Damaged Goods

by Stephen Solomita

  “Where?”

  “Long Island.”

  “That would be Carlo Sappone, right?”

  “How did you know that?” Gadd waved off his response. “And how did you know they were going to use the card?”

  “Carlo Sappone was a guess. He’s Jilly’s first cousin, Josephine Rizzo’s nephew. I didn’t know he was on Long Island, but I was pretty sure he was still close to the family. As for using the card …”

  Moodrow jerked to a halt when the pounding outside the window stopped again. An angry voice drifted up, almost a whisper after the roar of the jackhammer.

  “Ya stupid cocksucker. Ya cut the fuckin’ cable. Now we’ll be here all morning.”

  Gadd scratched her chin. “I love New York.” She waited for Moodrow’s smile. “You were saying about the cards?”

  “Right.” Moodrow tapped the bandage on the back of his head. The wound had begin to itch, but he was afraid to dig in, afraid of opening it again. “You asked me how I knew Jilly was going to use the cards, correct?”

  “Correct.” Her eyes were somewhere between quizzical and amused.

  “Well, ask yourself this: If Jilly wasn’t gonna use ’em, why would he steal ’em in the first place?”

  The obvious struck Gadd like a fastball slamming into a catcher’s mitt. “But using them was such a risk.” It was all she could manage.

  “If the criminals weren’t stupid, where would we be?” The cop cliché rose to Moodrow’s lips unbidden. “Besides, it wasn’t all that much of a risk. The cards were forgeries, so that leaves the cops out of it. How could Jilly Sappone know that Stanley Moodrow would get next to Buster Levy? How could he know what Ginny Gadd can do with a computer? If you look at it from Jilly’s point of view, he’s been having a run of very shitty luck.”

  Gadd cocked her head to one side and shrugged. “Your reasoning,” she admitted, “is beyond dispute. As for Carlo Sappone, I have an address, a phone number, and a piece of his rap sheet.”

  “His rap sheet? How’d you get that?”

  “I’m tied into a system called Lexis. They’ve got conviction records for forty-seven states in their database. Convictions, mind you, not arrests. Carlo Sappone’s a coke dealer, been convicted three times, in 1982, 1986, and 1990. Altogether, he’s done six years and four months, county and state time. He’s on parole, even as we speak.”

  “Are you telling me that anybody can get this information?”

  “Don’t get pissed, Moodrow. It’s a matter of public record.”

  Pissed? Moodrow’s emotion was closer to despair. He’d been going to Jim Tilley with his hat in his hand, a beggar, pure and simple, whenever he needed a rap sheet. Meanwhile, every other private investigator had the information at his fingertips. Correction: her fingertips. He looked over at Gadd’s computer, successfully resisted an urge to empty his .38 into the screen, then turned back.

  “Last night,” he said, “we talked about a trade. Favor for favor. You put Jilly with Carlo and Carlo with an address and a phone number. That’s your favor. My favor is a mug shot of Jilly’s partner. His name, by the way, is Jackson-Davis Wescott.”

  Gadd leaned back and put her feet up on the desk. “You know, Moodrow, you’ve got a way of springing nasty surprises on people. I’ve always associated that particular ability with being a prick.”

  “Sticks and stones, Gadd.” He got up, crossed the room, and filled his coffee mug without asking permission. When he was seated again, he pulled a folded copy of Wescott’s photo out of his jacket pocket and laid it on the desk. “You might as well take this, being as I can get Carlo Sappone’s address on my own.”

  Ginny Gadd watched Moodrow’s larynx bob as he drained the mug. Somehow, the motion was more obscene than an upraised finger. “You keep sucking on that, you’re gonna dissolve the glaze.”

  Moodrow cupped the mug in his palm. “So, what’s your next move?”

  “Me?” She smiled her nastiest smile. “What I’m gonna do is go directly to Carlo Sappone’s domicile and ask him if he knows where his cousin Jilly is hiding. In fact, I might not even bother driving. Maybe I’ll just give him a call the minute you walk out the goddamned door.”

  Moodrow sat up straight. He was trying for righteous indignation, but an obscene giggle betrayed his true inner state. “Yeah,” he admitted, “that’s exactly what I’d do if I was in your shoes.” He took a deep breath and started over. “The problem, Gadd, is that when I put the big question to Carlo, he’s most likely gonna lie to me. Now, the way I see it, Theresa Kalkadonis doesn’t have time for bullshit; if someone doesn’t get to her soon, she’s gonna be dead. That’s if she’s not already dead. To be honest, I didn’t think she had much of a shot when I caught the squeal, but now that I’m close, I can’t afford to let Carlo Sappone tell me fibs.” He tapped the desktop with one finger. “It sets up like this: If you wanna come along, I could use your help. But you can’t draw any lines. I don’t know what’s gonna happen when I catch up with Jilly Sappone, but you can take one thing to the bank. If I have to shoot him down like a dog, if it comes to that, I’ll do it without thinking twice. Being as you’re still young and still ambitious, you might not wanna deal with the consequences.”

  SIXTEEN

  “THIS IS A DEFINITE opportunity for me. I’m not trying to be dramatic here—not saying it’s my big break or anything like that—but the women who run the foundation are all corporate types and they as much as told me I’d get some work out of the deal.” Gadd smiled ruefully. “Assuming I’m … assuming we’re successful.”

  Moodrow nodded thoughtfully. He could remember a time when he was ambitious, when he’d been determined to ride the tail of that particular comet. Fortunately, the price of a ticket had been too high.

  They were on the FDR Drive, crawling north behind a long line of cars and taxis. (This after two hours of begging an amused lieutenant for a copy of Carlo Sappone’s mug shot.) The delay came as no surprise to either of them. As cops, they’d become hardened to frustration, only occasionally blasting holes in the traffic with the lights and the siren. But that didn’t mean the lure of Carlo Sappone wasn’t yanking at their adrenals like a milking machine at the udders of a cow. For Moodrow, the sensations, the elevated heart rate, the flushed face, were very familiar. He handled them by focusing his attention on a Suffolk County street map. Ginny Gadd, on the other hand, though she’d made the patrol officer’s jump from utter boredom to full, heart-pounding terror often enough, had no experience with the steady pace of an investigation. She was sure the prickle at the back of her neck was an allergic reaction, one she could subdue with the edges of her short fingernails.

  “Plus,” Gadd tapped the wheel with the palm of her hand, “I need the exercise.”

  Moodrow continued to flip the pages. Even with the aid of his drugstore reading glasses and a pocket magnifier, he was having trouble finding the location of Carlo Sappone’s home on Winston Drive in the village of Mastic. The problem was that Suffolk County, encompassing the eastern two-thirds of Long Island, was divided into a dozen large townships, each of which contained a number of smaller villages, while Moodrow’s Hagstrom map, a vintage 1980 edition, listed street names under particular townships only.

  “It makes you long for Brooklyn,” he finally said. “Or for a better map.”

  “What does?”

  Moodrow rubbed his eyes. “Long Island, New Jersey, Westchester. It doesn’t matter. Every time I leave New York City, I feel like Dr. Livingstone.” He replaced his glasses, reopened the map. “You grow up in New York?”

  “Ridgewood.”

  “Then you know what I mean.”

  “I know that attitude is why people hate New Yorkers.” Gadd edged the car slightly to the left and peered around the line of traffic. Several hundred yards ahead, a construction worker in a blue hard hat waved a red flag. The motion was oddly graceful, as if the worker was standing in a tank of water. “I think the traffic’s gonna break up in a minute.” When Moo
drow didn’t respond, she added, “That’s in case you have any particular route in mind.”

  “What I have in mind is a village called Mastic. You wouldn’t happen to know where that is?”

  “Afraid not. But if it’s in Suffolk County, doesn’t it have to be on the map?”

  “Yeah, unless it’s in Nassau County. Or fucking Iceland.” He laid the map on his knees. “Snatching Carlo isn’t the only problem. We have to find a place we can take him, a quiet place where he can be convinced that giving up cousin Jilly is in his immediate self-interest. The funny part is that I was out on Long Island last summer—me and my girlfriend, Betty Haluka—and we went to a place that’d be perfect. If I could only find it.”

  Gadd slid by the flagman (who turned out to be a flag woman), merged into the far right lane, then accelerated along with the rest of the traffic.

  “I think what I’ll do,” she announced, “is head east and hope for the best.”

  One rubber duckie!

  Jilly Sappone rolled onto his back and groaned softly. He was dreaming his happiest dream and did not want to awaken. Not before he finished with his wife.

  Twoooooo rubber duckies!

  Jilly’s dream was unfolding in the kitchen of a Lower East Side apartment he’d once shared with his wife and daughter. Little Patricia was nowhere to be seen, though her muffled sobs could definitely be heard. She was in her bedroom, hiding under the covers the way she always did when he went off. That was all right, because he had other things to consider. Ann was on the floor, crouching in a corner beneath the kitchen cabinets. The side of her face was nicely puffed and her nose was bleeding steadily.

  Threeeeee rubber duckies!

  The plan, now that Jilly had his wife totally cowed, was sexual humiliation. And not because Jilly had any particular interest in her body. He might or might not take her, depending on how the mood struck him, but, either way, he’d decided to leave her kneeling on the kitchen table while he watched the baseball game. Leave her kneeling there like a trussed turkey while he watched all nine innings.

  Fooooooooour rubber duckies!

  Slowly, with a deeply felt regret that threatened to explode into instant, uncontrollable rage, Jilly raised himself to a sitting position and rubbed at his eyes. What he saw, when he was awake enough to focus, did little to elevate his mood. Beyond the two silhouettes seated in front of the glowing television, a caped puppet sporting a monocle and a wide mustache counted a flock of rubber ducks floating in a white, claw-foot bathtub.

  Fiiiiiiiiive rubber duckies!

  Jilly tried to say “Jackson-Davis,” but his mouth was so dry his tongue stuck to his palette. He tried again, this time managing a hoarse croak before exhausting his patience.

  Siiiiiiiix rubber duckies!

  That did it, that was the final straw, the one that was going to break the back of a camel named Jackson-Davis Wescott. Jilly threw his legs over the side of the bed, leaped to his feet, and collapsed.

  The television shut off with a soft pop.

  “You might wanna stay off that leg, Jilly. Truth to tell, I don’t believe it’s ready to carry no real weight.”

  The events of the previous night flooded Jilly Sappone’s consciousness with the force of one of his own shitstorms. He groaned softly, looked down at his leg, knew he’d been very, very lucky. The bullet had grazed the outside of his right calf. If it had gone through his foot, he’d be crippled.

  But that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt like hell. Or that he hadn’t left a trail of blood from his daughter’s apartment to the car where Jackson-Davis played patty-cake with Theresa Kalkadonis.

  “Where are we, Jackson?” Try as he might, Jilly couldn’t remember.

  “We’re in a motel, Jilly.”

  “I know that, you fucking jerk.” Lying on the floor was making Jilly nervous. He’d spent most of his life staring down at his enemy-of-the-moment and this new position was thoroughly unfamiliar to him. “Help me up.”

  “Sure, Jilly.”

  Back on his feet again, Jilly fumbled in his pants for the medicine he knew he’d need if he was going to get through the day, then hobbled off to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, as he washed the shaving cream off his face, he remembered that he was in a motel room outside the city of Worcester, Massachusetts, and that he had a long way to go. His leg still hurt, but two bags of dope had driven the pain so far away that it seemed to belong to someone else.

  He limped out of the bathroom and watched Jackson-Davis and the kid spoon cereal into their mouths. The scene struck him as funny. Jackson really liked the little bitch, that was obvious, but, sure as shit, the minute Theresa grew up, Jackson would kill her. He’d kill her because he needed to kill women; she was alive because he didn’t need to kill children. Figure that one out.

  “Jackson?”

  “Yeah, Jilly.”

  “Where’d ya get the cereal?”

  “At the 7-Eleven right down the street.” Jackson-Davis grinned his proudest grin. “Little children need a good breakfast. I seen that on Sesame Street this mornin’.” He pointed at the battered television set. “Right there on that TV.”

  Jilly took a deep breath. “And what’d ya do with the kid while you were gone?” Though he knew better, he was hoping Jackson had locked the brat in the bathroom. Or tied her to the bed. Or beat her into unconsciousness.

  “Why, I took her with me, Jilly. And she was such a good girl.” He rubbed the top of Theresa’s head. “She didn’t make nary a goldarn peep.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that, Jackson, but there’s somethin’ I just gotta say, somethin’ I think you should keep in mind. It goes like this: If you take that little cunt outside again without my permission, I’m gonna get myself a big ol’ butcher knife and cut her into a hundred pieces. Then I’m gonna make you count the pieces. Before I make you eat them.” He gave Jackson-Davis a minute to absorb the information before continuing. “Now pack up your shit and put it in the car. It’s moving day and we got a lot to do.”

  Stanley Moodrow knew exactly what he wanted from his marriage of convenience to Guinevere Gadd. He wanted her to drive the car while he discussed reality with Carlo Sappone. Once this simple objective had been realized, he fully intended to sue for an immediate and unconditional divorce.

  That didn’t mean he disliked her. Or that he resented her intrusion into a case he considered his own. Or even that he didn’t honestly admire her determination. Moodrow had spent virtually all his thirty years in the detectives working by himself. The joys of partnership, as much a part of cop mythology as chasing down the bad guys or hating the politicians, were almost unknown to him.

  Perhaps if he’d had just a bit more experience, Moodrow might have understood the nature of the bonding process a little better. He might have known, for instance, that far from taking place while standing shoulder to shoulder in a tenement hallway, true partnerships are formed in the void created by long hours of boredom, hours that can only be filled with words.

  They were parked in the back of an Exxon station at the intersection of William Floyd Parkway and Winston Drive, staring out across a manicured lawn at the front entrance to a small, split-level house that might have been the clone of a half dozen others lining both sides of the street. It was a perfect spot for a surveillance. Stuffed between a battered delivery truck and a fenderless Volvo station wagon, Moodrow’s dirty black Caprice was about as conspicuous as a cockroach in a welfare hotel. Moodrow had secured the space by flashing his PI license and a twenty-dollar bill at the station’s manager.

  “A divorce thing, you know.” He’d followed the explanation with a shrug and a leer. The station manager had responded with a wink and a snatch at the double sawbuck.

  Gadd had handled the rest of it by calling the house from the Exxon station’s pay phone. She’d gotten as far as “Valente’s Vinyl Siding” before Sappone had cut loose with a string of curses and hung up. That put him in the house, but it didn’t tell them who, if anybody, wa
s in there with him.

  “What we gotta figure,” Moodrow had explained, “is that Carlo, like any other drug dealer, is livin’ in a fortress. Which translates into us not goin’ in after him. We gotta wait for him to come out, no matter how long it takes.”

  Gadd had nodded wisely, then handed Moodrow a napkin. “You’ve got jelly on your chin. And on the tip of your nose.”

  “What, no powdered sugar?”

  “The powdered sugar’s on your lap.”

  The next two hours had passed fairly quickly. They’d stared at the door as if their mere arrival on the scene would draw Sappone into the open. Moodrow, though he knew better, was no more able to control the reaction than his partner of the moment. That was how much he wanted Carlo Sappone.

  “You know,” Gadd finally broke the spell, “considering our boy’s occupation, we have to figure he’s probably not coming out before dark.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s only four o’clock.”

  “So whatta ya think we should do, break for dinner?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a trip to the lady’s room.”

  Moodrow shook his head. “I don’t know, Gadd. That’s not in the true cop tradition. Mostly, we just use an empty coffee container.”

  Gadd responded by opening the door. “If you’re not here when I come out,” she said, “I’ll catch a cab.”

  She returned with two cans of Pepsi and a small bag of potato chips. Moodrow grunted his thanks, popped the tab, grabbed a handful of chips.

  “Now I can add the crumbs to the powdered sugar.” He waved the can in a small circle. “Like a mixed message for my dry cleaner.”

  “Don’t forget to grind it in.”

  Moodrow chewed on the potato chips until they reached the consistency of wet plaster, then washed the lump down with a few ounces of soda. “So, tell me, Gadd, how long were you on the job?”

  Gadd straightened. “Four years. What about you?”

  “Thirty plus. It makes for a nice pension.” He finished the Pepsi, tossed the can into the scavenged Volvo. “So why’d you quit?”