Soul Patch (23 page)

“I think I’ve assumed that Larry was dirty all along. I mean, something had to be going on here to push Larry over the edge or get him killed. Did the informant say
how
the chief was dirty?”

“If he did, Murphy didn’t tell me.”

“Did Murphy tell you who tipped him off?”

“Just that it was another cop.”

“We were set up.”

“I already figured that out for myself. I am a detective, you know.” She tried smiling, but it didn’t work.

“Okay. So you have no idea who the cop was that tipped Murphy off, huh?”

“No.”

“I do. Detective Bento was also in Rip’s last night. He was standing in a crowd about twenty feet to your right. I didn’t recognize him at first, but Murphy did and that’s when he realized we’d all been set up. When Murphy tried to warn you, all hell broke loose.”

“Bento? But I didn’t get hit in my side. I got shot from—”

“—the front. I know. The first shooter, the one that clipped Murphy and hit you, was standing over my right shoulder. His piece was so close that my ears are still ringing. Then Bento started firing at me.”

“That’s weird,” she said. “If the guy who shot me was that close to you, why didn’t he just—”

“—shoot me in the back and then go after you and Murphy? Good question. I guess I’ve had my head stuck so far up my ass since last night I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe he didn’t recognize me from the back. Did you get a look at who shot you?”

“Not really. You know how dark Rip’s is. I saw his outline mostly, his hair. He was a big man, big shoulders, taller than you. Older too. I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.”

“It’s a start.”

“Moe, there’s something else.”

“What?”

There was a light knock on the door and Ronnie stuck his head in. “Only another minute or two, Moe. She’s got to rest.”

“Okay, Ron. I promise. And bring some stuff down for her pain.”

He shut the door.

“Your family’s been great to me. Your sister is so pretty.”

“Someone had to get the looks in the family.”

“There are plenty of looks to go around with the Pragers.”

“So what’s this other thing?”

“I have a snitch, Vinny Cee, a real low-life cokehead. He does some dealing to support his habit. He says he’s got something for me on Malik Jabbar.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I—” She began coughing. “I was planning on seeing him with you today, but I—” The coughing was getting worse. “I guess someone had other plans.”

“Take it easy.”

Beads of sweat poured down her forehead. “No. Listen. He works off the Cropsey Avenue Bridge or sometimes in the parking lot of the Nebraska Diner. Show him some money and use my name.”

“Okay, okay, relax.”

She was starting to gulp for air like she had the night before and I could see blood seeping through her dressing.

“Ronnie! Ronnie, get down here!” I screamed.

“One more thing,” she said, “somebody’s got to go check on my grandma. She doesn’t speak much English and she gets frightened when she’s alone for a long time. Please go check—”

“Ronnie! Get the fuck down here!”

The door burst open. “Shit! I told you not to push her. That’s it. She’s going to the hospital.”

“I’ll take her,” I said.

“No, you won’t. I know the people at Kings County. Just give me a few minutes to stabilize her. Go on, get out of here.”

“Wait, call this guy,” I scribbled Fishbein’s number on the back of my card. “He’ll help you out.”

“Who is it, some mob guy?”

“You know, Ronnie, Aaron and me didn’t use to think you had a sense of humor.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it. Just make sure she gets to the hospital and call that number.”

Being in over my head was par for the course, but this wasn’t just about me anymore. Looking back, I’m not sure it ever was. Unfortunately,
things had gotten to the point where I could no longer ditch the case. Now I had to wait until it ditched me.

Standing on the Coney Island side of the Cropsey Avenue Bridge, Vinny Cee was about as hard to spot as a cotton ball on a sea of black velvet. He was pale, skeletal, fidgety, and squeezed his too-prominent beak between his fingers every few seconds. Christ, if this guy didn’t have LOSER tattooed across his ass, he should have. It was easy to see why he made good snitch material. He probably didn’t deal enough to hurt anyone but himself, so the cops could leave him on the street. And depending upon his level of desperation, he’d probably sell out anyone, from his birth mother to the Holy Ghost.

I folded too much money up in my palm. Money was the second best way I knew to cut through bullshit. Fear was best, but I’d hold that in reserve. As I approached him, Vinny Cee got even more twitchy, his eyelids beating like hummingbird wings. I guess I still had the cop vibe about me. I liked that, I guess. I slapped the folded bills into his hungry hand. He took a peek. That got his attention.

“Only half grams, buddy. I can’t—”

“This isn’t about coke and I ain’t your buddy.”

“Hey, man, no reason to be that way.” I thought he might burst into tears.

“We have a mutual acquaintance. Detective Melendez sent me your way.”

Vinny Cee smiled at that. “She’s fine. You a cop? See, I fuckin’ knew it. I was jus’ thinkin’ to myself, dis guy’s a cop.”

“I’m not a cop anymore, Vinny, and you talk too much.”

I’d hurt his feelings again. “No need to be that way. Whaddaya want?”

“Malik Jabbar.”

“Whadabout him?”

“You tell me.”

“Maybe I don’t feel like talkin’ no more. Maybe I—”

“Vinny, don’t try and shake me down for more than what’s already in your palm. ’Cause, you see, I’ll throw your skinny fucking ass off this lame excuse for a bridge if you don’t just answer me.”

He flinched. “Okay, okay, man. Easy, easy.”

“We’re good. Now tell me what you had for Melendez.”

“I been copping from Malik since his name was Melvin and I know the pretty lady was askin’ around about Malik’s new friends. Am I right?”

“You’re the new fucking Kreskin.”

“Who?”

“Forget it.”

“Whatever. Well, one day, a few months back, I went around to Malik’s and I seen him with dis guy I went to Xaverian with and they was doin’ some business, if you know what I mean.”

“This guy have a name?”

“Frankie Motta.”

I twisted my hands around Vinny Cee’s collar and lifted him over by the railing.

“Listen to me you lying piece of shit. Frankie Motta has to be fifty-five, sixty fucking years old. I don’t like having my time and money wasted.”

Vinny Cee flailed his arms and kicked his legs frantically as he tried choking out some words. I relaxed my grip enough to let his lies flow a little more easily.

“Frankie Junior.”

“Frankie Junior what?”

“His son. I went to school with Frankie Motta’s son.”

I let him down, but not free. “How many years ago was that?”

“We got out in ’76, I think.”

“Were you tight, you and Frankie Junior?”

“Nah, Frankie was always braggin’ about how tough his old man was. He thought he was tough too, but he was a punk. Nobody would touch him because a his dad’s rep.”

“I can see that. Second generation’s always got it too easy.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind, Vinny,” I said, smoothing out his rumpled clothing. “Nothing you’ve got to worry about.”

“I understand stuff.” Oy, there were those hurt feelings again. “I ain’t stupid, ya know.”

Who was I to argue? Maybe he hadn’t looked in a mirror just recently. Or maybe he had, and all he saw were thin white lines and razor blades.

WHEN I FIRST met Wit, he literally lived out of a suitcase. It’s not like the guy went from one Motel 6 to another. From the Pierre to the Plaza to the Waldorf was more likely. Sometimes I think his rootless-ness was a hedge against the grief over his grandson’s murder. It was as if he hoped having no permanent address would make it harder for the grief to find him. Worked about as well as his drinking.

These days he lived in a tidy, three-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Village. For Wit, this was blue collar stuff. Of course, it was really about as blue collar as a private jet. But given the polo pony world out of which he’d fallen, it was a start. The package of documents that Fishbein had faxed to Klaus, and Klaus to Wit, was waiting for me in the lobby. There was also a copy of the
Esquire
piece Wit had done on Tio Anello.

I was going to leave it at that, but then I remembered about Carmella’s grandmother and the promise I’d made. Earlier, I had intended to ask Ronnie to ask Miriam to do it. But under the circumstances, I figured I’d asked quite enough of them, too much. Wit, on the other hand, always liked to be asked favors. Made him feel needed.

“Wit,” I said when I got upstairs, “how’s your Spanish?”

 

RICO WAS A lot more receptive to my presence when I showed back up at his place. It was late. He was less drunk and, as he was quick to mention, Marisa had thrown him a freebie because of my financial largesse.

“A fuckin’ freebie! Man, I almost felt like a cop again,” he cooed.

I felt sick.

That summed up the difference between us. He had seen his being a cop as a means to an end, something to use for his own good. Naively, I suppose, I’d come to see it as a way to do some good. Strange, I had almost laughed at Carmella Melendez for voicing that same sentiment to me. What’s that they say, you criticize in other people what you despise about yourself? I’d outlived my naiveté. I hoped Melendez would as well. I suspect that hole in her shoulder would go a long way to that end.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the envelope in my hand.

“The personnel file of a detective who I think tried to kill me.”

“This have anything to do with what happened in Red Hook last night?”

“You know about that?”

“Name me five people in New York that don’t.”

“I get your point. And yeah, it’s got everything to do with Red Hook.”

“You must be getting close.”

“Not that I’m sure exactly what it is I’m close to. All I know is that Larry must’ve been mixed up with the Anello Family.”

“The Anellos. Get the fuck outta here!” Rico was skeptical. “They ain’t even an active family anymore, not since the Russians swallowed up their territory.”

“You kept up on things when you were—”

“—away. Yeah, they have papers and TV in prison. When you do your bid in isolation, you got all the time in the world to keep up and think.”

“Sorry.”

“You and me, we’re way past sorry, Moe.”

“Way past.”

“So . . .”

“So I think the Anello Family is trying to make a comeback. At least with the drug trade.”

“Drugs? That don’t sound like Larry. Not his style, especially him knowing what happened to me.”

“I know, but Marge told me he grew up with Frankie Motta.”

“So what? We all grew up with connected guys. That don’t mean shit.”

“They were close there for a while when Larry first got on the job. Then Marge said they had a falling-out, but Larry wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Maybe Larry owed him.”

“We’re talking a long time to owe somebody,” I said.

“You owe somebody, you owe somebody. Owing these guys a favor don’t come with a time limit. Believe me, I know.”

“Larry never owed anybody anything. It was everybody that owed Larry. It was his strategy, the way he built the rungs on his ladder.”

“Not for nothing, Moe, we didn’t know Larry Mac before we all served together. Could’ve been an old debt.”

“But it’s Motta’s kid fronting the drug move, not his old man.”

“Don’t mean the old man ain’t behind it, even if the kid’s leading the charge.”

“I guess not. Look, Rico, I’m beat. I’m gonna crash out on your floor, okay?”

“You don’t mind the roaches, they won’t mind you.”

“That’s comforting.”

“Hey, toss me that file. I don’t sleep so good sometimes.”

“Here.” I handed it to him after removing the
Esquire
. He wasn’t the only one who had trouble sleeping.

Although a lot of what Rico said made sense, there was definitely something else at play. There was more here than an old debt and new drugs—there had to be. No one kills cops without a good reason, especially not the mob. Bad for business, killing cops. And what about Malik Jabbar, Kalisha Pardee, and Larry Mac? I was missing something.

I know the world is a messy place and that to expect things to snap together like Legos is crazy, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that they should. Einstein spent the last decades of his life looking for a unifying theory, one thing that tied all the forces of the universe together. He failed. Thinking about it that way, my task was considerably less daunting. Trouble was, I didn’t have decades to putz around, and failure didn’t seem like a viable option.