‘Who have you been speaking to?’ Boots asked.
‘Connie Palermo,’ the priest replied.
Boots stepped into the room. ‘Vinnie’s the reason I showed up this afternoon. That and I want to confess. What with Easter coming on Sunday, I figure I’ll get it over with.’
Father Gubetti liked to play the jolly friar, and he was perfect for the part, with his bald dome, broad belly and florid complexion. But not this time. This time he was pissed and no mistake about it.
‘Ah, yes, Boots Littlewood’s annual confession. Everything should come to a stop – ba-boom – because Detective Littlewood is finally ready to confess.’
‘Leo, if you don’t stop busting my chops,’ Boots threatened, ‘I’m gonna walk out the door. In which case, you’ll never know what happened to Vinnie.’
The priest slid a purple stole off a hangar, kissed it, then settled it on his shoulders. ‘Threatening a priest? A heinous sin requiring immediate atonement lest you perish unexpectedly and be consigned to the bowels of hell. Follow me, child.’
Boots sighed. ‘I can’t wait to hear the penance.’
Father Gubetti led Boots to a small office where he set a pair of straight-back chairs face to face. Boots wasn’t crazy about this arrangement, having grown up with the anonymity implied by the deeply shadowed confessional and the screen separating priest from penitent. But it was a different church now, growing more informal every day, a process that had begun with the end of the Latin mass. Brooklyn Catholics had yet to forgive the Vatican for that foray into the vernacular. If they’d wanted to be Protestants, their reasoning went, they’d have backed Martin Luther during the Reformation.
Boots kicked it off with the easy part: his temper, with which he’d been struggling for many years. Although Frankie Drago figured prominently in the list of offenses he presented, the bookmaker was far from alone.
Father Gubetti listened carefully until Boots finished, then asked the obvious question: ‘Have you been trying to control yourself? Have you made an effort?’
‘Well, that’s just the point. It’s easy to say you won’t lose your temper when you’re calm. But then …’ Boots looked down at his hands, then up at Gubetti. ‘Some of these assholes, Leo, they’re lucky I don’t kill ’em. And I think you know what I mean.’
The priest managed a weak smile. He’d been pistol-whipped by a mugger in 2004. A day later, when he regained consciousness, his first thoughts were of personal revenge. He still couldn’t recall the incident without becoming angry.
‘Go ahead, Boots,’ he said.
This time, when Boots looked down at his hands, he didn’t raise his eyes. ‘What I’m gonna tell you next, about a drug dealer named Carlos Malaguez, happened about three months ago. Malaguez was wanted for second-degree assault and he’d done a disappearing act. I’d been tryin’ to run him down for several weeks, with no luck, until I finally got a call from the victim’s sister, who was also Malaguez’s cousin. She told me that Carlos was stayin’ at an apartment on India Street. What I should have done at that point was notify the lieutenant and request back-up. But I didn’t. Instead, I found the patrol car assigned to that sector and drafted the two uniforms inside.’
As he organized his thoughts, Boots ran a finger beneath his tie, from his throat to the top of his vest, then touched each of the vest’s pearl-gray buttons. Finally, he began to speak, his voice distant, as if he was witnessing his own story.
‘Malaguez was dead. Of a drug overdose, the way it turned out. Even standing in the hall, you could smell him. One of the uniforms wanted to kick the door in, but there was no point. I sent down for the super and a set of keys. Leo, the stench when I opened that door was enough to knock you on your ass. And you can trust me on this, those two patrolmen were pathetically grateful when I told them to wait outside while I secured the residence.
‘Carlos was lying on the couch when I walked into the apartment. He was swollen up double, his skin almost black. I figured he’d been dead for at least three days, but I could’ve been wrong. The apartment was very hot. Anyway, I didn’t bother with him. There was a scale and a set of works on a coffee table, along with several grams of what looked like heroin. When I saw the dope, I knew Carlos hadn’t been robbed, knew it right away. That’s how come I decided to search the apartment instead of waitin’ for a warrant. You hear what I’m sayin’, right? I knew what I was gonna do, assuming I got lucky, and I didn’t stop myself.’
Leo Gubetti regarded Boots for a moment: the gray suit, the vest, the ankle-boots. Unlike Frankie Drago, Father Leo believed that he understood the man beneath the suit. ‘And did you get lucky, Boots?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, in a drawer in the bedroom dresser. I found a couple of ounces of dope and a roll of money. I didn’t count the money. I just put it in my pocket.’
‘And the heroin?’
Boots sniffed. ‘I left it where it was. What’d you think?’
‘All right, don’t get on your high horse. How much money are we talking about?’
‘Forty-five hundred.’
‘Was this the only time since your last confession?’
‘The only time, and the only opportunity.’
Gubetti ran his fingers through the gold fringes at the bottom of his stole. He liked Boots Littlewood, as did almost everybody who knew him, and he believed Boots to be a good man, though flawed and oftentimes weak. The temptation was to forgive him because you knew that he was trying. But enough was enough.
‘You know, Boots, my forgiveness is not God’s forgiveness.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘In order to be forgiven, you have to resolve not to sin again. This is not something I can judge. I’m talking about your sincerity. God, on the other hand, is not likely to be fooled. As you said about your temper, it’s easy to avoid sin when there’s no temptation at hand.’ Father Gubetti paused long enough to let the message penetrate. ‘Next time you confess, Boots, I want to hear that you fought the good fight, that you made a serious effort to resist temptation. If not, I can’t offer you absolution.’
Boots smiled. ‘Ya know, I heard there’s a Polish priest at Saint Stanislaus doesn’t speak a word of English.’
TEN
Boots wrapped up his confession with an act of contrition while Father Gubetti formally absolved him of his sins. That done, the priest took off his stole and draped it over his knees.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ he asked.
‘No thanks, I have to get back to work soon.’
‘You’re on the clock?’
‘Sue me.’
‘What if there’s a serious crime? What if there’s a murder?’
‘You been watchin’ too much television. There’s only been one homicide in the Six-Four this year – Chris Parker’s. Not only wasn’t that my case to begin with, but a task force had already been formed by the time I came on duty the next day. Plus, the lieutenant has my cellphone number. If he wants me, he’ll call.’
Boots scratched at his ear, thinking that he’d have to see a doctor, get the wax flushed out. If not, he’d soon be halfway to deaf. ‘About Vinnie. I need some help here. I need to know what my obligations are.’
Gubetti repressed a smile of intense satisfaction. ‘Go on, Boots. Bring me up to date.’
‘It’s hard to know where to begin. Remember, I didn’t drag Vinnie into this mess. Vinnie’s name was mentioned by … by a certain third party. Once that happened, it was just a matter of time.’
‘Until?’
‘Leo, when a cop’s killed, every other cop takes it personally. That means the pressure on the task force would’ve been intense, even if the media ignored the whole incident.’
‘Which, of course, it didn’t.’
Boots nodded, then said, ‘I wasn’t assigned to the task force that investigated Parker’s murder until after a certain accused felon decided to save his ass by naming Vinnie Palermo.’
‘You’re saying you
didn’t play any part here?’
‘No, I played a part. My job was to find Vinnie.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t stop there. Being as I was a hundred percent sure Vinnie didn’t shoot Parker, I read him his rights, even though he was still a witness at that point. Then, when the schmuck didn’t take the hint, I made my opinion regarding his innocence clear to anybody who’d listen.’
Gubetti absorbed the following silence while he considered a response. First of all, he told himself, do no harm.
‘Tell me,’ he finally said, ‘from a practical standpoint, is there anything you can do to help Vinnie?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not, since I don’t have access to the case file. But I’ve got a hunch about something. If I recanvas the block …’ Boots rose to his feet. The nicotine demons had the pitchforks out and his first instinct was to begin pacing the room. But he held himself in check. Gubetti was staring up at him, a worried look in his eyes.
‘This morning, Leo,’ Boots said, ‘when they held the press conference announcing the arrest of Captain Parker’s murderer, the Mayor of New York and the Commissioner of Police were both standing at the podium. From what I heard, the pair of them looked very happy. Now what do you think those two egomaniacs are gonna do if they have to announce that a mistake was made? If they have to admit that the man they accused of murdering Chris Parker is innocent? Not on some technicality, but that he actually didn’t do it?’
This time, Gubetti responded immediately. ‘They’ll blame the messenger,’ he said, ‘which means you.’
‘The good news is that messengers aren’t killed any more. The bad news is that they can still be punished. And these are people who have the power to punish. My ex-partner on the task force is the Chief of Detectives’ niece.’
They went at it for another fifteen minutes, most of their conversation centering around a single question: What did Boots Littlewood owe to a thief like Vinnie Booster? Ordinarily, both quickly agreed, nothing. But this particular situation was far from ordinary. Not only was Palermo facing life without parole, but the real killer would go free if Vinnie was convicted. Plus, the Six-Four was Boots Littlewood’s turf. To a certain extent, as he understood it, all who lived within its boundaries came under his protection. Even mopes like Vinnie Palermo.
Nevertheless, Gubetti was insistent. ‘There’s no religious doctrine that requires you to intervene, not unless you’re angling for sainthood. On the other hand, you’ve got to live with yourself.’
Some five hours later, after finishing his tour, Boots walked into his father’s two-family home on Newell Street in Greenpoint. The frame house wasn’t much – a three-story, flat-roofed cube sided with blue vinyl – but it was Andy Littlewood’s pride and joy, as it had been Margie Littlewood’s when she was still alive. The tiny yards in front and back were immaculately tended, the path, steps and sidewalks had been recently swept, the trim around the door recently painted.
The just-married Littlewoods had come to New York from Belfast, Northern Ireland, in 1958. Penniless Catholic refugees, they’d scrimped for years to buy their house, accumulating the down payment dollar by dollar, paying off the mortgage check by check for thirty years. Andy Littlewood had made the last payment only two months before his wife’s death, an achievement they’d celebrated with a small party.
As Boots later realized, the Littlewoods’ party wasn’t about the mortgage. Andy Littlewood had finally vanquished a hunger that had driven him for most of his life. Between Social Security, his pension check and his tidy nest egg, Andy would never want for anything he actually desired, not for the rest of his life. He appeared content these days, a man without serious regrets, a man who’d lived up to his own expectations. Andy had his poker buddies on Monday nights, his bowling buddies on Thursday nights and a Jewish girlfriend named Libby Greenspan.
‘Irwin, is that you, laddie?’ While Andy Littlewood’s Belfast accent had been sharpened by many years of living in a neighborhood dominated by Polish-Americans, his national origin was still obvious.
‘Yeah, it’s me, Dad.’ Boots draped his overcoat and suit jacket over a chair, then walked into the kitchen. He took a beer from the refrigerator and carried it into the living room. There he found Andy Littlewood sitting in an overstuffed chair. A few yards away, a biography of Lou Gherig played on a flat-screen television.
Boots didn’t waste any time. It was late and he was tired. He explained his predicament in detail, then shut his mouth without bothering to ask his father’s opinion. Andy Littlewood loved to give advice. The problem would be slowing him down.
But Andy surprised his son this time. ‘You’re not after owin’ Vinnie Palermo a fuckin’ thing,’ he said after a moment.
‘And Chris Parker?’
‘What about him?’
‘Do I owe anything to Chris Parker? Like justice, for instance?’
‘Wake up and smell the roses, Irwin. Chairman Mao killed millions of people and he died in his bed, like Josef Stalin before him.’ Andy Littlewood settled back in his chair for a moment, then again turned to his son. ‘Whatever you decide to do, please don’t throw it in their faces.’
‘You talkin’ about the bosses?’
‘That I am, lad. Find a way to go around them, to defeat them without their ever knowin’ they’ve been to battle.’
Early the next morning, much earlier than Boots would have liked, he retrieved his car, an ancient Chevy Impala, and headed out to the Six-Four. He made two stops on his way, the first at a candy store where he restocked his Tic Tac supply, the second at a bakery on Bedford Avenue where he purchased a box of doughnuts. He passed one of the doughnuts to the desk officer, Sergeant Gantier, when he got to the house, then carried the rest into the squad room. It was nine thirty by that time and the day-shift detectives were going about their business. They stopped momentarily when Boots showed his face, to greet him and snatch up a doughnut, then quickly returned to work.
Left to himself, Boots approached a civilian clerk, requesting that he use the squad’s computer to pull up, then print a copy of Rajiv Visnawana’s driver’s license. Rajiv was the owner of the car Vinnie had stolen. That done, Boots stared down at the man’s unsmiling face for just a moment. With his pudgy cheeks, liquid brown eyes and soft chin, Rajiv looked weak. But appearances could be deceiving, especially when it came to the immigrants now dominating many of the city’s neighborhoods. They’d brought their cultures with them, very different cultures to be sure, and it was mistake to judge them by appearance alone.
Boots carefully folded the copy, then slid it into an envelope before heading back to his apartment where he showered and shaved. As he loaded the coffee maker, he tried to reconcile the different impulses pulling at him. Despite the expensive suits and ties, Boots had never been so vain as to believe himself important, not in the greater scheme of things. He was not a mover of mountains or a shaker of worlds. Only in this obscure, outer-borough precinct, seemingly as far removed from Manhattan’s glitz as the plains of Kansas, did he have any noticeable effect on his surroundings. And maybe not even here.
The scratch of a key turning in the apartment’s outer door distracted Boots. ‘That you, Jackie?’ he called.
‘Yeah.’ Carrying a manila envelope beneath his arm, Joaquin Rivera strode into the kitchen a moment later. He opened the envelope and removed a dozen sheets of paper joined by a red paperclip.
Boots poured himself a cup of coffee, poured another for Joaquin, carried them to the table, finally sat down. As he filled his mouth with Tic Tacs, he struggled to repress an argument beginning to form in his mind. Quitting cigarettes, this argument went, is hard enough, even under the best of conditions. That’s why most people, including Boots Littlewood, make a number of unsuccessful attempts before they get the job done. What the quitter needs, even more than a strong will, is good timing. Would even the most heartless Puritan demand that a soldier in a war zone stop smoking? Or a woman in the mid
st of a bitter divorce? How about when a child’s gravely ill? Or when you’re threatened with the loss of your economic life?
Joaquin stared at the man on the other side of the table. Unlikely as it seemed, Boots looked bigger in a t-shirt and jeans than he did in his fancy suits with their padded shoulders. His upper arms were as thick as footballs.
‘Your suits,’ Joaquin finally said, ‘they’re really costumes.’
‘One more cryptic remark, Jackie, and you’re goin’ out the window. You’ve been warned.’
Joaquin laughed, then took a sip of his coffee. ‘What’s the matter, Boots, you don’t wanna give up any trade secrets?’ He waited for his father to smile before continuing. ‘Anyway, you asked me to check out a cop named Chris Parker?’
‘Any luck?’
‘One mention in the years before he was murdered. In a New York Times profile of the detectives in the Lipstick Killer investigation.’
That got Littlewood’s attention. In the summer of 2001, the Lipstick Killer had murdered four women, igniting a media frenzy that ended abruptly when Jules Cosyn confessed to the crimes. If Boots remembered right, Cosyn had been declared unfit to stand trial after a week of intense examination by the state’s psychiatrists.
Boots pointed to the stack of papers. ‘All that for one article?’
‘The story about Parker’s on top. The rest of it’s about the investigation and the trial.’
Joaquin pushed the sheets of paper across the table and Boots glanced down at a photograph on the top sheet, a line of detectives posed before the wall of a brick building. Among the five faces, all male, Boots recognized four: Artie Farrahan, Mack Corcoran, Chris Parker and Lenny Olmeda, currently Inspector Corcoran’s personal assistant. Boots ran his finger across the photo’s caption until he found the name of the fifth cop: Patrick Kelly.
‘Is there a problem?’ Joaquin finally asked.
Boots took the stack of papers, carried them to the trash can on the other side of the room, raised the lid, dropped them inside.
Dancer in the Flames Page 7
