
“I brought up the two million, his demeanor changed. This little pipsqueak of a guy and he gets all wimpy and writes this.” I handed Mike the piece of paper Bocci gave me.
Mike looked at the paper. “Ten digits—so not a Social. Could be a phone number?”
“Right. But, he says ‘make sure she’s taken care of, and tell her I kept my promise.’ And blam, he eats lead.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Now the case is on the news. Can you draw any more attention?” Mike turned around to keep an eye on the bar just as Carlos came in. Carlos Suarez tends bar for us part-time, and I was glad to see him. I needed to strategize with Mike. Carlos is a cop, and a good one. Clean-cut guy, family man, tough, great street smarts. He rode with Mike for two years before Mike retired.
“This goes beyond the money. When I brought up the two million at Tony’s, he got weird. I hit a nerve.”
“Sammy there?” asked Mike.
“Slow Sammy. But get this. Marco shows up at Bocci’s and starts asking questions.”
“Thank God for Marco, right?”
“But it was weird—he softened up on me right after I mentioned the money. I’m telling you, we’re stepping in something here. Not sure if I like it. He gave me time to talk to Claire and said he’s coming by here tonight,” I said.
“You tell Marco about Bocci’s mystery number?”
“Of course not.”
He nodded. “Well, ain’t this some shit?”
“We need to talk to Claire. I called her number while driving back here—no answer.”
“And this bullshit of her only contacting us is over.” Mike was never the most patient cop.
But then, like magic, Claire appeared beside our booth. We both looked at her, looked at each other, looked at her. “Sit down,” I said.
She sat beside me. Not the glamorous Claire from yesterday, though. Today she wore jeans, boots, a black T-shirt with a black blazer. Her eyes were red like she’d been crying. She wore no makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail.
“I saw on the news about Mr. Bocci.” She sounded defeated and her voice quivered. “Did you talk to him?”
“I was in the office when he did it.”
Her hands quickly covered her mouth. “Oh my God, don’t say that.” Her emerald eyes darted to Mike and then back to me. “You were there when he shot himself?”
Again I nodded. “Sitting across from him.”
Her eyes welled up, sending a single tear down her cheek. “I can’t believe it. When I saw it on the news, I had to come right over.” Mike went to the bar and brought back some napkins to dry her eyes. “Thanks. That poor man.” She wiped at her eyes.
“How did you know him?”
“I didn’t. When my mother talked about the money, she always said the same thing. That I should go see Mr. Bocci, and that he’d help me. I’ve had his name drilled into my head since I was in high school. I can’t believe he’s dead.” She dabbed at her eyes again, took a breath, folded her hands in her lap and looked at me. “What did he say?”
“Why didn’t you go see him?”
“What?”
“If your mother always told you to start with Bocci, why didn’t you?”
Her eyes flicked down, then rose to meet mine. Guilt? Or just unease?
“My mother always said it would be better if I had a professional help me. Like a lawyer, or a private detective.” I glanced at Mike; I knew he was making his own assessment. If she was lying, he’d know. “Did he say anything?” she asked. “Did you ask about the money?”
Mike, holding back as long as he could, finally chimed in: “Ms. Dixon, how exactly did you find us?”
“My mother kept a paper in her nightstand. Instructions on what to do when she died. Johnny Delarosa was written on her paper. Not sure why.”
“What’s her name?”
“Jackie. Jacqueline Dixon. Grew up here in the city. I guess some bad things happened and she took me when I was five and moved away. To Philadelphia. That’s where I grew up.”
“Your father?”
“Never knew him.”
“You know his name?”
She nodded. “Donny Dixon. Sometimes I would ask Mother about him and all she would say was that he was not a very nice man and that the best thing she ever did was move away.”
“The name sounds familiar.”
“Really?” she asked.
“I got to give it some thought,” Mike said. “Long time ago.”
“Probably twenty-five years. We moved when I was five.”
“And you’re sure this money exists?”
“No. But my mother was always sure. I never thought Mr. Bocci would kill himself, either. What does that tell you?”
Was that a challenge or a question? “It tells me we opened a box that should’ve stayed closed.”
“My mother obsessed over this. Finding this money was her life. I have to see it through. I promised her.”
“Bocci’s dead because I walked into his office asking about two million. You need to tell us everything or we can’t go on.”
“I did tell you everything.” Mike and I stayed silent. First one to talk loses, right? Claire broke the silence. “She also told me Donny Dixon—my father—did time in jail, and that the money came from something he did.”
“We figured that,” Mike said.
Her faced flushed. Mike and I exchanged a glance.
She tried to recover a bit. “I can’t even speculate about the money. It could be in a bank, invested somewhere, hidden. Buried on a desert island. My instructions were to start with you.”
“How did she know Bocci?”
“She never said much, but she did tell me they were friends from childhood.”
No need to look at Mike to know what he was thinking: Now we’re getting somewhere. He also understood what I was thinking. Don’t say a word.
Mike’s phone rang, and he got up to take the call.
“It’s been a long day,” I said. “How about we pick this up tomorrow?”
“Sure, Mr. Delarosa, I understand.”
“Please call me Johnny. Okay?” She nodded and smiled. “And answer the phone, too. I need to be able to get a hold of you.”
“Sure, of course. I’m sorry I missed the call earlier.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m at the Marriott. On Washington. Room 503.”
“Okay. Get some rest.” We both slid out of the booth. She put her purse on her shoulder and threw her arms around me in a hug.
“I’m sorry about what you went through today. I feel responsible.”
“Part of the job. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
Mike watched us from the bar. She let go of the hug but slid her hands down my arms and grabbed my hands.
“I’m glad you’re okay.” She gave my hands a squeeze. “Tomorrow.”
“Have a good evening.”
She left, giving Mike a little wave on her way out.
Mike came over. “Interesting.”
“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it? Not sure what to make of that.”
We sat back down in the booth. “That was Marco on the phone. He wants to meet us at Nancy’s in thirty minutes,” he said. “We have some big questions here, brother. If Marco told you Bocci was mobbed up, then you’re looking for mob money.”
“And she wants me to turn over the rocks because she’s connected?”
“Exactly. Big retainer, gets a little friendly…I’m not trusting her.”
“Yeah, and if she’s right, and there is two million out there somewhere, she won’t be the only one looking for it. Two
million is plenty of motivation to make normal people do crazy things.”
“Like blow your brains out?”
I stared out the window. “Like blow your brains out.”
Chapter
9
When Mike and I got to Nancy’s, we found Marco waiting for us at a back table. Nancy’s Diner was an old-style diner that served the best greasy-spoon food in town. Breakfast all day, great coffee: everything a cop stomach could want. Nancy and her husband, Bill, bought the place when he was just a rookie. She ran it during the week, and they both worked the weekends. As fate would have it, and because bad things happen to good people, after ten years on the job, cancer grabbed Bill and left Nancy with a tiny pension and the restaurant. So Nancy’s became her life—not to say that she’s done too bad for herself since.
She came over with three coffees. “You boys ever go home?”
“Waiting for you to take me home.” Mike winked.
“You hit the lottery, we can talk. Any food tonight for you big, handsome hunks?”
“Coffee, for now,” I put in.
Nancy walked off and when she was out of earshot. Marco piped up. “Delarosa—you might wake up the dead on this one.”
“Talk, Marco, talk.”
“I was just on, still a green rookie and got assigned to the docks. I learned pretty fast that the mob ran things. All the cops there—all were on the payroll. Most of them resented me from the start. Last thing they wanted was a new guy to screw up their sweetheart deal.”
“Wasn’t Aletto the big boss then?” said Mike.
“Old man Aletto was the don. Controlled everything. But I learned later the only reason I was assigned the docks was ‘cause I’m Italian and they all knew my old man. They all figured I’d just blend in, be one of the boys. And I did. Mostly. I was smart enough to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. I did the right thing and gained their trust. Both the cops and the mob.”
“Marco, we don’t need your resume,” chided Mike.
“Shut up and listen. There was a young punk hanging around all the time. Donny Dixon. Not Italian, but thought he was. They would give him small jobs on the docks and small jobs working for Aletto. Collections, enforcement. He got good at it and started running numbers. They gave him a part of the city all to himself. He proved himself, made them money. But he didn’t make the same mistake most guys make. They start to make money and think they’re king shit. Flashing money around, expensive cars, designer suits, girlfriends, hookers. Dixon didn’t. Stayed in his crappy apartment, drove a junky VW Bug. I’ll never forget. Dressed in the same jeans and T-shirt every day. Looked like a hophead hippy from the sixties.”
Marco stopped for a sip of coffee, then revved up again. “He pals up with two other low-lifes, Tony the Scar, and a guy named Jimmy Rosso. All three were making their bones with Aletto when he decides to expand his bookie operation. So he lets these three run the book. They’re naturals. Making a fortune. Control the entire city’s bookmaking. Tony and Rosso become made men. Dixon can’t make his bones because he’s not Italian. He resents it but keeps his trap shut.”
I interrupted the history lesson. “How do you know all this?”
“Like I said, I kept my eyes and ears open. Plus, guys talk. The low-level goombahs liked to brag. Anyways, the story goes that they start to skim, and over about four years, they squirrel away about two million.”
“Aletto doesn’t get wise to this?”
“Not at first. This is where Donny Dixon screwed up. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He couldn’t live by the omertá any longer. The thought of the money waiting for him was too much.”
“And…?”
“Aletto investigates, can’t find anything. Calls all three into a meeting. They all deny skimming. He lets them go, and they think they’re clean. But Aletto’s not satisfied. The big man sends a message. Two weeks later, some kid fishing off of the pier hooks Donny Dixon’s head on his fishing line and reels it in. Aletto’s boys did everything but waterboard Tony and Rosso, but they never cracked.”
“Never found the money, either,” I guessed.
“Nope—but here’s the real kick in the ass. Along the way, Dixon married Jackie Aletto—the old man’s daughter.”
“He whacked his own son-in-law?”
“That’s the story. Remember, Dixon wasn’t Italian. So he was never really family. The two million went missing with him.”
Mike let out a long, low whistle. “My turn to ask the questions,” said Marco. “What’s your client’s name?”
I couldn’t hold back. “Claire Dixon.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Damn. She’s gotta be Jackie’s daughter. She’s got you looking for that long-lost money?”
“Something like that. What about Rosso and this guy Bocci?”
“Rosso disappeared. Maybe he took the money.” He shrugged. “This guy Bocci—all I know is he worked for Aletto way back when. He’s going down as a suicide, so you’re good.”
“That’s good news. I didn’t need to be jammed up in that.”
“That might be the least of your problems. If Tony and these guys think mob money is floating around, wise-guys will be coming out of the harbor with their cement shoes on.”
We laughed, but he was right. What Pandora’s Box did we open? Or did my client open? I could walk away at this point—give back the retainer, which would hurt, but it’d have to be done—but Bocci killing himself lit a fuse I couldn’t ignore.
Marco got up from the table. “I’ll poke around a bit on Bocci. And, Johnny, tread lightly. As a favor to me.”
“I hear ya. Thanks again.”
He turned and left. I sipped my coffee. “Keep going on this?”
“Hell, yeah,” Mike said. “Could be a nice payday.”
“Already have one dead body. Don’t want any more. Especially mine.”
“The woman dropped twenty grand on you. She’s serious, right?”
“Right.”
“Marco remembers the missing money, right?”
“Right.”
“So go find it. Do what you’re good at.”
“It’s the client who has me concerned.”
“So she’s a mystery. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. What’s not to like?”
“Dead bodies, the mob, missing two million. Recipe for violence, wouldn’t you say?”
“And…?”
I pushed away my cup. “And I’m gonna need something stronger than coffee.”
Chapter
10
I got to City Salvage mid-morning and, lucky for me, Tony’s Mustang was not in the lot. I went in to the smoke-filled office as Sammy was finishing up with a customer. He saw me come in, and it must have flustered him because he gave the guy the wrong amount in change. He straightened out the money and sent the guy on his way with a pair of used brake calipers.
“Hey, Johnny, twice in one week, huh?”
“You guys ever open a window in here? I can’t even breathe.”
Sammy tapped the end of his cigar on the counter to knock off an inch of ashes. They fell to the floor, blending into the dirt and grime. “Get used to it.”
“How’s business?” I waved a path through the smoke.
“Men always need car parts.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“Your clubs doing okay?”
He chuckled a bit. “Men always need to fool with women.”
“You’re the smartest guys in town.”
He shrugged. “So why are you back here?”
“A couple more questions. From the other day.”
The sports page covered the counter and he went back to the box scores. Sammy lacked a full-tank when it came to brains, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. “Tony should be back in a few minutes. He went to pick up some things.”
“Tony? Why do I need Tony?”
“You need to talk to him. He remembers all the old stuff.”
“What stuff? I thought you guys always worked together.”
“Tony did all the hustle. I was the errand boy.” He pulled out a ledger and began making some notations.
“I’m hearing all these crazy stories about when you guys worked the docks and stolen money and a guy named Donny Dixon.”
He glanced up and huffed. “Dixon? Going back some years.”
“You worked with him?”
He put the ledger away and folded the newspaper. “Like I said, I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. I got some inventory to do.” And he was saved by the bell—or more like the rumble of Tony’s Mustang. “There’s Tony now.”
Sammy retreated to his inventory and Tony came through the door flinging sarcasm. “Johnny, back for another drink?”
“Tony, not a very warm welcome. What if I’m a paying customer?”
“Are you buying something?”
“We had such a pleasant visit the other day. I can’t stay away.”
He put two bags of office supplies on the counter and then unwrapped and lit up a new cigar. “I got busy.” He blew his cigar smoke in my direction.
“Happen to see the news two nights ago?”
“No, can’t say I did. I don’t like to watch the news. Depresses me.”
Sammy snickered.
“Didn’t hear about Carlo Bocci?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Bocci. Carlo Bocci. The CPA who blew his brains out.”
“Guess he was watching too much news.”
This time Sammy let out with a hard laugh. Even Tony chuckled at his own joke.
“Problem is, I watched him pull the trigger.”
“You were with him?” I nodded. “Wow. They pick you up as a suspect?”
“For a minute.”
He leaned back against the shelves and crossed his arms. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”
“Remember I said my client gave me two names? Tony the Scar first, Carlo Bocci second. Why would that be?”
He shrugged. “Got me.”
“You ever meet him?”
