1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Frankie stood at the top of the steps, laughing. “Slow going, Lou?”

  “Screw you, Donovan. They ought to put detectives on the first floor.”

  “The higher the floor, the greater the power.”

  “Fuck power. I just want to get to work without having a heart attack.” He stopped at the top, panting.

  “Quit smoking, and you won’t have to worry.”

  “You won’t laugh so much when you have to carry me up these steps.”

  “When that time comes, I’m getting a new partner. Won’t even think twice about it.”

  “I thought you were aiming for one anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about. You’re handing out descriptions of people to the waitresses at the diner as if we had a suspect.” He pointed an accusing finger at Frankie. “You’re still not sharing what you know, and it’s pissing me off.”

  “I’m going to get coffee,” Frankie said. “You coming?”

  Mazzetti made his way into the door where Carol sat guard. “Hold Donovan’s calls, Carol. He’ll be busy all day, getting his ass kicked by me.”

  After getting coffee, and making his morning rounds to say hi to everyone, Lou Mazzetti walked to the war room. The table, once covered with files, pictures, and notes, was cleared. Everything had been transferred to a large wall-to-wall poster board. Lou stared. A new chart showed the three people they talked to yesterday who “thought” they remembered a man in his thirties, medium height, dark hair, dark complexion.

  “All that legwork and we didn’t get shit.”

  Frankie closed the door behind Mazzetti. “About yesterday, I—”

  Lou waved his hand at him. “Forget about it. Just tell me what we’ve got here.”

  Donovan smiled. “We’re catching shit. For some reason, Nino’s murder got the chief’s attention.”

  “Anybody tell the chief this was just another guinea hoodlum?”

  “Need I remind you that you’re a guinea?”

  “Don’t exclude yourself; you’re just a dago hiding behind an Irish name. The difference is, we’re not hoodlums.”

  We’re not hoodlums. Lou’s statement hit Frankie hard. If he wasn’t a hoodlum, he’d better start acting like a cop and go after whoever the hell was doing these killings.

  “No matter. The chief’s putting pressure on us.”

  “Let’s get to work then,” Lou said, and as they reviewed the evidence, a call came in. Lou picked up the phone. “Mazzetti.”

  “Where’s Donovan?”

  He handed the phone to Frankie. “Kate.”

  “Hey, Kate.”

  “Got a new lead for you, Detective. A good one.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It’s you.”

  There was silence while he waited for the rest. When it didn’t come, he continued. “Me what?”

  “A positive match on your DNA at the crime scenes for Renzo and Nino.”

  “Funny, Kate. Now what did you want?”

  “This is no shit. It’s taking a while to process this much DNA, but we got your evidence, and it’s not from innocent contamination. We have hairs found under the blood. Hairs that could not have come off you during the investigation.”

  Frankie turned his head away from Lou and lowered his voice. “I’m sure there is a way to explain it. Figure it out.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not covering up anything. And one more thing…”

  “What?” A little hint of annoyance tainted his voice.

  “The Renzo scene…you weren’t there. Remember? You weren’t called in until Nino.”

  Frankie didn’t say anything, but his mind churned.

  “So how did it get there?” Kate asked. “Tell me how your DNA got under the blood of Renzo Ciccarelli when you weren’t on the investigation.”

  More silence from Frankie, then a whisper. “Kate, how about keeping this between us until—”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Kate…”

  She sighed. “For old times’ sake, you’ve got one week while I confirm the findings. That’s all. Goodbye, Detective.”

  “Yeah, see you.” He hung up and stared blankly at the wall, his hand balling into a fist. “Lou, we need to refocus.”

  “What did Kate want?”

  “Nothing much, just told me about some bullshit evidence from the scene.” Frankie walked to the chart and pointed to the questions he had outlined.

  “Evidence,” Frankie said. “We need to find out where this guy is getting his evidence.”

  When Lou went to get more coffee, Frankie threw the pen across the room, then kicked the chair into the table. Some fuck was going out of the way to make Frankie look dirty. He intended to find out who.

  CHAPTER 30

  REUNION

  Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

  The train pulled into Penn Station and I got off. I must have looked like a hick from West Virginia by the smile on my face and the gleam in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. This was my first time in New York.

  After wandering around a bit, I made my way to a phone and called the number Rosa had given me for Tony years ago, not expecting it to work and surprised when it did.

  “Hello?”

  “Tony?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I paused. It was damn good to hear his voice again. “Is this Tony ‘The Brain’ Sannullo, the dumbest fuck I know?”

  A short silence followed, then exuberance. “Rat. Don’t tell me this is you. They actually let you out?”

  We both laughed so hard nothing else was said for half a minute. “Where are you?”

  “Train station. Just got in from Wilmington.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Maybe less. Stand outside.”

  I walked out of the station with a large crowd, two small bags in my hand. I stared at the mass of people milling about, then up at the buildings. People were right. New York was unlike any other city. I could feel the excitement in the air.

  I don’t know how long it took Tony to get there, but before I knew it, a maroon Coupe de Ville cut across lanes and pulled to the curb. I knew it was Tony. When the passenger door opened, Paulie stepped out, dressed to the nines in a black pin-striped suit.

  “Nicky the Rat.” He opened his big arms, and I ran to greet him. I would have recognized him anywhere, even though he’d put on about fifty pounds. Not fat, just bigger. Paulie had always been big, towering over us by five or six inches, but he was thick and meaty, too.

  “I see you finally got that suit, Suit.”

  “That I did, Nicky. Got a bunch of them, thanks to Tony.”

  A few seconds later, Tony came over and punched me on the shoulder. “I think he wears a suit in the damn shower.” He hugged me, just like a brother would. “Can’t believe it’s really you. It’s been a long time.”

  Tony had changed since I last saw him. He still had the rugged good looks the girls liked, and the same quick smile. It wasn’t as genuine as Paulie’s big laugh, but the way it lit his eyes gave him charisma. “See you managed to keep your hair. You’re looking good.”

  He seemed embarrassed for a second. “Yeah, I’m off the drugs now. Had trouble for a while.” We chatted for a few seconds, until the horns started beeping, then Tony hollered to Paulie. “Suit, get the trunk so Nicky can put his bag in there.”

  Paulie popped the trunk, then came back to rearrange a few things. Sister Thomas’ remark about him hanging on Tony’s coattails came to mind. Tony always did like being the boss. Problem was, neither me nor Bugs listened much to anybody. I wondered how he was going to react now, because, if anything, prison made me worse and I felt certain that being a cop wouldn’t have softened up Bugs. Either way, it didn’t matter. I threw my bags inside then got in the back seat.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “First we get a few drinks,” Tony said.

  I rubbed my hands across t
he leather. “Where the hell did you get this Caddy? It’s sweet.”

  “It’s a 1990, Rat. And it’s only got 20,000 miles. Runs like new.” Tony hit the gas. “We’ll take a spin then get some drinks.”

  “Let’s get Bugs,” Paulie said. “He’d want to be here.”

  “Is he in New York?”

  Tony hit the brakes while cursing at another driver. “Fuckin’ idiot.” When he got back on track, he returned to the conversation. “Not only is he in New York, he’s a goddamn cop.”

  “No shit.” So, there it was, confirmation of what Sister Thomas told me. “You guys see him much?”

  “I just told you, he’s a cop. Hell no, we don’t see him much.”

  “I see him a lot,” Paulie said.

  “Suit, seeing him at Christmas is not a lot. That’s once a year.”

  “Let’s call him,” I said. “You got a number?”

  “We’ll call him from the bar.”

  Tony didn’t want me using his cell, so I waited till we got to the bar. I went to the back, put a few coins in the phone booth and dialed the number he gave me. Three rings later, someone answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Donovan, please.” I did my best to sound formal, as a disguise.

  A pause preceded the response. “This is Frankie. Who’s this?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m looking for Frankie Donovan. Is this him?”

  “Yeah, I just said so. Who is this, and what do you want?”

  “Oh, sorry. I have a problem at my house and wondered if you could come over and kill some bugs.” At that, I couldn’t hold it in. I started laughing. Tony and Paulie cracked up behind me.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  I couldn’t answer, so Tony picked up the phone. “Hey, Bugs. It’s Tony. Me and Suit are over at Anthony’s, and you won’t believe who we got with us.”

  FRANKIE PULLED OUT OF his precious parking space, one he probably wouldn’t get back that night, and headed toward the restaurant to meet his friends. Worry set in before he got two blocks.

  Suppose somebody sees me? What the fuck am I doing?

  He thought about turning around and going home, but the memories of the four of them hollering “friendship and honor” kept him going. How many times had they done that over the years? Too many. And how often had they held true to it—always. Nicky taking the rap for him at Johnny’s Market; Nicky saving his life at Woodside; Tony getting thirty stitches helping Mick and Bugs in a fight they had started; and Paulie suffering the wrath of a dirty cop when it should have been Tony. A sick feeling brewed in Frankie’s gut. He knew he should go home, but…Fuck it. I’m going. Anybody sees me, I’ll figure something out.

  He pulled up to Anthony’s in Bensonhurst. Valet parking whisked the car away, and he walked the few steps it took to get to the entrance. There were no bouncers guarding the doors, which resembled Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise work at the cathedral in Florence—but there was a doorman wearing gloves, who held it open for him as he approached. Frankie made a mental note to check to see if the replica of Ghiberti’s masterpiece was missing.

  A gust of cool air laden with smoke escaped when he entered. Frankie felt certain that smoking was banned in New York, even in bars, but perhaps this place had gotten a dispensation from the pope. The smoke was thick, hanging idle in pockets of dark corners and swirling under the lights above the pool tables. A whistle caught Frankie’s attention. He looked to the back. Paulie was on his way to greet him, arms outstretched like the big bear he was. Paulie was always happy, unless Tony told him not to be. Left alone to be himself, he was one of the nicest guys on the planet.

  “Paulie.”

  Paulie nearly dragged Frankie to the table. When he got there, he couldn’t believe it. Nicky looked the same—yet different. Hair was still as dark as the soil in old man Ciotti’s tomato patch, and his skin still looked like he just got off a boat from Napoli. But he looked…tougher.

  It’s the eyes, Frankie thought. He’s got his old man’s eyes.

  I GOT UP AND came around the table. “Bugs. Damn good to see you. I’ve missed you guys.”

  “Me too, Nicky. Been way too long.”

  “Way too long.” I hugged him, then we took a seat at the table with Paulie and Tony. Before long it was like old-home week, us reminiscing about the good-old days.

  “Who’s seen Chinski?” I asked.

  The whole bunch fell silent. Finally Tony opened up. “He died in a car accident.”

  “Goddamn. When?”

  Tony looked at Paulie for confirmation. “What, maybe a year and a half, maybe two?”

  “More like two,” Paulie said. “Bad thing is, he was doing real good.”

  “First Mick. Now Chinski. Who’s next?”

  Tony downed his drink and signaled for another round. “Nicky, you see, the Irish finally came out in Bugs. He’s a goddamn cop.”

  “Better than a priest,” Bugs said.

  “Forget about cops and priests,” Paulie said. “Nicky, how do you stay in such good shape?”

  I took a sip of beer. Set the mug down. “Easy, Paulie. Just spend ten years inside and you’ll be fit and trim. I recommend it to anyone.” They all laughed at that, even Frankie, who seemed a little tense. Maybe being here with Tony and Paulie did that.

  Hell, maybe being here with me did that.

  Tony and Bugs got up to go to the restroom while Paulie went to make a phone call. I didn’t ask why he didn’t use his cell; instead, I took the opportunity to watch people. It was good to see people outside of prison, and damn good to see girls. A few couples were dancing, the music loud, but nice. Every third tune seemed to be a Sinatra song, the gaps filled by Dean Martin, Al Martino, and locals like Lou Monte and Jimmy Roselli. “Summer Wind” came on, one of my favorite Sinatra tunes. I found myself wishing I had someone like Angie to dance with. But what was she going to do? Drop her life to run to ex-con Nicky, with no job and no money?

  They all returned too soon, and Paulie was eager for news. “So tell us what’s new. You see anybody from home before you came up?”

  “Just Sister Thomas. She’s the only one who visited me, except for Mamma Rosa.” I lowered my head in prayer as I said this.

  “What about Angie?”

  Frankie kicked Paulie then shot him a glare to kill. Paulie tried changing the subject, but the harm was done.

  Yeah, what about Angie?

  “She’s married. Got a kid from what I hear.”

  Tony nodded. “Yeah, she married him right away. Guy named Marty Ferris. And she didn’t wait long after you went in. Of course, she didn’t have much choice, with a kid in the oven.”

  I did everything I could to stay in my seat. How dare he say something like that about Angie? The muscles in my arms tensed so bad they cramped. I slipped my hand to the seat of my chair to have something to squeeze. I’m sure my face must have shown anger. I know my eyes did. I didn’t know Marty Ferris, but right then I wanted to kill him and Tony both.

  “Remember when you jumped out the second story window in Sister Girard’s class?” Frankie asked, in an obvious effort to change the subject.

  “I remember,” I said, managing a laugh. “She called Sister Thomas to kick my ass. And she did, too. Beat me with that fiberglass yardstick until it broke, then made me stand there, bent over a desk while she sent that Hannagan girl to get another one.”

  “That was Sister Thomas all right,” Tony said.

  Things sure had changed, I thought, and looked at them, their lives already established—Suit, with kids; Tony married and a house. And Bugs, a cop. I didn’t even have a place to stay. I never asked why they stopped coming to visit me in prison. Or why they stopped writing. Afraid to hear the answers I guess. Just like I was afraid to see Angie.

  As I was brooding, someone ordered another round of beers. We told stories long into the night, digging harder to find funny ones. It didn’t end until Frankie looked at his watch.

  “Shit. It’s
one o’clock. I’m going home to get some sleep.”

  “We’ve got to do this more often,” Tony said.

  “Yeah. We haven’t done this in a long time,” Paulie said. “You’re the glue, Nicky.”

  Bugs pushed his chair back and stood. “I can’t be seen with you assholes. Nicky’s okay, but not you, Paulie. And sure as shit not Tony. I already risked my ass coming here tonight.” He handed me a card. “Call me sometime.”

  “All right. See ya’, Bugs.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “With me,” Tony said. “He lived with me all his life. No sense in changing things.”

  “Guess I’m staying with Tony,” I said, and as we left the bar I wondered if that had been another dig of Tony’s, or if I was being paranoid.

  I DIDN’T TALK MUCH on the way home, mostly listened to Tony and Paulie. It was good to be with friends again. We dropped Paulie off then headed to Tony’s house.

  Tony parked out front, and we climbed the eight or nine steps to a walk that led to his front door, a massive piece of mahogany that guarded the entrance to a three-story piece of paradise.

  “Holy shit. This is yours?” I had heard Paulie talking about how nice his house was, but this…

  “You’ll have one just like it before long,” Tony said, unlocking the door.

  Not in this lifetime.

  Celia, his wife, was still up. She was a cute little brunette with a button for a nose. She had an air about her that indicated she came from money and wanted others to know it. At first blush, I couldn’t imagine Tony marrying her, but then I remembered that this was Tony. She fit right in with his Caddy and this house and his designer suits. Even so, I had to give her credit; it was a horrendous time to be introduced, yet she managed to be pleasant. She showed me to the guest room, then disappeared with Tony down the hall.

  A large mirror in the bedroom reminded me how pitiful my wardrobe was. Tony and Paulie dressed impeccably, and Bugs wore clothes that someone would kill for. Then again, Bugs always did like the clothes, sporting the latest fashions before they became fashions. I unpacked what little I had, putting a few clothes in drawers and my toiletries in the bathroom. The letter from Angela I laid on the bed. I stared at it for a long time—strongly considered reading it again, but decided against it. I should have put it away with the letter from Mamma Rosa; instead, I went to sleep with it on my chest. Then I prayed for the courage to read it and see if I could find any reason to go see her.