The Punishing Game (12 page)

Ricci called for a limo to take them to Yusef Force’s nightclub. He brought along a Paris Hilton knockoff who smiled a lot but barely spoke. After popping a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Ricci offered it around, but the Paris wannabe was the only taker.

“Sonny, I’m curious,” Boff began. “What kind of crowd does Yusef get?”

“Hip-hop. Mixed bag of blacks, whites, and Latinos.”

“What about gangstas?”

Ricci shrugged. “A few, I guess. Why?”

“Danny was almost killed by gangstas. I’d hate to see him get hurt. Although I suppose since you promote Jermain Simms, you wouldn’t be all that upset.”

At that, Ricci lost his temper. “Hey, fuck you, pal! Danny’s my guest. Nothing happens to him.” After this explosion, he took a few moments to regain his composure before speaking again. “As for the gangstas,” he said in a calmer voice, “they wouldn’t cause problems in Yusef’s club, no way, no how.”

“I understand completely,” Boff said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” In fact that had been his intention. He wanted to gauge just how hot Ricci’s temper was. Now he knew.

“No harm, no foul,” the promoter said. “Most of the so-called gangstas at Yusef’s place are just wankstas, anyway.”

Boff looked puzzled. “Wankstas?”

“Weekend warrior types,” the promoter replied. “Security knows who the real troublemakers are and doesn’t let them in.” He looked at Cullen. “Besides, I hear Danny can take pretty good care of himself outside the ring. Word is, you almost killed an Israeli mobster in Las Vegas with your bare hands.”

“I probably would’ve,” Cullen said, “if Boff hadn’t grabbed me.”

Ricci took another sip of the champagne. “So what happened to the Israeli?” he asked.

Boff cut in. “He copped a plea and got life instead of the death penalty,” he said. “Last I heard, he was a guest at the Nevada State Prison in
Carson City and making license plates for the DMV. Some of my friends from the Aryan Nation are housed there, too, so I got word to them that the Israeli’s idea of a good time was dragging skinheads out to the desert and using them for target practice.” He paused for effect. “I’m sure that by now the Israeli has a serious case of hemorrhoids.”

Ricci shook his head. “You’re no legal researcher, pal.”

Boff opened his hands and shrugged. “While legal research does enter into my work, my larger job description is private investigator.”

Ricci stared at him for a moment. “Milton Boff? Never heard of you. I know of a Frank Boff. What I hear, he champions criminals and takes pride in beating justice. Is that you?”

Boff nodded. “Yes. Although justice really has nothing to do with what happens in court. The side that presents the best illusion of truth wins. Which in most cases is mine.”

Ricci considered this for a moment. “Frank, you sure you won’t have some bubbly?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I don’t drink while on duty. I’m working for Danny.”

“As what? No offense, but you hardly look fit enough to be his bodyguard.”

At this, Cullen butted in. “Boff’s trying to find out who contracted to have me killed.”

Ricci looked
confused. “What I read was it was a drive-by shooting between gangs. Nino and you guys just got caught in the middle.”

Boff stared straight into Ricci’s eyes. “Let’s just say I’m pursuing a different line of investigation.” He didn’t elaborate, and Ricci asked nothing further about it. Looking out the window, Boff noticed that the limo was driving in a neighborhood filled with modest homes and warehouses. It hardly seemed the kind of area that you’d expect to find a nightclub.

“Where is this club?” he asked.

“We’re almost there,” Ricci said, refilling
Paris’s glass. “How’s the champagne, Beth?”

“Tastes good.” She took another sip and giggled.

Ricci looked back at Boff. “Beth’s studying acting and modeling,” he said.

Boff feigned surprise. “Really? I would’ve guessed pre-med.”

Ricci smirked and turned to Cullen. “Danny, this is Greenpoint. It’s the northernmost neighborhood in Brooklyn.”

“Mae West was born here,” Boff said. “I discovered that playing a game of Trivial Pursuit with my wife.”

“Who’s Mae West?” Bellucci asked.

“A sexy actress with a mouth like Imus,” Boff replied.

“Man,” Ricci said, “I could’ve gone for a broad like her. What was that famous line of hers, Frank? About the banana?”

“I believe it was, ‘Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’ Another famous one was, ‘My left leg is Christmas and my right leg is Easter. Why don't you visit me between the holidays?’”

Bellucci laughed. “Man, she’s definitely from Brooklyn.”

“I’m from
Long Island,” the young model said.

They waited for her to say more, but she merely giggled and sipped her champagne.

Soon Ricci told his driver to turn onto a cobblestone street lined with warehouses and factories. A bit further, the limo stopped alongside the only building on the block with lights on, an old brick-and-mortar warehouse with a corroded metal sign over the entrance:
All-State Supply—Power Tools, Electronic Supplies, Gutters & Leaders.
The warehouse was run down, a look appropriate to the seedy street.

“Industrial chic,” Boff said.

Ricci nodded. “That’s the idea.”

There was a long line out front behind a rope made of metal washers strung together on industrial wire. Most of the people waiting to get in were in their twenties and dressed in the baggy, hip-hop style. Within seconds, a security guard walked to the limo and opened the back door for Ricci to step out.

“Wassup, Sonny?” the guard said.

As Ricci greeted the guard with what looked like a combination handshake and one-armed hug, Bellucci tapped Cullen on the arm. “That’s a pound shake,” he said. “Hip-hoppers don’t shake hands like you and Boff.”

“Yusef here yet?” Ricci was asking the guard.

“On his way.”

The promoter pointed to Cullen. “This is the dude thinks he can throw down with Jermain.”

The guard looked Cullen over but said nothing. After Boff got out of the car and flexed his stiff, surgically-repaired knee, the guard led Ricci and his entourage past the line and into the club, where they were greeted by a tall black woman wearing army boots with the laces undone. A long white T-shirt stretched over her ample breasts and clear to the knees of her carpenter jeans. Ricci gave her a pound shake, then kissed her on the lips.

“Follow me,” she said. Hooking her arm through the promoter’s, she led them to a raised VIP lounge with leather couches and chairs near the stage. A DJ and the MC were blasting out hip-hop.

Boff covered his ears. “I should’ve brought ear plugs.”

But Bellucci was moving his body to the music. “Get down, Boff! Dig it!”

After the hostess left them at a grouping of couches and returned to the door, three other young women approached them carrying an ice bucket with a magnum of champagne, a tray of flutes, and another tray with Cokes on it. They put everything down on a table made of crates nailed together, then left.

“Who’s having bubbly?” Ricci asked. When only Paris/Beth raised her hand, he popped the cork and filled a glass for her and one for himself. “You guys want Cokes?” Cullen and Bellucci nodded. Boff shook his head. Handing glasses of Coke to the boxers, he sat down with his champagne, took a sip, and then looked at Boff. “I helped Yusef design this place. What do you think of it?”

“Very interesting,” said Boff. “If the club doesn’t pan out, you can always use it as a funky flea market.”

Ricci turned to Cullen. “Is he always this pleasant?”

“No. This is actually good behavior for him.”

The promoter spotted some excitement at the entrance and stood up. “Here comes Yusef and Jermain.”

His guests turned to look. Yusef Force was a well-built black man who was almost as tall as Boff. He had high cheekbones, recessed eyes, and wore a white linen suit over a black V-neck T-shirt. Jermain Simms was about the same size as Cullen and had a shaved head and an athletic face. His eyes were more deeply recessed than his uncle’s. The hostess hugged Yusef and Jermain before bringing them over to Ricci’s party. Two muscular-looking bruisers followed close behind.

Leaning closer to Cullen, Bellucci muttered, “Check out Yusef’s gold grill when he smiles.”

“What’s a gold grill?”

“Gold caps, top and bottom teeth. A small diamond embedded in one of his front uppers. Word is, when the grill catches the light, you gotta cover your eyes.”

After Ricci gave Yusef and Jermain pound shakes, Jermain and Cullen nodded at each other. Yusef pointed a forefinger at Cullen. “You, I recognize,” he said. Then he looked at Bellucci. “And you are….?”

Bellucci stood up. “Mikey Bellucci. Future welterweight champion of the world and pound-for-pound king.”

At which Yusef flashed his gold-grill smile and did a pound shake with the young boxer. Then the hip-hop mogul and his nephew sat down on a couch across from the others. Staying close to Yusef’s couch, the two muscular guys eyeballed the house.

Ricci pointed to Boff. “Yusef,” he said, “this is Frank Boff, a private investigator.”

Yusef sized him up. “I’ve heard of you,” he said after a minute
. But before he could elaborate, he was interrupted by the arrival of a waitress, who handed him a large snifter filled with amber liquor. Swirling the liquor in his glass, he took a sip, then turned back to Boff. “Didn’t you help clear a Bloods leader on some felony charge a few years back?”

“Yes, I did. Do you know him?”

Yusef shook his head. “I don’t truck with that kind. None of my rappers are into gangsta or the lifestyle. When I created my label, I made it my mission statement that I wouldn’t sign rappers who were part of that.”

Boff leaned closer to Yusef. “Would you mind if I ordered a Scotch on the rocks? I’ve had a very rough day.”

Yusef signaled to a young waiter to come over and pointed to Boff. “Bring this gentleman a glass of Chivas Regal Royal Salute on the rocks.”

The waiter scurried away to get it.

Hearing Boff order Scotch, Cullen gave him a surprised look. He had never seen Boff drink anything harder than a light beer or his crummy boxed Almaden Chablis. Since Boff rarely did anything out of character without a reason, he wondered what he was up to, though he said nothing.

“So, Frank,” Yusef was saying, “you said something about having a rough day. What happened?”

Boff fixed his steely blues on the hip-hop mogul. “Somebody tried to kill me.”

Yusef raised his eyebrows. “For real? Why do you think they did that?”

Before replying, Boff glanced at Ricci, then looked back to Yusef. “Apparently whoever did it doesn’t want me to find out something about a case I’m working on.”

“What case would that be?” Yusef said.

Boff paused for effect. “I’m looking for the person that hired the Bloods to try and kill Danny in a fake drive-by.”

Now Yusef looked genuinely confused. “The one where Nino Biaggi got shot?” When Boff nodded, he said, “Well, that’s strange, Frank. The newspapers said it
was
a gang shootout. Biaggi unfortunately got caught in the middle.”

“Without going into details,” Boff said, “I have reason to believe the drive-by was staged and that Danny was the real target. Not the Jamaican Posse.”

Ricci, who was listening carefully, made a face. “Why would someone want to kill Danny?” he asked. “I have a hard time believing that.”

Boff opened his hands. “I’m not sure yet. But I intend to find out. Count on it.”

When the waiter returned with the Scotch and put it down, Boff let it sit there and leaned back in the couch.

Yusef noticed, but declined to comment. “Well, Frank,” he said, “I certainly hope you do find the person responsible. Now on a lighter note, Sonny, how’d the fights go?”

“Good. We swept the card. Jay-Z and Mazel Tov were there.”

Yusef let out a short laugh. “Man, I’d sign Mazel Tov, but I have no clue what he’s saying when he rhymes.”

Boff smiled. “My grandmother came from Russia,” he said. “She spoke nothing but Yiddish to me. I could translate what the guy said, but just saying the words would offend my musical sensibilities.”

Cullen leaned toward Yusef. “Boff listens to nothing but Fifties Golden Oldies,” he explained.

Yusef flashed his gold grill again. “Chuck Berry, Danny and the Juniors, Frankie Lymon, the Teddy Bears, Dell Shannon. I listened to them all. But Motown was my thing.”

“Someday,” Boff said, “you’ll have to tell me about your journey from Chuck Berry to LL Cool J.”

Yusef smiled. “You probably think boxing and hip-hop is a strange marriage,” he said.

“Not really,” Boff replied. He started to lift his Scotch for the first time, hesitated, then put it back down without sipping it. “After watching a video of Tiny Tim marry Miss Vicki on the Johnny Carson show before forty million viewers, no marriage surprises me.”