by J. L. Abramo
Steeplechase was the first built of three fantastic amusement parks that made Coney Island a world destination from the late 1890’s through the early decades of the 20th Century. Steeplechase Park was the last resort, outliving its rivals Dreamland and Luna Park, and was in its time often referred to as the Eighth Wonder of the World. The Parachute Jump was moved to the park following its debut at the 1939 World’s Fair, operated as an amusement ride until 1964, was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1977 and is the only remaining artifact of Steeplechase Park.
I put a skip into my step. I was running late, a phone call had caught me heading out the door and had killed twenty minutes. Another sad tale with a happy ending unlikely. Another chance to cover the monthly bills. I had scheduled a meeting for the next afternoon. As I hurried past the Brooklyn Cyclones Ballpark, fighting against a strong cold wind coming off the Atlantic, I could hear the commotion up ahead.
A decent-sized audience had gathered near the Boardwalk at 17th Street. A uniformed officer stood sentry blocking access to the taped-off crime scene. The area around the parachute tower bustled with police activity. I worked my way through the crowd to the patrolman. I recognized Officer Jackson and he knew me. Many of the troops at the 60th Precinct did, which was not always a good thing.
In this case it afforded me a question or two. Actually three.
“What do you know, Jackson?”
“Homicide. And I know I can’t let you in.”
“Victim?”
“Can’t say.”
“Did Ivanov and Falcone catch the case?”
“Yes. But they are very busy.”
“Send him over, Jackson,”
Detective Ivanov stood between me and the tower.
“What brings you out on this chilly evening, Ventura?” she asked when I reached her.
“Stretching my legs. Who’s the victim?”
“Wiseguy named Frank Atanasio, I’m sure he was a playmate of yours at some time in the past.”
“He couldn’t hit a curveball. Any suspects?”
“Just one good one,” she said, pointing toward the ballpark lot.
Two uniformed officers were putting Tony Fazio into a squad car.
“Could Fazio hit a curveball?” Ivanov asked.
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Do you know anything about this?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“We’ll talk when I have a little more time, Ventura. Count on it.”
“Will you call Tony’s mother.”
“Done. Beat it.”
A sit-down with Tony Fazio any time before the following day was not in the cards.
I walked back down 16th Street directly to my Chevrolet Monte Carlo parked behind the pizzeria on Neptune Avenue, slid behind the wheel and headed for my floating home on Sheepshead Bay.
I slept poorly. Again. Sleeping well on a bed that rocked and rolled with the tide was a skill I had not yet mastered. I wondered if I ever would. It had been a losing battle for nearly a month.
I woke up that morning feeling like a participant in a bobbing for apples contest where I was the apple.
Tom Romano had been a close friend who died trying to help me.
Tracking down his murderer and settling the score hadn’t really made me feel much better and didn’t do Tom any good at all. When I discovered that his last will and testament had made me the owner of his houseboat rocking on the water a stone’s throw from Clemente’s Crab House, I was conflicted. Putting someone in harm’s way with fatal consequences did not warrant a reward. On top of that, whenever I had visited Romano at the boat I found the constant movement unnerving. However the rent for my apartment kept going up every year and honoring a friend’s last wish could be thought of as noble.
After months of inner debate, and with my lease about to expire, I decided to make the move.
I was in no rush to get to my office. I knew I would be immediately ambushed. Carmella Fazio running wildly out of the pizzeria, begging me to do something to help her son Tony out of a terrible mess. Tony’s brother and trash removal partner, Richie, demanding I tell him what the fuck happened. I waddled over to houseboat’s small kitchen. As I was attempting to get a pot of coffee going without spilling the beans, Richie Fazio bounded onboard.
“What the fuck happened?” he said.
I told him about his brother’s visit to my office, about Tony’s indiscretion and about the planned meeting with Atanasio at the Parachute Jump.
“The moron was fucking Frankie’s old lady,” Richie roared. “What the hell happened to you—forget the time?”
“A phone call held me up. I was too late.”
“Things might have gone differently if you’d been there.”
“I’m not ready to speculate about alternative scenarios until I speak to your brother.”
“This is going to kill Mom.”
“Your mother is tough, she’ll handle it. When can we talk to Tony?”
“We can see him right after the arraignment. We have forty minutes to get downtown to the Criminal Courthouse and I need to pick up Mom on the way. Do what you need to do and meet us down there. Fucking moron. Do you think he killed Atanasio?”
“He’s your brother. What do you think?”
“No.”
“That’s what I think.”
“How can you sleep on this fucking thing?”
“I can’t. I’ll see you in thirty minutes,” I said, and headed for the shower.
The arraignment was quick. No nonsense. Tony Fazio was charged with murder in the first degree. Bail was denied. Tony would be held at Rikers Island while prosecutors built a case for indictment. Tony would be granted three visitors, one at a time, for only ten minutes each, before being transferred from the courthouse to the prison.
After knocking heads, his mother and his brother reluctantly agreed I could see him first.
I was led into a small room by an armed guard who assured me he would be right outside the door.
Small table, two metal chairs, Tony Fazio.
“I missed you at the beach,” he said in way of greeting.
“I was sidetracked. I’m sorry.”
“Probably lucky you weren’t there. Whoever popped Frankie and set me up might have decided you were in the way. Do you have a smoke?”
“I don’t think it’s allowed in here.”
“What are they going to do, arrest me?”
I handed him my pack of Camels and a book of matches. He lit up, took a deep pull and flicked an ash into an empty paper cup.
“How are they treating you?”
“Fine. I know most of these people by first name, from the prosecutors to the detectives to the uniforms. I doubt any of them really believes I’m guilty. But until they come up with a better suspect, I’m it. Fucked up, right?”
“What happened?”
“No one was there when I arrived. I fired up a cigarette and stood waiting for you and Frankie. Someone grabbed me from behind. Stranglehold. I couldn’t breathe. For a moment I thought Atanasio had guessed who was doing his wife and was trying to choke me to death. I passed out. When I came to I was on the ground. There was a gun in my hand. I struggled to my feet, still holding the gun. Some stupid notion of self-defense I guess. I heard someone yelling Police, drop the weapon so I did and I threw my arms up in the air. I saw Frankie on the ground at the foot of the parachute tower. I was cuffed, read my rights and held at the scene until Ivanov and Falcone arrived. I told my tale. I think they bought it but said they had no choice but to bring me in.”
“What brought the heat there, did someone hear a gunshot?”
“The weapon was silenced, the place was deserted. I suppose it was just a pair of cops walking their beat.”
“Who knew about the meeting?”
“You, me and Atanasio.”
“How about his wife?”
“Not unless Frankie told her, which I consider unlikely.”
“I can’t think of anyone else to look at, unless you have some ideas.”
“None.”
“Do you believe she was fooling around with someone else?”
“Not a flattering thought, but not out of the question.”
“Who’s your lawyer?”
“My Uncle Angelo.”
I was relieved he hadn’t said his cousin Vinny.
“He’s a high powered criminal attorney, but he’s going to need some help,” Tony said. “A good investigator.”
“I’ll watch Atanasio’s wife, and meet with your uncle. My time is up, and your mom is in a yank to get in here.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
I left a few cigarettes and the matches and rose to leave.
I could have told Tony I knew it would work out all right, but I had no fucking idea.
I suppose it would have been the considerate thing to wait for Carmella and Richie to have their turns with Tony and talk with them afterwards—but I knew I would be bombarded with questions I had no answers to so I decided to sneak away and grab breakfast at the New Times Restaurant on Coney Island Avenue near the 61st Precinct. It was a favorite spot of cops and detectives, so I hoped that over a bacon and Swiss omelet I might overhear what the troops were saying about the fate of Frank the Tank. All I picked up were predictions of another miserable season for the Mets. I decided I would call John Sullivan when I reached the office and see if he was in one of his rare moods to bother with me.
I would also be waiting for word from distraught dad James Gleason and for a meeting with the woman whose phone call kept me at the office while Tony Fazio was being strangled and Frankie Atanasio was catching two slugs in the chest.
The woman who had called said she was concerned about a young man who had charmed her teenage daughter. Not the kind of case I normally stood in line for. But work is work and I was interested in meeting her. It was her voice. Deep and alluring with a slight trace of a Southern accent. And she had mentioned the absence of a father figure as one of the reasons she was reaching out to a private investigator to look into the young man’s credentials.
When I reached Coney Island a group of people were gathered outside the pizzeria wondering why the door was locked and Carmella wasn’t inside working her magic. I ignored them, slipped into the building next door, and climbed the stairs to my office on the third floor. I checked for phone messages. Nothing. So I called the 70th Precinct for Detective John Sullivan.
I had known John my entire life. We grew up neighbors on the same street in Gravesend, Brooklyn. Over the years I had tried his friendship more times than I could remember, though I’m sure he could provide a very accurate estimate. Now when I asked for a favor, he either begrudgingly helped or told me to fuck off depending on his disposition at the moment or the toss of a coin.
I was told Detective Sullivan was unavailable which meant he was out of the precinct, away from his desk, or refused to take a call from me. I could have asked when he might be available but it would have been like asking what time the cable guy would arrive. I left a message.
I was looking at a morning of waiting.
I’ve always heard that time passes more quickly when you are busy so I busied myself digging through the pile of unopened mail on my desk searching for the bills that needed to be addressed by the first of the month which was a few days away.
The work I was doing for Tony Fazio would be on the house. His mother was my landlord. Carmella was like an aunt and afforded me the best rental bargain in the city.
The retainer from James Gleason would help, but not quite enough.
I hoped I could get an advance from the worried mom who was scheduled to come in at noon, at least what I needed to keep the heat and the lights working.
Just before noon I straightened up the mess on the desk, slipped into my sport coat and practiced my most winning smile anticipating a new client.
By twenty to one I had decided the odds of her showing up at all were at least twenty-to-one.
My office phone captured the number she had called from the previous evening so I gave it a shot.
“Sonny’s Saloon, this is Ace.”
I knew the place but couldn’t put a face on Ace.
“Ace, I was hoping you could help me.”
“I’m very busy, but I could try. You’ve got a minute.”
“A woman called me from this number last night at nine. I was hoping you could tell me who she was.”
“This is a public phone booth. There are lots of women in and out all the time and the place was jammed last night. You should have asked her name. Time’s up. Have a nice day.”
And that was that.
Before I could begin to consider what it meant the phone rang. I was expecting James Gleason.
To my great surprise it was John Sullivan.
“What do you need?”
“Golly, John, what about How are you, Nick. Margaret sends her best.”
“I know how you are, Nick, and you know my wife is not that fond of you. So, what do you need?”
“What do you have to say about Frank Atanasio’s demise?”
“I say good riddance.”
“Any ideas about who might have wanted him iced?”
“The list is as long as your arm and anyhow I heard they had a suspect in custody.”
“Tony Fazio. Do you really think Tony killed Atanasio?”
“No. Not really.”
“If you hear anything would you let me know?”
“I’m jotting down a reminder as we speak.”
“How about a drink sometime soon?”
“Let me check my calendar and get back to you. Anything else?”
“Guess not.”
“Have a nice day.”
And that was that. And if one more person told me to have a nice day, I was going to throw the telephone against the wall.
It was time to do some detective work.
It was not difficult to discover that, up until the night before, Frank the Tank lived with his wife in a very large house on Shore Road in Bay Ridge overlooking the Narrows and the Verrazano Bridge.
I finished paying whatever bills I could cover and then stopped off for some provisions on the way home to the houseboat where I hoped I could put my feet up and stay out of trouble for a while before changing into my stakeout clothes.
I nestled the Monte Carlo into a parking spot across from the Atanasio hacienda at six equipped with a full pack of Camel straights, a thermos of coffee and a veal parmigiana hero from John’s on Stillwell Avenue.
I sat and watched a stream of people come and go for hours, I guessed to show their respect and console the grieving widow, arriving and departing in more Lincolns and Cadillacs than I had seen at one place in a long time.
By ten I was pretty certain all of the visitors had gone and was ready to call the evening a bust, but instead I lit one more cigarette, poured what was left of the coffee and decided to give it twenty minutes more for good measure.
I was just about to pull away when I heard the garage door opening, throwing light across the front of the house, and watched the red Mercedes come down the long driveway and turn left onto Shore Road. The streetlight revealed a very attractive blonde behind the wheel.
I followed the Mercedes.
The tail ended at a watering hole on 70th Street and 18th Avenue in the heart of Brooklyn’s Little Italy. She double-parked in front. A very big guy who appeared to have been waiting ran over to the car and opened her door. She climbed out and walked into the bar as the ape drove off to find a parking space for the coupe. The neon sign above the entrance read Sonny’s Saloon.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I sat tight for fifteen minutes and then I followed her in.
She was sitting at the bar sipping what looked like an adolescent scotch. I took a stool a few seats down. The lanky cat behind the bar, who I was guessing called himself Ace, said What’s your pleasure? I was tempted to point to Mrs. Atanasio and say I�
�ll have one of those, but I asked for a Peroni instead. Ten minutes later, as Ace inquired if I was ready for another beer, Sonny walked out from somewhere in back and took a seat next to the widow.
I told Ace I would pass on the second brew.
Sonny was Santino Balducci. He was a legendary bad man, famous for being someone to avoid. I’ve always believed that something worth doing is worth doing well, so I decided if I was going to do something stupid, I may as well be really stupid. I dropped a twenty on the bar, invited Ace to keep the change, stood up, walked over to Balducci and his lovely companion and said Excuse me.
They both turned to look at me, Sonny glaring at me like I had two heads.
I addressed the lady.
“I just wanted to express my condolences. I knew Frankie back in high school and I always liked him. He was a great baseball player.”
I was pushing it.
“Thank you. Frank always expressed fond memories of growing up here in Brooklyn. What’s your name?”
“It’s not important,” I said. I turned and walked straight for the door. I thought I could feel Sonny’s eyes burning two little holes in my back.
I had parked on a side street, hoping no one would spot the easily identifiable 1973 Monte Carlo. I hurried to the car, jumped in and sped off. As I drove home I thought about the woman.
And her bewitching voice.
Deep and alluring with a slight trace of a Southern accent.
Sunday morning I went out to Rikers Island to tell Tony Fazio that the pile of shit he was in just got deeper and I had stepped right into it.
“Frankie’s wife,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
