The Payback Game

by Nathan Gottlieb

“I got hit by flying glass.”

  “Somebody shot at you again?”

  “Jenny, the case is over and I’m out of danger. What’d you make for dinner?”

  “Hungarian goulash.”

  “Where’s Steven?”

  “Eating at a friend’s house.”

  Dinner was delicious, as always. It was also nice for a change to enjoy a meal alone with his wife. Over dessert, he told her his work for Cassidy was over and that he intended to spend more time with her.

  “How about a Broadway show and dinner?” Jenny said.

  “You got it. Next week for our anniversary.”

  As he shoveled in the last bite of his chocolate layer cake, Jenny said, “You seem more cheerful than usual tonight. Is there something you need to tell me?”

  “Yes. I love you.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “That’s it.”

  Jenny put her fork down on the plate. “Frank, did you do something on this case you don’t want me to know about?”

  He chewed for a minute. “I can’t think of anything. Your husband weaved his magic, brought down a massive drug operation, and solved a couple murders. You should be proud of me.”

  “Well, I am. If you did everything legally. No frontier justice this time, right?”

  Since Boff never lied to his wife, he chose not to answer. “Honey, I have to give my final report to Cassidy.” He got up, quickly kissed her, and headed out the front door before she could ask him any more questions.

  Arriving at the pub, Boff slid into a booth opposite Cassidy and Hannah.

  “What happened to your face?” Cassidy asked.

  “Someone fired a semi-automatic at Wallachi’s car. The only injuries were from flying glass.

  “I thought Manny got shot,” Hannah said.

  “Turned out he was just hit by a shard of glass.”

  “Who shot at you guys?” When Boff didn’t reply, she frowned. “I thought you weren’t going to hide the details from me once the case was over.”

  “I’ll tell you all I can,” he said. When Wendy walked over, he asked her for a bottle of Brooklyn Brown Ale.

  Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “No draft, Frank?”

  “Not tonight. This is a celebration. I’m trading up for the occasion.”

  When his beer arrived, Boff raised the bottle in a salute. “To a job well done,” he said.

  They clicked glasses.

  “I read about the raid,” Cassidy said. “I’m guessing you orchestrated the whole thing.”

  Boff nodded. “Anytime I have to work with law enforcement, I try to control as many things as I can. As you know, I have a very low opinion of cops and federal agents.”

  “Can’t say as I agree with you,” Cassidy returned. “But I guess you’re entitled to your opinion.”

  “Come on, Boff,” Hannah said, a sense of urgency in her voice. “I need to know exactly what went down. Things that aren’t in the papers. And I need to know now!”

  “Be patient,” Boff said. “All will be revealed.”

  “I can’t be patient. I have a newspaper waiting for me.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll make your deadline. I promise.”

  “So, Frank,” Cassidy said, “what happened to Earl Bassett?”

  “The last I saw of him, he was leaving the Brooklyn Social with some of his biker friends.”

  The old reporter looked surprised at that. “You let him get away?”

  Boff smiled. “Not quite. Hannah, pull up the Daily News on your computer. Then go to the New York section and click on ‘Crime.’”

  “All right, but then you’re going to tell me everything I need to know, right?” She worked on her computer a few minutes. “Okay, I’m on the crime section.”

  “Let me see the screen,” Boff said.

  She turned her computer around, and he checked headlines until he found what he was looking for. Then he clicked on the teaser headline, which directed him to another page. He read the story and smiled. Things had worked out even better than he’d imagined. He turned the computer back around to Hannah.

  “Check out the story about the body the cops found in an alley.”

  Cassidy got closer to Hannah so he could see her screen. The old reporter read the story out loud:

  “In what was surely an act of vengeance, Brooklyn police found the horribly mutilated body of an unidentified black man in a Bushwick alley late this afternoon.”

  Cassidy looked up at Boff and muttered, “Jesus.” Then he continued reading:

  “Kevin Durst, a veteran detective from the 83rd Precinct, said the body had over fifty stab wounds, the head had been cut off, the face bashed in so badly it was unrecognizable, and the body’s finger tips and toes had been sliced off and were not found at the scene. The detective said it could take weeks to pin down who it was. ‘I’ve seen some pretty horrifying things in my twenty years on the Force,’ Durst said, ‘but this has to be the worst.’”

  Hannah and Cassidy were both staring at Boff. His face was unreadable.

  “Is this…Bassett?” Cassidy asked.

  Boff said nothing.

  “Jesus, Frank, even for you this is demented. Why’d you do it this way?”

  “Do what? I wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe so, but you made this happen.”

  Boff sipped his beer.

  When it was clear to Hannah this was all he was going to say about the body, she pointed a finger at him. “Okay, Freddie Krueger, what can I write about Earl Bassett?”

  He thought carefully before answering. “You can say the Brooklyn Eagle has learned from law enforcement sources that Earl Bassett, brother of drug dealer Reggie Bassett, was the brains behind the whole operation. Authorities say Earl Bassett has gone missing, and that police have issued a nationwide APB.”

  He paused to sip his beer before continuing. “Then describe how the operation was put together, beginning with the murders of Maloney and Doyle that were ordered by Earl Bassett, the phony raids, and the smuggling of Quebec Gold in from Canada. Do not, under any circumstances, use my name. Give all the credit to NYPD, the DEA, and the D.A.’s office. If you absolutely need to, in certain places you can say law enforcement was assisted by a private investigator, but officials declined to name the person.”

  Hannah looked puzzled. “But you made everything happen,” she said. “Don’t you want people to know?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t. If future felony clients of mine found out what I’d done, they might be wary of hiring me.”

  “Have it your way,” she said. “Now fill me in on all the gaps in the story.”

  While he did, Hannah took notes and occasionally asked if he was leaving something out. When he was done, she called her editor and told him he’d have her story around midnight. Then she hung up and attacked her computer keyboard.

  Cassidy looked at his prodigy and smiled. “That’s my girl,” he said.

  The old reporter talked with Boff about big stories he’d broken in the News, while Hannah typed non-stop for almost an hour. It was quarter to twelve when she finally finished. She looked hyper enough to jump out of her skin.

  “Done!” she said, banging the table with her fist.

  After taking a few deep breaths, she swallowed her warm beer, then went back to typing.

  “Stop writing!” Cassidy said. “You don’t have time to edit the damn thing. Just send it!”

  “I’m not editing. I’m sending.”

  After she was done transmitting her story, she called the editor again.

  “Did you get it ...?” She smiled. “Well, keep reading. It gets better as it goes on.” She hung up. “My editor said the lead was fantastic.”

  “Let me see it,” Cassidy said.

  He tried to look at her screen, but she closed the laptop.

  “Buy it at the newsstand,” she said. “Just like everybody else.”

  Cassidy laughed. “Whatever. I think celebration shots are in order.” />
  He waited for Hannah to object. But instead of shooting down the idea, she called Wendy over and said, “Double shots of Jameson all around. And get one for yourself.”

  “What are we celebrating?” the waitress asked.

  “The pen being mightier than the sword,” the redhead replied.

  Wendy looked at Cassidy, who just shrugged. She turned back to Hannah. “It may have been when Mike was still writing, but not today.”

  “Wendy,” Cassidy said, “don’t be so quick to sell my protégé short. Read the Brooklyn Eagle tomorrow. Then, after you’ve read it, tell me if you wanna repeat what you just said.”

  With a shrug, the waitress left to get their shots.

  “Frank,” Cassidy said, “there’s only one thing that still bothers me. Galvani got off without punishment.”

  A faint smile crossed Boff’s face as he looked at the old reporter. “Mike, what was it Yogi Berra said? ‘It ain’t over till it’s over.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, things have a way of working out in the end.” He leaned forward. “I guarantee you that you’ll be fully satisfied with the results of our little operation.”

  Cassidy smiled, undoubtedly having a good idea what Boff meant. “Your word’s good enough for me,” he said.

  When Wendy arrived with the drinks, Cassidy lifted his in a toast. “To Nicky Doyle,” he said. “Still breaking news in heaven.” Then he looked straight at Boff. “And at peace knowing no evil deed goes unpunished.”

  They downed the shots and slammed the glasses on the table.

  “You know, Frank,” Cassidy said, “you woulda made a helluva good cop.”

  “That’s an oxymoron,” Boff replied. “There are no good cops.”

  Cassidy laughed. “You’re some piece of work,” he said. “Now that it’s over, I wanna tell you that after my initial misgivings about hiring you, I’ve really enjoyed my time working with you. Retirement had been boring the shit out of me. This was like getting back into the game. The next time you have a righteous case, come to me and we’ll use my sources to tackle it together. How’s that?”

  “You’ve got a deal,” Boff replied.

  “Unlike Uncle Mike,” Hannah said, “I didn’t enjoy my experience with you. But, if you get another big story in Brooklyn, call me and I’ll suffer.”

  Cassidy took out his checkbook.

  “How much do I owe you?” he said.

  “Mike, just pay me one hundred bucks for every day I had to put up with Hannah, and we’ll call it even.”

  The redhead gave him the finger.

  “How many days was that?” Cassidy said.

  Boff laughed. “Too many to count. Put the checkbook away. This one’s on me.”

  “You know, my friend, there’s a good man lurking somewhere inside of you.”

  “So my wife tells me. She’s learned to love me for my better qualities, and she ignores what she considers my somewhat less admirable ones.” He stood up to go. “And she’s waiting up for me,” he said.

  “How many years have you two been married?” Cassidy asked.

  “Twenty-one next week. Each year better than the last.”

  “Bring your wife over here for dinner sometime. I want to meet this remarkable woman who could put up with you all those years.”

  Chapter 50

  Early the next morning, Boff called Damiano at her apartment.

  “Buy a copy of the Daily News,” he said.

  I’m reading it as we speak.

  “Go to the local crime section.”

  He heard pages turning.

  Okay. I’m here. Why?

  “Check out the story about the guy who got himself massacred in a Bushwick alley.”

  Boff waited while she read it.

  Holy shit! Bassett?

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Boff hung up, left his apartment, bought the Brooklyn Eagle at a nearby newsstand, and read Hannah’s story. He smiled. It was good. She could write her own ticket now to the Daily News. He took out his phone and called her.

  “Congratulations on your scoop,” he said.

  The other papers are scrambling to follow up! And I’ve been inundated with requests for interviews from local radio talk shows and TV shows. I turned them all down.”

  “Why?”

  Because one thing Uncle Mike always says to me is that a journalist makes himself the hero of the story. A reporter is only a witness.

  “I’m guessing you got a job offer from the News.”

  Yup. Post and Newsday, too. I told them I wasn’t leaving the Eagle.

  “Really? I thought your dream was to write for the News.”

  Still is. But even after this story, if I go there now, I’ll still get lost in the crowd. When I break enough big stories at the Eagle to be considered a star, then I’ll play my hand. Always deal from strength, Uncle Mike taught me. So, did you read what I wrote?

  “Yes. Good job. You left a few details out. But on the whole, you got the story.”

  If there were gaps in my story, it was because of things you wouldn’t tell me. Things, like, what you said to Ted Green in the bar. And who shot at Manny.

  “Have a nice day, Hannah.”

  He hung up. He had two more calls to make. The first was to Schlosberg. “Marty, did they make you deputy director?”

  No, but I did get bumped to GS-fourteen.

  “That’s a nice boost in pay. One more jump and you reach maximum.”

  You know, Frank, if you’d stayed in the DEA, you’d probably be GS-fifteen by now. Maybe even deputy director.

  “The deputy director’s just another bureaucrat. The kind that sandbagged me on investigations one time too many. Do yourself a favor, Marty. Stay in the field.”

  Boff’s last call was to Baumgartner. “What’s the good word, Carl?”

  We got a shitload of indictments. Right after I win the trial, I’m going to throw my hat in the ring for D.A. I’ve already got the backing of the top Democrats. You sure you won’t reconsider my offer to head my investigative team?

  “Good luck in court.”

  ***

  Galvani made a much better government witness than he did a cop. The more defense attorneys tried to shake his story and intimidate him, the more he stood his ground. The jury found everyone guilty on virtually every charge. Ted Green and the other six Hells Angels who had been involved in the op were sent away for a long vacation. Ditto the longshoremen. All of Reggie Bassett’s men who had been captured alive got stiff sentences for their roles in both the drug operation and the shootout with the police. They would likely die in prison.

  As for Earl Bassett, two weeks went by and they still couldn’t ID his body. Then the 77th Precinct received an anonymous tip from a pay phone telling them to check the body against Earl Bassett’s dental records. Although Damiano didn’t take the call, she knew who the call had come from.

  When the trial was over, Galvani was whisked away to lovely Devils Lake, North Dakota, and his new life as a UPS driver and crappie fisherman.

  A few weeks later a messenger was dispatched with an envelope to the headquarters of the New York Hells Angels. Inside the envelope was a note:

  You might want your brothers in Ottawa to pay a visit to Devils Lake, North Dakota. It’s only a four hour and fifteen-minute bike ride. When they find Galvani there, have them tell him he was right. Our paths did cross again. It was signed Frank Boff.

  As Boff had promised his wife, they spent more time together and went out for dinner and a Broadway show. Steven had his first amateur fight, a Golden Gloves event. Boff reluctantly agreed to attend. He asked Jenny to join him, but she said she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her son get hit. As it turned out, Steven was the one who did most of the hitting. In fact, the damn kid scored a knockout in the third round. Boff decided to take his son, McAlary, Cullen, and Bellucci out to Cheffy’s for a celebratory dinner.

  Two months later, Cassidy called. He had a cold ca
se involving a murdered cop who had left six kids behind. Cassidy offered to work the case with him, but Boff told him he wasn’t ready yet to put himself in harm’s way again. Two other cold ones also came up. Boff turned down the first. The second bothered him. The wife of a detective had been found raped and murdered. The cop had been so distraught, he’d eaten his gun. The cop had been married to his wife for thirty years. The note he left said he couldn’t bear to live without her. Boff tried to imagine someone taking Jenny from him like that. It touched a nerve. He went to see Cassidy.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was inspired by Frederick Boff

  A novel is a team effort. I would like to thank the members of my team: Bobby and Jessica Jones of Endless String Publishing; my editor, Barbara Ardinger, Ph.D.; William Trillo, who designed a killer book cover for me; my eagle-eyed proofreader, Keith Dixon, and my son, Alex, who keeps me going.

  Special thanks to the members of my support team who encourage and believe in me: Annette Jones, Craig Wexler, Jenny L. Tucker, Win Golden, Robert Johnstreet, Jochem Vandersteen, Dave D’Alessandro, Deborah Margean Anderson, Terrence McCauley, Gail Taylor, Larry Patten, Donna Rich, Jim Moran, Kathryn A. Burkett, Daniel Moses Luft, Blandina Farley, and Rhiannon Ellis.

  Cover Photo: plainpicture/bobsairport

  About the Author

  A former reporter for The {Newark} Star-Ledger, Nathan Gottlieb is the author of The Hurting Game, the first Frank Boff Mystery, and its three sequels, The Punishing Game, The Killer Sex Game, and The Payback Game. Gottlieb lives in New York, where he writes for HBO's boxing website and is working on the fifth book in his series, The Death Dealing Game. For more about the Frank Boff Mystery Series and Nathan Gottlieb visit his website at nathangottlieb.com.