by Dave Daren
The drive into Brooklyn was relatively smooth, with only the usual jumble of cars entering and exiting the Brooklyn Bridge. Duvernay took us along the river towards the old Italian neighborhoods, where many of the Mafia’s most notorious members got their start. We cruised past Carroll Gardens, the alleged neutral territory where members of different Mafia families could safely meet and where a young Al Capone married his Irish girl. As we neared the Red Hook section, Duvernay turned onto a narrow street, then circled the block in search of a parking spot. He got lucky on our second circuit and he pulled in behind an SUV that was just pulling out.
We were in one of those in-between neighborhoods, not yet fully gentrified and where a Starbucks sat next to a pawn shop. We walked back towards the narrow street, where many of the businesses had closed for the day, although the Chinese take-out joint and the payday loan place were still open. There was a group of people at both businesses, and even in the quick look I took, I saw three people leave the loan place and head to the Chinese place.
Desmond led us to one of the Italian social clubs that are still scattered around this part of Brooklyn. There’s something mysterious about these places, and part of me has always wanted to venture inside just to see what they were like. There’s always two or three old men outside, sometimes in chairs, but on rare occasions on their feet, and they spend most of the day there when the weather is decent. Throughout the day, people stop and speak quietly with the men, then hurry on their way. The men never do anything like hop to their feet and run inside to pass along a message, but eventually, someone inside the club steps outside and another quick discussion takes place. Needless to say, rumors of their ties to the various Mafia families abound.
“This is where Giorgio Marinello hangs out?” I asked in disbelief when I read the sign. “I thought it was just for old guys.”
Two of said old guys were in their place in front of the club, seated in lawn chairs while they sipped wine from stemless glasses.
“It’s for anyone who’s Italian-American,” Desmond corrected. “Or who has business to conduct with certain people.”
Desmond nodded to the two old men in the lawn chairs, who eyed him suspiciously but otherwise didn’t react. I felt their gazes sweep over me, but Desmond had the door open by then and I could just see the pulsing light and hear a round of laughter, and I really wanted to know what was going on in the club.
I stepped into an ordinary room, with bad 1970’s wood paneling and a sticky linoleum floor. The pulsing light was set up over a barely there stage at the back of the room, where a busty blonde was doing a pole dance without the pole. The only other people in the room were all men, including the two armed guards who stood near the door. They converged on us, but Desmond already had his federal ID out. After a brief discussion that I could barely hear over the music, the guards reluctantly stepped back and let us through.
“Is it like this every night?” I yelled at Desmond as we retreated to a corner where Desmond could scan the crowd for our guy.
“Ha!” he chortled. “No, this is a once a month or so deal. Don’t ask me how I know that.”
“Did you know it would be happening tonight?” I asked.
“Nope,” Desmond replied though I had my doubts as to how truthful that was.
Desmond spotted Giorgio and started towards him just as the dancer finished her routine. The crowd whistled and clapped as she collected her tips, then the regular lights came back on as she left the stage and the DJ I spotted in the corner promised that the ladies would be back after a short break. The men started to stand and their voices quickly took the place of the music. Once we were spotted, though, the talk quickly disappeared.
“Giorgio,” Desmond said politely as he stopped near three men who had just stood up.
Two of the men were around Salvatore’s age, but the third one was closer to mine. As Gabby and Nera had said, he was average in every way, and probably instantly forgettable. How many places had he walked into and not been stopped because he simply didn’t register? It was rather scary to think about, and I was amazed that Gabby and Nera had been able to remember as much as they did.
“I’m George,” the younger man grudgingly replied. “Who are you?”
Desmond pulled out his ID again and held it out for Marinello’s inspection. Marinello frowned as he studied it and I could see the confusion that crossed his face as he tried to figure out why someone from the Treasury Department had interrupted his evening.
“We have some questions we’d like to ask you,” the Treasury agent said. “Is there somewhere quieter where we could talk for a few minutes?”
“What is this about?” one of the older men demanded.
“Giorgio is a potential witness,” the agent said vaguely.
“Potential witness to what?” the other man demanded.
“Well, we won’t know until we’ve talked to him,” Duvernay said in a soothing voice.
“I’m gonna grab a slice,” Marinello declared. “That’s how much time you got to ask your questions.”
“Giorgio,” the older man warned.
But Marinello was already striding towards the door to the street. Duvernay and I followed after him, though I could feel the stares of the other club members drilling into our backs. We caught up with Marinello outside, where he’d stopped to light a cigarette.
“Okay, so what’s this about?” Marinello asked as he crossed in the middle of the street and then strolled to the next street.
“You were pegged in a murder investigation,” I said when Duvernay nodded to me.
Marinello didn’t react, which was interesting. Most people would either deny knowing anything about a murder, or at least demand to know who had been murdered. Marinello did neither of those things; instead, he turned onto another street and slowed his pace just long enough to let a woman walking a dog pass us.
“Who pegged me, as you put it,” he asked.
“Witnesses,” I replied. “Actually, it was your necklace.”
Marinello finally reacted, momentarily, as he glanced towards the T-shirt he had on. The cross was hidden from view beneath the cotton fabric, but I could see the chain around his neck.
“Lot of people wear crosses,” he mumbled.
“You know Francine Mott and Anthony Febbo,” I noted.
Marinello’s mouth quirked in a half-smile as he realized we had finally gotten around to the topic of interest.
“Sure,” he replied. “Went to school with both of them, out on Long Island. Saint Agatha’s.”
“You keep in touch with them?” I asked.
“Not much,” he said. “We went our different ways after high school. They went off to college and I went to work for my uncle.”
Duvernay nodded at that though he still remained silent.
“But you ran into Francine not that long ago,” I pointed out.
“So what if I did?” Marinello demanded. “I’m not allowed to say hi to an old friend or something?”
“Not when she turns up dead,” I replied casually.
Marinello finally stopped and turned to look at me.
“What the fuck are you saying?” he demanded.
“Francine Mott is dead and you were the last one to see her alive,” I replied.
“Says who?” he asked.
“You offered her a ride home even though you knew Anthony was on his way to pick her up,” I said. “She accepted, and you drove her to her apartment in Queens, where you then killed her.”
Marinello watched me as I laid that out, and when I was done, he dropped what was left of his cigarette and ground it with his heel.
“I offered her a ride because some boomer with a thing for girls wouldn’t leave her alone,” Marinello growled. “And yeah, I knew Anthony was coming, but she didn’t look like she was going to make it that long. So I said I could drop her off.”
“Nice of you, to drive her all the way to Queens,” I remarked.
“I didn’t know she
lived in Queens when I offered,” he groused.
“Didn’t you want to stick around and see Anthony again?” I asked. “He was really the friend, not Francie, after all. Isn’t that true?”
Marinello frowned and I could see him try to figure out how much I really knew about his ties to Anthony and Francie.
“Yeah, I guess,” he grudgingly replied. “I mean, I’d always make plans with Tony but Francie would usually turn up. We just sort of learned to expect her even if we didn’t invite her.”
“So why not wait for Tony?” I pressed.
“Like I said, she wanted to get away,” the one-time friend insisted.
“So what happened when you got to her apartment?” I asked quickly.
“Nothing,” Giorgio insisted. “She got out and went inside and I drove away.”
“You didn’t even bother to make sure she made it in the door safely?” I pressed.
Giorgio scowled and then started walking again. We were nearing the end of the street, where I could see people standing in line at the pizza joint’s window.
“As you said, she wasn’t really my friend,” he offered. “She was Anthony’s.”
“And yet you were willing to rescue her from the boomer with a thing for girls and drive her all the way to Queens rather than hang around a few more minutes and say ‘hi’ to Anthony,” I mused.
“Whatever,” Marinello snapped as he joined the line. “It is what it is.”
“You haven’t asked anything about how she died,” I noted and the gaggle of girls in front of us all turned to look.
“I can read a paper,” he retorted.
“You knew she was dead before I mentioned it?” I asked.
“Sure,” he agreed as he scowled at the girls.
The gaggle turned forward again, but they started to talk to each other in low whispers. They huddled closer to each other, which only deepened Marinello’s scowl.
“Your story doesn’t make any sense,” I said.
“Who the fuck are you?” Marinello finally demanded. “I know you’re not a cop and I know you’re not a fed.”
“I’m an attorney,” I replied calmly.
“Fuckin’ lawyers,” Marinello grumbled. “Well, you can tell your client that I ain’t takin’ the fall for killin’ Francie.”
“We’ll see,” I replied as Duvernay started to jerk his head back towards the club.
I spotted some of the members heading our way, and it was clear we’d worn out our welcome. Rather than pass the local muscle, Duvernay and I stepped out of the line and walked around the corner. We were on a busy street lined with small restaurants and a grocery store. We walked quickly back to the spot where we’d left the car, with periodic casual checks over the shoulder.
“Would they have really tried anything?” I asked when we were standing by the Caprice once again.
“Probably not,” Duvernay replied. “But since I’m supposed to be off duty and not driving Anthony Febbo’s attorney out to Brooklyn to talk to a member of a rival gang, I’d rather not find out.”
“Well, I appreciate you bringing me out here,” I replied. “I wouldn’t have made it inside without you, and I definitely wouldn’t have found Giorgio.”
“I’m always interested to hear what people like Giorgio have to say,” Duvernay replied as he unlocked the doors. “Is there somewhere I can drop you?”
“I’m not that far,” I assured him. “I can walk.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you can,” he chuckled. “But I’m still going to give you a lift. The last thing I need is to wake up tomorrow morning and see that you were killed while walking home.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “But only if you tell me what you thought about Marinello.”
“Same rule applies to you,” he replied.
We both grinned as we opened the doors and climbed back inside the old cruiser. Duvernay went through his flight check again, and I wondered if he would still be doing it if the club members had chased us down the street. But the check was finally completed and Duvernay pulled out of the spot.
“I’m in DUMBO,” I said as he pulled up to the stop light.
“Why am I not surprised?” he replied as he signalled for a left turn.
“He didn’t really deny killing her,” I mused once we were moving again. “He just said he wouldn’t take the fall for it.”
“I noticed that, too,” the agent replied. “And you were right to ask him about when he learned she was dead. He did try to act like he didn’t know she was dead when you started asking questions.”
“And there’s that strange disconnect between being friends with Anthony but not waiting around to see him,” I added.
“I’d say you were on the right track,” Duvernay said. “But you’re going to need something to tie him to the crime scene.”
“We should be getting the crime scene reports soon,” I noted.
“I thought you were smarter than that,” Duvernay snickered. “You’re gonna rely on what the cops find?”
“No,” I said quickly. “But it’s a starting point. We just need to figure out what they missed.”
“Uh-huh,” the agent said noncommittally.
“I’m a little surprised you’re trash talking the NYPD,” I said after several long seconds of silence.
“Not the whole of NYPD,” Duvernay replied. “It’s a good department, and on most days, on most cases, I’d be happy to let them do the work. But the Mafia still has connections in the NYPD, and you can be sure that on something like this, they’ll use every connection they have to make sure this goes the way they want.”
“Which is Anthony behind bars,” I said.
“So it would seem,” Duvernay agreed.
There was another round of silence, and then I directed Duvernay through the maze of old dockside buildings to the more brightly lit area around my building. The agent took in the new apartment buildings and the urban sprawl and shook his head.
“Used to be nothing but warehouses and oversized rats down here,” he said.
“And sailing ships before that,” I added.
He chuckled as he pulled to a stop in front of my building. I was just about to step out when he laid a hand on my arm.
“How much do you know about your client?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I retorted.
“You seem sure that he’s stayed away from the Mafia,” he explained.
“I haven’t seen anything that would convince me he’s being groomed as the next don,” I replied.
Duvernay tapped his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment, then shook his head.
“The Febbos are smart,” he said. “And I’m sure some part of Anthony believes that he wants to be free of the family business.”
“What are you basing this on?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” the agent admitted. “He’s out of the business, but he’s always still lurking around the edges. He’s trying to make his own way, but things always open up for him.”
“As you said, he’s smart,” I pointed out.
“They all are,” Duvernay said.
“I think you’re way off base on this theory,” I replied.
“I hope you’re right,” the agent sighed. “But just in case, you might want to consider investing in some protection. Things are about to get bloody around the Febbos, and it’s rarely their blood that gets shed.”
Chapter 10
I’d laughed at Duvernay’s warning as I stepped from the car and assured him that I was only an attorney and no one would have any interest in me. The gray Caprice had left in a cloud of black exhaust and I had stepped into my building with Marinello’s answers still swimming in my head. I nodded to the night doorman, or rather doorwoman, and crossed to the stairs.
The rest of the night was devoted to preparation for the two long meetings I had to attend, and by midnight, Anthony Lamon Febbo and his family were far from my thoughts. I crawled into bed sometime in the wee hours and dreamt
of accountants literally carrying piles of cash from one side of the office to another while a very fat man who looked sort of like Jabba the Hutt expounded on the current accounting rules. I woke up to sunlight pouring through the window and a pigeon on the ledge that watched me struggle out of bed while its partner flew back and forth between the various apartment buildings.
I made a quick visit to the gym on the corner, returned to my small space for a quick shower, and wolfed down the last of the cereal. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that no one had tried to call yet, and after checking the subway report, sent the partner on the Ballmer case a text stating that I would meet him at the DOJ offices. Bob Shaw, a partner who was actually fun to work with, texted that he was stuck in the station at fourteenth and was thinking of taking a cab instead, but Wes, the paralegal on the case, was already at the office and would meet us out front.
The subway was as slow as the report had promised, which meant the first train to arrive was already packed beyond capacity. I checked my watch and decided I could wait for the next train, and if that was a wash, I would find a cab. After another tedious wait, I managed to squeeze onto the next train, though it was a relief to get off on the other side. There’d barely been room to stand, much less breathe, and I sucked in a lungful of stale air as I joined the herd heading for the exit.
“What a mess this morning,” Bob declared when he saw me approaching. Bob played Santa every year for the firm’s family Christmas party, and it was easy to see why. He looked like Santa, complete with white beard and twinkling eyes, and even a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a grandfatherly air. He was friendly and outgoing, and anything but the typical partner. But he was a shark when it came to understanding the law, and the clients loved him for that.
“Something about a water main break?” I said as I joined him. “I didn’t catch the whole report.”
“I guess they’re trying to reroute some of the lines until they have it repaired,” Bob replied. “But that’s just created a mess. Oh good, here’s Wes.”
Wes had joined the firm straight out of college with a grand plan to work at the firm and save up his money for law school. But after watching what the lawyers went through, he decided he was happier being a paralegal. He was now closing in on twenty years with the firm, and he still looked happy with his choice.
