Rizzo's War

by Lou Manfredo

  The two men standing behind Quattropa, their hands clasped above their groins, laughed dutifully. Rizzo smiled.

  “No, Louie, not today. But thanks for seeing me. It’s appreciated. I’m sorry to take away from your Saturday afternoon.”

  Quattropa waved a hand and then turned slightly in his seat, calling for two more drinks. “It’s nothing, Joe, don’t worry about it. What do you need? You can speak freely. We swept for bugs an hour ago.”

  “Well, I really don’t need anything, Louie. I’m just here to deliver a message to you.”

  Quattropa frowned. “A message? Since when is Joe Rizzo a messenger boy? This must be good.”

  They waited while a nervous-looking bartender hurried to the table, poured the fresh drinks, placed the bottle down, and retreated to his haven behind the bar.

  “I owe out a favor. This is my payback.”

  “Really?” Quattropa said, his eyebrows raised. “Who you owe?”

  Rizzo rotated his glass slowly between his fingers and watched as its clear liquid caught rays from the dim light, tossing them around the glass.

  “Some guy they call The Surgeon,” he said, raising his eyes to meet the cold black of Quattropa’s. “You know him?”

  Quattropa’s face was impassive. Then, slowly turning his head to the right, he spat hard at the floor.

  “That’s for that animal,” he said coldly. “I’m sixty-eight years old, in a tough business my whole life. Since I was nine years old, Joe, that’s a long fuckin’ time. I only met maybe two or three men in all those years I had a true hatred for. Not a business problem, a hatred. This asshole— this guy Haas— he makes the list. I don’t want no message from him. You tell him that for me— if he’s still breathin’ when you find him, that is.”

  Rizzo shrugged and sipped at his Sambuca. “Louie, I gotta tell you I’m not real fond of the guy myself. But I made a deal to carry his message and tell him when it was delivered. After that, I’m done with it. I just need you to hear me out.”

  Quattropa seemed to ponder it. Then, after a moment, he turned to the man standing behind his right shoulder. “Questo poliziotto è bravo, mi sembra che ci conziene ascoltarlo,” he said.

  “Cone credi sia meglio, Lu,” the man answered.

  Rizzo smiled. “I’m glad you think I’m alright, Louie, and I’m grateful that you’ll hear me out.”

  Quattropa smiled. “I forgot, Joe, you speak the language.” He paused for a moment, allowing the smile to pass from his face. “So, say what you came to say.”

  Rizzo drained his glass and set it down on the table. He placed a hand over it as Quattropa started to reach for the bottle.

  “No, thanks, Louie, no more.” He shook a cigarette loose from its pack and placed it between his lips.

  “Haas once had a problem with you in Bensonhurst. You corrected it, and the problem went away. He understands that and knows you had a right to act. Now, he’s got another problem with you, this time in Canarsie.”

  Quattropa smiled evilly, sipping at his Sambuca and speaking from around the rim of the small glass.

  “This here is gonna be my last problem with this prick, Joe, I got a feeling.”

  Rizzo smiled. “I think he suspects that. That’s why he wanted me to come see you.”

  Now Quattropa frowned. “Joe,” he said, “with all due respect, I gotta ask you something. I mean no insult, it’s a rough question, but it needs askin’ and answerin’.”

  Rizzo nodded. “I’ll save you the trouble, Louie. You don’t have to ask. No. I’m not on his payroll. I’m here because he gave me information that played out and helped me find a runaway kid. This was his price for that info.”

  Quattropa pondered it, then after a moment, smiled again. “Okay, Joe. That’s good to hear.”

  Rizzo nodded again. “Okay,” he said.

  “So, Joe, tell me what this animal has to say.”

  “He said the Canarsie thing was a misunderstanding, a failure of communication between his guys and the fruit seller. He says he’ll make it all right and you decide who gets the credit. He says it won’t happen again. He says you should allow him to reach out to you and he’ll make it good for you. He says you’ll be happy with his offer.”

  “What’s his offer, Joe?” Quattropa asked, interest beginning to stir in his eyes.

  This greedy old bastard, Joe thought, as he smiled at the man. “He couldn’t tell me that, Louie. He said he’ll only tell you, and you’d be happy with it. That’s all I know.”

  Quattropa let twenty seconds of silence pass before speaking. When he did, it was in a curt, clipped tone that told Rizzo the meeting was now over.

  “Okay, Joe, I’ll hear him out. Tell him to reach out. I’ll listen.” Rizzo stood, extending a hand to Quattropa. They shook.

  “Thanks for the Sambuca, Louie. I’ll tell The Surgeon.”

  Quattropa smiled. “You better tell him quick, Joe. I hear a clock tickin’ in my ear.”

  Rizzo released the hand and pushed his chair back to its place at the table.

  “One more thing, Louie, if you don’t mind,” Rizzo said, injecting a fallacious respect into his tone.

  “Yeah, Joe?” Quattropa asked with little interest.

  “Officially, if anyone should ever ask, I came here to see you ’bout some stolen cars. Seems like somebody’s been boosting Lexuses over in my precinct. So if it ever comes up, I came here to ask you about it. Bein’ as how you run a few body fender shops and all.”

  The Chink smiled, a knowing glint forming in his black eyes. “Funny you should bring it up, Joe,” he said. “Somebody has been askin’ about you.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  Quattropa shrugged. “Some flunky asshole cop named DeMayo. Came in a couple a weeks ago.”

  “Tell me,” Joe said.

  “Not much to tell. He was hummin’ that same old tune about your ex. What’s his name? Morelli?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Morelli.”

  “This guy DeMayo, he’s convinced me and Morelli had some kind of arrangement. But I’m sure you know all about what DeMayo figures.”

  Quattropa shrugged again. “Anyway, I told him he was beatin’ a dead horse. That guy that got whacked, hell, I never even hearda the fuckin’ guy let alone put out a hit on him.”

  “Word is, Louie, that guy was working for you when he turned up dead.”

  Another shrug. “Lotsa guys work for me, Joe, and twice as many say they do. Helps ’em get laid in certain circles, I guess.” Here he chuckled and reached for the Sambuca.

  “Sos I told this guinea prick cop, this DeMayo, to fuck off. Told him I never once spoke to you or Morelli except on police bullshit. I told him next time he comes in here and gets in my face he better have a warrant in his fuckin’ hand. Next time I see him, he’s gonna find out I ain’t so old I can’t smack some punk-ass cop, pay the fine, and then go eat dinner.”

  He smiled up into Rizzo’s face. “You should keep that in mind, too, Joe.”

  Rizzo nodded. “I will, Louie. Thanks for the info.”

  Quattropa sipped his Sambuca. “No problem, Guiseppe,” he said, his eyes darkly lifeless.

  “Now, Louie, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go see a priest I know.” Then after a moment, he spoke one final time in a low, somber voice.

  “What ever happened between you and Morelli was between you two. I don’t ever wanna know about it.”

  Quattropa smiled indifferently.

  “Okay, Joe,” he said. “The world can always use another fuckin’ virgin.”

  Rizzo turned and strode out of the bar, into the bright sunlight of the street. Drawing clean air into his lungs, he tossed the Chesterfield into the gutter and headed for his Camry, parked a half block away.

  WHILE RIZZO buckled himself into the driver’s seat of the Camry, McQueen took a table seat at a midtown restaurant. The two detectives had essentially gone incommunicado, agreeing to respond only to each other’s calls, and only on their own cell
phones after caller ID verification. They both thought it best to remain isolated from Lieutenant D’Antonio and other police personnel until after Rizzo played out his hand and they decided on a final course of action.

  “Remember,” Rizzo had said. “Manning made it clear: make Daily happy on this and he would take care of us. You really shouldn’t speak to anybody just yet. Not until we know where we’re going with this. Let me handle things for now. Just go visit your parents.”

  McQueen heard Rizzo’s words echo in his ears as he reached across the table and shook hands with Assistant District Attorney Darrel Jordan.

  “Thanks for coming, Darrel,” Mike said.

  Jordan shrugged. “No problem, Mike. You said it was important, and you sounded stressed. Besides,” he said, allowing himself a wide grin, “this is an expensive place, and I gotta assume lunch is on you.”

  Mike returned the smile. “You bet,” he said, hailing a waiter.

  They ordered cocktails and lunch at the same time, then made small talk until the drinks arrived.

  “So,” Jordan said, raising his vodka in a gesture of toast to Mike. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  McQueen returned the gesture, then took a huge swallow of his Manhattan.

  “Darrel, you and I go back a little ways. We’ve won some cases together, put some bad guys away. And you know, we may have bent a rule here and there, to make a case stick. But we always trusted one another.”

  Jordan smiled again. “Mike, we both know how it is. Nothing firms up a case like a little retaliatory perjury. The bad guy lies a lot, we lie a little, and the chips fall where they may. It’s a beautiful system.”

  Mike nodded. “So we trust each other, right? I need to go completely off the record here. Okay?”

  Jordan looked puzzled. “Sure, Mike. What’s the problem?”

  McQueen explained, briefly, and without drama, the whole story, from when he and Rizzo had first caught Rosanne’s case, through the phone calls from Manning and DeMayo, to the playing of the tape in Joe’s basement. When he finished, they waited while the server placed their food before them. Once he left, Jordan leaned forward in his seat.

  “I’ve heard the rumors about Daily, Mike. About judgeships for sale in Brooklyn, some complacency on the part of the Brooklyn D.A.’s office. It’s actually common knowledge among po liti cal circles. The rest of it, the stuff about the city contracts, that’s news to me. But it certainly makes sense; corruption doesn’t exist in a bubble, it tends to spread itself out.”

  “What about the rest of the city, Dar?” Mike asked. “Is the bench up for sale all over?”

  Jordan shook his head. “I’d say no. Like I told you, I heard the rumors about Brooklyn, but not about any other borough. As far as I know, the rest of it’s as legit as politics get, which might not be saying a whole lot. See, Mike, I’m a star, NBA MVP, good-looking, black, smart— shit, I’m a fucking celebrity. I’ve got a bunch of white, tired old fool politicians kissing my ass everywhere I go. They can’t wait to make me a judge, and I don’t even have to talk to them, let alone pay anybody off. I’m visible proof that they’re all broad-minded, unbiased, righ teous motherfuckers. And for the most part, they make my skin crawl.”

  Mike poked absently at his food.

  “What about Daily, Darrel?” he asked. “You ever meet him?”

  Jordan cut a piece of veal and raised it to his mouth.

  “Yeah,” he said, chewing slowly. “At a couple of po liti cal functions I had to attend so they could show me off, get me to sign autographs for their spastic kids who think they can play ball. I’ve met him.”

  “What was your take?” McQueen asked.

  Jordan laughed.

  “Well, Mike, I think he’da been a hell of a lot more comfortable seein’ me around if I was serving hors d’oeuvres on one of those little trays. That’s my take on him.”

  They ate in silence for a few moments. Then Darrel spoke, his voice somber.

  “My friend, you’re in grave danger of making some very powerful, petty-minded, vindictive enemies. You better think this all the way through, brother.”

  Mike nodded. “I intend to, believe me. But let me ask you something: If it were you, what would you do?”

  Jordan thought for a moment and put down his knife and fork. He then interlaced his fingers and leaned toward Mike.

  “Honestly … if it were me … I’d go to the feds. And then I’d call an old friend of mine, publicist with the NBA, and have him get me on a few local Sunday-morning talk shows. Maybe some late-night stuff, too. Then I’d tell everybody what a hero I was, and all these cockroach politicians would start runnin’ from the light. They’d turn on Daily like the pack of jackals they really are. That’s what I’d do.”

  McQueen drained his Manhattan glass and waved to the waiter for a second round. Then he turned back to Jordan.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now what do you think I should do?”

  Jordan thought for a full twenty seconds. Then he sighed and picked up his utensils, turning back to the veal on his plate.

  “If I were you, I’d hand that tape back to Daily, tell him I hadn’t listened to it, take my promotion and run to the Plaza. Then I’d get religious and spend the rest of my career trying to atone for it all. That’s what I’d do— if I were you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JOE RIZZO SAT IN THE KITCHEN of his Bay Ridge home, sipping coffee and allowing his eyes to smile across the table at Jennifer.

  “It’s the smart thing for him to do, Jen,” he said. “Hell, it may be the only thing he can do.”

  It was just after ten on Sunday morning, and they had the house to themselves. Marie was at a weeklong medical seminar in Baltimore and Jessica and Carol had gone to the ten o’clock mass at Saint Bernadette’s.

  Jennifer Rizzo returned her husband’s smile with a tight, sad frown.

  “Really, Joe?” she asked. “Do you really think he’ll want to give Daily the tape?”

  Rizzo nodded. “I told you, Jen, the kid is ambitious. Not bad ambitious, but ambitious just the same. He wants to move up, wants to work a special squad in the city, maybe even at the Plaza. And you know, I can’t blame him. The department and the politicians taught this kid well. This is the perfect opportunity for him. He’s a good cop, real good, smart and tough, and he cares about people. He had a great record for, what?, six years? And where’d it get him? He was still on patrol in a blue-and- white. Then he locks up a guy, and, bingo!, detective shield three weeks later. And why? ’Cause he earned it? ’Cause they thought he’d make a good detective? Of course not. They gave him the shield because he saved the mayor’s daughter’s roommate’s ass, that’s why. Yeah, they taught him well. Save Jane Citizen from a rape and maybe you’ll make some overtime down at central booking. But lock up a guy who attacks some big shot and, well, then it really pays off. That’s how it works, Jen. You know it, I know it, and Mike knows it.”

  “But Joe, there must be other options.”

  Rizzo chuckled. “Oh, yeah, Jen, there are. Always lots of options on this job. I talked to Mike about them. We can toss the tape, burn it. Mike goes on with his career, tests up to sergeant. Maybe Daily even does the right thing and brushes some crumbs off the table to us, for finding his daughter. Maybe Mike gets to go to the Plaza, moves on, tests up further, maybe to captain. With the wheels greased a little, he always gets a good assignment somewhere. Me, I’ll stay put, happy and ignorant, and with I.A. still on my ass.”

  He paused and put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, then continued.

  “Problem with that is Daily would never know what Rosanne might have told us about him. He probably figured the kid knows he’s a crook, he just doesn’t know she can prove it. He’ll always have suspicions about me and Mike, and he could never fully relax. If, on the other hand, we deliver the tape to Daily, we put him at ease. He’ll know me and Mike are no better than he is, and that’ll comfort him, confirm his view of things. Mike gets pai
d off big-time, and so do I. Then we all live happily ever after. Especially those pompous, crooked judges handing out jail sentences to street kids for robbing sneakers while the politicians are stealing the entire court house. The bribes from the contractors keep flowing, and the city contracts keep making them richer. Yeah, we give Daily the tape back and we all live happily ever after.”

  Jennifer reached across the table and gently took the Chesterfield from Joe’s mouth. She placed it down on the table and raised her eyes to his.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “Those are the choices?”

  Joe shrugged. “Far as I can see. Except, of course, for the right choice: give everything to the feds. They’ll start dropping subpoenas all over the city like confetti. Indictments will follow, and one by one, these spineless hypocrites will be lining up to cut deals, give each other up for immunity or reduced sentences. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel for any U.S. attorney. Me and Mike lay low until Daily gets locked up. Then we watch our backs and go about our business. I put in my papers and both of us stay in the Six-Two. Hope for the best. Mike, well, I don’t know. He’d have enemies everywhere.”

  Jennifer drank deeply from her coffee cup. Then, setting it down, she spoke softly.

  “I’m beginning to see Mike’s point, Joe. If he does decide to go bad on this one.”

  Rizzo nodded. “That’s why I had to leave it up to him. It’s got to be his call. Me, I can bail out. I’d miss the job, and we’d have to tighten our belts on my pension. But you’ve still got a few years left teaching, and we’d manage. And when you retire, we sell the house and by then move in with our rich doctor-daughter.”

  She smiled. “I can’t see that happening, Joe. But I see your point. It does have to be Mike’s call.”

  They sat in silence for a while, Jennifer sipping her coffee, Joe eyeing the still idle Chesterfield on the table before him. Then Jennifer looked up, a gleam in her eye.

  “You know, Joe,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “This doesn’t sound quite like you— the crafty Joe Rizzo caught between a rock and a hard place. Are you telling me everything?”