“Poke around in this mutt’s life. See what turns up.”
As soon as he got off the phone with her, he called Wright. After suffering through the latest chemtrails news, he gave him the name and address of Marla’s killer and asked him to find out everything he could about the guy.
He was listening to a Buddy Holly CD when he arrived at his mother’s store in the Port Morris section of the Bronx. Thelma Boff still ran what in years past had been referred to simply as a candy store, although it also had a soda fountain. The store had been owned by his family ever since he was a kid.
Although Port Morris was largely Puerto Rican, he wasn’t surprised there were two white teenagers leaning against the store window. Much to his dismay, his sweet little old mother took numbers and the football sheets for a bookie named Bruno Benvenuti. These kids were the mobster’s runners. The boys also kept an eye on the place to make sure no one messed with Thelma.
Parking two doors away, Boff nodded to the young watchdogs and walked into the store. His mother was busy making ice cream cones for two Hispanic boys sitting on the red stools at the counter.
“Be with you in a minute, Frankie!” she called out.
Boff marveled how at seventy-two his mother was still spry and full of energy. The neighborhood kids had taken to her, affectionately calling her Mama Boff. Since his father’s death ten years ago and her sister’s move from the Bronx to South Jersey, the store had become Thelma’s whole life.
As he passed the candy case, Boff grabbed a box of Good & Plenty. When his mother was done with the cones and the boys had paid her and left, she came around the counter and handed him a clean white apron.
Boff made a face. “Mom, do I have to wear this damn thing?”
“You wanna be a soda jerk? Then ya gotta look like one.”
Knowing there was no point in arguing, he slipped the apron on and said, “Do you happen to have Bruno’s phone number handy?”
“Why call him when you can speak to him in person.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bruno’s coming over for an egg cream.” She looked at her watch. “He shoulda been here already. I can’t wait any longer for him, though, or I’ll be late for the hairdresser.”
After taking off her apron, she reached in the pouch for the bet slips and money she’d collected that day. Then she picked up a brown paper bag near the cash register, stuffed everything inside it, and held it out to him.
“Give this to Bruno for me.”
Boff threw his hand up. “Mom, I can’t take that. You know I never break the law.”
“Right,” she said with a sneer. “You just bend it to suit your purposes.”
She thrust the bag at him again. He backed up a couple steps.
“Look, Mom, in the remote possibility I get busted giving this to Bruno, I could lose my license and go to jail.”
Thelma stepped up close to him and poked him in the chest. “Do you know what’s in the bag?”
“Of course I know.”
“Who says you know? If you get busted, just say your mother left it for Bruno without telling you what it was.”
He sighed and took the bag.
“You remember how to make the egg creams, right?” she asked.
“Yes. I remember.”
“Put the chocolate syrup on the bottom of a soda glass,” she recited, “then slowly pour in the milk, and….”
“…and shoot the seltzer straight down the middle. Mom, I know how to do it.”
She still looked dubious. “Bruno likes extra syrup and milk, less seltzer. Can you remember that?”
He rolled his eyes. “I think I can manage.”
After kissing her son on the cheek, she picked up her purse. “Well, I’m off. Tell Bruno I waited as long as I could.”
He watched as she breezed out the door, then walked behind the counter and cringed, seeing the Remington pump-action shotgun she kept there for protection against robbery. It was only recently he had found out his parents had taken the numbers since he was a kid and had used the extra cash they earned to help pay for his college education. What worried him was that his mother could get busted. If the cops nailed her, he could picture the Post’s banner headline: COPS GOT GRANNY’S NUMBER.
Hearing the bell hanging over the front door jingle, he turned and saw three Hispanic girls he had served before come into the store and sit on stools at the counter. The one called Trini ordered milk shakes for all three. He quickly whipped up the shakes, poured them into three frosty glasses, stuck a red straw in each, and slid them across the counter.
After sipping hers, Trini looked at him. “Your mother makes better shakes, Mr. Boff.”
He shook his head. “That’s only because I’m out of practice. When I worked here in high school, I made the best shakes in New York.”
“Well, Mr. Boff,” Trini said with a grin, “you don’t anymore.” All three girls giggled.
“You want me to make you something else?”
He reached for Trini’s glass, but she pulled it close to her. “I’m okay with this,” she said. “Even if it’s not as good as your mother’s.”
The girls busted his chops for a while and then went out the front door. Each had left him a nickel tip.
A half hour later, the bell jingled again. This time Bruno Benvenuti walked into the store. At the mob boss’s side was a pint-sized kid in his twenties who couldn’t have been taller than Danny DeVito in high heels. In his late fifties, Benvenuti was around six feet tall and built like a linebacker whose muscles had turned to flab. He was wearing a tan sport jacket over a white button-down shirt and black trousers. The kid wore the exact same outfit.
“Hey, Frankie!” Benvenuti called out. “Long time no see.”
“Broken any laws lately?”
Benvenuti shook his head. “I’m a law abiding citizen.” He pointed at the runt. “This here’s my nephew, Nicholas.”
Boff wiped his wet hands on his apron, then shook hands with Bruno and the nephew.
“Nicholas,” Benvenuti said, “do your Uncle Bruno a favor. Run out and buy me one of those cheapo disposable cameras. I wanna take a picture of the soda jerk here to show to the guys at the poker game tonight.”
Boff groaned. “Aw, come on, Bruno. Is that necessary?”
The mobster laughed. “You bet. A picture of the great Frank Boff working behind a soda counter is a collector’s item. It might be worth money someday. Go ahead, Nicholas.”
When the kid was gone, Boff said, “So what’s Nicholas do for you? He sure as hell isn’t muscle.”
“Actually, he is. Nicholas is what I call a cutter. The kid’s like a genius with a knife. He’s been dissecting things since he was five. Frogs. Squirrels. Rabbits. Once he even did the neighbor’s cat.”
The mob boss pulled a napkin out of a metal dispenser and blew his nose. “Nicholas could’ve gone to medical school and become a heart surgeon.” He aimed the wadded-up napkin at the trash and scored. “But he got kicked out of high school for breaking into the biology lab and dissecting all the frogs and snakes and squids. He was in the process of wrapping the squid up to bring home for me to make fried calamari when they caught him.”
“What do you need a cutter for? I thought you got away from the wet stuff.”
“I did, to an extent. But, Frank, I’m a bookie. What am I going to do when somebody doesn’t pay the vig? Slap him on the wrist with a ruler? I send Nicholas and some muscle to visit the stunad. Nicholas collects the money and cuts off the dipshit’s middle finger. The kid’s a nut about middle fingers. He keeps the ones he’s sliced off in a jar of formaldehyde. Anyway, where’s your mother?”
“She had a hair appointment. She said to tell you she waited as long as she could.”
“My fault. I’m late. You know how to make an egg cream?”
“Sure do.”
“Whip up two, would you? Did your mother tell you how I like mine?”
“More syrup and milk. Less seltzer.”
&nbs
p; Benvenuti nodded. “The kid’ll take his the same way.”
Grabbing the bag his mother had given him containing the betting slips and money, he handed it to the mobster. “Mom said to give this to you. I don’t know what’s inside.”
“Of course not,” Benvenuti said with a smile. He set the bag down on a stool beside him.
“How’s my mother making out for you?”
“She’s a good earner.”
A teenage boy entered the store and walked over to the candy case.
“Bruno, let me take care of this kid first. Then I’ll whip up the egg creams.”
“No problem.”
The boy took a Twix and a Nestle KitKat. After he paid and left, Boff went to work whipping up the egg creams. When he was done, he slid one over to Benvenuti, who took a quick sip.
“Not as good as your mother’s, but decent.”
“Bruno, I have to check out a nightclub tonight called Devil’s Own. It’s in the meatpacking business. Do you happen to know if it’s mobbed up?”
“Devil’s Own? My son the big investment banker goes there. What I hear, the Bonanno Family has a piece.”
“I’m taking a couple of friends there tonight to check out something on a case I’m working on. I imagine there’ll be a long line out front. Do you think your son would know anybody who could get us past the Gestapo?”
“Emilio can do that himself. He spends like crazy there. They made him a member of the VIP lounge. I’ll give him a call when I leave. What’re the names of your friends?”
“Danny Cullen, and a paisan of yours, Mikey Bellucci.”
“Consider it done.”
When Nicholas returned with the camera and handed it to Benvenuti, Boff grabbed a clean towel and put it over his head to cover his face.
The mob boss grinned. “Come on, Frank, don’t be camera shy.”
“Can’t you take the picture like this?”
“Nope. Gotta see your face.”
After Boff reluctantly pulled the towel off, Benvenuti backed a few steps away from the counter, apparently so he could frame the soda jerk and the fountain together, then snapped off a flash shot. “Try to smile, Frank. Act like you’re enjoying yourself.”
“But I’m not.”
“Fake it.”
Boff snarled, and Benvenuti snapped off five pictures in all before putting the camera down on the counter near his egg cream.
“Why’d you take so many shots?” Boff asked.
“One for each guy at the table tonight.”
Chapter 20
On his way to the gym to pick up Cullen and Bellucci, Boff phoned Wright to see if he had found out any more about the Cuban in Miami Gina had been calling.
Yeah, I did. I checked with an ex-DEA pal who’s a member of the Miami PD. Organized Crime Control Bureau. This Gamboa guy the wife called is connected, yeah, but he’s low on the totem pole.
“Does he have a rap sheet?”
Yes on that, too. He went inside for awhile on assault and battery. Last year, he was arrested as a suspect in a murder, but they couldn’t make a case and let him go. My source also said Gamboa’s not the brightest bulb. He didn’t think he has the smarts to pull off a contract hit in New York.
“You’d be surprised how many idiots I’ve defended for murder. For now, the wife stays in play.”
When Boff arrived at the gym, Cullen and Bellucci were waiting at the bottom of the steps, both looking very dapper in sport shirts and slacks. They climbed into the back of his car.
“Did you use deodorant?” Boff asked.
Cullen leaned toward Boff and raised one arm. “Wanna sniff my armpit?”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
On the way to Devil’s Own, Boff stopped at a three-story townhouse on West 10th Street in the Village to pick up Emilio Benvenuti. Scarcely a minute after Boff phoned to tell him he was downstairs, the young man walked out of the house and strode over to the car. In his mid-thirties, he was a handsome guy who looked like he stayed fit. Stepping into the front seat of the Malibu, he shook hands with Boff.
As Boff signaled and pulled away from the curb, he said, “Those guys in the back seat are boxer friends of mine.”
Emilio turned around and looked. “Boxers, huh? Cool. I box in white-collar fights at Gleason’s Gym. Are you guys amateurs or pros?”
“Pros,” Cullen said.
“What’re your names? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”
“I’m Danny Cullen. He’s Mikey Bellucci.”
“Cullen? Are you any relation to Dan Cullen, the Hall of Famer?”
“He was my dad.”
“Wow! Your father was one helluva fighter. How about you, Mikey?”
“I don’t got no pedigree. My old man was a real bum. But I had a very good amateur career and am unbeaten in nine professional fights.”
Emilio shook their hands. Then he turned back to Boff and tapped on the dashboard.
“This car, Frank. You can’t afford a better one?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
Emilio laughed. “What’s right with it? When’s the last time you had this bomb washed?”
He shrugged. “Who can remember back that far?”
“It’s going to blow my image if I arrive at Devil’s Own in this car. I usually show up in a Town Car. Or a taxi.”
“You want me to let you off a block away?”
“Nah. I’m just messing with you.”
“Tell me about this club,” Boff said.
“Devil’s Own is the place to be below mid-town for young suits like me. It has a two-level restaurant with three bars and a disco downstairs. Once in a while you run into a celebrity. They’re usually the ones who can’t hold their liquor and make jerks out of themselves. What’s your interest, Frank? You don’t strike me as the club type.”
“A Cuban boxer who was murdered used to go there a lot.”
Emilio nodded. “Yeah, I read about that boxer on the Internet. He was supposed to be pretty good.”
“More than pretty good,” Cullen said. “He was an Olympic gold medalist and a legendary amateur.”
“Really? Knowing how hard you guys train, I wonder how this Cuban found the time and the energy to party.”
“Me, I couldn’t do it,” Cullen said. “Most guys can’t. But there’ve been many top boxers who’ve been party animals.”
Boff decided it was time to steer the conversation away from boxers and boxing. “Emilio, I’d like to talk to someone who works at the club and might’ve known the Cuban.”
“Sure, Frank. I’ve got just the guy for you. Matt Ricci, the head bartender. I’ll introduce you.”
After Boff drove past the limos stacked up in front of Devil’s Own and parked his car in a garage around the corner, they walked back to the club. Just as he had suspected, there was a long line behind a velvet rope waiting to get in. But Emilio led them over to a guard who was holding a clipboard. The guard smiled at Emilio and bumped fists with him.
“I’ve got your friends on the list,” the guard said. “Go ahead in.”
In keeping with the style of the meat-packing district, Devil’s Own had an industrial chic look, with exposed brick walls, a pipeline foot railing at the weathered-wooden bar, hanging lights enclosed in cast iron, bar shelves made of plank wood and steel piping, and bowls made from cap nuts and filled with pretzels.
It apparently was too early for the jet set, so the place wasn’t too crowded. As Emilio led them toward one of the bars, the bartender waved to him, then picked up a bottle of Grey Goose, poured liberally into a rocks glass, attached a long, twisted lemon peel to the rim, and set the drink down in front of the mobster’s son as soon as he sat on one of the polished, knotted pine stools.
“Thanks, Matt,” Emilio said. “These are friends of mine.”
“What can I get you guys?” Matt asked. He was about the same age as Emilio.
“Diet Coke for me,” Cullen said.
After Bellucci ordered a re
gular Coke with lime, Boff threw caution to the wind and took a glass of Simi Russian River Chardonnay. At home, he only drank inexpensive boxed Almaden Chablis, but he knew Emilio was picking up the tab.
After the bartender had brought the other drinks, Emilio said to him, “Frank’s a private investigator. He wants to speak to you about someone who used to come in here a lot.”
Matt frowned. “Emilio, you know I can’t talk about customers.”
“This one won’t mind. He’s dead.”
The bartender nodded. “Okay. What was the guy’s name?”
“Rafael Oquendo,” Boff said.
Matt nodded. “The boxer. I remember him. He was a big spender. He could hold his liquor.”
“When he came here,” Boff said, “was he usually alone?”
Matt laughed. “Hell no! This guy never came alone. He had him a regular stable of beauties. Not only were these babes hot, they were also classy-looking girls. Dressed in expensive designer clothes. As I recall, the boxer seemed particularly fond of one girl. She came in with him quite a few times.”
“Do you remember her name?” Boff asked.
“Sure. It was Marla.”
Cullen looked at Bellucci.
“Chill, Danny,” Bellucci whispered. “There’s a million Marlas in New York.”
Cullen turned to the bartender, “What was her last name?”
“The boxer introduced her as Marla Hoban,” Matt replied. “I’ve got a good memory for customers. Especially really pretty ones.”
It wasn’t his girlfriend.
“When the boxer drank here,” Boff said, “did he pick up the tab all the time?”
“Yes. But not with Marla. She insisted on paying for her own drinks. And in cash.”
Cullen looked at his friend again. This time Bellucci shrugged.
“You’re sure her last name was Hoban?” Cullen asked.
“Absolutely. I make it my business to know my regulars and what they drink.” The bartender paused. “Actually, though, now that I think of it, one time she was short on cash and gave me a credit card. I happened to glance at the last name and it wasn’t Hoban. A Latino name…. Let me think….”
“Ramirez?” Cullen asked in a tight voice.
The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) Page 10
