“He called it some foreign word,” Bop-Bop said.
Demond gave him a look. “Dossier. It ain’t foreign, man. It’s American.”
“Ain’t no word I ever used.”
“Damn, Bop-Bop, I know you went to school. Maybe you should have paid attention.” Demond looked back at me. “Terrell had pictures he’d taken on his cell phone while he was working there, notes about things his granddad had told him, this research he’d done on the Internet. He showed us that stuff ’cause he knew I’d be interested, since I watched my baby sister die of cancer.”
“What happened to it?”
“We ain’t got it. That’s for sure.”
“Why did you firebomb the truck?”
“Let’s just say Terrell might have put away a few too many and claimed he was going to take care of things his own damn self. A couple of his buddies might have gone with him, you know, maybe ’cause they thought he wasn’t really going to do anything.” He closed his eyes for a second. “Or maybe they went with him ’cause they were hurting pretty bad and wanted to strike out the same way he did because a little sister had died. Say this little sister was just six years old and crying for her brother to hold her hand but he was too scared because it hurt too damn much to see her that way.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“We all sorry, man.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and then elbowed Bop-Bop’s knee. “Tell him all of it.”
Bop-Bop cleared his throat and fidgeted. He seemed as nervous as an actor on opening night.
“Well. It’s like this.” He halted, coughed into his fist, tried again. “Okay, say these two friends and Bone are . . .”
“Just tell him what happened,” Demond said. “He ain’t a cop no more. Besides, if he says anything, it’s our word against his.”
Bop-Bop thought it over a moment and then shrugged. “We were all wasted, you know, and T-Bone, that’s what we called Terrell ’cause he was always talking about steaks, he kept saying they’d killed Paula, Demond’s little sister, kept saying they poisoned her and wasn’t no one going to do nothing but us. We were going to throw them bottles of gasoline through the front gates at the Park, but on our way, we saw the broken-down truck. T-Bone went crazy, yelling at them that they were child killers and as bad as the Nazis. Then he threw the Molotov and the truck caught on fire.”
“You keep saying ‘them, ’” I said, remembering Don Ellis saying “we broke down.” “Were there two people in the truck?”
“That’s where things get complicated,” Demond said.
“Yeah, there was a guy in the passenger’s seat. He jumped out of the truck with a gun.”
“Maybe he had a gun,” Demond said. “But it don’t matter. He came out of the truck running towards us, and I put three bullets in his chest.”
Bop-Bop glanced around and then leaned a little closer. “Guy’s name was Giacomeli. We ran into him here and there in the kind of business we do.”
“Sam Giacomeli?”
“Called himself Sammy the Saint,” Demond said, snorting his disgust.
“You guys killed Paul Cardo’s nephew,” I said. “And Cardo is . . .”
“He’s with the Montesis,” Bop-Bop said.
“Not just with,” I said.
“We know who he is,” Demond said. “That’s why we sent for you.”
Bop-Bop nodded. “Word on the street is you’re in tight with Montesi.”
“That’s not . . .”
Demond cut me off before I could finish. “Just name us a price, man. I ain’t saying we’ll pay it but it’ll give us a place to start negotiating.”
“You want to hire me?”
“We don’t care what you call it,” Demond said. “We just want you to make it go away.”
My first thought was that this was some kind of joke, but their eyes were desperately earnest. They kept watching me, waiting for me to say I could do something to help, the shaky smiles on their faces caught somewhere between hopeful and damned.
At eleven o’clock the next morning, I sat on a bench outside of the Physical Rehabilitation and Therapy building on the campus of Baptist Memorial Hospital and tried to make sense of it all. After I’d left Drake and Jones, I’d headed for the main branch of the Memphis library. Two hours later, I’d walked back out into the cold night with words like benzene, dioxin, and dichloromethane buzzing in my head. One sentence echoed: twenty-two billion pounds of toxic and hazardous chemicals released each year through illegal disposal. From New Jersey to Alabama, the mob had used its experience in late-night burial to make millions by handling sticky and usually toxic messes for corporate bosses who were more concerned with profit margins than questions. Whether they were in urban industrial wastelands or backwater burgs, the dumpsites had at least two things in common: They were always located on the edge of poor, usually black neighborhoods and they continued to poison generations long after the dumping had been forgotten and both the mob’s and the corporate shareholders’ profits had been spent.
It was nearly eleven-thirty when a part-time home health aide parked Don Ellis’s Dodge minivan in front of the building and scurried around to help him to the front door. When I walked into the second-floor cafeteria, Don was waiting at a table near a row of vending machines, sipping Dr Pepper through a straw. “I’m glad you called. Since you came to the house I ain’t thought about nothing else. You left the picture of that kid at my house.” He shrugged. “I’m a coward these days, Charlie. I lost what little nerve I had.”
I felt sorry for him, but that didn’t stop me from asking questions. I’m still enough of a cop that it rarely does.
“We hauled lots of stuff,” he said. “Don’t ask me what it was because I don’t know other than there were vats and barrels of it, and it came in from everywhere. Even I could tell the logs and inspections were phony, but no one seemed to ask any questions.”
“How long?”
“For me, five years off and on.” He slurped his Dr Pepper, stared at a point somewhere past my head. “They’ve been dumping down there since the early seventies, I think, but that’s just a guess.”
“Why was Giacomeli with you?”
“It was just one of those things. He was at the industrial park on some kind of business. I don’t ask questions. I just drive trucks. Anyways, his Mazda broke down. I offered to take a look, but it was late and he said forget it, he’d just catch a ride back with me. Then the truck started acting up. The last thing I remember him saying was ‘Jesus Christ, two engines in one night, maybe I’m frigging cursed.’ Then those kids came from nowhere and . . .” His voice trailed off, and he chased his straw around with the tip of his tongue, finally gave up and licked his lips instead. “After the fire started, someone must have made a phone call, because when I woke up everyone was saying I was alone. A guy visited me in the ICU, told me that’s the way it happened and I didn’t want to complicate matters by saying any different.”
“Listen, Don,” I said. “I still got a few friends on the force.”
“Forget it,” he said, his voice loud enough to turn heads in our direction. “I’m telling you this ’cause it’s been on my mind a lot and you knew about it anyway, but I’m not talking to anyone else. Ever.”
“Don, something needs to be done.”
“Listen to me, Charlie. The thing I thought about while I was in the hospital was that maybe I had this coming, that maybe I deserved to die. But I got my boys and my ex-wife to think about.” He licked his lips again. “I said what I got to say. And I’m never going to say it again.”
I was furious. I wanted to tell him that he was right: He had become a coward. Maybe I even opened my mouth to do it, but the sight of him struggling to stand, his ruined face straining from the effort, left me wordless and ashamed.
Two hours later, I lay on the asphalt outside my apartment building and stared up at the flushed and bloated face of the man who’d dented the back of my head with a pool cue and cracked a couple o
f my ribs with the toe of his snake-skinned cowboy boot. He looked familiar, but my mind was reeling from shock and pain, and I couldn’t quite get a handle on his name or who he was or why he seemed intent on killing me.
“Look here, Charlie. Moan a lot, thrash around like you’re really hurting and this will go a lot quicker,” he said in a voice that sounded as if he started each day by gargling broken glass. “I tried to beg off this one, but you know how it is.” He stomped my left hand, ground the bones under his heel, grinned down at me. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
If I’d had the strength to do anything except whimper and cringe and try to remember the words of the Lord’s Prayer, I would have told him that I didn’t really give a damn who he was. He could have been Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, or the frigging Easter Bunny, for all I cared. I just didn’t want him to hurt me anymore.
“It’s me, Frankie Giageos,” he said. “I guess I put on a few pounds, huh?”
I blinked cold sweat from my eyes, squinted up at his face, and saw a guy I used to know buried beneath a fresh fifty pounds of fat. Frankie Gee. The last I’d heard, he was in federal prison for conspiracy to commit mail fraud.
“You got out,” I said.
“Couple of months ago.”
Then he kicked me again, left side this time, and I felt a rib crack. Say what you wanted about Frankie Gee, he was a professional. Another kick to the solar plexus and then he took a step back and stood looking down at me, breathing hard, the air whistling through his nose and rattling in his chest.
“I’m getting too old for this crap,” he said, gasping for air.
“Me too,” I said
“That’s pretty good, Charlie.” He wiped his face on his coat sleeve and pulled a pack of Camels from his inside pocket. “I got a message for you.”
I coughed hard, nearly passed out from the pain but felt a little better when I saw that I’d spat out a mouthful of phlegm instead of blood. “Let me guess. Stay away from Parrish Industrial Park.”
He lit a cigarette with a gold Zippo. “You know this stuff already, why am I here?”
He glanced over his shoulder at a silver Lexus parked in a handicapped space. A heavyset man with gray curly hair was sitting behind the wheel, sipping from a Styrofoam cup while he watched us. I recognized him as the man who’d been driving the SUV when Terrell Cheatham was murdered. Seeing him here with Frankie Gee brought his name back to me. Jackie Marconi, a bottom- feeder who’d been doing grunt work for the mob since he was sixteen. It looked as if he’d taken a giant leap up the ladder.
“Jackie Macaroni sits in the car while you’re out . . .”
“ ‘Jackie Macaroni.’ That’s good,” Frankie said. “Since Tony retired and Vinnie’s been so screwed up over his kid, God rest his little soul, things ain’t the way they used to be. Between you and me, they ain’t right at all.”
“Cardo’s calling the shots,” I said.
“And Jackie there is the king turd in the toilet bowl.” He flicked his cigarette away, grunted as he stooped to retrieve the sawed-off pool cue. “Cardo’s serious about this one, Charlie. Next time I’ll have to put a bullet in your head. Only reason you got a pass this time is because even though Tony ain’t the boss no more, his opinion carries weight.” He took another quick glance back at the Lexus. “If he were to make a direct request on your behalf, people would be inclined to listen. You hear what I’m saying?”
“I hear you, Frankie.”
“You listening?”
“I hear you.”
“Same old Charlie R,” he said.
I wasn’t expecting the kick in the crotch. It caught me off guard, sent stars shooting behind my eyes and the bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit I’d gobbled for breakfast spewing onto the pavement. He hadn’t pulled the kick or tried to soften the blow. Like I said, Frankie Gee was a professional.
“When you talk to Tony, give him my best wishes,” he said.
I wiped the vomit from my mouth. “What makes you think I’m going to talk to Tony?”
“You’re stubborn, Charlie. Not stupid.”
When the Lexus pulled out of the lot, I curled up into a ball and lay on the asphalt, taking deep breaths of cold air until my stomach settled. A few curtains ruffled in the apartments across the way, but no one bothered to come out to help or took the trouble to call 911. Five minutes later, I crawled to my car and drove myself to the emergency room.
In a perfect world, his loyalty as an old friend and his commitment to justice, decency, and the American Way would have led Nate Randolph to use his influence to get the department to launch an investigation into illegal dumping and Terrell Cheatham’s murder. But no one seemed particularly interested.
“Call the EPA,” Nate said. “They got a hotline for things like this.”
“That’s all you got to say?”
“No,” he said, nodding at the can of Tecate I’d set on his new coffee table. “Either keep that damn thing in your hand or use a coaster.”
I reached for my beer, winced from the pain in my ribs. I’d gotten lucky. Only three were broken. The rest of me was so sore and swollen that I felt like I’d been locked into a barrel with a rabid wolverine and pitched over Niagara Falls.
“You’ve got nothing and you know it, Charlie,” he said. “The word of a couple of street punks? The truck driver’s going to deny everything.”
“Frankie Gee didn’t pay me a visit just to catch up on old times.”
“Being right don’t change anything.” He finished his beer and set the empty back down on a coaster. “Call the EPA. They go in with a search warrant and find anything out of the ordinary, the Feds will be on Cardo like stink on an outhouse.”
“And by the time they get around to filing charges, all of the important witnesses will have disappeared and I’ll end up in the Mississippi River.”
He gave me a wicked grin. “Not my problem. I’m retired. Remember?”
I’ve seen movies and read books about ordinary people who are willing to disregard their own safety to testify against the mob or reveal the abuse of power by corrupt public officials or blow the whistle on corporate bosses who deny knowledge of the poisons they peddle. These people are real heroes, capable of putting the good of the whole in front of their own self-interest. I’ve always marveled at their courage and appreciated their sacrifice. But I’m not one of them. No one would describe my life as glamorous, and it’s a long way from what I’d imagined it would be when I was a kid, but I was in no hurry to throw it away. Instead of calling the EPA, I called in a favor from an old friend.
The next afternoon I exited the 240 loop at Summer Avenue. At his Uncle Tony’s request, Little Vinnie Montesi had agreed to spare me half an hour of his time. I’d expected him to choose one of the half-dozen Italian restaurants he frequented or, if I were lucky, the warehouse-sized gentleman’s club he owned on Brooks Road. Instead, I’d been summoned to a Waffle House that sat between a run-down motel where half the guests cooked meth in their rooms and a convenience store that seemed to specialize in prepaid cell phones and three-dollar-a-bottle wine.
When I stepped into the restaurant, the hairs tingled on the back of my neck, and my pulse roared in my ears. Three broad-shouldered men hunched over coffee cups at the counter. I didn’t need to see their faces to know they were Montesi’s men, but Vinnie himself was nowhere around. A setup? The thought made my mouth dry and my pulse throb in my neck. It struck me that I was putting a lot of faith in the respect Little Vinnie might have for his uncle. Before his health and his age had led him to a condo in Sarasota, Florida, Fat Tony ran the Mafia in Memphis for twenty-five years. He was greedy, power hungry, ruthless when it came to competition, but he was also a rational man, capable of great loyalty and occasional generosity when it came to his friends.
His nephew wasn’t just Tony’s opposite in physical appearance. Around police stations in Memphis, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Alabama, the years since Tony retired and Vinnie took over were ref
erred to as the Cokehead Reign of Terror. Vicious by nature and possessed by an addict’s megalomania, Little Vinnie Montesi had set about renegotiating all of the old understandings. Black drug dealers, redneck meth cookers, and point men for the Mexican drug cartels had been turning up in vacant lots, abandoned warehouses, and torched cars for the last six years. Now, looking at those three broad backs and all those empty booths, I wondered if I hadn’t made the worst mistake of a life that had been full of them.
Then one of the broad-shouldered men swiveled on his stool to face me, and my pulse and my nerves settled a little. Frankie Gee. I wondered what it said about my life and my chosen profession that seeing the guy who’d broken my ribs, stomped my hands, and nearly kicked my testicles into my sinus cavities was a comfort.
“Last booth,” Frankie Gee said.
The seats were empty, but a waffle swimming in blueberry syrup, a half glass of chocolate milk, and a platter of bacon sat on the table. I slid into the side opposite the food and waited. A couple of minutes later, Vinnie Montesi came from the men’s room, patting his face with a paper towel. In the movies, people are always kissing the rings of Mafia bosses, but he didn’t even offer to shake my hand. Instead, he slid into the booth and gave me a curt nod. I knew he was younger than me by a good seven years, but today he seemed much older. He was ten, maybe fifteen pounds lighter than I remembered, with dark bruises beneath his eyes and fresh patches of gray in his dark brown hair. His movements were wooden and lifeless, a million miles from the jerky, earthquake-beneath-the-skin manner of a coke addict on a binge. He looked as if his grief for his son had scooped out his insides and left a hollow shell.
He picked up the glass of chocolate milk but instead of drinking it, sniffed the rim and then set it back down. “You like milk?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said and then shrugged. “Not really. I pretty much stick with coffee and beer.”
“I can’t stand the stuff,” he said. “Milk, I mean. Chocolate or white, either one. The taste makes me vomit, has since I was a kid.” He picked up the glass again, and his smile was crooked and damned. “Before he got sick, Michael drank it by the gallon. He loved this place. Waffles, bacon, sausage, fried eggs. My wife, she’s a health-food addict, always worrying about nitrates and sodium and on and on, but as long as Mikey was up to it, I’d bring him every Sunday.” He shut his eyes for a second. “I thought I’d never want to step foot in this place again, but now . . . now it’s where I come to feel peaceful. My wife, she goes to church. I come to this dump and order a bunch of food that makes me sick to my stomach.”
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 03/01/11 Page 28
