“Pull up a stool,” he said. “You’re making me nervous standing over me like that.”
“You should be nervous.” He could tell she was angry. “You should be real nervous. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”
“This is it. I don’t have a place. It’s okay, though. Tillie’s almost deaf,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar. That would have been news to Tillie if he had heard the remark.
Benny figured this was the safest place to be at the moment. He and Tillie weren’t great friends, but he knew Tillie would blow this woman away in a heartbeat if she pulled a gun. She clearly wasn’t from the neighborhood.
“Where’s my fucking money?” she demanded.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I’ve been saving it for you,” Benny said quickly. He wasn’t lying. He’d been afraid that she might find him, so he hadn’t spent her share yet.
“Give it to me.”
“It’s not here. It’s hidden. You wait here and I’ll go get it.”
She laughed, causing Tillie to look up.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she told him. “We’ll go together.”
Benny had known she’d say this, but he hadn’t yet worked up an appropriate response, so he decided to be truthful.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I don’t want to get my head blown off.”
“I’m not the shooter in this group, Benny. Besides, I don’t have a gun. I’ll let you search me before we leave.”
As afraid as he was, Benny relished the thought of running his hands up and down that body, even if it was just to check for a weapon. And maybe, just maybe, she’d like it. It might have been wishful thinking, but Benny had always been an optimist.
“Well,” she interrupted his thoughts, “are we going to do this peacefully or not?”
“What if I say okay? What happens when I give you the money?”
“And my gun.”
“And your gun. What happens to me?”
“Nothing. You have my word. Why did you run off that night?”
“I got freaked out,” Benny said. “When the old man went down, I didn’t know what to do. I just ran and ran and ran. Then I hopped the subway and ended up back here.”
She looked around the bar uneasily. “Come on, search me,” she said. “We can talk while we go get my money and my gun.”
She put her arms out and Benny patted her down. He ran his hands up the inside of her legs and checked her crotch, lingering a moment. She didn’t say anything. Then he ran them up the side of her torso and across her breasts, again taking his time. “If you don’t move those hands, I’m going to break your neck,” she said calmly. But she didn’t do anything to stop him. It was almost as if she was letting Benny have his feel.
“What?” Benny said as he withdrew his hands. “I had to make sure you’re not hiding anything in your bra.”
Benny saw Tillie watching the patdown with a puzzled expression on his face. He decided to confuse him a little more. “I left a ten-spot on the bar,” he said over his shoulder as the two of them walked out.
Benny led the woman down a side street to an abandoned building. He pushed open the front door, and they started climbing the stairs.
“I’m up on the fifth floor,” he said. “The rats don’t like to come up here and neither do the junkies. It’s too far a walk.”
Most of the walls on the fifth floor had been knocked out, but Benny had found one intact room. There was a mattress on the floor with sheets and covers on it, and there was even a dresser. Some dress clothes on hangers were dangling from a pipe-obviously Benny’s weekend attire.
Her eyes scanned the room as if she was looking for something. Benny thought it might be the john and felt the need to explain. “There’s a hotel at the end of the block. It’s a pretty seedy joint but I bring the desk guy some goodies once a week-things I find, you know? And he lets me use the facilities in the empty rooms. They’re never full so I don’t have a problem. I’ve even got electricity when I need it. I run a wire across the roof to the next building and hook up. I gotta be careful, though. I only do it when it’s cold-for my portable heater, you know?”
“I’m happy for you, Benny. Now where’s my money and my gun?”
“They’re here, don’t worry. I just thought maybe we could relax, you know?” Benny casually glanced over at his mattress.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said. “You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
“Okay, okay.” Benny could tell from her eyes and the tone of her voice that her patience was wearing thin. He walked to the far end of the room to a bare brick wall and started working one of the bricks until it came loose. He reached into the wall and pulled out a wad of bills and the gun. He put the brick back and walked over to where she was standing and handed her the money and the gun.
She paused for a moment as she looked down at the gun, then she handed it back to him. “Keep it,” she said. “You may need it-especially in this neighborhood.”
Benny didn’t want the gun but he never turned anything down. He could sell it down the road if he needed to.
“Tell me something,” she asked as she stashed the money in her overcoat. “Why did you shoot the old man?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” said Benny, his words spilling out. “I haven’t thought about it. I put it out of my mind. I don’t even remember it.” He closed his eyes as he spoke.
“I told you not to shoot. I told you he’d give you the money.”
Benny put his hands over his ears. “I know, I know. I was so fucking high I don’t even remember what I did. You shouldn’t have given me a gun with a hair trigger. And that wasn’t coke you gave me either because I didn’t come down for two days.”
“Don’t blame your fuckups on me,” she said.
“I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying.”
“Yeah, well, don’t say any more. This is the end of our brief love affair. When I walk out of this room you and I are finished. Got it?”
“Got it.” As hot as she was, he had no desire to ever set eyes on her again.
He watched her as she walked down the stairs. Something was bothering him. He had only given her five thousand dollars-instead of the seven she’d insisted on-and she hadn’t checked the amount.
Why didn’t she count the money? he asked himself. And why did she decide to leave the gun with me?
12
New York City, September 1966
Johnny was bigger, stronger, and faster when the next football season rolled around. He worked out for weeks before the start of practice; he even stopped smoking. He took his cue on that from Frankie, who was one of the few guys in the neighborhood who didn’t smoke. Johnny hoped like hell Frankie didn’t stop drinking beer.
Ever since he’d become a member of the Lexingtons, his status in the neighborhood had changed. Johnny wasn’t just an obscure punk anymore-he was one of the guys. And he was part of everything they did, whether it was playing cards at Frankie’s on Friday night, going to Rockaway Beach for the weekend during the summer, or stealing cases of beer from the basement of Fellino’s Market-Mikey had figured out a way to slip through the basement bars. One night they took two cases out and stored them up at Frankie’s apartment.
The next day Sonny Fellino, the owner’s son, a twenty-something-year-old who was big and tough as nails, lined four of them up against the wall in front of the store and grilled them-Johnny and Mikey, Norman Martin and Frankie. Sonny was sure they were the thieves.
“You guys are gonna tell me who did it!” Sonny was yelling at the top of his lungs. “And if it was one of youse and you tell me right now, I’ll go easy on you.”
Nobody believed a word of it. Sonny was a bully. He wore a tight white T-shirt with his Marlboros stuck inside his rolled-up right sleeve. His hair was greased up and combed straight back except for the front, which fell over into his eyes. Admitting to anything was going to get you beaten unmercifully, and then
you’d become Sonny’s slave at Fellino’s until he decided the debt had been paid.
They all held tough, however, and Sonny let them go-all except Johnny. Sonny knew he’d never get anything out of Frankie. Hell, Frankie might give him a run for his money if he tried. Same with Mikey-he was young, but he had a reputation of never backing down from anyone. Norman had two older brothers, and Sonny did not want to mess with them. That left Johnny-the weak link.
“C’mere, Johnny, I wanna talk to you,” Sonny said as he motioned him to come away from the wall. Johnny watched the others walk away, each one catching his eye and giving him a look that told him what would happen if he ever talked. He was between a rock and a hard place. He decided he needed to give Sonny something.
“You know who did it, don’t you, Johnny?” Sonny said, his left arm around Johnny’s shoulder. He was so close Johnny could smell his body odor. Johnny knew he would have to make his story good.
“Yeah, I do, Sonny. I mean, I wasn’t involved last night or nothing. Neither were the other guys. I should have told you this when it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Told me what?” Sonny asked impatiently. He was in the mood to beat somebody’s ass, not to talk.
“I saw Billy Reynolds checking out your cellar the other day.”
Johnny instinctively knew that a good story had to have some truth to it, and he had come up with a beauty. Billy Reynolds was the local junkie. Heroin had not yet hit the neighborhood like it eventually would, and Billy stuck out like a sore thumb.
It was not uncommon to see Billy, wild-eyed, walking down the street in the middle of the day carrying a TV he’d stolen or a window fan he’d probably taken right out of somebody’s window. Billy used to go to the local pizza shop on Lexington Avenue, pull wads of jewelry out of his pockets that he’d stolen from who knows where, and try to sell it to Rocco, the owner. Rocco would take a piece of jewelry and ask Billy how much, Billy would start at some outrageous price, and Rocco would have him down to pennies in minutes. Johnny and Mikey were often there to witness the negotiation. It was fun to watch, but it was sad too. Billy stole from the neighborhood, and Rocco and others stole from Billy.
One of those “others” was Sonny. Billy often included Fellino’s on his rounds to sell his goods, and Sonny had bought a TV from him once, among other things. Johnny’s story had struck just the right note of believability with Sonny.
“That was some quick thinking,” Frankie told Johnny after he’d described what happened. “Mikey, you were right. Johnny is the Mayor of Lexington Avenue. A mayor’s gotta think on his feet. Only a mayor could come up with a tale like that.”
Johnny and Mikey had recently secured jobs as ushers at St. Francis, the local Catholic Church. Father Burke, the pastor, had dubbed Mikey the Mayor of Lexington Avenue because, as he told Mikey’s mother, Mikey knew more people than he did, even though he had the pulpit. Mikey, in turn, had passed the moniker on to Johnny, telling him that a mayor was smart and knew how to run things and that the description fit Johnny more than himself. The nickname hadn’t caught on in the neighborhood yet. Johnny’s story to Sonny gave it fresh legs.
Something else happened that third week of practice that changed the course of the season. Some boys from north of the unofficial Ninety-sixth Street boundary line came to join the team. There were eight of them: one white guy, one Puerto Rican, and six blacks.
Johnny never knew for sure how they ever found out there was a team called the Lexingtons that practiced in Central Park, but he had his suspicions. Frankie O’Connor lived in that neighborhood, and Frankie made a point of walking up and shaking hands with each one of these new guys. It was a message to everybody else. The coach had to be in on it, too, because the new guys were on the team from the moment they arrived.
Johnny would soon find out why.
13
Anthony Webster, the prosecutor’s investigator in Henry Wilson’s case, did not live in Lake City-as Ted Griffin had surmised-but in Live Oak, a small community in north central Florida that was in the same general vicinity as Lake City. Jack figured that was probably the story of Ted Griffin’s life: he got things almost right.
It didn’t take Jack long to get the correct information. Like most investigators, Anthony Webster had been a retired cop before going to the state’s attorney’s office and starting to work on his second pension. Jack called his good friend Joaquin Sanchez, a retired homicide detective with the Miami Police Department, and told him his predicament. Twenty minutes later Joaquin called back with the address and number.
“You know the rules, Jack,” Joaquin said. “You don’t know where you got the information from, and you and Pat are going to have to take Maria and me out to dinner soon.”
“Gotcha, Joaquin. We need to get together anyway-it’s been too long. I’ll call you next week.”
Joaquin and his wife, Maria, had worked closely with Jack and Pat and another retired Miami homicide detective, Dick Radek, on Rudy Kelly’s case. They had all lived in the same house for a time and become close friends.
“Where did you get this number?” was the first question Anthony Webster asked after Jack introduced himself on the telephone.
“It’s not important,” Jack answered. It was the wrong thing to say.
“Hell it’s not! I don’t like people knowing where I am and snooping around in my business.”
“I know somebody you know, Mr. Webster.” It was a lie but a plausible one. “I had to convince that person that I would only use this number once. I also had to convince that person there was an important enough reason for me to have the number.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. For a moment Jack wasn’t sure if Webster was still there.
“So what is it that’s so important?” Webster finally asked.
“A man’s life.”
“Oh shit, you’re not one of those DNA activists, are you? ‘Everybody in jail is innocent! Everybody was wrongfully convicted!’”
Jack could tell this was going to be a challenging interview.
“No, nothing like that. DNA isn’t involved. It’s about a death-row case though, a man named Henry Wilson. He was convicted seventeen years ago based solely on the testimony of a convicted felon, David Hawke. Do you remember that case at all?”
“Not at all,” Webster replied.
Jack refused to be deterred by Webster’s faulty memory. “The deceased was a guy named Clarence Waterman, a drug dealer who also worked as a hairdresser. David Hawke said he drove Henry Wilson and Hawke’s cousin to Waterman’s place and waited while they killed him and then drove them away.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Neither David Hawke nor his cousin were ever charged with the crime, even though by Hawke’s own testimony they were both guilty.”
That last remark finally hit pay dirt. “That kind of shit happened all the time. Who was the prosecutor?”
Jack thought back to the records he had reviewed but couldn’t come up with the name. “I’m not sure. It was Man-something.”
“Mancuso?”
“That’s it.”
“It figures,” Webster replied. “Mancuso was famous for shit like that. I’ll never testify to that though, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Hang on a second, Mr. Webster. An attorney named Ted Griffin represented a guy named James Vernon-”
“Ted Griffin,” Webster interrupted Jack again. “Now, there’s a piece of shit.” Jack had him interested again-at least momentarily.
“Yeah, I’m with you on that one,” Jack replied, feeding right into the negativity. “Anyway, Vernon was a possible suspect in this murder. At least, that’s what the defense thought, and Griffin says that Vernon told him he’d talked to you. Do you remember that?”
“Do you have any idea how many thousands of people I’ve talked to? No way can I remember one particular interview.”
Jack was at his wit’s end. Of course Webster couldn�
�t remember. The murder happened seventeen years ago. He kept talking though.
“Would you have taken any notes? Where would they be?”
Jack was never to know why Anthony Webster gave him anything. Maybe the man had it in for the prosecutor, Mancuso. Maybe he simply didn’t like the system that allowed a man to be convicted on a felon’s word. But something Jack said flipped a switch in the former investigator.
“I always suspected that somebody was going to get caught with their tit in the wringer one day for using convicted felons as prosecution witnesses in cases like this. Don’t get me wrong-most of the prosecutors were hard-working, honest guys. Every barrel always has a few rotten apples, you know what I mean?”
Jack took his cue. “I sure do.”
“I don’t know if any notes exist, Mr. Tobin. I always made notes of my interviews, so if I interviewed this guy, there is a record of it. Prosecutors, especially guys like Mancuso, never produced those notes to the defense. They claimed they were work-product or some other bullshit terminology lawyers use when they don’t want to produce something. Anyway, those notes would probably be considered a public record by now. If you make a written request for the investigator’s notes in the prosecutor’s file for Henry Wilson, they should produce them, if they exist. You can call too. Ask for Margo Drake-she’s the records custodian. She can help you. Just tell her it’s a public record-those are the magic words. You didn’t get this information from me though. Understood?”
“Understood,” Jack replied, crossing his fingers.
Webster hung up the phone before Jack had an opportunity to thank him.
Jack got Margo Drake’s number and called her right away. He told her who he was and what he was looking for. He didn’t have the faith Anthony Webster did that the magic words public record were going to do the trick, so he added a few extra.
“Anthony Webster was the investigator on that case and he instructed me to give you a call and to tell you his notes were now a public record.”
The Law of Second Chances jt-2 Page 7
