Fresh Disasters (3 page)

S
tone dictated the complaint and told Joan to get it filed immediately, then he went through his accounts receivable, looking for who owed him. Hardly anybody, as it turned out, and not very much. That took the rest of the morning. He ate a sandwich at his desk and worried about money.

After lunch, he called Dino’s Mob guy.

“Joe Giraldi,” a voice said.

“Hi, Joe, I’m Stone Barrington; I used to be Dino Bacchetti’s partner at the one nine.”

“I know who you are,” Giraldi replied. He didn’t sound thrilled.

“Dino told me you know everything there is to know about the Mob in New York.”

“If I knew everything there was to know about the Mob in New York, they’d all be doing time in Attica.”

“Heh, heh,” Stone said. “Well, the fact remains that you know a hell of a lot more than I know, and that’s what I’m looking for.”

“For what? You writing a novel?”

“No, I’m filing a civil suit against Carmine Dattila and…” Stone stopped talking. All he could hear was laughter from the other end of the line. He waited for it to subside.

“That’s rich!” Giraldi howled, trying to get control of himself. “Hey, Charlie,” he shouted to somebody in the room, “I got some schmuck lawyer on the phone says he’s going to sue Carmine Dattila!” There were howls from what sounded like half a dozen other cops. Giraldi eventually got control of himself. “What are you suing him for, Barrington?”

“A couple of his people assaulted a client of mine while collecting a debt.”

“Well, that’s what they do,” Giraldi chuckled. “Give your client some advice for me: Tell him to pay what he owes and not to bet with Mob bookies again. That’ll solve his problem.”

“I’m afraid it’s a little late for that,” Stone said. “He owes twenty-four grand.”

“Sheesh!” Giraldi exhaled. “What do you want to know?”

“I’ve got a lot of questions about the structure of Dattila’s family, who does what, that sort of thing.”

“Well, my price for that sort of thing is a steak dinner.”

“You’re on. Elaine’s at eight-thirty?”

“Nah, nah, nah. The Palm at seven-thirty. I get hungry early.”

Stone sighed. “All right, but that’s got to cover your testifying, too.”

“I’d love to testify against Carmine for anything,” Giraldi said, “in the unlikely event that it ever looks like you’re getting to court. I predict that your client and your other witnesses will be inspecting the bottom of Sheepshead Bay well before the trial date. Carmine doesn’t bother to buy off witnesses; it’s cheaper to off them.”

“The Palm at seven-thirty,” Stone said and hung up. He buzzed Joan. “Please book me a table for two at the Palm at seven-thirty.”

“You can’t afford it,” she said.

“Don’t worry, it’s research; I’ll bill Woodman and Weld.”

“Whatever you say. Oh, by the way, I can’t find a process server who’s willing to serve Carmine Dattila.”

“What?”

“They all know his reputation.”

“Double the fee.”

“I tried that; the general response was, ‘You don’t have enough money.’ Apparently, the last guy who tried to serve Mr. Dattila didn’t make it home to dinner that night. Or any other night.”

“Why don’t you take off early tonight and drop off this summons?”

“Yeah, sure. I thought we already established that you can’t afford to lose me. You’re going to have to do it yourself, Stone.”

“You think I’m afraid of some two-bit wiseguy?”

“I read in the
Post
that Mr. Dattila is worth at least a hundred million dollars, and if you have any sense at all, you’re afraid of him.”

“
You
read the
Post
?”

“The
New York Times
is not a full meal for everybody; some of us need dessert.”

“Just book the table.”

S
tone arrived on time at the Palm to find Joe Giraldi waiting for him at the bar. He remembered the guy now; his desk had always been way across the squad room. “Good to see you again, Joe,” he said, motioning the bartender for the cop’s bill. He was about to leave a ten on the bar, when the bill arrived: fifteen bucks, not including tip. “Jesus, what are you drinking, Joe?”

“Johnnie Walker Black. Isn’t that in your budget?”

“Sure, sure,” Stone replied, leaving a twenty on the bar. Eggers would shit a brick, but that was okay with him. He steered Giraldi to their table. “Want another one?”

“Just to keep the flow of conversation going,” he replied.

Stone ordered another Johnnie Walker Black and a Knob Creek, and they looked at the menu. Stone gulped. He hadn’t been here in years, and inflation had taken its toll. He wondered if the waiter would speak to him if he ordered the hamburger steak, if they had a hamburger steak.

Giraldi didn’t even look at the menu. “I’ll have the Caesar salad and the Kobe strip,” he said to the waiter. “Medium.”

“I’ll have the same salad and the regular, ordinary American strip,” Stone said. “Medium rare.” He closed the menu before he could see the price of Kobe beef, which, allegedly, came from Japanese cattle that had been massaged daily by geishas, or something.

“Would you like some wine?” the waiter asked. The question was directed at Giraldi.

“Yeah,” Giraldi replied. “You got a Far Niente cabernet, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What year?”

“The 2000.”

“We’ll have that, and decant it, will you?”

Stone knew that bottle was going to go for close to two hundred dollars. “You come here a lot, Joe?”

“Whenever somebody wants to hear about the Mafia.” He sipped his Scotch. “Shoot.”

“Okay,” Stone said, taking a long draw on his Knob Creek, “my client was into a bookie called Carlo; you know him?”

“Yeah, his real name is John Quigley; he ain’t even Italian, but he passes. For some reason, his clients are more willing to pay if they think he’s Italian. He works out of a candy store on Second Avenue, downtown.”

“Who’s his boss?”

“A capo named Gianni Pardo, who’s known as Johnny Pop.”

“I can imagine why.”

“Right.”

“Who’s
his
boss?”

“He reports to another capo, Santino Gianelli, known as Sammy Tools. He was a master burglar and safecracker before Carmine moved him up the ladder.”

“Speaking of the ladder, who does Sammy Tools report to?”

“To Carmine or his consigliere, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“If it’s to do with methods, to the consigliere; if it’s money, to Carmine.”

“Who’s the consigliere?”

“Carmine’s bastard son, Salvatore Stampano, known among the cognoscenti as Little Carmine.”

T
heir dinner came and went, and Stone continued to plumb the depths of Joe Giraldi’s mob knowledge. The check came, and Stone put two other cops’ names on the credit card receipt, since the tab looked more like dinner for five or six.

At the door, Stone shook Giraldi’s hand and thanked him. “Joe, you want to make five hundred bucks, quick?”

“How?”

“Serve Carmine Dattila for me.”

Giraldi laughed heartily. “Listen, right now Carmine doesn’t know who I am, and I want to keep it that way. I’ll tell you where to find him, though.”

“Where?”

“At the La Boheme coffeehouse on Mulberry Street. Carmine spends his days there, making decisions and issuing orders. We’ve tried a dozen times to bug it, but they always figure it out. There’s an office upstairs we’ve never been able to get into.”

“Thanks, Joe.” Stone trudged home, dreading his next move. He was going to have to serve Carmine Dattila himself.

T
he following day Stone met Dino at P. J. Clarke’s for lunch.

The place was mobbed with advertising guys, lawyers and secretaries, but they had held a table for Dino.

“I hear you met with Joe Giraldi,” Dino said. They sat down and ordered cheeseburgers.

“‘Met with’ doesn’t cover it; the meeting cost me dinner at the Palm, and Giraldi ordered the Kobe beef.”

Dino couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “That’s my Giraldi,” he said. “He wouldn’t take a nickel from anybody, but his knowledge trades high. But what’s the difference? You’re going to stick Eggers with the bill.”

“Yeah, and I put your name on it, too, and another one, too, to try and justify the expenditure.”

“Giraldi gave you what you need, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, and he agreed to testify, too.”

“Did you really offer him five hundred to serve Dattila?”

“Yes. I would have gone to a thousand, but I got the impression it wouldn’t have worked.”

“Carmine has never been sued. You know why?”

“Because nobody will serve him?”

“You got it.”

“How about you?”

“Stone, detective lieutenants of the NYPD do not do process serving.”

“Not even for a thousand bucks?”

Dino looked hurt. “You wound me.”

“Will you go with me for backup?”

“Neither do we sell backup services to process servers.”

“Will you drive me down there and wait?”

“In whose car?”

“I guess mine; you won’t use a squad car?”

“Good guess.”

“After lunch?”

“Why not? Somebody needs to bring the body back.”

A
couple of years before, Stone had wandered into the Mercedes dealership on Park Avenue with a fat check in his pocket and a yen for some German engineering. He had driven away in a lightly armored E55 sedan that had been ordered by a man who had feared for his life, but the car had arrived a couple of days late. The deal was with the widow, with the salesman taking a cut. It had saved Stone’s life only once, but that had made it a bargain.

Now they made their way into Little Italy, with Dino at the wheel, and Dino, Stone reflected, always drove as if he had just stolen the car.

Dino screeched to a halt directly in front of the La Boheme coffeehouse, a dingy storefront with a cracked front window. “Are you carrying?” he asked Stone.

“You bet your ass,” Stone said.

“Gimme,” Dino said, holding out his hand.

“You want me to go in there naked?”

“You’re going to end up naked anyway, and it will inspire trust if they don’t find hardware when they frisk you.”

Stone tugged the little Tussey custom .45 from its holster and handed it to Dino. “I’m going to want that back,” he said.

“If you still need it,” Dino replied, admiring the beautiful weapon. “What does it weigh?”

“Twenty-one ounces.”

“Nice,” Dino replied.

“I said, I’m going to want it back; don’t get too comfortable with it.”

“What, you want to be buried with it?”

Stone opened the car door. “You’re a ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“I’m a realist.”

“I’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ll keep the engine running.”

Stone grabbed the envelope containing the summons and got out of the car. He turned and rapped on the window with his signet ring, and Dino pressed the button. “What does Dattila look like?”

“Oh, I forgot,” Dino said, reaching into an inside pocket and coming up with a photograph. “That’s him in the middle,” he said, “except he’s thirty years older.”

Stone looked at the shot of half a dozen men in double-breasted suits, looking tough for the camera. The man in the middle was small, balding, and he wasn’t bothering to look tough. It made him look toughest of all. “Okay,” he said, pocketing the photo.

He walked across the street and into the La Boheme coffeehouse. As he closed the door, the room—half full of men, no women—went silent. Stone looked around and spotted at a large table at the rear of the room Carmine Dattila, older, grayer, balder and heavier than in his photograph. He started toward the table.

A large young man got up from a front table and impeded Stone’s progress. “Something we can do for you?” he asked, pleasantly enough.

“I have business with Mr. Dattila,” Stone said. “My name is Barrington.”

“Come again?”

“Barrington.” Stone spelled it for him.

The man quickly frisked Stone, and, feeling the empty holster, unbuttoned his jacket and had a look at it. “Where is what was in there?” the man asked.

“In my car,” Stone replied. “I didn’t feel the need to come armed when visiting with Mr. Dattila.”

“Wait here,” the man said, pointing at the floor, as if Stone didn’t know where it was. He walked back to the rear table, spoke for a moment with Dattila, then returned. “What is your business with Mr. Dattila?” he asked.

“I’m an attorney; I want to speak with Mr. Dattila on behalf of a client, Mr. Herbert Fisher.”

The man walked to the rear, imparted this information, then returned. “Mr. Dattila don’t know you or your client.”

“Please tell Mr. Dattila it could save him a great deal of money if he talks to me.”

The man returned to the rear, spoke to Dattila, then came back. “Follow me,” he said. He led the way to the rear, then stopped at the table. “Mr. Dattila,” he said, “this is Mr. Barrington.” He stepped a yard away but kept his eyes on Stone.

Carmine Dattila gazed up at Stone through small eyes under bushy eyebrows. He reached into his shirt pocket, produced a stopwatch, punched it and laid it on the table. “You got thirty seconds,” he said.

“Oh, I won’t need that long.” Stone reached inside the envelope in his hand, drew out the summons and handed it to Dattila. “You’ve been served.” He turned to go.

“And how is this supposed to save me money?” Dattila asked, looking baffled.

“It could save you a lot, if you settle, instead of going to trial.” He laid his business card on the table. “Have your attorney get in touch with me, and we’ll talk.” He turned and headed for the door, careful not to walk too quickly.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him and before he could turn, somebody spun him around, and a fist crashed into his jaw. Stone flew backward through the plate-glass door onto the sidewalk. As if in sympathy, the cracked front window shattered, too.

The man threw the summons at Stone, then stepped through the shattered door, ready to aim a kick.

Suddenly, Dino was standing over Stone, a badge in his hand. “Police!” he said. “Back off.” The man grudgingly took a step backward, and Dino helped Stone to his feet. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Fine,” Stone said, though he felt dizzy from the punch and the fall to the pavement. He bent over, picked up the summons and threw it into his assailant’s face. “Tell Mr. Dattila he’s been served, and the service was duly witnessed by Lieutenant Bacchetti of the NYPD. Also tell him I’ll see him in court.” He turned and began walking toward the car.

“I’m wearing a vest,” Dino said. “Are you?”

“Nope,” Stone said, straightening his tie. He got into the car, while Dino walked around to the driver’s side.

Dino put the car in gear. “Here they come,” he said.

Stone glanced over his shoulder and saw men spilling out of the La Boheme coffeehouse.

“Dino,” Stone said, brushing broken glass off his jacket, “now would be a good time for you to drive the way you usually drive.”

Dino stood on it.