A MURDER ON WALL STREET: A Joey Mancuso, Father O'Brian Crime Mystery

by Owen Parr

  Father Dom came to me behind the bar. “Joey, I’m going to have to leave soon.” “Don’t leave yet. This lady Kathy doesn’t really know me, and it’s not likely she’ll open up to me without you here. You know what I mean?”

  “I hear you, but I can’t stay much longer.” “Give it a few minutes. By the way, you never shared your observations of the partners earlier today. Any thoughts?”

  “In fact, I do have some thoughts, and after hearing Marcy’s comments on the Ponzi schemes, I’ve been able to put a few things together.”

  “Like what?” “I think these guys were not being truthful with me. I mean, they talked a good game, but their body language was all wrong.”

  “You an expert on body language now?” “Not an expert, but there are things you learn if you’re paying attention after a while. And these guys had some ‘tells’ that were somewhat obvious.”

  “Give me the short version,” I said, hearing the traffic and looking at the front door. Our second shift of patrons were starting to come in.

  “They’re going to collect on an insurance policy they had on Parker, for one thing.”

  “There’s a motive. Go on.” “You mentioned before that Melody had spoken to one of the partners, right? Because both said they’d never met her.”

  “Interesting, because Melody told me she had spoken to Evans, who called her on the phone and had met her.”

  “About what?” Dom asked. “She was about to fall for the old line. Evans told her he knew an off-Broadway producer who was interested in fresh new faces and maybe he could hook her up with him. Of course, he had another hooking in mind.”

  “Is that another motive? Did he want Melody for himself?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so, although men have killed for uglier women.” “Both knew of Parker’s ongoing affair with Melody, whom they refer to as ‘Marilyn.’ They said that Parker would leave them one man short when they played racquetball.”

  I thought for a second. “They had Parker by the balls. Why can’t guys keep their affairs to themselves? They need to show their peeps they are masters of the game, I guess.”

  “I’m glad you answered your own question, ‘cause I have no clue.”

  “What else you got?” I asked. “Parker had earned a partnership due to his new account, which means he was going to get a piece of the firm. Maybe they didn’t feel like giving up a piece. And now, they have a chance to keep his clients for themselves.”

  “Another motive. But aren’t clients likely to move to another firm, since Parker isn’t there to service their accounts?”

  “Keep in mind that Parker acted mostly as an asset gatherer for the firm. He wasn’t responsible for managing the investments. Clients have to be happy with the incredible returns the partners produced for them. It’s not likely they’ll abandon Evans and Albert.”

  “But the returns they’ve been getting are going down to four percent. Some clients may leave because of that.”

  “That’s another thing.”

  “What other thing?” I queried.

  “Why are the returns going down? If they’re running a scheme, maybe the cash flow isn’t coming in as usual, and they have to lower the cash out.”

  I glanced around the pub for a Wall Streeter amongst the patrons and spotted a fellow who was friendly and a good customer. I called out to him using his preferred single-malt Scotch drink order, “Oban, can I talk to you for a second?”

  “What’s up, Joey, Father?” Oban replied. “My brother and I are talking investments here. Is it feasible for an investment to return twelve percent for the last seven years?” I asked.

  “Wow, that would have been fantastic. Last year, the market was down a bit, and this year, so far, it’s up about four percent. You can’t get a steady return like that unless you’re using the capital invested to pay out,” Oban said.

  I exchanged glances with Dom, then turned back to Oban, and retorted, “Right? You have to get what the market gives you.”

  Oban shook his empty drink glass, rattling the ice cubes. “You could set the payout at twelve percent per year, but, if the market is not keeping up with your cash flow out, then you run the risk of paying out your own capital. What kind of investments are you guys in?”

  “It’s not us,” Father Dom replied. “It’s a friend, and they’re in alternative investments, offshore certificate of deposits, and some other illiquid stuff. Here, let me refill your drink.” Father Dom gave him an extremely generous pour.

  “Thanks, brother, I mean, Father. I would stay away from offshore CDs, man. You never know who’s backing that, and there’s no government insurance, unless you trust some banana government, right?” Oban said, as he took a sip of his newly refreshed drink.

  “Let me ask you something else,” I said. “Ask away, Joey,” replied Oban.

  “What do hedge funds charge for their services?” Oban had had a few Oban’s already, and he was having trouble speaking clearly, but he replied, “Ah, a lot man, a lot. Normally, they charge a fee for managing the funds, anywhere between one and three percent. But then—and here’s the best part—if there’s a profit, they get about ten to twenty percent of that. Big bucks, man, big bucks.”

  “Thank you. Are you driving home?” “No, we have a designated driver, you know? See that guy there with the virgin bloody Mary? He lost; he made less commission than the rest of us today. Dumb fuck. He gets to drive.”

  “Good, good. Thanks,” Father Dom said. “Any time, guys, and if you have some bucks to invest, let’s talk about it, okay?”

  I walked Oban back to his table.

  A couple ran in the bar screaming, “Call 911; there’s been an accident in the corner! Hurry!” Almost everyone reached for their cell phones and began dialing. Dom’s face showed consternation; we both clearly had a bad feeling about this. Running out together, we reached the scene of the accident. We could see a person lying on the sidewalk, but nothing else. Neither the police nor the emergency responders had arrived yet.

  “What happened?” I asked the crowd that had gathered. “Man, it was a hit and run,” someone replied. “Did anyone see anything?” I asked.

  “This SUV climbed onto the sidewalk and ran this lady over. Then they sped up and left. Never even stopped,” another person added.

  As we got closer, Dom said, “Shit, it’s Kathy.” CHAPTER NINE Kathy was unconscious at the scene. What a fucking waste—such a nice young lady, I said to myself. Brother Dom appeared devastated; he was sure it wasn’t an accident. No one had gotten a plate number or a description of the driver. It had all happened so fast.

  “She’s not dead, Father,” I said, trying to console him.

  “Did you see her body? My God, she has tire tracks on her face.” Marcy had arrived at the bar for our dinner date and walked over to the scene of the accident, or make that the scene of the crime. “What just happened here?”

  I replied, “It was a young lady who worked at Evans and Albert. Kathy is her name.”

  Marcy asked, “Coincidence?” After about twenty minutes, we began to walk back to the bar as the rescue vehicle pulled out. I was walking besides Dom as he prayed, and I replied, “We don’t think so. She was coming over to talk to Dom. We think she had some information on the Parker jump or something else.”

  “So, you think this was an attempted murder to prevent her from speaking?”

  “I don’t know, but what a coincidence, right?” Father Dom raised his head and added, “I don’t believe in coincidences. This was premeditated. They must have seen her speaking to me at the office.”

  “What do we do?” I asked.

  Marcy thought for a moment. “We have no proof of anything. We have a suicide that could be a murder, and we have a hit and run that could be an attempted murder. It’s all circumstantial.”

  “We need to put this shit together. We can’t let whoever get away with this, no fucking way,” I said, in a bit of a rage.

  “I need to get back to the r
ectory,” Father Dom said.

  “I’ll drive you, Father,” Marcy said.

  “This kind of throws a cold bucket of water on our date, doesn’t it?” I asked, facing Marcy. “Let’s drive Father back to Brooklyn. We can still have dinner after we drop him off. Unless you want to join us, Father?”

  Somewhat aloof, Dom replied, “No, you guys go ahead and have your dinner. I need to reflect and pray for this young lady. We’ll meet up tomorrow and discuss everything.”

  After letting everyone know at the bar we were off, we got into Marcy’s car. Mr. Pat was always at the ready. After all, he had been running the bar long before we took over. The ride to Saint Helen’s was quiet; no one was in a mood to talk much. Traffic was its usual craziness going across the Brooklyn Bridge. Arriving at the rectory, we began saying our goodnights to Father Dom.

  “I can’t help but think it my fault that this young lady might die,” Dom said. “Dom, don’t even go there. You had nothing to do with this. If she dies, it was the perps that did it. They would have done it anyway, if they thought she could reveal some information detrimental to them. You can’t blame yourself for this,” I replied.

  Marcy added, “Father, Joey is right. If she knew anything, and they feared she would speak, it was just a matter of time. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Dom, “I just feel—if she hadn’t been coming to talk to me…” his voice trailed off. “Brother, say your prayers, and don’t blame yourself. Trust me, you had nothing to do with this,” I said, getting out of the car and giving him a hug. “She may still recover from this and be able to shed some light on the matter.”

  “Have a good night, Marcy, and thank you for the ride.”

  “You take care, Father, we’ll put the pieces together tomorrow,” she replied.

  We drove off, leaving Father Dom to his own thoughts.

  “I don’t know if we can put the pieces together by tomorrow, do you?”

  Marcy replied, “I have more information on the partners I’ll share with you. Should we find a place to eat?” “Sure, how about Vinnie’s?”

  “Italian again? Don’t you get tired of Italian food?” “Fine, what do you want?”

  “How about Aroma’s, just up the street?” “Don’t you get tired of Cuban food?”

  “Touché, Joey, touché.”

  “Aroma’s is fine. I’ll have their meatballs.”

  “Meatballs with white rice and black beans, they don’t have marinara sauce,” she said, laughing.

  “Whatever.” We drove for a few blocks to her favorite place, naturally, and searched for a table to sit down. The smell of garlic, fried plantains, and Cuban coffee all melted together into the aroma of Cuba or maybe Little Havana in Miami. It was a quaint little place with white tablecloths, Cubantiled floors, oil, vinegar, and a little vase with a white flower on each table. Family operated since 1975 by the Garcia’s.

  “Señorita Marcela, bienvenida,” said Camilo, the proprietor. “Sit at any table, please.”

  “Saludos Camilo. ¿Como esta, Marcia?”

  “In the kitchen. She come out and say hello in a moment,” Camilo replied.

  “Gracias,” Marcy said. We sat down and I moved things around: the salt and pepper shakers, the oil and vinegar bottles, and the little vase with the flower.

  “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Everywhere we go, you have to move everything around. No matter what’s on the table, you have to rearrange it.”

  “Never noticed that. What else did you find out?” “You’re a control freak.”

  “Why, because I move things around?”

  “I did some more digging and—” she started to say.

  “Wait, wait,” I interrupted, “I’m a control freak? What about when you’re in bed?”

  “What about when I’m in bed?”

  “You always have to be on the right side of the bed. You need to have the pillows in a certain way and—” Now she interrupted, “And I always start foreplay with a—” she paused.

  “Okay, never mind,” I said, lowering my head, a little embarrassed.

  “You don’t mind me being in control then, do you?” I glanced down, and asked, “So, what else did you find?” She laughed. “Right. The partners seem to have a cash crunch at the moment. They’re tapped out on their credit line for the firm. Evans is behind on his mortgage two months, and Albert had his azure two-door Bentley convertible repossessed last week.”

  “No shit. You’d never know from what Father Dom told me about their offices.” “I think everything there is falling apart. They’ve made some bets on the markets that have turned upside down on them. They invested in options, and they went against them, big time.”

  “I don’t know what options are, but I’ll take your word for it.” Marcia came out of the kitchen and approached our table as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Marcelita, mi amor, ¿Como estas?”

  “Bien gracias ¿Y Usted?”

  “Working hard, my love. Who is this statue of a man?” She asked in her accented English, pointing at me. “Este es mi amigo, Joey,” Marcy said, “Stand up and say hello to Marcia,” she ordered me.

  “Hay, come se parece a Charlie Bronson, mi actor favorito,” Marcia said.

  I got up, and Marcia gave me a kiss on the cheek. “It’s a pleasure, Señora,” I replied.

  “Yes, yes, un placer. Cuídela, es como mi hija,” Marcia said, looking at me.

  “Sí, sí,” I replied, smiling back, without a clue about what I had agreed to.

  Marcia took away our menus. “No menu, I bring food,” she said.

  There went my meatballs, I thought.

  “El quería albóndigas,” Marcy said to Marcia. “¿Albóndigas? No, no meatballs,” Marcia replied. Marcia went back to the kitchen, and I needed a rapid translation of what had transpired. “What just happened here?”

  Marcy sat down, laughing and enjoying the moment. “First, no meatballs for you.” “Why?”

  “She wants to bring you something else. It will be fine. Then, she said you have to take care of me, ‘cause I’m like a daughter to her. Also, you resemble her favorite actor, Charles Bronson.”

  “Tell her Bronson liked meatballs.”

  Marcy laughed as she took a sip of the sangria Camilo had brought to our table. I started to eat some hot Cuban bread with too much butter, which was delicious. “Is amigo how you say ‘boyfriend’?”

  “Hah, no. It’s the word for ‘friend.’ Novio is ‘boyfriend.’” “I am not your novio?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  I began rearranging the breadbasket and the sangria on the table. “To be continued, I guess,” said Marcy. “Back to the story. The Department of Justice just asked us, our whitecollar unit at the FBI, to investigate possible insider trading transactions the partners may have been involved in.”

  “This is getting interesting. So, you’re getting involved?” “I wasn’t assigned to this particular investigation, but I’m in. I told my boss I had some information, and she agreed.”

  “That’s great. So, what’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to talk to the partners tomorrow morning.” “Are they expecting you?”

  “The FBI doesn’t make appointments.”

  “Oh, my God, what is that on that plate coming over here?” I said, as a plate of something fried and twice as big as the plate was placed in front of me.

  “That’s palomilla empanizada,” Marcy replied, smiling at the waitress.

  “If you say so. It resembles a chicken-fried steak,” I replied, still trying to figure out how to start on this thing. “Similar, but it’s a breaded beefsteak instead of chicken.”

  “There is no chicken in a chicken-fried steak,” I cracked, smiling.

  “Why call it that?” Marcy asked.

  “Have no clue. But, it’s a cubed beefsteak breaded and pan fried.” “It looks good.”

 
“It’s the whole damn cow, breaded!”

  “You are so vulgar. Eat it; it’s great.”

  Just as I was planning my attack, the waitress brought me another plate full of aromatic white rice with tiny little pieces of pork bellies and garlic over the rice, and a big-ass bowl of black beans that had its own incredible bouquet.

  “Did you tell Marcia to kill me or something?” I asked. “Leave room for the guayaba y queso.” “I don’t know if I’ll be able to have sex after this meal,” I said, as another plate of fried plantains was put on the table.

  “And who were you planning on having sex with tonight?” Marcy snapped, as she prepared to eat her own huge meal of what she called arroz con pollo. It had a delicious, distinct fragrance. I could smell the cumin. Yellow rice and chicken, she had translated for me.

  “I thought we would—” I stopped. “No? You didn’t have the same idea?” “You have to make up your mind, amigo. If you want a relationship, it has to be monogamous. I don’t have time for an open relationship. My clock is ticking, and it’s time for me to settle on someone who’s serious.”

  “If you’ve got some ticking going on, you need to have it checked by a doctor.”

  “You are such an idiot.”

  “Who broke up our serious relationship before, amiga?”

  “I had a reason. I was petrified of you working on the force and not coming home one night.”

  “You work in law enforcement; what’s the difference?”

  “I’m working white-collar crimes. They usually don’t shoot at you.”

  “Tell that to Parker and Kathy,” I said, immediately regretting my statement.

  “Fine, you made your point. Listen, my dad died in Vietnam, and I can never forget my mother’s suffering. I’ve always had that in the back of my mind. And when my brother Alberto was deployed to Iraq, the waiting and praying began all over again. One whole year, both mom and I prayed and worried. Fortunately, he came back to us in one piece.”