A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

“Got a sassy one there, Tip. Better watch out.”

  “Tip, give us a name. Come on.”

  Tip stopped. Sighed. “All right. Shit.” He reached in and pulled out his notepad, flipped a few pages. “Mary,” he said, then his nose scrunched up as if he couldn’t read his writing. “As far as we know she lived alone except for a little lamb that went everywhere she did.”

  Amidst all the curses, we laughed and made our way to the car. Halfway there, a reporter whose name tag read “Samantha Roberts” approached. She was blonde, and she was Texas tall. Most of it legs.

  “What are you doing off the leash, Denton? I heard you were on desk duty.”

  Uh oh. There was history here, too, but of a different sort. Nothing friendly about this lady’s voice, or her glare.

  Tip stopped, looked as if he considered saying something but smiled instead. “Emergency case.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Tip’s face tightened. I could tell he was about to let loose on her, but he kept it civil. “Lady, I’m sorry about that, okay. I already told you I thought you were somebody else.”

  Samantha didn’t respond, but a smirk appeared on her face. The kind of smirk that deserved a smack. Tip shook his head and set a quick pace to the car. “Let’s go grab a cup of coffee,” he said as he climbed in.

  I shot Samantha a glare, still wondering what was between them. “Sounds good,” I said. “You got a lot of cafes around here?”

  “We’ve got plenty of them. A few blocks from here there’s a Starbucks with a drive-through. About half a mile north we got another Starbucks. But if you’d rather sit outside with great music and good people-watching, there’s a Starbucks on the main drag six or seven blocks south of here.”

  “How about we go to Starbucks then?”

  “Good idea, Gianelli. I’m starting to think you’ve got more brains than that accent indicates.”

  “My accent?” All I could do was shake my head.

  Tip got a caramel macchiato and headed to the patio to grab a table.

  I took the seat next to him, sipping on an espresso. “Do you know how many calories that has?”

  “A guy like me needs sweet drinks,” Tip said, then set his notebook on the table.

  I took another sip. “Before we get started, how about telling me what that was with the reporter.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Not that one. I’m talking about the tall blonde who looked like she wanted to cut your heart out. And don’t try any lies.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  I straightened my shoulders and held him with a glare. “We’ve been doing good so far, but remember the deal about telling each other the truth.”

  He sipped his drink, made a frown. “Now you’ve got me thinking about the calories in this, and it’s gonna ruin my favorite drink.”

  I continued staring.

  “A couple of weeks ago I made a comment about her butt. I thought she was someone else.”

  “Jesus Christ, Tip. I’m no shrink, but from what I can tell so far you’re not really like that. Why the hell do you do it? And you know that kind of stuff will get you in trouble.”

  He got very uncomfortable, squirming in his seat as if he were being interrogated.

  “I already told you, I thought I knew her from before, so I walked up behind her and said she had a nice butt. She looked like my friend from the backside. Anyway, the reporter got pissed and filed a complaint.”

  I finished the espresso before saying anything. “Thanks. And if it’s any comfort, I halfway agree with you. You have to understand that women hate that bullshit. I mean really hate it. You shouldn’t have said anything, and you’re an ass for doing it…but she shouldn’t have taken it that far.”

  “Are you trying to trick me?”

  “Just being honest back to you.”

  “I might even get to like this telling the truth stuff. It’s pretty fun.” Tip’s left eye scrunched up. It always did before he smiled. “By the way,” he said, “you did real good back there. My first homicide I lost it right in front of everybody.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. I almost did back there, too. I can’t stand bad smells. I come close to throwing up when my dog shits on the floor.” He took one more sip of his drink then tossed it into the trash can. “All right let’s get these reports filed and start solving a crime.”

  I didn’t get up, just cocked my head and looked at him. “You have a dog that shits on the floor?”

  “Not all the time, but whenever they get pissed at me they do. I think they take turns at it so I don’t know which one it is.”

  “You’ve got more than one dog that shits on the floor? No wonder you don’t have a wife.” I cleaned the table in front of me and crumpled my napkin. “Let’s go catch this son-of-a-bitch.”

  “I’m with you on that. Can’t stand a man hurting a woman.”

  That comment came out of the blue. It was the second time he’d said it, and when I looked at his face I could tell he was serious. Dead serious. The man might have a little more underneath that rough Texas skin than I thought. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Everything starts with the files. First we’ve got to figure out why this lunatic killed her. There’s always a reason even if it’s only in the killer’s mind, and if there’s a reason then the victim probably knew the killer or came into contact with them somewhere. What we’ve got to do is find that out.”

  I left the coffee shop feeling good, excited about my first homicide case, thankful that Tip was turning out to be better than I originally thought, but mostly, I was thankful that Patti Green didn’t have kids. I don’t know if I could have handled it if she’d left kids behind.

  Chapter 24

  A Call From Frankie

  Frankie Donovan got to the station early. He’d been working the drug bust and getting nowhere. The getting nowhere didn’t bother him so much—he’d been in that situation before—it was the feeling that nobody wanted him to solve this case. He wasn’t even getting pressure from the top brass, and that smelled rotten. Ten people dead, two of them cops, and nobody was busting his ass to get a suspect? As he thought that his cell phone rang, and he somehow knew it was going to be one of those weird coincidences. “Donovan.”

  “Detective Donovan, this is Lieutenant Chambers. I was Connie Gianelli’s—”

  “Yeah, I know you, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?”

  “I was calling to see how Connie was doing. I hadn’t heard from her in a while.”

  “Doing great. I think she likes homicide. And we definitely like her.” Frankie made his way to the coffee room while Chambers talked.

  “How does she like Houston? I hope she doesn’t decide to stay.”

  The statement took Frankie by surprise. “I doubt that. She’s there to work a cold case.”

  Chambers laughed. “Convenient that case being in Houston, where the leads from her personal case led.” Frankie was about to say something when Chambers started up again. “Listen, Detective, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but IA is digging hard to find dirt on Connie. They’re probing the streets, talking to her snitches, even her neighbors. I’m a little…concerned.”

  Frankie wondered why Chambers was telling him this. “I’ll do some extra digging. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “No problem. And tell Connie I said hello.”

  “If I talk with her, I will. Thanks again, Lieutenant.”

  Frankie leaned back in the chair, wondering how Chambers knew she was in Houston. Maybe Connie told him, but it didn’t sound like he had her number. Maybe Morreau and him talked? As he pondered it, Mazzetti walked in, looking every part the zombie that he always was prior to his morning infusion of coffee.

  “Got any brewed?”

  Frankie pointed to the pot. “Get me another one, too.”

  Mazzetti poured two coffees then sat next to Frankie. “Anything new?”

  “Nothing,” Frankie said. He sat
back in his chair and stretched, then sipped on some coffee. “This has been a dead-end since we started and somebody wants to keep it that way.”

  Mazzetti wrinkled his brow. “You think she had something to do with it?”

  Frankie didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, but I know for certain she didn’t shoot eight drug dealers with five different guns.”

  “I’d like to see that trick if she did.” Lou paused. “I got a tip last night from one of my snitches. He said Manny Rosso had a hand in this.”

  “Manny, huh? Not a surprise. We know Connie called Mangini from Sean’s phone.”

  “So that hooks her up with Mangini, not Manny.”

  Frankie frowned. “Come on, Lou. I already told you that Gianelli and Mangini have history.”

  “Yeah, everybody knows she grew up by him, but her record is clean.”

  Frankie grabbed his notes and his coffee and headed for the door. “Let’s go see Manny Rosso. I have a feeling he might know something about it.”

  Mazzetti grabbed his coffee, but he wore the puzzled look he did when he disagreed. “I already told you, my snitch said he did.”

  “And I happen to agree with him. Not much happens in Brooklyn that Manny doesn’t have something to do with, or at least know about. Besides, Manny owes us.” They started to leave, then Frankie turned to him. “Lou, keep busy for a minute. I need to see Morreau about something. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Frankie walked into Morreau’s office. “Got a minute, Lieu?”

  “Make it quick.”

  “Who knows Gianelli’s in Houston?”

  “Us, the captain, IA…I think that’s it.”

  Frankie cracked his knuckles a few times as he thought. “I got a call from Chambers, asking how she was doing in Houston. How’d he know?”

  “Chambers is married to Captain Kyrokous’ sister, so I’m sure he knows everything. Besides, IA could just as easily have told him.” Morreau opened his desk drawer, digging for something. “You got any rubber bands?”

  Frankie opened the door a crack. “Carol, the lieu needs some rubber bands.” He started to close the door again when he thought better of it. “Please?”

  “Would’ve been your ass if you forgot that.”

  “No coffee for a week.”

  “More like a month.”

  Carol popped in and tossed a few rubber bands onto his desk. “Thanks, Carol,” he said, then turned to Frankie. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Just get your ass out there and solve this case. It doesn’t smell right to me and I want it off my charts.”

  “You got it, Lieu. We’re on it.”

  Manny lived in a modest house in Bensonhurst, a section of Brooklyn still heavily populated by Italians and peppered with small Italian restaurants, shops and cafes. Frankie pulled onto a wide part of the sidewalk in front of a breezeway, shut off the car and got out.

  “Suppose somebody needs to get out,” Lou said.

  “They’ll beep the horn if they do. We won’t be long.”

  The sidewalk was brick, herringbone design, and still in fine shape despite heavy use and rough winters. Manny’s house had three steps leading to a small brick porch. Frankie knocked hard on the porch door, then watched the windows. Blinds opened, just a crack, and a few seconds later the front door opened, then the porch door. Manny’s smile covered his face, which said a lot about his smile, because his face was big, Orson Welles big.

  “Well if it ain’t Bugs Donovan. Come on in.” He eyed Frankie up and down. “Lookin’ sharp, Donovan. Somebody might think you’re dipping your beak into the collection plate if you keep wearing clothes like that.”

  Frankie couldn’t help but smile. Manny had charisma and charm, like a lot of the gangsters, but he was ruthless when it came to business and would kill a person without a second thought. Frankie knew from working with the FBI that they attributed more than ten murders to Manny personally and many more that he ordered. Trouble was they couldn’t prove any of it. There never seemed to be a witness, at least none willing to testify.

  “Beautiful morning, huh, Manny?”

  “Every day is beautiful somewhere.” Manny held the door for Mazzetti. “Lou, how you doin’ today?”

  “About as good as any other day.” Lou walked in, taking his hat off as he entered the house. No good Italian kid ever kept their hat on in the house, at least that’s what his mother taught him. “You still killing people or you give that up now that you’re the boss?”

  Manny laughed as he led them into the house. “You’re all right, Lou. Have someone remind me not to piss on your grave.”

  Frankie followed Manny across the living room, dodging a recliner and a table cluttered with religious figurines. The shelves behind the sofa held more of the same, some used as bookends for a bible and books on the church. Crammed into the corners were some paperbacks on crime and police procedure. “You studying to be a priest or a cop?”

  A hefty laugh answered him. “Who wants coffee or espresso?”

  “Nothing for me,” Lou said.

  “Espresso for me.”

  “Good, I’ll join you, Frankie.” Manny turned on the stove and prepared the pot. “So what brings my two favorite detectives to my house. Must be a special occasion. Somebody sick? You need money?” He laughed heartily then held up his hand. “Only kidding, fellas.”

  Frankie took a seat at the table next to Lou, but he sat sideways, allowing easy access to his gun. He was sure there would be no trouble, but…

  “We heard some things on the street about that drug deal a while back, the one where one cop got shot and two undercovers got killed.” Mazzetti looked directly at Manny, his eyes never drifting. “Heard that you know something about it.”

  “You know I don’t go in for anything like that, especially if it involves cops.”

  “So who would know?” Frankie asked.

  Manny brought the espresso to the table, handed one to Frankie. “Sugar?”

  A shake of the head answered him so he sat down. “Who would know?” Manny took time thinking. “What’s in it for me?”

  “Nothing,” Frankie said, “but if you give us a lead then we wouldn’t have to keep coming back here, maybe every day, to check on things.”

  Manny squinted and gave a couple of slight nods. “So if you got a lead, how many times you think you’d have to come back?”

  “Probably never,” Lou said.

  Manny smiled. “You know, I just thought of someone. Guy named Treetop over by Flatbush Avenue, somewhere near the park. Don’t know the address, but if you ask around you’ll find him. Tall guy, maybe six foot six or seven and he wears a Yankees cap. Never without it.”

  “Shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Frankie said. He sipped the espresso, tipped it up toward Manny. “Good espresso.”

  “Thanks. I think so, too.”

  The doorbell rang and Manny got up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He reached to an intercom on the wall. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, boss, it’s Georgie.”

  “Come in, Georgie, but I have company.”

  Georgie came through the living room, talking before he hit the kitchen. “Some asshole parked on the fuckin’ sidewalk out front.”

  As he stepped into the kitchen, Manny laughed. “Those assholes would be Detectives Lou Mazzetti and Frankie Donovan.”

  Georgie blushed. “Sorry for calling you assholes, but hey, you shouldn’t park on the goddamn sidewalk.”

  Frankie stood. “That’s all right, Georgie, sometimes we are assholes.” He reached out his hand to Manny. “Hope we don’t have to see you again.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” Manny said, and shook both of their hands. “Let me know if you can’t find Treetop.”

  Frankie said, “Don’t think I’m giving out a free ride. I get anything to use on you, I’ll be back.”

  “Yeah, heard it before. Go find Treetop; he’ll be able to help you more than me.”

  After Frankie and Lou left, Georgie closed the d
oor then turned to Manny. “So what did you want me for, boss?”

  “You remember that night Connie was shot?”

  “What about it?”

  “A couple of days ago I got a call from Dominic Mangini.” Manny pulled Georgie close. “Anybody take those drugs?”

  Georgie backed up. “No way, boss. No fuckin’ way.”

  Manny stared. “All right, but if I hear different…”

  “You won’t hear no different. Count on it.”

  Manny went to the table to sit.

  “Hey, boss, you gonna offer me coffee or what?”

  “You know where it is.”

  As Georgie made the coffee, Manny finished his. “I want you to ask around about these drugs. It would be nice to find out who’s causing Dominic’s little girl such trouble.”

  “She’s a goddamn cop.”

  Manny spun quickly in his chair, his huge face taut. “She’s Dominic Mangini’s little girl.”

  Georgie gulped. “You got it, boss. We’ll find out.”

  Frankie and Lou Mazzetti drove through the streets of Little Jamaica slowly, checking both sides. It didn’t take long to find Treetop. They could have cruised the streets until they saw the tallest thing moving, but they stopped at a favorite hangout for young gang members and got the lead right away. Treetop was walking down the street, and his stride was so long it made him look like he was running. Frankie pulled next to a parked car, half a block ahead of Treetop, then he and Lou got out.

  Treetop spotted them coming. He slowed, then headed in the other direction.

  “Yo, Treetop. Don’t try it,” Frankie yelled. “I just want to talk. You’re in no trouble.”

  The tall man took a few more steps, then stopped and turned around. “What you want, man?” he asked, then he laughed. A deep-belly laugh, the kind you seldom hear from grown men.

  The accent was Jamaican, but Donovan didn’t need to hear it to know; the richness of his dark skin and the way he laughed confirmed his ancestry. Jamaicans seemed to have a patent on that certain type of laughter. “We need some information, Treetop. Manny Rosso tells us you know something about a guy we’re after. A Mexican who might be involved with the murder of two undercover cops.”