Crimes on Latimer: From the Early Cases of Marco Fontana

by DeMarco, Joseph R. G.

  “I’m fucked. Totally and completely fucked.”

  “Lemme see if I have this straight. You were working on some mob investigative piece for your paper and Carl knew about this.”

  “Right. But that was before we split up. He was always nosing around. Liked to find out as much as he could about everything.”

  “So, he knows anything about the mob is information you’d love to have. Eventually he sees that Sammy is working on something about corruption and that Sammy’s probably got some information you’d like.”

  “That’s what he told me. He also said he’d found out some dirt about Preston which Press didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “But, of course, he told you, right?”

  “Sure. He wanted back in with me, so he said, and that’s why he told me everything. Including how he was holding the information over Press and milking him for everything he could. I lapped it all up. I was a fool, even if it was all true. But getting that information… it’s how I operate. It’s how I fill up my column and that blog.”

  “And, of course, Carl was aware of your penchant for new, young, innocent guys. Guys who’d never been on the scene before.”

  Martin grunted inelegantly.

  “So, he decided to do you a real service and introduce you to Vincenzo’s kid. Without telling you who he was.”

  “How idiotic you make me seem. And what a fool.”

  “Hey, Marty. I’m not making you seem anything. You did this to yourself.”

  “You think I deserve it all, right? I’m just a sleazy gossipmonger, and I’m being served my just desserts. I know that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Not entirely. And, for the record, I may think you’re sleaze, but I don’t think you deserve what’s happening to you.”

  “You don’t?” Martin looked at me and blinked. I thought I saw him get glassy-eyed. “So, what do we do next? How do we stop this?”

  “Listen, Martin.” It was time to level with the guy because this wasn’t going to be easy. “I’ve gotta be honest with you. This isn’t easy for—”

  “What? You’re not going to help? You said you’d help.”

  “That’s the thing, Martin. I think we can be sure it’s Carl who’s blackmailing you. He’s probably working with someone else. That sorta doesn’t matter. We can catch them. No problem. But—”

  “If we catch him and stop him, it’s over, right?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you, Martin. Things like this,” I said picking up one of the photos, “they don’t go away. These are just prints off some computer. Carl and his accomplice probably have digital copies stored who knows where. Maybe even video that they haven’t shown you yet. This kind of stuff, photos and video, never goes away.”

  “But they said…” Marty looked haunted, gaunt.

  “Carl has already shared the pictures with another person. Those photos are in a file somewhere. Carl and his friend used them once and they’ll come back sooner or later to use them again. Maybe just to be cruel, they’ll hand all of it to Vincenzo. My guess is that’s what they intend eventually. Or, at least, that’s what Carl intends for you. Carl wants to make everyone suffer for his bad deal in life. We can’t stop him. Even if we blow the lid off this, go to the papers, bring everything out. It won’t stop what’s gonna happen.”

  “So, you’re saying…?”

  “I’m saying that no matter what we do to Carl, you’ll probably have to make a new life somewhere else. As somebody else.”

  “Then…” Martin looked up at me as if I were his only hope. Truth is he had to be his own hope and clear out of town as soon as he could.

  “Get together whatever money you have and anything else that means something to you and leave town before Carl’s deadline is up. Find a place somewhere you can make a new life. Change your name, live off the grid for a while. It’ll have to be your own version of witness protection but you can do it. Cut all your ties with anyone and anything here. It’s the only way you have any chance of surviving this.”

  Martin opened his mouth but no sound came out. He stared at me, but I knew he was seeing through me to a picture of his life crumbling around him.

  “That’s the only way?”

  “And never, ever try to contact anyone here. You do and they’ll find out. Shred your credit cards. Live on cash. Until you can establish a new identity.”

  He placed his hands over his face and began to sob uncontrollably. I let him cry himself out.

  ***

  It was a while before Marty got himself together enough to leave. I sat quietly with him until he did. By the time he walked out the door, I felt sorry for the poor bastard. He was a shit but he didn’t deserve to have to start from scratch and still have to look over his shoulder wondering if and when someone would find him.

  After Martin left, I called Press. I knew it was Carl that was blackmailing Martin. I also figured it was Carl who’d bludgeoned Sammy. What I couldn’t accept was the idea that he did all that just to get even with them for dumping him, for making him feel small and cheap. Maybe it was one spasm of revenge that was intended to rid himself of all the feelings of worthlessness and humiliation heaped on him by all the other people in his life who’d wronged him. It made a perverted kind of sense but it was still insane. I thought Press might be able to give me another perspective or have a different insight into Carl’s actions.

  Press didn’t answer his phone so I decided to stake out his place and pin him down once he arrived home. Home is so much more conducive to getting a person talking than cornering him in his office.

  Press worked for the city so he had to live in the city but he made certain that his quarters were palatial. He was no stranger to creature comforts and he didn’t intend for that to change. The building he lived in, the Dorchester, was one of the better condo properties on Rittenhouse Square, which had nothing but better properties. I’d heard he’d purchased a four bedroom extravaganza and had it redone from top to bottom. One of the bathrooms alone cost him close to one hundred fifty big ones. So I’m told. He had plenty of room and plenty of money and could certainly fit both Bart and Carl under his roof, if he wanted to.

  From my seat on a wooden bench dedicated to Millie Frome in Rittenhouse Square, I had a great view of the Dorchester’s front entrance. People came and went constantly. The rich and didn’t-want-to-be-famous of Philadelphia lived in that building and led busy, eventful lives. Sooner or later Press would be among those returning home.

  As I watched, I saw Bart and Carl stroll in together through the automatic sliding doors as if they were landed gentry. I wanted to gag, but that would’ve blown my cover. It appeared that they’d moved in on Press and were taking him for a great ride. Not that I felt sorry for the guy. He deserved it in so many ways. I just wished he’d get the hell home, so I could get the information I needed and leave. Before I could deliver that wish to the air, Press hopped out of a cab and sprinted into the building. So much for me getting to him in the lobby and making quick work of it. Now I’d have to corner him in his den, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.

  I said a quick good-bye to Millie’s bench and dashed across the street to the building. The guy at the desk stopped me, of course, and asked who I wanted to see so he could announce me. That would kill the element of surprise. I had no choice but to give him my name. So I lied.

  “Tell him a Mr. Martin Van is on his way up.” I didn’t wait for an okay.

  “Hey. Wait… I’ve gotta…” The guy behind the desk sputtered and fumed, but there were more people waiting for his attention, and he still had to make that call to Press and inform him about me. I kept moving. The attendant was pint-sized. There were no security guards and, before they could call anybody, I’d be safely in Press’s sanctuary.

  In the elevator, a stern-looking older woman, tall, thin, gray hair cut short, looked at me as if I was the pig farmer’s bastard brother come to cause trouble. I smiled sweetly and she looked away. The only other
person in the elevator was a mousy guy who was probably worth millions but looked like a tweedy school teacher. The rich and their disguises.

  Press lived on the twentieth floor. Good view of the stadiums in South Philly. Good view of my past, too. I winced at a few bad memories, as I passed the window in the hall. I rang Press’s bell. There was no sound inside. He must’ve had the desk man’s call and was playing hide and seek.

  “Press. It’s Marco. Open the door.”

  I heard a murmur or two and footsteps on hardwood floors. The door opened quickly and Press stood there, tie undone, shirt out of his pants, hair mussed. Someone was having his hair fluffed but who was doing the fluffing?

  “Marco, what the hell do you mean lying like that to the desk man? Did you think I wouldn’t let you up?”

  “The thought crossed my mind. But there are more important things and maybe we should talk privately. Unless you want your neighbors to hear?”

  “I’m not in a talking mood, Marco. Make an appointment with my secretary. I never do business at home.”

  “Would blackmail put you in a talking mood? Or, maybe, assault and battery?”

  “Are you threatening—”

  “You completely misunderstand me, Press. I wasn’t threatening, I was listing the things that, say, someone under this roof is involved in. So maybe you might just want to talk about it, considering you own the roof under which this character lives and, uh, plays, shall we say.” I looked him up and down.

  “Bastard!” Press hissed. He tightened his belt, tucked in his shirt and while whipping off his tie, opened the door wide for me.

  The apartment was elegantly furnished but understated. There wasn’t too much of anything. In fact, there was almost too little. But I liked it. Showed the guy had taste as well as money, something you don’t often see together among the nouveau riche. And everything was modern. There wasn’t a Baroque element in the place, not even a crystal chandelier. The living room was bright. The south facing windows wouldn’t allow anything else. It was like walking into a tanning booth. Press followed and indicated a seat for me, a chartreuse abstract shape that passed for a chair.

  “What’s all this about, Fontana? I haven’t got time for your crap.”

  I knew I was interfering with his play time. “It’s all about blackmail and assault, like I said. Carl, you remember Carl, I think he’s a house guest, right? I mean, I saw him saunter into the building a little while ago.”

  “What makes you think he sauntered his way to my apartment?”

  “Lucky guess?” I watched his face. He’d be formidable at poker. “Seems I’ve got some information putting Carl right in the middle of a blackmail scheme and an assault.”

  “The thing you told me about the other day?” He wasn’t letting on he knew much.

  “You remember, don’t you?” I said.

  “The assault on Sammy? You think Carl—”

  “You got it. Now, what I’d like to know is can you fill in some missing details?”

  “How can I? What could I possibly know?”

  “Don’t play innocent – it doesn’t look sincere on you. We both know you and Carl are still involved, and you and Bart also have a thing going. Lucky you. But one of them is gonna make things a little uncomfortable in a while and maybe if you tell me what you know—”

  “I don’t know a thing, Fontana. Not a thing.” He looked down and away. A liar often does.

  I guess I should have suspected something might happen, but I was stuck in the abstract chair and couldn’t turn when I heard the sound.

  Someone grabbed me around the neck from behind forcing me out of the chair. I fought back but he was strong and squeezed my neck nearly cutting off my air and making it hard to struggle. The next sound was his voice and then I knew. Carl.

  “What should we do? He knows. We can’t let him go.” Carl’s voice lacked the confidence he’d had earlier.

  “He’s taking wild shots.” Press snapped. “Don’t be stupid.”

  I grabbed at his arm and tried wrestling him off me, but Carl had a powerful grip. The most I could do was give myself a little breathing room – literally. I stayed conscious and that was the important thing.

  “He knows about me,” Carl spat out the words. “I heard him say that. He was at my house yesterday. The only thing he doesn’t know—”

  “Shut up. Don’t make this worse than it is. We’ll figure it out.”

  “Sure, you’ll figure something out. You know how many times you said that? You and your rich friends are all alike. The only thing you figure out is how to screw me for free. But I know too much, Press. Freebies are out from now on.”

  Carl unconsciously loosened his grip as he fumed at Press. I elbowed him in the ribs and pushed him hard. He went crashing into the glass coffee table. The sleek, silver and glass creation, now shards on the carpet. Carl was stunned and lay still as death on the floor.

  Bart came screaming out of a back room when he heard the crash. “What have you done? Press? Are you all—” He stopped when he saw Carl sprawled amidst the glass. “I told you he wasn’t right for you, Press. He’ll bring you down.”

  “Shut up, Bart.” Press knelt by Carl’s side. The kid was really no worse for wear, just stunned. Eventually, Carl’s eyes fluttered open and his mouth started working with only squeaks and moans coming out. Press brushed back the kid’s dark hair and stroked his cheek. It would have been touching if it hadn’t been the two of them.

  “You’re telling me to shut up?!” Bart stood hands on hips an expression on his face I’m not sure I ever want to see again. He turned to look at me. “You know what that low life, Carl, did, Marco? Maybe you do by now. But I’ll bet you don’t know why.”

  “Bart, please.” Press hissed. Still cradling Carl, he seemed broken and tired.

  “Did you hear something, Marco?” Bart looked around as if he’d heard a strange noise. “Must’ve been nothing. Where was I?”

  “You were about to tell me—”

  “I was about to tell you why Carl beat Sammy nearly to death.”

  “That much I had figured. And I thought you might’ve been in on it, Bart.”

  “I was there but I didn’t do anything.” Bart wore his best innocent face. He pointed at the other kid. “Carl was there with two thugs. They were on a mission.”

  “Getting even with Sammy for dumping him?” That was my best guess.

  “Partly. But Carl was also there for Press. You didn’t know that did you?” Bart smiled, and it wasn’t pretty. “Sammy and that journalist, Martin, were gonna blow the lid off some Mafia case. Press was involved up to his fat ass, so he wanted to destroy the photos, the documents, and anything else. He was desperate to keep Sammy and Martin from telling the story. Carl was only too glad to help, since both Martin and Sammy had dumped him just like they dumped me. Carl also has connections to the Chiari family. Cousins or something, who knows? But they helped him do the job.”

  Press groaned and hugged Carl tighter to him. Press and everything he’d built up over the years would be destroyed by that mafia story. And this business with Carl and Bart would just be a sleazy addendum. Both Press and Carl would be paying for their actions for a long time. I couldn’t say I was sorry.

  “One thing still puzzles me though, Bart.”

  “What’s that? You’ve got your men. Call the cops and have them arrested.”

  “You. You’re the puzzle. Why were you there at Sammy’s apartment? What did you want from Sammy?”

  “Sammy had information I could use. I wanted to get even with Martin for dumping me. If you can imagine that toad dumping anyone. I wanted a way to stick it to him good. I wanted pictures or whatever I could use. But Carl was there with two goons and suddenly they wanted all the same things. Carl said they needed to deep six the stuff to save Press. There wasn’t much I could do against all of them.”

  “But you did nothing while Carl and his men beat Sammy? Nothing at all?”

  “There wer
e three of them. All of them bigger than me. What was I supposed to do? They would’a killed me if I tried anything. Are you crazy?”

  I guess I was because if I’d seen someone beating a friend to death, I’d have done something. At least now I had the opportunity to make some of it right. Besides, Bart would have to be a witness and that would probably turn his life inside out.

  ***

  Detective Bynum was surprised to hear what I’d discovered but was only too happy to close the case. I made sure everyone waited for the police and, after giving Bynum a statement, I left. I’d been wanting to get out of the apartment. Big as the place was, it felt claustrophobic. Or, maybe I just didn’t want to have to look at the sorry trio, who were now turning on one another like the barracudas they were.

  Rittenhouse Square looked darker, even though the sun was high in the sky and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. I needed to be around people. Good people, not the Preston kind.

  Every case teaches you something about people, but every one carries a price. You feel a little dirtier. You see people the way you knew they probably were but that you’d hoped they weren’t. Each time, I tried convincing myself that there were good people out there. That not everyone was as bad or as cruel as the ones I’d just encountered. Sometimes I even believed what I told myself.

  My cell phone rang. I didn’t want to take the call but I hit the button reflexively. It was someone from the hospital and the news wasn’t good. The charges Press and Carl and the others would face suddenly went from bad to worse.

  Bart had said that Press was behind everything and that maybe there were other, darker, things at work. But, for me, the motive in the case was simple: Carl wanted revenge, wanted to hurt the people who’d hurt him. Playing in the circles he did, he found himself in possession of the precise tools he needed to exact the revenge he wanted. The fact that he was able to put things together into a grand plan that would ruin several lives at the same time, fascinated me. He didn’t seem that smart but I suppose a lifetime of anger and hurt and rejection stirs things up in a man. He’d also obviously observed and learned while he floated in those circles. I’d never underestimate his type again.