Brooklyn Justice

by J. L. Abramo

  “Or else?”

  “Or else I’ll tell my mother.”

  I had no problem complying.

  Twenty minutes later Angela was back at bedside and I had told her about my talk with John Sullivan.

  “And this guy is your friend?”

  “A good friend but not a happy one. John seems convinced I’ve been less than forthcoming. It would be more like Sullivan to have me extracted by helicopter to Coney Island Hospital, but he’s giving me time and I’m not sure why. In any event, I have two days and I need answers. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Have I ever said no?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t wait until it’s my turn to ask a favor. What can I do?”

  “Do you have any cousins at the Taj Mahal, like in security?”

  “I have friends, what are you after?”

  “There’s a tape of the Lincoln shooting I would like to look at.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

  “Thanks. Did you ever hear back from Freddy?”

  “Sort of. This arrived in my office,” she said, reaching into her bag. She handed me an envelope with a Taj Mahal return address. “Three hundred in cash, I guess Freddy doesn’t need my services any longer. And I almost forgot, there’s this.”

  She handed me a cell phone.

  “When I picked up your car the hotel manager said they found it in your room, asked if it was yours, I said yes. Are you comparing phone plans?”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “I know it’s not yours. It belonged to Vincent Corelli.”

  “How?”

  “Charlie Mungo?”

  I remembered Mungo reaching into his pocket before he was shot.

  “Wow.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “I hate to ask.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Can you try to identify all of the calls he made and received in the past week or so?”

  “Sure, at least any that weren’t deleted. Get any reading done?”

  “Yes. You’re a Jersey Girl.”

  “Full-blooded. The doctor has agreed to release you to my care. They’ll have the paperwork done by three tomorrow. I’ll pick you up,” she said, rising to leave.

  “Can you stay for a while?”

  “You gave me work to do and I can’t do it sitting here. I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll blow this pop stand.”

  She collected her grandmother’s plates, Corelli’s cell phone and the envelope.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  She gave me a quick peck on the lips that put the perfect Ziti Siciliana to shame.

  “I’ll think of something,” she said, and glided out of the hospital room.

  20

  I woke up at four in the morning and couldn’t get back to sleep. I had nothing to look forward to but eleven hours of impatient waiting. I tried thinking of it as R and R, but there was little rest and less recreation. I tried reading, tried a spin around the ward, and by seven I finally begged Theresa to give me something to knock me out. What she served up was very quick and extremely effective.

  By two forty-five I had signed all of the necessary release forms and disclaimers, changed into street clothes, and was being coaxed into a wheel chair by Nurse Theresa.

  “Is this necessary?”

  “Hospital policy. My cousin is bringing the car up front.”

  As she pushed me through the exit door I saw Angela waiting in the red Mustang.

  Top down.

  “Treat her nice,” Theresa said.

  “Or else?”

  “Or else I’ll tell her father.”

  “No threats necessary.”

  “Good,” she said. She rolled me up to the car and I climbed in.

  “Sit back and enjoy the ride,” Angela said before I could get a word in. “I’ll give you the lowdown when we get to the house.”

  It was twenty-five miles to Ocean City—through Ventnor, Margate (the home of Kitty the Widow and Lucy the Elephant) and across the JFK Memorial and Ocean Drive bridges.

  Travelling south, the Atlantic Ocean was always to our left. Beautiful, magnificent and mysterious. It was easy to get lost in its vastness, but I often found myself distracted by the grace and confidence of the driver.

  Angela pulled the convertible into the driveway beside my Monte Carlo.

  “Here we are,” she said. “My bungalow.”

  It was a small one story, covered in wood siding painted bright white, adorned with green slatted shutters, with a view of the sea. Despite its modest size, its location marked it as a pricey piece of real estate.

  “Lovely,” I said, not remembering the last time I had used that word.

  “My grandfather built it as a vacation home.”

  “Did your grandfather work the quarries?”

  “I see you did your homework. My great grandfather came from Calabria with a wave of immigrants who traded the granite quarries for brownstone quarries. Most of the brownstone in New York City came from Nutley. My grandfather didn’t favor that sort of labor. He opened a Salumeria in Avondale.”

  “Is it still in the family?”

  “He passed it on to his son, Vito, Theresa’s father. He gave this place to my dad, Dominic. Dom had other ambitions. He’s a homicide detective in the Newark Police Department. If you ever get to meet him, you can expect a background check. Let’s go in.”

  She led me back to the kitchen.

  “I made up the guest room. You’ll find all your things there. Your gun is in the top dresser drawer.”

  “I could get a hotel.”

  “You were released to my care, I’m responsible, and I don’t think you should be driving. Do you want to argue about it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I can wait on food, I wouldn’t mind a drink.”

  “Scotch? Rocks?”

  “Sure.”

  She poured Glenfiddich over ice for me and a tall glass of handmade lemonade for herself.

  “I found records of three calls on Vincent Corelli’s cell phone, all from this past Wednesday. All earlier call records were permanently deleted, which takes two steps and indicates commitment. The first, just before noon, was a call to his ex-wife.”

  “She took that call at my office in Brooklyn.”

  “I couldn’t identify the second outgoing call, but he made it immediately after he called her.”

  “Mungo told me Corelli called him. And the third?”

  “The third was an incoming call, from this number. I found this on the seat of your car,” she said, handing it to me.

  A phone number scribbled on a Howard Johnson cocktail napkin.

  “What time was that call made?”

  “Around six Wednesday evening.”

  “Corelli was already dead. Apparently Freddy didn’t know it yet. But it does tell us Freddy had something to talk with Corelli about.”

  “Bring your drink,” Angela said. “It’s show time.”

  She led me into the living room, turned on the television, and fed a disc into the DVD player.

  Surveillance footage of the table where I sat beside Theodore Lincoln when he was shot to death six days before. The camera filmed its subjects from above—taking in the playing area, the players and dealer, and anyone within three feet of the table. It ran for about two minutes, with the shooting at midpoint.

  “Can you go back to just before the gunshot and freeze it just after.”

  “What do you see,” Angela asked as I stared at the still frame.

  “It’s what I don’t see. Everyone in the game reacted to the gunshot, but no one looked up at the assailant—including Freddy Fingers who immediately turns away and looks ready to jump under the table. What I don’t see is how Freddy could have identified Mungo without looking at the shooter. Can you play it again. This time focus on Mrs. Lincoln, stop it again at the gunshot.”

  Angela
replayed it.

  “It looks like she spotted him before he reached the table, and she’s looking right at him when he fires,” Angela said.

  “She saw Mungo coming, and when he shot her husband she didn’t flinch. Do you think she was expecting him?”

  “It happened so fast,” Angela suggested. “She could have failed to react because she was in shock.”

  “Maybe.”

  “A fat cat is murdered, a young wife who stands to inherit a bundle of money is always the first person of interest, and yet she is passed over as a suspect by investigators. There must be a reason, and there’s nothing here to hang her.”

  “Devil’s advocate?”

  “I’m just saying. Personally it wouldn’t surprise me if she was up to her neck in it, but with Mungo and Corelli both gone I don’t see how we’ll ever know. You might want to forget the whole thing and see to it that everyone who may wish you harm is confident you’re out of the game.”

  “Or I could take another go at Freddy Fingers.”

  “Sure,” Angela said. “Why not. Ready for some food?”

  “Why not.”

  My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID.

  “My friend Tom Romano from Brooklyn,” I said.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen slaving over the stove.”

  “Tom.”

  “Nick, I’m here at the hospital in Pleasantville. Where are you?”

  “Ocean City.”

  “I have news for you.”

  “You didn’t need to come all the way down here. A phone call would have done the trick.”

  “I actually came down for Michael Bolton at Harrah’s, thought I’d catch you before the show.”

  It still hurt when I laughed.

  “I have an extra ticket,” Tom added.

  “You’re killing me. Hold on a minute.”

  I walked back to the kitchen still laughing.

  “It’s my grandmother’s apron,” Angela said. “Control the scathing editorials.”

  I concluded Tom and Angela were going to get along fine.

  “Can I invite a guest to dinner?”

  “As many as you like.”

  I gave Tom directions to the house.

  Angela had this thing about not talking business until after the meal so we didn’t.

  I insisted on doing the dinner dishes. Angela put up a pot of coffee and entertained us with stories of her summers there as a kid, when the tribe of DiMarco offspring ruled the beach—the last of the working class families that had originally settled the area. The small house sat on a large piece of property. The closest houses were not near at all, and were all four times as large.

  “My grandfather made us all promise we would keep this place in the family. Developers have been chomping at the bit to get hands on this land for decades—tear down the bungalow and put up an eyesore with half a dozen two million dollar condominiums. This is one of the rare weekends when there are no visitors down from Newark and Nutley. This coming weekend, for the annual Labor Day family reunion, there will be so many DiMarcos, Caravellas, Martuccis and Falcos here it will look like the Feast of San Gennaro and the Columbus Day parade rolled into one. Why don’t you gentlemen retire to the living room, if Tom has to wait any longer to tell you what he came down here to tell you he’s going to burst. I’ll bring the coffee in.”

  When we were settled in Tom began.

  “I couldn’t tie Vinnie Corelli to Freddy Pugno, but I found someone who saw Corelli having dinner with Pugno Senior at New Corners in Brooklyn two weeks ago.”

  “How does the old man fit in?”

  “I’m not sure, but I did some more digging. Pugno Senior was tried for a felony homicide five years ago. He beat the rap. New evidence suggests jury tampering, involving his attorney at the time. It’s possible the investigators were trying to turn his ex-lawyer, cut a deal.”

  “And what does that have to do with Vinnie Corelli and Pugno breaking bread in Brooklyn?”

  “Maybe Vinnie came to New York to offer the old man some valuable information.”

  “And how would Corelli know anything about anything?” Angela asked.

  “His ex-wife?”

  “I’m not following,” I said.

  “Pugno’s lawyer in the murder case was Theodore Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln’s wife claimed she hadn’t spoken with Corelli in months,” I said.

  “She hasn’t been exactly reliable,” Tom said.

  “I need a drink.”

  “It’s a beautiful night, let’s sit out on the front porch—I’ll bring the scotch,” Angela said.

  We sat on the porch, faintly moonlit, putting a good dent into the bottle.

  Angela finally broke the silence.

  “Are you going to let it go?”

  “It wasn’t my idea to get dragged into this mess in the first place.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Someone took a shot at me.”

  “I could be mistaken,” she said. “Maybe Mungo was the sole target and you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I have that ability down to a science.”

  “I need to get going,” Tom said. “Let me know if I can help.”

  “You’re welcome to stay,” Angela said. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “I need to get back to New York. I have a very early appointment tomorrow.”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “Jesus, I can’t remember.”

  “Tom.”

  “I’m joking. It’s right up the next street.”

  “Can you stick around until I get back? Ten, fifteen minutes?” I said.

  “Sure, where are you going?”

  “Down to the water, it always helps me think.”

  I stood at the waterline staring out across the ocean, in a trance.

  I eventually decided I didn’t give a fuck about what any of these little people did with each other or to each other as long as they kept me out of it.

  Then the shooting began. Rapid, automatic fire, at least twenty rounds.

  I ran back toward the house, I saw him get into the car and roar off. There was nothing I could do, but I saw his face clearly in the moonlight and I knew the face.

  I ran to the porch, they were both dead.

  I ran to the guest room and grabbed my travel bag, my car keys and the Magnum.

  As I drove away from the house I could hear the police siren.

  I don’t remember driving the one hundred thirty miles.

  Shock, booze, rage.

  When I came off the Verrazano Bridge into Brooklyn it was well after midnight.

  FIFTH MOVEMENT

  21

  The house was a large two story at East 23rd Street off Avenue I near Brooklyn College. The street was deserted. I walked up the front steps and rang the doorbell. Detective John Sullivan opened the door a few minutes later.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I need your help.”

  “It couldn’t wait?”

  “It can’t wait.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m far from okay. Can I come in?”

  John let me in. His wife was coming down from the floor above.

  “Is everything all right, Johnny?”

  “Just an old friend who seems to have lost track of time. Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

  “Hello, Nick.”

  “Hello, Margaret. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Try not to wake the children,” she said, and walked back up.

  Sullivan led me into the living room.

  “What’s this about?”

  I told him most of it.

  “Why?”

  “Someone must think Mungo told me something I shouldn’t know.”

  “And you couldn’t identify the shooter?”

  “Male. Dark car. Raced off b
efore I made it back to the house. He didn’t know he missed me.”

  “And you didn’t call it in to the Ocean City police?”

  “There was nothing I could tell them.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I need to talk to Ferdinand Pugno.”

  “What makes you think I can get you an audience with Pugno?”

  “I’m hoping you can, John, there is no one else I can ask. And it has to be right away, before anyone else knows I’m still alive.”

  “I don’t know what I can do or what I want to do. Why didn’t you give me any of this when we spoke before?”

  “You were after whoever iced Corelli. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. I’m hoping Pugno can give me an idea—give us an idea.”

  “I’ll sleep on it, Nick. You’ll stay here tonight and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “I don’t want to impose on you and Margaret.”

  “Too late. You’ll stay here.”

  “Am I under house arrest?”

  “Was Tom Romano a very good friend?” John asked.

  “Yes. And I believe Angela was going to be a very good friend.”

  “In that case I want to make sure you don’t run off and let your emotions get the best of you.”

  “I have no feelings right now, John. I’m numb. I just want to get to the bottom of it before the emotion kicks in.”

  Sullivan walked me out to the Monte Carlo for my travel bag and showed me to the guest room. I went out like a light.

  I dreamed I was at the poker table. I had two queens in my hand and there was a third face up on the felt. I picked up my last down card. It should have been the queen of spades, but instead it was Angela DiMarco. Both eyes closed.

  I woke abruptly just as John walked into the room.

  “You missed getting the kids off to school. You can use the shower down the hall,” he said, laying two towels on a chair. “Then come down for breakfast. You have an appointment with Pugno in Queens at eleven. Don’t ask how.”

  Queens. Perfect.