Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  Joe shook his head slowly and smiled a smile dark enough to cause Mike’s stomach to tighten again and Priscilla to unconsciously slide herself closer to the edge of her seat.

  “Do me a favor, Papa Man,” he said softly. “Save the two-dollar philosophy for the tribe. Just help us save this kid’s life, okay?”

  Papa Man held Joe’s gaze. The room was very still, and Mike saw an unhealthy glow of anticipation in Mama’s eyes as she leered and smiled back and forth between Rizzo and Papa.

  “So,” Papa said at last. “You’re asking for an act of Christian charity, is that it?”

  “Okay,” Joe said.

  Papa nodded and spoke with hard eyes. “I’m a good Christian, Detective. I know that Jesus expects His flock to be flawed and to exhibit human weaknesses: I try never to disappoint Him. As a good Christian, I know that acts of generosity and compassion have their rewards in the next life. What I would like to know from you is, can I perhaps expect some less theoretical reward, something, say, in this life?”

  Rizzo remained silent. McQueen saw the glint in his partner’s eye and spoke before Joe could respond.

  “What do you need, Papa? If it’s doable, we’ll do it.”

  Papa turned to Mike. He began to smile and appeared to relax somewhat. Mike noticed a flicker of disappointment in Mama’s eyes.

  “Occasionally, a friend or colleague, even a brother Angel, may have a problem over in Brooklyn. If that should happen, I would like to know that you and your partner here, as well as Priscilla, can look into it for us. Maybe clear up any misunderstanding the arresting officer might have been working under.”

  Mike turned to Rizzo. “Joe?” he asked.

  Rizzo considered it, then stood and smiled slowly. He crossed the room to Papa, who also stood. They shook hands as Joe said, “It’s a deal. Your people get jammed-up in Brooklyn, call me. If I can work it out where everybody is happy, I will.”

  “Good,” Papa said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to call The Surgeon. On a rainy night like this, he should be available. You’ll get your sit-down, and if he has the girl, he’ll give her up. The price will be his to name. You meet it or not, that’s up to you. Satisfactory?”

  “Yes,” Joe answered.

  Papa nodded and left the room. Fifteen minutes later, he returned. He reached into the cooler and took out two Sam Adams. Using an opener that dangled from his leather jacket, he opened them both, then handed one to Mama. He drank from his and smiled at Rizzo.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said. “Nine o’clock at The Dutchmen’s joint in Coney Island. Just you and your partner.” He turned to Priscilla with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, but The Surgeon is old world. He said no women at a sit-down. It’s like Mama said before, they’re nothing but savages.”

  “Did he say anything about the girl? Does he know who we’re looking for? Is she there?” Mike answered.

  Papa turned to him. “He claimed the name you told me meant nothing to him, but there are fifty people in my basement to night, and I may know twenty of their names. Among ourselves, we don’t use labels, names, titles, that shit. He did say there was some rich kid riding with them lately. She actually bought one of his guys a custom Harley, went for about twenty-two thousand. Bought it cash, on the spot. Could that be her?”

  “No,” Mike answered after a moment’s reflection. “I can’t see how. This kid’s trust fund is tied tighter than Fort Knox until she’s— what’d the mother say, Joe—twenty-one, twenty-five?”

  “Twenty-five,” Joe said.

  Papa shrugged. “Well, then, it’s some other muff. You’d be surprised at how many escapees from plastic land we’ve collected over the years.”

  They exchanged parting handshakes, and Papa Man escorted them downstairs to the front door. Upon entering the foyer, they were greeted by the sight of Cheryl, laughing and running naked through the living room, two drunken Angels chasing her with almost childlike abandon. Papa smiled at Rizzo, his wolflike aura accentuated by the dim lighting of the foyer.

  “Lock up your daughters, Detective, if you’ve got any,” he said in a happy hiss to Rizzo. “There are Hell’s Angels all around you!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IT WAS THURSDAY NIGHT at eight-fifty when Rizzo turned the Impala onto the blighted, dismal block of West Twenty-fifth Street, just off Neptune Avenue in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn. The rain of the previous day and night had passed, leaving the streets shrouded in a steamy, humid mass of air that hung like a fog.

  As on the previous night, they had little trouble locating their destination— a rambling old Victorian-style house, once the crowning jewel of the formerly magnificent block in the storied playland neighborhood. The structure stood in darkened disarray, surrounded by dozens of glistening, evil-looking Harleys bearing custom paint schemes and garish colors that seemed to mock their blighted surroundings.

  They climbed the front steps to the covered porch. Sounds of music and loud, intoxicated voices reached them from somewhere behind the house where members of The Dutchmen were gathered. Rizzo reached out a hand and knocked solidly on the front door.

  A few moments passed before the huge, heavy wooden door swung inward and open, groaning on rusted hinges. A squat, muscular man appeared in the doorway and eyed them with unconcealed distaste. He stood five feet seven inches tall, broad through the chest with heavy, exposed muscular arms. He wore a red leather riding vest over a bare, hairless chest, and his head was shaven. Dirty blue jeans met beaten black leather boots. From his exposed, pierced left nipple, a silver chain dangled, holding a small, black swastika.

  Rizzo and McQueen looked into his face. They noted the pale, bloodless stub of scar tissue where his left earlobe had once been. On his forehead, between the ends of his black brows, was a red and black tattoo, an inch long and half as high. It was a vampire bat, and it glared back at them with equal malice.

  McQueen felt a slight shiver begin to develop in his right leg. The muscles seemed to twitch as if electrified: he pressed his foot harder onto the wooden planking of the porch, and the twitch subsided. He felt his ears begin to redden with embarrassment but quickly realized that he, and he alone, was aware of his fear.

  Rizzo smiled coldly at the man. “Good eve ning,” he said pleasantly.

  The man moved his eyes slowly from one to the other of the detectives. The eyes were black and flat, seemingly without moisture. When he spoke, it was in a cigarette-mauled rasp, barely loud enough to be heard despite his close proximity.

  “You the cops here to see The Surgeon?”

  “Yes, we are,” Joe said, allowing a pleasant lilt to brush at his voice.

  The man’s deep scowl softened to a frown. “Show me some tin,” he said.

  They produced their shields and IDs and held them at the man’s eye level. He glanced at them without interest or comment, and McQueen followed Joe’s lead in slipping his case back into the front left pocket of his pants.

  “Are you both carryin’?” the man asked.

  “Of course,” Rizzo said.

  Now the frown turned to what served the man as a smile.

  “You got to leave the hardware with me if you want to see the man.”

  Rizzo smiled broadly. “Now you know that’s not happenin’, don’t you, son?”

  “I ain’t your son.”

  Rizzo let his eyes harden. “Yeah, well, we can’t be sure about that, can we? Papa Man already gave me all the rules I need, son. We’re here to see The surgeon, not you.”

  The man seemed to consider Rizzo’s words and tone. Then, slowly, he turned and started to walk deeper into the house.

  “Close the fuckin’ door behind you,” he said.

  They followed him through the foyer to a doorway leading to the basement steps. Once downstairs, they found themselves in a large room with chairs and sofas and small tables arranged loosely around a large projection tele vi sion set. There was no one in the room. They followed the man to a rear door and waited
as he knocked. Hanging in a golden picture frame on the door’s outer surface was what both detectives recognized as an official police department crime scene photograph. It showed a young man’s face in a tight, close-up color print. The man was clearly dead, one eye fixed open, the other lost in a pool of bloody tissue. His mouth was open, and what appeared to be human male genitals hung from it. Blood had trickled out onto his chin.

  The significance of the photo was not lost on either of them: enter this room and you were pledging silence. If you betrayed The Dutchmen, the traditional mob-style murder and mutilation decreed for stoolies would be your fate.

  “Come in,” they heard from behind the door. The voice was not unpleasant.

  The Surgeon sat behind a surprisingly neat desk, a small fluorescent lamp casting a warm glow across its surface. The room was a rather standard home office arrangement, showing signs of also being used, on occasion, as a temporary storage area for the house hold items most families tend to accumulate.

  The Surgeon himself appeared to be in his late forties, and when he rose to greet them, he stood nearly six feet. A thin man, but well-muscled, dressed casually in an almost antiseptic imitation of a biker outlaw. His clothing was clean, as were his hands, and the brown hair was long but trimmed and shone under the bright lighting of the room.

  They shook hands, and he gestured them to take seats opposite his desk. Then, from his own seat, he raised his eyes to the man who had brought them in.

  “Thank you, Bats,” he said. “That will be all.”

  The man glared from Rizzo to McQueen. He shook his head slightly.

  “I never thought I’d see two pigs walk in here without a warrant in their hands,” he said in low, gravelly tones. “And foreign pigs at that.”

  The Surgeon laughed. “Well, Bats, the world is constantly changing. I suggest you try to change along with it.”

  The man left the room, closing the door behind him. The Surgeon leaned forward on his desk, interlocking his fingers and resting his weight on his forearms. They noticed the same bloodless ear stub, only his showed on both ears.

  “Can I get you anything, gentlemen? Beer? A drink? Some fresh pussy?”

  Rizzo shook his head. “No thanks,” he said.

  The man looked to Mike. “I’m good,” Mike said.

  “So,” Rizzo began, crossing his legs and reaching for his cigarettes. “I’m Detective Sergeant Joe Rizzo; this is Detective Mike McQueen. What should we call you?”

  He smiled. “You told me who you are, Detective, but not what I should call you. Why don’t you do that first? Set the tone, if you will.”

  Joe thought for a moment. “Okay,” he said. “I’m Joe; he’s Mike.” He paused again. “Who are you?”

  “I am Edmund Zieling Haas. But you can call me Eddie.”

  Rizzo leaned forward and they reshook hands. Mike did the same.

  “Mind if I smoke?” Rizzo asked, a Chesterfield in his hand.

  “Not at all. Here.” Eddie reached into his desk drawer and produced a large, heavy, ornate crystal ashtray. He placed it before Joe.

  “That’s leaded Austrian crystal, Joe. From Tiffany’s.”

  Joe glanced at it. “Yeah,” he said, lighting the cigarette. “I figured.”

  “Now, Joe,” Eddie said, “before we begin our business, is an apology owed for anything Bats may have done or said? Did you take offense at him?”

  “No, Eddie,” Joe said with a wave of his hand. “He’s an offensive little prick, but no offense was taken.”

  Eddie smiled. “Good. Bats is very loyal to me. I’ve ridden with him for almost fifteen years, since he was only sixteen. He’s my personal security man, very protective. I make some allowances for his antisocial personality.”

  Joe smiled. “Antisocial? Are you kiddin’?”

  Eddie laughed aloud. “Antisocial by my standards, Joe, not the citizens’.”

  “Oh. Okay, then.”

  “So, Joe, Papa Man has requested I cooperate with you, and as long as sit costs me nothing and I can, in fact, gain from it, I’m fully prepared to do just that. Papa tells me some corporate puppet master has misplaced his daughter, and you believe she rides with The Dutchmen. I have some questions.”

  Joe nodded. “I figured you might. Ask them.”

  “Do you intend to arrest this girl for some supposed crime?”

  “No.”

  “Do you intend to arrest any of my riders for their possible involvement with or use and/or misuse of this young lady?”

  “No.”

  “You guarantee that?”

  Joe shook his head. “No,” he said. “You asked if I intended to arrest. I can guarantee you I won’t be arresting her. But if one of your guys carved her face up or threw her under a bus, I will lock him up. But as of now, with what I know, I have no intentions of arresting anyone.”

  The Surgeon pondered that for a moment, then nodded.

  “Alright, then. Next question: What do The Dutchmen get for our civic-minded cooperation?”

  “What do you want?”

  The man sat back in his chair and looked at them from across the desk. His eyes fell on Mike and remained there.

  “You can speak, right?” he asked with an unpleasant smile.

  Mike let a moment pass before responding.

  “When I have something to say to you, I’ll say it.”

  Eddie nodded, and the smile became passive. “Good,” he said. He turned back to Rizzo.

  “Now, Joe, you asked what I want. Well, that depends. This valuable little bit of cooze may not even be here. Why don’t we see if I’ve got anything to sell before we decide what you’ll pay?”

  “Show him, Mike,” Joe said.

  McQueen slipped Rosanne’s photo from his jacket pocket. His hand brushed against the reassuring presence of the silenced Motorola also tucked in the pocket.

  Eddie looked briefly at the photo and smiled. He tossed it gently back across the desk to land in front of Mike. Then he leaned over and pressed a button on the telephone.

  “Bats?” he said.

  “Yeah, Boss?” they heard through the speaker of the intercom.

  “Go find Chick and bring him to me.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  He now turned his attention back to Rizzo.

  “She’s not here,” he said. “You’re about a week or two behind her. But not to worry. The information I’m selling is good. You should be able to find her in a day, two at the most, if you’re half as good a detective as I know you to be.”

  Rizzo smiled. “And how do you know how good I am, Eddie? Until a few days ago, we never heard of each other.”

  He nodded. “We’re not active in Bensonhurst. By prior arrangement with a local entrepreneur named Louie ‘The Chink’ Quattropa.” Haas smiled pleasantly and resumed, this time in an exaggerated, singsong tone.

  “Do you know the man?”

  Rizzo kept his face and tone neutral. His peripheral vision caught Mike’s quick glance. “Yeah, he runs what’s left of the Brooklyn Italian mob. Actually, he lives in Bay Ridge.”

  “But he’s based in Bensonhurst,” Eddie said.

  “Okay,” Joe answered with a shrug.

  “But,” Eddie said, waving a hand in the air, “all that aside, to answer your question, I know you’re good because Papa Man told me the girl you’re looking for is some big shot’s kid. They don’t send the assholes out to find the big shot’s kid. They send the assholes to look for Joe Citizen’s kids. So you must be good.” He smiled and looked at Mike. “Even Harpo, here, must be pretty good. He just doesn’t talk much, that’s all.”

  “What information are you sellin’, Eddie?” Joe asked.

  Eddie stayed locked on Mike’s eyes for a moment longer, watching as their blue grew colder under his gaze. He smiled before looking away and back to Joe.

  “I can put you on to her. And maybe to bigger things than her if you’re interested. But let’s stick to her for now. And, of course, me. Let’s s
tick to me … and my price.”

  “Tell me,” Joe said.

  “The previously mentioned Chink. I need to get a message through to him. I can do it on my own if I have to, but I think it would hear heavier coming from you, a respected member of one of the world’s foremost police departments. You deliver my message, then you tell me his response.”

  “What makes you think I can deliver messages to The Chink?” Rizzo asked, again in a flat tone.

  Eddie chuckled. “Well, Joe, let me be frank. I’ve got a baby sister who lives in Manhattan a couple of blocks from Police Plaza. She runs a little business out of her apartment. Spends a lot of time with her legs open— sometimes with a cop between them. Even asks a question or two for her dear brother. It works out well for both of us.”

  “So?” Rizzo asked.

  “So, I don’t take orders from Papa Man. When he called last night, I said okay because I figured maybe some Bensonhurst cop could serve my needs with The Chink. After I spoke to Papa last night, I called my dear sis. She made a few calls this morning, and guess what she told me?”

  “What’d she tell you, Eddie?” Rizzo asked, his eyes hardening.

  “Well, it seems like the gods have smiled on me. They have rendered unto me that which is mine: a pipeline to Quattropa. The gossip is you and The Chink have bartered before.”

  Eddie saw the anger rise in Rizzo’s eyes. He thrust out a hand, palm outward.

  “Of course, it’s just rumor,” he said pleasantly. “I can sympathize. You should hear some of the horrible mistruths spoken about me.”

  Rizzo forced the tension from his facial expression.

  “I guess that explains your access to the C.S.U. photo nailed to the door,” he said. “A little gratuity for your kid sister.”

  Eddie smiled. “Exactly, Joe. Now, what about my message?”

  “The message being … ?”

  Eddie sighed. “Couple of my riders had an unfortunate misunderstanding out in Canarsie about a week ago. By the way, we are off-the-record here, right, Joe?”