Eddie the Kid

by Steven M. Forman

  Forge Books by Steven M. Forman

  Boca Knights

  Boca Mournings

  Boca Daze

  Eddie the Kid

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

  Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2011 by Steven M. Forman.

  Excerpt from Boca Daze copyright © 2011 by Steven M. Forman.

  All rights reserved.

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN: 978-1-4668-0283-4

  To Barbara and my family.

  Special thanks to my agent Bob Diforio, my editor Jim Frenkel, and my publisher, Tom Doherty Associates (Tor Books). To Steven J. Brooks, Esq., for legal advice and to my friend Larry Cohen for his information regarding a Boston hiding place in 1974.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Preview

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  A Tall Short Man

  Wednesday, September 11, 1974

  Noon

  A tall, thin man wearing dark sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and a floor-length trench coat emerged from a cloud of smoke onto busy Hanover Street in Boston’s North End. His face was hidden by a plain white mask with two eyeholes. The nose and mouth had been sculpted with no openings. Reaching under his coat with his right hand, the masked man removed a sawed-off shotgun, aimed, and fired twice. The first blast blew a hole in Jimmy “Gorgeous” Lopresti’s chest and threw the Mafia capo against the brick wall of the European Restaurant. The second slug blew away his handsome face.

  Bedlam erupted on Hanover Street: pedestrians ran and screamed; drivers ducked under dashboards, lost control of their cars, and crashed into each other.

  “Goddamn,” said Lopresti’s mountainous bodyguard, Skinny Russo, as he reached for his gun under his suit jacket. The man with the shotgun calmly fired a third time. Skinny’s fat face exploded like a watermelon hitting the pavement at the end of a long drop.

  “Whoa,” shouted Jello Damiano, a friend of Jimmy’s. He reached for the gun in his belt, but a fourth blast blew away his hand, his belt, and his bowels.

  Four shots, three dead, sixty seconds. Thick smoke enveloped the gunman and he was gone. Moments later sirens shrieked. Someone had called the cops. The panic ended and people filled the streets, walking, talking, and gawking at the dead.

  Police detective Eddie Perlmutter and his partner, Mickey O’Toole, arrived on Hanover Street a half hour after the slaughter. Eddie was considered Boston’s best cop, which is all he had ever wanted to be since he was a kid. He was twenty-nine years old, just six years on the force but already a legend. At five foot six and a hundred and sixty pounds he was small for an icon, but he was fearless, ferocious, unbeatable, and incorruptible. He had the analytical mind of a safecracker and the persistence to try every conceivable combination to unlock a mystery. Where others only saw chaos, he saw clues. His moral code was basic: protect the good, disable the bad, and screw the consequences. He had been promoted and demoted six times in six years, a department record.

  Eddie and Mickey went straight to the dead bodies.

  A cop guarding the crime scene said, “Hey Eddie, good to see you haven’t been demoted again.”

  “The day’s young, Jackson,” Eddie said, thinking back to his first week at the police academy when he had knocked out the martial arts instructor and received his first official reprimand.

  Monday, March 4, 1968

  11:00 A.M.

  The instructor’s name was Arvi Sgan. He was a former member of the Israeli Defense Force, a black belt in karate, a judo expert, and a Krav Maga master. He had selected Eddie as his opponent for the introductory self-defense demonstration.

  “I heard you were an undefeated amateur boxer, Cadet Perlmutter,” Sgan said. “Is that right?”

  “Yes sir,” Eddie said. “But I haven’t boxed in years.”

  “Well, let’s see if you have anything left.”

  Sgan ordered Eddie to attack him and not to pull his punches. Eddie obliged with a bull rush. Sgan avoided the charge and flipped Eddie easily. Eddie scrambled to his feet and threw a punch. Sgan sidestepped it and flipped him again. After being flipped three times and then being punched hard in the chest, Eddie was on his knees gasping for breath. “I quit,” he said, hanging his head.

  “That’s it? I thought you were a tough guy,” Sgan said.

  “You thought wrong,” Eddie said, rising to one knee.

  Sgan looked at the other candidates. “Lesson one,” he said, pointing down at Eddie. “No matter how tough you think you are, you need professional training.”

  From his kneeling position Eddie threw a perfect uppercut into Sgan’s balls. Sgan grunted and bent over. Eddie stood up and punched down into Sgan’s jaw, driving him face-first into the mat, unconscious.

  “Lesson two,” Eddie said. “Never underestimate your opponent.”

  The day after breaking his instructor’s jaw and busting his balls, Eddie was ordered to appear before the academy disciplinary board. “Can you think of any reason you should not be dismissed from this program?” Captain Brian Sullivan asked.

  Eddie stood, silent.

  “Answer the question, Cadet Perlmutter,” the Captain ordered.

  “I’m thinking,” Eddie said.

  “I can think of a reason,” Instructor Avi Sgan said through a wired jaw.

  Everyone in the room turned toward Sgan. The captain nodded at the instructor to continue.

  “Cadet Perlmutter’s strategy was brilliant,” Sgan mumbled through clenched teeth. “He lulled me into complacency. He should be complimented, not reprimanded. I have not been beaten since I became a master of Krav Maga.”

  “What the hell is Krav Maga?” the captain asked.

  “Maximum damage in minimum time,” Sgan said. “Taught only to the Israeli Defense Force.”

  “It sounds like it shouldn’t be taught to anyone.”

  “I’d like to teach it to Perlmutter,” Sgan said.

  “Isn’t he dangerous enough?” Captain Sullivan asked.

  “Training him could determine if Krav Maga would work
for the entire Boston Police Department,” Sgan said.

  Perlmutter received three weeks’ probation for insubordination by the disciplinary board. At a separate meeting, it was decided that Sgan would be allowed to train Cadet Perlmutter in Krav Maga for six weeks.

  At the end of his training, Cadet Perlmutter gave a Krav Maga demonstration. The board decided that this particular martial art was too aggressive for standard police work and that Eddie Perlmutter was the most dangerous man on the Boston police force.

  Eddie ranked number two in his class when he graduated from the academy. He was number one with a gun, earning him the nickname “Eddie the Kid” for his marksmanship. He finished first in physical fitness, self-defense, and criminal investigation, but was last in discipline. He could control an angry mob better than he could control himself.

  Chapter 2

  When Eddie Met Mickey

  Tuesday, September 3, 1968

  8:00 A.M.

  After he graduated the academy, Eddie was assigned to District A-1 in the North End. His first day on the job, in the crowded, raucous locker room at the station house, he found his designated locker next to Sergeant Michael “Mickey” O’Toole. The big Irishman towered over Eddie and glowered down at him. Eddie offered to shake O’Toole’s hand but O’Toole chose to shake things up instead.

  “The Boston police force is an Irish tradition, Perlmutter,” O’Toole said. “We don’t want kikes here.”

  The room went silent as the other policemen heard the insult.

  Eddie saw red and struggled to control his temper. He tried humor.

  “I’m small. You won’t even know I’m here,” he said with a smile.

  “You’re a smart-ass kike too,” O’Toole said, taking a step closer, looking down at Eddie. He was eight inches taller and eighty pounds heavier. “Why don’t we step outside and finish this conversation.”

  “I’d rather not,” Eddie said, trying to defuse the situation.

  “All you Jews are alike,” O’Toole said. “You’re chicken.”

  “See you outside,” Eddie said, and began walking to the locker room door. O’Toole followed, winking confidently at his friends. The other policemen joined the procession. Eddie held up his arm. “This is between O’Toole and me,” he said. “The rest of you mind your own business.”

  O’Toole nodded and no one followed.

  Eddie walked a few steps down the hall toward the back door. He stopped at the pay phone.

  “I have to make one call first,” he said.

  “Call your doctor,” O’Toole said, looking smug.

  Eddie dropped a dime in the phone and dialed the private number of the academy’s commander, Captain Brian Sullivan.

  “Sir, Officer Perlmutter here. You told me to call if I had a problem.”

  “You’ve only been on the job one day.”

  “That’s true, sir,” Eddie said. “But I met Sergeant Mickey O’Toole and he wants to take me outside and kick my ass.”

  “What did you do to offend him?”

  “I was born Jewish,” Eddie explained.

  “Dumb fuckin’ Irishman,” Captain Sullivan growled.

  “That’s him, sir,” Eddie said, and handed O’Toole the phone. “He asked for you.”

  “Hello Captain,” O’Toole said. “I hope we don’t have a problem.”

  “I don’t have a problem, O’Toole, you do,” Sullivan said. “You just picked a fight with a guy who can tear off your testicles and hand them to you in a cereal bowl before you can cough.”

  “You’re kidding, Captain,” O’Toole said. “He’s just a little shit.”

  “He’s small but extremely dangerous,” Captain Sullivan said. “Try to think of Officer Perlmutter as a hand grenade. If mishandled he’ll blow up in your face and do an incredible amount of damage. And one more thing—I ordered Perlmutter to call me if some dumb shit was stupid enough to pick a fight with him. I don’t want him to disable or embarrass any of my officers. Now apologize to the little fucker and go to work.”

  Sullivan hung up without another word, and O’Toole returned the phone to the cradle.

  “I guess I owe you an apology,” the big man said, embarrassed.

  “No. You owe me a chance,” Eddie said. “If I don’t earn your respect I’ll ask for a transfer.”

  “Okay, but I still think you’re taking something that belongs to the Irish,” O’Toole said.

  “I’ve done that before. I have an Irish wife,” Eddie told him.

  “No fuckin’ way.”

  “That’s what her father said.”

  “It’s not right,” O’Toole said. “I’m still single and a Jew has an Irish wife.”

  “Marry a Jewish girl and get even,” Eddie said.

  “I’ll stay single.”

  “Probably a good decision,” Eddie said.

  “Things are changing too fast for me,” O’Toole said.

  “Change with them, Mickey,” Eddie said, offering his hand again. O’Toole took it this time.

  In months they became best friends, and by the day Jimmy Lopresti was killed, they were like brothers.

  Chapter 3

  One Picture’s Worth

  Wednesday, September 11, 1974

  2:00 P.M.

  Mickey and Eddie studied Lopresti’s ruined body. Lopresti was slumped against the European Restaurant’s brick facade, his legs splayed in front of him, his face a bloody pulp and his chest blown open.

  “Twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun, I’m thinking,” Mickey said.

  “Fortunately the city doesn’t pay you to think,” Eddie said “A 12 gauge would never do this much damage. Jimmy’s head and torso are almost gone. Check out Skinny and Jello.”

  O’Toole was back in a couple of minutes.

  “Skinny’s headless, and Jello is eviscerated from his nipples to his navel,” O’Toole said.

  “I think we’re talking more like 4-to-10-gauge damage,” Eddie said.

  “Impossible,” Mickey said. “This guy fired four shots in a minute. It had to be an automatic.”

  “Or a custom-made gun with custom ammunition,” Eddie said. “Let’s look around.”

  Eddie and Mickey scoured the crime scene for over two hours, but found nothing they could link directly to the crime. “He even policed his shells,” said Eddie with a touch of admiration for the shooter. Mickey found an old black-and-white photograph next to Hanover Court, a narrow side street. It was a picture of an elderly man, dressed in a black suit, sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair. A young couple stood behind him, with two boys to their right and two girls to their left. There was writing on the back of the photo that identified them as the Caradonnas, 1954. Stefano was the man in the middle. Rocco was the old man’s son, Angelina was Rocco’s wife, and the four children were listed as Marissa, Gennaro, Jacquilina, and Gianni.

  “A clue?” Mickey asked. Eddie looked over his broad shoulder.

  “More like a missing family photograph from the old country,” Eddie said. “There must be five hundred photos like this in the North End. Make a copy and give it to the lab. You never know.”

  Eddie walked a few yards into Hanover Court and noticed a fresh, deep gouge in the pavement on one edge of a sewer cover. “Mickey, see if one of our boys has a tire iron and a flashlight in his car, willya?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “My mind’s in the sewer.”

  “I knew that.”

  Eddie walked the length of the court finding nothing but alley stuff. Mickey returned with a tire iron and a flashlight.

  “Great,” Eddie said. “Where did you find them?”

  “In our car.”

  “No kidding.”

  Eddie used the tire iron to pry open the sewer cover and shoved the cumbersome, hundred-pound lid off the hole in the ground.

  “Impressive show of strength, little man,” Mickey said.

  “It’s all in the leverage,” Eddie told his partner. He turned the flashlight o
n and descended the iron-rung ladder.

  “See anything?” Mickey asked.

  “Nothing yet. Wait. What’s that? Oh my God, get away from me,” Eddie screamed.

  “What is it?” Mickey shouted, and started down the hole.

  “Relax. Just kidding.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Sometimes,” Eddie said. “There’s a pipe and a small walkway running alongside it. I’m gonna follow it and see where it leads.”

  Fifteen minutes later Eddie walked up behind Mickey, who was still looking down the hole, and tapped him on the shoulder. “What are you looking at, O’Toole?” he asked.

  “I’m waiting for Eddie Perl—” Mickey started, and turned to see Eddie standing behind him. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “You’re jumpy for a big guy,” Eddie said, smiling at Mickey. “The tunnel led to Salem Street. So much for our shooter appearing and disappearing in a puff of smoke. He took the sewer between two adjacent streets, which makes him clever, but not mysterious.”

  Eddie instructed two uniformed officers to tape off the open manhole. “Send someone down to take pictures,” he informed one of them.

  A police officer named Guinn approached Eddie and Mickey. “Reporters are taking statements from witnesses,” he said.

  “Can anyone describe this guy?” Eddie asked.

  Guinn shook his head. “He was wearing a mask that covered his whole face,” he said. “One guy thought it looked like one of those Mardi Gras masks.”

  “Was the shooter tall or short?” O’Toole asked.

  “One witness says tall, one says short,” Guinn said with a smile. “They all agreed he was wearing a long coat and a hat with a wide brim, and he was carrying a shotgun. The reporters have already labeled him the Shotgun Man.”