A Scourge of Vipers

by Bruce DeSilva

Next morning, I slipped into Mason’s office at The Ocean State Rag and found him hunched over his computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

  “Give me a sec,” he said, “and I’ll be right with you.”

  Edward Anthony Mason III was no longer the slim, naive, fresh-faced Columbia University J-School grad I’d met six years earlier when he strode into The Dispatch’s newsroom. He’d put on a few pounds; I could see it in his face. He’d grown wiser in the ways of the world. And he’d recently gotten engaged to Felicia Freyer, the drop-dead-gorgeous attorney he’d met when we worked the Diggs case together a couple of years back. Once, he’d been a callow, privileged youth who thought the publisher’s chair at The Dispatch was his birthright. But when the family patriarchs sold the paper out from under him, he hadn’t sulked. He’d started his own business, and it was growing. He was a publisher now.

  He rose from the computer, shook my hand, waved me into a visitor’s chair, and settled back down behind his desk.

  “So,” he said, “are you ready to start?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve agreed to work part-time for McCracken. I’m thinking maybe I could do the same for you.”

  “Figure on trying out both jobs to see which suits you best?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Reporter or private detective? Interesting life choice.”

  “It is.”

  “Tell you what. For now, I’ll add you to our stringers list and pay you by the piece.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “You’ll be on your own for health insurance, Mulligan.”

  “I understand.”

  “So, then. Got any story ideas?”

  “I already have a scoop for you,” I said. “Show me where to sit, and I’ll bang it out.”

  47

  If the homicide twins were guilty of robbery and murder, proving it was going to be a bitch. I didn’t know where to start. The next morning, I kicked it around with Joseph for a couple of hours. He wasn’t any help.

  At noon, I drove to the Omni and cornered the desk clerk who’d been on duty when Romeo Alfano was killed. Had he seen anybody who looked like a cop walk out of the hotel with a briefcase that day? He didn’t remember. When I slipped him forty bucks, he still didn’t. The concierge was no help either.

  The hotel detective was a retired Providence police sergeant named Ferguson Conklin. I found him sitting in a cramped office near the reception desk, his eyes scanning the hotel’s surveillance monitors.

  “How ya doin’, Fergie?”

  “Been better. Murder ain’t good for business.”

  “I assume you’ve gone over all the video from the day of the murder.”

  “Of course I have. Freitas and Wargart did, too.”

  “They show anything?”

  “Nothing helpful.”

  “No intruder sneaking into the murder room before the cops showed up?”

  “There aren’t any surveillance cameras in the hallways.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Our guests value their privacy.”

  “But the cameras cover the stairwells and elevators?”

  “Of course.”

  “Anybody go up to the ninth floor shortly before the cops arrived?”

  “Just a couple of the housekeeping staff. And one guy who knew how to avert his face from the cameras. Could have been the killer. Could have just been some guy cheating on his wife. Happens all the time. Of course, the cameras also caught you and McCracken coming down. Wargart and Freitas seemed real interested in that.”

  “Did the homicide twins go up before Parisi arrived?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Mind if I take a look at the tape?”

  “Sorry. The Providence dicks took it with them.”

  I went back to my car and tried to think things through. A couple of weeks ago, I was an investigative reporter hell-bent on exposing massive political corruption in the state legislature. Now I’d been reduced to trying to clear a violent punk, and myself, of a murder rap. The sense of mission that had driven me for more than two decades as a journalist was gone, but my new task did come with a sense of urgency.

  When I couldn’t think of anything better to do, I decided to try talking things over with Parisi—even though he was never much for talking.

  * * *

  “I hear you’re a private dick now,” he said through his rolled-down driver’s-side window.

  “I am.”

  “I hate private dicks.”

  “That’s funny. Last time we talked, you said some nice things about McCracken. And he always speaks well of you.”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Mario Zerilli claims he didn’t shoot Romeo Alfano,” I said.

  “What else would you expect him to say?”

  “He also says he doesn’t have the two hundred grand.”

  “Umpf.”

  “Know what I’m wondering?” I asked.

  “No idea.”

  “I’m wondering if the homicide twins took it.”

  A ten-second delay, and then, “You’re thinking they found Alfano dead and grabbed the money before I got there?”

  “Or maybe scooped it after they shot him.”

  Five seconds. “Interesting theory. Only one problem with it.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Ten seconds this time. “That grocery bag the Providence cops confiscated when they executed the warrant on your apartment?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know what was in it?”

  “No idea. I didn’t notice anything missing.”

  Five seconds. “Hundred-dollar bills bundled with blue bank bands.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “How much?”

  “Seven grand.”

  “Jesus!”

  He gave me a hard look and held it.

  “Want to tell me where you and McCracken stashed the rest of the cash?”

  I studied his face, trying to figure out if he was serious. It didn’t tell me anything.

  “Come on, Captain. Freitas and Wargart must have planted a few bundles to set us up. You know we didn’t do this.”

  “Do I?”

  “Otherwise, you’d already have us in handcuffs.”

  Ten seconds. “Not my decision. It’s Providence PD’s case.”

  With that, he rolled up his window and roared out of the parking lot.

  At first, I was too shocked to think straight. When I finally calmed down, my mind flooded with questions. If the homicide twins had me in a frame, why was I still running around loose? If they thought McCracken was involved, why hadn’t he been brought in for questioning? Why hadn’t his home and office been searched? For that matter, why hadn’t they searched my car?

  None of it made sense.

  * * *

  I was halfway back to Providence when I spotted another gray Honda Civic in my rearview. This one tailed me all the way to Federal Hill, then kept going straight on Atwells Avenue when I turned onto America Street. I parked in front of my tenement building and spotted another one parked two blocks away on the other side of the street. I was getting paranoid about them again. The damned things were everywhere.

  I turned off the ignition and fished the cell out of my pocket to tell McCracken what I’d learned. Just before I hit the call button, I was struck by a frightening thought.

  After I’d tipped Parisi and the homicide twins that they could find Romeo Alfano and Mario Zerilli at the Omni, McCracken and I had parted ways in front of the hotel. The P.I. could have slipped back inside before the cops arrived, waited until Mario shot Alfano, and then grabbed the money. Or he could have killed Alfano himself.

  Was my old friend capable of that?

  I didn’t think so. But his agency wasn’t in the black yet, and two hundred grand was a lot of money. McCracken certainly had the skill to br
eak into my apartment without leaving a trace and plant a few bundles of cash for the homicide twins to find.

  The more I thought about it, the more paranoid I got.

  48

  I spent the next few days brooding and hiding out in my apartment. No matter how I looked at it, I couldn’t see a way out of the mess I was in.

  Every morning, I caught up with the local news in The Ocean State Rag: Family of three shot dead in Pawtucket carjacking. Murder of state legislator remains unsolved. Sports gambling veto dooms state employee pension system. Providence Vipers release regular season schedule. State cheerleader championships at the Dunkin’ Donuts Center on Saturday. Fried calamari crowned official state appetizer. When had I started getting my daily dose from Mason’s website instead of the newspaper? I couldn’t remember, but it was definitely before I started stringing for him. In fact, it was well before Chuckie-boy fired me.

  Yolanda called early Wednesday morning, and this time she had news.

  “GCHI settled,” she said.

  “Already?”

  “I met with their attorneys in our conference room yesterday afternoon. I gave them a figure. They huddled and made a counteroffer. We haggled for about an hour and then agreed to split the difference.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred and thirty-five thousand. If you accept the offer, they’ll cut the check this week. After our fee, you’ll get a hundred and one thousand dollars and change.”

  “I need to think about it.”

  “It’s the best deal you’re going to get without going to trial, Mulligan, and we don’t want to do that.”

  “I agree.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Do you think you could let me have twenty-five grand this week and hold on to the rest of the money for a while?”

  “Sure, I can do that. But may I ask why?”

  “I’ll explain over dinner Saturday.”

  After we hung up I spent another hour or so feeling sorry for myself, wondering if I’d have to spend the settlement on a criminal defense. But self-pity didn’t suit me, so I stopped. Either I was going to get arrested for robbery and murder, or I wasn’t. The thing to do was hope for the best and continue making plans for life after The Dispatch.

  Those plans included Yolanda, of course, but they also involved Joseph.

  The smell of eggs and coffee roused the big guy from the couch again. He wandered into the kitchen in nothing but yellowed boxers and sat down at the table. He had a sour look on his face.

  “My fuckin’ truck broke down again yesterday,” he said. “Had it towed to the Shell station on Broad. Dwayne took one look under the hood and said the engine’s blown. Piece of shit ain’t worth fixing.”

  “Want the Bronco?” I asked.

  “Sure, but I ain’t got no money to buy it from you.”

  “Give me a dollar, and I’ll sign the title over to you.”

  “Why would you wanna do that?”

  “I’m buying a new ride later this week.”

  “You ain’t trading it in?”

  “No dealer wants a fifteen-year-old gas guzzler with body damage,” I said.

  “Still drives pretty good,” Joseph said.

  “True, but you won’t have to drive it long. You’ll be able to afford a hot new set of wheels soon enough.”

  “What the hell you talking about?”

  When I told him what I had in mind, his eyes got huge.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Zerilli buzzed us both into his inner sanctum. I didn’t need to make introductions.

  “Joseph?” Whoosh said. “Ain’t seen you around for months.”

  “That’s cuz I’m fuckin’ broke.”

  “I don’t take no bets on credit, pal.”

  “Not why I’m here,” Joseph said.

  “So why are you?”

  “Let Mulligan tell it.”

  Whoosh raised an eyebrow. I smiled, pulled a rawhide strip out of my pocket, lured Shortstop out of the visitor’s chair, and sat down.

  “’Bout time you showed up,” Whoosh said. “Maggie and I are flyin’ to Fort Myers next week to look at condos, but I can’t make an offer on anything till you and me settle our business.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” I said.

  “We?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s this palooka got to do with it?”

  “A lot,” I said. “I can’t see myself spending every day taking bets in this cramped little office. I want Joseph to handle that end for me.”

  “You’re shittin’.”

  “I’m not.”

  “What the fuck does he know about makin’ book?”

  “He’s standing right here. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Whoosh tossed me a skeptical look, then started lobbing questions at Joseph, challenging his knowledge about sports, betting lines, and odds-making. Nearly an hour dragged by before he was satisfied.

  “Okay. Looks like he can handle the day-to-day. But you still gotta be responsible for overseeing things, Mulligan.”

  “I understand.”

  “Joseph,” Whoosh said, “boot Mulligan out of that chair and drag it over here. You and me gotta go over some details.”

  I listened in as Whoosh reeled off the percentage that had to be kicked up to Arena each month. When he started to explain how to write the bets down in code, I turned to leave. I didn’t need to hear that part. I told Joseph I’d be back for him in an hour, skipped down the stairs, and ducked out of the store.

  * * *

  For a government form, the application to create a Rhode Island corporation was surprisingly simple. Even a former newspaper hack could tackle it without consulting a team of Harvard-trained attorneys. I filled in the blanks standing up at the counter in the secretary of state’s office.

  COMPANY NAME: Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America

  PURPOSES OF INCORPORATION: Retail life and liability insurance

  PRESIDENT: Tuukka Mulligan

  VICE PRESIDENT: Joseph DeLucca

  SECRETARY: Yolanda Mosley-Jones

  DIRECTORS: Steve Dillard, Rick Miller, Ted Cox, Doug Griffin, Tom House

  Tuukka was dead, and the directors all played on losing Boston Red Sox teams in the 1970s, but it wasn’t like anybody was going to check.

  I handed a clerk the papers and the hundred-and-fifty-dollar filing fee and was informed that the application would be processed in seven to ten days.

  * * *

  “So,” Joseph said when I picked him up. “Can we get somethin’ to eat? I’m fuckin’ starving here.”

  At four in the afternoon, Charlie’s diner was nearly empty. We claimed a corner booth and talked about the Red Sox while the short-order cook scorched our cheeseburgers and fries. After they we delivered, we got down to business.

  “How’d it go with Whoosh?” I asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Any details I need to know?”

  “Uh. Let’s see. He said he wants to put the store in your name, but he’s gonna hold on to the real estate.”

  “And charge us rent?”

  “A dollar a year.”

  “It should be in your name,” I said. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything else?”

  “If any problems come up, he don’t want me talkin’ to Grasso or Arena. He says you gotta handle that.”

  “And?”

  “He’s gonna have his accountant show me how to pad the store revenue.”

  “To make it look like you’ve got a legitimate source of income?”

  “Yeah. Oh, and I told Whoosh I’m gonna stop selling those illegal tax-free cigarettes he stocks behind the counter. I heard on the news the fuckin’ feds are cracking down on that shit. It only brings in a few grand a year, so it ain’t worth the risk.”

  “Good thinking,”
I said. “By the way, did Whoosh tell you which cops we gotta pay off?”

  “He said to put five grand in a paper grocery sack the end of every month for a coupla bent dicks named Fatass and Widget.”

  “You mean Freitas and Wargart?”

  “I guess so, yeah.”

  “That’s odd. I heard they were on the pad, but those two pricks work homicide.”

  “Whoosh said they started coming around with their fuckin’ hands out years ago when they was workin’ vice. The cash ain’t all for them. They just collect it and spread it around the department.”

  “To whom, I wonder.”

  “Whoosh didn’t say. So, Mulligan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You never did tell me what my cut’s gonna be.”

  “You’ll be working on commission, Joseph.”

  “Commission? How’s that gonna work?”

  “After expenses, Whoosh generally clears at least three hundred and fifty grand a year,” I said.

  “He told me.”

  “But some years are better than others.”

  “He told me that, too.”

  “Each month, I’ll be wiring half of the profits to Whoosh’s bank account in the Caymans.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ll expect you to hand me six grand in cash the end of every month.”

  “That’s all?”

  “My needs are small.”

  “That comes to, uh, seventy-two thou a year. What about the rest of it?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “Jesus! That could be over a hundred grand a year.”

  “Maybe more,” I said, “if you run things right.”

  “I get a bigger cut than you?”

  “You do.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be doing all the work and taking most of the risk.”

  “Holy shit! I’m fuckin’ rich.”

  “Not really, but it’s a lot more than you’re used to.”

  “What the hell am I gonna do with that much money?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Just don’t be conspicuous with it, okay?”

  “Whadda ya mean?”

  “Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself. You don’t want the IRS to come sneaking around asking questions.”

  “No Dodge Vipers. No diamond pinky rings. I get it. But can I get a new truck?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Probably need to pick up a gun for the office, too.”