Chapter 9
Christos Gionelli glided his hand over his slicked back graying hair as he perused the sheets of cellular phone information provided by his research analyst. Born and raised in Chicago’s inner city to a Greek mother and an Italian father proved challenging with the ethnic bantering that ensued at all family gatherings throughout his childhood. That raucous and sometimes volatile environment molded Chief Ginonelli into a cop who became well known for being unflappable. No matter what hell broke loose, Christos Gionelli always kept his cool. At least that was the persona he created over the years. However, recent developments were beginning to gnaw at him. Some of it came from the world of witness protection and some from failed marriages, but most of his current issues were self-induced. Andy O’Fallon was just a blip on the radar. At least for now.
Chief Gionelli determined Andy O’Fallon used a pre-paid cellular telephone to contact his office. That cellular telephone had been purchased 15 hours before the call was placed at a Wal-Mart in Grand Junction, CO. Andy was heading east. Further investigative research would determine where he was standing when the call came through, but for now Chief Gionelli felt certain where Andy was heading; Pine Valley, CO to see his only child, Nicholas O’Fallon.
In spite of the fact this was not a criminal investigation, Gionelli was cleared to use any means legally necessary to effectuate Andy O’Fallon’s appearance before the federal deposition in La Vegas, NV in six days. He spent his entire twenty-seven years with the U.S. Marshals Service working with the U.S. Attorney’s Office in one capacity or another. Bonds forged over the years created alliances, under the table favors, and subsequent debts. That’s where Christos Gionelli now sat – paying off a debt. And the U.S. Attorney’s Office always collected. The problem was he didn’t have the control like he might over someone in the witness protection program, reliant upon him for personal protection and reintegration into normal society. No, Andy O’Fallon could take him or leave him. So Christos Gionelli was calling in a few favors of his own to make things happen.
Gionelli picked up his cell phone and dialed Marty Schwartz, his go to guy in Denver, CO.
“Schwartz,” came the response on the other end.
“Looks like we were right. He’s heading your direction.”
“How close?”
“We’ve got him in Grand Junction about 15 hours ago. He called me earlier this morning. We’re getting court orders to find the exact location of that call. My guess is you’ll see him in four to twelve hours.”
“We’ll stay on it for as long as you need, but if he doesn’t show up soon, me and boy wonder are going to need some relief. We can’t stay on this 24/7 without help.”
“Well, it’s not like we’ve got John Walsh and an America’s Most Wanted film crew standing on our backs waiting to unearth Jimmy Hoffa. Take a break and come back at your discretion. We’ll just keep it a soft surveillance for now.”
“Any word from the U.S. Attorney’s Office on how they want to proceed?”
“Are you kidding me? Yeah, they want to do as little work as possible, have their witness show up under his own volition, and survive this case without breaking a sweat.”
“So, no material witness warrant?”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath. I tried bluffing O’Fallon that we’d get one, but he saw right through it, even over the phone. You might have better luck in person with your gruff, 1950’s cop persona.”
“Are you authorizing throwback police techniques? Are civil rights temporarily suspended?
“Just lean on him when he shows up. He probably thinks I was bluffing about having people out searching for him. That might be enough to show him the way.”
A heavy sighed sounded on the phone. “Fine,” Schwartz said.
“Where are you now?”
“Sitting in front of a coffee shop in Pine Valley. Winston just went in to get us a couple of cups. O’Fallon’s kid is sitting at a front table by the window with some guy. It’s not his dad and there’s no sign of the car.”
“Alright. Peel off for now, and I’ll call you when I have more information on his direction of travel, and if the AUSA gives us any paper to grab this guy.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath, remember?” Schwartz said before hanging up. He tossed the phone into the cup holder. He was already committed to this little caper. If he peeled off now, he’d surely get a call to jump right back into action. Besides, his house was empty and cold with the wife shacked up at her sister’s place across town. He didn’t know how long that situation would last. Better just to stay on the street and drink plenty of coffee. There was a burrito shop around the corner that sounded good for lunch. One more hour of watching this turd, and it was time to put on the feedbag.
Winston walked back to the late model Crown Victoria with a cup of GFD coffee in each hand. He placed them on the roof, opened the door, grabbed the drinks, and crawled inside. Winston handed one of the coffees to Schwartz who tilted it back against his mouth and sipped.
“Anything interesting?” Schwartz asked after swallowing the hot beverage.
“Yeah, the guy behind the counter was looking to put together my life story, asking me all kinds of questions. This place isn’t too friendly to a brother.”
“Don’t take too much offense to it. You’re just blacker than most African Americans. It disturbs small town white people. With all that shine, they don’t know whether to think you’re black or a deep purple.”
“You know Schwartz, I’d have guessed being Jewish you’d be more sensitive to racial slurs. Besides, my last name is O’neil. That makes me Irish-African-American.”
“No shit? How does the Irish African thing work with your putz? Or would we call it a schmuck?”
“You can just call it a cock. If you’re really curious, you can lean in for a look at what you’re missing. Or maybe what the missus is missing,” Winston said gesturing towards his zipper.
“Keep your trouser snake in. I’m just impressed you understand Yiddish. As far as the missus goes, I haven’t had sex with my wife in 7 months. I’m not sure what she misses anymore.”
“Can you blame her?”
“Yes, I can. She’s my wife. Sex is still part of marriage. We took a vow. You know, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse.”
“Wow, you’re really taking this better or worse thing farther than I think scripture intended. Have you stood naked in front of a mirror lately?”
Schwartz chose to ignore the last jibe and retaliated by saying, “So did you want me to see your package because you’re truly worried about my wife, or are you referencing your sexual interest in middle aged Jewish white men? What is it with brothers batting for both teams, anyway? I thought it was restricted to prison life, but I guess there’s overflow, huh?”
“Well that’s a new one for me. I didn’t realize all brothers were gay convicts, too. Did you read that in Whitey Digest?”
“No, I caught it in Prison Times. Now if you’re done painting me as some kind of bigot, can we get back to work?”
“Paint you as a bigot? You’re a virtual masterpiece, already.” Winston laughed, “I thought about joining the Black Panthers when I found out we were working together just to keep things interesting.”
Schwartz slapped the steering wheel and let out a deep, guttural laugh. “That would have been ideal. We could have single handedly covered every racial and religious stereotype within 48 hours of riding together. So what about your Irish brother in there?” Schwartz said motioning toward the GFD.
“O’Fallon’s kid kept his eyes on me the better part of the time I was in there. I think he’s suspicious.”
Schwartz informed Winston of his conversation with Gionelli. In light of the attention they unwillingly drew to themselves, they decided to back off the surveillance until they received further instructions from Chief Gionelli. Schwartz eased the Ford onto Main
Street and headed towards a shopping complex on the north end of town. It would be a good place to blend in with the masses and stay off the radar for a while. His burrito would have to wait.
The Bernie Factor Page 9
