· · ·
Outside Montpelier, Vermont, in a condo overlooking the valley and the town, Gail Zigman sat in her living room admiring how the setting sun slowly abandoned each roof to the coming night, leaving the sparkling gold dome of the capitol building until last.
“How was your trip?” she asked Joe on the phone.
“Strange,” he admitted. “I still have a hard time figuring out what all these millions of people do.”
She laughed. “Don’t feel bad. A lot of them were up here today. The GMO debate is heating up, and the troops are on the march. Everybody under the dome is running around looking for the best political cover they can find. How’re the police down there?”
“Great,” he answered. “They work directly for the prosecutor’s office, which is a little weird, but they’re good people. Incredibly helpful. They pulled our chains a little, doing the city cop, country cop routine, but that was par for the course.”
“Us?” she asked. “Who’d you take with you?”
“Willy. He knows Newark from the old days.”
Gail didn’t respond immediately. Having a thorough dislike of Kunkle, she was hard-pressed to say anything positive.
Joe took advantage of the pause to ask, “What’s the big debate about GMOs anyway? I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much question.”
“Not for me, there’s not,” she agreed. “But the Monsanto, Archer-Daniels-Midland types have done a good job brainwashing my conservative counterparts. They’ve got some powerful allies quoting the corporate scripture chapter and verse and making the organics and traditionalists look like a bunch of Chicken Littles.
“The problem,” she continued, “is that the small operators are right. We can’t compete with Iowa and Kansas, so we better concentrate on turning out specialty products. Ye olde Vermont farmer and the rest. Slap a premium price on everything from milk to sauerkraut and sell it like Ben & Jerry’s. It’s about our only trump card and we’re about to give it up. The purchase of GMO seeds in this state has quadrupled in the last three or four years, to a half million pounds.”
Now it was Joe’s turn to remain silent. Politics was of no great interest to him, and not an advisable pursuit in his line of work. Plus, he often felt uncomfortable when Gail climbed onto one of her soapboxes. Her enthusiasm could feel like a steamroller.
As if on cue, she kept going. “I hate it that this entire nation’s agriculture policy caters only to the megafarmers far from New England and is being driven by people who have no thought beyond the bottom line. I mean, everywhere you look, the biotechnology industry lords over both scientific research and regulation, including in Vermont. Our entire food chain is being controlled by a handful of global corporations located as far away from us as they can get.
“Sorry,” she muttered after taking a breath, the vehemence of her outburst echoing in his silence. “Didn’t mean to lecture. I know you hate that.”
“No, no,” he said quickly, embarrassed. “It does sound like things are heating up. Are you getting a lot of flak?”
Gail hesitated. The threatening note she’d received about playing with fire lay on the table by her side, unacted upon but certainly not forgotten. Given her personal history, she didn’t take such gestures lightly. Still, she knew how political debates pushed people to where their passions got the better of them. She hadn’t done anything about the note.
Nor did she mention it to Joe now.
“No more than usual,” she said, and changed the subject.
Chapter 13
“DUG UP SOME INTERESTING STUFF,” Lil Farber told Willy and Joe when they walked into her office the next morning. She gestured to them to sit opposite her desk and handed them each a computer printout.
“Rog burned a little midnight oil last night. Guess he got all excited by Willy’s description of Vermont. Anyway, since we found nothing when we ran Gino Famolare through the system all by himself, and nothing mentioning Gino when we ran the late Vinnie Stazio, Rog decided to step back from the main players. He compiled one list of Gino’s known associates, and another of Stazio’s, seeing if anyone overlapped.” She paused to smile. “I think we may have gotten something. See where it mentions Antonio Lamano, linked to Stazio in May of ’82? They were in a car together when Vinnie was pulled over for questioning, which is why Lamano’s name pops up. He was an interesting guy—nicknamed Tony Hands. The Organized Crime unit has a small phone book on him, which Rog checked out.
“Lamano was a made guy. Old-time Mob soldier. He’s presently doing forever time someplace like Rahway, and I remember hearing a while back that he wasn’t faring too well, so maybe he’s dead. But a lot of years ago, close to when that car was stopped”—she pointed at the printout in Joe’s hand—“Lamano was being wiretapped around the clock by the feds. One of the deals mentioned on those tapes was a warehouse fire we’re pretty sure was set by Stazio—had his signature all over it. That’s one reason people were happy to find them both riding around together, ’cause generally, Stazio was pretty canny about who he was seen with and who he talked to.
“But here’s the neat part,” she continued. “On the tapes, Tony Hands actually talks about Stazio. Says how the guy’s the best and blah, blah, blah, and then he mentions how Vinnie’s got a fair-haired boy coming up. That’s when he says, ‘Gino’s doin’ good—a real live wire. Nice to see the traditions kept up.’”
Farber looked at them expectantly, her eyes bright, forcing Joe to comment politely, “Wow. That’s great.”
Willy, of course, wasn’t buying it. “That’s supposed to mean Famolare is Stazio’s prince-in-waiting? ‘Gino’s doin’ good’? No wonder you’re having such a hard time gettin’ the Mob out of town.”
Lil was not amused. “TV shows and know-nothing country cops notwithstanding,” she said darkly, “we’ve done a damn good job putting them in jail. That’s why Lamano’s there now. The Mob in Newark is a fraction of what it was, and tapes like this helped do that.” She sat back in her chair and propped a shoe up against the edge of her desk, her irritation smoldering.
“This kind of intel takes interpretation,” she went on. “You don’t actually expect these mopes to speak right up for the microphone, do you? To be honest, this is almost that straightforward, given some of the roundabout, oh-so-cute, coded bullshit I’ve heard when they think they’re being bugged. This is worth pursuing, unless you’re just down here to see the sights and blow off work.”
Willy opened his mouth to respond, but Joe cut him off, saying forcefully, “Of course, we want to check it out, and we appreciate the effort Rog and whoever else must’ve put into getting us this. Did the Organized Crime unit pitch in, too?”
Lil nodded, somewhat appeased by Joe’s understanding. “Yeah. He got hold of them after he tumbled to the Lamano connection.”
“I don’t know the protocol,” Joe said, “but if you could make sure Rog and they know how much we appreciate their help, that would be great.”
Spontaneously, and much to Joe’s surprise, Willy added, “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Joe stared at him, causing Willy to bristle instantly. “What?” he asked sharply. “I screwed up, okay?”
“No, no,” Joe responded, laughing now. “That’s fine.” He turned back to Lil. “What do you recommend we do now? Drop by and have a chat with Gino?”
She frowned at that. “You could if you want, but I doubt it would last longer than it would take him to call his lawyer. These guys do not talk to us, not unless we’ve got ’em by the balls.”
“How ’bout checking out his time sheets and delivery records against the dates of our arsons? Or his vacation time and sick leave schedule?” Willy suggested, sounding to Joe as if he was trying to make amends—another first. “That might get us probable cause.”
“We don’t have enough for that kind of court order yet,” Lil said. “And, believe me, his particular trucking company is going to be very big on seeing one of those.”
“Ask around the neighborhood maybe?” Joe offered. “Somebody might have overheard him saying he was heading up to Vermont.”
Farber laughed, totally recovered from her earlier irritation. “That neighborhood, I think it’s safe to say you might be able to get the time of day. Otherwise, you’d get more conversation out of a brick. Joe, not to be condescending—I promise—but I think you’ll find that people down here react a lot differently to cops than what you’re used to.”
Both men remained scrupulously silent, each struggling with his own stung pride.
“Sometimes what we do,” she continued, “is bring them in, complete with lawyers, and we let them know that we’re on to them. On the surface, it’s not much, but occasionally, it shakes things up a little. With Gino, we could let it slip on the street that we know he screwed up the Vermont job and is being eyed for murder.” She held up a finger. “We are the ones who gave his signature to ATF, after all. We want him, too. Maybe putting the word out gives us somebody who’s pissed off enough at him to squeal.” She smiled apologetically. “I know you were hoping for more, but at least we’re pretty sure who we’re after now. And my bet is that you’ll get something on Gino before we do, probably by flashing his photo around back home, like to that motel clerk. If you do, let us know, and we’ll grab him so fast, it’ll spin his head.”
The two Vermont cops exchanged glances and stood up simultaneously, reading her cue that the conversation had come to an end.
Farber looked up at them quizzically. “What’s your pleasure?”
Willy demurred. “I guess we’ll get out of your hair,” Joe offered. “I like the idea of passing his mug shot around St. Albans. If you would, maybe you could send a copy north over the computer right now. Then, like you said, if we get lucky, we could come back to be in on the arrest.”
He stuck his hand out, and she rose to shake it. “I want to thank you and your crew for all the help, though. We didn’t have a name or a face when we got here. Wouldn’t have found them without you.”
Willy took his turn shaking her hand. “Sorry we didn’t get more time to work together,” he said, making Joe shake his head in amusement.
Both men said a few more niceties, gave her Jonathon’s e-mail address, dropped by Benjamin Silva’s office to say good-bye, thanked Rog personally on the way out, and finally found themselves back out in the hallway.
“You’re soft on her,” Joe said as soon as the door closed behind them.
Willy stared at him, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Lieutenant Farber. I thought I was going to have to call Sammie and tell her she had competition.”
“Oh, right—spare me,” Willy complained, taking a few steps backward. But his face had turned red.
Joe laughed and shoved his colleague toward the elevator bank. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Fuck you, Joe. You are so full of it.”
Gunther hit the down button, pleased at having put Willy on the spot. Joe was inordinately fond of Sammie Martens—a colleague of theirs back home and currently Willy’s love interest. But he knew of her self-admitted track record with men, and he was no more optimistic than anyone else that she and Willy would make a lasting couple. As a result, anything he could do to delay what looked like the inevitable, he would.
They stepped into the elevator. Willy, still smarting, channeled his embarrassment by glaring at his boss accusingly. “So that’s it, then? We beat feet with a picture of some guy who may not even be our torch, and hope we get lucky? Glad I could be a part of this. Good use of my time.”
Joe let him finish before saying with a conspiratorial smile, “I only told her we’d get out of her hair.”
· · ·
Strictly speaking, the Silver Lake area where Gino Famolare lived had no official designation. It was no more than a neighborhood straddling Newark and Belleville, a few blocks northeast of Bloomfield Avenue. That last detail, however, was significant for two reasons. Not only did Bloomfield, commonly referred to as simply the Avenue, run diagonally, southeast to northwest, across almost the entire county, neatly splitting it in half, but what remnants there were of the Mafia still dominated most of this corridor. When the racial explosion hit Newark in 1967, it was said that the rioters did not cross the Avenue because, according to Willy, “they knew they wouldn’t get out alive.”
Certainly, it was true enough that Silver Lake did feel and look different from the East Orange area that Joe and Willy left when they departed the task force offices. Unlike the crowded urban sprawl encircling it, Silver Lake felt more suburban, even small-town. Buildings were serried and low, sidewalks crowded with leisurely strollers, and several of the signs were almost quaint in what they advertised: a butcher, a baker, a neighborhood social club—mostly written in Italian, cementing the locale’s predominant ethnicity.
Willy, however, saw something else. Looking around as Joe navigated the car through the narrow streets, he commented, “Not what it used to be.”
“Which was?”
“Little Italy, all the way down to street vendors and overhead banners. You could walk three blocks and not hear a word of English.” He pointed at a Starbucks as it slipped by. “You wouldn’t have seen any of that.”
Joe once more tried to get him to open up. “Almost sounds like you lived over here.”
Willy laughed uncomfortably. “Felt that way sometimes. A lot of New York cops lived here back then. Cheaper.” He paused before conceding just a little. “And a lot of bad shit went down that nobody talked about. The NYPD brass didn’t mind, either, since it took the heat off them—out of state, out of mind.”
Joe knew of Willy’s checkered past—a year on the New York force before shipping out to Vietnam and a traumatic tour of duty ending in emotional chaos and alcoholism. He didn’t doubt that his colleague had tasted more than one forbidden fruit while on the job—he’d been in the right time and place to do so.
Which was exactly why Joe now didn’t want to know any of the details.
“We getting close to Famolare’s address?” he asked instead.
Willy gestured up ahead. “Two more blocks, take a right, second left.”
Joe followed directions and quickly found himself in a quiet, leafy neighborhood of substantial houses and well-kept lawns.
“This guy drives a truck?” he asked, looking around.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Willy cautioned. “The whole town is full of hoaxes and scams like this—things looking like what they aren’t. These houses would run you three hundred grand and up out in the burbs. Here they go for half that, sometimes less. This is old-time Mob territory—like a rent-controlled neighborhood for Italians only, so it’s a little different. But sections right next door don’t have that kind of protection. They look the same on the surface—fancy digs and big lawns—but you better think twice before going out at night. Doors are barred, windows wired, Dobes and rotts run around the backyards, hoping you’ll jump over the fence. The riots did a number on all these areas, and none of them have really come back. In the seventies, you could buy mansions for the tax bill alone. It’s getting better, but it’s slow.” He pointed suddenly. “There it is. On the left.”
Joe slowed the car and pulled over opposite a large, low gray house with a porch running along its front. There was nothing particularly distinguished about it. It shared the stolid bearing of its neighbors. But there were clear signs of better times gone by, when it and its brethren had been symbols of the upward mobility so cherished in the 1950s.
Willy was scanning the block, twisting around in his seat. “We gonna do a sit-and-wait?”
It wasn’t a complaint. Despite his hard-earned reputation for cutting corners, Willy could be a patient man, especially when he was on a scent.
“Unless you have something better,” Joe answered him. “Farber’s chances of success notwithstanding, I figured we can’t lose by at least seeing a couple of the players in motion.”
> “Works for me,” Willy said, “but I think we better get off this street. Even lying low, we’ll probably get burned before the day’s out. Too many people around here learned to spot a surveillance while they were sucking mother’s milk.”
Joe pulled away from the curb.
· · ·
In the huge, crowded maze that was the Port of Newark, Gino Famolare maneuvered his eighteen-wheeler with practiced grace past towering stacks of shipping containers. A constant flow of workers and loading machinery crisscrossed before him like minnows avoiding a large fish. He was heading for the company’s main depot, coming off a week of driving, looking forward to some time off, and a whole lot more besides.
He backed into a slot alongside a fleet of similar trucks, collected his paperwork and travel kit, and swung out of the cab. He walked toward the dispatch center, exchanging greetings with other drivers along the way, and filed his trip with the woman behind the counter, also handing over the keys.
In exchange, she gave him a wad of phone messages and a check.
The check, he was expecting; one of the phone slips, he was not.
He crossed over to a pay phone mounted on the wall, knowing from the name on the slip that the use of his cell would be breaking one of this man’s cardinal rules. “Too many people sniffing the airwaves,” was how he put it. “They can still tap a line, but they have to find it to tap it.” Given the man’s reputation, Gino wasn’t going to challenge his logic. He dialed the number.
“Tito,” he said after the third ring was answered. “It’s Gino. You called?”
“Thought you should know,” Tito’s voice came back. “That trip up north? Not too clean.”
Instinctively, Gino glanced around. He was the only one on this side of the counter, and the dispatcher was back at her console, well out of earshot.
“What do you mean?”
“A kid died.”
St. Albans Fire Page 12
