Murder Takes Time (22 page)

We talked to half a dozen guys that day, each one a personal introduction from Tony, but the only thing they had for me was a menial job or an under-the-table one. When we got home that night, I went to bed early, contemplating my new life. I dug deep for Mamma Rosa’s words of wisdom and Sister Thomas’ inspiration. With that on my mind, I woke up the next morning with a smile and a bundle of energy.

I managed to keep that attitude going for three months, but every day was the same. The three months following that were worse. The economy was horrible, and every time I found a job opening that looked decent, dozens of people were ahead of me, all with no felony records.

We got together once a month or so with Bugs, but I couldn’t even pay for the drinks. One morning I made up my mind to change things. I asked Tony to get me anything, under-the-table or not. We ate breakfast then headed out for a meeting with his boss, Tito Martelli.

“Nicky, understand that Tito is not like Doggs. He’s Doggs times a hundred. You piss Tito off, and you’ll be dead.” Tony stared at me. “You remember that movie we saw as little kids about the newborn pigs? How the toughest ones pushed the others out of their way, climbed over them, did anything to get the best teat?”

“I remember.”

“The story around Brooklyn is that Tito’s been that way all his life. Except he pushes people into the East River, or into a grave in Jersey.”

“Point taken.”

“You sure you got that? I’m not shitting here.”

“I got it.”

“You better get it, because it’ll be my ass on the line for bringing you in.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes. Not actual silence, but listening to the radio, not talking. I didn’t know half the music, but that’s what happens when you spend ten years in prison. “I like this song.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one,” Tony said, then turned down a side street. He pulled up to a gate, beeped the horn, and two guys came out and opened it.

“What’s this place?”

“Union hall,” Tony said. “Tito’s got offices here.”

He pulled the car up close, got out, leaving the keys in the ignition. The room we stepped into was small, with a coat room on the side. It opened into a large area with two pool tables and several card tables.

“Hey, Tony,” someone called from the kitchen at the other end.

“Yo, Manny. Where’s Tito?”

He gestured toward a back room, and we headed in that direction. The place smelled of coffee—good coffee—and pastries. As we moved into the next room, Tony nudged me. “I’m going to introduce you then leave.” Tony stared at me. “What you and Tito work out is between the two of you. Understand?”

“Got it.”

Tony opened the door, and we walked in. A guy about my size sat at a small table, coffee in hand. A plate of sfogliatelle sat in front of him. Already I liked the guy. Anybody who ate sfogliatelle was all right in my book.

“Tito,” Tony said, and they embraced as he stood.

He was older than me, shorter and thinner too, and he dressed as if he were going to dinner at a fancy restaurant. On his right pinkie, he sported a diamond ring so big it begged to be stolen.

Tony turned to me. “Tito, this is my best friend, Nicky Fusco. He’s someone you’ll like.”

We chatted a few minutes before Tony said he had to leave. “Call me, Nicky. I’ll pick you up.”

Tito waited for the door to close, then grabbed me by the arm. “Let’s get some coffee.” We walked to the kitchen, poured two cups and headed back. “I understand you knew Tony as a boy.”

“His mother raised me.”

“And you’re looking for a job now?”

“Everyone needs work, Mr. Martelli. Even ex-convicts.”

“Convicts aren’t much use to me. I could maybe get you a job as a union rep.”

I sunk when he said “union rep.” I guess I was expecting more.
How the hell am I going to win Angie back as a union rep?
Right then I realized what my life was about, and what I had to do.
“I need a lot more than that, Mr. Martelli. I can do
anything
.” I stopped and stared at him. “If you have something you need done, I can do it.”

“
Anything
sounds ominous. Besides, what would I need done?” He grabbed a biscotto from the plate on the table. “And call me Tito. I hate that
Mr. Martelli
shit.”

“Anything,” I said, and stared at him again. “I need money. Once I get enough, though, I’m quitting. You need to know that up front.”

“I like a man who knows what he wants.” He walked back to the door and opened it. “Manny, I’ll be talking to our new friend. Make sure we’re not disturbed.”

When he returned to the table, a change had come over him. The laugh was gone; from the look on his face now, I didn’t know if he
could
laugh. “Sit, Nicky. Tell me about yourself. Tell me about this…
anything
…you said you would do.”

Here it was—out for six months, and already faced with making decisions that could put me back in. I decided not to hold back. I doubted it would have done any good anyway. This guy seemed like he could spot a lie surrounded by four truths. I brushed over my childhood, but told him about the Woodside fight, then prison. Told him everything about prison.

“Anybody fuck you in there?” His eyes burned holes in me. I figured he wanted to know how I stood up to things.

“Three guys tried it one night. They didn’t make it. Only once more did someone ever try. After that, never.” I didn’t brag or boast. Just told him.

He nodded. After that, his questions focused on what I liked to do. Did I have a girlfriend? What was it like growing up without a mother? That kind of stuff. Then we got more coffee and told stories about the rigors of Catholic schools and nuns.

“You know, they always talk about how tough priests are, but for every story about a priest standing up to somebody, I’d bet fifty dollars to a donut he had a nun behind him backing his play.” We laughed about that and told more nun stories, and then finally he stood, saying he had other appointments, and walked me to the door.

“Manny will take you home,” he said. “No sense waiting for Tony.”

I nodded to Manny and shook his hand. He was bigger than Paulie and had a neck so thick it would have been impossible for him to button the top of his shirt. Not fat, barrel-chest big, with fingers like links of sausage. His eyebrows were thick and bushy, and they moved so much they could have passed for caterpillars. I turned to Tito. “When do I hear from you?”

“I’ll get hold of Tony,” he said, then nodded to Manny.

I walked out of there thinking I had done okay, but I wasn’t sure. Tony was right; this guy was no Doggs Caputo.

N
O SOONER HAD
N
ICKY
left than Tito sent for Chicky, one of the most connected men in New York. Chicky knew somebody who knew somebody no matter what. If a person needed to be checked out, Chicky was the one to call.

“What’s up?” Chicky asked when he came in.

“Need someone checked out.” Tito handed him a piece of paper. “Name’s Nicky Fusco. Served ten years down in Delaware.”

Chicky looked at the paper, then stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “This will take a few days.”

“Take as long as you need.”

CHAPTER 33

VERY GOOD FRIENDS

Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

O
n the way home, I got to know Manny a little better, as much as you can from a car ride. He seemed to be everything Tito wasn’t—open and honest, friendly and charming, smiles and laughter. I knew most of it was probably a front, honed to perfection by decades of practice. If it was, it worked.

Manny dropped me off at Tony’s house and told me not to worry, that I’d be hearing from Tito. I got out of the car, went up to the door and knocked. Celia answered, inviting me in with the same warmth she expressed the other night.

“How about some food, Nicky? I was just making a salad.”

“No thanks, Celia. I think I’ve already put five pounds on since I’ve been here.” I followed her to the kitchen. Life seemed to be good for Tony. He had a magnificent house, a beautiful wife, and he was off drugs. On the other hand there was me—no permanent job, living with my friend, and fresh out of prison. I needed to do something.
Anything
.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a picture of Mamma Rosa above the mantle. It had been a long time since I’d taken the time to look at a picture of her. This one was so real it was scary. I stopped, admiring it.

Celia stood beside me. “Tony loves that picture.”

“She was a saint.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “He thinks so, too,” she said, then tugged on my arm. “Come with me. If you’re not going to eat, you can at least keep me company while I make the salad.”

She asked a million questions while she worked, mostly about Tony. I answered them as best as I could, but it was obvious he hadn’t told her much, and I didn’t want to betray any trusts. I had no idea how far to go, so I played it safe. Queries about me, I avoided. I never was much for confession of any type, innocent or not. But when the conversation switched to Mamma Rosa, I opened up. She was one person I had no problem talking about.

Celia finished making the salad and started doing dishes. I offered to help twice, but she insisted I sit still and relax. “It sounds like you really loved Tony’s mother.”

A glass of water sat in front of me, and I was locked in a staring trance. “I loved Mamma Rosa,” I said. “She was my mother too.”

Celia laughed, and her laugh hurt me. “Tony told me that everybody called her that.” I was about to interrupt, when she continued. “But he said you two were very good friends growing up.”

The words hit me like a brick in the head. A lump built in my throat.

Very good friends? We were brothers.
I paused. Swallowed pride. “We were,” I said, then, in a lower tone. “We were very good friends.”

CHAPTER 34

JOHNNY MUCK

Brooklyn—3 Years Ago

I
t took Chicky a week to get the information. He met Tito for breakfast at the union hall. Manny brought cappuccino for Tito and an espresso for Chicky.

Tito sipped his drink and bit into a biscotto. “Talk to me, Chicky boy. What have you got?”

“What you got is a genuine bona-fide fuckin’ psycho.”

“Tell me about it,” Tito said.

“He goes in at nineteen after shooting a guy in a gang fight. About six months in, three of the toughest whiteys decide to get some sweets, so they follow Nicky into the shower.” Chicky laughed so hard he spilled his espresso. “Ten minutes later Nicky comes out and they got to send the medic in to take care of two of the others. One of them with a cracked head, which damn near killed him, and the other with a full bar of 99.44% pure ivory shoved up his ass 100% of the way.” Another laugh emerged. “Must have hurt
bad
.”

Tito picked up a biscotto. “No shit?”

Chicky waved his hand. “That ain’t even half the shit. Then—”

“You sure this is good information?”

“Tito, you know my shit’s good.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, this Nicky kid then starts training like he’s going to the Olympics. Couple of more guys messed with him. The inside word is he killed one and blinded the other.”

Tito sat silent while Chicky ate a pastry.

“I’m telling you, this kid’s no slouch. My guy said even the guards were scared of him.”

Tito dipped a biscotto into his cappuccino and smiled. “Thank you, Chicky. This has been helpful.”

Chicky headed toward the door, but Tito called him. “Ask Manny to come in, please.”

A minute later Manny popped his head in the door. “What?”

“Get Johnny Muck.”

“You got it, boss.”

As Manny left, Chicky came back in. “I forgot one thing. They said this kid ain’t scared of nothing. Fuckin’
nothing.
”

I
T WAS TWO DAYS
before Tito met with Johnny Muck. Johnny was a hit man, the best the mob boss had seen. Methodical. Cold. Analytical. Perfect. He’d done numerous hits for Tito and delivered on every one. There was one problem, though—Johnny Muck was getting old. He had been a hit man for the last three bosses, and the work was taking its toll.