The Payback Game

by Nathan Gottlieb

  Boff popped the lid on his Coke and took a quick sip. “What’s Sorriano’s back story?”

  “About thirty years ago, he was running a small bookmaking operation for the Colombos. Then a friend of his who was a builder called and proposed they go partners in a new venture.”

  “Which was?”

  “Basically, they began buying tenements, sprucing them up, and selling them for a nice profit.” Wright paused to take a hit on his own Coke. “Sorriano eventually split with his partner and continued his buy-renovate-and-sell operation. He did even better on his own. Earlier this year, though, things started to unravel. One of his ratty buildings in Harlem collapsed, killing two people. But the city appears to have sat on its hands about the incident until Doyle wrote his story.”

  Boff leaned forward. “What about the mob stuff? Is he connected?”

  “Hard to say with any certainty. Like I said, he was a bookie for the Colombos, but that was a long time ago. There were some recent reports, though—largely unsubstantiated—that indicated Sorriano might own tenements with the Colombos as silent partners.”

  “And your conclusion?”

  Wright shrugged. “On short notice? I’d say this guy might’ve had motivation to kill Doyle.”

  “I agree. I’m going to have to have a little chat with Mr. Sorriano.”

  After draining his Coke, Boff stood up to go, crumbled the can, and tossed it on the couch into a pile of McDonald’s bags.

  Wright frowned. “You know, Frank, I do have a waste basket.”

  “Yes, you do. And the day you start using it, Billy, so will I. Thanks for the help. I’m going to have a lot of work for you on this case.”

  “That’s good. I’m saving up money to buy gold to hoard. I wanna be ready when the New World Order trashes the value of the dollar and other currencies.”

  “Sounds like a smart move.”

  “I detect sarcasm.”

  Boff headed for the door.

  After leaving Wright’s shop, he called Sorriano’s office. The secretary told him her boss was overseeing renovation of a building on Rockaway Boulevard in Brownsville. After getting the address, he drove over. The building was located on one of the uglier blocks in the city. Getting out of his car, he noticed a couple of burly white guys in loose-fitting suits leaning against a Mercedes SUV. Probably off-duty cops moonlighting as protection for Sorriano and his Mercedes. Either that, or mob guys. He walked over to them.

  “Hi. I’m Frank Boff. I’m looking for Victor Sorriano. His secretary told me I could find him here.”

  One guy pushed off the car and said, “I’ve gotta pat you down, pal.”

  “No problem.”

  After frisking Boff, the guy looked past him and waved to a man who had just exited the building being renovated.

  “That’s Mr. Sorriano right now.”

  Tall and thin, the slumlord was wearing a rumpled suit that looked like he’d slept in it.

  “Mr. Sorriano,” the bodyguard called out, “this man wanna talk to you. He’s clean.”

  The slumlord frowned and headed over. He had the meanest pair of eyes Boff had ever seen. They were boring into him now.

  “What is it you want, Mr.—?”

  “Boff. Frank Boff.”

  Boff stuck his hand out. Sorriano let it hang.

  “I’m a very busy man, Boff. I can only spare a minute. And if you’re a reporter, this conversation is over.”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  Sorriano narrowed his eyes. “If this is about more allegations against my tenements, you’re wasting your time. I’m in the process of full compliance.”

  “It’s about the murder of Nicky Doyle.”

  Now Sorriano looked surprised. “Doyle? What do you think I can help you about that muckraking hack?”

  “Well, for starters, Mr. Sorriano, Doyle wrote a blistering story about you which caused the city to clamp down hard on your buildings. I imagine all these renovations are costing you plenty. I’m sure you were pretty upset with Doyle about that.”

  Sorriano waved it off. “Listen to me, pal, and listen good. Nicky Fucking Doyle was a bottom feeder that liked to cause trouble. I’m glad the fucker’s dead.”

  Boff nodded. “I’m sure you are. I also know you have ties to the Colombo Family.”

  Sorriano looked puzzled a minute, then nodded. “You think I had Doyle hit. Is that it?”

  Boff spread his hands. “Given the circumstances, it’s certainly possible.”

  Sorriano stepped closer to him and stuck a finger in his chest. Boff batted it away.

  Sorriano poked him again. “Let me tell you something, my sleazy gumshoe friend. Nicky Doyle made my life a bit miserable for awhile, but I’m still a very wealthy man. The millions I’m shelling out to fix up the worst of my buildings is just a drop in the bucket to me. I’ll get it all back when I sell the renovated buildings for a nice profit. Doyle was nothing more than an inconvenience. And he sure as hell wasn’t worth wasting a bullet on. You got that? Pal?”

  “Yes, pal, and I don’t buy it. Doyle had to have been more than an inconvenience. Besides the money he’s been costing you, he ruined your reputation.”

  Sorriano spit out a laugh. “Are you fucking nuts? Before Doyle wrote a word about me, I was already considered by most people to be one of the city’s slimiest landlords.” He laughed again. “In fact, two years ago, I made New York Magazine’s top ten list of slumlords. Came in fourth. That pissed me off. I wanted the top spot. I like having people hate me. Who the hell gives a shit about them?”

  “That maybe so, but—”

  “—no ‘buts,’ pal.” The slumlord patted his own chest. “Victor Sorriano has done pretty well for a poor wop from a Lower East Side tenement. I’d be nuts to jeopardize all that by trying to get even with some guy who said a few nasty things about me. Get a life, Boff. Doyle could’ve written bad things about me every day of the week and twice on Sunday, and I still wouldn’t have given a fuck. That muckraker was probably pulling in two hundred grand a year, tops. I spend that kind of money just on dinners, parties, and vacations. Have I made myself clear, pal?”

  Boff smiled. “Crystal, pal. It was a real pleasure talking to you. Now I’ll let you get back to that ratty dump you’re working on. You have yourself a nice day.”

  Chapter 11

  On the way to the gym, Boff called Cassidy. “Mike, did you speak with Fitz about the ex?”

  Yes. You got a pad and pen handy?

  “Let me pull over first … Okay, go ahead.”

  Stephanie O’Connor lives in Prospect Park South at nine-seventy-two Albemarle Road. Fitz said it’s best to grab her during the day because she bartends at night. Her phone number is seven-one-eight, six-three-six, six-three-eleven. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming. So what did you dig up on Sorriano?

  “He’s not our man. I’ll tell you more when I see you.”

  Next he called Hannah and told her he was going to see Maloney’s ex-wife, and if she was interested in going, she should meet him at the gym.

  Cullen was running on the treadmill at a swift pace when Boff walked in and took his usual place against the wall. Steven looked like he was performing another one of McAlary’s old-school conditioning drills, pounding a sledgehammer on a big truck tire.

  A few minutes after he got there, Hannah walked in. “Did you talk to Sorriano?” she asked.

  “Yes. We had a pleasant chat. Without going into details, he made a good case for why he didn’t kill Nicky. He was convincing to me. For now, we shelve Sorriano unless something else puts him back in play.”

  The redhead took a pad and pen out of her big shoulder bag. “I want to know exactly what he said.”

  “Why?”

  “For when I write my story.”

  Boff gave her a brief rundown of his conversation. After he was done, Hannah put her pad away and said, “He sounds more unpleasant to deal with than you.”

  “You think so?
” He smiled. “Let me watch Steven finish his drill and then we’ll go. I get a kick out of seeing him bust his hump.”

  “I gather you’re a very caring father.”

  “This has nothing to do with me being a good father. I’m just hoping he gets sick of boxing and goes back to his high school basketball team.”

  “But if this is what he wants to do, why are you against it?”

  “Someday, Hannah, when you have a son of your own, and he wants to get what few brains he has bashed in, we’ll revisit this conversation.”

  Cullen was just finishing his run. He hustled over as Boff and Hannah were heading for the door. “Where’re you going?” he asked.

  “To talk with Maloney’s ex,” Boff said.

  “Give me ten minutes. I’ll go with you.”

  Boff shook his head. “Sorry. I made an appointment. I don’t want to be late.”

  In contrast to the ugly tenement Sorriano had been working on, Stephanie O’Connor lived in a nice three-story Victorian house with a white-washed wooden porch. The wide street had a center island filled with grass and trees. Boff had called ahead to let the ex know he was coming. After ringing the bell, he took out his wallet in case she wanted to see his private investigator’s ID.

  In a few moments, an attractive woman with curly blond hair opened the front door. She was wearing a nylon sweatsuit and running shoes. After checking his ID, she let them into the foyer.

  “Do you live in this whole house alone?” Hannah immediately asked.

  “Oh, no. The old couple that owns it lives on the first floor and a house painter’s on the third. After the couple’s kids grew up and left the nest, they converted the top two floors into apartments.”

  She led them up a highly-polished wooden staircase and into her second floor apartment. The living room was tastefully decorated, with comfortable-looking cushioned chairs and a couch set in front of an inlaid black marble coffee table. On one wall, Boff noticed framed pictures of her running in races.

  “I can’t give you much time,” she said. “I want to get in a run before I head off to work.”

  “We won’t keep you long,” Boff said.

  “Please, sit down.”

  Boff and Hannah sat on the couch.

  O’Connor took a chair facing them. “First,” she said, “tell me a little more about why you and Cassidy think Patrick was murdered and didn’t die from a heart attack.”

  Boff repeated what Doyle had learned from the street informant.

  O’Connor frowned. “Well, that does sound a bit suspicious. If Patrick was killed, do you have any idea why?”

  “We have some promising leads.”

  “How do you think I can help you, Mr. Boff?”

  “I was hoping you could give me your ex-husband’s Social Security number and his phone number at the time of his death. I’m told you remained friends after the divorce. I’m assuming you two spoke on the phone once in a while. Also, if you have a fairly recent picture of Patrick, that’d be helpful.”

  The ex thought about his request a minute. “Why do you need his Social Security and phone numbers?”

  “If an associate of mine has the Social Security, it’ll be easier for him to look for Patrick’s financial records. Sometimes financial records provide important leads in an investigation.”

  “And the phone number…?”

  “My associate can get a hold of your ex’s phone records.”

  “What does that do for you?”

  “It’d be helpful if I knew who he was speaking with near the time of his death.”

  O’Connor nodded. “I have his Social Security number on our last joint tax form. As for the phone, it was seven-one-eight, seven-three-five, zero-seven-one-one.”

  As Boff wrote the number down on his pad, O’Connor stood up, left the room, and returned a few minutes later with a tax form and a photo. She read the number off the form to Boff and handed the photo to him.

  “That’s a picture of Patrick with his partner, Eddie Galvani. They were at a Precinct picnic. Patrick’s the one on the left flipping hamburgers.”

  “What did you think of Galvani?”

  “Well…Patrick liked him a lot.”

  “How about you?”

  She shrugged. “Let’s just say he was fonder of Galvani than I was.”

  “Why’s that?”

  The ex checked her watch, then replied. “I felt Galvani played a part in our divorce.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, when they were in Narcotics, Galvani was always pushing Patrick to work longer hours and take more risks to advance his career. During that time, I saw less and less of my husband. That was what eventually broke up our marriage.” She glanced at her watch again. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “When you’re done with the picture, I’d like to have it back.”

  “Of course.”

  As they stood up, Boff said, “One last question?”

  The ex frowned. “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Did you sense anything was bothering Patrick in the weeks leading up to his death?”

  “Not really. Once Patrick had transferred to the 71st, he didn’t let things get to him. It was different when he was in Narcotics. Back then, he was always edgy. He’d get upset over the smallest things. Now I really have to go. We can head out together.”

  After she put the tax form down on a small table by her chair and locked her deadbolts, she led them down the hallway stairs and out to the sidewalk.

  “Mr. Boff, if you find out why Patrick was killed, if indeed he was, I’d like to know.” She turned to the redhead. “Hannah, if you write anything, please leave my name out of the story.”

  With that, Patrick Maloney’s ex-wife started jogging up the street at a good clip.

  Chapter 12

  “What’re you going to do with the numbers?” Hannah asked once they were in Boff’s car.

  “Visit an ex-DEA partner who’s an information broker.”

  “What’s an information broker?”

  “Someone who uses a computer to dig up details about a person’s life.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Yes. People have been doing it for thirty years or more. Now with the Internet and the importance of data and research, the profession is growing.”

  “Sounds creepy to me.”

  “In your line of work, Hannah, an information broker would be a valuable asset.”

  “I already have one. Uncle Mike can find out almost anything. Without using a computer.”

  “I’m curious about something. Why do you call him Uncle?”

  “I dunno. I just started calling him that when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time at my grandpa’s house, and Uncle Mike was there a lot. I knew he was some kind of a famous writer, but I had no idea what he actually wrote. Then one night during a card game at grandpa’s house, I asked him about his writing. I think I was, like, eight at the time. When he told me about his newspaper work, I thought it sounded really cool. At twelve I announced to him and grandpa I intended to write for a newspaper when I grew up. From that night on, he began tutoring me on how to be an investigative reporter.”

  “You couldn’t have asked for a better teacher.”

  “I know. As part of my education, Uncle Mike started renting old-time movies about newspapers for me. He wanted me to see how newsrooms used to look and sound before computers and no smoking rules came in and the atmosphere went ‘sterile,’ as he says.” She pointed a finger at Boff. “Okay, enough about me. What’s your back story? What made you want to be a DEA agent?”

  “As you heard, I was a patriotic guy back then. I wanted to serve my country.”

  Hannah laughed. “Boy, knowing you now, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I understand. But what you need to know is I was a real straight arrow as a kid. Cub Scout and Boy Scout leader. Captain of my basketball team. Vice president of my senior class.”

  “What a nerd.” She chuckled.

  “Anywa
y, during my senior year in college, a DEA recruiter came on campus. Just for kicks, I sat down with him. He painted a picture of the glamorous life I’d live as a federal agent.” He shrugged. “So, lacking any direction in life other than basketball, I signed on the dotted line.”

  When Boff walked into the computer store with Hannah, Billy Wright was just finishing up with a customer in his twenties who had a nose ring and an orange, Mohican-style hairdo.

  Wright handed him a laptop and said, “Okay, Robbie, it’s all fixed and ready to go. I got rid of all your bugs and also uninstalled your memory-eating, slow-as-hell anti-virus program. In its place, I installed a program I like called AVG. It’s free.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Wright.”

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble from viruses anymore. Providing you stay away from all the porn sites your bookmarks indicate you visit.”

  Robbie smiled sheepishly. “It’ll be hard, but I’ll try.”

  After the kid left, Wright turned the sign on the door to CLOSED. Then he gave Hannah a closer look. “Who’s this pretty young lady, Frank?”

  “Billy Wright, this is Hannah Riley. She’s a reporter for the Brooklyn Eagle. Her mentor is Mike Cassidy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Wright said. “Come into the backroom.”

  Hannah took a careful look around the inner office. “How come you’ve got this wonderfully clean desk and the rest of the place is a pig sty?”

  The information broker pointed a finger at Boff. “It’s his fault. I’ve been meaning to clean it up, but Frank’s been keeping me too busy to get at it.”

  Boff let out a laugh. “Really? Then how come when I took my wife and son on vacation for a week, and you didn’t have any work to do for me, the place looked every bit as messy when I came back as it did before I left?”

  Wright flicked his hand in the air. “Whatever,” he said. “So what do you have for me now?”