Except in the romance department. She was still batting zero in that category.
Marvelli picked up his coffee cup and took a sip as he sat on top of his desk, feet on the chair. “So how was your weekend, Loretta?” he asked.
Crummy, she thought, but she held her tongue. Think positive, she reminded herself.
“Not bad,” she said, but her voice gave her away. It always did. Sarcasm was encoded on her DNA.
“You do anything exciting?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I cleaned my gun.”
He nodded as he took another sip. “That’s good.”
She wondered if he was even listening.
“You do anything exciting this weekend?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “I went to my daughter’s lacrosse game on Saturday. Afterward the parents took the whole team out for pizza. On Sunday I stayed home and worked on our case against the hospital, sorting through all the paperwork and going through Rene’s diary. She kept incredibly detailed notes about her treatment.”
“I’ll bet she did,” Loretta said. She wanted to leave. She did not want to talk about his dead wife.
“Her notes are actually pretty interesting. If you’d like to read them sometime, I’ll bring you some copies I’ve made. Not the personal stuff, just the parts about being sick.”
Loretta forced a smile. “That’s okay.”
She wanted to grab him around the neck the way Rashid had and shake some sense into him. Rene is dead! she wanted to yell in his ear. You’re not! Stop beating yourself up. Get on with it.
A long high bluesy note wafted out the hallway and into the bull pen. It sounded like Louis Armstrong playing an ensign’s whistle.
Loretta rolled her eyes toward Marvelli. “I think we’re wanted.”
They got up and headed down the hallway to the first office on the right. Julius Monroe, the head of the Jump Squad, was sitting on top of his desk in his stocking feet with his legs crossed in the lotus position as he blew into a silver flute. What he was playing sounded like a jazz raga to Loretta, but she’d learned not to comment on the maestro’s music because her observations were usually wrong and Julius wasn’t shy about telling her so—at length.
Julius’s eyes were closed in bliss as he played. He was wearing burgundy-colored pants, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a wide pink-and-black floral-print tie that lapped over his Buddha belly like a Saint Bernard’s tongue. A white knit skullcap covered the top of his balding head, and his gray goatee quivered like a Geiger-counter needle whenever he held a note.
The small office was jammed with waist-high stacks of case files taking up most of the floor space. The walls were covered with posters of Julius’s heroes, the masters of jazz—Miles, Dizzy, Monk, Trane, Bird, Mingus, and his all-time personal favorite and musical guru, Rahsaan Roland Kirk, the man who could play two saxophones at once and could also play a wooden flute through his nose as he hummed along. Julius had demonstrated this nasal technique for Loretta several times. Each time she’d lied and told him she was overwhelmed.
Marvelli plopped down into one of the imitation leather chairs opposite the desk. “What’s up, Julius?”
Monroe ignored him and kept playing.
Loretta took the chair next to Marvelli. “I think we have to wait until the snake comes out of the basket,” she muttered.
Monroe abruptly stopped playing, opened one eye, and cocked an eyebrow at Loretta. “I heard that, Mizz K.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Mizz?. I took it as a compliment no matter how you meant it. Any man who can use his music to keep the beast from biting is a true genius. If Adam had possessed such talent, he might have been able to turn the tables and seduce the serpent. He might have turned its Godzilla gaze into pea green goo and undermined the evil design. If ol’ Adam had had the chops, we’d all be sitting pretty right now. Paradise on ice.”
“What about Eve?” Loretta asked sharply. “Couldn’t she have gotten the gig?”
“Possibly, yes. Yes, possibly.” He rolled his eyes and flashed a sly grin. “But you just can’t be sure about a woman’s embouchure.” Julius’s eyes became slits as he howled at his own pun.
Loretta made a face. “Why do I always feel like I’m talking to the Cat in the Hat whenever I talk to you?” she asked.
Marvelli looked puzzled. “I don’t get it,” he said. “What’s embouchure? Something to eat?”
“Embouchure is how the muscles of the mouth are held to play a wind instrument,” Julius said. “Horn players, flute players, clarinet players—we all have to work on our embouchure.”
Marvelli shrugged. “I still don’t get it.”
Julius picked up a thick file folder from his desk and tossed it into Marvelli’s lap. “You may not get it, O marvelous one, but now you got it.” He waved his flute over Marvelli and Loretta as if it were a magic wand. “I now pronounce you cowboy and cowgirl,” he said. “Bring ’im back alive, cowpeople.”
Marvelli opened the folder and winced as soon as he glanced at it. “Oh, man,” he groaned. “Why me?”
“Why you!” Julius said, his eyes popping open. “I’m doing you a favor giving you this. I picked it out special for you as soon as it came in.”
“Thanks a lot,” Marvelli grumbled.
Loretta leaned over to see whose file it was, but she couldn’t make out the name. “Who is it?” she asked.
Marvelli exhaled in disgust. “Sammy friggin’ Teitelbaum.”
The name meant nothing to her. “A repeat jumper?” she asked.
Marvelli nodded wearily. “Mob associate, small-time schnook, and supposed mad-genius hit man.”
“That ain’t all,” Monroe said, grinning like a quarter moon.
Loretta looked from Monroe to Marvelli, waiting to be enlightened. “Well? What about this guy? Tell me.”
Marvelli shook his head and sighed. “On top of everything else, Sammy Teitelbaum is my brother-in-law.”
“Oh …” Loretta puckered her lips and nodded.
2
Loretta drove the white Bureau of Parole Chevy Cavalier into a muddy lot that looked like a World War I battlefield. It was crisscrossed with deep ruts, and trailer-truck tracks were flooded with oily brown water. A dirty gray cinder-block garage loomed at the far end of the mud field like a prehistoric creature that had just crawled out of the primordial ooze and paused to collect its preevolutionary thoughts. A peeling sign over the bay doors said Tino’s Truck Repairs. The Chevy jolted and dipped as Loretta did her best to keep from breaking an axle, but there were so many potholes and craters it was useless to try to drive around them, so she just drove very slowly and took them as softly as she could.
She glanced over at Marvelli, who was sitting on the passenger side. He didn’t look happy.
“So your brother-in-law’s a hit man,” she said, trying to make conversation. “That’s pretty ironic.”
Marvelli kept his eyes on the garage up ahead. “There’s nothing ironic about it. Sammy’s an asshole. Brother-in-laws usually are, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but not everybody’s brother-in-law is a hit man.” Loretta winced as the car hit bottom, rattling the muffler. “Damn,” she hissed.
“Sammy Teitelbaum is not a hit man,” Marvelli said emphatically. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because that’s what it says in Sammy’s file.”
“That’s just a rumor. He was never convicted of murder.”
“No, but he was convicted for assault. He beat the living crap out of some kid who’d gone to bed with a made guy’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Six weeks later the kid’s body was found floating in the river near the Statue of Liberty.”
“Sammy wasn’t charged with that murder. Only the assault.”
A hard thunk rattled the car as they hit bottom again. Loretta cursed under her breath.
Marvelli was staring out the window, shaking his head. “He’s a real piece of work, my brother-in-law. The guy’
s got a Ph.D. in English lit. Can you believe that?”
“What’d he do his dissertation on? The Godfather?” Loretta kept her eyes on the potholes.
“Sammy sort of even looks like an English teacher, the little dweeb, which is what he should be. But instead he wants to be a tough guy. Teaching is boring, he told me one time. He wants to live life, he said, not read about it.”
“So he hangs out with mob guys to get his kicks?” Loretta asked.
“I don’t think he actually hangs with them. It’s more like he’s their pet, I think. Once you meet him, you’ll see what I mean. He’s definitely not the wiseguy type.”
“He did do some time, though. That must’ve toughened him up some.”
Marvelli shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it. Sammy lives in his own world. He probably thought prison was a wonderful ‘life experience.’”
Loretta laughed. “It’s an experience, all right. I don’t know about the wonderful part, though.”
Marvelli shook his head. “You don’t know Sammy. He’s crazy.”
“So why do you think he stopped reporting to his PO? Is he that crazy?”
Marvelli shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he’s trying to impress someone, prove that he’s a real hard guy. Maybe he’s just trying to be a pain in the butt.”
Loretta steered around one of the smaller craters. “Tell me again. How’s he related to you?”
“He’s married to Rene’s kid sister Jennifer, but they’re separated now.”
Rene again, Loretta thought. She kept her mouth shut and prayed this didn’t get him started on that topic.
As they approached the garage, the car rumbled over a series of deep ruts, the tires bouncing like basketballs. Loretta hit the brakes to slow down, but when she pressed the accelerator again, the tires started to spin in the mud. She gradually gave it some gas, then a little more and a little more until she was revving the engine, but all that did was kick up a muddy cascade in her rearview mirror. Loretta peered out at the expanse of mud outside her door and made a face. She tried giving it gas again, then abruptly let up on the pedal, repeatedly giving it gas and letting up, trying to rock the car out of the mud, but all that did was dig her in deeper. “Dammit,” she muttered.
Marvelli looked at her shoes, then at his. She was wearing black suede flats; he was wearing black leather ankle boots. He let out a sigh of resignation. “I’ll go in and talk to Tino. Maybe he’ll tow us out.”
“Why would he do that?” Loretta said. “We came here to bust his chops.”
“Yeah, but Tino’s a decent guy. Just as long as you don’t owe him money.”
Marvelli opened the car door and hesitated before he finally extended his foot and eased himself out. Loretta heard the squoosh. She leaned over to see Marvelli up to the hem of his pants in mud. “Sit tight,” he said with a frown. “I’ll be back.”
He shut the door and slogged toward the garage, holding his arms out for balance, having to yank each foot out of the muck before he could take another step. By the time he made it to the front door, he was muddy up to his knees.
He pounded on the door with his fist and let himself in. Knocking was just a formality. He knew that Tino wouldn’t answer it.
Marvelli stomped his feet to shake off the mud as he walked between two truck tractors, both with their hoods open. They were both dusty relics that had been there since 1985 when Tino had stopped fixing trucks and started putting all of his efforts into illegal sports betting. They were just there for show.
“Tino!” Marvelli shouted as he gazed up at the array of spare parts hanging from the water-stained ceiling—dry-rotted fan belts, rusty muffler pipes, grimy air filters. “Tino!” he shouted again. “It’s Frank Marvelli from the Bureau of Parole.”
A muffled voice came from the back of the cavernous space. “Be right with you.”
Marvelli headed back toward the office, a partitioned space set off in a corner. The office had picture windows that looked out on the garage, but they were covered with newspapers so no one could look in. Marvelli knocked twice on the door and opened it.
A little man with a potbelly and bushy eyebrows was sitting at a computer, his hands poised over the keyboard, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses perched on top of his hairless head. He was wearing slate blue mechanic coveralls, but they were immaculate.
“I said I’d be right with you,” the man said hotly, glaring at Marvelli. “What is it with you, Marvelli? You some kind of premature ejaculator?” The man glanced at the computer screen, which suddenly went blank. After that he seemed to relax.
Marvelli coughed up a wry laugh. “Downloading sure beats having to burn slips, huh, Tino?”
The little man scowled. “What’re you talking about, Marvelli? I’m doing my books here.”
“You mean, making book. In the old days guys like you used to eat the betting slips when the cops came knocking. Then came quick-burn paper. But now computers make it easy for you. Where do you download to? Canada? Mexico? Bermuda?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Marvelli.” Tino glanced at the screen again to make sure it was still blank.
Marvelli shrugged. “I don’t care about the betting, Tino. I’m not a cop. I just came to ask you a few questions.”
Tino contorted his bushy brows until they looked like a single crooked caterpillar. “Questions about what?”
“Sammy Teitelbaum.”
“Who?”
Marvelli’s smile faded. “My brother-in-law, Sammy. The Sammy who used to hang out here with your two citrull’ nephews, Jerry and Larry. You know, the dum-dum twins who raped that poor retarded girl when they were in high school—”
“Now, wait a minute. They never raped anyone. They were acquitted on those charges.”
Marvelli ignored him. “I’m looking for the Sammy Teitelbaum who used to do collections for you before he went away on an assault conviction. You know who I’m talking about now?”
Tino looked puzzled. “No. Not really.”
Marvelli pulled up a chair and sat down backward on it. He stared Tino in the eye. “Just because I’m not a cop, that doesn’t mean I don’t talk to cops, Tino. You want your balls busted? I can have that arranged very easily.”
“Come on, Marvelli—”
“The alternative is you can stop being a funny guy and just give me a few straight answers. It’s your choice.”
Tino sat back in his seat and rubbed the corners of his mouth. He looked at Marvelli, then looked at the computer. Marvelli knew what he was thinking. He was thinking how much of a hassle it would be if he got busted. A bookmaking charge he could beat—that wasn’t the problem. What would hurt would be the cops confiscating his computer and bringing him downtown, maybe holding him overnight. The computer could always be replaced. It was the loss of business until he could get himself set up again that worried Tino.
Tino was a made man, and he had a reputation as a real moneymaker in the Luccarelli family. Marvelli’s guess was that he was clearing about fifteen, twenty grand a day here, and better than half of that went to the family. But the big problem with being a moneymaker was that the bosses came to depend on your profits. It was their cash flow, and they tended not to be very sympathetic when a moneymaker had to take a few unexpected “sick days.” The irony of mob logic was that a moneymaker who stops making money for whatever reason usually ends up getting whacked. Big dogs don’t like anybody messing with their bowls.
“So what’s it gonna be, Tino?” Marvelli said. “Shall we have a friendly exchange of ideas, or do I have to drop a dime on you? Enlighten me, Tino.”
Tino’s mouth was as crooked as his eyebrows, but he seemed resigned. “What exactly do you want to know, Marvelli?”
“Where’s Sammy?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Come on, Tino. Don’t get cute.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Marvelli. I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since he went away.”
“He got out two months ago, Tino. You haven’t seen him since then?”
Tino shook his head. “Nope.”
“What have you heard about him?”
Tino furrowed his brow and shrugged as if he were insulted by the question. “What do I ever hear? Nothing. That’s what I hear. I never leave this place. I’m too busy.”
Marvelli just stared at him. “You’re holding out on me, Tino. Sammy used to practically live here.”
“That was a long time ago, Marvelli. I’m telling you. If I knew something, I’d tell you. Believe me.”
Marvelli extended his leg and stared at the toe of his muddy boot as he rolled it slowly on his heel. “Cross your heart and hope to die, Tino?”
Loretta threw the transmission into reverse and hit the gas, then threw it into drive and gunned it again. She kept doing this over and over, trying to get the car to rock, but the mud was worse than snow. The wheels had no traction at all, and the car seemed to sink in deeper each time she tried to get it out. She scowled at the sea of mud outside her window, then looked down at her shoes—black suede sling-back flats. “Crap,” she muttered.
“Hey, lady!”
Loretta jumped, startled by the voice and the sudden banging on the passenger-side window. Two male faces were looking in at her through the mud-speckled glass. “You stuck, lady?” one of the two men asked.
Loretta stared at them, speechless for a moment. Both men were wearing the same face, and it wasn’t the kind of face you’d want to have two of—perfectly round, no neck, thin flyaway hair, bad skin, chubby cheeks, and slits for eyes. They looked like Italian-American Okies.
“You want us to help you get out?” one of them said as he opened the door and stuck his head in.
“Yeah, we’re good at this,” the other one said. “My name is Jerry. This is my brother Larry.” They were perfectly identical.
Double Espresso (A Loretta Kovacs thriller) Page 2
