He plopped a mug in front of me and laughed. “Boss limits are the best kind. The limits I set myself I always break.”
“Before you go, tell me again about that night Bobby got killed.”
Fred sighed. “Jesus Christ, you want my blood or what?”
I stared him down. “I want the fucking truth. And I swear, Fred, I better get it tonight. Don’t make me come back here.”
“What’s this all about? I told you—”
I leaned forward a little. “You lied last time. Or was it your short memory that forgot to mention that Johnny Deuce was here that night, playing pool with one of his buddies?”
He took his towel and wiped the counter in front of me. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“Slipped your mind? A guy who remembers what a person drinks even if they haven’t been here in years? And this slipped your mind?”
He slapped the bar and looked around. “Fuck, Nicky, what do you want?”
“I already told you: the truth.”
He did another quick scan of the place, then got close to me, whispering. “So Johnny Deuce was here hustling people, and he had a guy with him, guy named Pepe, I think. But I swear, there’s no way they had anything to do with Bobby. They were here a good half an hour, maybe more after Bobby left.”
I sipped my beer. “Who left right after Bobby? Anybody?”
He wiped the counter more, though it didn’t need it. “Ah shit, Nicky. Is this between me and you? For real?”
“Tell me, Fred.”
“Jack McDermott.”
“What about Jack?”
“He left five, maybe ten minutes after Bobby.”
I took a big gulp of beer and set the mug down. “You’re sure?”
Fred nodded.
I left him money for the beer and a tip, then I moved to the end of the bar to see Millie. “How’s it going, beautiful? I assume that seat’s for me?”
“It’s been waiting here every night since you left.” She patted the stool beside her. “How are you, Nicky?”
“Be better if I knew who left here within a few minutes of Bobby Campisi the night he was killed.”
Millie held an unlit cigarette between her fingers, waiting for a gentleman to light it. I obliged. “If I were a snoop, which I’m not,” she said. “I’d have to say that Johnny Deuce’s pool partner is a prime suspect. He quit the game early and damn near trailed Bobby out the door.”
Goddamn lying Fred! “And the other?”
“Who said there was another?”
“Come on, Millie, I don’t need to be Philip Marlowe to know that.”
She took a long, slow drag on her smoke and flipped the ash into the ashtray. “Your friend and mine—Jack McDermott.”
“So Jack followed him out?”
“I wouldn’t he say followed Bobby out, but he didn’t wait long, either. Maybe ten minutes. Could have been less.”
Even at a little less than ten minutes, that put it too late. No way Bobby waited around in a parking lot for someone to come get him. I was still missing something, unless I had it wrong; maybe Jack wasn’t the guilty one after all. “So why am I hearing this for the first time?”
She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong; you’re a charmer, Nicky, but Johnny Deuce gave me a c-note to keep quiet.”
I cocked my head, surprised again. “Johnny Deuce did? Gave you a hundred?”
She nodded as she flicked another long ash.
“But now you’re telling me anyway?”
“I saw Fred spill his guts and figured you got what you came for.”
“No way you heard what Fred and I talked about. Not from here.”
A long throaty laugh tainted by forty years of cigarettes and whiskey rumbled from Millie, trailed by a nasty cough that carried something with it. “I’ve been on this barstool for the better part of ten years. I know when Fred has to piss by the way he walks, and I know when his wife’s been holding out on him by how grumpy he is. I sure as hell can tell when he gives up a secret.”
I leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a princess, Millie. Thanks.”
“Remember that when Johnny Deuce kills me.”
I patted her hand and winked. “Don’t worry about that. You’re going to die at a nice old age like you should.”
“You mean of cancer or liver disease?”
“Probably, yeah.”
She crushed out her smoke in the ashtray and blew me a kiss. “Thanks, Nicky.”
I left the bar, thinking I’d rather go via Johnny Deuce than by cancer, but to each his own. I had more to worry about than how Millie might pass into eternity. The clues from this case played over in my mind, confusing the hell out of me. I made a mental note to give Bugs more respect for what he did. Once again I went through things. Bobby’s car was found by the old tracks and his body by the Den. That gives an edge to Jack; he knew the tracks and everything that went with them. But Jack didn’t leave the bar until at least five, maybe ten minutes after Bobby. No matter how you played that one, he couldn’t have counted on Bobby still being there. And, Deuce’s man, Pepe, left hot on Bobby’s trail. That edge went to the Deuce. Tack on the fact that Bobby owed Deuce money, and that put a lot more weight to it.
I got in the car and headed home. It had been another long day. As I turned down Dupont Street, more thoughts came. If Johnny Deuce did this because Bobby owed him money, why did he kill him without getting the money. Bobby sure as shit wasn’t one to withstand torture. Jack, on the other hand, had reason to kill Bobby that had nothing to do with money. Jack flat out hated Bobby. As I pulled into the parking spot in front of my house, I realized I had resolved only one thing.
I had to get back to Sister Thomas’ rules of deduction—when you have more than one possible answer, rule something out. So what did I know? I knew that if Deuce had anything to do with it, Doggs would know. That’s where I needed to go. And this time he better have some answers.
CHAPTER 42
Street Talk
Wilmington, Delaware
I was tired when I got home, and I faced a horrific outlook for the night. Angie would be ticked off that I was out so late working on the “so-called case” as she called it, and even worse, dinner was long over and I was damn hungry. I opened the door and stepped inside, tossing my briefcase on the chair. “Hey, Angie, I finally made it.”
She and Rosa were at the dining room table, working on what looked like homework. Both of them were twirling their hair behind their ears and humming. Just like Mamma Rosa. It was one of the many things I loved so much about both of them. Maybe I had made out okay after all.
Rosa jumped up and ran to me, excited. She wrapped her arms around me and hugged.
“Good to have you home, Dad.”
Her greeting was a sure sign that Abbie had talked to her and must have told her that I was okay. Kids never know if their parents are okay until their friends grant approval. I kissed her cheek then made my way to Angie, leaning down and giving her a peck. “Hi, babe. How much did you miss me?”
“Not a bit. And unless you plan on helping with Rosa’s schoolwork, keep yourself busy and quiet.”
Rosa walked by with raised eyebrows.
“I saw that,” Angie said.
“Be careful, Rosa. Your mother spent too much time with the nuns. Don’t be surprised if you get an eraser in the head at any minute.”
“Or a yardstick on your ass,” Angie said, but she couldn’t keep from laughing. She seldom cursed—even hell or ass—and on the occasions she did, she couldn’t help laughing. “Get out of here, Nicky, and let me get this done.”
I grabbed some crackers and cheese, and the glass of wine Rosa had ready for me on the table beside my chair. I picked up my book and started to read, but then Rosa came and sat beside me.
“So what’s going on with the case?”
I set my book down and looked at her. “If you really want to know, I could use some help.”
Her eyes lit up and
she bounced off the chair. “Help? With what?”
“The other night when Detective Borelli was here, I noticed he reacted strangely when you asked about his son.”
“He’s been out sick a long time.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to it, but if you could find out more about it for me—without anyone knowing.”
“I’ll check it out. I can’t wait. And don’t worry, nobody will know anything. I’m the best snoop in school.”
I looked at her and nodded, but quietly wondered if being the best snoop was something to be proud of. Perhaps nowadays it was.
Angie came in from the dining room, where she had switched to working on bills, trying to figure out how to pay what we owed with one less paycheck. My raise would help, but not enough to stop her from worrying. The scowl on her face was as wide as Bancroft Parkway. “Niccolo Fusco, what are you having your daughter do?”
Rosa tried sneaking up the stairs, but a firm command from Angie stopped her. “Rosa! Back down here.”
Rosa stepped back into the living room. “Mom, it’s not like I’m doing anything illegal. I’m just asking a few questions for Dad.”
Angie poked her finger at me, then at Rosa. “I don’t know how to tell the two of you this, but your father is not a detective. He’s an estimator. At least he was when this so called case started, but if he doesn’t get back to work, he probably won’t be much longer.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “She’s not doing anything wrong, and you know I wouldn’t cause her trouble.”
Angie huffed. “She’s already had cops following her, scaring the life out of us. I don’t want…”
I got up and hugged her. “Don’t worry. I promise it’s nothing.”
She gave a reluctant nod, enough of a signal for Rosa to dart up the steps before minds were changed.
“You need help with the bills?” I asked.
“Only if you can turn our silverware into gold. Then I’d go sell it and pay things off.”
“That was Mamma Rosa’s silverware. No way you’d sell it even if it were gold.”
Angie started to say something but my cell phone rang. I stepped into the other room to answer it. “Fusco.”
“My man Rat. How’s it going?”
It was Monroe. “You got something for me?”
“Got something but we gotta meet.”
“When?”
“Now, Rat. Got news, but I don’t trust cells. You know how it goes.”
I felt Angie’s glare burning holes through my back, so I decided I better turn to face her. She wore a frown to accompany the glare. Pretty soon, I knew, the finger would start wagging. “I can leave in five minutes. Where are you?”
“Same place. And you won’t have any trouble this time.”
The finger was wagging now, and her look had grown threatening. “Do you see what time it is? This is no example for your daughter. Bad enough when you go out playing cards with those…those…”
“Hoodlums?” I asked, supplying her favorite word for the guys at the smoke shop.
“Get out!”
I got a cold kiss before leaving, then got in the car and headed to Monroe Street, parking up the hill near Tilton Park. DuPree, the ever-present guard on the west end, nodded to me as I passed. I smiled and nodded back. It was likely he still hated me for showing him up last time, but that couldn’t be helped. Someone had to be the fall guy. About halfway down Seventh Street, Monroe greeted me then signaled for his guys to step back. We stood on the side of the street talking, leaning against the old brick homes like we did as kids.
“What’s so important that you couldn’t trust cells?”
Monroe sucked on a joint while we talked. “Word is that Bobby was into drugs. Started off real small, and moved up a little. He got lucky about six months ago with a deal that got him noticed.”
Bobby being into drugs didn’t shock me, especially after finding the dope in the locker. “Noticed by which people?”
“Doggs’ crew.”
That news did shock me. “You telling me Doggs Caputo deals in drugs?”
Monroe looked at me as if I had just landed from another planet. “Shit, man, everybody deals drugs. That’s where the money is.”
Just like Borelli said. Drugs change everything. “You, too?”
Monroe looked around, tapped my shirt, checking for a wire, but only half-heartedly. “Got to if I want to be part of the game. That’s what it’s come to. You don’t do drugs, you lose your crew. If you don’t have a crew, somebody’s going to pop you. That simple.”
“Sort of like the old days in the joint?”
“No different, Rat. Except out here, it’s worse. No bulls there to break things up when the shit goes down. Dude rides by in a car, window drops, and all of a sudden—wham—lead’s flying and people are going down.” Monroe shook his head. “I’d trade it all for the old days when fists, a club, or even a knife settled things.”
I sighed, knowing exactly how he felt. “Back then it was really the toughest who ruled things.”
“Fuckin’ drugs,” Monroe said, and took the last hit on his joint.
I didn’t know who controlled what in this city as far as drugs went, and I wasn’t going to ask Monroe who he worked for—that would be breaking the rules—but maybe he’d tell me about Bobby. “So Bobby worked for Doggs?”
“Not worked for so much as drove for. Shit man, you knew Bobby. He was as stupid as a brick. No way Doggs was gonna let him handle real money.”
“So he did what?”
“Drove for him, kept a lookout when a deal was going down. That kind of stuff.”
“Who were they dealing with? You?”
A shake of his head said no. “Don’t even know the dude, but he moved in here big time in the last year or so. Got runners and dealers popping up all over. Nasty motherfucker, too.”
“Another Mafia crew? Russian?”
Another shake of the head. “Mexican, but man, none of this shit better surface with my name attached to it.”
I was shocked by the tone in his voice. Monroe was afraid of whoever this was. Now I wondered if he really didn’t know who it was or if he just wouldn’t say.
“You know your name won’t come up.” I thought for a minute, trying to piece it together. I knew I didn’t have much time left for questions. “So, Doggs is distributing for the Italians, you’ve got your own sources, and you mean to tell me Bobby, stupid Bobby somehow got caught up in this and ended up with fifty large?” That part of the murder was common knowledge now so I had no problem letting it out. I kept the drugs part to myself.
“You’re not alone wondering that. Everybody’s been asking the same question and the only one with the answer is probably your old buddy.”
“My old buddy?”
“Remember that whitey in prison you knew. Jack?”
“McDermott?”
“That’s him. He’s one of Doggs’ crew, but there was bad blood between Jack and Bobby. About two months ago a deal went bad and four guys ended up dead.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Bobby was the driver for Doggs’ crew that day, and that guy from down on Harrison Street, the one who used to run smokes up and down the coast…”
“Vasquez?”
Monroe nodded. “Vasquez, yeah. He was supposed to be the lookout for the Mexicans. Anyway, four guys end up dead and Bobby and Vasquez don’t get a scratch. To top it off, a hundred large and four keys go missing.”
“And they think Bobby and Vasquez took it?”
“Doesn’t matter. They were dead as soon as they left the scene. Only way to save their asses would have been for each one of them to go back with their share of the deal.”
“So somebody gets trigger happy, these two survive, scoop up the prizes and beat it.”
“That’s the way everybody figured it. Vasquez bolted. Nobody heard from him again. Bobby stayed around and kept to his story. Trouble is nobody believed h
im. I think Doggs was only waiting to find out where Bobby hid his shit, then he’d have killed him. Might be what happened.”
“And this Mexican, he’s that good?”
“I told you, this guy’s got shit covered. And he’s playing it different. You fuck with him and somebody’s dying. That’s why I keep to my territory.”
“You telling me this Mexican guy is moving in on your territory?”
“You haven’t been listening to me. He’s taking from everyone, even your old dago buddies.”
“And they’re putting up with it?”
Monroe shook his head. “Not so much putting up with it as trying to figure out what to do. I’m telling you, Rat, this fucker’s crazy.”
I thought about what Monroe said. “Your territory won’t last long if this guy’s moving that fast.”
“I’m waiting for one or the other of them to knock each other off. That’s all.”
“That wait-and-see ploy isn’t a good strategy,” I said, and tapped him on the back. “But thanks, Monroe. I appreciate it.”
“That’s one you owe me, Rat. Don’t forget.”
“You know I don’t forget. See you around.”
As I walked up the hill to my car, I was seething. I was more convinced than ever it was Jack McDermott, and I intended to pay him a visit. Not tonight, though, tonight I had to get my ass home and stealthily crawl into bed or I wouldn’t be seeing tomorrow.
CHAPTER 43
The Final Name
Brooklyn, New York
Frankie sat at the table with Sherri and Lou, discussing the case and where to go with it. “He’s got to be hiding somewhere in the city,” Frankie said. “I don’t see him leaving us a warning, or a promise, whatever you want to call it, then leaving.”
“Unless he was trying to get us thinking that way,” Sherri said.
“We know who that girl was yet?” Lou asked.
Sherri shook her head. “Not a clue. No matches and nothing on missing persons.”
Carol popped her head in the door, a printout in her hand. “We do know about Mr. Thomas Jackson, though. And the news ain’t good, as they say in Tyler, Texas.”
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