Damaged Goods

by Stephen Solomita

  “Yeah, right.”

  Leonora slung her purse over her shoulder and stood up. Sometimes, it seemed as if she spent most of her working life babying grown men and women into doing what they wanted to do in the first place. “It’s not like she has nothing to contribute, Stanley. Ginny Gadd specializes in computer investigation. I hear she’s one of the best.”

  SIX

  JIM TILLEY, AS HE made his way along Tenth Street toward Third Avenue, told himself to stay calm. Sure, Captain Armando Ruiz, Commander of the mighty Seventh Precinct, had called him at nine o’clock in the morning, a single, pitiful hour after he’d come off duty, to drop another case into his lap. And, yes, Captain Ruiz had decreed that Detective Jim Tilley give this case “four-star priority” while still clearing every other case on his desk. All that could be shrugged off, the ways of the job being inscrutable, if not downright arbitrary. The real problem was that he was heading for the apartment of Ann Kalkadonis and a rendezvous with the FBI agents manning her telephone on the off chance that Jilly Sappone would decide to give his ex a call.

  In theory, the meeting was to be a mutual briefing, a sharing of information. In fact, he would spend fifteen minutes enduring smug grins, questions that bordered on cross-examination, perfectly pressed suits, freshly laundered shirts, polished Florsheim wingtips.

  Tilley, secure in the knowledge that after ten hours of bouncing from crime scene to crime scene, his own suit hung on his body like cold, wet spaghetti, ran the palm of his right hand over the stubble on his cheeks. He didn’t bother to look at his shoes, Rose having declared them eligible for disaster relief weeks before.

  What’s happening, he told himself, is that I’m getting closer and closer to becoming another Moodrow. To becoming a grizzled, seen-it-all, burned-up and burned-out veteran with no time for anything but the job.

  Burned up and burned out? It was a concept the silks, the chiefs and their deputies, couldn’t understand. They’d been stiffing the detectives for ten years, relegating investigation to the back burner while they assembled super squads to blitz drug-infested neighborhoods. All to no end, as far as Tilley could see, unless the end was publicity and an ever-expanding budget. Now, with the shift to community policing, the emphasis was on stopping crime before it happened, not investigating afterward. Too bad crime went on forever, too bad the actual result of an increased police presence was fewer and fewer cleared cases, desktops covered with dusty files, burned-up and burned-out detectives.

  Tilley, as he rode the elevator up to Ann Kalkadonis’s fourteenth-floor apartment, resolved not to feel sorry for himself, that self-pity stoked the fires of terminal burnout. Outside her door, he managed a smirk to match the anticipated smirks of the agents inside, then, despite the ripped-out lock, knocked softly.

  The smirk, along with his resolution, vanished the minute he entered the apartment. Not only were the two agents wearing their jackets, the jackets were actually buttoned. It was disgusting.

  “Agent Ewing.” The younger of the two men offered his hand and Tilley grasped it briefly.

  “Jim Tilley.” He slipped out of his own jacket, tossed it onto the couch. “You don’t mind, do ya?”

  The two agents exchanged a smile before the older agent introduced himself.

  “Agent Holtzmann. With two ns.”

  Tilley took the man’s hand, received a not unexpected crusher grip. Holtzmann appeared to be in his early fifties, a little too old for a field agent. Still, his thick, silver-gray hair and matching mustache, his military posture and flat gut, his sharp, blue eyes and firm, thrusting jaw all proclaimed his fitness-to-serve. Despite the advancing years, he fairly dripped testosterone.

  “Where’s the coffee?” Tilley glanced around the room. It was as neat as a pin. If a pair of New York cops had been assigned to the same duty, the apartment, he knew, would look like his shoes.

  “Actually,” Ewing said, “I don’t think it’ll take that long.”

  “You mean the coffee isn’t made?” Tilley started for the kitchen. “Just point me toward the old percolator and I’ll fix …”

  “He said it won’t take that long.” Holtzmann stepped in front of Jim Tilley. “Why don’t you sit down. You seem a bit anxious.”

  Tilley stopped a yard from the agent. “Tell you the truth, grandpa, if it’s gonna be short and sweet, I’d rather stand.” No question about it, he was beginning to feel better.

  “Hey, guys.” Agent Ewing quick-stepped across the room, put his hands on both their shoulders. He was taller than Jim Tilley, and clearly in shape, but his grip was relaxed, as was his wide smile. “Isn’t it a little early for a tussle?”

  A tussle? Tilley grimaced, guessed that Agent Ewing said bullpucky instead of bullshit. Screwed instead of fucked.

  “Tell ya what, Ewing …”

  The phone sounded before Tilley could finish his sentence, an old-fashioned ring, harsh and demanding, that cut through his resentment. He took out his notebook and the stub of a pencil, followed the agents to the monitoring equipment stacked on a small Formica table in the dining alcove.

  “Cellular phone,” Holtzmann said. “Could be coming from anywhere.” He picked up the two headsets lying on the table, handed one to Jim Tilley, put the other on, motioned for Ewing to answer the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Marvin?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “This ain’t Marvin. Don’t kid me, pal. I know Marvin’s voice when I hear it. It ain’t right that you should pretend you’re Marvin.”

  “I think you have the wrong number.”

  “The wrong number?”

  “Look, I’ve got to clear this line. …”

  “I’ve got to clear this line.’ Ya sound like some kinda fuckin’ faggot. A real man would’a just hung up the goddamned phone by now.”

  Ewing dropped the phone, turned to his partner with a shrug. Before he could speak, the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Marvin, did anybody call for me?”

  Ewing’s head snapped back as if he’d been punched. “Who is this?”

  “I think I got a credibility problem here. Didn’t I just say my name was Marvin?”

  Holtzmann put his hands out, palms down. He mouthed the word, slow, then adjusted the volume on the already spinning tape recorder.

  “All right, Marvin. Let’s play. Who do you want to speak to?”

  “Speak to? I don’t wanna speak to nobody. All I wanna know is if anyone called for me.”

  Ewing hung up the phone, but didn’t let go of the receiver. Twenty seconds later, when the phone rang, he nodded to his partner before picking it up.

  “Hello?”

  “So, what kinda pig do I got here? Do I got a regular New York pig? Or do I got a genuine federal FBI pig?”

  “If you don’t identify yourself, I’m going to hang up again. I really don’t have time …”

  “Yeah? Suppose I cut off the little cunt’s right ear and let ya listen to her scream. Would ya have time for me then?”

  “Jilly Sappone.”

  “Yeah. So tell me, right now, are you an Officer Pig or an Agent Pig?”

  Ewing covered the mouthpiece, looked over at his partner. “Try to bond him up,” Holtzmann said. “Give him your office number and your beeper number. Let him know you’re available to negotiate.”

  “My name is Bob Ewing, Jilly. I’m an FBI agent.”

  “How did I know?” Sappone paused briefly. “My dear sweet wife isn’t there, is she?”

  “No, Jilly, she’s not here. Ann’s in the hospital.”

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is, Bob. I went fourteen years without kickin’ her fat guinea ass and I got carried away. Next time I’ll try to be more gentle.” His laughter was harsh and mocking. “Why don’t ya tell me what hospital she’s in. So’s I can send some flowers.”

  “Why don’t we talk about Theresa-Marie, instead. Is she with you?

  “What’s the matter, Bob,
ya gettin’ tired of my company?”

  “Not at all. In fact, I’m going to give you my beeper number. That way, you can reach me any time you want.” He paused, smiled slightly. “I already have your number. The cellular phone was a nice touch, by the way. We’re running into that more and more often these days.” He paused, glanced at his partner. “Jilly, are you there?”

  “C’mon, talk ya little bitch. Talk to the fuckin’ man, or I’ll slap the shit out of ya.”

  “Hey, Jilly, it’s okay.” Ewing’s voice was dead calm. “If she doesn’t want to talk …”

  “Don’t fuckin’ tell me what’s okay.” Sappone was shouting, now. “If I want the bitch to talk, she’ll talk.”

  “Don’t hurt her, Jilly. She’s not part of this.”

  “Ya wanna keep tellin’ me what to do? Huh? I swear to God, I’ll rip her fuckin’ heart out. I’ll mail her back in pieces. Ya tell that to my sweet, innocent wife. Tell her if she ain’t back in that apartment next time I call, I’m gonna get myself a long knife and play butcher. Tell her I’m gonna give the kid to my partner. He likes little girls.”

  “Damn, Jilly, that weren’t right.” Jackson-Davis Wescott peered over Jilly Sappone’s right shoulder, tried to catch a glimpse of his own face in the rearview mirror. The angle was wrong, but he just knew his hurt-like eyes were even more hurt-like after what Jilly told those cops. “I never had nothin’ for no little girls. That was a damned lie.”

  Jilly Sappone didn’t bother to respond. He was too busy trying to get his head back together. They were traveling south on the Harlem River Drive, down toward the Lower East Side of Manhattan, the heart of Carmine Stettecase’s territory. If one of Carmine’s boys spotted Jilly Sappone, he’d know exactly what to do. And if Jilly wasn’t ready …

  Of course, he looked a lot different now. He’d trimmed his beard, cut his hair to within two inches of his scalp, dyed both—his beard and his hair—a dull gray-white. Fourteen years ago, the last time any of the boys had laid eyes on Jilly Sappone, he’d had a full head of dark, curly hair and no beard. He’d been fourteen years younger, too, twenty-six instead of forty. A kid instead of the man he’d become.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, saw Jackson-Davis with his arm around the kid, trying to comfort her. The sight irritated him, but he wasn’t about to say anything. When Jackson wasn’t around, the kid cried all the time. That was a lot worse than irritating. It threatened to produce a serious shitstorm, the kind of shitstorm that blew whiny kids out the window, smashed them up against walls. Which was probably what would happen in the long run but, for right now, he needed the kid alive. He needed the kind of reaction the fed pig had when he thought about getting chunks of Theresa Kalkadonis in the mail.

  “Jackson?”

  “Yeah, Jilly?”

  “Wrap the bitch up. We got work to do.”

  “Hell’s bells, Jilly, Theresa really hates that.”

  Sappone took a deep breath, told himself to hold on, that one day old Jackson-Davis would smash up against walls of his own.

  “Jackson?”

  “Yeah, Jilly?”

  “We can’t leave her alone, can we? Can’t have her screaming out the window. Suppose a cop sees her? Ya know the pigs are lookin’, don’t ya?”

  Jackson-Davis didn’t bother to reply. Jilly was right, he was always right, even when he was wrong he was right. Sometimes it made Jackson-Davis mad, but when he thought about goin’ out on his own, without Jilly to tell him what to do, he flipped right over, from mad to near scared to death.

  He looked at Theresa huddled next to him. She was shaking like a leaf.

  “Now, c’mon, sugar, it ain’t gonna be so bad.” He began to wrap her in the blanket, making sure to cover her feet and her hands the way Jilly had told him. “I fixed the trunk up real nice and soft with foam rubber. Why, it’ll be just like goin’ to beddy-bye. Ceptin’ for the story, a’course. I can’t tell you no story in the trunk, but if you’re a good little girl, tomorrow I’ll run down to the Toys “R” Us store and buy you the biggest ol’ teddy bear in the whole wide world. That way, next time Jilly says you gotta go in the trunk, you could have some company.”

  It was a little before eleven when Jilly parked the car on Fifteenth Street, a half block from the highway, and switched places with Jackson-Davis. This was the part he hated. The part about trusting a retarded hillbilly rapo with a man’s job. The part about Jackson-Davis fucking it up and Jilly Sappone going out of business. Too bad he didn’t have any choice. There was just no place to park a car in Manhattan and not risk having it towed away. Not unless he wanted to leave it in a parking lot and walk eight or nine blocks.

  “You know what you gotta do, Jackson-Davis?”

  “I sure do know.”

  “Which is what?”

  Wescott felt the blood rush up into his face. Sometimes Jilly treated him like a little kid, like Jilly treated Theresa, like Jackson-Davis Wescott was some kind of a dog.

  “We been through this, Jilly,” he muttered. “Been through it a whole lotta times.”

  “Then one more time ain’t gonna hurt. Bein’ as it’s my ass on the line.”

  “There you go again, Jilly. Actin’ like I’m some kinda he-she. I swear to the good Lord above. …”

  Sappone reached out, grabbed his partner’s earlobe, twisted sharply. “Ya wanna mouth me? Huh? Ya wanna mouth me?”

  “No, Jilly. No way.” Jackson-Davis tried to pull back, which made his punishment hurt even more. But maybe that was good, too. Maybe he needed to remember about Jilly’s shitstorms. That they came out of nowhere, that when ol’ Jilly got mad, he drooled like a pit bull chained in the sun. “I’m gonna park the car by a fire hydrant and stay there until I seen you done the deed. Then I’m gonna pick you up and drive off real slow. I’m gonna drive straight down the avenue till you tell me to turn. And I’m not gonna panic, no matter what happens.”

  The deed didn’t take all that long to get done. They parked on the west side of Avenue C, next to the enormous complex of redbrick high-rise buildings collectively known as Stuyvesant Town. Jackson-Davis started to shut down the engine, then remembered that he was supposed to leave it running. He raised a defensive hand to his ear just in case Jilly had seen him, but Jilly was already opening the door, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

  “Get ya shit together, Jackson.” Jilly leaned over, put his face in the open window. His hand snaked down into his jacket, came up clutching his nine-millimeter Colt. “The prick is comin’ right for us.”

  Jackson looked down the avenue. The middle-aged fat man carrying the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag sure didn’t seem like no Mafia guy. No, what he looked like was the ol’ pudge who ran the feed store in Ocobla, Tommy-Lee. Hell, Tommy-Lee didn’t even hunt …

  “Hey, Jackson-Davis, don’t stare at the fuckin’ guy. Look at me.”

  “Sure, Jilly.” Jackson-Davis did as he was told, though he didn’t much like the expression on Jilly Sappone’s face. It wasn’t exactly Jilly’s shitstorm expression. More like Jilly was gettin’ ready to jump one of them he-she bitches up at Clinton prison. Jackson had seen that look a time or two, and he remembered what came next. That’s why he wasn’t surprised when Jilly spun around as the fat man passed the car, took a step forward, and splattered the man’s brains all over the sidewalk.

  No, what surprised Jackson-Davis was the echo of nine millimeter bouncing off city walls. It was real, real loud. Loud enough to bring people running out of the garage down the block, running out to get a good look. So why was Jilly bending over to snatch the fat man’s shopping bag off the sidewalk? Why was he fishing in the fat man’s pocket?

  Suddenly Jackson-Davis felt like he just had to get away before the whole world fell down on him. All he could think about was jammin’ that car into gear, layin’ him a line of rubber from Avenue C to the Mississippi border. He squeezed his eyes down, grabbed onto the wheel, remembered that it would’ve been Jackson-Davis’s butt gettin’ jumped in C
linton if Jilly hadn’t helped him out.

  “You owe Jilly Sappone,” he screamed. “Don’t you be no fraidy-cat. There ain’t no such thing as a Wescott fraidy-cat.” His daddy had told him that.

  The door opened and Jilly slid in next to him. “Get it goin’, Jackson. Nice and slow.”

  Jackson-Davis responded by throwing the transmission into low. He was about to mash the gas pedal into the floorboard when Jilly put a restraining hand on his knee. Jackson, his breath coming in short heaves, turned to look into his partner’s eyes. He was expecting to find a hurricane, but Jilly’s eyes were calm, brown pools. Like the eyes of the Pentecostal saints in his ole ma’s picture books.

  “Nice and slow,” Jilly repeated. “Remember what we got in the trunk. You wouldn’t wanna give our insurance policy a bumpy ride.”

  They drove down Avenue C to Third Street, stopping twice for red lights, then made a right turn.

  “Awright, pull it over here, Jackson. Over against the curb.”

  “But, Jilly, they could be comin’ after us.” Jackson-Davis obeyed even as he protested.

  “Who, Jackson? Who’s comin’ after us?”

  “The cops, the … the damned ol’ posse.”

  Jilly reached under the seat and pulled up a set of license plates and a screwdriver. He opened his door, started to get out, then leaned back to remove the keys from the ignition. “One thing, pal. If ya should hear horsey-hooves in the distance, be sure to let me know.”

  Thirty seconds later, Jilly tossed a pair of stolen New Jersey license plates into the storm drain on the corner. The New York plates he’d replaced them with had been stolen in upstate Sullivan County and wouldn’t appear on a city hot sheet. The car itself, a faded-blue 1990 Taurus stolen out of a parking lot near the Sunrise Mall, was so nondescript as to be actually invisible.

  “I done it good, Jackson.” Jilly opened the driver’s door, waited a moment for Jackson-Davis to slide over. “It was a lotta work, but I took care of the details.” He pronounced it “dee-tails.” “That’s what makes it work. Lookin’ out for the details.”

  He put the car in gear and began to drive west on Third Street. “Jackson-Davis, you remember what comes next? What you gotta do?”