The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “Okay. Read it to me once more.”

  She read it again.

  “Did you write it down when you heard it?” Blasi asked.

  “No. I had to wait about ten minutes. But my memory is close to photographic, as you well know.”

  “And you came to me because…?”

  “I want to phone an anonymous tip about what the judge said to the Brooklyn D.A.’s office. And I’m wondering if they’d take me seriously without further facts or revealing where I overheard it.”

  Blasi spread his hands. “Based on what you wrote down? No. They wouldn’t take much action. If at all. About the only way you could get the D.A. to move on it would be to go to the Brooklyn District Court and ask this judge’s clerk if you could see his docket. If the name Silverstein is on it, well, then, you might get the D.A.’s attention.” Blasi paused. “But let me caution you about doing that. If this judge is corrupt, it’s not outside the realm of possibility his clerk is, too. It’s difficult for a judge to fix a case if he has an honest clerk.”

  “So you’re saying I could be putting myself at risk?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I am saying.”

  Marla frowned. “Man, I really want to nail this guy. There’s got to be some way of doing it without putting myself in danger.”

  Blasi took a minute to think about this. “Well, you could tell the clerk you’re a law student at Columbia doing a school paper on whether Brooklyn judges are overloaded with cases. Maybe if you show him your college ID, the clerk might not get suspicious.”

  Blasi stood up. “Soda?”

  “Diet, if you have it.”

  The professor walked to a mini-refrigerator, brought back two Diet Cokes, handed one to her, set the other on his desk, and sat back down. Clasping his hands in front of him, he brought them under his chin and stared at her a minute before speaking.

  “The best lawyers, Marla, are the ones who can distance themselves from their cases and not let emotion cloud reason.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? What about what you told me happened to your father?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, it was,” Blasi said. “But I’m still wondering if your father’s death is influencing you in this matter with the judge.”

  “I can assure you, professor—”

  He cut her off. “Let me finish. Let’s take a closer look at the evidence before us. One, you chose a thesis about judicial corruption in Brooklyn. Two, when you overhear what might be a judge talking about a bribe, you plow right in without any thought of the possible consequences to yourself. And three? My summation for the jury would be that this smacks of a lawyer on a mission related to her father’s death.”

  At this, Marla bristled. “I’m not on a mission,” she said. “I just want to do the right thing.”

  Blasi unfolded his hands, placed them flat on his desk, and leaned forward.

  “You came for my advice,” he said. “So here it is. I strongly suggest you don’t pursue this. It’s fraught with danger.” He leaned back. “However, if you do decide to continue, please keep me in the loop about what you’re doing. I’d especially be interested in your impression of the clerk’s face after you asked to see the judge’s docket. Would you do that for me?”

  “If I proceed on this, yes, I will make sure that I consult with you.” Marla stood up. “Thanks for taking the time to speak with me. I’ll think this through carefully and not make a rash decision.”

  “Good. Now get along before you’re late for your next class. Professor Bahrenburg is not as tolerant as I am with tardy students.”

  Chapter 13

  As promised, Boff took Cullen and Bellucci to lunch at their favorite place, Cheffy’s Jamaican Cuisine, a no-frills restaurant in Crown Heights the size of a diner. They each ordered cow-foot and pigeon peas soup to start. At Cheffy’s recommendation, they all also went for the day’s special, a jerk-rubbed whole mackerel sautéed in a hot vinegar sauce.

  After the soup arrived, Boff said, “Mikey, I want to meet your promoter, Gary Shaw.”

  “No problem.” Putting his soup spoon down, Bellucci pulled out his phone and speed dialed. “Larry, this is Mikey. Is the boss there?”

  Whatever Larry said, it made him laugh. “Which one? ... Okay, thanks. By the way, I really liked that press release you wrote about me. It got good play on the Internet.”

  After hanging up and putting his phone away, he looked at Boff. “That was Gary’s publicist. He said the boss was working out of his second office today.” He laughed again. “Meaning, anywhere they have a Dunkin’ Donuts.”

  “Well, there are a lot of those around,” Boff said.

  “Yeah, there are. But…there’s only one Dunkin’ Donuts where Gary has a table reserved for him twenty-four/seven.”

  Because Shaw lived in Wayne, New Jersey, about thirty miles from New York, Boff used MapQuest to find the Dunkin’ Donuts Mikey said Shaw was at. It was inside a Stop & Shop supermarket just a mile from the promoter’s home.

  “Gary’s easy to spot,” Bellucci said as they walked through the store. “He’ll be the guy wearing the nylon sweat suit with one hand holding a donut, the other holding a phone to his ear. That’s all Gary wears. Sweat suits. He must have, like, dozens of ’em. I’ve never see him in the same one twice.”

  They found Shaw as advertised. He was a heavyset man in his fifties with a thick mane of silver hair and a rosy complexion. He used his donut hand to wave them over to his table while he continued talking on the phone.

  “You know what I am, Dan?” Shaw was saying into the phone as they sat down. “I’m a farm system for Oscar de la Hoya and Golden Boy Promotions. I develop the kids from scratch, make them contenders and champions, and then Oscar steals them from me when they become free agents. And do you know why he does that? Because Oscar doesn’t have a clue how to develop a prospect. Zippo. … Damn right, you can quote me on that.”

  Hanging up, he smiled at Bellucci. “Good ta see you, Mikey.” Putting his donut down, the promoter rubbed the powdered sugar off on his pants and shook Mikey’s hand. “So. What brings you to my humble abode?”

  Bellucci pointed to Boff. “The big guy here is Frank Boff, a private investigator who’s looking into Rafael’s murder.” He pointed to Cullen. “The ugly guy here is—”

  “No introductions necessary,” Shaw said. “Danny Cullen, I’ve had my eye on you from the time you turned pro. I was just getting ready to sign you when Lou DiBella beat me to the punch. I was a big fan of your father’s. He’s the one that inspired me to get into boxing.”

  After Shaw shook hands with Boff and Cullen, he turned back to his boxer. “Mikey, go order a box of donuts and four coffees,” he said. “Tell Amy—she’s the gal at the counter—to put it on my tab.” Then he turned to Boff. “I may be the only person in America who has a running tab at a Dunkin’ Donuts.” He chuckled at his own joke. “So, Frank, do you know what happens if I don’t come in here for three straight days? The manager files a missing person’s report with the cops. I shit you not.”

  Before Bellucci could get away, Shaw grabbed his arm. “I recommend the Bavarian Kreme, chocolate and vanilla Kreme-filled, and Boston Kreme. They’re the thoroughbreds.” He brandished the donut he was eating. “That being said, I’m also a sucker for the old standby. The jelly. But it’s messy. My wife really gets on me when I come home from work with jelly stains on my clothes.”

  With a nod, Bellucci walked over to the counter to order.

  Shaw put down his donut, his face suddenly grim. “Frank, when I heard Rafael was killed, it tore me up. As Mikey probably told you, I break the number one rule for promoters. I fall in love with my fighters.”

  Boff nodded. “Gary, did you have any inkling Rafael may have gotten into some kind of trouble?”

  The promoter shook his head. “None whatsoever. If I had, I woulda stepped in to help him.”

  When Bellucci returned with a box of donuts
and four coffees and set them down, Shaw polished off the last of his jelly donut, then lifted the box’s lid and peeked inside. “Ahhh….I see you picked a couple of chocolate glazed.” He reached inside. “Mind if I have one?”

  “Hey, you’re paying for it,” Bellucci said.

  “In more ways than one.” Shaw patted his ample belly. Then he snared the glazed donut and took a healthy bite.

  Boff grabbed a Boston Kreme, Bellucci, a jelly, and weight-conscious Cullen could only stare longingly at the box. “Gary,” he said, “I don’t suppose they have a diet donut. Do they?”

  Shaw shrugged. “If they do, I never heard of it. And trust me. I can recite all fifty-two varieties. Why don’t you try the reduced-fat blueberry muffin? Me? I wouldn’t be caught dead eating one, but you might like it.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Boff put his donut down. It was time to talk about something besides donuts. “My preliminary investigation has raised the possibility that Rafael might’ve led something of a night life. The kind that could’ve gotten him into trouble. Did you know about this?”

  Shaw shook his head. “If he did, he hid it well from me.”

  Boff sipped some coffee. “After his fight at the Garden, he told his wife he was going to meet with you. He said you’d asked him to. Do you know why he said that?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I’m curious about how you got connected with Rafael.”

  Before replying, Shaw finished off his donut, grabbed a Bavarian Kreme from the box, and held it up for display. “This little baby is my last of the day,” he said. “I have a self-imposed limit. I don’t want to be a hog.”

  Cullen looked up. “What’s your limit?”

  “A baker’s dozen.”

  “Man, if I ate thirteen donuts a day, I’d have to fight as a heavyweight. A really heavy heavyweight.”

  Shaw smiled. “Anyway, Frank, to answer your question, I’ve always gotten my Cuban defectors from Felix Padron. Guy who runs a second-tier promotional company based in Miami. If Felix sends me a fighter, I go partners with him. In this case, Rafael was brought to me by a man named Alberto Mantilla, whose father owns one of the largest Cuban banks in Miami. Alberto helped Rafael defect.”

  “How’d he do that?” Boff asked.

  “The way it worked was, Rafael was fighting in a tournament in Naples, so Mantilla rented a motor boat and took it out half a mile from the beach. After finishing his training, Rafael went to the beach to swim. He saw Mantilla’s boat arrive at the prearranged time and swam toward it. Mantilla steered to him, picked him up, and took him to Spain, where he got a visa for Rafael from the U.S. Consulate in Barcelona. Then he brought him to Miami.”

  Shaw paused to polish off his donut, reached automatically for another one before remembering his self-imposed limit, and pulled his hand back.

  “Getting back to Rafael’s defection,” he said, “Mantilla organized a two-pronged operation. On the same day Rafael defected, Mantilla’s banker father used his connections in Cuba to help get the boxer’s wife, her father, and their daughter off the island before Raul learned what Rafael had done.”

  “Did you know Mantilla before he came to you with Rafael?” Boff said.

  “No. Mantilla went to Felix and asked him to recommend an American promoter, and Felix sent him to me.”

  “Why’d Mantilla help him defect?”

  “What Felix told me is that several years back, Rafael’s father played a big role in getting the entire Mantilla family out of Cuba. So when Rafael contacted Mantilla about defecting—”

  “—Mantilla wanted to repay a debt,” Boff said.

  “Exactly.”

  “And what about McAlary? How’d he come into play?”

  “My recommendation. I thought Ryan was a good fit for Rafael because he won an Olympic silver medal for Ireland and knew how to make the adjustment from the amateur style to the pro style.” The promoter checked his watch. “I’ve got to shove off,” he said, standing up.”

  “One last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you know where I can find Mantilla?”

  In reply, Shaw took out his wallet, extracted a card, and handed it to Boff. “That’s Mantilla’s business address,” he said. “He owns a restaurant near the Brooklyn District Courthouse. Giancarlo’s. A lot of judges, lawyers, and cops go in there.”

  Then the promoter turned to Bellucci. “I’ve got a fight I’m lining up for you with a guy on the verge of breaking into the top ten. If you beat him, as I know you will, HBO has told me they’ll put you on Boxing After Dark.”

  “Word!” Bellucci stood up and high-fived Shaw.

  “Well,” the promoter said, “I gotta go pay my tab.”

  “Before you go, Gary,” Bellucci said, “There’s a question I’ve always wanted to ask you. You go to press conferences and fights wearing a sweat suit, but I’ve never seen you in the same one twice. How many of those things do you got?”

  Shaw smiled. “That’s a state secret. I love sweats. Hell, I’d wear one to bed instead of pajamas, but my wife said if I did, she’d divorce me.”

  Chapter 14

  After dropping the boxers back at the gym, Boff drove to Giancarlo’s, the Italian restaurant a half block from the Kings County Courthouse that Shaw had directed him to. Since Mantilla was Cuban, Boff assumed the previous owner had been Italian. Mantilla had undoubtedly kept the name because he didn’t want to mess with a winning formula. The menu in the front window, however, included a small list of Cuban specialties.

  Boff walked inside and waited at the hostess’s station. The restaurant was crowded, the air fragrant with garlic, the conversation lively. He noticed that many of the waiters were in their forties and fifties. Some were older. No doubt these were holdovers from the previous ownership. Waiters who knew regular patrons by their first names.

  A very attractive young woman walked up to him with a menu.

  “Hi, I’m Daysi.”

  “Daysi, My name is Frank Boff. I called earlier to set up a meeting with Mr. Mantilla.”

  “Yes. I’ll get him for you.”

  As Daysi walked across the dining room and disappeared through a door in the back, Boff continued to survey the restaurant. He recognized a couple lawyers he had worked for and nodded to them. Then a deputy police chief he had once locked horns with shot him a look that wasn’t pleasant.

  When Daysi returned, she was accompanied by a slender man in his thirties who had a gaunt face and slicked-back dark hair.

  “Mr. Boff, I’m Alberto Mantilla. Let’s take a table.”

  Mantilla was dressed Caribbean style, with a three-button linen sports blazer, a palm tree print shirt, and linen drawstring pants. He led Boff to a small table near the back where there were fewer people eating and it was quieter.

  “Are you hungry?” Mantilla said as they sat down.

  “Always am.”

  “What would you like?”

  “A bowl of soup and some coffee would hit the spot.”

  Mantilla waved over a silver-haired waitress. “Karin, would you please bring us two bowls of ajiaco, a seltzer with lime, and a coffee.”

  “Cream, no sugar,” Boff added.

  “And, Karin, I’ll take my soup with Sudden Death.”

  The woman scurried off with their order.

  “What’s Sudden Death?” Boff asked.

  “It’s a hot sauce with habanero pods, cayenne chilies, pure pepper resin, clover honey, key lime juice, and Siberian ginseng.”

  “Whoa! That sounds lethal. I’ll stick with salt and pepper.”

  “You haven’t asked me what ajiaco soup is,” Mantilla said.

  Boff shrugged. “When an owner orders something, I know it’s going to be good.”

  “Well, just so you know, it’s a Cuban soup made with beef, pork, and tropical vegetables.”

  “I can’t wait to try it.”

  After the waitress brought coffee for Boff and a seltzer for Mantilla
, Boff said, “Gary Shaw told me you helped Rafael defect.”

  “Yes. What a senseless tragedy. Rafael was a good friend and a sensational boxer. An artist in the ring.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “I’m curious about something, Mr. Boff. The police are investigating his murder. Why did you get involved?”

  “The boxer’s trainer, Ryan McAlary, asked me to. Ryan shares my lack of enthusiasm for the investigative powers of the police.”

  Mantilla smiled at that. “So do you have any leads?”

  “Well, I think it’s possible the boxer was killed because of some trouble he’d gotten into.”

  The restaurant owner looked surprised. “Really? What kind?”

  “Women kind.”

  “That can’t be,” Mantilla said. “Rafael was a devoted husband and father.”

  “I’m sure he was. To an extent. But he also apparently led something of a night life. Without his wife.”

  Mantilla frowned. “If he did, I didn’t know about it. But then, my job doesn’t leave me much time for socializing.”

  The restaurant owner looked away from Boff as two gray-haired men in suits approached the table.

  “Exquisite food, Alberto,” one of them said. “The ropa vieja was excellent.”

  Mantilla smiled. “I’m glad you liked it, Judge Morant. What about you, Judge Stein?”

  “I had the same and loved it. You’ve converted me. Now I’m a fan of Cuban cuisine.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Mantilla pointed at his table guest. “This is Frank Boff. He’s a private investigator looking into the murder of my boxer friend, Rafael Oquendo.”

  The judge named Morant turned to Boff with a frosty look. “I believe I’ve heard your name,” he said. “Have you ever been in my court?”

  Boff smiled cordially. “I can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure.”

  Morant’s gaze lingered on Boff another moment before he turned back to Mantilla. “Alberto, we just wanted to say hello before we leave.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  After the judges had left, Karin returned with the two bowls of soup and a bottle labeled Sudden Death. Mantilla shook some of the hot sauce on his soup, while Boff just put a little salt and pepper on his. Mantilla watched Boff as he spooned in a mouthful of the ajiaco.