Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  “No, Joe, I guess I don’t.”

  Joe laughed. “He said, ‘Kid, that’s exactly what I mean. Don’t be asking a whole lot of questions, complicating every goddamned thing till you don’t know which way is up. Just keep it simple: you’re a Roman Catholic, a Met fan, and a goddamned Demo crat. Period.’ ”

  They ate in silence for a while. When Joe spoke, his voice had lost some of its usual irony, a subtle seriousness now permeating his tone.

  “As for that thing with Amy, that first case of ours, let me say this. I knew then, like I know now, you were pissed about that. Especially since you figured at the time I thought it was a more serious crime. I thought it was a rape case. Well, not that I need to, but I’ll explain it to you, ’cause I like you, you’re a good cop, a good guy.” He smiled into McQueen’s eyes. “Hell, kid, you’re my partner, so I’ll explain it. It’s something you already know, you just don’t know you know it. Remember when you were in uniform? You’d roll up on some disaster, some murder or rape or what ever? What’d ya do? You secured the scene, grabbed hold of any witnesses, and called the boss. When the detectives got there, you turned it over to them and went back to looking for the best deal on donuts. Why? ’Cause there was nothing else you could do, that’s why. It was out of your hands. You can’t share in all the pain all the time, it’s not humanly possible. You work a case, okay, that’s different. Some of the stench will stick to you, some of the pain will be yours. But it’s different, because it’s your case. You can do something, like now, with this poor old guy and his broken old heart on account of Spike getting whacked. Maybe we can find this guy, this Donzi, lock him up, send him upstate. Let him think about what he did to that dog while he’s getting raped in the shower.

  “You see, Mike, I didn’t think we’d be involved in the investigation of Amy’s case. And I’ve got my policy: don’t share the pain if you can’t help. You’ve gotta minimize what you carry around from all the wreckage, otherwise you turn into something not much different from the skells we hunt down. You turn into some bitter old drunk smacking the wife around ’cause she overcooked the pasta.”

  McQueen nodded, realizing that Joe had been right: he had known all this. He just never knew he had known it.

  McQueen frowned as he spoke to Rizzo. “But that’s not what you said, Joe. At the time, I mean. Remember? You said you didn’t want the case because you didn’t want extra work. You only changed your mind when you remembered that old case and that maybe it was the same perp. You figured we’d close the new case quickly and pad the stats. Remember?”

  Joe nodded, no offense on his face or in his mind. “

  Sure I remember. Back then, you were a stranger to me, just some kid I may or may not be working with again. But now, now it’s different. Now you’re my partner, so I’ll tell you this: you wanted to go to the squad boss and ask for Amy’s case, remember? He’d figure you had a motive for that, a reason. He’d figure what I figured: you wanted to get to know her better, catch the guy, maybe impress her a little. He’d probably have given you the case, and that, my friend, is a favor you owe him. You should avoid asking for favors unless it’s absolutely necessary. Do favors, don’t ask for them. That way, when you need something, people owe you, you don’t owe them. Back with Amy’s case, I said whatever I said because it didn’t matter at the time. Now, you’re my partner. It’s different. Now we tell each other the truth. In the middle of all the lies we swim around in, we at least tell each other the truth.”

  McQueen reflected for a moment before saying, “Yeah, Joe, the way of the world— lies and favors. It kind of sucks sometimes, doesn’t it.”

  Now Rizzo laughed, and when he spoke again, the old ironic wise-guy tone was back in his voice.

  “Well, hang on, kid, because things are going to get a lot better. The women are coming on strong. Every day they grab a little more of the power, a little more of the world. It’s not much, not yet, but it’s definitely coming. And once the broads are in charge, you watch the difference. The men got to run things for the first few thousand years, and an argument can be made that they couldn’t have fucked it up any worse than they did. But don’t worry, ’cause here come the women.”

  McQueen sat back in his seat in not-completely- mock surprise.

  “Joe, say it ain’t so, buddy. A Demo crat, okay, I can deal with that. But a feminist, too? Are you sure you’re even a real cop?”

  “Don’t worry, Mike, I ain’t wearing pan ties under these Kmart chinos, relax. But I’ll tell you this. You ever hear of an old broad named Golda Meir? Ring any bells?”

  “Yeah, I know the name. Prime minister or premier or what ever of Israel. Long time ago, I think way back in the sixties.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Tough old lady, bet she iced a few ragheads in her day. But she once said something that I’ll never forget. Something that no man, not Winston Churchill, not Eisenhower, not Anwar Sadat, no man in her position could’ve even thought to say. She said, ‘The fighting between the Arabs and the Jews will stop when the Arabs learn to love their children more than they hate us.’ See what I mean? That’s the way a woman thinks. When they’re running things, the wars will stop. Stop cold. Because women see warfare as nothing more than killing one another’s children, which, by the way, is just what it is. But men, they’re okay with that. You kill mine, I kill yours, let’s see who’s got the biggest dick. But the women, they’re too smart for that. You watch, Mike. It’s comin’.”

  They finished their meal in relative silence and returned to the gray Impala. Rizzo took the wheel and swung a wide U-turn across the four lanes of Fourth Avenue, pointing the hood northbound toward the heart of the borough, the downtown area. The morning rush hour was thick, and Rizzo tapped the steering hub judiciously, sounding the car’s siren in short, assertive “wup-wups” to help them weave through the traffic.

  When they arrived at the squat, city-block- long concrete hulk of a building that housed the Kings County State Supreme Court, Rizzo parked in the No Standing Zone on Adams Street and tossed the NYPD Official Business parking plaque on the dashboard. They nodded a greeting to the court officer assigned to the outside security post and entered the lower lobby. They sidestepped the magnetometers by displaying their badges to one of the officers manning it and walked through the hallway. McQueen followed Joe to the elevators, and they rode in silence to the tenth floor.

  With their badges draped around their necks, they entered the clerk’s office and stepped behind the information counter into the heart of the long, brightly illuminated room. Rizzo glanced around and spotted the man he was looking for. They walked to the rear of the room to a wide, neatly kept wooden desk. A man of about forty sat behind it, his gold clerk’s shield displayed from the breast pocket of his open-collared sport shirt.

  “Hello, Tim, how are you?” Joe said.

  The man looked up from behind the desk through wire-rimmed glasses and rose to shake Joe’s hand.

  “Hey, Joe, I didn’t see you come in. How are you?”

  They shook and McQueen was introduced.

  “Mike McQueen, my new partner. This here is Tim O’Connor. He’s a boss up here, nothing he can’t get done when you need somethin’.”

  O’Connor, a former court officer and now supervising court clerk, shook off Joe’s comment casually.

  “Yeah, and it’s rocket science. Only a genius could get this stuff done.” The three of them sat. A Dell computer occupied the side of O’Connor’s desk.

  O’Connor listened as Rizzo explained what he needed and why. When Joe had finished, O’Connor frowned.

  “Sounds like one of your long shots to me, Joe, but what the hell, it doesn’t cost anything to try. Let’s see what we get.”

  The clerk took the rap sheet from Rizzo’s hands and scanned it with a quick, experienced eye. He keyed up the computer and punched in the digits of Donzi’s NYSID number. They watched the screen and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, they returned to the Impala. R
izzo pulled the car away from the curb, cleared the end of the ser vice road, and swung a U-turn in front of the Marriott Hotel on the east side of Adams Street, opposite the court house. He drove toward the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan headquarters of the New York County district attorney.

  The assistant district attorney whose small, cluttered office they found themselves in was a local celebrity of sorts.

  Darrel Jordan had been born and raised in a middle-class African-American neighborhood of Queens, New York. He had been the star of his high school basketball team, and in his se nior year the college recruiters had come calling. His father was a graduate of Queens’s St. John’s University and so Darrel’s choice had been an easy one.

  After leading St. John’s to two division championships, Jordan had gone as a fifth-round draft selection to the NBA and the Detroit Pistons. A Rookie of the Year trophy and two MVP years were followed by a devastating knee injury that sent him back to Queens and the campus of St. John’s. But this time it was St. John’s law school. Although his undergraduate years had been on a full athletic scholarship, Jordan had been a serious student who actually earned his B.A. degree in history, with a strong minor in public administration. Now, with a pocketful of NBA cash, he pursued and earned his law degree.

  The celebrity-conscious Manhattan D.A.’s office eagerly recruited him, and he had now been there for almost eight years. It was common knowledge that when he satisfied the minimum requirement of ten years as an active member of the New York Bar, a judgeship on the New York County Supreme Court would be his for the asking.

  As they sat in his office, McQueen found himself in the unfamiliar but satisfying position of at last having one up on Rizzo: the A.D.A. was an old acquaintance of Mike’s. They had worked together on more than a few occasions when McQueen was a patrol officer in Manhattan. Jordan prepared and prosecuted cases that arose from arrests McQueen had made. They had spent many long hours together, with Jordan preparing the young officer for his courtroom testimony.

  After they had caught up on one another’s lives, Jordan leaned across the desk and spoke directly to Rizzo.

  “You can’t imagine how happy I was to get that call from you today. This guy Donzi, he made my skin crawl. Anything I can do to help put him away, just ask. I’ve tried this guy twice. Sent him away for three years the first time, but he got an acquittal on me the second time out. Goddamned jury bought his bullshit alibi hook, line, and sinker, and he walked right out the front door.”

  Rizzo shrugged. “It happens. Especially in Manhattan with all these bubble-brained liberal yuppies who learned from the movies that the guy on trial is always innocent, no matter how much evidence says he’s guilty.” Rizzo’s face tightened as though he had just swallowed something very evil.

  “You remember that old Henry Fonda film, Twelve Angry Men? That movie got more murderers acquitted than F. Lee Bailey and Johnny Cochran combined.”

  McQueen smiled into Jordan’s face. “Joe’s a Demo crat, Dar, can you tell? He’s a feminist, too.”

  Jordan laughed and raised his hands, palms out, toward the pair. “Don’t get me involved in any domestic disputes here, gentlemen. If a fight were to break out, what with me being the only gentleman of color in the room, the cops will surely lock my ass up and give you two medals. Just tell me how I can be of help.”

  “It’s like this, Darrel,” Joe said. “We learned from ‘crims’ that you tried this asshole twice and they were both long trials. You lived, ate, and drank this guy for a lot of days. You must have some trial notes, a thick file, a bunch of stuff that potentially may help us. I’m looking for a tie-in to Brooklyn. Bensonhurst, specifically, but anyplace in Brooklyn. This guy didn’t just pluck an address out of a phone book and then drive in from Queens or grab a subway from the city. This was just a two-bit residential burglary, he grabbed some cash and a few old rings and jewelry, some silverware and electronics. He didn’t even bother to hit the upstairs apartment. This was a pocket change job, a target of opportunity, something a junkie would do to score a bag or two. But Donzi’s no junkie. He just needed a few bucks, so he hit a con ve nient mark. He was in the neighborhood, so he thought he’d drop in, you see? If he was living in Queens, or over here, he’da hit a house nearby. What I need to know is this: Why was he in my precinct? What brought him there?”

  Joe sat back in his seat. “Any ideas?”

  Jordan looked at Rizzo, then at Mike, then back to Rizzo.

  “This is about an isolated house burglary? That’s what this is?” He shook his head and turned down his mouth. “You boys in Brooklyn got a lot of time on your hands, I see. Unless …” Now he smiled at them and shook his head slowly. “How good-looking is the lady of this burglarized house? Or is she a relative of yours? Aunt Millie, maybe? It doesn’t matter to me, you understand, but I am a little bit curious.”

  McQueen answered for them. “It’s not like that, Darrel,” he said. “This is totally legit. The guy that got hit was eighty-five years old, lived for his little mutt of a dog. Donzi carved the dog up and left it in the kitchen for the guy to find. The old man is just blown away. It really pissed Joe off. Me too, I guess. It’s that simple.”

  Jordan looked from one to the other and then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “If you say that’s the reason, so okay.”

  “That’s the reason,” Rizzo said.

  Jordan sighed. “Well, you’re right about the notes and files, there’s a ton of it. Two big folders, if I remember. I used part of the first folder at the second trial, thought it might have something that would help me. It didn’t. Maybe it’ll be luckier for you guys. I’ll have them pulled and sent over to the Six-Two by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” McQueen said.

  “What about your own memory? Anything come to mind?” Rizzo asked.

  Jordan shook his head sadly. “No, I’ve been going over it as we spoke and I can’t recall any ties to Brooklyn. But hey, I try thirty cases a year. There could very well be something, and I’m just not remembering. If there is, it should be in the files. I hope you can read my handwriting.”

  Rizzo smiled and stood to leave. He extended his hand across the desk and shook Jordan’s hand.

  “I hope it’s better than your fuckin’ jump shot used to be,” he said.

  BOTH RIZZO and McQueen were off duty for the next two days, and when they returned to the squad room at four p.m. on Sunday afternoon, they found two thick trial folders waiting for them. As a security precaution, someone had removed them from their Federal Express jackets, examined them, time-clocked them as received, and then stacked them on Rizzo’s desk.

  “Perfect timing,” Rizzo said. “Sundays are always slow in this precinct. Instead of watching one of those stupid-ass stock car races, you can read through one of these files.”

  McQueen punched at Rizzo’s arm. “They’re not stupid, and anyway, the season ended last week.”

  “Thank God” was Joe’s only reply.

  McQueen took the top folder, the one representing the most recent Donzi trial and acquittal, and crossed the room to his own desk. He dropped it on the corner and checked his messages. He spent an hour making calls on some of the various cases he and Joe were carrying. Sunday was always a good time to find people at home, and Rizzo had told him that if you were going to speak to people over the phone about police matters, it was generally better to do it when you could reach them at home.

  “No one wants to explain to you how Ju nior threw Granny down the steps last night while their coworkers are sitting right next to them listening. Makes for an embarrassing coffee break.”

  When he hung up the phone, he turned back to the file.

  An hour later, McQueen’s tired eyes narrowed and he squinted at Darrel Jordan’s scribbled trial notes. He turned the page sideways and lowered his head closer to it. With a faint smile, he flipped back through the file and rechecked a prior entry. Satisfied, he pulled the two looseleaf sheets free from their binder and crossed the ro
om.

  “Joe, I’ve got something,” he said.

  Rizzo looked up with watery eyes. “I hope so,” he said, reaching for a cigarette. “ ’Cause all I’ve got is a goddamned headache.”

  “You can’t smoke in the squad room, Joe,” Mike said, glancing at the Chesterfield. “It’s bad enough in the car.”

  “Oh, screw it, who’s here? Just us, and you don’t mind.”

  “Ever hear about secondhand smoke, Joe? You’re killing me with it.”

  Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, that’s it. Secondhand smoke. Or maybe I’m just stinkin’ up your fancy shirt.”

  Mike raised a hand in surrender. “Never mind, Joe. Smoke. Kill us both.”

  Rizzo laughed, but put the Chesterfield down, unlit. “What’d you find?”

  McQueen laid the two pages of handwritten trial notes before Joe. The first was numbered at the top in black ink, “8,” the second in the same ink, “13.”

  “It’s lucky thirteen, Joe. I think.”

  Rizzo squinted down at the pages, following McQueen’s pointing finger to page eight.

  In the right-hand margin, in Jordan’s difficult scrawl, Rizzo read, “Girl in second row, right side. Second day she’s here, smiled at D. Ask D.I.— who is she?”

  Rizzo looked up. “D.I.,” he said. “That would be the detective-investigator assigned to assist Jordan at the trial.”

  McQueen nodded. “Darrel wrote a note to remind himself to ask the D.I. to check out this woman who showed up at court. Now look over here, page thirteen.”

  Rizzo followed the finger. Halfway down the page, scribbled in an offhand, inconsequential way, Jordan had noted the results of the D.I.’s efforts.

  “D.I. says girlfriend of D.— name Geanna Fago, lives in Brooklyn.”

  Rizzo looked up with a burn of glee in his eyes.

  “Mike,” he said, “if we struck out with this, the only idea I had left was to go to the Department of Corrections’ computers and try to find an ex-cellmate of Donzi’s that maybe now was in a pinch and could use us to help him out, quid pro quo. But that was gonna be even more of a long shot than this.”