Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

“I may be able to help you.”

  “I’m all ears,” Bernie said. “Let’s take a walk.”

  Lorraine DiMarco was working at her desk in the law office when the telephone rang. It was her assistant, Victoria Anderson.

  “You have a call from Frank Sullivan.”

  Lorraine had been expecting the call. Her father had phoned and given her a heads-up earlier.

  “Put him through, Vickie.”

  “Lorraine?”

  “Sully, it’s good to hear from you. How have you been?”

  “Fine, thanks. And you?”

  “Very well, also.”

  “Lorraine, I need some legal advice and I would rather speak with you about it in person. If you could find the time.”

  “As a matter of fact, I have a meeting in Bensonhurst at one-thirty and I need to get something to eat before I perish. What about lunch at the Del Rio Diner on Kings Highway at twelve?”

  “That would be terrific, as long as you let me buy.”

  “We can arm wrestle for it.”

  “Fair enough. I appreciate your time.”

  “It’s no problem, Sully. I’ll see you at noon.”

  Mickey, Denise and Claire were running around the back yard, yelling like the wild Indians they were pretending to be.

  Kyle was keeping an eye on his brother and cousins.

  A special assignment delegated to the eight-year-old by his dad.

  “Try being quiet Indians sneaking through the woods,” Kyle said. “The cowboys can hear you from a mile away.”

  Surprisingly the ploy worked and the three younger children turned it down a few decibels. Ripley and Connie watched from the kitchen window.

  “He’s good,” Connie said.

  “He’s turning into a little man right in front of my eyes. But I can’t wait until school starts up again,” Ripley said. “Summer vacation was not designed with parents in mind.”

  “How are you feeling about this afternoon?”

  “Feeling?”

  “Nervous?”

  “I’m just hoping I will fit in.”

  “They’ll be glad to have you, and lucky.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s a big step,” Connie said.

  “One I had to make. The boys have been uprooted and moved around enough already. New York is their home, and mine. I want us all to stay close to friends and family. I want the boys to grow up with your girls and I can’t imagine how I would manage without you and Phil nearby.”

  “We are all happy you decided to stay,” Connie said.

  Ripley suddenly noticed his older son standing at his side.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, Kyle.”

  “Can you teach me how to throw a curve ball?”

  “When the three little Indians go up for a nap, son,” Ripley promised. “Right now I need you to tell them it’s time for lunch.”

  “Should I send a smoke signal?”

  “I think two little words will work faster,” Connie said, laughing.

  “What two little words?” Kyle asked his aunt.

  “Grilled cheese.”

  “He was brought before a judge this morning and he was charged with possession of an unlicensed and unregistered lethal weapon,” Sully said. “He could face a jail sentence.”

  “Was it Judge Epstein?” Lorraine asked.

  They were sitting at a window booth in the Del Rio Diner.

  “Yes,” Sully said, wondering how she had guessed.

  “Norman Epstein is a good and fair judge, but in this case it is not great news for Mr. Marconi.”

  “Why?”

  “With the increased incidence of gun violence in the past decade, often resulting in multiple deaths, a line has been drawn in the sand. Legislative, Executive and Judicial elected and appointed officials have been compelled to make it very clear as to where they stand. On the side of stronger gun control or second amendment rights,” she explained. “Judge Epstein is a zealous advocate for greater gun control and is prone to articulate his point of view by making examples of those who break existing gun laws.”

  “It was his father’s gun,” Sully said. “Robert never considered licenses or registration. If he goes to prison the family will really fall to pieces.”

  “I understand that, and I know Mr. Marconi. I know he is a good man and I care about Maggie and the children, but Epstein can be stubborn and unsympathetic.”

  “What do we do?”

  “You try to assure them it will be alright and collect names of any friends and neighbors who will speak for him. I will try reaching out to some friends of my own, in the prosecutor’s office,” Lorraine said, as the waitress brought their plates. “For the moment, we can eat.”

  Lorraine dug in.

  Sully sat quietly, pushing the food around in his dish.

  “Lorraine?”

  “Yes, Frank?”

  “How do we convince someone things will work out when we are not confident ourselves?”

  “We do it all the time, Sully. Now please stop worrying. And please, stop playing with your food. I don’t like eating alone.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Listen to me, I sound like someone’s mother.”

  “I think you would be a great mother.”

  “That’s a very nice thing to say,” Lorraine replied, and sadly thought of Lou Vota.

  Vincent Salerno stepped off the bus in the Greyhound boarding area on West Harrison Street in Chicago. It was just before three in the afternoon on Thursday. He had been traveling for nearly nineteen hours.

  Carmine Brigati was waiting for him inside the terminal.

  Vincent and Carmine had grown up together since infancy. The Salerno home was next door to the Brigati home on 82nd Street between 3rd and Ridge Avenues in Bay Ridge. The boys had gone to school together, from PS 102 to JHS 259 to Fort Hamilton High School.

  They were as close as brothers.

  After their sophomore year at Fort Hamilton Carmine’s father, who had been a New York City firefighter for fifteen years, took a job with the Chicago Fire Department and moved the family to his wife’s home town.

  A year later, Carmine’s dad was killed in the line of duty when a stairwell collapsed in a burning warehouse.

  Vincent barely made it through high school in Brooklyn. Carmine fared much better in the Windy City, despite the loss of his father. And because he was the son of a firefighter, Carmine Brigati qualified for a Chicago Police and Fire Scholarship, which granted full tuition for four years at the University of Chicago. He studied Computer Sciences.

  Today, Carmine had an entry-level position with a software development company and was taking graduate courses at night and Vincent had less than twenty dollars in cash after leaving a job as an underpaid bus boy in an Italian restaurant. Of course, Vincent did have his green gym bag, which he clutched tightly to his chest when he greeted Carmine.

  “I hope you have a couple of slices from L and B in that thing,” Carmine said.

  “Don’t you have pizza in Chicago?”

  “They call it pizza. You must be starving after that bus ride. I’ll take you out to eat.”

  “After that bus ride I would rather not be around other people. Can we pick up something to go?”

  “Anything you want, Vinnie. I took this afternoon and tomorrow morning off from work. We can pick up food and beer, go to my place and settle in. And later, maybe you will tell me why you finally decided to visit after more than six years and why you were suddenly in such a hurry get here.”

  SIX

  The detectives began drifting into the squad room shortly before four in the afternoon. The door to Samson’s office was shut, the shades drawn. They all had news to report, but decided to hold off until the captain appeared and revealed his surprise.

  “Any ideas?” Richards asked.

  “Not a clue,” said Rosen.

  “Knowing Sam, it must be big,” Senderowitz said. “He’s not in the habit of being myster
ious.”

  “Maybe we are all getting pay raises,” Ivanov said. “What do you think, Murphy?”

  “Pay raises? The captain said he was going to surprise us, not shock us.”

  The door to the captain’s office opened and Samson ushered another man into the squad room.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Murphy said, as the two men approached. “I would never have guessed a visit from the FBI.”

  “I brought you all in to welcome a new member to the Six-one Detectives’ Squad,” Samson said when they reached the group. “George Ripley. Some of you have already met him.”

  “Good to see you,” Murphy said, moving to offer a handshake.

  “Likewise.”

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard your given name.”

  “Please forget you ever heard it,” Ripley said.

  Samson introduced Ripley to Richards and Senderowitz, the only two who had not met the former FBI agent back in February.

  “What made you decide to leave the Bureau and join the proletariat?” Ivanov asked.

  “They were going to transfer me to the West Coast. I didn’t want to drag my boys across the country. They have been moved around enough already,” Ripley said. “On top of that, I was feeling guilty about making so much more money than you guys.”

  “Ripley will be teaming with Bernie,” Samson said. “I filled him in on everything we knew this morning. Now that we are all here, what’s new?”

  “The murder victim in the black Lincoln on McDonald was identified as Paul Gallo,” Marty Richards began. “We found a thirty-eight in the vehicle. Ballistics confirmed it was the gun that killed Edward Cicero. We had the witness on Lake Street identify Gallo from a photo. His face wasn’t in great condition after the gunshot to the head, but the witness felt certain. So I think we can take for granted Gallo was on Lake Street last night, and he appears to have been in possession of one of the guns used in the double homicide.”

  “And we know Gallo will not be doing much explaining,” Murphy said. “What do we know about Gallo?”

  “Not much yet,” Ivanov said.

  “I can tell you about Paulie Bonebreaker,” Senderowitz said.

  “Nice nickname,” Murphy said. “I’ll bet it made his mother proud.”

  “Go ahead, Bernie,” Samson said.

  “Gallo was mob muscle, part-time driver. Last I knew he was working for the Colletti’s, before Tony Territo sent Dominic Colletti and his two sons to Boot Hill.”

  “I never properly thanked Tony for that,” Murphy said.

  “You may get a chance someday,” Samson said. “Anything else, Marina?”

  “Batman pulled the bullet out of Gallo’s head,” Ivanov said. “We received a call from ballistics before we got back here. It matches the bullets that killed Angela Salerno. I agree with Murphy’s implication, I believe the second shooter decided very early on Gallo could be a liability.”

  “If they were doing a job for someone else, I would like to find the second shooter before someone decides he is a potential problem also,” Samson said. “Murphy, Rosen, what did you get from the girl’s parents?”

  “The father was out, making funeral arrangements,” Rosen began. “We talked with her mother at home. She gave us a list of names, Vincent’s close male friends and one girl he had been seeing. We took a few items from his room and sent them over for prints. We split up the list. No one we tracked down had seen or heard from Vincent since Tuesday, except the girlfriend.”

  Murphy’s cell phone rang. He took a quick look at the caller ID.

  “It’s Joan Michaels from CSU, I should take this.”

  “Go ahead,” Samson said, and they all waited while Murphy took the call.

  Ripley had been quietly listening to the others, taking notes occasionally.

  Senderowitz had been watching Ripley, sizing up his new partner.

  “They matched prints from Vincent Salerno’s hair brush to prints on the rear basement door at his sister’s place,” Murphy said.

  “Okay, he may have been there last night, before those kids were killed, or he may have left prints on the door at some other time,” Samson said. “Tell us about the girlfriend.”

  “Alison Davis. Twenty-three years old. Works as a sales girl in a bridal shop a few doors down from the restaurant where Vincent works,” Rosen said. “Vincent spent Tuesday night with her, at the apartment she shares with another girl in Dyker Heights. Alison had the day off yesterday.”

  “Did she have anything relevant to say?” Richards asked.

  “Patience is a virtue, Marty,” Murphy said. “Detective Rosen is getting to it.”

  “She said Vincent got a phone call, late Wednesday morning, which seemed to upset him. He wouldn’t tell her what it was about, but he did ask if she had any cash handy. She had less than fifteen dollars, she gave it to him and he left quickly. Rushed off is how she put it,” Rosen reported. “And that was all she wrote.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can tell you about the phone call,” Senderowitz said.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sandra said. Rosen often suspected Bernie knew everything.

  Ripley remained silent, taking it all in.

  “I spoke with Bobby Hoyle, an assistant manager at the restaurant.”

  “I know that name,” Ivanov said.

  “We all know someone called Bobby Hoyle,” Murphy said.

  “Hoyle told me a very big man in a jogging suit came into the place when they opened yesterday morning, around eleven. He asked if anyone had found a small tape recorder, the kind that uses the mini-cassettes, which may have been accidentally left behind the night before. Hoyle told the guy that, to his knowledge, it wasn’t found. He suggested the man leave a phone number where he could be reached in case it turned up. Hoyle said if it was left at a table it might have been found by the bus boy, who hadn’t mentioned it. He said he would ask Vincent when he came in to work.”

  “He named Vincent?” Ivanov asked.

  “Hoyle said he didn’t think anything of it until the guy asks for Vincent’s address or telephone number. Hoyle tells him he can’t give out that kind of information and the guy gives him a look he described as real scary,” Bernie said. “Then a group of lunch customers walk in and maybe save Hoyle some grief. The guy turns to go, Hoyle asks if he wants to leave a phone number and the guy walks out the door to the street without another peep.”

  “And Bobby called Vincent.”

  They were the first words Ripley had voiced since the reporting began.

  “Bingo.”

  “He’s gone,” Ripley said.

  “Gone?”

  “Gallo and the business suit were looking for Vincent.”

  “Go on,” Samson said.

  “They must have just missed him and when his sister and her boyfriend were no help to them, they became expendable. Vincent found something they want back very badly. Not a twenty-dollar tape recorder, but something on the tape itself. And Vincent knows what he has, and he knows he is being hunted. He asked his girlfriend, his mother and his sister for money. He packed a gym bag full of clothing. Vincent is running, and I don’t think we are going to find him anywhere in the neighborhood,” Ripley said. “In fact, I seriously doubt he’s still in Brooklyn. Or in New York for that matter.”

  “Anyone on the list of friends who lives out-of-town?” Captain Samson asked.

  “No, but we weren’t thinking out-of-town,” Rosen said.

  “We are now. We’ll need to talk to his mother again.”

  “How about if Ripley and I go,” Bernie said. “The poor woman may not care to see Tommy’s mug again so soon. No offense.”

  “None taken,” Murphy said, “and who could blame her. Besides, it will give you and the new guy the opportunity to do a little bonding.”

  “Is that your desk, Murphy?” Ripley asked.

  “Yup, right next to yours.”

  The desk Lou Vota once occupied.

  “I love the phot
ographs.”

  “It’s my renowned wall of fame. Harry Callahan. Frank Pembleton. Andy Sipowitz. John McClane. Martin Riggs. A montage of the toughest fictional cops of all time.”

  “I have a ‘Popeye’ Doyle signed by Gene Hackman at home that would look really good up there.”

  “Ripley, my friend,” Murphy said, “welcome to the Six-one. You are going to fit right in.”

  Lorraine had news for Frank Sullivan she wanted to relate to him in person, so she called her mother.

  “I was thinking I could come over for dinner, and then we can have Sully up for coffee and dessert.”

  “That would be perfect, Lorraine,” Frances said. “Your father and I will be so happy to see you.”

  Six months earlier, just after Lorraine’s surgery and Lou Vota’s death, Salvatore and Frances had insisted she stay with them for a while. And she did, for short time. She knew she had not been seeing them enough since and she was looking forward to one of her mom’s home cooked meals.

  “Can I bring anything?” Lorraine asked.

  “Don’t be silly.”

  And Lorraine loved it when her mother called her silly.

  “How about a really good bottle of Chianti for Dad?”

  “I’m sure your father would like that, Lorraine,” her mother said.

  After sharing four Hackneyburgers and half a twelve-pack of Heileman’s Old Style beer, Vinnie finally let the cat out of the gym bag.

  “What is it?”

  “A tape recorder.”

  “I know it’s a tape recorder, Vinnie, but what is it? You’re holding the thing like it has teeth.”

  And then Vinnie told Carmine what it was.

  “The night before last I was working at the restaurant and after most of the dinner guests were gone I began clearing tables. Plates, glasses, napkins, silverware.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “This dude asks where the toilet is, he hands me a package, goes back to the john and disappears out the back door. It’s a small tape recorder wrapped in a note and a fifty-dollar bill. The note says he’ll be in touch and hook me up with another hundred to get the thing back. Are you with me so far?”