Murder Takes Time (9 page)

“Waiting for you to make my day. You’re the only one who laughs, besides me and Alex.”

“You’re both full of shit.” Frankie started to walk away but Alex called him back.

“Hey, FD. How ’bout you stay and share a smoke with your little buddy?”

“You’re too damn young to share a smoke,” Frankie said, but he stopped at the stoop and handed one to Alex, then stood around to talk.

“FD, why you always jiggling change in your pocket?”

“To remind myself that I need real money. Cheese. Green. Whatever you want to call it.”

“If you don’t think that change is real, hand it over to Alex.”

Frankie laughed, but he gave Alex his change and went inside. The steps to his apartment were worn from years of tired feet scraping them. He was tired, too, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But he knew he’d end up working; he couldn’t get his mind off the girl. If Nicky had anything to do with this, the girl was a key. When Nicky called, he said she was in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that got solved in a back room of a dark alley. This was mob trouble, and these killings had mob written all over them. Of course that brought Tony Sannullo into play too. Tony knew about the girl. And he knew a lot more than what he was saying.

Three cold beers later Frankie quit work, thought about popping in an old movie, but decided to open his mail instead. He had the normal assortment of bills, and a large padded envelope addressed to Mr. Mario Francis Donovan.

Who the hell sent this?

He pulled the tag on the envelope, opened it, then reached inside, drawing his hand out immediately. “What the fuck?” Several roaches lay next to the package. Frankie grabbed the envelope by the bottom and shook it. More roaches came out. “Eleven,” he said, and remembered the significance. There was no question now that this was someone from the old neighborhood. Only a few people knew about that—Tony, Paulie, and Nicky. Maybe a couple of others. Frankie thought about it until his brain felt fried, then went to bed, falling asleep in minutes.

W
HEN IMAGES OF THE
roaches woke Frankie for the third time, he decided to get up and take notes. Years ago, he started keeping notepads by the bed, a little thing called the NiteNote. Greatest thing his ex ever bought him. He pulled the pen from the NiteNote, which kicked on a battery-powered light, then wrote on the 3x5 cards it held.

Bugs and roaches. Not coincidence.

Frankie decided to make a few charts.

Nicky:

Friends

Honor

Girls

Nuns

Prison

Fearless

Smart

Rosa

Tito

Cleveland

Tony:

Friends

Honor

Girls

Nuns

Mob

Conniving

Smart

Rosa

Tito

Brooklyn

Frankie learned early on that this line of thinking proved successful. As he went through the case, he would write down anything that coincided with these words, adding more as he went along, and perhaps scratching some off. Already he could fill something in, and he wrote next to the “Smart” column—killer is definitely smart. Has us confused. Knows police procedure. As more thoughts came to mind, he filled in the chart. When he hit a lull, he stepped back to look at it from afar. Sometimes it made a difference.

Right now Frankie wished he could distance himself from the case. But this was his first big homicide, and he needed to trust that his legendary Irish luck would pull him through. It had done a good job so far: it had helped him survive gang fights, a broken marriage, seven years on the force—street duty, robbery, drugs, back in robbery—all without compromising his morals.

He lit a smoke, vowed to quit once again, then laughed at his predicament. At least he could still laugh. Nicky could laugh too, but not Tony. A laugh from him was as rare as a curse word from Mamma Rosa.

Frankie got up to make coffee. Might as well take advantage of all the vices. He needed to be sharp for this analysis. He owed both of them that much, especially Nicky. And if this was Nicky, then Frankie had to help him. Nicky would do the same. He
had
done the same, many times. Frankie laughed at the memory of when Nicky backed down four guys just by staring at them. Never said a word. Of course he
did
have his father’s eyes.
That
was a scary man. Frankie often wondered about him, ever since that day in Schmidt’s back yard, when Nicky thought Mikey the Face was going to kill his father. It was the day of the roach races.

CHAPTER 14

ROACH RACES

Wilmington—19 Years Ago

I
t was an early morning meeting and everyone was there: Tony, Frankie, Mick, Paulie and me. Tony recruited Paulie because we needed extra help. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Paulie stupid, but Tony manipulated him like Gepetto did Pinocchio.

I got everyone’s attention then laid out the plan. “We do it just like the track. We’ll make odds and take bets.”

“People in this neighborhood will bet on anything,” Tony said.

Bugs lit a cigarette and handed one to Mick. “Yeah, Shoes and Patsy bet on what color gum balls come out of the machine—twenty bucks a pop.”

“Who’s gonna catch the roaches?” Mick asked.

“Bugs is—who do you think?” I said.

Five minutes later, Bugs headed down to DiNardo’s basement with a jar. He was supposed to get eleven roaches, ten for the race and one extra. He came back within twenty minutes, holding a jar full of frantic, nasty roaches.

“Twelve,” he said. “Got an extra one in honor of Suit.”

We laughed our asses off. Suit didn’t like the number eleven. There were eleven kids in his family and he lived on the eleventh house on the street, number 1111. “Too many fuckin’ elevens” Suit’s father always said, and Suit took it to heart. If he was eleventh in line at school, he’d push somebody out of the way so he could be tenth. He wouldn’t even play football because there were eleven guys on the team. Suit avoided elevens like Paulie Shoes did thirteens.

We all got a good laugh, but then got to work. Tony’s job was to write the numbers on small pieces of paper, which Paulie glued onto the roaches’ backs. Bugs painted a small circle on the concrete, about the size of a coffee can, then another one about eight feet in diameter, making it almost four feet from the coffee can to any part of the circle. This was no scientific calculation, it was dictated by the space we had on the German kid’s concrete pad. The concept was simple: Suit would put the roaches in the coffee can, then we’d turn it upside down in the little circle. When he lifted it, the roaches would scatter, heading in all directions. The first one to cross the line won.

“How do we do the odds?” Suit asked.

Never being too good at math, things like odds boggled Suit’s mind.

“We should ask Doggs,” Tony said.

I nixed that idea. “He’ll be betting. Can’t trust him if he stands to make money.”

“Who we gonna trust?” Tony asked.

“Sister Thomas.” Bugs said, and acted like it was a good idea.

I smacked him in the head. “You’re gonna ask Sister Thomas to calculate odds for our races? What the hell is in your head?”

“Doesn’t she always say to put what we learn to practical use?”

Tony was all smiles. “He’s right, Nicky. Nothing more practical than this.”

“You ask her. I’ve had my beatings for the month.”

Tony and Bugs braved Sister Thomas’ wrath and discovered not only was she willing to help, she was well-versed in race-track odds and how to calculate them based on previous performance. This made us wonder about the life of nuns in general, and of Sister Mary Thomas in particular.

“When are we gonna have it?” Mick asked.

We decided on Saturday and tacked signs to telephone poles throughout the neighborhood. By 12:30 on the day of the races, we only had four people in the backyard, not counting us. We were damn disappointed. But by five to one, we had thirty, maybe forty, paying customers. I tapped Mick on the leg. “This is gonna be big.”

At one o’clock, Suit gave a loud, shrill whistle, signaling the start of the first race. The crowd gathered around. Must have been fifty people crammed into Schmidt’s yard. Bugs stood on the concrete stoop and announced that bets were closed for this race, then Suit grabbed the coffee can and set it down on the little circle. He tapped the bottom of the can, making sure all the roaches were on the concrete, then slid the lid out from under it and lifted the can.

Roaches scattered everywhere. Frankie’s sisters screamed. Everyone except the DiNardo kid stepped back a few feet. Calls from the experienced track people drowned out the others.

“Come on, number two!” Mr. Schmidt yelled, his roach being in the front, but at the last minute the roach turned and ran the other way. He laughed and tore up his ticket. “That’s why I don’t go to the track.”

Number five raced across the finish line a second later, followed by numbers seven and ten. I tapped Tony on the shoulder. Nervous as shit. “How’d we do?”

“Two fifty-cent bets on number five.” He looked at the books, then said “Got a few show bets on the ten, but won’t cost us much.”

For the second race we dropped the odds on numbers five and seven and raised them on two and nine. Then we prayed and got ready for the next race. It turned out to be almost a repeat of the first, with number five winning. This time number ten came in second, and number two rushed to a third-place finish. Number nine again finished last.

Mr. McDermott and several of his firemen buddies came in just before the third race. It was a surprise he showed, but when he bet five bucks on number nine he shocked everyone. He had nine kids so we figured that was why. Tony nudged me and Bugs, then whispered. “Nine’s a dog. Got no shot at winning.”

We were still laughing when the sound of car doors slamming echoed up the alleyway. Mikey the Face stepped out of a Caddy, with his normal contingent of hangers-on. He pranced down the alley like he owned it, comb already out and messing with his hair. Paulie Shoes was with him, as were Tommie Tucks, Pockets, and Patsy Moresco, though how Patsy fit into that Caddy with four other guys was a mystery. The gate squeaked open, and Face came in, still brushing his hair as he walked across the yard. When he got to the odds board, he stared at it while he scratched his cheeks and picked at an imaginary beard.

“Number five’s won two in a row, huh?”

“Both of them,” Tony said. “Odds are going down on him, though.”

“Those odds ain’t going nowhere.” Mikey pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket, peeled off two C-notes, and plunked them down on the table. “Two C’s on number five.”

Tony almost shit. Even though the odds were even money on number five, we couldn’t cover the bet. Tony hesitated, looked up at me.

I shrugged, looked behind me. Pops stood against our fence, two houses away, just watching. I had hoped for support, but Pops turned and walked back into the house. My heart sank. Not that I blamed him. Who was going to stand up to Mikey, except maybe Doggs. Still, I felt a little ashamed. Pops hadn’t even come down to see the races. I turned back to Tony.

“Do whatever we got to.”

Face picked up the bills and waved them in front of Tony. “What the hell, kid? You takin’ the bet or not?”

“We don’t have that kind of money, Mikey.”

“What are you doin’ holding a race if you can’t take a bet?”

“Why don’t you bet less, Mikey? There’s ninety-six bucks in the till.” Tony stood up, faced Mikey. “We’ll cover you for ninety-five. Come on, we’re kids.”

Mikey the Face was usually all smiles. Today he looked mean. Word on the street was he lost big a few nights back at Doggs’ game. Maybe he was trying to make some of it back. Whatever it was, he was showing no mercy. He leaned in close to Tony, snapped the bills—crisp hundreds—then backed Tony right into his seat. “You either take the bet or you close down this piss-ant operation.”

The gate creaked open and Pops walked in carrying a cigar box. When he got to the table, he handed me the box.

“Cover the bet,” he said.

I opened the lid to a box filled with money.

“Holy shit. How much?” Suit asked, not thinking about the cursing.

It was an assortment of ones and fives and tens. I pulled out a wad and handed it to Tony. “Count it,” I said, while I started on the other stack of bills.