He was getting ahead of himself. He needed to contact Anthony Webster—if the man was still alive—and find out what he remembered. And then Jack needed to talk to Henry.
11
Philly Gertz, the doorman, was at the Twenty-third Precinct the next morning to “look at a few pictures.” He actually made a better appearance in slacks and a sports shirt than he did in his doorman’s uniform. Nick set him up at a table with a cup of hot coffee and several thick photo books.
Nick made Philly feel like a million bucks. “If there’s anything you need, Philly, you just let me know. If any of these uniforms ask you what you’re doing here, you just tell them you’re working for Manhattan Homicide and give them my name.”
“Sure thing, Nick.”
Philly was a little freaked out by the station. People were coming and going, talking and shouting. He was in a big room with a bunch of desks. Uniforms and plainclothes cops were everywhere. There was a little cell in the middle of the room, and a guy in the cell was yelling at a plainclothes cop.
“I gotta go to the fuckin’ bathroom,” he was saying. Philly noticed there was no toilet in the cell.
“You shut the fuck up or I’ll come in there and shut you up. You understand?” said the cop, pointing his finger. The man did shut up but started holding his groin area and jumping up and down.
Nick seemed to have vanished. He had just walked out among the desks and cops and disappeared. Philly opened his photo book for the first time and started looking at female mug shots.
Half an hour later, Paul and David arrived at the station and were led to separate rooms where Nick and Tony took their sworn statements. There were no new revelations. Everything was totally consistent with what they had said the night before.
As Philly was finishing up his first book and starting to feel a little more comfortable, Nick returned with Paul and David and several more thick photo books.
“I’m going to slide Paul here next to you, Philly, so you’ll have some company. How’s that coffee? You need a refill?”
“No, I’m okay, Nick. Thanks,” said Philly.
“We still have to keep you two apart while you look at these pictures,” Nick told Paul and David, “because you can’t talk to each other about them. David, I’m going to set you up somewhere else and we’ll split the books up. If you see someone who looks familiar, just make a note of it and let me know. Then we’ll switch books. I want your identifications to be totally independent. You understand?” Both men nodded. Nick took David to another table on the other side of the room.
Two hours later, the three men still had not picked out anybody from the photo albums. “This is a little more than looking at a few pictures,” Philly whined to Nick.
“Well, Philly, if you want to be a star you’ve got to work hard,” Nick replied. Paul and David didn’t complain, but Nick could tell they were done looking at the books as well. He decided to change gears and bring the police sketch artist in to see if they could help him come up with a composite of the suspected murderer and the woman.
Later that day, Benny Avrile was hiding in the corner of his favorite bar, Tillie’s, having a glass of beer. It was his first venture into the public since the murder two days before. It had taken him a while to come to grips with what happened that night. He’d spent most of the last two days smoking a lot of weed to calm his nerves and doing a little coke to keep his spirits up. Benny lived on the street—actually in a vacant condemned building—in a very rough section of the South Bronx, but he had never even witnessed a shooting before. He’d never seen a dead person close up—at least not before the makeup, the powder, and the formaldehyde. Seeing Carl Robertson lying there dead had truly flipped him out.
The story had been all over the Post and the Daily News, but so far the police didn’t seem to have any leads. Benny was fervently praying that they would continue to remain in the dark.
Tillie’s was a small place and it was empty except for Tillie, who was working behind the bar. Tillie was half Puerto Rican and half Italian and about forty-five years old, and he enjoyed his own booze a little too much. “I can’t go to the party and not play,” he’d told Benny one night after they’d both had a few too many. Tillie’s compromise with his demons was to work the day shift. It was usually slow, and he had no desire to drink during the day.
Benny was not in a talkative mood, so Tillie stayed at the other end of the bar catching up on some paperwork, approaching only when Benny called for a refill. They were in their respective positions when she walked through the door.
Benny didn’t notice her right away—he was too busy praying to his beer. Tillie hardly noticed her either. He just walked over to where she’d sat down and waited for her order. There were no solicitous greetings in this place.
“Vodka and tonic,” she said, and Benny looked up. She had dark glasses on, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a tight white tank top with jeans and sneakers, but there was no mistaking—it was definitely her.
Benny looked back down at his beer and tried to appear as inconspicuous as possible—no easy feat in an empty bar. After Tillie put her drink on the bar, she picked it up and started walking toward him. Benny didn’t budge.
“How ya doin’!” he said, turning toward her. “I’m glad you finally showed up. You know, I still don’t know your name.”
“Never mind,” she said as she came closer.
Benny snuck a glance at Tillie to make sure he was watching and listening. Tillie had a sixth sense about trouble—you didn’t last as a barkeep in this neighborhood for long if you didn’t. Benny knew he had a gun under the bar as well.
“Pull up a stool,” he said. “You’re making me nervous standing over me like that.”
“You should be nervous.” He could tell she was angry. “You should be real nervous. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”
“This is it. I don’t have a place. It’s okay, though. Tillie’s almost deaf,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar. That would have been news to Tillie if he had heard the remark.
Benny figured this was the safest place to be at the moment. He and Tillie weren’t great friends, but he knew Tillie would blow this woman away in a heartbeat if she pulled a gun. She clearly wasn’t from the neighborhood.
“Where’s my fucking money?” she demanded.
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I’ve been saving it for you,” Benny said quickly. He wasn’t lying. He’d been afraid that she might find him, so he hadn’t spent her share yet.
“Give it to me.”
“It’s not here. It’s hidden. You wait here and I’ll go get it.”
She laughed, causing Tillie to look up.
“I’ve got a better idea,” she told him. “We’ll go together.”
Benny had known she’d say this, but he hadn’t yet worked up an appropriate response, so he decided to be truthful.
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I don’t want to get my head blown off.”
“I’m not the shooter in this group, Benny. Besides, I don’t have a gun. I’ll let you search me before we leave.”
As afraid as he was, Benny relished the thought of running his hands up and down that body, even if it was just to check for a weapon. And maybe, just maybe, she’d like it. It might have been wishful thinking, but Benny had always been an optimist.
“Well,” she interrupted his thoughts, “are we going to do this peacefully or not?”
“What if I say okay? What happens when I give you the money?”
“And my gun.”
“And your gun. What happens to me?”
“Nothing. You have my word. Why did you run off that night?”
“I got freaked out,” Benny said. “When the old man went down, I didn’t know what to do. I just ran and ran and ran. Then I hopped the subway and ended up back here.”
She looked around the bar uneasily. “Come on, search me,” she said. “We can talk while we go get my
money and my gun.”
She put her arms out and Benny patted her down. He ran his hands up the inside of her legs and checked her crotch, lingering a moment. She didn’t say anything. Then he ran them up the side of her torso and across her breasts, again taking his time. “If you don’t move those hands, I’m going to break your neck,” she said calmly. But she didn’t do anything to stop him. It was almost as if she was letting Benny have his feel.
“What?” Benny said as he withdrew his hands. “I had to make sure you’re not hiding anything in your bra.”
Benny saw Tillie watching the patdown with a puzzled expression on his face. He decided to confuse him a little more. “I left a ten-spot on the bar,” he said over his shoulder as the two of them walked out.
Benny led the woman down a side street to an abandoned building. He pushed open the front door, and they started climbing the stairs.
“I’m up on the fifth floor,” he said. “The rats don’t like to come up here and neither do the junkies. It’s too far a walk.”
Most of the walls on the fifth floor had been knocked out, but Benny had found one intact room. There was a mattress on the floor with sheets and covers on it, and there was even a dresser. Some dress clothes on hangers were dangling from a pipe—obviously Benny’s weekend attire.
Her eyes scanned the room as if she was looking for something. Benny thought it might be the john and felt the need to explain. “There’s a hotel at the end of the block. It’s a pretty seedy joint but I bring the desk guy some goodies once a week—things I find, you know? And he lets me use the facilities in the empty rooms. They’re never full so I don’t have a problem. I’ve even got electricity when I need it. I run a wire across the roof to the next building and hook up. I gotta be careful, though. I only do it when it’s cold—for my portable heater, you know?”
“I’m happy for you, Benny. Now where’s my money and my gun?”
“They’re here, don’t worry. I just thought maybe we could relax, you know?” Benny casually glanced over at his mattress.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said. “You’re lucky I’m letting you live.”
“Okay, okay.” Benny could tell from her eyes and the tone of her voice that her patience was wearing thin. He walked to the far end of the room to a bare brick wall and started working one of the bricks until it came loose. He reached into the wall and pulled out a wad of bills and the gun. He put the brick back and walked over to where she was standing and handed her the money and the gun.
She paused for a moment as she looked down at the gun, then she handed it back to him. “Keep it,” she said. “You may need it—especially in this neighborhood.”
Benny didn’t want the gun but he never turned anything down. He could sell it down the road if he needed to.
“Tell me something,” she asked as she stashed the money in her overcoat. “Why did you shoot the old man?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” said Benny, his words spilling out. “I haven’t thought about it. I put it out of my mind. I don’t even remember it.” He closed his eyes as he spoke.
“I told you not to shoot. I told you he’d give you the money.”
Benny put his hands over his ears. “I know, I know. I was so fucking high I don’t even remember what I did. You shouldn’t have given me a gun with a hair trigger. And that wasn’t coke you gave me either because I didn’t come down for two days.”
“Don’t blame your fuckups on me,” she said.
“I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying.”
“Yeah, well, don’t say any more. This is the end of our brief love affair. When I walk out of this room you and I are finished. Got it?”
“Got it.” As hot as she was, he had no desire to ever set eyes on her again.
He watched her as she walked down the stairs. Something was bothering him. He had only given her five thousand dollars—instead of the seven she’d insisted on—and she hadn’t checked the amount.
Why didn’t she count the money? he asked himself. And why did she decide to leave the gun with me?
12
New York City, September 1966
Johnny was bigger, stronger, and faster when the next football season rolled around. He worked out for weeks before the start of practice; he even stopped smoking. He took his cue on that from Frankie, who was one of the few guys in the neighborhood who didn’t smoke. Johnny hoped like hell Frankie didn’t stop drinking beer.
Ever since he’d become a member of the Lexingtons, his status in the neighborhood had changed. Johnny wasn’t just an obscure punk anymore—he was one of the guys. And he was part of everything they did, whether it was playing cards at Frankie’s on Friday night, going to Rockaway Beach for the weekend during the summer, or stealing cases of beer from the basement of Fellino’s Market—Mikey had figured out a way to slip through the basement bars. One night they took two cases out and stored them up at Frankie’s apartment.
The next day Sonny Fellino, the owner’s son, a twenty-something-year-old who was big and tough as nails, lined four of them up against the wall in front of the store and grilled them—Johnny and Mikey, Norman Martin and Frankie. Sonny was sure they were the thieves.
“You guys are gonna tell me who did it!” Sonny was yelling at the top of his lungs. “And if it was one of youse and you tell me right now, I’ll go easy on you.”
Nobody believed a word of it. Sonny was a bully. He wore a tight white T-shirt with his Marlboros stuck inside his rolled-up right sleeve. His hair was greased up and combed straight back except for the front, which fell over into his eyes. Admitting to anything was going to get you beaten unmercifully, and then you’d become Sonny’s slave at Fellino’s until he decided the debt had been paid.
They all held tough, however, and Sonny let them go—all except Johnny. Sonny knew he’d never get anything out of Frankie. Hell, Frankie might give him a run for his money if he tried. Same with Mikey—he was young, but he had a reputation of never backing down from anyone. Norman had two older brothers, and Sonny did not want to mess with them. That left Johnny—the weak link.
“C’mere, Johnny, I wanna talk to you,” Sonny said as he motioned him to come away from the wall. Johnny watched the others walk away, each one catching his eye and giving him a look that told him what would happen if he ever talked. He was between a rock and a hard place. He decided he needed to give Sonny something.
“You know who did it, don’t you, Johnny?” Sonny said, his left arm around Johnny’s shoulder. He was so close Johnny could smell his body odor. Johnny knew he would have to make his story good.
“Yeah, I do, Sonny. I mean, I wasn’t involved last night or nothing. Neither were the other guys. I should have told you this when it happened. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
“Told me what?” Sonny asked impatiently. He was in the mood to beat somebody’s ass, not to talk.
“I saw Billy Reynolds checking out your cellar the other day.”
Johnny instinctively knew that a good story had to have some truth to it, and he had come up with a beauty. Billy Reynolds was the local junkie. Heroin had not yet hit the neighborhood like it eventually would, and Billy stuck out like a sore thumb.
It was not uncommon to see Billy, wild-eyed, walking down the street in the middle of the day carrying a TV he’d stolen or a window fan he’d probably taken right out of somebody’s window. Billy used to go to the local pizza shop on Lexington Avenue, pull wads of jewelry out of his pockets that he’d stolen from who knows where, and try to sell it to Rocco, the owner. Rocco would take a piece of jewelry and ask Billy how much, Billy would start at some outrageous price, and Rocco would have him down to pennies in minutes. Johnny and Mikey were often there to witness the negotiation. It was fun to watch, but it was sad too. Billy stole from the neighborhood, and Rocco and others stole from Billy.
One of those “others” was Sonny. Billy often included Fellino’s on his rounds to sell his goods, and Sonny had bought a TV from him
once, among other things. Johnny’s story had struck just the right note of believability with Sonny.
“That was some quick thinking,” Frankie told Johnny after he’d described what happened. “Mikey, you were right. Johnny is the Mayor of Lexington Avenue. A mayor’s gotta think on his feet. Only a mayor could come up with a tale like that.”
Johnny and Mikey had recently secured jobs as ushers at St. Francis, the local Catholic Church. Father Burke, the pastor, had dubbed Mikey the Mayor of Lexington Avenue because, as he told Mikey’s mother, Mikey knew more people than he did, even though he had the pulpit. Mikey, in turn, had passed the moniker on to Johnny, telling him that a mayor was smart and knew how to run things and that the description fit Johnny more than himself. The nickname hadn’t caught on in the neighborhood yet. Johnny’s story to Sonny gave it fresh legs.
Something else happened that third week of practice that changed the course of the season. Some boys from north of the unofficial Ninety-sixth Street boundary line came to join the team. There were eight of them: one white guy, one Puerto Rican, and six blacks.
Johnny never knew for sure how they ever found out there was a team called the Lexingtons that practiced in Central Park, but he had his suspicions. Frankie O’Connor lived in that neighborhood, and Frankie made a point of walking up and shaking hands with each one of these new guys. It was a message to everybody else. The coach had to be in on it, too, because the new guys were on the team from the moment they arrived.
Johnny would soon find out why.
13
Anthony Webster, the prosecutor’s investigator in Henry Wilson’s case, did not live in Lake City—as Ted Griffin had surmised—but in Live Oak, a small community in north central Florida that was in the same general vicinity as Lake City. Jack figured that was probably the story of Ted Griffin’s life: he got things almost right.
The Law of Second Chances Page 7
