Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  Ten more steps had me in front of a rickety old door, maybe oak, and it looked as if it was from the original construction many years ago. A good hard kick from any Polack worth his salt would have busted it, and that made me wonder if it was original; surely that had happened once or twice if not more. I opened the door and walked in, the smoke overpowering me as soon as I entered. The fire marshal might have something to say about that, with the no-smoking ordinance and all, but I thought I saw him slumped over a chair in the corner, so there was no sense calling in a report. Most of the bars enforced the smoking ban, but Teddy’s seemed to be immune to it.

  Five feet in, a pool table blocked the way, and on either side of it, old wooden stiff-backed chairs for people to sit on while they waited for a game. I didn’t ever remember coming into Teddy’s when the pool table wasn’t occupied with at least two or three people waiting. Some things never changed.

  “Hey, Nicky,” somebody called.

  I nodded, not recognizing the face, then I waved to another guy who said hi as I made my way toward the long bar that sat on the far wall to the right. Left of that were all of the tables. “All of the tables” sounds like a lot, but there were probably only ten of them. The tables seated four each—if Teddy had chairs to accommodate four each—but he didn’t, so chairs were always shuffled around between whoever claimed a table first.

  I walked up to the bar, squeezing between two guys I didn’t know and plopped onto a worn barstool. It had some fluff and maybe other things protruding from one side of the seat. I scooted to the opposite side and looked down the bar to Jerry Simpson, the bartender. He seemed busy. Jerry was a handsome guy, except for the whiskey nose, and it was a bad one. The cops used to say they could tell how much Jerry had to drink just by looking at his nose. He never argued with them so I guess they were right, or close to it.

  Jerry meandered down, nodding when he recognized me.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while, Nicky.”

  “Angie keeps me home. Tough to get out.”

  He laughed. “Don’t I know that. If I didn’t work here, I’d never get a drink.”

  Everyone within hearing distance laughed. We all knew that Jerry would find a drink in church, or on the moon.

  “When’s Fred coming in?” I asked.

  “He won’t be in till tomorrow night.”

  I nodded. “How about a beer? Whatever you got on tap is good.”

  “Coming up. Stay put.”

  I spied Millie, an old-timer who was such a regular the mailman delivered her mail here. She’d been a blonde once, but gray had won the fight for dominance long ago, just like wrinkles had won over make-up, and sadness over the sparkle that once lit her big blue eyes. Her face used to catch a man’s eye, now those features had dwindled to old skin stretched over strong protruding bones. “Bring it down the end for me, Jerry. And get me a drink for Millie.”

  I took the empty chair next to Millie—there was always an empty chair next to her—and pushed the drink her way. “I’m Nicky Fusco, Millie. You might not—”

  “I know who you are. I knew your father when he was a young man. Of course, I was young back then. Young and…” She looked at herself, and I could almost hear her finish the sentence. “Pretty.” That’s what she wanted to say, but I think she was too embarrassed.

  “My father mentioned you. He said you were a looker.”

  She lit up. Even her shoulders seemed to straighten. “He did?”

  For a moment, I saw doubt in her eyes, and a look like she was going to sink back into despair. I wouldn’t let that happen. “He did. I always remember that. He said, ‘That Millie sure is a looker.’ Those were his words, ‘a looker,’ he said.”

  She pulled a cigarette from her case and held it in her long slender fingers, as if waiting for a gentleman to light it. For a moment she was Rita Hayworth or Lauren Bacall. I didn’t disappoint her. I grabbed a pack of matches from the bar and offered her the light, bringing a smile to an old woman’s face, and some lightness to her heart.

  She took a long, slow drag and exhaled it in a thin stream, as classy an exhale as any movie dame ever did. Remnants of smoke leaked from the corners of her mouth as she said, “Nicky, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m trying to find out what happened the night Bobby Campisi was here.”

  “You mean the night he was killed?”

  I nodded. “You were here, right?”

  She leaned forward and tapped her cigarette on the ashtray, dropping a long ash with class, then she took another long drag. “Right at this same chair. And with a good view of what went on.”

  I wanted to light a cigarette of my own; instead, I pulled one out of Millie’s pack and put in in my mouth but I didn’t light it. “Go on.”

  Millie had shifty eyes, the kind that could take in an entire ballroom in a few glances, and unless someone was watching they wouldn’t even know. She did that now, checking to see who was watching her as she talked to me. It was a cautious glance, almost as if she was afraid.

  She took another drag, blew it out quickly, took a sip of her drink, then whispered, “Bobby called Frankie’s mother a whore.” Millie cast those surreptitious glances around again, then focused on me. “Actually, he called Frankie’s sister a whore, then said, ‘Just like her mother.’”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Frankie almost killed him. He smashed Bobby’s head with a mug of beer, then beat him to the floor and kicked him. After that, he left.”

  “And Bobby?”

  “He stumbled around, got another beer from a friend, and then he left.” Millie nodded to the door. “Walked out that front door on his own two feet. If you ask me it wasn’t Frankie who killed him.”

  This was exciting. I was getting somewhere. “Why do you say that?” I had my own opinion but I wanted hers.

  “You know Frankie. He’s got a temper. If he wanted to kill Bobby, he’d have done it right then, when he beat him. Frankie isn’t the type to wait outside for him. It’s not his style.”

  I smiled. Millie was my kind of girl. “Who else was here that night? Anybody that’s here now?”

  She nodded to the other end of the bar. I followed her gaze and saw Jack McDermott.

  Goddamn. How’s that for coincidence? Jack is in the same seat as he was the night Bobby died.

  I stood, leaned in and kissed her cheek, a good kiss. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

  Millie held me with her eyes and smiled. For a moment I thought I saw a tear, but if it was there she kept it in check. “Thanks, Nicky. You’re as much a gentleman as your father was.”

  As I walked toward Jack, I signaled Jerry to get Millie another drink on me. I passed by half a dozen guys, wondering if any of them were there that night, but I couldn’t be concerned about them right now. I knew Jack was here, and he was only a few feet from me, hunched over the bar like a good Irishman, with a shot and a beer sitting before him. Surely not his first.

  He lifted his head as I approached. “Hey, Nicky, how about them fuckin’ Phillies?”

  I laughed. If I told him, or anybody else for that matter, that I didn’t watch the Phillies, or the Eagles, or the Flyers, or whatever team played basketball for Philadelphia, they’d not only not believe me, they’d hang me from the nearest tree when they discovered the truth. “How about ’em, Jack? Good to see you.” I learned long ago that you didn’t really have to know anything about sports to converse with sports people, especially in bars. You just had to repeat what they said with more enthusiasm. It worked almost every time, and if it didn’t you just ordered another round of drinks. That always worked.

  I asked the guy next to Jack if he minded moving over a seat. Surprisingly, he didn’t even want to fight me over it; he simply moved. I sat next to Jack and ordered another beer from Jerry, offering one to Jack as well. I never liked Jack much, but that might have been because he was always busting our asses as kids. He was the Mick’s older brother, and never cut us a break.
Of course he did suspect we stole his cigarette heist from the train one night. If he had ever proved it we probably wouldn’t have reached puberty. When the beers came, I lifted mine, tapped his mug, and said, “Jack, here’s to you.”

  He tipped his glass. “I see you’re asking around about Campisi.”

  I liked that he got right to it. “Got a few questions about that night if you know anything.”

  “Anything I tell you is gonna be tainted. I hated that fucker.”

  “Right there with you on that. He cost me ten years.” I regretted opening my mouth as soon as the words came out. Jack didn’t waste any time making me feel like an idiot.

  “Ten years? It cost my brother his fuckin’ life!”

  I looked the other way, but nodded. “I know. It was stupid of me to say that. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a brother, but Mick was one of my best friends.”

  We sat quiet for a while, then Jack said he had to piss and asked me to order another beer. On his way back from the bathroom I noticed he limped. “Where’d you pick that up?”

  “Prison,” he said, “along with a few other treasures.”

  I nodded. We all brought mementos out with us, usually not ones we cared to remember. I kept silent, letting him drink. He started up after his second beer.

  “I was here that night. Not long after you left, I saw Bugs give Bobby an ass-whipping, bad. Might be what killed the fucker.”

  “That bad?”

  “It was worse than bad.” Jack slugged down the rest of his beer, then wiped his mouth. “I don’t know what they say killed him, but that mug to the head could’ve done it.”

  I nodded. I could see Bugs getting that pissed, and he did have a temper. “What happened after that?”

  “Not much. Bugs kicked his ass, told him he’d kill him if he ever said anything about his mother again, then he left. Campisi took a while getting up, scarfed a beer from some guy, then he left. That’s all I know.”

  “Who else was here? You remember?”

  He nodded toward the end of the bar. “Millie, Fred, you, and Marty were here earlier that night.” He pointed to a corner table. “Two couples over there. I didn’t know them, though. And Johnny Deuce was playing pool. I do remember that.”

  The last one took me by surprise. “The Deuce was here? I thought he didn’t drink.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jack said, “But he was shooting pool with a guy I don’t know.”

  I nodded again, making a mental note. The Deuce was a local legend, a great pool hustler and a character to boot. Everything he did was in twos: he wore shirts with two pockets; carried two packs of cigarettes and two lighters; and he had two guns tucked into the back of his waistband. “And you haven’t heard anything, I mean since then, on the streets?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nothing.”

  I looked around, made sure no one was listening. “So when did you get out, Jack?”

  “Two years.”

  “Different, huh? Lot of adapting you have to do.”

  “Different going in,” he said. “And maybe worse coming out.”

  “You working?”

  He shook his head. “Labor here and there. Puts a little change in my pocket, lets me stop here two or three nights a week.”

  I handed him a card. “Not promising anything, but if you want work, call me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He looked at the card. “Estimator, huh? I can’t—”

  “It won’t be an estimating job, but something with the crews. They’ve got a lot of work. You ought to call.”

  Jack smiled and tapped me on the shoulder. “Thanks, Nicky. I always said you were okay.”

  I finished my beer, plopped a few bills on the counter and told Jack to have another on me. “And don’t forget—call if you hear anything about Bobby.”

  “I will, man. Thanks.”

  I started to leave but turned around. “You know anything about Bobby having a bunch of money?”

  “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “But you never heard anything? Like where he might get fifty large?”

  Jack laughed. “Fifty large? Bobby Campisi? Come on, Nicky, that’s bullshit.”

  I laughed too. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.” I leaned in closer. “But tell me, Jack, who would know about where a loser like Bobby would get his hands on fifty large?”

  Jack backed up a notch, his posture straightening, his mind clearing. “How the hell would I know?”

  I stared at him for a long time. “Just checking, that’s all.” I patted him on the back. “See you around, Jack. Take care.”

  “Yeah, see you.”

  As I walked out of the bar, I tried to process what I’d learned. Millie and Jack both said Bugs kicked Bobby’s ass, and their stories were almost identical. That matched what Borelli was tossing around, but—and this was a big one—Jack McDermott got scared shitless when I questioned him about the money.

  He knows something, and I intend to find out what.

  CHAPTER 23

  Three’s Company

  Brooklyn, New York

  Lou did a fast walk/shuffle over to where Sherri stood, near the cafeteria. It was as close as he got to a run, at least for the past fifteen years. “We might have something up on four.”

  Sherri came alert. “What?”

  “Uni at the elevator said he may have spotted her.”

  “Let’s go,” Sherri said.

  When the elevator stopped they were greeted by the officer who called it in.

  He nodded. “Detectives.”

  “Let’s have it,” Lou said.

  “I can’t be certain, but I think she passed by here a few minutes ago. It sure looked like her.”

  “And you didn’t detain her?” Sherri asked.

  “I wasn’t sure if it was her. If I stop the wrong person, and it turns out to be some stock broker, it’s my ass, and you know it.”

  Sherri pulled out the photo of the girl. “Take a good look. Was it her or not?”

  He shrugged, hesitated. “I’m still not sure, but she went that way,” he said, pointing down the corridor to the left.

  “Thanks,” Lou said and started off in that direction.

  Sherri caught up in a few strides. “How can he not be sure?”

  “Because he was looking at her ass, not her face.”

  Sherri wrinkled her brow. “Are you shitting me? With a job to do, he’s getting distracted by that?”

  Lou half-laughed, half-coughed. “You are a rookie, Miller. Let me fill you in on a secret. If you’ve got a pretty girl with a nice ass, a cop will get his head blown off while he’s watching her.”

  “Men!”

  “Now you’re learning.”

  Lou stopped at the first office, pushing the doors open. He and Sherri showed their badges then the picture of Kitty, but the receptionist didn’t recognize her. They had her look for her name, but no luck there, either. They stopped at each office on the fourth floor, showing her picture and having them look for anyone named Kathleen or Katherine who worked there. Near the end of the corridor, with three offices to go, they hit gold.

  The receptionist took one look at the picture and nodded. “She works here, but her name’s not Kathy; that’s Lisa Jackson.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Lou said. “I thought we’d strike out.”

  “Please tell her we’d like to see her,” Sherri said.

  The receptionist called Lisa, but got no answer. She tried again and when no one answered that time she buzzed the admin responsible for that area. “Vera, is Lisa Jackson around?”

  She listened a moment then looked up at Sherri and Lou. “She never came in today.”

  Sherri looked at Lou, then the receptionist. “Are you sure? She was seen in the building.”

  “That’s what Vera said. She never came in, and she didn’t call.”

  “I assume that’s unusual,” Lou said.

  “Very.”

  “Do you hav
e her home address?” Sherri asked.

  The receptionist looked nervous. “I don’t know…that’s private information. We’re not allowed to give that out.”

  Lou flashed his badge. “This is a murder investigation. Ms. Jackson could be in danger.”

  “Oh God. Wait a minute,” she said, and got up, walked back to a closed office and knocked on the door. She returned a few seconds later. “You’ll have to speak to human resources about this. I’m not allowed to release that information.”

  Lou slammed his hand on the desk, causing the woman to jump. “Goddamn asshole rules.” He got close to the receptionist. “Get me a name in human resources.”

  She fumbled with a few keys, then printed out a paper which she handed to Lou. “We’re just a branch office. Human resources is in—”

  “Figures,” Lou said. He turned to Miller. “Let’s go, kid. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

  ***

  Lisa Jackson stayed in the restroom for fifteen minutes composing herself, then went to the stairs and walked down to the first floor, peeking through a crack in the door before exiting. She forced herself to move casually through the lobby, looking straight ahead and making certain she didn’t appear to be in a hurry. At one point she realized she’d been holding her breath, so she made a concentrated effort to release it, then slowly resume a natural breathing pattern. Soon she was outside, mingling with crowds and heading toward the subway. There was safety in numbers.

  All the way home she worried about what had gone wrong. The cops were almost certainly there for her, but how had they found her?