The Payback Game

by Nathan Gottlieb

“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Meet me at the gym at three o’clock. And before I hang up, I want you to know that if you ever speak to my wife again in the tone of voice you did tonight, I’ll get rid of you in a blink of the eye. Mike or no Mike. Understand?”

  Chapter 45

  Boff arrived at the bandshell in the park with a CD player and a manila envelope and walked over to where Baumgartner and three of his investigators were sitting with Galvani.

  “Carl,” he said, “this is what he recorded.” He put the disk into the player.

  Baumgartner didn’t say a word until he had listened to the whole recording. Then he nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “That is good stuff. Okay, Frank, I’m satisfied with what we’ve got.” He turned to Galvani. “Next thing we need to do is get you to a safe house. There, you’ll await the trial, where you will testify against the longshoremen and the Hells Angels. And after the trial?” The assistant D.A. smiled. “You’re off to a wonderful fun-filled, new life.”

  Galvani looked less than thrilled about that “fun-filled” future. “What about my fucking clothes and other stuff?” he grumbled.

  Baumgartner shook his head. “You can’t bring anything from your previous life with you. Whatever you need once you get to your new destination, we’ll get it for you.” He paused and took a slip of paper out of his pocket.

  “Boff had a lot of experience in the DEA putting people into Witness Protection,” he went on. “He did some research and drew up a list of cities and towns where nobody should be able to find you. I showed the list to my boss, and he signed off on it. So here are your choices.” He read from Boff’s list. “Haysville, Kansas. Devils Lake, North Dakota. Shiprock, New Mexico. Seymour, Indiana. Bartlesville, Oklahoma.”

  Galvani shook his head. “What kind of bumfuck places are those?”

  “Places,” Boff said, “where no one would think to look for you.”

  “Lemme see the fucking list.”

  Baumgartner handed it to him. He studied it awhile, then finally looked up. “This Devils Lake,” he said. “I’m assuming the friggin’ town was named after a friggin’ lake. I like to fish. Tell me about this shit hole.”

  “Devils Lake,” Boff said, “is a comfy little town of about seven thousand friendly souls. And, yes, it was named after the lake that’s right outside the town. The lake is the largest freshwater body in North Dakota. I’m told it has excellent fishing.”

  Galvani was marginally interested. “What kind of fish?”

  “Well, if memory serves,” Boff replied, “it has spotted bass, bluegill, rainbow trout, and white and black crappie. I thought crappie was a less than appealing name for a fish, so I looked it up. Turns out it’s considered to be among the best-tasting freshwater fish. And here’s the best part for you. In Devil’s Lake, you’ll be able to fish for crappie all through the warm months, and if you freeze some of it for the winter, you can eat crappie all year round.”

  Galvani shot dagger eyes at Boff. “What about a fucking job? How the hell do I live?” he asked.

  “Well, my friend,” said Boff, “since you have experience smuggling packages in from Canada, the D.A. found you a job commensurate with your talents. As a UPS driver.”

  Boff’s sarcasm was obviously riling Galvani, but the cop did his best to keep a lid on his anger. “So…are the other fucking towns as bad as this fucking one?”

  “They’re all pretty much the same,” Boff replied. “The main benefit is they’re safe places for you to hide. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll meet a nice local girl in Devil’s Lake, get married, and have sons to take crappie fishing with you.”

  Galvani leaned toward Boff and said through clenched teeth, “I can’t wait for our paths to cross again.”

  Boff smiled. “You know, I have a feeling that might very well happen. What’s the word hippies use? Karma? Yes, it’s our karma.”

  Baumgartner had heard enough. He stood up. “Galvani, ready to go?” he said.

  “Not really. But let’s fucking do it.”

  The assistant D.A.’s investigators cuffed Galvani and hauled him across the park. When they were gone, Baumgartner sat back down and looked at Boff with a smile on his face. “Eat crappie all year round?” He let out a short laugh. “Frank, you certainly have a way with words.”

  Boff smiled. “I thought you’d appreciate that. What I didn’t tell Galvani is the lake keeps getting deeper, because it doesn’t have a natural river or stream to carry away excess rain and snowmelt. As of this year, it’s swelled to within six feet of overflowing the town. Residents are worried that if the water level isn’t reduced, it will wash the town away one day.”

  All the assistant D.A. could do was grin and shake his head. “So what’s in the envelope you brought me?”

  “Copies of the photos I showed you in Battery Park, plus shots of a little recon a friend and I did on Reggie Bassett’s fortress.”

  He pulled out the recon photos and handed them to Baumgartner. “Those two brownstones you’re looking at are both owned by Bassett.” He pointed to another photo. “Notice how the windows on the top floor of the boarded-up building are free of boards. That’s where he’ll have shooters.”

  The attorney took his time studying the rest of the photos.

  “Those last shots you’re looking at,” Boff said, “were taken from the street that runs parallel to the rear of Bassett’s buildings.” He pointed to another photo. “This alley is his escape route. I figure he’ll have a getaway car stashed somewhere on that street. That means Damiano will need people stationed there to take Bassett down should he try to run. I’m also betting Bassett installed a connecting door from the basement of his main building to the basement next door. I’m sure Schlosberg will find the Quebec Gold in the second basement.”

  “Can I keep these shots?”

  “Yes. I also have copies for Schlosberg and Damiano. I’m meeting with them at noon to brief them.”

  Baumgartner stared at his old high school buddy and smiled. “I can see how you were once the scourge of drug dealers and smugglers,” he said. “Tell me, Frank, and be honest. Don’t you miss doing shit like this in the DEA?”

  Boff shrugged. “Sure, I enjoy this kind of work…but in no way do I miss the agency.”

  “If you were my lead investigator you could—”

  “Forget it, Carl. I like my life just fine.”

  “Helping scumbags beat righteous cases?”

  Boff pointed a finger at his friend. “You think working your side of the street is so much cleaner? There must be dozens of Galvanis in your so-called law enforcement system. And plenty of assistant D.A.s who’re willing to play loose with the rules in order to get a conviction and advance their careers.”

  Baumgartner let out a weary sigh. “Forget I even brought the subject up,” he said.

  “I already did.”

  From the bandshell, Boff drove to the Brooklyn Museum, took a seat in the pavilion, and ate a Blimpie roast beef sandwich. Carl was right. He really did enjoy this kind of op, and he damn well missed it. Manipulating people into following a script took artistry. He knew he was one of the best at it.

  Just before noon, he spotted Schlosberg heading his way with Damiano close on his heels. As they sat down, Boff handed a Blimpie sack and a coffee to his ex-partner, just coffee to Damiano.

  “As skinny as you are, Victoria,” he said, “I didn’t think you were the Blimpie type.”

  She nodded. “Correct. Coffee’s fine.”

  Schlosberg was pulling his sandwich out of the sack, but Boff grabbed his arm. “Marty. Hold off on eating until we’re done here. I don’t want you to get grease on the photos.”

  He put his own sandwich back in the sack, wiped his hands thoroughly with a bunch of napkins, then handed a manila envelope to each of them.

  After Damiano and Schlosberg had pulled the photos out of their envelopes, Boff explained his plan again.

  “What’s the story with this alley?” Damiano asked.


  “That’s his escape route.”

  She nodded. “Obviously, I’ll need a team there.”

  Finally, Boff handed each of them a CD of the recordings Galvani had made. “Along with Galvani’s testimony in court, this CD has all the corroborative evidence Carl Baumgartner will need to get indictments for the longshoremen and the Hells Angels’ ringleaders that are part of the op.”

  “What happens,” Damiano asked, “if Reggie Bassett doesn’t try to escape? We don’t know how many men he has in those two buildings. I’m not real thrilled about the idea of a prolonged shootout that could endanger people in nearby buildings. And I’m going to have to bring a SWAT team in case we have to breach.”

  “My agents,” Schlosberg added quickly, “will be there strictly to confiscate the drugs. Damiano, your people will handle all of the fire power.”

  “Then it sounds like we have it covered,” the detective said. “Boff, what time do we strike?”

  “Well, my experience with drug dealers—and Marty will agree—is that they don’t get up at the crack of dawn. Most of them like to hit the night clubs and party all night. So I say we start the raid at eight-thirty in the morning when they’re either asleep or hung over or both.”

  “What about brother Earl?” Damiano asked.

  “Leave him to me.”

  The detective frowned. “I’m uncomfortable with not arresting Earl.”

  “That was our deal. Same goes for you, Marty.”

  “Just what the hell are you going to do with Earl?” she asked in a sharp voice. “He’s apparently the kingpin of this whole fucking Quebec Gold op and probably had both Maloney and Doyle killed. I don’t want him slipping away.”

  Boff smiled. “Trust me. He won’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  When Boff said nothing, Damiano looked at Schlosberg for help. “Marty?”

  “If Boff says Bassett won’t disappear, then he won’t.”

  Boff leaned toward his ex-partner. “Marty, that’s not quite accurate,” he said. “I didn’t say he won’t disappear. I just said he wouldn’t get away.”

  Apparently catching the drift of Boff’s words, Damiano said, “For chrissake, Boff, what’s wrong with you?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing that I can think of.”

  “You’re turning into a damn vigilante.”

  At this he shook his head. “Not true,” he said. “Vigilantes kill their targets. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. Although I did come close a couple times in the DEA.”

  Schlosberg said, “Save your breath, Damiano. He’s gonna do whatever he wants to do. No matter how much you or I don’t like it.”

  “Maybe so,” the detective shot back. “But I’m a fucking cop. It doesn’t sit well with me that he’s going to take the law into his own hands. Again.”

  Boff placed a hand over his heart. “You have my word of honor that I won’t break any laws.”

  All Damiano could do was laugh. “No, no, of course you won’t. You’ll just manipulate everyone else into doing your dirty work.”

  “Let’s move on,” Boff said. “Victoria, I need you to do one last thing. Dig up Reggie Bassett’s mug shot from when he was arrested and sent to prison. Even though it’ll be about thirteen years old, it’s better than having nothing. When we bag these guys at Bassett’s place, the only way we can be sure we’ve nailed the dealer is to have some idea what he looks like. Make duplicates of the shot. Enough for your team, Marty’s, and Baumgartner’s.”

  “Tell me something,” she said. “Where are you going to be during the raid?”

  “With Marty’s team, not yours. I wouldn’t want to put your illustrious career in jeopardy because you were seen working a high-profile bust with the infamous Frank Boff.”

  Schlosberg frowned. “Hey! What about my damn career?”

  “Don’t worry, Marty. After this raid, you’ll be king shit of the office, and won’t have to worry about being reprimanded. And look on the bright side. With you and me teaming up again, why, it’ll be like the good old times.”

  “There were no good times with you, Frank. Just misery.”

  Chapter 46

  Later that day, Boff tried to reach Earl Bassett at his office. When he got voice mail, he hung up and called his cell. Bassett picked up on the second ring.

  “This is Frank Boff.”

  Hey Frank! How’re you doing?

  “Couldn’t be better. The reason I’m calling is my case load has eased a bit, and I’ve been able to throw myself into Doyle’s murder almost full time. I came across something in Doyle’s financial records indicating he had hired a corporate accountant to audit the nonprofit’s books. It’s very important that I meet with you tomorrow.”

  There was a long pause on the other end. I have a busy day scheduled, Bassett said in a less friendly tone. What time?

  “Say, four in the afternoon?”

  Another pause. Where?

  “There’s a quiet bar on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens. It’s called Brooklyn Social. I’m going to be in that area on business. I won’t keep you long.”

  More silence. Then, I’ll be there.

  As the connection ended, Boff smiled. He had Earl Bassett just where he wanted him. Curious and wary. To set the last piece of his endgame scenario in motion, now he needed to meet with the biker, Ted Green.

  Boff called Wallachi and told him to pick him up at the gym. He got there early so he could watch his son train. After a half hour of watching Steven’s workout, he knew there was no denying it. The kid was turning into a boxer.

  When McAlary took a break, he walked over to Boff. “Steven’s got some talent, you know,” he said. “He’s making big strides. It looks like you’re going to have a boxer in your family.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  The trainer frowned. “Why are you so set against him being a fighter?”

  “Why? Because I want him to go to college and learn a profession.”

  “Boxing is a profession.”

  “Only for the top guys like you and Cullen.”

  “How do you know Steven won’t turn out to be one of us?”

  Boff had no answer for that.

  “Look,” McAlary said, “give him a year. If after that time, I don’t feel he has what it takes to make a good living at this, I’ll tell you. How’s that?”

  Boff shrugged. “I guess that’ll have to do.”

  ***

  The whole crew was in Wallachi’s car, parked down the street from Armageddon Tattoos in Bushwick, where Green worked. It was coming up on four o’clock, and Boff figured the biker would knock off any time now. There was really no need to have anybody along except Wallachi, because he was going to meet with the Hells Angel alone, but he knew that trying to cut the others out would have been more headache than it was worth.

  “Hey, Boff,” Hannah said, “what exactly do you plan on talking to Green about?”

  “This and that.”

  “I’m going with you when you see him.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Give me one good reason why.”

  “Because my business with Green has nothing to do with your story. It’s a little private op I’m working on.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap!”

  “Hannah, when the time is right,” Boff said patiently, “even though you won’t be able to use this in your story, I’ll tell you what went down between Green and me.”

  “You’d better.”

  Noticing that Hannah seemed placated, Cullen felt amused. He knew whatever Boff had up his sleeve about Green, he sure as hell would never share it with her. As good as he was in court, he was even better at deceiving people outside the courtroom.

  Green left the tattoo parlor at four-thirty, got on his bike, and drove off. Wallachi tailed him to the bar in Bushwick where the biker had first met with Galvani. After waiting a few minutes, Boff left the car and entered the bar. He saw the biker sitting alone on a stool. There was a full
shot glass in front of him and a bottle of Bud. He walked over and stood next to Green until he caught his attention.

  The biker looked up. “Hey, pal, what the hell are you looking at?”

  “Quebec Gold. We need to talk.”

  Green’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Well I have something to say to you. And I’m positive you’ll want to hear it.”

  The biker hesitated. “You a cop?”

  “Private investigator. Let’s take a booth.”

  “You can say what you have to say right here.”

  “With everybody listening? Okay, if that’s the way you want it. I’d like to talk to you about Massena and Reggie Bassett.”

  Hearing this, Green winced. Then he turned to the bartender. “Richie, hit me again.”

  Tossing down the shot he already had in front of him, Green waited while the bartender brought over a bottle of bar tequila and poured a refill. After slugging the second shot down, he picked up his bottle of beer, walked over to a booth, and slid in. Boff sat opposite him.

  “Okay, let’s hear it,” Green said. “And make it fast.”

  “I’ve been conducting an investigation into the murders of Patrick Maloney and Nicky Doyle. Along the way, I discovered that the Hells Angels have been smuggling Quebec Gold into New York and are now actively peddling it in Brooklyn through a dealer named Reggie Bassett.”

  Boff waited for a reaction. When none came, he continued. “I also discovered that the man who’s been providing the bulk of the funding for the operation is Reggie’s brother, Earl.”

  Still no reaction from Green. “Armed with these facts, I went to see an assistant Brooklyn D.A. and told him what I’d learned.”

  Now Green broke eye contact and took a big swig of his bottle of beer. But he remained silent.

  Boff went on. “The man who ordered both Doyle and Maloney killed was also Earl Bassett. The D.A. and I met with Earl yesterday and laid out the evidence we have against him. It’s not quite enough to assure a stone-cold conviction, but the D.A. can certainly get an indictment and dig up the missing pieces later. The D.A. told Earl he had only two choices.”