[Friendship & Honor 02.0] Murder Has Consequences

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Frankie, he—”

  “Coffee, Donna. Make some coffee. I’ll be right there.”

  He got dressed in a hurry and met her in the kitchen. She had coffee brewing in an old percolator. Frankie breathed in the aroma. Maybe it was a throwback to his youth, but he still loved the smell, and taste, of percolated coffee. He grabbed two cups from the cabinet and some sugar for Donna.

  “You heard nothing from him?” Frankie asked. “Did you check your phone?”

  “Of course I checked my phone. And I called our house, and called our neighbors. The car’s not in the driveway.”

  Frankie thought about it. “Okay, listen. After the funeral I’ll call the local—”

  “After the funeral! I can’t wait until then.” She pounded her fists on his chest. “Goddamn, Frankie. Don’t you understand, something’s wrong. Something happened to him.”

  Frankie grabbed hold of her arms. “Listen close, Donna. I don’t give a shit about Bobby right now. All I care about is getting our father put in the ground in a respectful manner. And if you screw this up for Mom, I’ll never forgive you. This isn’t something we get second chances on.” He gazed into her eyes. “Now here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to the funeral and everyone will act civilized, as if nothing is wrong. Once we get back here, I’ll find Bobby.”

  Frankie poured the coffee and put sugar in for Donna. “One sugar, right?”

  She whimpered. “And a little cream.”

  Before they finished their coffee, Frankie’s other sisters arrived, and he was thankful for it. They could take care of Donna now. He went upstairs to finish dressing, then checked his messages and made a few calls before rejoining the family. Lou Mazzetti hadn’t called, but he didn’t really expect he would; Lou would never bother him at a time like this. He did wonder, though, how he was making out with the investigation. Before he realized how much time had passed his younger sister, Mary Ellen, called him to get ready for the services.

  The funeral mass went fine, the biggest surprise of the day being Sister Mary Thomas showing up with Nicky, Angela, and Rosa. He didn’t expect Sister Thomas to come, but was honored that she did. She nodded to him when their eyes met, and folded her hands in a signal of prayer. Before long the services were over, the trip to the cemetery come and gone, and then they were back at the house, preparing for the long road to recovery from grieving.

  If only Mamma Rosa were here. She always said that a pound of laughter cured ten pounds of grief. The problem was, laughter was a scarce commodity at the Donovan house.

  Sometime around two or three o’clock, one of Frankie’s aunts said a man was at the front door asking for him. Frankie wondered who it could be, but his gut told him it had to do with Bobby. When he opened the door and saw those high-arched brows sitting above bright blue eyes, he knew who it was, and that meant he knew what it was about. There was no reason for Homicide Detective Jimmy Borelli to be here unless there was a body.

  “Jimmy Borelli? I hope you’re here for condolences.”

  Only a small smile lit Jimmy’s face, a practiced one that Frankie had yet to master. “You got a minute, Frankie?” When Jimmy asked it, he moved away from the door and nodded toward the street, a why-don’t-you-come-out-here type of look on his face.

  Frankie looked back into the living room then stepped outside, closing the door behind him. “What’s up?”

  Jimmy was taller than Frankie by a few inches, way too tall for most Italians, but the height was something he inherited from his Polish mother, that and the blue eyes and round face. He had a face like a basketball, only with smooth pale skin. “I hate to do this, Frankie, but somebody’s got to know. We just found Bobby Campisi’s body.”

  “Shit! Where?”

  “Canby Park. In the woods near the creek. You remember the Lion’s Den?”

  “Of course I remember. How’d it happen?”

  Jimmy looked intently at Frankie as he spoke. “Beaten pretty badly, side of his head cracked open, looks like more than a casual beating to me. We got him at the M.E.’s now.”

  Jimmy pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights, and tapped them against his hand to pack them tight. “We’re pretty sure he wasn’t killed at the scene. There wasn’t much blood by the body.”

  Frankie took a smoke that Jimmy offered him, then the light. “I’ll tell you this much, Jimmy. Bobby didn’t walk there on his own. Somebody forced him there, because he was too damn big to carry.” Frankie smacked the bricks by the side of the door. “Shit!”

  “Was he here last night?”

  Frankie nodded. “He was at the wake, then back here. Then he left again.”

  “All right, tell you what. I know it’s a bad day, so I’m not going to take any more time, but let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay, thanks Jimmy. I appreciate it. Let me know anything you find out. I’ll tell Donna.”

  Jimmy hesitated. “You know the drill. We’re going to need her to ID the body.”

  Frankie asked with a suspicious glance. “What kind of shit is that? You know what Bobby looks like, and besides, don’t tell me you don’t have prints on him.”

  Jimmy shrugged.

  Frankie got real close. “If you want to talk to Donna just say so, but don’t try this bullshit of needing her to ID the body. She’ll be going through enough.”

  “I’m not trying to be a ball-buster, but I need to talk to somebody.”

  “You should have said what you wanted, not tried to use Donna. I’ll come down later. Give me a couple of hours.”

  Jimmy nodded. “You got it. Call me first, though. I’ll meet you there.” Borelli handed Frankie a card. “Don’t forget. Call me.”

  “I’ll do it, Jimmy. Thanks.”

  ***

  JIMMY BORELLI WALKED DOWN the sidewalk, down the steps and got into his car. He started it up, casting a glance back to the house to see if Frankie was watching—he’d gone back inside. Jimmy took out his notepad and pen and wrote:

  ‘He never asked if we had suspects. And he never mentioned the fight in the bar.’

  He placed an asterisk next to that one.

  He’s a cop. Why wouldn’t he mention the fight?

  CHAPTER 10

  Dig the Holes Deep

  Wilmington, Delaware

  After we left the funeral we took more food to Bugs’ house and then I told Angie I was leaving.

  “You sure you can’t come in?” she said.

  I shook my head. “You know the situation with Donna. And now Bobby’s missing. I don’t want to cause trouble for Bugs.”

  She kissed me on the cheek. “All right. I’ll call if I need a ride.”

  “See you, babe.”

  I got in the car and drove to Teddy’s. Marty only worked half a day today, and I hoped he’d stop at Teddy’s on his way home. I found a comfortable spot where I wouldn’t be seen, and waited. Before long Marty showed. He parked on a quiet, side street, perfect for what I wanted to do. An hour later he came out of the bar, lit a smoke, and headed for his car. I got out quietly, set off at a fast pace to intercept him.

  I knocked him out, gagged him and put him in the trunk of my car. I drove Marty’s car to his house a few blocks away, went back and got mine, and headed to the canal banks.

  I remembered the canal banks from when we were kids, when we used to go there to “park” with the girls. The only girl I ever took was Angela, and we had a hell of a lot of fun. On warm, clear nights we’d sit outside the car and watch for boats coming up the canal. All the while we’d be snuggling and grabbing at each other. Those were the days when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, couldn’t live without each other’s touch. The cold nights were the best. When the moon was out and the stars lit the sky. Bitter, dry, cold. Thinking of that made me want to go home, get Angie, and drag her out here.

  I quickly shook those thoughts off and focused on what I had to do. I drove around a few times, making passes by where I had dug the grave, then onto all the co
nnecting roads. After parking, I walked the trails looking for signs that anyone might have been there since I left. It was almost dark, but I could see good enough. Nothing seemed disturbed. I drove around one more time, then headed toward the exit, parking on a side road behind some trees. I waited almost twenty minutes, in case someone had been there, then went back. Feeling safe now, I went to the spot and took Marty out of the trunk. His hands and feet were tied and his mouth gagged but he was awake. I put my gloves on so I didn’t leave prints.

  “I’m going to take the gag out, Marty, but if you make any noise I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

  He nodded vigorously. I blindfolded him, then removed the gag. He stood silent while I got a few things from the trunk. He kept turning his head, as if he were trying to figure out where he was, even though he couldn’t see.

  “If this is about Rosa, we can work that out.” His voice carried a plea for mercy.

  I felt like spitting on him; instead, I grabbed the cloth and gagged him again. Then I took the shovel and smashed his right knee. He tried screaming, but only a few grunts came out. He fell to his knees, then face down in the dirt, his hands still tied. “Don’t say her name or I’ll hit you again.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m going to remove your gag again. Don’t make me put it back in.” When I was done he started begging.

  “I never hurt her. I took care of her while you were in jail. I paid for her—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  While he was silent I uncovered the hole, a pit four feet deep, four feet long, and maybe thirty inches wide. At the bottom was the toolbox I took from a job site. I had drilled a hole in the top with a plastic tube running through so Marty could suck air. There was plenty enough space for him to sit curled up, even stretch his legs a little. Once I got it ready, I removed his blindfold.

  He blinked his eyes a few times, stared at me, then he must have seen the hole because he went blank, fear overtaking him. “What the fuck is this? What are you doing?” He tried getting up, but his feet and hands were tied.

  “I’m making sure you don’t ever hurt Rosa again.”

  He trembled and pissed himself. When he spoke his voice rattled. “Nicky, please don’t do this. Oh my God, please. I’ll do anything.”

  I grabbed his collar and dragged him closer, then stood him up and shoved him into the box. He fell awkwardly, crumbling into a heap, head on the ground. He didn’t start crying until I untied his hands and feet and started to close the lid.

  “Oh God no! Please? Mother of God, how can you do this?”

  “I tried to reason with you, Marty. I asked nicely. I threatened. Nothing worked.”

  A semblance of hope crept into his voice. “I’ll do anything. Tell me what I need to do, but for God’s sake don’t do this.”

  “I don’t want to do this, Marty, but I can’t trust you. People say anything when they’re about to die.”

  His tears came in waves. In between the fits of sobbing he prayed to God, and to the Holy Mother.

  “You should never have hit Rosa, and you shouldn’t have said what you did about Angela. Some things are unforgivable.” I went to the trunk, got two dozen bottles of water and tossed them in the box. “This will keep you alive for a while. You can go without food for a long time. The heat will be bad, but you’ll be far enough under the ground that it shouldn’t kill you.” I looked around, checking for people. “Use that tube to breathe. With any luck you’ll last a few weeks, but I doubt you’ll want to. Just in case, I’m leaving you with this knife.” It was a plain pocket knife. No way to trace it to me. “When you get tired of living, slice your wrist or your throat. Either one will do. Make sure you do it deep enough, though.”

  I closed the lid, his screams echoing in the little metal box. By the time I shoveled a foot or so of dirt on top, I could barely hear him. After that I put a couple of different sized cardboard boxes over the straw to muffle the sound so no one could hear him even if they ventured this close. Each of those had a few holes to let air in. I didn’t want him to die too soon.

  When I finished, I covered my tracks, walked back to the car and left. Rosa wouldn’t be bothered by him again.

  CHAPTER 11

  Questions

  Wilmington, Delaware

  Jimmy Borelli left Frankie’s house and made his way to Fourth Street. He parked across from Teddy’s then walked inside, scanning the place for familiar faces as he made his way toward the bar. He picked a seat near the end, about as quiet a spot as he could find, then signaled for Fred, who arrived a moment later with a cold beer.

  “Hey, Jimmy. Ain’t seen you in a while.”

  “That’s the way I like to keep it. Can’t let my beer-drinking side get the best of me.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Fred said, and handed him a beer. “What can I do for you? I heard you were asking questions.”

  “Trying to find out what happened last night with Bobby.” Borelli set his beer down and eyed Fred while pulling out his notepad. “You want to tell me about it.”

  Fred shook his head. “Not much to tell. Bobby came in and had a couple of beers, then Frankie showed up. They seemed friendly at first, Bobby even bought Frankie a couple of drinks. Then it turned ugly.”

  “What made it turn ugly?”

  “I don’t know. I was at the other end of the bar. I heard Frankie say something to Bobby, then Frankie picked up the mug and smashed it into Bobby’s head. After that…well there ain’t no better way to say it—Frankie beat the shit out of him.”

  Jimmy scribbled a few notes then looked up at Fred. “Who else was here?”

  “From what I hear you already talked to most of them. Billy Thompson was here with his wife. Millie had her favorite spot occupied. And Tim and Russ were sitting at the corner table with two girls I don’t know.” Fred raised his head, thinking. “Marty Ferris was sitting at the bar, and Jack McDermott was here, too. That’s all I can think of besides the ones I know for sure you already talked to.”

  “Anything else you can think of? Was Fusco here?”

  Fred backed up a step when Borelli mentioned Nicky’s name. “I don’t remember him being here.”

  Borelli slapped his pad on the bar. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “I must have missed him, Jimmy. You know how busy it gets in here.”

  Borelli let his glare linger, put his pad away, and dropped a five on the counter. “You get any memory, call me.”

  He stormed out of the bar, went across the street to his car, started it up and rolled down the windows. It was a nice day for windows down. He lit a smoke and scanned his list for what he hoped wasn’t there. No matter what he thought of Frankie, he was a cop, but the customers at Teddy’s had been unanimous—Frankie and Bobby got into a fight and Frankie beat him half to death, flooring him with a mug of beer then kicking the shit out of him before leaving. Everyone also agreed that Frankie left while Bobby was still lying on the floor bleeding, but…and this is a big one, he could have waited for him outside and finished the job later.

  And he could have had help from Fusco, Jimmy thought, not forgetting that Bobby had been part of the Woodside gang, the fight that put Nicky in prison.

  ***

  FOR ALMOST TEN MINUTES, Frankie put off telling his sister about her husband, trying to get the courage to face what he knew would be her wrath. He had his other sisters and his aunt sit down to tell his mother. Then he took Donna upstairs to a bedroom and closed the door.

  Frankie’s eyes must have given him away; he didn’t even get the words out before she started crying.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Why’d you bring me up here? Did something happen to Bobby? Is he all right?”

  Frankie took her in his arms. “He’s gone, Donna. Somebody killed him.” He helped her to the bed, sitting beside her as she wailed and pounded him with fists.

  “Somebody killed him? You know who it was. It was Nicky. He did it to get even for that fight.
”

  “Calm down. There’s no way Nicky did this.”

  Her voice raised an octave or two, loud enough to pierce his ears. “You didn’t see his eyes last night when he stared at Bobby. He scared me, Frankie. He even scared Bobby.” She covered her face with her hands. “I know he killed him. I know.”

  She went on hysterically for minutes, long enough and loud enough to draw relatives upstairs to help comfort her. Once several of them got there, Frankie excused himself. “I’ve got to go identify Bobby. I won’t be long.”

  That brought on a new wave of tears and continued sobbing. “Tell the cops who did it, Frankie. You tell them.”

  On his way out the front door, Frankie called Jimmy Borelli. He needed to get this over with.

  ***

  JIMMY’S CELL RANG AND he picked it up. “Hello.”

  “Jimmy, it’s Ed. Frankie Donovan said he’s coming down to ID the body.” Ed paused. “What the hell is that all about?”

  “We need to talk to Donovan. Meet me there. I’m on my way.”

  It took Jimmy ten minutes to get to the morgue, huddled at the corner of Front Street and Maryland Avenue. Sometimes the traffic proved unbearable, but today it was light, like a Sunday morning. Frankie got there shortly afterwards, parked the car and walked up to meet Jimmy. Borelli flipped his cigarette into the parking lot as Frankie approached.

  “Frankie, meet my partner, Ed Mrozinski.”

  Frankie shook his hand. “Got a brother named Paul?”

  Ed smiled. “Sure do. He’s in California now, married with three kids.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “For the kids or California.”

  “Both, I guess. Next time you talk to him, tell him I said hi.” Frankie turned to Jimmy. “So what’s the story. I know you didn’t bring me here to ID him, and sure as shit not to meet your partner.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “About the fight?”