Act of Revenge bkamc-11

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Suspicion lit in Scarpi’s small, dark eyes. “Ray, I told you already, you want to deal, go see Kronsky. That’s all I got to say to you.”

  “Hey, what’re you talking deal? They don’t send me out to deal,” said Guma in an aggrieved tone. “This is Raymond here, Scoot. I knew your parents, God rest them, I know your brothers, I knew you from when you couldn’t wipe your ass. This is not about a deal. We don’t need fucking lawyers. You know me, I’m in the famiglia, for chrissake. This is completely off the record here. I mean, when I heard what went down over by that fucking shelter, and I heard it was you, I couldn’t believe it. You were always a sensible kid, you know? Not a crazy-ass guinea. So I figured, out of the goodness of my heart, I’d come down here, talk to the kid, find out the real story, and, you know how it is, if I could put some words in people’s ears, off the record, you could maybe catch a break.”

  Scarpi was nodding. This was how it worked. He said, carefully, “Off the record?”

  “Yeah. Just between us. What I want to know is something’s got nothing to do with you, legally.”

  “Take off your coat and empty your pockets.”

  “Scooter! What the fuck, man! You think I would wear a wire?”

  “Hey, it’s my ass, man. And they don’t call me Scooter for years. It’s Gino. Okay, I’m waiting, Ray.”

  Guma took off his suit jacket and shook it upside down, grumbling, and emptied his pockets on the bed. He pirouetted slowly and pulled his shirt tight against his body so that Scarpi could see that no little Nagra recorder nestled in his armpit or the small of his back.

  “Satisfied? Because if you want to look up my asshole, it’s no deal.”

  “Sit down, Ray. What do you want to talk about?”

  Guma sat. “The wife, Vivian. What’s the story there? Why she all of a sudden broke out.”

  Scarpi’s thick eyebrows came together. “What the fuck you want to know for?”

  “Hey, I told you. It’s something else. Got nothing to do with you.”

  “Okay, you want to know about Vivian?” Scarpi leaned back on his pillows, considering. “What can I say. A cunt is a cunt, and as far as that goes, Jews are for lawyers, for accountants, not for in the rack. A piece of ass maybe, a change of pace, but for marrying, you should stick to your own, you know what I mean? But Little Sally, he’s got to have this Jew bitch. This was all before my time, you understand, I’m just saying what I heard. I hear that they fight, he raps her around, she fights more. The way I figure, that’s part of the deal-she likes getting hit, he likes to dish it out.”

  “Okay, but this is going on years, why does she split just then?”

  “This I don’t know. I’m not hiding under the fucking marital bed, am I? Maybe she found another guy. Sally sure as shit had other women.”

  “Was she giving it to Eddie Cat?”

  Scarpi let out a surprised snorting laugh. “Oh, there’s a fucking theory.”

  “What, the Cat wouldn’t have done it?”

  “Eddie? Eddie would fuck a Froot Loop rolling down Broadway. But he’d have to be crazy to jump Vivian B. If Sally didn’t whack him, the don would. You know how that shit works, Guma.”

  Guma smiled. “I rest my case.”

  For an instant Scarpi’s eyes widened and his jaw actually dropped, but then he grinned slyly and shook his head. Laughing, he said, “Eh, Raymond, you old fucker, you almost had me there. Uh-uh, nah, no way, man. No way, if that was what it was.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if it was that, it wouldn’t’ve been a couple in the head in a car. It would’ve been down by Sheepshead, out in an ice house, and Sally would’ve used a knife, and it would’ve lasted like three days. You know Sally.”

  “Yeah, I do, and that’s why I thought, when this Chinaman came forward, this was like an insult to Eddie Cat; I mean, like they didn’t even think he was worth getting whacked by a white man.”

  “Oh, yeah, well let me tell you about that chink fuck,” Scarpi snarled. “No fuckin’ way did Joey P. hire him to whack Eddie. The fucker’s lying through his teeth.”

  “Gino, you hide under Joey’s bed? Think about it. But forget that side of it for a second: the fact is you, personally, knew the guy, right? Because he named you specifically. I mean, what’d he do, pick your name out of the air? He read it in the Mob directory?”

  “Oh, shit, yeah, I knew him. I even brung him up to Joe’s place a couple times.”

  “What for?”

  Scarpi dropped his eyes. “You know, like for business.”

  “Gino, what did we say?” said Guma, and pinched his lips together. “Off the record. Since when do you associate with those guys?”

  Scarpi let out a bitter laugh. “Fuck, man, the way things’re going, those’re the only guys that’ll be left. We’re lucky we got four streets left downtown. No, this guy, Willie the Chink, he had contacts over the other side. You know, for product.”

  “Heroin.”

  “Yeah, and other stuff. And he could move cash, clean it up. Hey, what do I know about that shit? But Joe was like impressed. He treated the chink with respect.”

  “Uh-huh. So, Gino, if Willie’s blowing smoke, who do you think whacked Eddie Cat?”

  “Me? Fuck, Guma, I don’t get paid to think shit like that. Like they say, it’s not in my fuckin’ job description. I tell you what, though: you find out who, you let me know.”

  Guma stood up, put his jacket back on, and collected his pocket contents from the bed. He smiled and said, “Believe me, Gino, when we find out, you’ll be among the first to know.”

  A worried look crossed Scarpi’s face as he said, “Yeah, but, Guma? Seriously, you think you can do me some good? I mean, I can take a jolt upstate but not cripped up like this.”

  Guma leaned over and patted Scarpi on the knee. “Hey, paisan, you know I’ll do what I can do.” He winked. “The fix is in.”

  “That’s quite a story, Goom,” said Karp later that afternoon when Guma had concluded the tale of his hospital visit. “What’s your take?”

  They were in Karp’s office, Guma on the couch, Roland Hrcany on a side chair tilted precariously back against the wall, Karp in the big swivel chair behind the desk.

  “What’s my take? You’re gonna laugh, but I think the mutt was leveling with me.”

  Hrcany did laugh, forced, hooting, unpleasant and overlong. “You’re losing it, Goom. Too much time with the little birdies and fishies on the TV. You really expected the little fuckhead to tell you the truth?”

  “Well, yeah, Roland, as a matter of fact. I realize he’s just Mafia scum, but I made a living for years out of knowing when these guys are straight and when they’re not, and he wasn’t lying. Why should he? You honestly think he thought I was being cute? That I would double-cross him to make a case?”

  Roland sniffed and picked up Karp’s precious Mickey Mantle baseball. He tossed it up and caught it one-handed. “Okay, say you’re right. Where does that put us? If Willie boy is lying, then why? What’s in it for him?”

  They thought. After some moments, Karp ventured, “He’s moving smack, and it must be major weight if he’s dealing directly with Joe P. He lied about being a dealer for the Bollanos. In fact, he’s a supplier and a money launderer. And, let’s say he rips them off on some delivery and the boys come after him and he panics and decides to go for protection. He figures that ratting out Joe P. for the Catalano hit. . ah, shit, that doesn’t work.”

  “Yeah, ’cause Gino would’ve mentioned that,” said Roland, “and also, your point earlier, he’s a chink. He doesn’t really need protection. A ticket out of town and he’s history as far as the Mob is concerned.”

  “Especially since he may not even be Willie Lie,” said Karp. Then he told them what V.T. had told him about the ID from Hong Kong and the triad connection, to the accompaniment of muttered cursing and startled exclamations from the two other men.

  “A fucking egg roll,” was Guma’s summation. “Looks simp
le on the outside, but who the fuck knows what’s in it.”

  Gloomy silence for minutes thereafter, into which Karp put, “Okay, we could speculate all day and all night. What have we actually got?” He ticked the points off on his long fingers. “One, Lie’s uncorroborated story about Pigetti. Two, the fact that someone or something is knocking off the big guns of the Bollano family. Three, Eddie Cat was killed in such a manner as to give Joe P. and his whole crew an alibi. Four, Little Sally’s wife left him for a woman’s shelter shortly after Eddie got killed. Five, the uncorroborated testimony comes from a Chinese gangster with possible triad connections who comes in voluntarily, asks for me personally, volunteers to be a grand jury witness, knows all about transactional immunity, and bolts when he doesn’t get it. Okay, six: Willie Lie is for all intents and purposes nobody. He seems to have no money and no drugs we’ve been able to find. Have I left anything out?”

  Roland said, “Yeah, Tommy Colombo.”

  “What do you mean? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “He’s got Lie. He’s offered him what he wants on the federal side, but he’d love for us to play along, and nail both Joey and the Sals on murder charges. He’ll keep the pressure up on Jack: why isn’t the D.A. letting this little schmo skate in order to get these vicious kingpin killers? And if we put him in front of a grand jury without cutting him the deal he wants, he’ll either clam or perjure himself-and that means that the only way we can hang on to him is on a pissant contempt or perjury charge, which will make Jack look like a prize ass, he’s gumming up the crusade against the big bad Mob. Believe me, Butch, Jack’s ready to roll on this, give the Chinaman his blind deal, anything to make the murder case against Pigetti. If Lie gets that, he’ll give us the shooter, maybe the gun, the details, corroboration up the ass, the whole nine yards. So if that happens, all your points become moot. Joe P. goes down for the hit, case closed.”

  “That can’t happen,” said Karp. “Roland, I can feel it: there’s an intelligence behind this, behind Willie, and it’s playing all of us, you, me, the Bollanos, Colombo. Something’s going on here that’s bigger than putting one wise guy in jail for shooting another wise guy. Goom, if Pigetti and Lie were together on the hit like Lie says, would Scarpi necessarily know about it? I mean, could Pigetti keep it secret from the Bollano guys?”

  “Hell, yeah, in principle. Joey’d be taking a big chance, and Lie would have to be a major player to set up Catalano on the basis of an eye wink from Joe. But then why does he turn around and screw Joey with this testimony bullshit? What’s his game?”

  “He wants to squash the Bollano family?” Karp suggested.

  Roland let his chair rock down, and he tossed the baseball to Karp. “That may be, Butch, but that’s not what they’re buying today. Today the choices are ‘D.A. convicts mobster’ or ‘D.A. fucks up big-time, U.S. attorney convicts mobster.’ Unless you can come up with something with enough juice to give Jack a third choice, I’m guessing he’s sooner or later going to roll over for Mr. Lie.”

  Mr. Leung was at that moment well content. Mobilizing Willie Lie had worked as he had expected. Lie would keep the Italians confused, weakened, and occupied, at little risk to the plan. The Chens and their tong were neutralized for the time being. Karp had proved a disappointment; he should have leaped at the opportunity to bring a murder charge against Pigetti, but he had not. Was it possible that his daughter had been talking to him? But would a man like that heed a child, a girl child, no matter how skillful? It was hard to credit. He sensed from what he understood of the interaction between Lie and the federal prosecutor that there was an intense rivalry between Colombo and Karp. Clearly they were working for different political factions, just as in China. Perhaps money should be offered. Meanwhile, the snipe and the clam were still focused on one another, and Leung himself was perfectly safe, moving silently and steadily up the beach. It was just as the drunken American in Macao had predicted.

  Chapter 14

  It took Marlene an hour on the Long Island Expressway to get to the Nassau County line and nearly another hour on feeder roads roaming the cloned streets of Great Neck Estates to find the colonial split-level house occupied by retired detective John (Black Jack) Doherty. As usual when making a cold call like this, she’d had Sym make a telephone contact to make sure the mark was still alive and not senile. (No, Mr. Doherty did not want to buy any aluminum siding from the young woman.)

  The house was large and white and clean-looking, an American-dream kind of dwelling, set back on a broad, closely clipped lawn shaded by well-grown red maples. There was a gray Chrysler Le Baron, three years old and spotless, in the driveway. Over the doorway, fixed in the center of the triangular pediment, screamed a black iron eagle, below which was a small flagpole carrying the stars and stripes.

  Marlene stood under the sluggishly moving banner and pushed the bell button, which was set into a brass plaque with another eagle on it. A brass eagle also served as a knocker on the shiny black door. As she waited, she could not help reflecting how much grander this house was than the one her parents lived in, although as far as earnings were concerned, a cop and a plumbing contractor had been about on a par back in the fifties. Maybe his wife worked, or his kids struck it rich and bought it for him, she thought, not really believing it.

  The man who answered the door was in his mid sixties, stocky, with a dark, angular face, black hair going speckled gray on the sides, thick black eyebrows over dark eyes, a good example of the physiognomic style called Black Irish, supposedly representing gene lines dumped on the shamrock shore by the wreckage of the Armada. He was dressed for suburban comfort in a green cardigan, tan Lacoste shirt, pale blue Sansabelt trousers, and woven leather slip-ons. The fishing magazine he was holding completed the picture of a prosperous retiree, but his eyes were still cop eyes when he looked Marlene up and down. She was still something to see, with the face covered in yellowy-mauve blotches, but she had made the effort, having donned a blue linen suit, a crisp primrose blouse, heels, and a snappy panama hat to hide the Frankenstein stitches on her bristly skull. The cops still had her gun, and she was in no great hurry to get another one.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “You can if you’re John Doherty. Harry Bello suggested I look you up.”

  She could see him thinking. The NYPD has something over two thousand detectives, of whom only two hundred or so are detectives first grade. Bello had been one and Doherty had not, and even if their careers had not been exactly contemporary, Doherty would have heard of Bello as a rising hotshot.

  “Harry Bello. In Brooklyn, yeah. I was in the city my whole career. He still with the force?”

  “No, he retired and went private. I’m his partner, Marlene Ciampi.” She held out a business card, one of the old Bello amp; Ciampi versions.

  He read it, and when he looked up his gaze remained suspicious. They were still standing on the doorstep, and he had not yet made a gesture to invite her over his threshold. “What’s this about, Miss Ciampi?”

  “One of your old cases bears on an investigation we’re running for a client. Harry thought you could be helpful, maybe supply some background that never got written into a DD-5.”

  “What case would that be?”

  “Gerald Fein. You remember it?”

  The big eyebrows rose a quarter inch. “Hard to forget that one.” He looked at his watch. “I got an eleven o’clock tee-off at Fresh Meadows, but I could talk for a couple of minutes. Come on in.”

  He turned and led the way back into the house, through a small entrance hall past a living room demonstrating that the Dohertys must be among the very best customers of the Ethan Allen Company, down a hallway lined with family photographs (wife, four good-looking kids, an assortment of probable grandchildren), and into a pine-paneled room that was clearly the master’s den. Doherty seated himself in a big maroon leather recliner and indicated a needlepoint-cushioned maple rocker for her to sit in. Marlene took in the unsurprising decor:
framed photographs of Doherty in uniform and plainclothes with other smiling men, all Irish-looking, similarly dressed, awards, plaques, two stuffed fish of good size, a bass and a tarpon, an antique wooden eagle, hooked rugs on the floor, and the furniture, desk, chairs (except the man’s recliner) impeccably early American maple and pine. Esthetic consistency was clearly a major value chez Doherty.

  Settled, Doherty did not beat about the bush. “You want to know was the suicide legit?”

  “Yeah, that’d be a good place to start.”

  He made a steeple of his fingers and looked out the window past beige drapes printed with flags and drums to a small stone patio and the yard beyond. “Officially, we found no evidence of foul play. The man went up to the observation deck, bought a ticket, opened a locked maintenance door, went out onto the overhang below the deck windows, and climbed over the parapet.”

  “And unofficially?”

  “Unofficially. .? Well, I was the junior guy on the case. Arnie Mulhausen was running it, and he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. But I had some problems, yes.”

  “Like?”

  “Okay, no note. Not unusual, but you have to figure, a lawyer, a man uses words every day. . it made me itch a little. Arnie’s take was, hey, the guy was nuts, right? Who else takes a header off of the Empire State? So I’m doing interviews, family, friends, associates-”

  “Excuse me a second, Mr. Doherty, this kind of investigation for a jumper-it’s not that usual either, is it?”

  “Well, it’s sad to say, it depends on the person. A cop eats the gun, hey, it’s pretty cut and dried. Some guy gets out of Creedmore and jumps in front of a bus, same thing. Guy, a Mob lawyer, no history of depression, goes off a building, we look a little harder. So, my other problem, like I was saying, I couldn’t get anyone to tell me Fein was depressed, despondent, whatever. The wife, the daughter, colleagues. He was laughing, he had plans to recover, he wasn’t hurting that bad for money.”