The Punishing Game (17 page)

After the limo drove away, Boff walked to his rental and drove to Port Morris. Today was the day to take his mother out for the dinner he had promised her. Thelma lived on the second floor above a bodega. Boff parked as close as he could get. Climbing the stairs, he noticed that they were swept clean and smelled faintly of air freshener. No doubt his mother’s work. She had left her apartment door unlocked for him. Going in, he was surprised to hear that she was listening to some kind of rap.

“Mom!” he shouted over the music. “I’m here.”

“Be right out, Frankie,” she called from another room.

Looking around the living room, he noticed that most of the furniture had come from the apartment he had grown up in. In one corner was the leather easy chair his father had called his throne. It instantly triggered memories. His trip down memory lane was interrupted, however, when his mother walked in and did a little twirl to show off her black cocktail dress, a pearl necklace, and high heels.

“So? What do you think?”

Boff made a face. “Mom, why’d you dress up so much? We’re going to a deli.”

“Katz’s isn’t just a deli, Frankie. Famous people go there. I want to look good!” She did another, almost flirtatious twirl. 

Boff pointed to the CD player. “And what’s with that music?”

“Knowing about rap helps me get along better with the kids,” she said. “It blows their minds when an old broad like me can talk about LL Cool J, Eminem, and Diddy.”

Her son, who had only heard their names, not their so-called music, walked over to the couch, sat down, and patted one of the cushions. “Come here, Mom. I need to talk to you.”

As she sat beside him, Thelma narrowed her eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem, exactly,” he replied. “Maybe a potential problem.”

“So what did you do now?”

“I had a talk with Solis a little while ago. I brought up some things I’m sure he didn’t want to hear about.”

She wagged a motherly finger at him. “Don’t you be messing with Enrique, Frankie. He’s a dangerous man.”

“What’s done is done, Mom. So let’s deal with it. But I’m a bit worried Solis might try to hurt you as payback for what I said to him.”

She dismissed that notion with a quick wave of her hand. “Not to worry. Enrique loves me. He’d never harm me.”

Boff sighed. “That may be true, Mom, but just to be on the safe side, I think you should reconsider my offer about taking a trip to Israel.”

“Not a chance,” she said. She took her son’s hand. “There’s something you don’t understand. I have a special relationship with Enrique. His mother was a drug addict. She died when he was very young. Enrique sees me as a surrogate mom. I even have him over for home-cooked meals once in a while. I can cook Puerto Rican, you know.”

Boff pulled his hand away. “Solis is not the type of person you should be inviting over for dinner.”

“Is that so? But it’s okay for you to go out to eat with your clients? The murderers and all that other riffraff?”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my mother.”

Mother stood up. “Stop worrying about me. I’m a tough old broad. Come on. Let’s go eat.”

End of discussion, Boff thought. They left the apartment and started down the stairs.

“Sometimes Enrique takes me to the fights at the
Manhattan Center,” his mother said.

He couldn’t quite believe his ears. “You like boxing, too?”

“Not really. It just makes me feel good being seen with a handsome young man holding my hand. After one show, Enrique even took me to a nightclub.”

As they left the building, Boff said, “Which one?”

“Yusef Force’s place. He’s got a big record company. Enrique is close friends with him.”

Close friends? That’s not what Solis had told him. Boff opened the passenger door for his mother, then went around to his side and climbed in. “How do you know Solis and Yusef are close?” he asked.

“Enrique told me. He said they’ve been tight for many years. They hang out together a lot.”

Filing that bit of information away, Boff started the car and pulled out into traffic. “What did you think of Yusef?” he asked a minute later.

“I didn’t like him. He acts so suave and charming, but something told me he’s a dangerous man. I’m not sure why I got that. I guess living in the Bronx all these years, you learn to recognize trouble. Does Yusef figure in your case?”

“Let’s talk about something else, Mom.”

“Sure, Frankie. Before I have my pastrami sandwich, I’m going to order potato latkes and a liver knish. What about you?”

“I’m not that hungry. Maybe just a roast beef sandwich.”

“Since when is my son Frankie not hungry?”

“Since you told me you have Solis over for dinner.”

When Boff pulled up in his car and saw the gym’s boarded-up windows the next day, he immediately called the 77
th
Precinct and asked for Damiano. He was connected to her a minute later.

So what did you find out from your friend Solis?

“Never mind that. What the hell happened at the gym? Was Danny hurt?”

Shots were fired from the street. Danny’s fine
. But some guys got cut by glass and Bellucci has a bruised wrist. Now tell me about Solis.

“He thinks I’m a scumbag.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“Solis is hiding something. I think he’s involved in the Biaggi killing and the business deal, but I don’t know how yet. Did you get the ballistics report?”

Yes.

“Did you study it?”

Not yet.

“When you do, make sure to check if the bullets that hit Biaggi were the same as the ones taken from the steps.”

Why?

“I’m taking Danny and Mikey to Cheffy’s for lunch. Meet us there if you want.” Boff hung up.

Cheffy came out of the kitchen carrying a large, steaming platter, which he set
it down in front of Bellucci. The cook, who was in his fifties, had a shiny bald head, a gray mustache and goatee, and an eye patch with the Jamaican flag imprinted on it.

Bellucci looked down at the platter, then looked up again. “What’s this? I ordered stewed codfish.”

Cheffy broke into a broad grin, exposing a full set of pearly whites. “When Cheffy hear that his good friend Mikey was hurt, he decided to make something special for him.” He pointed at the platter. “This is tamarind nectar chicken. I don’t even cook this for my wife.”

Bellucci’s eyes lit up and he looked more closely at the bite-size pieces of sautéed chicken breast covered with Jamaican spices and a greenish-brown sauce. Plus red beans, green beans, and mangos on the side. Diving right in, he forked up a slice of chicken with sauce and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Oh wow!” He turned to Cheffy. “Best chicken I ever tasted. Hands down. Thanks, mon.”

Cheffy modestly pointed at Boff. “Thank your pal, Mr. Boff. He called Cheffy to tell him Mikey was hurt and ask me to make something to cheer you up.”

Bellucci turned his grin to Boff, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t read anything into it,” he said. “I only did it so I wouldn’t have to hear you bitch about your wrist while I’m eating.”

“Right.”

As Cheffy went back into the kitchen, Mattie, the waitress, walked out carrying additional dishes. She set a plate of curried goat down in front of Boff and an ackee-codfish platter in front of Cullen.

“Enjoy, everybody,” she said. Then she leaned down and gave Bellucci a kiss on the cheek. “I hope you feel better, Mikey.”

“I hope so, too,” he said, still chewing.

As Mattie was heading to another table, Damiano walked in the front door, spotted them, came over, and pulled out a chair.

“I got hung up with a staff meeting,” she said. She looked at the dishes. “I see you waited for me before ordering.”

“Since you didn’t call,” Boff said, “I had no way of knowing if you were even going to show.”

“You always have an excuse,” she said.

Ignoring her, he continued to shovel his curried goat into his mouth. A minute later, Mattie came back and took Damiano’s order of jerk chicken and black coffee.

Boff put his fork down and looked at the detective. “What did you find out from the ballistics report?” he asked.

Damiano stared at Bellucci a moment, then looked back at Boff. “Just for the record,” she said, “I object to Bellucci being here.”

Bellucci looked up. “So leave,” he said.

“Come on, Boff. He’s a civilian. I can’t talk about details of a case with him around.”

Boff picked up his fork, filled it with more goat, chewed carefully, and swallowed. “Tell me something, Damiano. Would your supervisor be happy if he knew you were working with the infamous Frank Boff?”

She didn’t say a word.

“So…let’s move on, okay?” he said.

Looking only at Boff, she said, “Without going into details in present company, let’s just say Biaggi was killed with a handgun, not an AK-47.”

This got Bellucci’s attention. “There was a second shooter in the car?”

Still looking only at Boff, Damiano said, “It would appear so.”

Boff turned to Cullen. “Danny, do you see why I have such a low opinion of cops? They never bothered to—”

“Hey! It was an honest mistake,” Damiano said. She sounded defensive. “It looked like an obvious drive-by to all of us.”

“But when you yourself became convinced it wasn’t,” Boff said, “how come you didn’t think to go back and look at the ballistics?”

She gave him a sourer look than usual. “Okay genius. So who do you make for ordering the hit on Biaggi?”

“Nobody with any certainty yet. Although there are possibilities on the table. Beginning with Ricci.”

“Why Ricci?” she asked.

“Well, we know Ricci had ties to Biaggi dating back to Speckford and that their relationship continued during and after his boxing career. Don’t you find it curious that he skipped Biaggi’s funeral and burial because of what Ricci himself told me was a just minor ‘falling out’?”

“Yes. But it wouldn’t be the first time something like that happened between old friends. You just never know about people, you know? What was the falling out over?”

“A loan Biaggi asked Ricci for four months before he was killed. Biaggi was trying to raise money to build a new gym in a Red Hook warehouse. Ricci turned him down. He said he couldn’t spare the money because he had some problems with his business. The result was that they ended up in a little brawl in his office. After that incident, they stopped talking to each other. But,” he said, pausing to fork another piece of his curried goat and stick it in his mouth, “according to Biaggi’s ex-wife, about six weeks before the shooting, they started talking again. Biaggi told his ex it was just a business deal and had nothing to do with friendship. But he wouldn’t give her any details, which was atypical of their relationship.”

Bellucci looked up from his food again. “What’s ‘atypical’ mean?”

“Not typical,” Boff said.

“So why didn’t you just say ‘not typical’ instead of using a fancy word?”

Boff smiled. “I’m sorry, Mikey. Every once in a while I forget to keep things clear and simple. Which is not typical of me.”

Bellucci pointed his fork at his platter. “Anybody want to taste my chicken?”

“Me,” Cullen said. He picked a piece off Bellucci’s plate with his fork and tasted it. “Hey, you’re right. This is great.”

“Now as I was saying,” Boff continued, “Biaggi’s mood swung again. Six days before his death, he wasn’t talking to Ricci again and wouldn’t tell his ex why. I’m guessing the deal fell through for some reason, and since Biaggi was mad at Ricci, we can probably assume Ricci was the cause of it.”

Damiano’s order arrived. She started with her coffee. “I think,” she said, setting the cup down, “we can also assume the new deal involved more than just a gym. A deal Ricci figured would earn him significant money. If not, why would Ricci change his mind about helping with the financing?”

“Good point,” Boff said. “My gut feeling is that the business deal is the key to why Biaggi was killed.”

“I agree,” Damiano said. “Also worth considering is this: first Ricci told Biaggi he didn’t have the money. Then he apparently did have the money. So where’d it come from?”

Cullen raised a hand. “Solis?”

“That’s one possibility,” Boff said.

“Or Yusef Force.”

“Not necessarily, Danny,” Boff said. “Apparently this year has not been a good one for the hip-hop industry. Which is putting it mildly.” He pulled a printout out of one pocket. “From the
New York Times
: ‘This was the year when the gleaming hip-hop machine—the one that minted a long string of big-name stars, from Snoop Dog to OutKast—finally broke down, leaving rappers no alternative but to work harder, and for fewer rewards.’ He folded the paper and slipped it under his plate. “What that means is that Yusef might be having financial problems.”

Bellucci looked up. “What was that you just said about Yusef?”

Boff frowned. “If you paid better attention, I wouldn’t have to keep repeating myself.”

“Sorry. This chicken has me zoned out. It’s better than sex. Well, almost.”

“I said Yusef might be having financial problems.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Bellucci said. “Yusef’s a multi-millionaire. He has a lot of businesses.”

“Yes,” Boff said, “but those are capital assets. Not liquid.”

“In English?”

“Not hard cash. If this deal wasn’t kosher—which I suspect it wasn’t—and Yusef was involved, he’d want to use cash. Undoubtedly laundered and deposited in an off-shore bank.”

Cullen looked puzzled. “Why assume the deal wasn’t legal?”

“I’m not, but here’s where history comes in. We know from Speckford what?”

“These guys don’t play by the rules,” Cullen said, “and they’re capable of anything.”

“Correct.”

Cullen had an idea. “If there was more to the deal than just a gym, maybe Nino’s brother knew. Maybe he could tell us.”

Boff held his hand up and grinned. “I was just going to say that.”

“Bull. I thought of something before you did. Admit it.”

“You
said
it before I did. I was already thinking it.”

Bellucci looked at Cullen. “Danny, you know what? You’re beginning to think like
Milton here.”

Now Damiano looked up. “Who’s
Milton?”