New Jersey Noir--Cape May

by William Baer

  “Who’s the ‘someone’?”

  “Your niece, Isabella Borelli.”

  “I thought you said it didn’t have anything to do with me?”

  I ignored him.

  Three nights ago, when I was reading over Pavese’s suspect list, the name “Borelli” clanged some kind of bell in my brain, but it didn’t dawn on me until this morning exactly why. When Eddie Ravello and I were wiseass kids on the streets of Paterson, he sometimes mentioned his “loser Shore cousins.” The “Borellis.”

  The don was waiting, so I explained my problem.

  “I don’t think she’ll talk to me unless you tell her to.”

  He smiled. Almost.

  Allowing Vinny to speak for the family.

  “Yeah, she’s a piece of work, all right.”

  The don thought it over.

  “Is she involved?”

  “She knew the dead girl ten years ago.”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  “No.”

  Which was a lie.

  I don’t lie much, almost never, and I’m not very good at it. But I’ve noticed that lying to thugs and gang creeps and mobsters gets easier all the time.

  “Fine, work it out with Vincent.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was no response, and he turned away.

  I stepped back from the table, and Vinny came over, and we “worked it out.”

  I never mentioned the six heads staring at the Passaic River. What was the point?

  Then I walked back to my worn-out, exhausted, slightly lit caipirinha girl.

  32

  Borgata

  Saturday, March 28th

  35°

  I like casinos.

  I’m not sure why.

  Gambling’s for saps, and the places are all lights and glitter. But, for some reason, I like the endless jingle, the all-day nocturnalism, and the preposterous sense of both fun and the hope that “springs eternal in the human breast.”

  Atlantic City might be in a slump these days, and a few of the other casinos have boarded up, but the Borgata was having no such problems. It’s the biggest hotel in the state of New Jersey, with over two thousand rooms, and it’s the top-grossing casino in Jersey.

  Unfortunately, it also has an unpleasant whiff of the Cosa Nostra. The back-to-back heydays of Nucky Johnson and Little Nicky Scarfo were long gone, but not so long ago, the casino got nailed. Twenty-three losers were arrested for running an illegal underground sports book out of one of its exclusive poker rooms. They’d raked in at least twenty-two million before the hammer came down, and most of those arrested were either Borgata staff (supervisors, dealers, bartenders) or various capos and soldiers associated with Philly mob boss, Skinny Joey Merlino.

  Oh, well.

  Tonight was a Saturday night, and the place was hopping. Since clocks are verboten in casinos, I checked my watch. It was 2:16 a.m., and my sleepy gal Friday was out in the Explorer resting her pretty head.

  It had been a long day, and she hadn’t been sleeping much since the “Edward Colt” murder.

  I headed for the poker room, the largest in Atlantic City, with fifty tables, but my cell wiggled inside my suit jacket pocket.

  Good.

  I’d been waiting for this, which meant that Nonna was up way past her bedtime.

  Good.

  It was Nonna’s Izzy report:

  Isabella Borelli (age 26, croupier):

  She seems to have been the “loose end” of the Nikki/Rikki circle of teenage friends. A bit more “wild” than the rest of them, getting into a bit of cop trouble in high school. Shoplifting twice. But she was still “very nice,” easy to get along with, and a good friend. She also had serious inferiority issues, always thinking of herself as the “skank” of the group, but, in my opinion, she looks kind of cuteish in the old photos with all that wild black hair.

  Her father (James) worked as a mechanic at the Cape May ferry, and her mother (Maria) initially stayed at home with the five kids. When the father died, when Izzy was eight, her mom started working at Gloria’s Hair Salon on Bank Street, and Izzy joined her there, part time, during high school.

  As you somehow figured out, she’s closely related to the Ravellos, being the niece of Don Ravello, who’s her mother’s older brother. The Borellis are clearly a wing of the Ravello “family,” but I can’t find any indication that Izzy’s father, Jimmy Borelli, was ever involved in the family “business.”

  I also can’t find anything about a boyfriend back then. Or a girlfriend either. She was a good friend of Tommy Garrison, and maybe that caused some friction between Izzy and Nikki. But I have no idea. You should check with Rikki.

  After high school, Izzy worked for two years, full time, at Gloria’s Salon, then she seemed to vanish. It’s no wonder that Edward Colt couldn’t find her. It also seems that she cut off all her earlier ties with Cape May. (Her mother moved back to Paterson about eight years ago, into the Hillcrest District in the Second Ward.) At some point, Izzy also surfaced in Paterson, working at the Magic Hair Salon on Ellison Street for five years before ending up as a well-paid poker dealer at the Borgata. Surely, her uncle set her up. While still in Paterson, she was arrested twice for assault (I’ve got no details), but the charges quickly went away and nothing happened.

  I know that I always give you a hard time, John, but be very careful around Don Ravello. I know too many stories. Tread lightly, and keep that pretty beach girl away from it all.

  Sometimes you don’t realize how dangerous you are.

  Love, Nonna

  I wish the old goat was here so I could contest her uncalled-for “dangerous” remark. Sure, my job is dangerous some of the time, but I don’t think that I’m dangerous. Not in the abstract.

  After all, I’m just doing my job.

  A pretty girl approached.

  I can always smell a hooker. They smell like STDs. But this one’s scent was confusing. Maybe my sinuses were clogged.

  “You having a good time?”

  “More than I need.”

  She got the message.

  She was wearing a diaphanous blue mini with blueberry lipstick and blue spikes to match. Wearing just enough clothing to keep the management from asking her to leave, which was the last thing they wanted since they got a cut.

  In AC, as in Vegas, everyone got a cut.

  Maybe she could be helpful.

  “Where’s Izzy Borelli tonight?”

  “The high-stakes poker room. Upstairs.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, thanks for nothing.”

  I went upstairs and found the right room. I told the guy who was “clearing” the big-spenders at the door that I’d been sent by Don Ravello to give a message to his niece.

  It made him nervous.

  “You want me to call him? I’ve got him on speed dial.”

  That made him even more nervous, so he offered a compromise.

  “Why don’t I let you in, and you wait till her break?”

  I didn’t like the idea.

  “When’s that?”

  He checked his watch.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “All right.”

  He stepped aside, and I stepped inside.

  The place reeked of stale sweat and jacked-up air-conditioning. The “buy-in” was probably ten thousand or so. There were two well-heeled and well-dressed black guys at the table, along with some rich guy from the Middle East, and two overweight honkeys. All they needed to complete the cliché was a couple of cowboy hats.

  And a beautiful dealer.

  No problem with that. She sat there in the midst of them, running the show like Queen Dido before Aeneas docked at Carthage.

  Whatever had happened during the past ten years (and it wasn’t surgical)
, Izzy Borelli was anything but the local skank. She was wearing a super-tight red dress that accentuated everything important, including the stupendous mass of barely-tamed black Italian hair and her voluptuous lips, redder than fire-engine red. Speaking of fire, her sexual thermometer was stuck on max, and I assumed that the guys at the table had anted up more for the opportunity to sit close to the hottest number in Atlantic City than for the unlikely opportunity to poker their way to a few thousand extra bucks.

  She looked like every young woman wants to look. Like the young Claudia Cardinale. If you don’t know who that is, check Google Images.

  You know something else?

  (Pardon the digression.)

  I never really liked the word “hot” to characterize a female. It always seems demeaning somehow. Or maybe it’s just too overtly sexual for a prude like me. But I defy anybody to go to the Borgata high-stakes poker room, look at the dealer, and come up with a better word.

  Izzy looked up from the table and looked at me like she was looking at trouble.

  Actually, I was thinking it was the other way around.

  Flawlessly, she continued her dealing, then she shut things down for a break. The morons at the table groaned in unison, although I don’t think they were aware of it, as she arose from the table, standing above them like Dido ascending the pyre.

  When she tried to duck out a side door, I cut her off.

  “Get lost, pal,” she said.

  As if she said it a lot.

  Time was tight.

  “I’ve come from the don.”

  She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t want to take a chance.

  “Prove it.”

  I dialed Vinny.

  Thank goodness “made” guys like Vinny never go to bed.

  “Little Miss Toughass is giving me a hard time.”

  “Put her on.”

  I handed my cell to Izzy.

  She listened and mellowed a bit.

  “You sure about this, Vin?”

  She listened some more.

  “All right,” she agreed. “Give my love to the don.”

  It was nice to see her giving her love to somebody.

  She looked at me, suspiciously.

  Superciliously.

  “Follow me.”

  I did what every guy in the Borgata wished he could do.

  I followed her.

  We went through the side door, into a small empty poker room, and she turned around and looked at me.

  “What do you want?”

  “Who’s this?”

  I handed her the motor vehicles photo of Billy Kelly. The picture spooked her.

  “I’m not talking about that.”

  “I’ve also got the don on speed dial.”

  I lied.

  She thought it over and decided to be impressed.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

  “Jack Colt. I grew up with Eddie and Vinny.”

  She looked at me closely, finally realizing who I was.

  “Then why are you bothering with a forgotten cold case in Cape May.”

  “Rikki hasn’t forgotten.”

  She melted.

  Not really melted. Thawed.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s fine. She’s also wondering how you are. So is Ronnie. So is Rita.”

  She seemed affected by old memories. Softened.

  She handed me the picture.

  “It’s Billy Kelly. But I’m sure you know that already.”

  “I wanted confirmation.”

  “Is that it?”

  She knew it wasn’t.

  “No, I’d like to know who you think killed Nikki O’Brien.”

  She laughed a why-are-you-wasting-my-time laugh.

  “I don’t have a clue. I never did. But I’m guessing you think it might be me.”

  “You picked up two assault raps in Paterson.”

  “That was just stupid girl stuff. Two bitches at the salon.”

  “If you had anger issues in Paterson, maybe you had them ten years ago in Cape May.”

  “I’d never hurt Nikki, or any of those girls. After it happened, and Rikki never came back to school, my life was over. A total mess. Eventually, I left town and never went back.”

  She was pretty convincing.

  “Was Ronnie ever jealous of Nikki?”

  “No, that’s a stupid question.”

  “Was Rita?”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “What about Rikki?”

  She looked at me like I was an idiot.

  “That’s perfectly ridiculous. They were exactly the same person. Exactly. Hell, they were probably lesbians.”

  “Were you?”

  “Of course, I am. Isn’t it obvious.”

  In New Jersey, sarcasm is de rigueur.

  “Any other dumb questions?”

  “What about Tommy?”

  She laughed.

  An honest laugh.

  “Tommy wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  “Didn’t you two once have a ‘thing’?”

  She scoffed a “No.”

  “But you were close, right?”

  “I was a skank back then.”

  She said it as if it explained everything.

  “I doubt that.”

  I waited some more.

  “Besides, Tommy was much-too-much the goody-goody boy for me. I thought he was perfect for Nikki.”

  “So who did it, Izzy?”

  “You’re the hot-shot detective on TV all the time, you tell me.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks for the memories, Colt. I won’t sleep tonight.”

  I believed her, and I felt sorry for her.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, maybe you are.”

  A few minutes later, I stepped into an empty elevator and hit the button for the main floor. Just before the doors shut, two toughass-slickass-looking guidos got into the elevator. They took their positions, one on my right and one on my left, as I got a grip on my Blackout, from a specially tailored pocket inside my suit jacket.

  A half hour ago, to make things easier inside the casino, I’d left my Colt and my holster in the back seat of the Explorer.

  “Don’t shoot anybody,” I said to the sleepyhead in the passenger’s seat.

  “No promises,” she said, with her eyes shut.

  But I still had my Streetwise Blackout, which is perfectly illegal in New Jersey and a number of other states as well.

  Within the ensuing silence, the three of us stared forward, mindlessly staring at our reflections in the elevator doors.

  They were big guys, probably gym goons, and I wondered why they were after me.

  Maybe one of them was Izzy’s squeeze?

  Maybe they were here to escort me out the front doors.

  Maybe everything would be fine.

  Not likely.

  Then guido number one reached over to the panel and hit the stop button.

  Damn.

  I turned to the other guy and immediately crushed his shades into his face, which, given his response, must have been quite painful. Then I knelt down, avoiding the grasp of the button pusher, and I zapped him right in the groin area. Yeah, I know that I said earlier that I’d never hit a man in his “man region,” but this was different. It wasn’t a punch, and it wasn’t a strike.

  I didn’t have to touch a thing.

  The Streetwise Blackout fits comfortably into your palm and weighs about seven ounces, but it packs a punch. Over five million volts, leading to severe electroshock and neuromuscular incapacitation, immobilization.

  A
long with a world of pain.

  I like tasers a lot. It’s easier than any kind of physical combat, and a lot less messy than a handgun. But what I really like about tasers is watching the saps squirm around on the ground, jerking all over the place. Pain, spasm, and helplessness. It’s a nice combination for goons, predators, and thugs.

  Mr. Button was now on the floor of the elevator doing a lot of wiggling and squiggling, and I was quite disappointed that I couldn’t watch the entire show.

  I stood up straight and looked at the other guy who was trying to remove his now-crumpled frames and bits of plastic lenses from his bloodied forehead, while simultaneously staring down in disbelief at his squirming co-thug. Guys like that make me sick. They knock around anyone they’re told to knock around, but as soon as the tables turn, they all look shocked.

  Like, hey, that’s not supposed to happen to me.

  So I hit him with five million volts. Into the side of his neck, as direct as possible into his nervous system. Soon he was down on the floor, imitating his tough guy pal, and I hit the “stop” button, and we glided down softly to the first floor.

  Just before the doors opened, I looked down at my travel companions.

  “This is for the ones who can’t fight back.”

  Then I zapped number one on the top of his head, which, if he had any brains, would have scrambled them against the walls of his thick skull. Then I zapped number two on his right hip, which I suspected would induce some especially interesting “hippy shakes,” but I couldn’t stick around.

  I wanted to get back to the Explorer.

  And the girl.

  Besides, I felt naked without my Colt.

  33

  Explorer

  Saturday, March 28th

  34°

  Earlier, I’d parked the rented Explorer in the far reaches of the Borgata parking lot, so Rikki could catch some shuteye. I was hoping that the caipirinhas would help her fall into la-la land before we drove back to Paterson.

  It was a coolish late Saturday night, actually early Sunday, and the chill was bracing. Especially after escaping a really badass beatdown by two guys who specialized in the activity.

  When I was fifteen, my uncle gave me my first stun gun. He showed me how to use it, and how to conceal it. And how to be prepared for the worst.