1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  Any reason at all not to hate her.

  FBI AGENT JOHN HARDING reviewed the tape from the night’s surveillance. Tony Sannullo and Paulie Perlano had a meet with two associates. They appeared to be out on the town, having fun, but Harding knew that the dagos often mixed fun with business when not in mixed company. Organized crime was a specialty of Harding’s, what he had worked his entire career for. If he busted Tito Martelli, a promotion was almost guaranteed. And the key to Tito Martelli was Tony Sannullo, the young star of Martelli’s Brooklyn operations.

  Danny Maddox stood beside Harding, packing up the night-shift mess. They’d watched these guys all night, and he was tired. “Who were the two new guys?” Maddox asked.

  “I’ll run them through the loop tomorrow and see what comes up.”

  Maddox yawned. “I hope you’re not thinking of starting early.”

  “Sleep in,” Harding said. “I’m not going in until ten. Let’s meet over by Tony’s place. We’ll catch us some dagos.”

  Maddox laughed. “Ten’s good by me. Thanks.” As he started to leave, he turned back to Harding. “You know, Agent Harding, growing up, I never even heard of all those sayings, like dagos and micks, and such.” He paused. “You don’t like them much do you, sir?”

  “Where’d you grow up?”

  “Down South, close to Memphis.”

  Harding nodded. “You don’t hate them, because you didn’t have scum like them to deal with. Goddamn dagos. There’s not a crime committed up here that they don’t have something to do with. When I was little…” Harding gritted his teeth, almost lost himself for a minute. “Anyway, I’m guessing you had your fair share of slurs in Memphis.”

  Maddox lost his smile. “Yes, sir. I guess we did.” He headed for the door after that. “Good night.”

  CHAPTER 31

  QUESTIONING

  Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

  The next day Agent John Harding reviewed his surveillance tapes with other members of the Organized Crime Unit. At first no one recognized the two men accompanying Tony and Paulie, then, a young agent spoke up, if tentatively.

  “I think I know that guy.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one with Mr. Sannullo. He—”

  “Mr. Sannullo?” Harding shot him a glare to kill. “He’s not a damn celebrity, Agent. The man is a gangster.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Harding calmed down. “Which one do you recognize?”

  The young agent gulped and pointed. “The one between Tony and Paulie.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well…I don’t want to be wrong, but…he looks like Frankie Donovan, a detective in Brooklyn.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “No, sir. I’m not certain. That’s what I was trying to say. He just…looks like him.”

  A quick twist of the head brought Harding face-to-face with Agent Kent. “I want an answer before I leave here. And no mistakes. I don’t want to accuse one of their own kind without something solid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  FRANKIE HAD BEEN OUT all morning, checking leads on a case. About ten o’clock he pulled into the lot, parked, then went into headquarters.

  “Morning, Detective,” the desk sergeant said.

  “Hey, Ted. How’s it going?”

  “Got visitors upstairs. And the lieutenant wants to see you.”

  Frankie bounded up the steps and into Lieutenant Morreau’s office. It wasn’t a big office, enough room for three guest chairs and a small sofa, one plant in the corner and a file cabinet. A working man’s office is how Carol described it, and the paperwork spread on every square inch of flat surface showed it to be true. Morreau worked his way up from patrolman to detective, then made the big jump to lieutenant.

  “You wanted me, sir?” Frankie asked as he entered.

  “Sit down.”

  Frankie looked to the side. Two of the guest chairs were occupied by grey suits—never a good sign. Frankie sat, stared at them, then back to Lieutenant Morreau. “What’s going on?”

  One of the suits stood up, walked over with his hand outstretched. “John Harding, Special Agent with the FBI Organized Crime Unit.”

  Special Agent John Harding had a face made for geometry class—all sharp angles with a curve thrown in now and then, and topped off by a jutting forehead. His eyes were too small to be called beady; they looked as if his mother had stolen them from a weasel. Frankie reached out and took his hand. “Frankie Donovan.”

  “I know who you are, Detective.” His voice dripped with attitude.

  “Guess we’re even now…Agent.”

  The other suit, Maddox, offered a handshake. He seemed genuine. “Good morning, Detective Donovan. It sure is a fine day.” He enunciated every syllable in a slow cadence that marked him as having migrated north from somewhere at least as far south as Tennessee, maybe Mississippi. Maddox was a Southern gentleman, a sharp contrast to Harding, and while his voice didn’t drip with a Southern drawl, that cadence was there. And the way he ended sentences made it obvious that all that was missing was the “ma’am or sir” so commonplace down South.

  Harding put on a false smile. “Detective, I’ll get right to it. Last night we caught you on a surveillance tape associating with known members of a criminal organization.”

  Fuck me. Frankie looked to Morreau, then to Harding, letting his gaze linger. “That’s a mouthful for saying I ate dinner with Tony Sannullo.”

  Harding’s eyes went wide. He turned, staring at Lieutenant Morreau, as if to say, “I told you so” then he focused on Frankie. “You don’t deny it?”

  “I just told you. I had dinner with Tony. I’ve known him since I was five years old.” There was a moment of silence before Frankie spoke again, more deliberate this time. “And as far as I know, Agent Harding, Tony has never been convicted of anything.”

  “Being convicted and doing nothing wrong are two different things. I think you know that.”

  “I didn’t say he’s never done anything wrong. Just that he’s not what you accused him of.” Frankie shook his head. “I know how this looks, but these guys were my friends growing up. I’m not dirty, and I’m not associating with them. We had a few drinks.” He looked behind him and took a seat in the chair across from Morreau’s desk.

  “Who was the other one?” Harding asked.

  “He’s not with them,” Frankie said quickly.

  “Who is he?”

  “None of your business.”

  Harding looked to Frankie’s boss. “Lieutenant Morreau?”

  Morreau wore his most frustrated expression as he stared at Frankie. “Donovan, this is no goddamn game.”

  Frankie sat silent for a while, then stood. “Okay, listen. I’m telling you exactly how it is. Tony called me because our old friend, Nicky Fusco, just got into town. That’s the first time I’ve seen Nicky in ten years, and maybe the second or third time I’ve seen Tony or Paulie in probably three.”

  Harding stared while his partner took notes. “All right, Detective, I’m going to check you out, but in the meantime I’d suggest you…” He stopped, as if in thought. “Actually, I’d suggest you continue associating with them. Don’t do anything different. Then—”

  Frankie reached for him, but the lieutenant grabbed him.

  “Detective.”

  He shook off Morreau’s grip. “If this asshole thinks I’m gonna be a rat planted in with my friends, he’s as big a dick as he looks.”

  Harding nodded. “Come on, Maddox. We’ll take this up with the commissioner.”

  Frankie realized he was in deep shit. If the Feds wanted to make him look dirty, they could—and would—do it. He had to make a quick decision. “What are you guys after anyway? I don’t know shit about what Tony or Paulie do.”

  Harding smiled, a shit-eating grin that irritated the hell out of Frankie. “That’s better. I knew you’d come to your senses.” Harding faced the lieutenant. “I’ll get back to you on how we’ll handle this.” As
he and his partner left, he stared at Frankie. “We’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 32

  A NEW JOB

  Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

  It was Friday morning, which meant we headed for Cataldi’s for breakfast. As soon as Tony walked in, one of the waiters hustled to get espresso, and another plopped the daily crossword on the table in front of him.

  “Sit across from me, Nicky.”

  “Still doing those crosswords, huh?”

  “Can’t afford not to be sharp in my business.”

  “Tony, I need to get a job.”

  Tony set his pen on the table, leaned closer. “Nicky, I know we haven’t talked about it yet, but you know that money from selling the house?”

  A rotten feeling gripped me, but I held back, expecting a sad tale of investments gone sour. “What about it?”

  “I invested it for you, along with some of my own stuff.” He leaned forward, whispered. “We’re doing good. You got enough to keep you for probably a year without doing a thing. It’ll take a little while to get liquid on it, so let me know when you want me to pull it out.”

  I made sure my expression showed nothing, but somehow I let out a huge sigh. I didn’t want Tony knowing what I’d been thinking. “That’s nice, but I need to do something. Besides, there can’t be that much, and from what I’ve seen of prices in New York, it won’t last long.”

  “Don’t worry. You can stay at my place as long as you like. Celia loves you.”

  “I’ve been staying with you all my life. I need a place of my own. I’ve got a few bucks I saved from prison, but I need to make my own living.”

  Tony waved his hand in the air. “I’ll take you to see some people.”

  “It can’t be some half-assed job. I’ve got to make big money.”

  “Yeah, so you told me. Don’t worry, we’ll find something.” He stopped. “Here comes Suit. We’ll pick this conversation up later.”

  The three of us talked for more than an hour, reminiscing about the old days, then Tony must have noticed I was getting anxious. “Okay, Paulie. You know what you’ve got to do for the day. I’m taking Nicky to meet a few people.”

  “Come in with us,” Paulie said. “We could use you.”

  “Not a chance, Paulie. I just got out and I don’t intend to go back in.”

  Paulie left the place laughing. Tony paid the bill, then we took off in his Caddy. I played with the radio while admiring the ride. “You always said you were going to have one of these. Guess you hit the big time.”

  “The big time is in your head. Remember what Doggs said.”

  “Yeah, I remember. ‘If you think big, you are big.’” I laughed. “Let me tell you, Tony, I’ve been thinking big…but it’s not happening.”

  We talked to half a dozen guys that day, each one a personal introduction from Tony, but the only thing they had for me was a menial job or an under-the-table one. When we got home that night, I went to bed early, contemplating my new life. I dug deep for Mamma Rosa’s words of wisdom and Sister Thomas’ inspiration. With that on my mind, I woke up the next morning with a smile and a bundle of energy.

  I managed to keep that attitude going for three months, but every day was the same. The three months following that were worse. The economy was horrible, and every time I found a job opening that looked decent, dozens of people were ahead of me, all with no felony records.

  We got together once a month or so with Bugs, but I couldn’t even pay for the drinks. One morning I made up my mind to change things. I asked Tony to get me anything, under-the-table or not. We ate breakfast then headed out for a meeting with his boss, Tito Martelli.

  “Nicky, understand that Tito is not like Doggs. He’s Doggs times a hundred. You piss Tito off, and you’ll be dead.” Tony stared at me. “You remember that movie we saw as little kids about the newborn pigs? How the toughest ones pushed the others out of their way, climbed over them, did anything to get the best teat?”

  “I remember.”

  “The story around Brooklyn is that Tito’s been that way all his life. Except he pushes people into the East River, or into a grave in Jersey.”

  “Point taken.”

  “You sure you got that? I’m not shitting here.”

  “I got it.”

  “You better get it, because it’ll be my ass on the line for bringing you in.”

  We rode in silence for a few minutes. Not actual silence, but listening to the radio, not talking. I didn’t know half the music, but that’s what happens when you spend ten years in prison. “I like this song.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good one,” Tony said, then turned down a side street. He pulled up to a gate, beeped the horn, and two guys came out and opened it.

  “What’s this place?”

  “Union hall,” Tony said. “Tito’s got offices here.”

  He pulled the car up close, got out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The room we stepped into was small, with a coat room on the side. It opened into a large area with two pool tables and several card tables.

  “Hey, Tony,” someone called from the kitchen at the other end.

  “Yo, Manny. Where’s Tito?”

  He gestured toward a back room, and we headed in that direction. The place smelled of coffee—good coffee—and pastries. As we moved into the next room, Tony nudged me. “I’m going to introduce you then leave.” Tony stared at me. “What you and Tito work out is between the two of you. Understand?”

  “Got it.”

  Tony opened the door, and we walked in. A guy about my size sat at a small table, coffee in hand. A plate of sfogliatelle sat in front of him. Already I liked the guy. Anybody who ate sfogliatelle was all right in my book.

  “Tito,” Tony said, and they embraced as he stood.

  He was older than me, shorter and thinner too, and he dressed as if he were going to dinner at a fancy restaurant. On his right pinkie, he sported a diamond ring so big it begged to be stolen.

  Tony turned to me. “Tito, this is my best friend, Nicky Fusco. He’s someone you’ll like.”

  We chatted a few minutes before Tony said he had to leave. “Call me, Nicky. I’ll pick you up.”

  Tito waited for the door to close, then grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s get some coffee.” We walked to the kitchen, poured two cups and headed back. “I understand you knew Tony as a boy.”

  “His mother raised me.”

  “And you’re looking for a job now?”

  “Everyone needs work, Mr. Martelli. Even ex-convicts.”

  “Convicts aren’t much use to me. I could maybe get you a job as a union rep.”

  I sunk when he said “union rep.” I guess I was expecting more. How the hell am I going to win Angie back as a union rep? Right then I realized what my life was about, and what I had to do. “I need a lot more than that, Mr. Martelli. I can do anything.” I stopped and stared at him. “If you have something you need done, I can do it.”

  “Anything sounds ominous. Besides, what would I need done?” He grabbed a biscotto from the plate on the table. “And call me Tito. I hate that Mr. Martelli shit.”

  “Anything,” I said, and stared at him again. “I need money. Once I get enough, though, I’m quitting. You need to know that up front.”

  “I like a man who knows what he wants.” He walked back to the door and opened it. “Manny, I’ll be talking to our new friend. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

  When he returned to the table, a change had come over him. The laugh was gone; from the look on his face now, I didn’t know if he could laugh. “Sit, Nicky. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about this…anything…you said you would do.”

  Here it was—out for six months, and already faced with making decisions that could put me back in. I decided not to hold back. I doubted it would have done any good anyway. This guy seemed like he could spot a lie surrounded by four truths. I brushed over my childhood, but told him about the Woodside fight, then prison. Told him everything about prison.

>   “Anybody fuck you in there?” His eyes burned holes in me. I figured he wanted to know how I stood up to things.

  “Three guys tried it one night. They didn’t make it. Only once more did someone ever try. After that, never.” I didn’t brag or boast. Just told him.

  He nodded. After that, his questions focused on what I liked to do. Did I have a girlfriend? What was it like growing up without a mother? That kind of stuff. Then we got more coffee and told stories about the rigors of Catholic schools and nuns.

  “You know, they always talk about how tough priests are, but for every story about a priest standing up to somebody, I’d bet fifty dollars to a donut he had a nun behind him backing his play.” We laughed about that and told more nun stories, and then finally he stood, saying he had other appointments, and walked me to the door.

  “Manny will take you home,” he said. “No sense waiting for Tony.”

  I nodded to Manny and shook his hand. He was bigger than Paulie and had a neck so thick it would have been impossible for him to button the top of his shirt. Not fat, barrel-chest big, with fingers like links of sausage. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, and they moved so much they could have passed for caterpillars. I turned to Tito. “When do I hear from you?”

  “I’ll get hold of Tony,” he said, then nodded to Manny.

  I walked out of there thinking I had done okay, but I wasn’t sure. Tony was right; this guy was no Doggs Caputo.

  NO SOONER HAD NICKY left than Tito sent for Chicky, one of the most connected men in New York. Chicky knew somebody who knew somebody no matter what. If a person needed to be checked out, Chicky was the one to call.

  “What’s up?” Chicky asked when he came in.