Brooklyn Justice

by J. L. Abramo

  “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your son Carmine, and coming out here was no hardship,” I said.

  Which was my polite way of saying I prefer dealing with the devil I know and will you help me or not?

  “Remind me why I should bother with this.”

  “Because it will help John Sullivan, who I believe you at least respect, and because I treated your son Freddy leniently when he caused me so much grief down in Atlantic City.”

  “I heard you broke Freddy’s jaw.”

  “It was a lucky punch. Can you help us?”

  Pugno looked deeply into my eyes for a moment before answering.

  “I’ll look into it. And I will ask Carmine to do likewise. Are you certain you won’t join me for lunch? The fried calamari is wonderful.”

  “No offense, but I have other business. Thank you.”

  I walked out to my Monte Carlo. I felt confident I could count on Pugno and his son Carmine to do some asking around and keep my name out of it. But I couldn’t count on results, couldn’t put all of my eggs in one basket.

  I drove back to my office in Brooklyn to give my Uncle Sal a call.

  Sal was my father’s younger brother and he possessed many of the same unappealing character traits my old man had perfected in his own time. One of the only things that set the brothers apart was the fact my uncle was still alive. But Sal was a first-rate con man, a marvelous actor and was better at bluffing than anyone I had ever known. And what I needed was a totally convincing performance.

  Whether motivated by his respect for his late brother, affection for me, or the need to have something to do, when I asked Uncle Sal for a favor he never said no.

  I still had to pay him.

  When Sal didn’t answer his phone at home I tried SOS, a private “social club” housed in a storefront on Avenue S.

  “Sons of Sicily, this is Joe.”

  Joe Greco. Joe the Barber. He had cut my hair from the time I was five years old up until the time I began to care about how I looked. He had to be in his late-eighties and he was still butchering the kids in the neighborhood.

  “Buongiorno, Giuseppe. It’s Nicky. Is my uncle there?”

  “We’re in the middle of a pinochle game.”

  “Please tell him it’s important. It will only take a minute.”

  A moment later Sal was on the line.

  “I’m bidding on aces around and a run in spades.”

  I had decided I needed time to work on a script and needed to give John Sullivan time to locate a venue. The next day would have to do.

  “I need some help.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m sure.”

  “Okay.”

  And that was that.

  I called the 70th Precinct and was, for a change, immediately connected to Detective Sullivan.

  “Well?”

  “I’m working on it, John. I’ll run it by you later. First I need an empty apartment preferably above a storefront on a busy avenue, preferably in Bensonhurst, Gravesend or Coney Island, a working phone with an unblocked number, and cable TV would be nice. And I need it by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Don’t count on the television.”

  He signed off without asking questions.

  I was flattered.

  An hour later Carmine Pugno called my office. I was not thrilled about him having my number.

  “My father reached out to me,” he said. “I just wanted you to know I’m on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I have a number of ideas, but thought I would narrow the field before I give you any names. Try to save you some useless running around.”

  “I like that idea. Thank you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “By the way.”

  Here it comes.

  “Yes?”

  “A while back I received a couple of voice recordings relating to Sonny Balducci. I have often wondered if you know anything about it.”

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “I ask because whoever provided the information did me a great service and deserves a show of appreciation.”

  “When someone does another a good turn, he or she is not necessarily looking to be rewarded, or to be widely acknowledged for that matter.”

  The last thing I needed was to earn a place on Carmine Pugno’s buddy list, or for it to be even casually suggested I had anything to do with Sonny Balducci’s demise.

  “I understand,” Carmine said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I didn’t ask him what he thought he understood. I really didn’t want to know. I simply thanked him a third time and we were done for the moment.

  I called Roseanna Napoli’s cell. I felt I could use company that evening. I was hoping she was not booked for her occasional night gig at a privately funded Classical music radio station. During the day she taught American Literature at Brooklyn College. Roseanna was multi-cultural. She was one of those rare humans who could be both intelligent and smart at the same time. I met her at a fundraiser for the station, where for one hundred bucks I earned a dinner, a few glasses of wine, and a reputation for being a supporter of the arts. We immediately hit it off at the event and it stuck.

  “I’m in between classes, make it quick. You’re pretty good at that,” she said with a failed attempt to suppress an audible smile.

  “Cute. Are you spinning Vivaldi tonight?”

  “I’m free as a bird.”

  “Can I come over to your nest?”

  “I’d rather come to your place. I’m really in the mood for linguini with clams and Clemente’s is a lot closer to your crib than mine.”

  “I still have trouble sleeping on the boat.”

  “Who said anything about sleeping?”

  “You are a nasty girl.”

  “Nasty is in the eye of the beholder. How about seven?”

  “Make it half past.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. Have to run.”

  John Sullivan called.

  “I found an unoccupied apartment on Avenue J and East Fifteenth above the bagel shop. A complaint came in from the landlord, the tenant skipped out on his lease last week, four months behind on rent. I took care of a delinquent phone bill and reinstated service. There’s no caller ID block and the address is listed in the reverse directory. It’s a corner apartment on the top floor with windows looking down to both the avenue and Fifteenth Street. The landlord will give us the place for two days. I told him it would help us track down the deadbeat. You can pick up the keys at the shop after eight tomorrow morning. Can I ask you what it’s about?”

  I explained my plan.

  “Sounds iffy.”

  “Uncle Sal can be very convincing.”

  “And Plan B?”

  “Carmine Pugno is doing some research.”

  “You called on Carmine Pugno.”

  “Not exactly, but he’s lending a hand. You weren’t mentioned.”

  “And Plan C?”

  “I don’t have one yet, I’m being optimistic.”

  “Don’t you feel uncomfortable about putting your uncle out there?”

  “I do, but I’ve talked myself into believing they won’t kill the messenger. Did you manage to get a television?”

  “No luck. Does your uncle like to read?”

  “Only the Daily Racing Form.”

  I called Uncle Sal to tell him I would pick him up in the morning and give him the details over breakfast.

  “Are you buying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Steak and eggs at the Benchmark?”

  It was twenty dollar menu item. Uncle Sal had very refined tastes when I could afford it.

  “Sure. Be ready at eight.”

  I moved over to the only fairly comfortable piece of furniture in the office, a small sofa upholstered in dark brown corduroy that my generous landlady had waiting for me there when I moved in. On the blank side of a
Chinese restaurant flyer I began listing the points Sal would need to include in his presentation when the time came. The ringing of the telephone woke me up.

  “Ventura Investigation.”

  “Mr. Ventura?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Benjamin Foster. Tony and Richie Fazio gave me your name. I’d like to talk with you about hiring your services.”

  “What’s it about, Mr. Foster?”

  “I would prefer talking face to face. I could be at your office in twenty minutes.”

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly six.

  I didn’t want to keep Roseanna waiting. I was fairly certain I had used up my tardiness quota for the month.

  “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’s been waiting for two days. I’m feeling anxious.”

  Foster had mentioned the Fazios, and I was not in a position to refuse the possibility of paid employment.

  “Can you be at the Miami Bar on Avenue X and East Twenty-Second Street in fifteen minutes?”

  The place was five minutes from my houseboat.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll meet you out front,” I said. “I’ll be the guy with the question mark floating above his head.”

  Fifteen minutes later I was almost to the entrance when I was stopped by the sound of my name. He was behind the wheel of a beat-up Ford pickup parked in front. He invited me to get in.

  He was wearing leather work boots, jeans and a khaki button down shirt with the name Ben embroidered on the chest pocket.

  The first question I usually ask a prospective client is Why aren’t you talking to the police, but I had a strong suspicion the answer would soon become self-evident.

  “What’s it about?” I asked. Again.

  “If I retain your services, is there investigator-client privilege?”

  “Confidentiality?”

  “Yes.”

  “Up to a point. But I’m not an attorney and I’m not your priest, so if you killed someone you would be better off not telling me about it. How do you know Tony and Richie?”

  “I help out on one of their garbage trucks occasionally, most of the time I work at an auto salvage yard on Shell Road.”

  “And?”

  “Day before yesterday, I had to pull a taillight assembly and lens off a late model Nissan Sentra for a customer. The customer also needed a tire. The car had been front-ended, the rear end was clean. You need to unfasten the unit from inside the trunk to get it out. There were no keys so I had to pop it open with a pry bar. I found a briefcase in the spare tire compartment.”

  “And it was full of cash,” I said facetiously.

  “Just over thirty-five thousand dollars.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. I went through all of the paperwork we had on the vehicle, including a police report, title and a bill of sale from the insurance company. The car had been found crashed into a support column under the Gowanus Expressway two weeks earlier. The owner reported it stolen two nights before. He had left it running when he ran into a newsstand for a pack of cigarettes. He claimed a couple of CDs and a leather sport coat were the only valuables aboard. It was towed to a service station where an insurance adjustor wrote it off as ‘totaled’, the chassis was twisted and the engine crushed. It ultimately landed at the junk yard. There was no mention anywhere of a briefcase.”

  “And you’ve been sitting on it for two days trying to decide whether or not to part with the cash. If you’re looking for advice, Ben, providing good counsel is not my strong point.”

  “I’d like to know where the money came from, I want to employ you to try finding out. If and when you do, I’ll let you judge if I need to give it up. I’ll stand by your decision.”

  “Making moral judgments is not one of my best skills either. And what if I come up empty?”

  “Then I’ll turn it in.”

  “Can you get me a copy of the police report?”

  “I have a copy.”

  He reached into the glove box, found the document, and passed it to me.

  “I’ll need to think about it, I’ll get back to you,” I said. “Meanwhile, we never had this conversation.”

  I climbed out of the pickup, hopped into my Monte Carlo, and rushed home in time for a shower and a drink before Roseanna arrived.

  Jackson Browne observed maybe people only ask you how you’re doing because that’s easier than letting on how little they could care.

  That was not the case with Roseanna Napoli. Roseanna always made me feel certain she was sincerely interested in how my day had gone. And she was always gracious enough to hold on until I had completed my discourse before jumping in.

  So over dinner at Clemente’s I gave her an earful.

  “Is your uncle is up to this?”

  “I think so. I’ll know better after I actually give him the details.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “For instance?”

  “I could play the mysterious witness. I’m a pretty good actor myself.”

  “I’m hoping it doesn’t get that far.”

  “Keep it in mind,” she said. “And how about the other thing?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know, from everything I’ve seen and heard, is that finding a briefcase full of cash has a way of turning unlucky.”

  “You look exhausted. I should let you get some rest.”

  “I decided when I called you that I could last a few hours.”

  “Does that include the hour we sat here?”

  The more time I spent with Roseanna Napoli the more I felt I had perhaps met my match. It was an entertaining and scary thought.

  “I recommend we blow this pop stand and race to the houseboat, we’re wasting precious moments.”

  “Lead the way, Skipper.”

  Early the next morning Roseanna shook me awake. It took some extra effort on her part to help my body distinguish her prodding from the natural movement of the bed, which rocked on the bay like a cork in a goldfish bowl. She reported she had to run home to change costumes and prepare for her lecture at nine. If I recall correctly she was planning to discuss Thomas Wolfe and William Styron, two writers from the Deep South who had spent time living in Brooklyn, emphasizing how their sojourns in Kings County influenced their respective work during those periods. I knew she could pull it off. Roseanna could make Who’s Who in Professional Badminton sound fascinating. My own interest in American writers ran more to who smoked cigarettes and who had spent some time in the slammer.

  Roseanna reminded me I had an appointment with Uncle Sal at eight, gave me a peck on the cheek and was gone.

  Sal managed to polish off a twelve-ounce T-Bone, eggs, home fries, Texas toast and pay attention at the same time.

  He pushed his empty plate aside just as I came to the end of my narrative.

  “So,” my uncle said. “This pimp Vincent Salerno will be able to get the address.”

  “With no trouble, and that’s what we want.”

  “And he’ll send his hired help.”

  “I think he will.”

  “But they won’t move on me.”

  “He’ll have them watch for a while, hope you lead them to the witness.”

  “The imaginary witness. And when he gets tired of waiting?”

  “You don’t have to do this, Uncle Sal.”

  “I’ll do it. I just want to consider all of the possibilities.”

  “Keep your eyes on the street. Two men in a dark blue sedan. Try to get the license plate number. Then call me. John and I will take it from there.”

  “Let’s go. Leave a big tip, the waitress liked my jokes. And we need to pick up a bottle of Dewar’s on the way.”

  I parked in front of the building and ran into the bagel shop to pick up the keys. Sal continued studying the Daily Racing Form in the passenger seat. I had grabbed the thirteen-inch color TV with built in DVD player from the houseboat on my way out, my entire home entertainment center, a
nd a few Martin Scorsese films. I pulled the set from the trunk as Sal climbed out of the Monte Carlo.

  “What do you have there?”

  “A television.”

  “Looks like an alarm clock.”

  “Are you coming?”

  He followed me into the building.

  The entrance to the floors above the shop was just west of the storefront. The door to the street was unlocked and led to a short hall lined with doorbells and mailboxes. One of the two keys unlocked a second door, accessing the stairway. It could also be unlocked from inside each apartment by buzzer. The second key unlocked the apartment on the third floor, where my uncle and I would roll the dice.

  By eleven I was confident Sal had it down. John Sullivan had given me a direct number for Vincent Salerno. I turned on the phone speaker, punched in the number, and handed the receiver to my uncle.

  Sal cut him off in the middle of Hello.

  “Mr. Salerno, I represent a woman whose testimony could hurt you badly in court next week.”

  “Who is this?”

  Sal didn’t miss a beat.

  “She witnessed you entering Monica Ricci’s apartment on the evening of Ms. Ricci’s death. I believe this would contradict a sworn statement claiming you never entered the apartment. She will testify unless she has fifty thousand good reasons to remain silent.”

  Nice touch. Uncle Sal was clearly enjoying himself. After a few seconds Salerno got his tongue untied.

  “It’s bullshit. No one saw me go into the apartment that night because I never went in. It will be her fucking word against mine.”

  “And it will be up to a jury to decide who is being truthful.”

  “I don’t believe you have a witness, and if you do she’s lying to you. One or the other or both of you are trying to shake me down, and it’s a bad idea.”

  “Believe what you will. The offer is on the table. I can arrange for you to meet her if it would help you make up your mind. Today is Friday. The trial begins Monday. We would like an answer by tomorrow evening.”