“I’ll let you know,” said Tony. “Where did you make the payoff?”
“At the Cloisters—that museum on the hill,” he said, seeing Tony’s frown. “There’s an old castle up there. They told me to come up the main road so they’d see if anyone was with me. Halfway up, this schwarze comes out of the dark and puts his hand up like a traffic cop. Only he’s got a black mask like the Lone Ranger. There he was, the black Lone Ranger. So, I stop. He takes the money. Tells me to keep going up the road while they count the money, and if it’s all there my partner will be standing in the road when I come back down. I go up, I come down—but there’s no one there, no schwarze, no partner, nothing. Drek. Do you understand drek?”
“I know drek: shit,” said Tony flatly.
“You got a yiddishe kopf.”
“I’ve got an Italian head,” Tony said. “You didn’t recognize anyone? You can’t tell me anything else, not even what kind of car they had?”
“What can I tell you? A schwarze Lone Ranger comes out of the dark and disappears and that’s all I know. Except the son of a bitch killed my partner and kept my twenty-five thousand.”
7:30 P.M.
Gianni sat at the desk in the garage office, smoking a cigarette. Frankie the Pig sat next to him. The other men were ranged about the small office, listening and smoking, leaning against the walls and counters.
“All right, let’s see what we have,” Gianni said. “So far, we know there’s been one kidnaping and one almost-kidnaping where they were paid off for Gugi’s grandson without having to snatch anyone. And we know colored men were involved in both incidents. We also know both victims had something to do with the rackets in Harlem or the black sections of the Bronx. But that’s about all we know—not much to go on.”
“Except that they must be real shit,” said Frankie the Pig. “They don’t respect anything, even little kids. They’d kill Sal as soon as look at him.” He gazed back at Gianni. “When these guys call tonight, what are we going to do?”
“Talk to them. See what’s on their minds. See how much they want.”
“We better give them what they want,” said Frankie the Pig. “These crazy bastards’ll get tired of keeping Sal alive, and they’ll croak him.”
“Not too fast,” said Gianni. “They’ll only think about killing Sal after they’re sure we’re going to come through with the money. But we’re not going to take a recording—we’ll need real proof that Sal is alive, and that he’s still alive at the payoff. That’ll take time to arrange, and it gives us more time to track them down.”
“How can we make them give us proof?” asked Tony.
“We’ll have to figure that out,” Gianni replied.
“I’m for making the deal as soon as we can—tonight. Let’s not chance it,” said Frankie the Pig. “Let’s arrange the payoff someplace we can get to first and rig it out so we grab these tutzone bastards.”
“I realize we’re not dealing with Einsteins,” said Gianni, “but they’re not going to get suckered into a trap.”
“Let’s do it fast,” said Gus. “Let’s try and grab them.”
“Yeah, let’s get them,” Bobby Matteawan hissed.
Gianni shook his head. “We have to assume they’re not going to let themselves be trapped. We have to figure it their way and beat them at their own game. If we force it, they may kill Sal.”
Frankie the Pig frowned. “What are we going to do?” he said, “let them make suckers out of us?” He looked around.
“I’m not worrying about us right now—only about Sal,” Gianni shot back. He looked directly into Frankie the Pig’s eyes.
Frankie the Pig nodded.
“Now, how much money do we have?” asked Gianni.
“We can put together about twenty without any problem,” said Frankie the Pig.
“What will you do with that, give them a down payment?”
“What do you mean?”
“You think they’ll let you get away that easy when they got twenty-five for some nickel-and-dime hood uptown, and fifty from a broken-down hobo in the Bronx?”
“That’s what we’ve got and if they don’t like it, they can fuck themselves,” said Frankie the Pig quickly.
Gianni kept silent. He puffed his cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. It lofted up, drifting toward the wall and a calendar picturing a naked girl. The smoke bounced off the calendar softly.
“And that’s the final word?” Gianni asked them. “Anything over 20,000 and they can fuck themselves? And Sal?”
The others looked around.
Tony’s thin lips pursed, his eyes hot with anger. “If a creep junkie in the Bronx can pay fifty thousand, what are we, pikers?”
“He wasn’t a junkie; he was a dealer,” said Gus.
“It’s all the same shit to me,” said Tony. “Well?” He glared at them in turn, his steely eyes resting on Frankie the Pig.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” said Frankie.
“Why do you think? You’re second man here—what are you boss of, a bunch of pikers?”
Frankie the Pig’s jaw muscles flexed. He turned to Gianni. “How much do you figure?”
“Maybe seventy-five.”
“Seventy-five? How the hell are we going to come up with that?”
“You mean Sal’s not worth it?” said Joey. “Haven’t we all made bread for our kids’ mouths with Sal? Hasn’t he always been a stand-up guy? We’re talking about his life, not a boost for his daughter’s wedding.”
“Sure he’s worth it,” said Gus, “but it’s still a lot of dough to come up with just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“We’ve all got our boys in the street,” said Tony; “everybody’ll have to dig in. And we’ve got plenty of other people who owe us—let them kick in too. We’re always there when they need something.”
“We don’t need any charity,” said Frankie the Pig.
“What charity?” said Tony. “It’s our money—we’ll get it back in circulation as soon as we get Sal back.”
“That’s the idea,” said Gianni. “Sal’s men won’t let him down. Certainly I won’t let him down. Get everybody who owes you money and have them collect in advance, Frankie—make them come up with it right now.”
“Okay. We’ll get all the money we need. Otherwise there’ll be some broken heads. Now listen,” Frankie said. “Get everybody out there working. We’ll take care of the big bosses ourselves; let your boys talk to everybody in the street.
“Okay?” he asked, looking at Gianni.
Gianni nodded. “Once we have that solved, at least we’ll know we can make whatever ransom they ask.”
“But we’re not going to stand still and be taken like suckers,” said Tony.
“Of course not,” said Gianni. “But right now they have a little edge on us, don’t you think? We’ll bargain with them. But if they put their foot down at some point we’ll have to play it like suckers, or we’re going to find Sal thrown in front of the restaurant.”
Their eyes showed they were thinking of the night before.
“We can’t get it all together tonight, Gianni,” said Frankie the Pig.
“Of course not,” said Gianni. “I don’t even want you to. The fact that we have to collect it gives us some time to maneuver and try to locate them meanwhile.”
“When we find them, when we find them …” said Frankie, opening his palms, starting to work up steam.
“Relax, Frankie,” said Gianni. “We have work to do.”
“Well how are we going to find them? You said yourself we have nothing to go on.”
“We haven’t much to go on,” said Gianni. “We know they must be connected with narcotics or numbers. And they know the setup of a couple of mobs—they knew who’d have money and how to get at them. If we had time we could trace every contact of the people they kidnaped—their suppliers, messengers, runners, customers—and that’s where we’d find them.”
Tony nodded. “Let’s go out
and do it. Let’s get all those people in here.”
“We don’t have that much time,” said Gianni. “We’ll have to do it later. Don’t worry—We’re narrowing the gap on them right this minute; we just have to keep working at it.”
The garage door opened. It was Angie the Kid, his collar up around his ears, his hat brim pulled down tight. He shook the rain off himself.
“Did you find anything?” asked Gianni.
“Did I! I found that guy in the Bronx that was kidnaped. They took him to an apartment and kept him two days, then let him go after his people paid thirty-five thousand.”
“They kept him two days?” asked Gianni.
“Yeah,” replied Angie the Kid, excited at his own discovery.
“Colored men?”
“Right.”
“Does he know where he was kept?”
“Somewhere in Queens, he figures,” replied Angie, billowing with pride.
“Where is he—did you bring him back with you?”
Angie the Kid gaped at Gianni, his pride subsiding. “No.”
“Why not, you dummy,” said Frankie the Pig.
“Take it easy, Frankie,” said Gianni, “Angie’s done fine. He’s gotten us closer to this than anyone else. Angie, jump in your car. Go get this man and bring him back as soon as you can. Gus, go with him.”
“Sure, Gianni, sure,” said Angie the Kid. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think we’d want him around.”
“You did well, Angie,” said Gianni. “Now go get him.”
“Okay, Gianni.” Angie the Kid pulled his collar up around his ears and went outside again. Gus put on his coat and followed.
Frankie the Pig stared after them angrily.
“He’s all right,” said Gianni; “just young. It’ll be all right. Besides, we have thinking to do now.”
The phone rang. They looked at it. Gianni let it ring again before his hand went to the receiver.
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice on the other end. “How late is your kitchen open tonight?”
Gianni shrugged. “Until about 9:30, madam.”
“Do you have pasta fazool on the menu tonight?”
“If we don’t we’ll make it specially for you.”
Bobby Matteawan began to laugh. Frankie turned; Bobby quieted, glaring back at him.
“How come someone called the booth instead of the listed phone in back?” asked Tony.
“Because Mike has both numbers on his matches,” said Frankie the Pig.
The phone rang again.
“If it’s a customer tell him we’re closed,” said Bobby Matteawan.
“Hello,” said Gianni.
“We called last night about Sal. Is Frankie the Pig there?” said the voice on the other end.
“I’ve been waiting for your call,” said Gianni. “Frankie asked me to talk to you.”
“Who are you, man?”
“I’m the one you want to talk to.”
“I want to talk to the man in charge,” said the voice.
“Then start talking,” said Gianni.
“Okay, man, I’ll talk business. The business is Sal. You know Sal?”
“I know Sal. What about him?”
“Who are you, man? I mean, I don’t want to waste my time with just nobody.”
“I’m the one you want to talk to, so talk. If we’ve got business, let’s do it.” Gianni was cold and precise.
“We want a hundred thousand,” said the voice.
“A hundred’s a lot of money,” Gianni said, so the others would know.
Frankie the Pig stood suddenly, his face twitching with anger. He reached out for the phone.
Gianni rose quickly, his eyes burning into Frankie’s face. He put his hand over the receiver: “Sit down, or I swear you’ll never walk out of this place alive.”
Gianni looked around. Tony jumped off the counter, his body tensed, waiting for the word. Frankie the Pig’s hand stayed in midair.
“It ain’t so much when you figure it’s going to buy a friend’s life,” said the voice. “That’s the price.”
“It’ll take time. I don’t know how much we can put together,” said Gianni. “After all, this is the first we know of it. We’re not in narcotics so we don’t have a lot of cash around.”
“We know what you guys are into,” said the voice. “We know for too long. That’s over now, baby. You can get the money. And you better get it. We’ll call again tomorrow night. Same time, same place. Be ready to move.”
“We don’t want back a dead man,” said Gianni. “We’ve got to be sure our man’s alive.”
“You get the bread, you’re not going to get a dead man. Cross us, and he’ll be deader than dead. And don’t think you can string this out. Tomorrow at eight.” The phone on the other end went dead.
8:45 P.M.
Lieutenant Schmidt pulled the earphones away from his ears and slipped them off his head. He looked at Quinn and Feigin. They were standing in the room, their listening post in P.S. 21.
“Well, we got a kidnaping all right,” said Schmidt.
Feigin wound the recorded tape back onto the spool. “But who kidnaped Sal?”
“The answer to that’ll get you the cigar,” said Quinn.
“The only thing we know for sure is that Sal Angeletti was snatched by a jigaboo,” said Schmidt. “Other than that, we’re in the dark.”
“You mean, in the darkie,” said Quinn. He lit the small stub of a cigar that he had been alternately chewing and smoking for the last hour.
“That’s very cute,” said Schmidt. “If you were as clever as you’re cute, maybe you could find out who’s behind this.”
“What do you want us to do, Lou?” asked Feigin.
“We can try questioning those mugs down at the Two Steps Down Inn,” Quinn suggested.
“They’ll clam up like nothing happened,” said Feigin.
“Not only that, we’ll blow our cover to boot,” said Schmidt. “The minute we show up they’ll figure out pretty fast that we have the restaurant tapped.” He thought a moment. “Still, it won’t make any difference—they can’t very well yank this wire or the colored guys won’t be able to call them and they might get Sal killed.”
“That’s right on target,” said Feigin.
“I wonder who’s on this end of the phone. Either of you recognize his voice?” asked Schmidt.
Quinn shook his head.
Feigin finished installing a new tape in the recorder and put the voice tape in an envelope. “Must be Gianni Aquilino. Didn’t Compagna’s man Sonny call him today, asking about Matteawan?”
“That’s right,” said Schmidt. “This is big now, with Aquilino and Compagna in it. We better stay close.”
“You want us to go down and pull them in, Lou?” asked Quinn.
“Not just yet. I don’t want them to start covering their tracks until we have as much information as we can get. First thing I want is for one of you to call Central Intelligence and see if anything else like this has been happening around town. Sounds to me as if they’ve already made a couple of snatches. The guy fished out of the river this morning might have been one of them.”
“I’ll get on that,” said Quinn.
“Jack, you call communications. Have them put a tap on Angeletti’s phone.”
“We already got that, Lou.”
“Not at the joint; try one on his house. Maybe we can pick up something coming in or out of there.”
“I don’t think the colored guys would be calling there,” said Quinn.
“I don’t expect them to,” said Schmidt; “but we’ve got to follow the victim to get the collar.”
“And if we don’t act fast, we’ll have a murder on our hands,” said Feigin. “Either the jigs’ll murder Sal, or these wops’ll start shooting holes in everybody in sight.”
“All right. Let’s get on it,” said Schmidt. “Tomorrow morning maybe we’ll see what they’re willing to tell us by themselves. When they wire Angeletti’s ap
artment, Quinny, have the machine put in here with this one. If you need another, use the one in the office for the time being.”
“Okay, Lou.”
The three men left the room and the custodian let them out of the school.
10:00 P.M.
Angie the Kid and Gus entered the garage. With them was a thin man with a hooked nose and dark, close-set eyes.
“This is Carmelo Bianci,” said Angie, “the guy I told you about.” He was relieved now, his face showing the strain he had been enduring as he had gone to fetch him. Gus entered the office and stood to the side.
“Hello,” said Gianni, extending his hand.
Bianci looked at Gianni with eyes that remembered the old days. He stood stiffly, just staring. His hand reached out blindly.
“Sit down,” said Gianni.
Frankie the Pig rose and put out a chair for him directly in front of the desk. He studied Bianci. Angie the Kid leaned against the counter next to Gus.
“Just call me Mickey,” said Bianci, still standing.
“Okay, Mickey,” said Gianni, pointing him to the chair. “I understand you were kidnaped.”
“I sure was,” said Mickey, “by some mulanyoms. I’m telling you, they scared the shit out of me. Like I told Angie here, they come and grab me in the place where I hang out, you know?”
“We don’t know, Mickey,” said Gianni. “What place is that?”
“I’m at this place, the Fireside, over in the Bronx. It’s a bar. Not a bad joint.”
“Go on,” said Gianni.
“Well, like I said,” Mickey continued, smiling a little at them, “I hang out in this joint. I use it like an office.”
“What racket are you in?” asked Frankie the Pig.
“A little of everything,” he shrugged; “wherever I can earn.”
“Are you in drugs?” asked Gianni.
“Some. You know, a lot of guys—girls too, but I don’t like to fool around with them—a lot of guys want the stuff. What the hell, you know?”
“You deal with coloreds?” asked Gianni.
“Sure, they buy it. They ain’t got much money, though, except Friday and Saturday. But there’s volume, so it makes up for it.”
Sicilian Defense Page 8
