Paradise City

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “They been to see you?” Lo Manto asked.

  “I do most of my business with the Camorra,” DelGardo said. “And we’re both doing fine by it. They like me, they don’t like me, none of that matters. All that counts is the cash that moves from one hand to the other.”

  “When I start making moves, they might start looking your way,” Lo Manto said. “Find out what you know. I’ll try to steer it clear from you, but the older crew runners will know our history.”

  “That’s my worry,” DelGardo said. “I do business with them; I’m not part of them. We butted heads before and I’m still here. They can come and ask all they want. And maybe they like what they hear and maybe they get pissed. Either way, it won’t spoil my sleep.”

  “I’ll need some equipment,” Lo Manto said. “And enough supplies to get it done the right way. Whatever happens, to me or to the plan, I’ll make sure you get paid.”

  “I got no money worries,” DelGardo said. “And it won’t be the first time I carried your freight. But I want to give you some advice in return for my free ride on the gear.”

  “I can always use a good lecture,” Lo Manto said.

  “I’ll keep it sweet,” DelGardo said. “You’re in New York now, ready to start a game where you don’t know all the rules. You ain’t back in old Napoli, where you know all the players, those with badges and those without, those that can be trusted and those that should be tossed. You’ve been away a lot of years and those task force jobs you come back to work on here and there don’t count for shit. You should know that even better than me. Right now, at least from where I sit, you’re walking into this blind as Stevie Wonder.”

  “You have a real shitty bedside manner,” Lo Manto said to him. “You need to work on it a bit. Maybe open with a joke before you tell your patient he’s about to die.”

  “This ain’t the time to go at it subtle,” DelGardo said. “You’ve caused these people a lot of grief and they’re looking for a taste of the get-even. Been my experience, they usually hit what they aim at, especially if they want it bad enough. You’re good, I’ll grant you that. If you weren’t, I’d have been at your funeral years ago. But you always go into these situations alone and one of these times just that is gonna be enough to rise up and bite you on the ass.”

  “I’m working this with a partner,” Lo Manto told him, preferring to leave it at that and not have to go into any further detail.

  “It better be that friggin’ bullet-eating robot from The Terminator,” DelGardo said. “Any less ain’t gonna be of much help.”

  Lo Manto pulled a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to DelGardo. “That should pretty much cover all I need,” he said. “If you think I missed a spot here and there, add it to the list.”

  DelGardo flipped open the paper and glanced over the neatly written list. “The first three I can have by tonight,” he said. “The middle three by tomorrow, late in the afternoon. The last two I gotta check on and get back to you. With some luck, they’ll be in your hands day after tomorrow. If you’re still alive.”

  Lo Manto opened the rickety wooden door leading out of the store. “It might be worth getting killed, then,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at DelGardo. “Just to stick you with a tab.”

  Lo Manto was walking past the El on East 238th Street, heading for a first-floor apartment on Boyd Avenue, when a heavy rain began to fall. He lifted the collar of his thin leather jacket and walked along the doorways of the storefronts that lined the street. A heavy jolt of thunder and a flash of lightning brought the rain down in an even heavier rush and Lo Manto ducked into the first open doorway he found, nestled in between a shuttered pizzeria and a small lingerie shop. He stood with his back against the row of mailboxes and ran a hand across his thick hair. The glass-paned door to the main lobby was ajar, the buzzer long ago rendered useless. Lo Manto opened it and slowly stepped inside, the hall filtered in darkness, an overhead twenty-five-watt bulb close to the rear exit the only visible light. He walked to the base of the first-floor steps and eased himself down on the cracked cement, faded flower patterns dotting its edges. He leaned back and took a deep breath, taking in the murmurs and smells of the building. The sounds from inside the small, stuffy apartments were a mixture of muffled conversations and flashes of television game shows and soap operas. Anyone home at this hour of the day was either retired, unemployed, or getting ready for the late-night shift at one of the nearby sweatshops. Lo Manto’s hair was wet, and now droplets of water bounced against the collar of his jacket. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cement wall. He was cold, hungry, and tired as his mind rushed through a methodical breakdown of his current situation. The next move now belonged to him and he couldn’t be passive about it, which required him quickly and quietly to gather as much street info as he could and then hit one of the major Camorra spots, either an after-hours gambling operation or a club that brought in half their weekly through drug sales. This would serve both as retaliation for the botched attempt on his life outside the restaurant and as a shout to the outfit that he wasn’t quite ready to pack his bags and run back home. At the same time, he needed to smoke out which of the Camorra crews had lifted his niece and pinpoint where she’d been dropped. He was still gambling that she was merely the hook to reel him in and would thus remain unharmed, but slivers of doubt were starting to cloud that end of his thinking, specifically the lack of any contact between him and the lifters. On this one, Lo Manto knew he couldn’t afford even to make anything close to a wrong move.

  He opened his eyes but stayed still when he heard the rustle coming from behind the stairwell. He stretched out his legs and kept his body relaxed but primed to move as he listened to the sounds of rustling clothes and a quiet, muffled cough. He looked to his left and saw the shadow on the wall, hunching over, folding items, and placing them in what appeared to be a small bag. Then the shadow stood upright and moved away from the dark shade and toward the vestibule. Lo Manto watched a boy, about fifteen, walk past the stairwell, a plastic bag slung over one shoulder, his head down, ready to head out and brave the late afternoon storm.

  “If you give it another twenty minutes, you’ll save yourself a soak-through,” Lo Manto said, his words directed at the boy’s back. “You’re walking into the heart of it if you head out now.”

  The boy, Felipe Lopez, turned and looked over at the man sitting on the steps. He wasn’t a familiar face and he didn’t figure to be a tenant, though he did have a neighborhood look to both his outfit and his manner, sitting there casually, indifferent, acting like somehow this was where he belonged. “The rain’s gonna be falling down on my skin, not yours,” Felipe said with a shrug. “So long as you’re in here white and dry, I don’t see it as your problem.”

  “Is Eduardo’s still where it used to be?” Lo Manto asked the boy, ignoring his display of street attitude. “Next to the dry cleaners, on 241st?”

  “No reason for it to move,” Felipe said. “Place is always packed. Even people who leave the neighborhood drive back every Saturday to grab a meal.”

  “Well, if Ida’s still doing the cooking, then there’s a good reason to burn through a tank of gas,” Lo Manto said. He stood up, watching the boy tense as he did, anticipating his next move. “The food in there is better than in some restaurants in Italy.”

  “That I wouldn’t know,” Felipe said. “I never ate there.”

  “Why not?” Lo Manto asked, standing now, arching his back, cracking the stiffness out of the muscles. “Not big on Italian food?”

  “Not big on money,” Felipe said. “And I think they’re one of those places that expects you to pay after you eat.”

  “You hungry now?” Lo Manto asked.

  “I’m always hungry,” Felipe said.

  “I’m in the mood for baked clams and maybe some stuffed shells,” Lo Manto said, walking toward the boy and the front door. “And I hate to eat alone. I can order more if there’s two of us.”

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p; “I don’t usually eat with strangers,” Felipe said. “It’s never a good idea.”

  “I never do,” Lo Manto said, holding open the front door and waiting for the boy to walk past. “They’re not to be trusted. Now, it’s a good seven blocks in a heavy rain, which means we’re running it. First one that’s there gets the table and orders the wine. And if that ends up to be you, make sure the wine’s red and make twice as sure it’s a Brunello.”

  “What if I get there and you never show?” Felipe asked, stepping into the small vestibule, staring at Lo Manto, the rain outside coming down hard enough to cause pain. “I’m the one gets stuck with a bottle of wine that probably costs more than I’m worth.”

  “If that happens, then you’ll know,” Lo Manto said, moving slowly toward the assault from above, gearing up for his dash through the streets of the East Bronx.

  “Know what?” Felipe asked.

  “That I was one of those strangers that shouldn’t have been trusted,” Lo Manto said. He smiled at the boy, turned, and ran out into the heavy rain in search of a restaurant and a meal.

  They were halfway through their entrée, Lo Manto savoring a mixed grill of squid, shrimp, scallops, eel, clams, and mussels and a large tomato and red onion salad while Felipe devoured a steak pizzaiola, garlic mashed potatoes, and a side of marinated eggplant. They had muscled their way through the rain, jumping huge puddles, dodging passing cars that plowed water thick as waves onto the sidewalks, weaving in and out between street and curb until they reached the restaurant. They left their jackets, drenched and dripping, with a young coat-check girl with long, tapered nails, dark curly hair, and a gentle smile. They were escorted to a table in the back by an elderly man with a hunched-over walk wearing a tuxedo that had survived the better part of a decade. The restaurant was quiet, with only half the dozen tables filled, mostly with elderly customers looking for a warm plate and a dry room. Italian instrumental music flowed from the corner speakers on low volume.

  Lo Manto ordered for both of them, speaking in Neapolitan dialect to the headwaiter, a tall, graceful man with white hair and a relaxed and gentle manner. The man nodded as he noted the order, offering his opinion on the choice of wine, smiling when the young boy asked for a Coke with no ice to start. They sat in silence as they waited for their first course to be placed in front of them, a cold antipasto platter filled with fresh-cut salami, prosciutto, sopressata, and a variety of cheeses. Lo Manto filled his bread plate with olive oil and heavy dashes of red pepper and acted as if he didn’t notice when the boy did the same. The boy was on his second glass of Coke, his antipasto plate wiped clean, when he spoke. “You’re not from here,” he said to Lo Manto. “But you act like you are. What’s the deal with that?”

  “I used to live around here,” Lo Manto said. “Many years ago. I left when I was about your age, when my mom moved me and my sister to Italy. But I’ve been back here and there.”

  “To see family?” the boy asked.

  “No,” Lo Manto said as he finished off the last of his antipasto and poured himself a fresh glass of wine. “Any family I have is in Naples. Here, I have a few friends and enough enemies to fill this restaurant.”

  “That why you picked me to eat with?” Felipe asked.

  “It’s nice to sit across from a friendly face,” Lo Manto said with a slight smile. “It helps you enjoy the meal more.”

  “The food’s supposed to be even better in Italy,” Felipe said. “Least that’s what I read in the books at school and hear from the Guidos in the neighborhood. Plus, you have friends and family there, so you always have somebody to eat with, right?”

  “Yes,” Lo Manto said, his eyes briefly looking past the boy toward a young couple in the rear of the restaurant, their backs to a framed portrait of the Bay of Naples, locked in a long, passionate kiss.

  “Then why you even bother coming to New York?” Felipe asked. “You tryin’ to get an old apartment back, something like that?”

  “My work brings me back,” Lo Manto said.

  “What kind of work does that?” Felipe asked. “Makes you go back and forth all the time? And don’t pay that much on top.”

  Lo Manto laughed, wet hair flopping against his ears and neck. He lifted his wineglass and took a slow drink. “What makes you think I don’t make a lot of money?” he asked. “For all you know I’m richer than Donald Trump.”

  “You’re in a leather jacket, polo shirt, and Gap jeans,” Felipe said. “Show me a picture where you got Trump decked out in an outfit like that.”

  “He might dress better,” Lo Manto said, leaning back in his chair as a waiter put a steaming bowl of pasta mixed with beef and pork braciola between his knife and fork. “But he can’t tell a guy not to leave town for the weekend. When I’m working, I can do that.”

  Felipe rested his fork against the edge of his bowl of penne sitting in a thick marinara sauce. He pushed his chair back a few inches and placed the palms of his hands on top of the table. He stared across at Lo Manto, his dark eyes now no longer open and friendly, colored instead by a fresh coat of fear. “You a cop?” he asked, his mouth suddenly dry, his boyish voice minus its earlier spark.

  Lo Manto nodded, jamming a forkful of pasta into his mouth, his expression betraying no emotion. “Not here, though,” he said. “But back in my city, Naples. I work homicide and narcotics cases, mostly. So unless you’re involved in either of those two areas, you can relax and go back to enjoying your meal. I try to make it a practice not to arrest anyone I share a dinner with.”

  “What about after dinner?” Felipe asked.

  “I thought we’d go for a walk and talk,” Lo Manto said. “Give us both a chance to burn off some of the meal and maybe get to know each other a little bit better.”

  “You don’t need to waste your time getting to know me,” Felipe said, picking up his fork again and jabbing at his pasta, tension in his body starting to ease. “I try to steer clear of cops, no matter what country they come from.”

  “Don’t blame you there,” Lo Manto said, breaking off a thick chunk of warm bread. “You have to be careful who you trust in life, especially when it comes to cops. We’ll see how it goes, you and me. If by the end of our walk, you want to head your own way, it’ll be with no hard feelings. I expect the same from you, if it turns out I’m the one looking to say good-bye.”

  “You got something in mind?” Felipe asked. He was, at the very least, curious. He had never spent this much time alone with a cop, let alone sat down and shared a meal with one. He liked Lo Manto, ignoring the signals from his street antennae warning him to take heed, able to relax and find comfort in his company. Other than the fact that he wore a badge, eating with him was no different from having dinner with any other straight-up local from the neighborhood. Only Lo Manto ordered from the higher end of the menu.

  “I’ve been away for a long time,” Lo Manto said. “Some things have stayed the same, but there’s a different feel to the area from when I was your age. If I had the time, maybe I could navigate my way through it. But I’m up against the clock and could use a good pair of eyes out there. Somebody I can depend on when I reach out with a question I need answered in a hurry.”

  “I won’t stool for you,” Felipe said, “if that’s where this is going. I don’t go that way, for one. And pointing fingers around here is the death penalty.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” Lo Manto said. “And a stool is not what I need. I can get that on my own.”

  “What do you need then?” Felipe asked.

  “A partner,” Lo Manto said.

  16

  JENNIFER SIPPED from a cold Starbucks Frappuccino, her driver’s side window down, engine on her unmarked parked in idle. Lo Manto sat across from her, reading the sports section of an Italian newspaper, a hot cup of coffee resting on the dashboard. It was early morning on what promised to be another hot and humid New York day, the storefronts along East Gun Hill Road still shuttered, a few shop owners hosing down the sidewal
ks, watching the dirt and debris flow over the curb and toward the half-moon sewer mouths.

  “What did you and Fernandez talk about after I left his office?” Jennifer asked, setting her sweaty plastic cup in a slot under the radio. “And don’t dodge the answer. Good or bad, I’d like to hear the truth. I think off of yesterday, I earned that much.”

  Lo Manto put aside his newspaper and grabbed his coffee. He took several slow sips, placed the cup back on the dash, and turned to face Jennifer. “He needed to decide if you were going to be a part of this or not,” he said. “If you were good enough to deal with the action that’s gonna happen and the heat that follows. He laid out your strengths and your weak spots.”

  “How’d I score?”

  “You’re here,” Lo Manto said. “And you’re in it. That’s all that should matter. At least for the time being.”

  “Going into a situation, any situation, with a reluctant partner is not a place any cop wants to be put in,” Jennifer said. “Especially this cop. I need to know if you want me in on this or you’re going to look to ditch me first chance you get.”

  “I don’t want anyone but me,” Lo Manto said. “It has nothing to do with how good I think you are. It has everything to do with me not wanting to see another cop get hurt. This is my battle. I fight it every day in Naples and I usually fight it alone.”

  “Did Fernandez offer up those two homicide bozos again?” she asked. “Jacobs and Rivera? To take my place?”

  “They weren’t the answer, either,” Lo Manto said. “He could have told me Frank Serpico was coming out of retirement and looking to partner up, it wouldn’t have mattered. I like to work it by myself. Nothing personal against you or anybody else.”