Condemned (46 page)

“Yeah, man, it's dangerously cold. I need you to call Dineen and convince him somehow to get me out of here. If he won't agree, you better arrange to go before the Judge.”

“Is it that serious?”

“I don't have much time on the phone. I'd like you to find out where I am and arrange to come out here to see me as soon as possible, so I can explain the whole thing. Meanwhile, see if you can do anything about getting me transferred to a regular prison. Even if it's that maximum security place in Wisconsin. I think this place is dangerous to my health. Real dangerous.”

“Really? I'll see what I can do with Dineen. I'll find out where you are so I can come to see you.”

“Maybe you've got to go over Dineen's head. I think he's probably part of the deal. They're all looking to better themselves on my ass.”

“I'll figure something out. I'll come down to see you.”

“A.S.A.P.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

“I'm trying.”

As Hardie snapped the cell phone closed, Supervisor Becker hung up the receiver on his desk phone.

Geraghty and Castoro came back to the table. Geraghty glanced at the front window. Mulvehill was still outside, smoking a cigar. Geraghty saw him take his cell phone in hand and appear to be answering a call. Mulvehill glanced abstractly, pensively, at the table through the window. Seeing the three men inside watching him, Mulvehill turned his back to them, continuing to talk on the cell phone. The Agents at the table were eating pizza. Red continued to watch Mulvehill talk on his cell phone. In a minute or two, Mulvehill flipped the cell phone closed, and re-entered the restaurant.

“I was just on the phone with the boss about that electric blanket idea of yours,” Mulvehill said to Hardie.

Red, not saying a word, listened to Mulvehill.

“What'd he say?” said Castoro.

“Get this—the Boss must be getting soft—he said, if you want to buy blankets for everybody, buy blankets. He approved a trip to the mall to buy them.”

“Hey, beautiful,” smiled Castoro.

“You got your way again, Mr. Hardie,” said Mulvehill.

“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts,” said Hardie.

“What's that supposed to mean?” said Mulvehill.

“Nothin'. Nothin' at all.”

“When are we going to the mall?” said Castoro. “Oh, baby, sleeping warm.”

“The Boss said probably in a couple of days.”

“It's going to be cold tonight, and again tomorrow night,” said Castoro.

“Hey, Lou,” said Geraghty. “This is your Government at work. Take it easy.”

Bay Ridge : August 6, 1996 : 11:50 P.M.

“Bobby Red. You're a pisser,” Tony Balls exploded, shaking with laughter as he stood at the bar in Moscarella's. Robert D'Onofrio, known as ‘Bobby Red', was a shorter man, with reddish hair and bright, slightly bulging eyes that were now watering as he laughed. He was seated on a bar stool. Tony Balls' hilarity, which had been abating, exploded again. He slapped the bar. “Oh
Madon
,” he repeated the punch line of the joke Bobby Red had just told him about the horse that only understood commands in Italian.

Bobby Red, a Union Official, had come directly from a fancy dinner. He was in a tuxedo. His black bow-tie, now undone, hung loosely in his winged collar.

“
Salute
,” said Tony Balls, clinking his glass against Bobby Red's martini glass. “Where'd ya go in the head waiter's suit?”

“The Waldorf, in the City, one of those
chicken a la king
jobs, a benefit for one of the people from 813.”

“Teamsters?”

“Yeah.”

“That Judge—what the fuck's his name?—he still running the Union?”

“Lacey? Yeah.”

After the Government brought a RICO Action against the Teamsters Union, the case was assigned to Federal Judge David Edelstein. Eventually, the RICO action was settled by an agreement that a former Federal Judge, Frederick Lacey, would oversee the running of the Teamsters Union, As part of the settlement agreement, everybody who was a member of Organized Crime, or even a friend of anyone associated with Organized Crime, was to be called in front of Lacey and banned from the Union.

“Lacey still breaking everybody's balls?”

“Yeah, him and Edelstein—”

“That's a real prick,” said Tony Balls. “
Madon
,” exclaimed Tony Balls, re-visiting Bobby Red's joke. His laughter erupted again. “That is some joke, Bobby. I wish I could tell jokes. That's a good one.”

A car rolled slowly to a stop at the curb outside the restaurant. Both men looked through the panes of the French doors that formed the front wall of Moscarella's.

“Who's that?” said Tony Balls, squinting into the dark at the figure of a young man now exiting the car.

“Looks like Billy Legs' kid.”

“Hey, Sally,” Tony Balls greeted as he unlocked the front door of the restaurant. Sally Cantelupo's shirt was open down to the middle of his chest, displaying a conspicuous gold medallion on a thick gold chain.

Sally embraced Tony Balls, kissing him on the cheek. “Hey, Bobby Red,” Sally said, walking over to the second man, kissing him on the cheek.

“You want a drink?” asked Tony Balls. “Hey, Enzo,” he called toward the interior of the restaurant.

“No, I just wanted to talk to you for a minute,” said Sally.

“I'm gonna get going,” said Bobby Red, sipping the last of his drink.

“No, no, I don't want to chase you,” said Sally. “I'm only going to be a minute—not even.”

“Yeah, stay,” said Tony Balls, “we'll have another drink. I don't get to see none of the old crew lately.”

“You sure?” Bobby Red said to Tony Balls and Sally.

“Sure. Hey, Enzo. Get Bobby Red another of whatever he's drinking in the
martooni
glass. Come on, Sally. I'll walk you to your car.”

Tony Balls and Sally walked out to the street. They drifted into the shadows just beyond the front of the restaurant.

“You got something for me?” Sally said to Tony Balls.

“What the fuck you talking about?” said Tony Balls. He put his arm around Sally's shoulders and walked further away from the restaurant. “You got something from me just a couple of days ago.”

“It was last week.”

“Same fuckin' thing. What the fuck are you doing, becoming a hop-head on me?”

“What hop-head?” said Sally. “A bag here, a bag there, that's all,” he whispered softly.

“A bag here a bag there, my ass,” said Tony Balls. “You're using too much of this shit. I shouldn't be doing none of this in the first place. Especially with you. Your Old Man ever finds out, I'm in a lot of fuckin' trouble. I mean it,
a lot
of fuckin' trouble.”

“How's he gonna find out? I'm the only one he gets to talk to. I just come over once in a while, have a drink, who's to find out anything? You got something for me?”

“I told you last week, there's a drought, a real fuckin' drought. I can't get too much myself right now.” Tony Balls looked around at deserted Third Avenue. The lights of the Verrazano Bridge loomed into the night in the near distance. “Maybe I can let you have another bag.”

“How about two?”

“I can only spare one right now. If I had it, I don't know I'd give it to you anyways. I really shouldn't be doing nothin' with you. It's my ass if anybody finds out.” Tony Balls squatted down over his shoe, tying the laces. He glanced again at the Avenue as he slipped a bag out of the cuff of his pants onto the sidewalk.

“You're a life-saver, Tony Balls,” said Sally. “How much?”

“You know the price. Thirty. And don't be telling nobody what I'm charging you. That price's only for you.”

“I really appreciate it, Tony Balls, I really do.” Sally took money out of his pocket and began to count.

“Put that fuckin' money away! Get away from me.” Tony Balls said angrily, starting abruptly back toward the restaurant.

“Tony, Tony, what's the matter?” said Sally, following Tony Balls.

In the doorway of Moscarella's, Tony Balls turned abruptly back toward Sally, raising a beefy finger in Sally's face. “Don't be counting no fuckin' money and think you're going to hand it to me like I was a
strunz
on Fox Television, right in the middle of the fuckin' street!”

“Tony, Tony, I'm sorry,” said Sally, his eyes round with apprehension. “Take it easy. There's nobody out there. The fucking street is deserted.”

“I don't give a shit if we was in the middle of the Sahara; don't be counting no fuckin' money and handing it to me in the street like I'm a pimp or something.”

“Tony, Tony, take it easy. I'm sorry. I made a mistake.”

“Mistakes can be very costly, Sally. Very costly. You want to come inside, lay your money on the bar for a drink? Leave it there, fine. You know how things have to be done.”

“Yeah, yeah. I was just in a hurry.”

“Hurrying gets people locked up, Sally. Take it easy. Be cool.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” said Sally. The two men walked back toward the restaurant.

“Now you got it,” said Tony Balls. He opened the interior door. He saw Bobby Red sipping a drink at the bar. “Oh
Madon
,” Tony Balls exclaimed loudly, beginning to laugh again. “Round three.”

A dark blue van with reflective tinted windows in its side panels and the rear door was parked a block away from Moscarella's, on the bridge side of Third Avenue. On the front doors of the van, lettering indicated “Mix and Fix Cement Contractors,” complete with a phony address and phone number in Queens. Inside the rear of the van, Bill Santiago sat on a plastic milk crate, peering into the eye-piece of a camcorder with a powerful telephoto lens. The camcorder was aimed toward the front of Moscarella's. Switched to Night-Vision, the camera recorded everything that had transpired between Tony Balls and Sally Cantelupo in eery green-glow.

Pete Mulvehill was seated on a plastic milk-box beside Santiago, peering at the tiny screen of the camcorder, watching the replay of what had been recorded. Supervisor Becker had temporarily rotated Mulvehill back to the New York from his Hardie baby-sitting duties. True to his stickler work ethic, however, Supervisor Becker rotated Mulvehill right into the squad's surveillance duties

“You got everything!” Mulvehill exulted as he watched the taped image of Sally Cantalupo pick something up from the street, take money out of his pocket, look around, then walk into Moscarella's trailing an angry Tony Balls.

“In living green,” said Santiago as he, too, watched the replay.

“Oh, how sweet it is,” Mulvehill said, imitating Jackie Gleason's delivery.

Alphabet City : August 8, 1996 : 11:45 A.M.

Sandro and Tony Balls walked north on Avenue C.

“What a wonderful neighborhood,” Tony Balls said, glancing around at the time worn tenement buildings. “I hope I can do what you want. I still don't know why you need me?”

“Because you speak Spanish and because you look like a cop.”

“I what?”

“You look like a cop,” repeated Sandro.

“You gotta be kiddin' me!”

“Well, of course you don't, which is exactly the reason the police would pick a guy like you to come to a neighborhood like this. If you looked like a cop, well, then you'd never pass. But since you don't look like a cop, you're the perfect candidate to be an undercover. And, of course, the people looking at you right this minute know that. Which is the reason they think you look like a cop.”

“Sometimes I think you've been smelling the stale air in the prisons too much,” said Tony Balls. He glanced toward several men who were standing around a bridge table at the curb in front of a
bodega
up ahead. Two men were seated, playing dominoes at the table.

“Worried?” asked Sandro.

“I'm worried about these guys? You're the guy who has to worry. At least I speak the language.”

“But don't you see, that's absolutely why no one would bother me. I am so obviously an outsider, I couldn't possibly be a cop.”

“It's thinking like that, which drives normal people crazy,” said Tony Balls. “You think the people down here are going to let you interview them, take statements and things?”

“That's what this bag is for,” said Sandro. He was carrying a black, leather-covered attache-case. “As we speak and walk, there's a tape recorder inside, recording everything that we're saying. The microphone is in the lock.”

“You kidding?” said Tony Balls, glancing down at Sandro's attache case.

“Not at all. And look at this.” Sandro took a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

“Don't tell me that's another recorder.”

“It is. An entire recorder, all by itself.”

“You're kidding. Is it turned on?” said Tony Balls, studying the pen.

“Not yet.”

“You're like 007, fuckin' James Bond,” said Tony Balls. “You want a Cuban sandwich?” he asked as they neared the
bodega
and the bridge table on the sidewalk.

“Hungry?” said Sandro. The men on the sidewalk suspended their interest in the dominoes game, now studying the two strangers.

“I just like Cuban sandwiches, and you can't get them everywhere. C'mon.”

The entire front of the
bodega
, except for the door, was covered by roll-down gates of small, horizontal steel bars. During the night hours, a steel door rolled down from an overhead metal compartment, covering the doorway as well. The inside of the small grocery store was festooned with signs announcing special prices, sales, sandwiches, and lottery tickets. These announcements were for day customers only. Not that the store didn't do business at night. A large yellow sign outside announced in big red letters that the
bodega
was open ‘24/7'. No one, however, was permitted inside the store at night. The only access was through a front window that was covered with two-inch thick bulletproof plastic with a revolving Lazy Susan kind of device made of the same thick plastic material. The Lazy Susan was divided in quarters, which allowed the clerk inside to hear what customers on the sidewalk outside wanted. The clerk would tell the customer the price, money was placed on the Lazy Susan, which was then rotated. The clerk took the money, and, in turn, revolved the purchased item and change back to the customer. It was a tough way to do business, but it was better than being robbed every other night.