Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  Patsy shook his head, and when he did, his whole body shook. “Don’t do it, Nicky. You don’t want to even say shit like that.”

  “Tell him.” I put as much command in that statement as I could.

  Patsy was still shaking his head when he disappeared through the door. This time, it only took about half a minute. Doggs burst through the door, a string of ‘F’s’ preceding his entrance.

  “…fuck did he say. I’ll kill that motherfucker.”

  Just hearing that upset me. I preferred to remember Doggs as the crazy, lovable character with a mouthful of ‘F’s’ but a heart of gold. Guess drugs changed that, too. In the old days Doggs never dealt drugs, sticking to gambling and dabbling a little in loansharking. And he used us kids all the time to carry bags and even to collect. Hell, nobody would hit a kid Doggs sent to collect. That was double bad. Seeing Doggs as he was now made me sick. He was just another dope dealing prick. He got right up in my face, those thick glasses steamed from the change in temperature between rooms.

  “Did I hear right? You threaten to rat on me? What the fuck do you think you can do?”

  I knew he expected me to back away; instead, I moved closer, our faces only inches apart. I could smell the sausage roiling in his gut and onions riding on his breath. I stared for a long time, making him sweat. “First, Doggs, I can go to Borelli, or if he’s on your payroll, I’ll take it to someone else. Either way, I’ll keep probing until I find someone who doesn’t like your money, and I’ll fill them in on the whole Deuce/Bobby/Pepe thing, prominently mentioning the drugs, of course.”

  “You wouldn’t dare, you little fuck.”

  “I would, and you know it. But I’m not done, because here’s the best part. If that doesn’t work—the cop thing—then I’ll come up here and kill you myself.” I paused. “So do you want to step outside or do you want me to embarrass you right here?”

  He removed his glasses, waving them in the air like a madman. “Embarrass me? You fuckin’ prick. Who the fuck do you think you are? Don’t think I’m fuckin’ scared of you and your fuckin’ reputation.” He walked around me adjusting his Coke-bottle glasses so they didn’t fall off his Roman nose. “Yeah, I heard about your fuckin’ exploits up in New York. I heard about the scary fuckin’ Nicky the Rat.” He got right in my face and poked his finger into my chest. “A fuckin’ estimator. Big fuckin’ deal. How much you make, Fusco? Can you estimate that?”

  I held Doggs’ with my glare for a few seconds before speaking. I knew that no matter what he said, he was worried. This was Doggs’ bluff, his bravado, his bullshit at full tilt. “What I make doesn’t matter. And neither does anything else. I’m here to get money from you to make a buy.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I’m making a buy from the Mexicans, the same ones who fucked up the deal when Bobby stole your money.”

  Doggs’ expression went from pissed off to interested in a millisecond. Maybe he smelled what he thought was money, a cut of the profits, and nothing turned Doggs around like money. “Fuck, why didn’t you say so to begin with? If you need some front money we can work things out.”

  “I don’t need front money, and you won’t be getting a cut of anything. I need fifty large to do a deal. When the deal is done, I’ll give you back the money.”

  His beady eyes turned hard again. “You—”

  “Hold on. As collateral, I’ll give you two keys of coke.”

  “Fuck you. I can get it cheaper.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you can or not. That’s what I’m giving, and you’ll take it.”

  That last comment did it. He tried to punch me, and when I held him back, he went ballistic.

  “Patsy, kick his fuckin’ ass. Who does this prick think he is.” He jumped at me. “Let me tell you, Fusco, a bullet can kill you just like anyone else.”

  I was tired of dealing with him and had to get home. I grabbed Doggs by the throat and drew my Beretta, shoving it into Patsy’s face. He’d been moving to help Doggs, but he didn’t move fast. “Don’t try it, Patsy. I don’t want to, but I’ll kill you.” I shoved Doggs onto the counter, choking him. “Doggs, we can do this civil or we can do it the other way. Decide.”

  “Let me up. Let me the fuck up.”

  I looked to Patsy. “Back up, Whale. Keep your hands in front of you.” I kept the gun pointed at Patsy, knowing he had a piece behind him at all times.

  Doggs rubbed his throat and moaned. “Fuckin’ damn near killed me, you prick.”

  I pulled the locker key out of my pocket and handed it to Doggs. “The dope’s in a locker at the train station. If I don’t come back, it’s yours.”

  He nodded. “When do you need the money?”

  “I’ll pick it up tomorrow night around six. Have it ready.”

  “After this, we’re done. Hear me? Fuckin’ done.”

  “We’ve been done, Doggs. You just didn’t know it.” I backed out of the shop and nodded to Patsy. “No hard feelings, Whale.” Then to Doggs. “See you at six.”

  Angie was asleep when I got home, though I knew she would be, and that worked better for me. I got a pad of paper and sat at the dining room table struggling to write down my thoughts. For the first time in my life I worried about what might happen if I died. For the first time, I had something great to live for, and I didn’t want to lose it. I couldn’t lose it.

  Sometime long after midnight I folded up the two letters—one for Angie and one for Rosa—and sealed them in envelopes. I would mail them tomorrow at work, to myself. If I made it home, great, they’d be torn to shreds and discarded, and if not…I only hoped I expressed myself well.

  I said prayers that night before going to sleep, praying to keep me alive, and in the event that didn’t happen, to keep the family safe. When I was done, I asked God to forgive me for the people I was going to kill.

  CHAPTER 48

  Prayers and Death

  Brooklyn, New York

  It had been five days and still Frankie had no clue where Tom Jackson or his wife were hiding out. They had found Lisa’s mother in the basement of her house, throat slit. Kate said it happened weeks ago.

  Frankie tapped a pencil on his desk as he thought. “Where are they?”

  “They might have skipped town,” Lou said.

  “This is a long time between bodies,” Frankie said. “And we still haven’t got a clue on the young girl.”

  Sherri looked at some notes on her desk. “Kate said there were bruises on her that were at least a week old—a lot of bruises, so we can probably assume he had her that long, and doing God knows what to her.”

  Frankie continued tapping on the desk. “And we know he had her in the apartment, right? Kate confirmed the blood match on the carpet?”

  Sherri flipped a page and read some. “On the carpet in front of the sofa. And more in the bedroom.”

  “And all we’ve got is his army picture to identify him?”

  “Yeah, and nobody saw him at the hotel. The room was rented by the young girl. The clerk ID’d her picture.” Lou looked through his set of notes, a copy of what was in Sherri’s folder. “And that army picture, people probably wouldn’t even recognize him from that. You know how that goes.”

  “So what are we going to do?” Sherri asked.

  “Call Shawna,” Lou said.

  “Who’s Shawna?”

  Carol’s voice rolled in from the hallway. “He has sleepovers with her. You know, pajama parties?”

  Frankie brushed his hands in the air. “She’s full of shit. Shawna is a reporter from Channel 3 news.”

  Lou nudged Sherri’s arm. “She gets a lot of exclusives from Frankie. I don’t know what he gets in return.”

  “Screw you, Mazzetti.” Frankie said.

  Lou laughed. “You know I’m shitting you. But really, we could get her to do a story on him and quote us.”

  “You might piss him off that way,” Sherri said. “We need to be careful about that.”

  �
��Trust me, if Frankie goes on the air, he’ll piss him off all right. He’s good at pissing people off.”

  Frankie stopped tapping and leaned forward in his chair, staring at Lou then Sherri. “You really think I ought to do this? If we hit the wrong button with this guy he could go nuts on us.”

  “The trick would be to get him to come after us,” Lou said.

  “Hell of a trick.”

  “Give it another day,” Sherri said.

  “What?”

  “One more day. Let’s see what we can do in one more day, and if we’ve still got nothing we try to draw him out.”

  “Sounds better,” Frankie said. “I’m not fond of being target practice for a Special Forces guy.”

  Sherri got up. “We better get to work then. I’m heading to Lisa’s office. I want to talk to some more people there.”

  “I’ll take the neighbors,” Lou said.

  Frankie grabbed the smokes off his desk. “Wait up, Miller. I’m going with you. My car’s in the shop. You still live out by me, don’t you?”

  “For now I do, but that’s about to stop with the rent going up so high.”

  Frankie blew Carol a kiss as he passed, and waved, then continued down the steps with Sherri. “I already told you, there’s a place coming open in my building. Cheap, too.”

  “Cheap to you and cheap to me might be two different things.”

  Lou was a few steps behind them. “Don’t count on it. You’ll probably have enough left over to go to the movies.”

  “You been to the movies lately?” Sherri asked.

  “I saw Flashdance back in…”

  “Pervert,” Sherri said.

  “Hey, that was art…”

  “Art my ass, that was…well, ass is what that was.”

  “Okay, maybe you’re right. It wasn’t all art, but it was a good movie.”

  Frankie stopped and looked at both of them. “Can we get off the Flashdance discussion and focus on the case?”

  Five hours after they started questioning people, Frankie and Sherri left the office building. She got in the car, started it up and headed home. “Waste of time there.”

  “I’ll call Shawna tonight, and we’ll get her to put it on the evening news tomorrow.”

  Sherri glanced over at him. “I hate for you to do this. Maybe I should be the one. Remember what he said about me in the letter? I could—”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Why? I didn’t know you decided all—”

  “I’m lead on this case. I decide.”

  “So that’s the way it works with you?”

  “Has nothing to do with me; that’s the way it always works. Welcome to Homicide.”

  Sherri didn’t talk much on the way home, not much more than asking directions on getting to Frankie’s house. When they pulled up to his stoop, he got out and waved to Alex and Keisha, then stood with the door open talking to Sherri. “So what, see you in the morning at 7:00?”

  She sighed. “Make it 7:30. I promised my little cousin I’d take him to a movie tonight, and I’m one of those people who needs sleep.”

  As Sherri was talking, Alex came up beside Frankie. “Hey, FD, how’s it going?”

  Frankie bumped fists with him. “Going good, Ace, how about you?”

  Alex poked his head inside Sherri’s car. “Nice ride, lady. You a hooker or something?”

  Sherri’s face tensed and she almost smacked him, but Alex pulled back. “Don’t get so riled. I was just messin’ with you.”

  Frankie smacked him on the back of the head, a loving pat. “This is my partner, Alex. Detective Sherri Miller.”

  Alex poked his head back in and held his hand out to bump. “Sorry, Detective. Didn’t mean no harm.”

  Sherri smiled. “I’m sorry too.”

  “Alex, why don’t you wait on the stoop? I’ll be right there.”

  “Yeah, well the thing is, FD, I didn’t come over here to say hi. Don’t look, but you see that dude hanging out by the bodega?”

  Frankie cast a surreptitious glance in his direction while he lit a smoke. “The one with the hood?”

  “Yeah, that dude.”

  “What about him?”

  “That white dude don’t belong here. Flat out don’t belong.”

  Frankie turned back to Sherri, as if he were talking to her. “Tell me how he doesn’t belong here.”

  “Hey, FD, why don’t you hand over one of them smokes.”

  Sherri glared at Frankie. “You give that boy cigarettes?”

  “Time for that later, Miller.” He handed Alex a smoke and a light. “Go on, Ace, finish up.”

  “When me and Keisha walked by he looked at her like he wanted to—”

  “Whoa! I think I know how he looked at her. Okay, I’ll check it out.”

  Frankie looked the other way down the street. “Miller, laugh or do something. Just don’t look his way.”

  Sherri looked at Alex and then at Keisha, still sitting on the stoop. “Why don’t I take the kids inside?”

  “They can get inside all on their own. We might have a pervert here, so how about you drive away like you’re leaving, but circle the block and come up on the other side of him. I’ll sit on the stoop for a half a minute, and then stroll on down there, so give me a good two minutes.”

  “I don’t like it. He’ll see you coming. Suppose it’s Jackson? If it is, you’re dead.”

  Frankie thought for a moment, then turned to Alex. “Get inside, and make Keisha go with you.”

  “FD—”

  “No shit on this. Get inside now.” Frankie got back in the car. “All right, go to the corner, like it’s any other day and take a right. We’ll come around the back side and come up on him from the other direction.”

  Sherri drove around the block, parked on the side street, out of sight. They got out and walked toward the bodega. Before turning the corner, Frankie checked his gun, making sure he had a full clip. Sherri did the same.

  “Follow my lead,” Frankie said. “Let’s go.”

  When they made the turn, the guy was gone. Frankie drew his gun. “Stay alert, Miller.”

  She reached for her gun. “No need to tell me that.”

  They hadn’t taken five steps when the guy came out of a storefront 30 feet ahead of them, his gun pointed at Frankie.

  “Watch out!” Miller shouted, and shoved Frankie aside. A bullet whizzed past, hitting a van parked on the street.

  The guy fired two more shots. Frankie hit the ground hard, diving behind an old Buick. The guy turned on Miller. She had her weapon raised, but he fired first, his shot taking her in the gut. The impact dropped her to the curb.

  Sherri tried crawling behind the car. A shot hit her leg just above the knee. “Goddamn!” She raised her gun, aiming, when another shot got her in the right shoulder.

  Frankie scrambled to get into a position he could fire from. “Goddamn!” He crab-walked toward her, keeping his head low. He reached out and grabbed Miller’s collar and dragged her to safety.

  “Get me out of here!” she said.

  “Enough of this shit.” Frankie stood, gun in hand, firing.

  Tom Jackson dropped to a squatted position, switching his fire. Frankie could almost feel the bullets flying by. His hands were steady, but his gut churned. Fear had a good grip on him. He didn’t mind fighting anyone, no matter how big, but he hated fighting bullets. They always won.

  Franke dropped below the trunk of the car, as if he were taking cover, then popped right back up, firing as soon as he had Tom Jackson in his sights. Jackson was in the process of standing after Frankie took cover. He was caught off guard. A bullet hit Jackson’s left shoulder, spinning him toward the bodega. Frankie advanced, firing all the time, slowly, methodically. His next two shots missed, but the fourth one hit Jackson in the chest. That one took him down.

  Frankie approached slowly, gun in hand. Jackson lay on the sidewalk, his right hand extended still clutching the gun. Frankie took it easy, one step a
t a time. When he got beside Jackson, he stepped on his wrist. A smile was on Tom Jackson’s face.

  “Guess I’m gonna have to wait to fuck that black bitch partner of yours.”

  Frankie took a quick glance around. “Yeah, might be a little while though.” Then Frankie hollered, “Drop the gun!” and he fired three more shots into Jackson’s chest. For good measure, he shot him in the neck.

  Frankie picked up the gun and turned to go for Sherri. Sirens screamed as he ran to check on her. Three cop cars screeched to a stop, officers out with guns drawn.

  Frankie raised his hands. “I’m a cop. Got an officer down here!”

  “That’s Donovan!” one of the officers yelled, and they ran to help.

  “We got an ambulance coming, Detective.”

  Frankie was on the ground, holding her. “Come on, Miller. Don’t you fucking die on me.”

  CHAPTER 49

  A Prayer for the Dying

  Wilmington, Delaware

  I was a bundle of nerves all day. Not fear, at least not fear of dying, but fear of leaving Angie and Rosa and our new baby to fend for themselves. The day was unproductive as hell, most of my time spent planning for what would happen that night. Jack called and filled me in on the details, and to confirm that we had a deal for two keys. We promised the Mexicans a lot more business if this worked out. I finished up the last estimate and left, stopping by to pick up the money from Doggs. He had checked the locker and verified that the coke was there, but left it where it was.

  As I drove down Union Street, I thought about what I was doing. I was in a no-win situation. If I went through with this, I’d be breaking my promise to Angie, and to God. If I quit now, which is what I wanted to do, Borelli’s kid might die.

  An image of Borelli’s face stuck in my mind, the worry etched in his eyes when I confronted him in the restaurant. I imagined if it were Rosa they had, and then I thought of Angie, and how it would tear her up. Jimmy’s wife was probably going through hell right now.

  Just like Angie would.