The Payback Game

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “The real reason is so Galvani can record the bikers talking about the Quebec Gold operation. His bogus excuse is to ask the bikers for permission to pull another phony raid. He’ll tell them his crew wants to keep all the drugs and cash for themselves. If the bikers were smart, they wouldn’t let him do it, because if he got busted, he might do what he did today. Flip again.” Boff shrugged. “But the Hells Angels I’ve known aren’t rocket scientists. They’ll probably give him the green light. And even if they don’t okay the new raid, they’ll have to tell him why. Meaning they’ll say they think the raid could jeopardize their Quebec Gold operation. As long as the bikers talk about Quebec Gold, they’ll be giving the assistant D.A. enough evidence to indict them.”

  Fifteen minutes after Galvani walked into the Angels headquarters, he left. As he was starting his car, Boff called him on his cell.

  “Go to Williamsburg,” he instructed. “There’s a computer repair shop at two-eleven North 6th Street. We’ll be right behind you in a Crown Vic.”

  Arriving first at Wright’s place, Galvani stepped out of his car and waited for Boff. Before Boff left the Crown Vic, he turned to his junior partners in the backseat.

  “All three of you are to stay in the car,” he said. “Just Pete and I are going in. I don’t want a crowd scene in there.”

  “But I need this for my story,” Hannah protested.

  “I promise to give you a blow-by-blow when I come back.”

  The redhead shook her head. “It’s not the same damn thing. I need to be there to take in the color. The little details that can bring a scene alive.”

  “That may be so, but you’re staying here.”

  Boff and Wallachi left Hannah sulking in the car with Cullen and Manny and walked over to Galvani.

  “How’d it go?” Boff asked.

  In a flat voice, the cop said, “I got what the D.A. wants.”

  “Good. Let’s go inside.”

  After Wright buzzed them in, he led them to his back office.

  “Frank, where’s the device?” he asked.

  Boff looked at Galvani. “Give it to him.”

  The bent cop slipped the recorder out of his shoe and handed it to Wright, who sniffed it and said, “Man, you could use some Odor-Eaters.”

  “Screw you.”

  When Galvani took out a pack of cigarettes, Wright pointed to the NO SMOKING sign above his desk. “Put ’em away,” he said.

  The detective shot Wright another dirty look, but he didn’t light up.

  After Wright had examined the device for a minute, he looked at Boff and said, “I didn’t know they make these things so small. Do you have the software for it?”

  Boff handed him the disk, which he inserted into his computer. He downloaded what was on it, then followed the instructions on the screen. After connecting the tiny recorder to his computer with an equally-small USB cable, he turned on the recorder.

  Just as Akers had promised, the audio came through loud and clear. The first thing they heard was a car door opening and closing.

  What’s up? a voice said.

  Galvani’s voice replied. Dino, I got some good info from one of my snitches. There’s a new dealer in town. I’m told the mutt’s got a pretty big stash. I want to raid him before he unloads it all. Be ready to rock and roll on Friday.

  But, said another voice, I thought the Hells Angels didn’t need any more of our raids.

  They don’t, Tony. This one’s to line our own pockets.

  Did you tell the bikers about this raid?

  Of course. They’re fine with it. No feathers are going to be ruffled.

  So when do we see this money from the sale of the Quebec Gold?

  When? Galvani repeated. When Reggie Bassett has pumped enough of the stuff into the market. That’s when we start seeing some green.

  What’s our cut?

  Fifteen percent.

  What’s that translate to in bucks? one of the longshoremen asked.

  A ballpark figure? I can’t give you one until I see how much Reggie rakes in. But from my experience in Narcotics, based on the size of the shipment we smuggled in from Canada, it’s gonna be a nice chunk of change for us. Real nice.

  Music to my ears, Eddie. I’ve been looking at this great new loft condo I want to buy. It’s twice as big as my place.

  Forget about that for now, Galvani said. Nobody uses the money right away. Let’s get clear about that. We keep the cash offshore. If we start spending money big time, it might arouse suspicion and endanger us. And the operation. Just sit tight for a few months, okay? There’ll be plenty more cash for us when we make our next trip up to Massena.

  Man, I can’t wait to see the money! I’m sick of this crappy, back-breaking work on the dock. Aruba, here I come.

  “Stop the recording,” Boff said. He looked at Galvani. “Anything more get said that’s worth listening to?”

  “No. We just made some small talk. Then they went back to work.”

  “Fine. Billy, advance the tape a bit.”

  Wright moved it forward, then hit play again. A conversation was already going on, this time between Galvani and Green.

  “Skip that and move on,” Boff said. “I want to hear what was said at the Hells Angels’ club.”

  As before, Galvani and the bikers were already engaged in conversation. Boff turned to the cop. “How far into your talk with the Hells Angels is this?”

  “Just a couple minutes.”

  “Okay, let it ride, Billy.”

  They heard Galvani tell the Angels about the new drug dealer. One of the bikers gave him permission to go ahead with the raid.

  “Who’s the biker that okayed the drug raid?” Boff asked.

  “Corey White. He’s the one running the op for them.”

  “How many of the six did you get recorded?”

  “Four. The other two weren’t there.”

  “Keep it running, Billy.”

  They heard Galvani steer the subject to Quebec Gold.

  Am I going to make another run to Massena for Quebec Gold from your Angels’ brothers in Montreal? he asked.

  Yeah, said one of the Angels. As soon as this shit sells out. It shouldn’t be too long. Once word hits the street how potent this stuff is, we’re gonna need another big shipment.

  After hearing the rest of the recording made at the Angels’ club, Boff felt satisfied there was enough on the tape to clearly implicate the bikers in both the smuggling and the distribution of the drug in Brooklyn.

  “Okay, Billy,” he said. “Kill it now. I want you to encrypt this recording and email it for safe keeping to the various other web mail accounts you have under different names. Also send a copy to my computer. After that, burn me three disks.”

  When Boff had the disks in hand, he thanked Wright and led Wallachi and Galvani out of the shop. As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Galvani lit a cigarette.

  “So, detective, how does it feel being a rat?” Boff asked him.

  At this, Galvani dropped the cigarette, lunged at Boff, and threw a roundhouse right toward his head. Boff used what he had learned from watching McAlary’s tennis ball drill to move his head so that the punch just glanced off him. Before Galvani could throw another shot, Wallachi rushed in and grabbed him from behind in a bear hug. Galvani struggled to get loose, but Wallachi was a strong man.

  “Let me the fuck go! I’m gonna kill that motherfucker!”

  “No you’re not,” Wallachi said. “And if you try a stunt like this again, I’m going to break both of your arms. Capisce, paisan?”

  When Galvani didn’t respond, the investigator said, “I asked if you understood.”

  Still getting no response, Wallachi let go of Galvani for a second, then yanked one of the cop’s arms high enough behind his back to nearly break it.

  “Ow! Okay! Okay! I fucking got it.”

  After Wallachi let go, the bent cop turned to Boff with a look of pure hatred. “Like I told you before, one of these days we’re gonna mee
t again, and then I’ll settle the fucking score. Count on it, fucker!”

  Boff merely smiled. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

  Without another word, Galvani stormed off, got into his car, and burned rubber. Wallachi and Boff headed back to the Crown Vic.

  “Should we keep following him, Frank?”

  “Nah. We’re done with that piece of shit for the day.”

  As soon as they climbed into the Crown Vic, Hannah tapped Boff on the shoulder. “What set Galvani off?” she asked.

  When Boff didn’t reply, Cullen answered for him. “Boff undoubtedly did what he does best. He purposely pissed him off.”

  After Wallachi pulled into traffic, he glanced at Boff and said, “You know, Frank, one day you’re going to tick somebody off really bad, and I won’t be there to save your ass.”

  “Pete, I’m sure that might happen. But let me tell you something. It won’t be this guy. Not ever.”

  Chapter 44

  When Boff got home, he found a message from Baumgartner on his land line asking if Galvani had followed instructions. After washing his face, pouring himself a tall glass of milk, and grabbing a bag of Nestlé chocolate chip cookies, Boff sat the kitchen table and called his assistant D.A. friend back.

  “Carl, Galvani recorded solid evidence against the longshoremen and the Hells Angels,” he said. “I burned a CD for you. I’ll give you the CD plus a set of the photos I showed you in Battery Park.”

  When do we raid Reggie Bassett?

  “Pretty soon. First, I think we should get Galvani to a safe house before the shit hits the fan.

  I don’t see the rush. Let him record some more.

  “Trust me, Carl. Everything you need is on the disk. I want Galvani in a safe house.”

  Why are you so eager to do that?”

  “As a precaution. Although I don’t think he’ll run, there’s always a chance he might. Also, when I left him today, he was ready to commit murder. On me. I don’t want to risk getting shot by him. The bottom line is, the longer Galvani’s out there, the more trouble he can cause. When I hang up, call Galvani at the 71st and tell him to meet us at the bandshell at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Bring a couple of your investigators along with a separate car so they can take him to the safe house when I’m done with him.”

  Well, I would’ve liked to have gotten more recorded. But I guess I can live with this.

  “Buddy, when this raid on Reggie Bassett goes down, you, the DEA, and the NYPD are going to make some splashy headlines. And, Carl, you don’t have to thank me until it’s over.”

  How’s this for thanks right now? After I win the election for D.A., I want you to sign on as my head of investigation.

  Boff laughed. “Not in this lifetime.”

  The next calls he made were to Schlosberg and Damiano. He asked both of them to meet him at noon the next day on the pavilion steps outside the Brooklyn Museum.

  Finally, to set the last piece of his endgame scenario in motion, he called Cassidy. “Mike, do you know a bar in Brooklyn that’s relatively quiet in the afternoon and has a back door exit that’s out of view from the main room?”

  What time are you talking about?”

  “Around four. Why?”

  The bar I have in mind gets pretty crowded at happy hour. But that doesn’t start until around five-thirty or so. The joint is called Brooklyn Social. It’s a former speakeasy on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens. The back exit is near the bathrooms, so when you leave the main room, you hang a right at the arrow. The exit is just a few feet past the men’s room.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  So what’re you planning on doing there?

  “I’ll tell you after it goes down. Do you have Bassett’s phone number?”

  Cell and office. Let me look it up.

  Boff had a pad and pen ready when Cassidy read the numbers. I’m guessing you’re going to meet with Bassett at the bar, the reporter added.

  “Yep. Talk to you tomorrow.” He hung up before Cassidy could ask any more questions.

  His final call was to Wallachi. “Pete, we’re getting ready to take Reggie Bassett down. I want to recon his headquarters tonight. I’m reasonably certain he has an escape route, and I want to find it. Pick me up at my apartment at nine-thirty. And, Pete, this is going to be a two-man op. Just you and me. No Manny. No Cullen. No Hannah. I want to do this undetected so we don’t risk getting shot at. You okay with that?”

  I’m not big on getting shot, either.

  “And bring along a camera.”

  After getting the addresses of the two buildings Reggie Bassett owned from his drug dealer pal, Pedro, Boff left his condo and waited outside on the sidewalk until Wallachi pulled up.

  “Where’s Bassett’s place? You got the address?” Wallachi asked as Boff climbed into the front seat.

  “Bed-Stuy. He operates out of a brownstone on Gates near Nostrand. The brownstone is connected to an abandoned building next door that he also owns. My source says those two buildings are well fortified. I have a feeling the second brownstone is used for more than just security.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I suspect Bassett knocked a hole in the wall of his main basement and installed a door to the basement of the other building. I bet the Quebec Gold is being stored in the second basement. I also think the second building serves as his escape route in case he gets raided. We’ll have to check that possibility out.”

  When they were close to Bassett’s two buildings, Boff told Wallachi to pull over and park three doors down.

  “Look at the building with the boarded-up windows. That’s where he’ll have shooters stationed.”

  “I agree. And since the windows on the top floor aren’t boarded up, they’ll be shooting from up there.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Boff said. “Get some pictures of both buildings.”

  Not wanting to risk getting out of the car and being spotted using a camera, Wallachi snapped half a dozen quick shots through his windshield.

  “Now we need to get a look at the back of those brownstones,” Boff said. “Drive to the end of this block, turn left, then hang another left onto the first street parallel to this one. Then go halfway down that street. That should be about right.”

  As Wallachi double parked again, Boff surveyed the side of the street where brownstones and row houses would have backyards facing Bassett’s buildings. He spotted a narrow alley between two buildings.

  “There,” he said. “That alley’s his escape route. He probably has a car stowed here on this street. Full tank. Ready to rock and roll at a moment’s notice. Take a few shots of the alley from here, then let’s check it out.”

  When they got out of the car, Wallachi tucked the camera under his shirt to keep it from being spotted, then they hustled over to the alley, at the same time looking around the block to see if anybody was watching them.

  When they felt confident nobody was watching, they walked into the alley. They were immediately hit by the reek coming from overflowing garbage cans. Wallachi wrinkled his nose and turned to Boff. “You got any Kleenex?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Those garbage cans smell worse than some autopsies I’ve witnessed. Hand me a couple sheets.”

  Boff pulled a small package of tissues out of his pocket and gave two to his partner, who stuffed one in each nostril. Boff did the same. Then they continued down the alley until it ended at a rickety wooden fence about four-feet high.

  Pointing beyond the fence, Boff said, “Those are his two buildings.”

  Unlike the front of Bassett’s main building, the back windows were boarded up. The second brownstone’s windows were also boarded up, but, again, only the first two floors.

  Boff studied the buildings a few minutes before saying, “The only way someone could get into Bassett’s fortress from the rear would be to climb the fire escape to the top floor of the building where the windows aren’t boarded up.”

  Wallachi followe
d his gaze. “Yeah, but they couldn’t do it without triggering an alarm. Check out the roofs. He’s got video cams on them aimed directly at the fire escapes. And dollars to donuts says Bassett has wireless motion sensors inside the rooms of both the top floors. Breaching this fortress undetected would be near impossible. This dealer’s well prepared.” After he snapped some pictures of the backs of the two buildings and the video cams, he added, “And if this is alley is an escape route, I’m figuring he broke down part of the wall on the top floor of his main brownstone to connect it to the second building.”

  Boff nodded. “And installed a strong door between them.”

  “Sounds about right. So if he’s raided, he crosses over into the other building and secures the door behind him. That buys him some time.”

  “Then he goes out the top window,” Boff said. “He climbs down the fire escape, hops the fence, and takes this alley to his getaway car. We’ll obviously need personnel stationed here when we hit him.” He turned back toward the street. “Okay, we’ve seen enough. Let’s go.”

  As they drove back to the Bronx, Boff said, “Tomorrow, I want to follow the biker, Ted Green, when he gets off work.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, I’d just like to have a friendly little chat with him.”

  When Boff walked into his condo, Jenny met him at the door with a message.

  “A woman named Hannah called. Who is she?”

  “She’s a reporter. Cassidy’s protégé.”

  “Well, she asked me where you went. I told her I didn’t know. Then she practically ordered me to have you call her the minute you get in. What’s her problem?”

  Frowning, Boff took out his phone, looked up Hannah’s number, and called her.

  Where’d you go and why wasn’t I asked along?

  “All I did was meet with a friend and have a few beers.”

  I’ll bet you did. You know part of the reason Uncle Mike is paying you is to help me get my story. Don’t forget that.

  “How could I? You’re reminding me all the time.”

  Where’re we going tomorrow?