A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Captain, I’m all for healing, but this isn’t right. I can’t do this to Sean and Jerry. What will Sean’s wife think? And Jerry’s mother?”

  I laid the paper on the desk and poked at the two offensive words with my finger. My voice rising with each tap. “Questionable circumstances? You want me to say that about my partners? How about I just go tell Sean’s kids he was dirty?” I shoved the paper toward him and sat down. “This is bullshit.”

  Kyrokous was quiet, giving this way too much thought. The hammer was coming.

  “Perhaps it would be best for all involved if you retired,” he said. “With full pension, of course, due to your leg injury.” A smile appeared on his face, but it was a manufactured one. “The alternative might be messy. Internal Affairs is convinced there is a lot they haven’t uncovered, and with Sean and Jerry dead…”

  I wanted to jump across the desk and hit him, but Uncle Dominic taught me to never speak when I was angry. I had forgotten that momentarily, but I was in control now. I took a few calming breaths, then said, “I’ll take the promotion, Captain, but I’m staying on the force.”

  Kyrokous got out of his seat, face flushed. “You might not like what the investigation turns up, Gianelli. Everyone’s dead but you. And we still don’t know where the drugs are.”

  I was getting to him. I knew because we were back to Gianelli. I resisted the urge to smile. “There weren’t any drugs.”

  “We only have your word on that,” the captain said. “I might have to consider Internal Affair’s recommendation.”

  My chest shook. I took four deep breaths. No way I was giving up. This was my life. More of Uncle Dominic’s wisdom came to mind.

  Believe your bluff and it will work.

  “You can’t do this, Captain. I’m a good cop. Besides, what do you think the media will do with this? I can see the headlines now—captain fires hero cop.”

  The captain approached with a threatening posture. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a threat, Captain, but you know how the papers are. Look what they’ve done with this story already. I’m only thinking of how it would look for the department.”

  His body tensed before he calmed down, then his smile returned. The same tight smile he used earlier. “You might have a point. But I think you should move to a new precinct. I’ll send paperwork to Lieutenant Chambers. As of tomorrow you’ll be reporting to Lieutenant Morreau.”

  I had heard of Morreau. That assignment meant homicide. “I’ll be there bright and early.”

  I wondered why he changed so suddenly. Something was up. I closed the door a little harder than necessary, and sneered as I passed by the admin. “Captain will probably need some attention about now, dear. You better hurry on in.”

  And take your clothes off.

  Chapter 7

  Family Advice

  I parked the car and walked half a block down the brick sidewalk under the protective arms of old oaks and sycamores. The trees had been big even when I was a little girl. I used to hang out with the boys, playing stick ball while the girls played hopscotch and jumped rope. Never did like hopscotch.

  Dominic’s house was in the middle of the block. I walked past it, stepped over a piece of sidewalk that an old oak’s roots had pushed up, and climbed the few steps leading to a house near the end of the block. My stomach tightened. It was the same house it had always been, three stories of brick sandwiched between others like it. Only the curtains had changed since I’d been here last, or for that matter since I was twelve—the year my mother had her stroke.

  I had lived in this house since I was born, and Dominic made sure I could continue to live there even after Mom died. He was not one to move to new things. The last I checked, he hadn’t even fixed his front door. Thirty years ago someone tried to kill him, and the bullet was still lodged in the wood. Uncle Dominic said he kept it there as a reminder not to get complacent.

  I took a few deep breaths, closed my eyes and focused. Nerves were eating at me. As I reached to knock, the door opened.

  “Buongiorno, Concetta. Come va?”

  Mr. Gallo’s voice was strong, but he looked frail.

  “Buongiorno, Signor Gallo.”

  Mr. Gallo gave me a hug, but I knew he was scanning the street to see if anyone was watching. “Come in, Connie. It’s been a long time.”

  I walked into the foyer, tense. A feeling like a small electric shock ran up my arm. I shivered. Eighteen years ago I found my mother lying on this very floor when I came home from school.

  Mr. Gallo must have sensed my anxiety. He took hold of my arm, as if I were the old one, and led me through the house to the basement door. He flicked on the light and pushed a buzzer near the top of the stairs.

  “If you don’t mind going alone, Connie. I don’t like to walk the steps anymore.”

  “Of course, Mr. Gallo.” I gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks.”

  As I started down the steps, he said, “Someone will meet you,” and then he said, “Good to see you again. We’re proud of you.”

  “Thanks again, Mr. Gallo.”

  I took my time going down the stairs, taking time to savor every memory: playing hide and seek with Timmy Regan; hiding from Mom when she got really upset with me; and sneaking to Dominic’s house to get candy late at night, after Mom went to sleep.

  ‘Sneaking to Dominic’s house’ meant going through the passageway he built. It went from his house all the way to the end of the block. It was only three feet wide, but it allowed him to have visitors from people who might not want to be seen entering the house of Dominic Mangini.

  People like me.

  None of the neighbors minded. Dominic paid them well for the slight inconvenience, and, more importantly, he said he was indebted to them. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance?

  I could have risked going straight to his house. I might have even gotten away with it, but why try? It was one thing to have whispers about me in the NYPD; quite another to flaunt those suspicions in front of the FBI or OCU, and there was always a chance that one of those organizations had a surveillance team with cameras focused on his front door.

  I entered the passageway at the rear of Gallo’s cellar. It was concrete on one side and cinder blocks on the other. A lot of work for most people, but Dominic controlled enough of the construction business that a job like this was a small favor. The floor of the passageway was carpeted, and the walls insulated for sound. I grew nervous as I approached Dominic’s house. The buzzer would have alerted him that someone was coming.

  I took a few more steps and saw a crack of light from a door opening. Then I heard Uncle Zeppe.

  “Concetta!”

  At the sound of his voice, all tension disappeared. My shoulders relaxed, I breathed easier. But that’s how Dominic and Zeppe were—no matter what had happened—mistakes were forgiven and forgotten—with family.

  My response was automatic. “Buongiorno, Zio Zeppe.”

  He gave me a big hug, and then we made our way to the stairs. The door at the top was open. Music was playing. I think it was an Al Martino song. The door opened near the end of the kitchen. Dominic was waiting.

  “Buongiorno, Concetta. Come va?”

  “I’m fine.” I laughed. “I mean, va bene.” It had been so long since I’d been to Dominic’s house I’d forgotten the rules. Uncle Dominic insisted on greetings and goodbyes being said in Italian. I hugged him, whispering apologies. “Mi dispiace, Zio Domenico. Mi dispiace.”

  “Sorry is for strangers.” Dominic waved his hand as if it were nothing. He made his way to the sink, hard leather heels clicking on the tile floors. He rinsed out the espresso pot, lit the stove, then waited.

  “Uncle Dominic, I don’t need espresso. I’ve had plenty of coffee already.”

  “Nonsense.” He opened the cabinet, grabbed a few biscotti. “Sit. Relax.”

  “I can’t wait to see the kids again,” I said to Zeppe, and sat at the kitchen table, a round one with a g
lass top and six chairs.

  Dominic pulled his chair close and held my hand in his. “So tell your uncle what brings you here today. I know it’s not to rub my balding head or see Zeppe’s handsome face.”

  “I went back to work yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t what I expected. People were nice, really nice…”

  Dominic said nothing. It was his silence that spurred me on. I sighed. “The captain wants me to do things I don’t want to do.”

  Dominic patted my hand. “You must understand, Concetta, there is a lot of dirt to hide.”

  I shook my head. “How could another cop betray Sean or Jerry. Or me?”

  Something in his internal clock must have alerted him and Dominic got up to fix the espresso. “Sweet Connie. They can betray you the same way people betrayed Jesus. You are naïve when it comes to your fellow cops.” He walked back to the table, and handed me the cup on a saucer. A biscotto sat on the plate next to it. “Always remember what I taught you when you were little—si puo’ solo fidare famiglia.”

  Zeppe got up from the table and went toward the stove. “Yeah, you can only trust family, but not to fix you an espresso.”

  Dominic laughed. “I have fixed your espresso since you were a baby. It’s time you did it yourself.”

  You can only trust family. Dominic had drummed that into my head since I was six. Sometimes I believed him; sometimes I didn’t. I nibbled on the biscotto, then looked at Dominic. “These guys were like family. We did…”

  Dominic turned, like a snake ready to strike, the spoon he held pointing at me. “Only family is family.”

  “I’m going to stick it out, Uncle Dominic. They’re not getting rid of me so easily.”

  Dominic nodded as if he knew something all along. “So they want you to leave?”

  My cheeks blushed. “The captain suggested I retire, with full benefits, but I convinced him to let me stay.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be close to Bensonhurst. Don’t worry.”

  Dominic nodded again. “They’re afraid to have you around. Too much publicity with you being a woman.” He lit his pipe, then took another sip of espresso. “If they don’t get what they want, though, they will kill you.” A few billows of smoke rose from his pipe. “Perhaps you should retire. I can always…”

  Dominic had a way of making me do what I didn’t want, but on some things I stood firm. “No! I’ve got to find out who killed Sean and Jerry.”

  “Concetta, mia bambina, that is exactly what they don’t want you finding out. My guess is at least one of your partners was dirty and someone in the department is covering.”

  “Bullshit.” My response was instinctive, but something told me Dominic was right. A lot of things didn’t add up about that night in the alley and, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, the facts pointed to either Sean or Jerry being dirty. Maybe both of them.

  He tapped his pipe on the ashtray, knocking out the dead tobacco. “You can curse me all you want. It won’t change things.”

  I strengthened my resolve. “I’ve got to find out. They were my partners.”

  “I told you, finding out is what your department doesn’t want; in fact, that’s the worst thing you can do. If cops killed your partners, they’ll be waiting for you to make a mistake. Just one.”

  “Guess I’ll have to be perfect.”

  Dominic moved over and wrapped his arms around me. He brought my head to his chest and patted my back. “Tu sei sempre stata perfetto. You have always been perfect.” He held me for a moment, then stepped back. “Do you even want to be a cop, or did you do it because of me?”

  Dominic pushed hard to get his way. He knew his words would upset me, and he was right. I seethed inside. He had a way of doing that to me, but I swore I wasn’t going to let him. Not today. I wasn’t going to start another rift between us. “I like being a cop.”

  “You like being a cop. But are you happy?” Dominic sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon in his espresso and glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You have to think of what you want from life. Life has rules. If you want to be happy, you have to follow those rules.”

  “I know all about rules. Trust me, I stick to them.”

  Dominic laughed. “I’m not talking about your police rules, I’m talking about your rules. Your own personal rules of life. That is what will make you happy—or not.”

  Damn him. But two can play at this game. “What about you, Uncle Dominic? Are you happy?”

  He sipped his espresso. Nibbled on a biscotto, then he stared, as if he would find the answer in the espresso. “I never followed my heart. I broke my own rules.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Uncle Dominic’s head moved side to side, as if it were in slow motion. “I have days when I love life, like when you come to visit, or when I spend time with Zeppe’s kids, but…no, Concetta, I am not happy. I haven’t been happy since your mother died.”

  My heart sunk when he mentioned my mother. I had tried luring him into a conversation where I knew he couldn’t win—and it backfired. Uncle Dominic got up from the table and walked out of the kitchen, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes.

  It was several minutes before he returned, composed, a smile on his face. He rinsed his espresso cup, placed the last biscotto in a jar on the counter, then came to hug me.

  “It seems as if your mind is made up. So the only thing I can tell you is, be careful.”

  I fidgeted, wanting to say something but not knowing what, so I grabbed my purse from the table. “Thanks. I appreciate everything.”

  “If you must do this, get help. There is a man you can talk to within your own new department. His name is Donovan.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Do you mean Frankie Donovan, the hero cop who broke Tito Martelli in Brooklyn?” I stepped closer to Dominic, suspicion digging deeper in my soul. “Did you have something to do with that?”

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “I don’t want anything to do with your puppets. I know you mean well, but I’ve got to live my own life, and the last thing I need is to be seen hanging around with a dirty cop. For years I risked everything coming here to see you.”

  “I know you did, and there is nothing I treasure more than your visits, but I don’t have Donovan in my pocket. Trust me. Trust him. He can help you.”

  “Promise?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, bambina.”

  “All right. I’m trusting you.”

  “Thank you, and remember: La famiglia é tutto.”

  I kissed Dominic’s cheek. “I know it is. I never forget.”

  ***

  Dominic showed her to the basement door, watched her walk down the steps, then closed the door as soon as she left his sight. The smile he wore vanished. “Fabrizio!”

  A man with the look of a tiger came into the kitchen seconds later.

  “Fabrizio, find out everything you can about these animals who almost killed my Concetta. I want to know who they are and who gave the orders.”

  “Si, Signore.”

  Chapter 8

  New Job

  The next day I got up earlier than normal, grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the car. It was a longer drive to get to work but the time seemed to fly. I put the top down on the convertible and let the wind blow my hair into tangles. Tangled hair didn’t matter today; I was starting a new job in homicide. God liked me after all.

  I parked in the lot, walked the half a block it took to get to the front door, then up three steps into the station. It looked much the same as the old place—big room with worn linoleum floors, and cops who mingled in groups drinking coffee and chatting before the day started. A desk sergeant I didn’t know barked orders amidst the gossip that bounced around the room. Quite a different reception than the one I got at the old station. No cheers. No congratulations. I liked this better.

  I noticed a young-looking cop standing by h
erself. “You know where to find Lieutenant Morreau?” I asked.

  She tilted her head toward the stairs—old wooden ones which showed the wear in the middle. A few had marks from carpet tacks, but they didn’t creak, and that surprised me. I followed a narrow hallway to a door that said “homicide” and pushed it open. It was the old swinging type door. The place looked like the set of a television show: small metal desks; chairs with the wheels worn down; and a bunch of detectives with worn-out looks, like they were trying to make it until the end of the day, and the day had just begun.

  I announced myself to the receptionist, a young lady named Carol according to the nameplate on her desk. She had short blonde hair and sported Prada glasses. Judging by the rest of her outfit, it appeared to be the only thing she spoiled herself with. I had no room to talk; I wouldn’t think of splurging on Prada.

  I took a seat while waiting for Morreau, and made chit-chat with several of the detectives. Before long an older man walked in, bald, but with a smile on his face as big as the morning. He spoke with Carol then headed in my direction. A younger guy with intense greenish/gray eyes followed him. He made me want to lick my lips.

  The older one extended his hand. “Lou Mazzetti,” he said, “and this smart ass behind me is Frankie Donovan. Some people call him Bugs because he bugs the shit out of them.”

  I stood, shook Lou’s hand. He reminded me a little of Dominic; perhaps it was the starched shirt, or the bald head. But the resemblance stopped there. Lou had eyes that made me want to smile, not cower.

  “Connie Gianelli,” I said, then turned to Frankie. The crease in his trousers looked as if he just came from a tailor, and I would have sworn I saw his Italian knit shirt on a fashion model. The top two buttons were undone, exposing more hair than Mazzetti had on his head. I silently thanked Uncle Dominic for suggesting I look up Frankie Donovan. This guy might even make me reconsider my vow not to date cops. “So you’re the great Frankie Donovan, the one who took Tito Martelli down.”

  “Lou did most of the work.” Frankie paused. His shiny white teeth lit up against golden skin and dark hair, but his eyes are what got me—they sparkled and took things in with one glance. And his smile looked as if it was created for the sole purpose of charming the pants off a woman.