Rules of the Game

by Bruce Fitzpatrick

  "These are Federal Agents Fernandez and Russo. They're with the DEA. Gentlemen, this is James Hennessey. He's waived his rights, so feel free to ask him whatever you want."

  "Hello, Jimmy," said Russo. "We're interested in what happened to Paulie Lapienza. We understand you're involved."

  "You understand wrong," said Jimmy, defiantly. "I haven't waived my rights, and I haven't agreed to talk. Someone told you wrong."

  Appearing surprised, Russo turned to Patterson. "I thought you said he'd talk. What’s up?"

  "Hey, don't look at me. Talk to Detective B.H. Mitchell, over there. The 'B.H.' stands for Bleeding Heart. He seems to think Hennessey is a nice guy who’ll cooperate if we smother him with love. I only said we picked him up."

  "He'll cooperate," said Mitchell in a conciliatory tone. "He's just beginning to understand the way things are. Of course, if you want to take your chances and get an attorney, Jimmy..."

  Jimmy silently squirmed in his seat.

  "Hey, if I talk, I'm as good as dead. They'd know it was me. I wouldn't last a week."

  "You help us, we'll help you," said Mitchell.

  "That's not good enough," said Jimmy. "Me and my family need protection, lots of it. And you can't give it to us."

  "We can," said Russo. "There's a special program that protects people who cooperate with us in high risk cases. We could put you in that program, along with your wife and kids. I can get you all the protection you’ll ever need, but you’ll have to earn it. If everything works out, you can start a new life with a new identity in a place where nobody knows you or your past. It beats doing twenty-five to life in maximum security. But first you’ll have to carry out your end of the deal. No lies, no bullshit. We want everything you know. And I mean everything."

  Jimmy thought for a minute. What they wanted was almost as frightening as getting sent away. No matter where he went, he'd be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. So would his wife and kids. What they wanted was undoubtedly the most difficult thing he’d ever done. They’d put him in front of the Grand Jury, they'd bring him to court, where he’d have to point fingers and face the people he was betraying. They might even want him to introduce undercover agents to people he knew. They'd use him all up. On the other hand, he'd heard stories about life behind the walls, and they were terrifying. He'd have to choose. There was no easy way out.

  After a long, tense silence, he looked at the two agents. Defeated, he said, "All right. But you gotta protect me and my family. You gotta protect them, too."

  "Okay, Jimmy," said Russo. "We'll consider your offer."

  "What do you mean, 'consider'?" he screamed.

  "I mean, we can't approach the right people until we know you're in danger," said Fernandez.

  "And the only way to do that,” added Russo, “is to find out what you know. You have to prove yourself first."

  Jimmy's heart sank. What kind of bullshit was this? He’d be risking his life, and they still might not deliver?

  "Jimmy," continued Russo, "we wouldn't be here if we didn't think you could lay golden eggs for us. You've been working at The Bottom Line for over a year now. That's about how long we've been watching the place. We're very interested in the people who go there, and you know them all. But we need to follow procedure, we have to be sure. We also have to make sure you're telling the truth. Once we’ve determined that, we can make things happen."

  Jimmy thought it over. It was more than a major decision – it was life altering. At last he said, "What do you need?"

  "Start by telling us why Fred Corrales wanted Paulie Lapienza dead?" asked Fernandez. "Since we already have it on tape, we’ll begin there."

  Russo and Fernandez grilled Jimmy for almost two hours without stopping. He confirmed that Freddie Corrales had ordered the hit on Paulie Lapienza. Freddie found out Paulie had turned informant, and decided to set matters straight. The person who set up Lapienza would get a fast five thousand dollars, and Jimmy had needed the money. Had he collected it yet? No, not yet. He had planned to do that on his way out of town. Who had Corrales hired for the hit? Jimmy didn't know. He never thought Corrales would actually kill Paulie. If he'd known that, he'd never have made the call. He figured Paulie would get a beating, nothing worse. How could Paulie hurt Freddie? Freddie was Paulie's connection; they had done a lot of business together. Jimmy figured Paulie was too valuable to Freddie. Would Jimmy be willing to let the DEA wire him for sound when he went to collect the money? Maybe, but only if the house would be covered by agents who would help out if Freddie discovered he’d been set up. Did Jimmy understand he'd have to testify before the grand jury, and that he'd have to face Freddie in court? Yes, but only after his wife and kids were tucked safely away. It would be easier, knowing they were safe.

  "So are you guys going to help me or not?" he asked.

  "We'll take it to the Assistant U.S. Attorney," said Russo. "He's the one who has to make the decision about getting you into the Witness Protection Program."

  "When will I get an answer?"

  "He'll review the notes we've made. It’ll take a few days. Even then, you’ll still have to deliver your end of the deal first."

  Fernandez and Russo gathered their notes and prepared to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, Fernandez took out his pad and pencil and sat down.

  "One last thing, Jimmy. Where’d you get the half-pound of coke you had when you were picked up?"

  "I got it from Paulie last night."

  "Who were you going to sell it to? Someone here in town?"

  "Yeah," said Jimmy, shifting in his chair. "Do I have to tell you his name? The guy's always been straight with me."

  "I told you, Jimmy," said Russo. "We want everything. No exceptions. Give us the name."

  A new war began within Jimmy's conscience. Finally, abandoning all sense of loyalty, he said, "There's this guy named Adrian, Adrian Cabraal. He lives in South Lawrence, in one of those condominium complexes."

  Fernandez wrote down the information, and looked at Russo.

  "Name doesn't ring a bell. We'll run it and see what comes out. One thing's for sure -- if it wasn't in there before, it will be now."

  Turning back to Jimmy, he asked, "What can you tell us about this guy, Jimmy?"

  "Not much. I hear he moves weight, cocaine and pot. Sells it out of town. That's the word, at least. I never did any business with him. He wouldn't be interested in a nickel-dimer like me. But he's always there if you need a favor. He's got serious money, and he spreads it in all the right places."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, if his friends need anything, he fixes 'em up. He bails people out of jail, helps them out of binds, you know. And word has it that he's no one to fool with."

  "A tough guy, huh?"

  "Not just him. It's the people he knows. He supposedly runs with a serious crowd, all kinds of people. He’s respected. That's all I know, except for a few favors he's done me."

  "Maybe you're doing him a favor. Maybe if he takes a fall, he'll get into a safer line of work, one with more longevity. Might keep him from getting killed someday."

  "Yeah, sure," said Jimmy, sullenly.

  ***********

  At DEA headquarters in Boston, twenty-eight-year-old Bobby Russo walked into his office, briefcase in one hand, sport coat in the other. At his desk he sifted through the stack of papers that had accumulated in his absence: two messages from informants, a note for him to call his wife, two typed statements that needed final review, and a note from the intelligence officer, asking to see him immediately.

  Shit, thought Russo, if it isn't paperwork, it's meetings. Once, just once, he'd like to spend a month in the field doing his real job. Whatever happened to the good old days when the sheriff chased down the bad guys, arrested them, and brought them in for justice, then was on the road again? Today the job was cluttered with legal briefs, affidavits, grand juries, legal technicalities, and a rash of other time consuming obstacles that stood between him a
nd the work he had signed on for. Well, no point in moaning about it. It was all part of the system, that glorious, efficient cure-all that was about to suffocate on its own bureaucratic sludge. And he was its faithful servant.

  He took the note from Serrano, the intelligence officer, and entered his office.

  "Hi, Gerry, what's up?"

  In his mid-thirties, Serrano looked like a college grad, fresh off the campus. He had a boyish, youthful appearance, and always seemed brimming with enthusiasm. But Russo knew the real man hidden beneath the innocuous exterior. The real Serrano was a predator with a mind like a steel trap; relentless, determined, persevering. He was cunning, and was a man destined for big things if he stayed with the federal government.

  "We may have stumbled onto something," said Serrano, opening the folder that lay before him on the desk.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your boy, Cabraal, Adrian R. No convictions, but listed as a suspected trafficker. Our Miami office has seen him in the company of some people they've been watching down there. Specifically, one Angelo Bultaco, who deals pot by the ton and cocaine by the kilo. They've got one of his key people in their back pocket, and he's given them the names of everyone in Bultaco's organization, including Adrian Cabraal. Miami is finishing the last of the investigation, and plans to move on Bultaco soon. We heard he dropped a load up here this week. Miami's letting him conduct his business operation, as if nothing was wrong. They want him to be relaxed right up until they take him down.

  "But that’s Miami's business, ours is up here. Include Cabraal in your Merrimack Valley Project. Sit on him for a week, see who he meets, where he goes. Fernandez can work on the Lapienza thing."

  "C'mon, Gerry," protested Russo, "You know I got something important going on. Don't yank me from it."

  Serrano looked hard at Russo. He wasn't a man who liked his orders questioned, even by Russo, whom he regarded as one of his best agents.

  Russo sensed what was running through Serrano's mind, and decided it to let the matter drop.

  "All right," he said, exhaling slowly. "Give me what you have on Cabraal."

  Chapter Four

  Agents Russo and Fernandez were already there when Jimmy Hennessey was led into the small interrogation room at Lawrence Police Headquarters. He was now dressed in the standard jailhouse uniform of jeans and blue denim shirt. When he saw the waiting agents, he nodded meekly and shrugged. He looked like a lamb that knew it was destined for the slaughter. The defiant Jimmy of the previous day had become a docile captive who knew he’d crossed beyond the point of no return.

  Sensing Jimmy's mood, Russo attempted to offer him some encouragement. "We've started the ball rolling. Just be patient, and give us a chance to go to bat for you."

  "Time, shit," blurted Jimmy. "I need protection. Once word gets out that I'm talking, I'm dead."

  "Understand something," said Fernandez, loosening his tie. "No one knows about this, so you’re safe for now. Understand also that the government isn't in the free protection business. And there are a couple of other things that need to be established. One: that you're valuable; and two: that your life’s in danger. Nobody takes anyone's word for anything. That's the way it is."

  Jimmy's expression didn't change as he studied the two agents. Both recognized the look in Jimmy's eyes; his mind was computing his chances. Neither agent wanted to interrupt his train of thought, which would lead him where they wanted. Even though he was all theirs, they would exercise finesse. They'd coax him along gently.

  Finally Jimmy said, "So how do I become valuable?"

  And so it began, Jimmy Hennessey had cleared his first hurdle. He was ready to follow through and had taken a very difficult step; he had voluntarily become a pawn in the game. Their pawn. They had seen the Assistant U.S. Attorney, all right. And he agreed that Jimmy might need protection. But Jimmy would have to prove it. And McNamara, the tough young prosecutor who had grown up in New York’s crime-infested South Bronx, knew how Jimmy could do it. And now that Jimmy had just laid it on the line, Bobby Russo was about to lay it on him.

  "How you become valuable Jimmy, is what we've come to discuss. We want you to set up Freddie Corrales."

  "Set him up? How can I do that? I've never done business with him in my life."

  "That's okay," said Russo. "We can pull it off. We're going to nail him on drug charges and murder."

  "How you gonna do that?"

  "We're not going to do it, Jimmy. You are. He still owes you five thousand dollars for fingering Paulie, right?"

  "Yeah, so?"

  "So you go to his house and collect it...in cocaine. Take it in trade. That way we can stay involved. We'll wire you for sound and get everything you and Freddie say on tape. We'll be parked down the street. Just stay close to him. Try to avoid any background noises that could drown out your conversation with him. Get him talking about the hit on Paulie, so he'll implicate himself. Be casual. Talk about it like it was the weather. Compliment him. Can you handle that?"

  Jimmy nodded slowly. "Yeah, I think so."

  "Good," said Russo. "Very good."

  ************

  Bobby Russo finished taping the tiny microphone to Jimmy's chest, then checked to make sure it was secure. The transmitting unit, which was connected to the microphone by a thin wire, had been taped to Jimmy's lower abdomen.

  "How does it feel?" asked Russo. "Comfortable?"

  "It'll do," answered Jimmy, buttoning his shirt. His clothing was baggy and he felt like a circus clown, but they wanted to be sure the monitoring device wouldn't cause any bulges. The thought of getting caught made his skin crawl. Freddie Corrales was crazy, and would kill someone without blinking. He’d already proved it with Paulie Lapienza. If he ever discovered Jimmy was playing Judas with him...

  Fernandez joined them from the front of the dark, windowless van. He looked at his watch, then said to Russo, "It's almost time. You ready?"

  "Yeah, we're ready," answered Russo.

  "I hope this goes down quick and easy. I want to be back at Cabraal's by nine. That's when he usually heads out for the night. So far, he's been leading a boring life. I'm getting tired of watching him."

  "Oh yeah?" asked Russo. "You think being parked down the street from Corrales' house is exciting?"

  "Hey, at least you got company," said Fernandez, motioning toward the other two agents inside the van. "I just sit and watch."

  Russo couldn’t resist one parting shot. "And just think of the service you're doing for your country."

  Fernandez gave him the finger, then walked back to his van.

  ************

  The street was dimly lit; parked cars were nestled snugly in the shadows of overhanging trees. A blue, windowless van pulled into an empty space several houses away from number four-seventeen, Freddie Corrales's house. A black Mercedes continued on past several more houses before pulling over and dousing its lights.

  Inside the van, Russo asked Jimmy, "You know what to do, right? Stay close to him, be cool, and try to get him talking about Lapienza. Agent Fernandez and I will be right here, listening to everything that happens. Two more of our guys will be covering the back of the house. Anything goes wrong, we’ll move in quick."

  "It better not go wrong," said Jimmy. "Freddie's an animal."

  "You'll be all right," said Russo. "We've done this a hundred times. All set?"

  "Yeah, I guess." Jimmy looked at his watch. "I better go. I told him I'd be here at nine. You guys sure you can cover me?"

  "Hey," said Russo. "We know our job."

  Jimmy nodded, muttering, "Yeah, right."

  Jimmy tried to loosen up as he walked toward the house. Countless possibilities raced through his mind, a bad case of the "what-if's." What if Freddie caught him? What if he didn't want to talk about Lapienza? What if he became suspicious? What if he didn't have any cocaine? What if he reneged on his end of the deal? What if he couldn't pay up right now, and wanted Jimmy to come back? What if Jimmy needed help, and
Russo and the others left him hanging? What if his microphone malfunctioned, and his lifeline to the outside world were cut off? What then? A wave of doubt overpowered him and he halted halfway up the walk. He looked toward the van and saw one of the agents watching from the driver's seat.

  He tapped his microphone. Leaning close to it, he whispered, "Can you guys hear me? Is this thing working, or what?"

  From the front seat, Fernandez looked behind him for a moment, then back at Jimmy. Even in the darkness, Jimmy could feel the agent's displeasure from the impatient way he nodded his head. Yes, they could hear him. They just wanted him to get on with it.

  Well, screw you, too, thought Jimmy. What do you care? You're not the one going in there to set up crazy Freddie. I'm the meat who has to do that.

  Disgusted, Jimmy decided to look at it from another angle. He'd make it a game of survival -- Corrales against him. And for him to survive, Freddie would have to go. That's all there was to it. He might as well get used to it, because surely there would be more situations like it. The government would milk him dry. They hadn't made any bones about it. They owned him like he was chattel. Shit, they even had his wife and kids. Every day, an agent stopped by to check on them. He hadn't seen them since he'd been busted. It was just as well, because he couldn't face them. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when this Corrales thing was over. Maybe by then he'd have figured out how to explain it to them. And that was one more "what if" to contend with: what would his kids say when they found out what he had become?

  He walked to the front door and rang the bell. Hearing loud, erratic music, he doubted if the doorbell could be heard above it. He rang again, pressing the buzzer for several seconds. The music stopped. A moment later, the door swung open.

  Framed in the doorway - filling it - was a bearded hulk of a man wearing farmer's jeans. He had a crop of unruly, knotted hair, and his uncovered shoulders and arms were also heavily matted with hair and tattoos. Jimmy shuddered. Freddie's younger brother, Ralph was as big as Freddie, just as crazy, and was dumb as a stump.