A Bullet for Carlos
Page 25
Tip pulled out a fifty and handed it to the boy, then another fifty to Buddy. “I appreciate it. And remember about those cards. I’m serious. I owe you.”
“So you’re still the Tipster,” Buddy said.
“Guess so.” He patted Buddy on the head. “Sorry about Greg. I really am. He was a nice kid.”
I got into the car before Tip. He was still shaking his head.
“Goddamn shame what’s happening to kids nowadays.”
“It’s not just kids,” I said.
“I know, but this boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, that lead might pan out and it’s not too far from here.”
“How about the dress?”
“Elena’s not going anywhere.”
About three blocks from the Galleria, Tip spotted a group of Mexicans hanging out with one shaved-head white boy. We pulled in.
“This could get dicey,” he said.
Tip brought the car to a stop. I unbuttoned my gun strap and got out.
The group began dispersing, but Tip’s call brought that to a stop. “Whoa. Where’s everybody going?”
The shaved-head white boy turned first. “What the fuck you want, man?”
“Watch your mouth, son; we got a lady here. Besides, Freddy, it’s you I’m looking for.”
Freddy acted stunned and the Mexicans cast suspicious glances at him. “What the f… how you know me?”
“Everybody told me you’re the one to talk to if I need information.”
“Fuck you,” he said, and looked at me. “I don’t care if you do got a bitch with you. Fuck you and her. I don’t give information to nobody.”
I wanted to smack the look off his face, but Tip stepped up and grabbed him by the shirt.
“I know you don’t, Freddy, but I still want to talk with you.” Tip shot a quick glance at the others, then lowered his voice. “Privately.”
Freddy cocked his head, raised his shoulders a few times, then said to the others, “Be right back.”
Tip grabbed hold of him and pulled him toward the car. As he shoved him in the backseat he turned to the rest of them. “Like Freddy said, be right back.”
I guess I wasn’t the only one wondering about Tip’s plans.
Freddy seemed a little nervous. “Where you taking me, man?”
Tip said, “Relax, we’re going to get coffee.”
A few blocks down the road Tip stopped at a Starbucks. “Connie, watch him while I get us something to drink, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Tip? You that lunatic that used to be in narcotics?”
“That’s me. You want coffee?”
“Yeah. Black,” Freddy said.
I got out of the car. “I’ll get the coffee. You watch him.”
“Okay, get me—”
“I know what you want,” I said. “And don’t forget to shoot him if he tries to run.”
I waited in line until the barista asked for my order.
“Espresso, caramel macchiato, and water for tea.” No way I’d let Freddy spill coffee in the car.
“You got it,” the barista said.
A few minutes later, I walked across the lot and set the drinks on top of the car. When I opened the door, Tip’s coffee spilled. I got in and set the remaining two cups in the holders. “Tip, would you mind going back. I dropped your coffee.”
“No problem,” he said, and headed to the shop.
I watched him go in, then grabbed the hot water, opened the lid, and tossed it onto Freddy’s crotch. “That’s for calling me a bitch.”
He screamed—loud, then he grabbed his crotch while trying to strip his pants off, leveraging his feet against the front seat to lift himself up. “You bitch. You goddamn bitch.”
After Freddy got his pants pulled down, he jumped toward the front seat. I punched him in the face, sending him back. “Sorry about that.”
A few seconds later Tip opened the door and looked at the suspect in the back seat. Freddy’s nose was pouring blood and he was sitting naked from the waist down, pants around his knees. “What the hell is going on?”
“That crazy prick spilled tea on himself then jumped up and smashed his nose.”
“You lying bitch.” Freddy turned to Tip. “She did it. That bit…she threw it on my balls then punched me in the face.”
Tip looked at Freddy, then at me. “That’s a hell of a story, but who’s gonna believe it? It’s your word against two cops.”
“Two cops? You weren’t even here.”
“Saw everything from the sidewalk. Plain as day.”
“Man, I need to go to the hospital. I’m burnt really bad.” His voice was like a whiny kid.
“Back home we call that a Brooklyn burn.”
Tip looked my way and smiled. “A Brooklyn burn…I’m gonna have to remember that.”
Tip leaned back close to Freddy. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. If you tell me what I need to know, I’ll drop you off at the hospital. If not…” he swirled the coffee in his cup then leaned over the seat and glared at him. “I swear I’ll keep going back for more until you’re nothing but burnt flesh.”
“You’re crazy, man. You’re both fucking nuts.”
Tip laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
Freddy soon started talking. “Guy named Tico runs everything. It all comes out of Paradise.”
“That’s bullshit.” Tip grabbed Freddy’s collar and yanked him toward the front.
“Hold up. Damn. I’m telling you, this dude Tico is the one. Ask the street.”
I opened the back door and got hold of Freddy’s hair, dragging him across the seat. “You mention Tico one more time and I’ll put you under the wheels and run over your ass.”
“What the fuck. Back off.”
I had him halfway out the door when he started screaming. “Okay. Okay.”
I let him up, but kept the door open. The look in Freddy’s eyes told me he was ready to talk.
“You gotta believe me on this. I’m not shittin’ you.”
“What about Carlos?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Heard the name mentioned. Some people say he’s the man, but all I know is Tico. Swear to God.”
I looked to Tip, and he gave me a nod. I got back in the front seat. “Buckle up, Freddy. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”
Freddy mumbled something and shot me the finger. Before we dropped him at an emergency center, Tip gave him a stern warning about what would happen if he complained, or told anyone about our talk. After that, we headed for the freeway, and Elena’s house. I didn’t yet know if I was okay with how things went regarding Freddy, but it sure felt good.
“You think he’s okay, Tip?”
“Freddy? He’ll be fine. You did good. Reminded me of the old days.”
“Lot to be said about the old days.”
“Beats talking to lawyers.”
I laughed. “Sure does.”
Chapter 41
Cops and Gangsters
Brooklyn, New York
Lou Mazzetti walked from his office to the coffee room, then back to Frankie’s desk. “Hey Carol, you see Frankie anywhere?”
“He’s outside smoking.”
Lou walked toward the steps muttering, “Gonna give me a bad name if he keeps that up.”
He found Frankie sitting on the hood of a car sucking the life out of a cigarette. “How’s it going?”
“Depends on what you have to tell me.”
Lou pulled papers out of an large manilla envelope. “The clean copy is the new one we got from the phone company. The old one is the copy IA gave us. Take a look for yourself. It’s like IA said—no calls from Sean’s phone after six, except the one to Mangini.”
“I hope you were discreet in how you got this. If they catch us checking up on IA, our asses are in trouble.”
“Nobody will know. I used my Polish Mafia connections.”
Frankie l
aughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“My wife’s sister married a polack who works at the phone company. Got this report for two cases of beer.”
Frankie compared the two reports, holding them side by side, checking each page. “I’d have sworn we’d find something, but they’re identical. Same number of calls and to all the same places.”
“I checked on Gianelli too. Her records are clean. No unusual calls, and no calls of interest the night of the shooting.”
Frankie shook his head. “I don’t think Gianelli’s lying, but…”
“She’s not lying. Take another look at Sean’s bill. Check the amount on the final page.”
Frankie scanned both copies of the bill. “They’re the same.”
Lou nodded his head. “I know and that is where the puzzle comes in. I added up all the charges for calls—actually Carol did—and it comes to $1.60 less than what the phone company charged.”
Frankie looked at him, then back at the phone records. “A dollar sixty less. How…”
“I’ll tell you how,” Lou said. “Sean went over on his calls this month so he got charged forty cents a minute for each one over. That means there are four minutes of calls missing from the detailed list. Four minutes he was charged for, but someone edited out of the phone bill.”
Frankie stood and paced on the sidewalk, lighting another smoke as he handed the papers back to Lou. “So somebody removed the record of the phone calls, but forgot to adjust the final bill.”
“Exactly.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
Lou lit his own smoke and joined Frankie in pacing. “So the question is who did Sean talk to for four minutes?”
“Four minutes is a long time.”
“The bigger question,” Lou said, “is what was so interesting about these minutes that somebody had to erase them?”
Frankie looked at Lou. “Yeah, erase them but leave that call to Mangini staring right at us.”
“Somebody at the phone company had to be in on it. IA got the records from there.”
Frankie sat back down on the car. “Gianelli could have had Mangini do it.”
“She doesn’t gain anything. The call to Mangini is what’s killing her.”
Frankie nodded. “So if it’s not Gianelli, who is it?”
“That’s what we got to find out.” Lou crushed out his cigarette on the sidewalk. “Let’s assume for now that Sean was in on this.”
Frankie propped his feet up on the curb, while chewing on the end of his cigarette. “So there’s a set up, Sean doesn’t arrange back up because he knows it’s going south.”
“But then what would he do when Jerry is killed?” Lou said. “You think he planned that too?”
“Hard to believe he’d kill his partner,” Frankie said, but then he looked at Lou and shook his head. “Nah, guess it’s not.”
“Yeah, fuck you too, Donovan.”
“Wouldn’t Sean call someone once he realized things weren’t going right?”
“Definitely,” Lou said. “He’s got to call somebody.”
Frankie laid the phone records on the hood of the car. “Look at it. Not a single call except the one to Mangini, and we know Gianelli made that.”
Mazzetti let it bounce around in his mind a while. “I think we need to see the original phone records.”
“According to IA, these are the original phone records.”
Lou looked over the rim of his glasses. “According to IA.”
“Exactly,” Frankie said.
Later that day, Frankie spoke to the phone company—to three different people at the phone company before finally getting a manager to agree to send the records. Within hours, IA was in the office, wanting to know why he needed phone company records on an IA investigation.
When they left, Mazzetti looked at Frankie. “You get the feeling we’re stepping on toes around here?”
“I get the feeling we’re poking a stick up someone’s ass.”
“We need another way to see these records,” Lou said. “And we really need to watch our ass. Seems to be a lot of people who don’t want us solving this thing.”
After giving it some thought, Frankie said, “I know the guy to call.” He got up and headed for the stairs.
“So where are you going?” Lou said. “Call the guy.”
“Not from here,” Frankie said.
“Shit. Not again.” Lou hurried to catch up to Frankie. “Why is it you’re always tangled up with gangsters?”
“Must be the Irish in me.”
Frankie returned in a few minutes.
“Well?” Lou asked.
Frankie looked around then whispered. “I talked to Manny. He’s gonna see what he can do.”
“Which means he’s getting us the records.”
“That’s the way I see it,” Frankie said.
“I don’t like it,” Lou said.
“We don’t have a choice. Besides, you’re retiring soon. Don’t worry.”
The next day, just before lunch, Frankie’s phone rang. “Donovan.”
“Detective, I would like to speak with you in private.”
“Who is this?”
“A friend.”
“Cut the bullshit or I’m hanging up.”
“I am a friend of Connie Gianelli.”
Now it made sense. “This is my private phone, Mangini.”
“I prefer to meet privately. I like to sit across from the man I’m dealing with.”
“Let’s get it straight. I’m not dealing with you about anything.”
“Detective Donovan, you dishonor me. I would never think of offering you a bribe. You and I…we are different men than that.”
“I’m nothing like you. You’re—”
“A gangster? Come now, let’s not argue semantics. Shall we at least agree that neither one of us is a man who can be bought? I know that, which is why I would never insult you.”
Silence filled the line, then. “Where?”
“I will come to your turf.”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with Cataldi’s. Might as well make it there. I’m almost a regular.”
It took Frankie twenty-five minutes to get to the restaurant. He got a table near the back, a quiet one, and told them he was expecting a guest.
Dominic arrived a few minutes later. Frankie knew him from FBI photos he’d seen. Short, thin, bald, but most of all—mean looking. That’s what gave him away. He must have been sixty years old, and all of 150 pounds, but a man half his age and twice his size would likely back down if he took time to look at him. Just plain mean.
Trailing Dominic was a young man with a full head of hair and a nose and eyes that had been stolen from a hawk. And those eyes missed nothing. He sat at a table by himself, maybe twenty feet away. Frankie had done his homework on Mangini long ago. That must be Fabrizio.
Frankie didn’t bother standing, but he did extend his hand in greeting. “Dominic.”
A practiced smile flashed at him as Dominic gripped his hand. Frankie half expected a knife to come out from his pocket and stab through the back of his other hand like they did to poor Luca Brasi in The Godfather.
Dominic’s ass hadn’t even hit the chair before a waiter appeared, bowing as if the pope had dropped in for a visit.
“What can I get for you, Mr. Mangini?”
Dominic leaned forward, toward Frankie. “What would you like, Detective? Wine, espresso?”
“I’ll have a limoncello, and some bread.”
Dominic smiled before turning to the waiter. “Espresso, biscotto, é formaggio.”
When the waiter was halfway across the restaurant, Frankie shot the first question. “What do you want?”
“I need help.”
“I’m not in the business of helping gangsters, Mr. Mangini.”
“I know you’re a good man. This is nothing to compromise your morals; in fact, it will help you.”
This caught Frankie’s interest. “So tell me.”
“Detective, there will be a large drug deal going down soon in your territory. A very large deal.”
“I appreciate it any time a citizen gives me a heads-up, Mr. Mangini, but I’m in homicide. Also, I have to question why you’re being so generous with your information.”
“I’m sure you remember the night not so very long ago when two of your fellow officers were killed in a shootout. Another officer, Detective Gianelli, was shot as well.”
Frankie sat up straight and leaned forward. He grabbed a piece of cheese and dipped it in the olive oil, picked up a piece of garlic and placed it on top. “Go on.”
“If you remember, there were drugs missing from that operation.”
Frankie grabbed more cheese, sipped his limoncello. “A lot of drugs.”
Dominic dipped the biscotto in his espresso, took a bite, then set it back on the saucer. “These are the drugs from that deal, Detective, and they are being offered to the Colombians by one of your own.”
“Shit.” Frankie slapped his hand on the table, but then made a fist. He felt like hitting something. From the corner of his eye he saw Fabrizio start to get up, but Dominic held his hand out to stop him.
“I knew it,” Frankie said, “And I think I know who.”
Dominic didn’t laugh, but his expression said a smirk was just under the surface. “This…police business is not as clean as it looks.”
“Better than your side.”
“Except at times you cannot tell one side from the other.” Dominic wiped his face with the napkin, took another bite of biscotto.
“I need an answer to a question,” Frankie said. He took his time preparing another piece of cheese. “It won’t come back to hurt you or Connie, but it’s something I need to know.”
“Ask. If I can help I will.”
Frankie leaned close to him. “Did Connie call you the night she got shot?”
Dominic looked at him with eyes that probed his soul. “And why do you need to know this?”