Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

Sean looked from one to the other. “A wooden shoe, okay? I think it was one of those wooden shoes, like they got in Holland.”

  Mike and Joe glanced at each other, then back to Sean.

  “Yeah, a wooden shoe,” the man repeated. “With wings on it. You know, like a logo or something.”

  “YES,” JOHN Morgan said, “she was spending time with some motorcycle guy.”

  It was the following day, and the two detectives were interviewing the prom date and former boyfriend of Rosanne Daily. They found him working in the cluttered storeroom of a small bookshop on Third Avenue called A Novel Idea. After completing his freshman year at college, John was now home for the summer.

  Joe looked into the young, eager face of the boy. He seemed very glad to hear that the detectives were searching for Rosanne. The night before the detectives had gotten little information from the surly, unpleasant group that was gathered at the rear of McDougal’s. If anything, there had been an attempt to mislead the detectives, the result of a mistaken sense of loyalty to their perceived fellow misfit, Sally from the Alley.

  But Morgan was different, a good kid from a nice family. He had met Rosanne through that very family. His mother had long been friends with Mrs. Daily, although the friendship had not fully survived John’s involvement with Rosanne.

  “My mom did everything she could to get me to stop seeing Roe,” he had told them. “I finally realized she was right, and I ended it. Roe’s mother was pretty upset. I guess she thought I could help Roe somehow. You know, calm her down a little, maybe straighten her out.”

  “Could you?” Mike had asked gently.

  John Morgan had smiled sadly. “No. No way. It was way over my head.”

  Rizzo smiled at the boy and continued the questioning.

  “John,” he asked, “do you know who this motorcycle guy was? Did you ever hear his name?”

  The boy shook his head. “No. I would only get to speak to Roe when I ran into her, you know, mostly by the house. I live just down the block from her. Once we split up, that was it. She kind of hated me for a while. I still feel bad about that.”

  “Did you ever see the guy?” Rizzo asked.

  “No, not really. One time, though, I guess Roe’s parents were away or just out, and I saw a big, black Harley in their driveway. But I never actually saw the guy.”

  They spoke for twenty minutes, and the detectives, despite John’s cooperation, had again learned next to nothing. The boy had no idea where Rosanne could be. He only wished he did; his concern for her was genuine.

  “I hope you can find her,” he said, as they shook hands to part.

  “We’ll try,” Mike answered. “You call us if you hear anything.”

  They had a similar outcome when they visited the grand, sweeping manor on Shore Road that was home to Judith Hansen, the young woman who was once Rosanne’s closest childhood friend. Judith had not seen nor heard from her in well over a year.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, a sweet sadness in her voice. “I wish I could help. What ever you learn, and what ever you hear about Rosanne, try to remember this: she’s really a very nice person, very kind and caring and generous. She’s just sick. It’s not her fault; it’s that horrid illness. Please don’t judge her. Just find her and get her some help. It sickens me to think of where she might be, and under what circumstances. Please, find her.”

  And so they had left the elegant home and driven off into the streets of Brooklyn to try and do just that.

  Find her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MCQUEEN CLOSED THE DOOR behind him, tossing his car keys onto the small table in the foyer. He glanced at his wristwatch. He had more than enough time to shower, dress, and meet his former college roommate for dinner and drinks. He was looking forward to an eve ning of rehashing the good times from his student days. As he headed for the bedroom, the flashing red message light on his answering machine caught his eye. He ambled over and pressed the play button.

  “Hello, Detective McQueen,” he heard an unfamiliar voice say in crisp, well-enunciated tones. “Inspector Manning here, David Manning. I’m at the Plaza, Community Affairs, Citywide Liaison. My number is 212-555- 8768. Give me a call when you get this message. I’m following your progress on the missing persons case you’re handling. Call me, please. Thanks.”

  McQueen frowned. It was only three in the afternoon, so he assumed he could reach Manning now. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

  “Good of you to call back, Mike,” Manning said. “I know how hard you’ve been working on this business we’re all caught up in. Lieutenant D’Antonio has been keeping me advised.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike answered.

  “Mike, I only called to thank you. On behalf of the mayor as well as myself. I know how hard you’ll keep working, and I’m sure we’ll have a good result.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll do our best.”

  “I know that, Mike, I do know that. And I’m sure you’re fully aware of the sensitive nature of this whole situation. A real family tragedy, I’m sure you realize that. Best to keep it all out of the po liti cal arena. Let’s just find this girl. Keep focused. Once you do, you can just walk away from the whole thing and let the family and the doctors handle it.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the plan.”

  “Good, good. And Mike, let me be very clear and very frank here: if this all goes smoothly, if everyone is happy at the end, no one is going to forget this. Certainly not I, but I assure you, the mayor and his people, not to mention the parents, no one will forget this. For a young man such as yourself, just starting out in the Detective Division, their memory can be a formidable profit for a job discreetly done. And your partner, Sergeant Rizzo, with his experience and reputation, can enjoy some lofty years when he chooses to retire. And a cop with his years on the job always has some little situation or problem he has to deal with. Not many of those I can’t straighten out, I must say. You see my point here, Mike. Regardless of either of your plans for the future, this whole thing can be quite beneficial.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Mike, I’ve got to jump off now. Please tell Rizzo what I said; I may not get a chance to call him directly. And give him my best. Tell him I said, ‘Go get ’em!’ Just one old cop to another.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “Good. I’m sure he will. Take care, Mike, I’m looking forward to meeting you at some point. Who knows, maybe we’ll even be working together at the Plaza in the future. Good-bye.”

  The phone went dead. Mike dropped into a chair next to the phone. He thought about what had just happened.

  Like Manning, McQueen knew Rizzo would understand. He would discuss it with Joe tomorrow.

  For to night, it was old friends and old memories, and he wasn’t going to allow himself to think about anything else.

  THE SMALL coffee shop on Reid Avenue was located in the heart of the black Brooklyn neighborhood known as Bedford-Stuyvesant. McQueen and Rizzo sat together at a small table in the rear, their breakfast before them. Rizzo glanced around at the other customers. They seemed to be oblivious to the casually dressed white visitors.

  “Years ago,” Rizzo said as he buttered his toast, “two white boys in here would be gettin’ looks to kill. Especially two white guys they made for cops. Nowadays, nobody seems to mind.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” McQueen asked.

  “Bet your ass it is,” Rizzo said, pushing the toast into his mouth. “It’ll be an even better thing when two black guys who aren’t cops can eat in Bensonhurst and not draw any stares. We’re still a couple of years away from that. But it’s coming.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments, and then McQueen spoke.

  “So, Joe, I got a phone call yesterday.”

  Rizzo looked up from his plate. “Oh?” he said. “DeMayo again?”

  Mike shook his head. “No. Not DeMayo. Inspector Manning, from the Plaza.”

  Rizzo frowned. “
Manning? Ain’t that the guy D’Antonio told us was kissin’ up to Daily?”

  McQueen nodded. “The very same.”

  A tight smile crossed Joe’s lips. “Tell me,” he said.

  When Mike finished reporting the conversation, he sipped at his coffee and asked, “So, Joe. What do you think it means?”

  Rizzo laughed. “Come on, Mike, you may be a new detective, but you been around life and the department for long enough. You know damn well what it means.”

  Mike smiled. “Yeah, I guess. But I wanted your take on it.”

  “Sure,” Joe said pleasantly. “Here it is: they want us to find this kid, get her to the hospital, then walk away and forget about it. I recently had a formerly great man tell me cops were good at that. Walkin’ away and forgettin’, I mean. I guess maybe he was on to something.”

  “And?” Mike pressed.

  “And, what ever we see, if we stumble across any skeletons in a closet somewhere, we ignore it. Then we get the payoff: you go to some suit-and- tie manicure job at the Plaza, and I get DeMayo off my ass. Plus, I get my paycheck padded for a year or so to jack up my final salary when I retire. I collect five or ten grand a year extra in my pension the rest of my life, Daily’s secrets stay safe, and everybody’s happy.”

  McQueen chewed his toast. “So Daily bit?” he said.

  Rizzo smiled broadly. “Like a fuckin’ largemouth bass. He musta had Manning punch us into the computer and see what they could do for us. They saw your record and education and figured you for a pretty boy Plaza decoration. Then they saw DeMayo was on my back and— bingo—problem solved. Their problem, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if Manning sized up DeMayo as a climber who’d be very happy to play ball.”

  “So Daily definitely has something to hide?” McQueen asked. Rizzo shook his head. “There ain’t no definites in this racket, kid. It could just be Daily wants to light a fire under us so we find Rosanne. So he can get reelected. Or maybe he’s afraid we’ll find out something else. Something he wants kept quiet.

  “Either way, if we play it right, we’ll come out better than we went in.”

  Mike shook his head slowly. “I knew this guy was molesting this kid, Joe. I knew it from the start.”

  Rizzo smiled around his coffee cup as he replied.

  “Mike, with all due respect, you didn’t know it then, and you still don’t know it. I told you, don’t wall yourself off with some half-assed theory that starts to look good. Keep an open mind.”

  “Then what, Joe? What is it? You know it’s something. It’s gotta be something.”

  Rizzo watched as a tall, very pretty black female entered the coffee shop, slipping sunglasses off her face. Her eyes met his, then she glanced toward Mike, sitting with his back to the door.

  “Oh, yeah, Mike. That it is. Something. Could even be what you’re thinking. But it could also just be some po liti cal bullshit. You know, keep the black sheep out of the papers. We’ll see. And now,” Rizzo said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and standing slowly, “I think we have a guest.”

  Priscilla Jackson greeted Mike with a broad smile as he also stood, turning to face her.

  “Hello, Partner,” she said, and they exchanged kisses. She pulled a chair over from an empty table and positioned it, then faced Rizzo across the table.

  “And you must be the incredible Joe Rizzo who Mike has forgotten me for.” She extended her hand and they shook. “Did Mike tell you I’m a dyke?”

  Rizzo laughed. “Really?” he said. “That’s funny, we were just talkin’ about wooden shoes the other day, and now I meet a dam.”

  Cil frowned. “A dam? What does that mean?”

  Rizzo smiled at her. “Well, a dyke is a dam in Holland, ain’t it?”

  A moment passed, and now it was Priscilla who smiled. “Okay, Joe, I get it. You’re cool, and I’m sorry. It’s just that, you know, with cops your age, I gotta be a little aggressive sometimes or they start getting witty, if you know what I mean.”

  Joe nodded. “I do, and apology accepted. Let’s sit down.”

  They made small talk and Priscilla ordered breakfast. When the waitress had refilled their coffee cups and moved away, Mike turned to his ex-partner.

  “Cil, we could have easily done this over the phone, but it was a good excuse to see you again, and I wanted you to meet Joe. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She shrugged and sipped her coffee. “I live three blocks from here, Mike, you know that. And I have to eat, so it’s no big deal. Really. I’m glad to see you and meet your new partner. So, what’s up?”

  “Cil, Joe and I are working on a missing persons case. A kid, nineteen-year- old daughter of a local politician. It’s kind of being done on the Q.T. because the guy has an election coming up in November, which is why we’d rather not go through the Intelligence Division with this.”

  She nodded. “Okay. What can I do for you?”

  “Mike mentioned you used to ride, Priscilla,” Joe said. “Motorcycles, I mean.”

  She nodded again. “Yeah, I rode from when I was just a kid. I stopped last year when I hit thirty because I figured if I took a bad fall, I might not bounce so well anymore. But I’ve still got the bike; it’s in my garage. Maybe someday I’ll fire it up again.”

  Joe shook his head. “Leave it where it is. Don’t push your luck.”

  “Cil,” Mike said. “I know you were mostly an in de pen dent, but you did ride with some clubs around here in Brooklyn, right?”

  “Yeah, I did. I rode with the Black Bitches when I was young and stupid, then later with the Cheetahs. When I came on the job, I rode with the Blue Knights for a while. You know, the cop club, all cops and law enforcement people. But what’s this got to do with your missing princess?”

  “Priscilla, you ever hear of a club that rides under a shoulder patch of a wooden shoe with wings? Ring any bells?”

  Priscilla sat back in her seat and rolled her large dark eyes at the two men.

  “Good-fuckin’- lord,” she said. “If your gal is with them, her ass is in big trouble.”

  Rizzo’s eyes lit up with the answer. Mike leaned closer to her and laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  “Cil, you know them? You know who they are?”

  She bobbed her head slowly. “I can’t believe you don’t know, Joe,” she said to Rizzo. “Mikey boy here, he’s new to the borough, but you, Joe, you’ve never crossed paths with The Dutchmen?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “Never even heard a them. Tell me.”

  “They ride out of Coney Island. Got a house over on Twenty-fourth or Twenty-fifth Street off Neptune Avenue. They all live there together, like some fucked-up version of an old hippie commune. They’re badasses, guys, real badasses. The one that founded The Dutchmen about twenty years ago is some lunatic from Holland. Zegling somethin’ or other. To get initiated into his gang, you’ve got to cut your earlobe off, or rather, he does it for you. With a scalpel, I heard. They got a guy in the gang used to be an Army medic. He sews them up after the lobe comes off. If you get promoted to captain, they cut the other one off. This guy from Holland, he figures it’s clever: you know, Dutchmen, Vincent van Gogh, cut your ear off. Get it?”

  Mike sat back in his seat. “Wow,” he said.

  Priscilla looked across the table at Joe. He waited until the newly arrived waitress laid Priscilla’s breakfast before her, then replied with a grin.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully. “I’m impressed. I never figured these guys to have any class. At least these monkeys have to learn something about van Gogh.”

  They sat in silence for a while, then Priscilla spoke.

  “Mike,” she said, “if you go see these guys, at a minimum take the Six-Oh sector car with you. They don’t like strange cops coming around, I remember that. They’re just pirates and misfits, guys so screwed up, even the other psychos won’t ride with them. There are a half dozen bad outlaw biker gangs in this city, running drugs and guns and extortion rings, and they all pay up to the Angels in M
anhattan, over in the East Village. But The Dutchmen worked out a deal with them; word is they pay just half the going rate. Don’t get me wrong, if it came down to a war there’d be a lot of dead Dutchmen and not just with their earlobes cut off, their balls, too. But the Angels know it wouldn’t be an easy ride, so they compromised. I gotta tell you gentlemen something. The word ‘compromise’ wasn’t in the Hell’s Angels dictionary until they ran across The Dutchmen.”

  Rizzo and McQueen exchanged looks. Rizzo shook his head and smiled sadly. “I think I’m too old for this shit, and Mike here is too pretty. You have any suggestions, Priscilla?”

  She thought for a moment, then spoke. “Try to work it through the Six-Oh. Get an audience with the leader, the Dutch guy. Have a sit-down, maybe with the precinct gang liaison officer along for the ride. He must have built some kind of relationship with them. If that doesn’t work, call me. I can put you into the leader of the Angels. Guy they call Papa Man. He’s got a woman helps him run the operation. Word is she’s bi, but lately, last couple of years, she’s been exclusive with him. They call her Mama Man. These people are all a little fucked up.”

  “You think?” Rizzo said, raising his eyebrows, a wide grin on his face. “They seem pretty kosher so far.”

  Priscilla shook her head, her pretty facial features now set in a grim clench.

  “Joe,” she said steadily, “I know your type, bro. That wise-ass eyetalian attitude of yours might do you right in Bensonhurst, but it won’t cut it with these guys. It’s like I told Mike when he came up to the East Side from the Village: it’s a whole different latitude. You better be ready to get real with these dudes.”

  Joe raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay,” he said, still smiling. “What ever you say. You’re the expert when it comes to the bikers.”

  Priscilla nodded and smiled back, her face relaxing a bit.

  “That’s the truth, Joe, believe it.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, finishing their meals. Then Priscilla spoke up.

  “Guys,” she said, “the more I think about this, the more I know you won’t get anywhere on your own with The Dutchmen. I doubt if the Six-Oh gang officer can even get you in the door. You may have to go in hard, with E.S.U. and a squad of uniforms, just bust the place and see if the princess is there.”