Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “He made a right,” said Castoro as Galiber’s car disappeared.

  “Worry not, m’lad. We’ve got ‘im by the balls. Good damn thing you drilled that hole.” Castoro smiled. Geraghty was now sitting back as far as he could in his seat, his arms extended to either side of the steering wheel, as the car raced to where Galiber made the turn. After the turn, they could see Galiber’s car a distance ahead. As they closed the gap between them, Geraghty eased off the accelerator, wanting to stay far enough behind Galiber’s car to remain unnoticed, yet close enough to keep it in sight. Galiber’s car soon pulled into the driveway of a restaurant called Alex & Henry’s. The restaurant sat by itself in the middle of a large parking area.

  “We can’t stop here in the middle of the street,” Geraghty said as he drove past the restaurant.

  “Looks like he’s parking,” said Castoro.

  Geraghty drove out of sight, waited for a car going in their direction to pass, then U-turned and drove back toward the restaurant slowly.

  “He parked in the lot,” said Castoro. “I see the car. I don’t see him.”

  Geraghty passed the restaurant, drove another quarter of a mile and U-turned again. He pulled to the curb diagonally across the street from the restaurant and turned off the lights.

  “They go inside?” Geraghty asked, looking toward the restaurant.

  “It’s hard to see from here. There’s a tree in the way.”

  “We can’t park any closer, or we’d be too obvious.”

  “Pull into the parking lot instead of staying back here,” said Castoro.

  “The parking lot of the restaurant?”

  “Affirmative. Like we’re going to have a couple of shooters. Which isn’t such a bad idea.”

  “You’re right,” said Geraghty. “If he comes out and drives this way, we’re like sitting ducks with our asses sticking out.” He turned the ignition key and drove into the restaurant parking lot, backing the car into a spot at the far end of the lot which had a view of the entrance. He turned the lights off.

  “We just going to sit here?”

  “What choice do we have?” asked Geraghty. “We’ll wait for him to come out and drive to her pad for a quickie. Then we’ll wait some more.”

  “What if they’re having dinner?”

  “We’ll have a longer wait,” said Geraghty. “You better make notes. The Boss’ll want a minute-by-minute report. He wants something concrete on this guy.”

  “What’s this guy done that we’re investigating?”

  “He’s introducing a bill in the Senate to legalize drugs.”

  “Treacherous bastard,” said Castoro. “Doesn’t he realize that if it passed, we’d all have to go out and find a real job?”

  “Which is the reason the boss has us following this diabolical shitheel,” said Geraghty. “He’s trying to change the rules of the game.”

  “This is a bullshit waste of time, for Christ’s sake. Legalizing drugs! Hasn’t a fucking prayer becoming law.”

  “Will you stop blaspheming like that with me sitting right here next to you.”

  “Politicians don’t have the balls to pass a bill like that, anyway. And if they did, their constituents would shit. The Boss may be Robo Cop, but he can also be an asshole sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes?”

  The two Agents sat slumped in their seats for a while, listening to the end of a Yankee game on the radio.

  “Seattle is beating the shit out of them.”

  “It’s a long season.”

  “Y’ever notice how boring a game is when your team is getting the shit beat out of it?”

  “Yeah. Hey,” said Geraghty, sitting up. “The twist is coming out by herself.”

  From the entranceway, the young woman who had been with Galiber came out of the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk. Momentarily, Galiber joined her. They stood together, talking.

  “They’re figuring where they should go to play hide the weenie,” said Castoro.

  “He’s real careful,” said Geraghty. “We know he’s doing it, but we haven’t been able to catch him dirty yet.”

  “Maybe tonight’s the night.”

  “Maybe.”

  A car drove into the parking lot and stopped near Galiber and the woman. The driver of the newly arrived vehicle, an older black woman, opened the driver’s side window and began talking to the two people. Galiber stepped off the sidewalk, bent down and gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek. The younger woman walked around the car, opened the passenger side door, and entered the vehicle.

  “What’s this, her Mommy’s picking her up?” said Castoro.

  “Looks that way.”

  Another few words, and Galiber stood back, gave a short wave and watched the vehicle with the two women drive off. He walked toward his car.

  “Do we follow her, him, or go the fuck home?” said Castoro.

  “What the hell do we care where she goes with her Mother? We’re interested in him.”

  “This is really bullshit.”

  Galiber entered his car, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

  Geraghty started the engine. “You think he made us?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “He lives in the Bronx, by the courthouse. Might as well follow him. It’s on our way anyway.” Geraghty drove slowly out of the parking lot, hanging back as the black Cadillac with the pierced tail lamp drove south.

  “Look at the son of a bitch. He’s driving, like, twenty miles an hour,” said Geraghty.

  “He made us, that fuck. He made us! And now he’s fucking toying with us.”

  “We’re like sore thumbs out here going slow right along with him,” said Geraghty

  “He probably called the old lady to come pick up the bitch. Maybe we should break off.”

  “We’ll stay back here—maybe a little further back. This wise-ass son of a bitch must be having a fine time giving us the finger.”

  Galiber picked up speed on the Hutchinson River Parkway, to a stately forty miles an hours, driving directly to a building at Concourse Village, where he drove into the garage beneath the building

  As the Senator backed the car into his assigned parking space, he noticed that one of his tail lights shone more brightly, whitely, against the wall into which he was backing. He shifted the car into park. Brightness still reflected from one side of the car. He stepped out of his car and walked to the rear.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said softly to himself, studying his desecrated tail lamp. He walked around the car to the other side, inspecting the other taillight. He glanced up and studied the silent garage, his eyes searching into the parked cars, the shadows. He re-entered his car, still muttering, parked and locked the car.

  There was a public phone on the wall near the elevators that fed up into the building. He fished a quarter out of his pocket and dropped it into the slot.

  “You okay?” he said into the phone. He listened, nodded. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up, then fed another quarter into the phone.

  “Sandro?” he said.

  “Where are you? You’re supposed to get here for coffee and desert. Your wife’s here.”

  “I’m calling you from the pay phone in my garage. I was on my way there, but pulled in at the house because two guys in a red car were just following me.”

  “You sure you’re not just getting paranoid in your old age?”

  “Very sure. The sons of bitches drilled a hole in one of my tail lamps.”

  “I guess paranoia can’t drill a hole in your tail lamp. Have you been doing anything naughty with anyone’s wife?”

  “I have no idea what it’s about. Just wanted to let you know, in case of, in case of … I don’t know what. Just wanted you to know.”

  “One good thing about it, though,” said Sandro.

  “What’s that?”

  “At least you know to be careful, somebody’s watching.”

  “It’s going to cost me a fortune
to replace that tail lamp.”

  “You coming down?”

  “I’m going to wait here for a little. I’ll call you back when it’s clear.” Galiber hung up the phone and went upstairs to his apartment.

  The red TransAm sat silently in the shadows, a block and a half from Galiber’s building. After a while, its motor started and its lights came on. The driver wheeled the car around and disappeared into the night.

  Penn Station, New York : June 18, 1996 : 10:15 P.M.

  D.E.A. Supervisor Michael Becker made his way slowly against the tide of belligerent fans cascading out of Madison Square Garden at the end of the Knicks/Miami Heat game. He was thin, with closely-cropped reddish hair, and a prominent, bony nose. In the cab on the way to the Garden, the radio had been tuned to the game. The announcer said that the atmosphere both on the court and in the audience had become more belligerent as the Knicks, expecting to clinch the division playoffs, found themselves on the short end of the score. The closer the buzzer, the rougher the game, the more irate the fans, until at the final buzzer, there was a free-for-all between the Knick and Miami Heat players.

  Becker was inching his way to the fourth incarnation of Madison Square Garden. The original Garden had been built in the 1880s near Madison Square Park and the Fuller Building, now known as the Flatiron Building, downtown in the east Twenties, just off of Fifth Avenue. After the first burnt to the ground, a second structure was built in the same locale. The third was built on Eighth Avenue between 49th and 50th Streets, where the Friday night fights were the social event of the week for all New Yorkers in the swing during the forties and fifties. The latest version was erected on the site of the magnificent Penn Station, inexplicably razed at 33rd Street and Seventh Avenue to make room for the present uninspired cylinder. The tracks and sidings of Penn Station were secreted beneath street level.

  “Game’s over, asshole,” a beery fan in suit jacket and tie shouted into Becker’s face, pushing past him.

  Becker steadfastly continued to move through the tide of exiting fans.

  “Wrong way, wrong way,” announced another impatient fan in a Knicks windbreaker, as he bumped into Becker.

  Becker shifted sideways, reaching quickly toward the bulge at his waist; that last bump had almost dislodged his service revolver.

  Immediately after leaving the abbreviated proceedings in front of Judge Ellis early this morning, Awgust Nichols had paged Becker from the courthouse. When Becker returned the call to Nichols’ cell phone, Nichols told him that he was going to have something really important to tell him later on. Becker suggested they meet at six-thirty. Nichols said he wouldn’t have the information by then, as he was meeting his source at around seven. Nichols suggested they meet at their usual place at ten-thirty. Becker said that was too late.

  “This is something that’s really going to turn you on,” Nichols had told him.

  “It’s too late,” said Becker.

  “Even if it’s about a huge, new drug smuggling operation in Russia?”

  There was a silent pause. “Russia? Are you kidding?”

  It was the first time Becker dropped his cool emotional mien to react to anything.

  “Now you’re interested, hanh?”

  “Ten-thirty tonight. Usual place” Becker said tersely.

  The usual place for Nichols and Becker was Penn Station, aboard Amtrak’s overnight Washington sleeper train as it sat beneath Madison Square Garden waiting for its 2 AM departure. When they made the appointment, Becker hadn’t realized that a playoff game was scheduled.

  Struggling forward against the tide of disgruntled Knick fans, Becker finally reached a stairwell leading down to Penn Station. A large number of people from the surge were also diverting down the steps to catch eastbound Long Island Railway trains.

  When he reached the Amtrak ticket counter concourse, Becker’s wing-tipped cordovan footsteps echoed sharply on the wide terrazzo floor of the deserted, dimly-lit station. The ticket windows each had a ‘Position Closed’ sign displayed. The chairs and benches intended for waiting passengers were empty, the escalators leading to the tracks below weren’t moving. The only activity was a lone porter pushing a rotating polishing machine on the terrazzo, his head moving rhythmically to something he heard from a set of headphones. The Porter saw Becker and waved an arm. “Closed,” he shouted.

  “Washington Sleeper,” called Becker. The Porter lifted one of the ear pieces, inquiring with a nod of his head.

  “Washington Sleeper,” Becker repeated.

  The Porter nodded. “Track four.” He pointed toward a stairway as he replaced his headphones and continued to follow the polishing machine.

  Becker walked down a dim stairway. On the right side of the lower platform were empty, polished steel tracks. On the left side, a long silver train stood silent. Staggered interior lights illuminated a windowed corridor within the passenger cars. Standing on the platform two cars down, a black man in a blue uniform with a patent leather peaked conductor’s cap was talking to another man in railroad work coveralls, holding a lantern.

  “Washington?” called the Conductor. He had a pencil thin moustache. His uniform was very neat, a tight little knot in his tie, the peak of his conductor’s cap highly polished.

  “Yes,” Becker replied.

  “Name?” The Conductor took a few steps forward, taking a manifest from inside his jacket.

  “I’m supposed to meet a friend on the sleeper,” said Becker. “Brothers. He said something about compartment twenty five.”

  “Twenty-five?” the Conductor said, reading his list. “Brothers,” he nodded agreement. “Next forward car, sir. You can go up right there,” the Conductor pointed to a stairway into a nearby car. “Walk through this car to the next. Twenty five is in the middle, on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “If you folks need anything, just let me know.”

  Becker nodded. The Conductor resumed his conversation with the man holding the lantern.

  On one side of the narrow interior corridor were windows through which Becker could see the two men talking on the deserted platform below. On the other side, were closed doors every few feet. The entire car was silent. Becker slid open the door between cars. The second car was the same as the first. Little signs on the doors indicated 32, 31, 30. Becker reached compartment 25. He looked around, listened. There were no sounds anywhere in the train. He knocked.

  A solemn-looking Awgust Nichols opened the door. “Hello, Michael.”

  “Something the matter?” said Becker.

  “A little upset.”

  “About?”

  “Things aren’t going right,” said Nichols.

  “What things?”

  “Want a drink. I’ve got that Moscovskaya Vodka you like.”

  “You expecting anyone else?” said Becker, glancing at two bottles of champagne and a bottle of vodka steeped in a bucket of ice.

  “A couple of trapeze artists,” Nichols said, fluttering his eyebrows. “Later.”

  “Too bad I didn’t wear my party suit,” said Becker. “You said something about a new Russian route?”

  “They’re available if you’re interested—the girls. Exotic dancers. From one of the clubs.”

  Becker shook his head. “What time are they coming?” He glanced at his watch.

  “Eleven-fifteen. It’s up to you. I need a drink myself.” Nichols popped a cork from a bottle of champagne. It fizzed up out of the bottle, some splashing on his silk tie. “Damn.”

  Becker smirked, taking the bottle of Moscovskaya from the ice, pouring some, straight up, into a tumbler. “Next time, put a cloth over the champagne bottle before you pop the cork.” He raised his glass. “Na zdvrovye.”

  “Man. Everybody in New York is speaking a different language these days. What language is that?” said Nichols.

  “Russian.”

  “That’s what those other guys were talking tonight, Russian.”

  “What guys are those?” said
Becker.

  “First let me tell you why I’m upset.”

  “If you have to.”

  “This whole situation is takin’ too long.”

  “What situation is taking too long?” Becker sipped his vodka.

  “I was at court today, man.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “I’m the main man, remember,” said Becker. “Geraghty, my Case Agent, saw you there, talking to Taylor. He called me, wanted me to assure him for the umpteenth time that you were okay.”

  “And what did you say?”

  Becker’s mouth soured. “What about the new route?”

  “I assume you also know about the lawyer’s nose bleed.”

  “It was on the news. At this point, everybody in New York knows about the lawyer’s nose-bleed.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about when I say this thing is taking too long,” said Nichols. “It’s going on and on.”

  “Give me a clue what you’re talking about?” Becker topped off his glass of vodka. “I didn’t come over to play Jeopardy.”

  “Our agreement.”

  “What agreement?” Becker said, lowering the glass from his lips, studying Nichols.

  “I agreed to help you, give you information about the Brotherhood, so you could make a big collar. In return, you agreed to get Red off the street—” Becker frowned. “You’re frowning? Like it wasn’t me who gave you the information where to put the bugs in Red’s club, who told you what time Money and the others were there every day? Who convinced Taylor—somebody right in the very middle of the conversations—to go along with the program so you could get the wire tap and bug order?”

  “No question about it,” Becker said with a shrug. “You did all those things.”

  “Which just happens to be the main evidence in the biggest case around here in a hundred years. In exchange, you were going to help me and Taylor.”