The Punishing Game (3 page)

Not knowing any of the mourners crammed into the Biaggi living room that night, Cullen felt awkward and out of place. He wished he were at the gym, away from all this talk about death. Soon McAlary walked up to Cullen, bringing a haggard-looking man in his fifties who had dark circles under bloodshot eyes. The guy seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Danny,” the trainer said, “this is Alphonso Biaggi, Nino’s older brother. Alphonso is the Brooklyn Borough President. He’s a powerful man in politics around here.”

Cullen shook hands with Biaggi, whose palm was moist, though his grip was firm. “I’m sorry about your loss,” the young boxer said, not knowing what else to add.

Biaggi let out a sigh. “What’s especially painful about my brother’s death is that he was so close to realizing his dream.”

“What dream was that?” Cullen asked.

“My brother hoped to build a state-of-the-art gym with an adjacent health club. I found him the perfect spot for the gym. A nice-size warehouse for sale in Red Hook. As borough president, I’ve gotten to know a lot of people with money to burn. A couple of them were interested in funding the project. We were very close to a deal when Nino got shot.” Biaggi shook his head and sighed again. “Life isn’t fair, you know what I mean?”

Cullen nodded, remembering how he had felt when his father had died at just forty-three from a rare blood disease.

“Well, Danny,” Biaggi said, “it was nice meeting you. Ryan tells me good things about you. You couldn’t have picked a better trainer.”

After the house emptied, Michelle Biaggi made herself a vodka and orange juice and went upstairs to bed. Cullen and Kate poured mugs of coffee for themselves and sat on the couch watching a restless McAlary pace the living room. The trainer looked as wound-up as Cullen felt.

“I need to work out,” McAlary finally said.

Cullen nodded. “Me, too.”

“Go ahead, you guys,” Kate said. “I’m going to call my sister and see how our darling daughter Phoenix is behaving at her house.”

McAlary let out a short laugh. “That little
spitfire of ours is probably driving your sister crazy.”

***

At the 42nd Precinct in the East Bronx, Monetti and Colligan were sitting at their desks eating pizza from a Domino’s box. Having handed in their latest tape to Captain Burgess awhile ago, they were now waiting for his reaction.

Colligan glanced at the captain’s glass-enclosed office for the umpteenth time. “Carlo, does he look happy to you?”

“How should I know?” Monetti said. “I bet ol’ sour puss hasn’t smiled since the first time he got laid.”

“Which was probably his last.”

A few minutes later, the captain tapped on his window and signaled for the cops to come in. Both reached for the last piece of pie. Colligan was quicker.

“Hey, that’s mine,” Monetti whined. “You already had one more than me.”

“If you’re gonna cry about it, take the fucking thing.” Before tossing it on Monetti’s greasy plate, however, Colligan took a big bite out of it.

“Cocksucker!” Monetti said. He grabbed a napkin and used it to wipe the part
of the slice Colligan had bitten into.

Colligan laughed. “You eat tacos from a dirty car floor, but you’re worried about getting germs from me?”

“I’ve seen some of the scuzzball broads you’ve gone down on. I don’t wanna get herpes.”

That settled, they stood up, walked over to the captain’s office, and went in. The office smelled of masculine cologne. Maybe some air freshener, too.

Burgess pointed at Monetti. “Lose the pizza, Carlo. I want your full attention.”

Monetti took two huge bites before tossing what was left of the slice into a nearby waste basket. “Satisfied, Captain?”

Burgess looked at his waste basket and made a sour face. “When you leave, take that crap with you. Now sit your asses down.”

As they pulled up chairs, Burgess tapped a finger on the recorder. “You mopes spent a week tailing the limo and this shit is the best you can come up with?”

“We can’t put fucking words in their mouths...
sir
,” Colligan said, his tone plainly disdainful. “We just listen as ordered,
sir
.”

“Cut the sir crap,” the captain said. “I know you guys hate my guts. Not that I give a shit.”

Colligan shook his head. “I don’t know where you got that impression. Carlo and I have nothing but respect for you.”

Burgess smirked. “You idiots think I don’t hear things?”

Colligan had no reply.

“Getting back to business,” the captain said, “do you know who the kid is that they’re referring to on the tape?”

“Nope,” Colligan replied.

“What about this guy in
Brooklyn.”

Colligan shook his head. “Ditto.”

Burgess leaned forward. “What exactly
do
you know?”

Monetti showed his palms. “Just what’s on the tapes.”

Burgess leaned back again. “Meaning nothing. I was given reliable info and you guys are blowing it.”

“Care to share?” Monetti said. “It’d help if we knew who these dirtbags are. I don’t get why you won’t tell us.”

Burgess pointed a finger at them. “You wanna know why?”

“We’re all ears,” Monetti said.

“Because I know you numbnuts are bucking hard to make detective. I don’t want you morons getting ambitious and deciding on your own to run with this case.”

Monetti made a sour face. “Meaning you don’t trust us.”

“That’s right. Now get your asses back out there and find something for me. I’m up for promotion.”

As they stood up and headed for the door, Burgess snapped his fingers. “The pizza, Monetti. Take it with you.”

Monetti reached in the basket and took the half-eaten slice out. Back at their desks, he pointed with it at the captain’s office. “I’d like to stuff this piece down his throat.”

“Or up his ass.”

Colligan raised his eyebrows in surprise as Monetti took another napkin, wiped it lightly over the remains of the slice, and instead of shoving it down the captain’s throat, stuffed it into his own mouth.

“Man, you’re disgusting.”

Monetti shrugged.

“You know what I think, Carlo? The captain’s on a fishing expedition. He doesn’t have shit.”

Monetti swallowed. “Yeah, well grab your rod and reel, because we’re going back to the pond.”

After leaving the Biaggi house for the gym with McAlary that night, Cullen tried to reach Boff again. To his surprise, Boff answered.

“How come you haven’t returned any of my friggin’ calls?” Cullen asked him.

I was just about to call you.

“Like hell you were. You better not be flying here tomorrow.”

Boff ignored that.
How’s the weather in New York?

Cullen hesitated before answering. “It’s hotter than hell and humid, too. Why do you want to know?”

Just curious. I assume it’s hot enough to wear shorts and T-shirts. What about at night? Do you need a jacket like you do sometimes in Las Vegas?

Cullen finally got it. “You’re packing to come to
New York, aren’t you?”

Wha
t did you say? Danny, you’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. My battery must be dying.

The line went dead.

McAlary looked at the boxer. “What the hell was that all about?”

“It was Boff. The fucker’s coming here!”

“He said that?”

“Not in so many words,” Cullen told him. “He asked what the weather was like and what kind of clothes to wear here.”

“Aw, shit.”

“Yeah.” Cullen put his phone away. “Shit.”

“Uhh, maybe you misinterpreted what Boff said.”

Cullen shook his head. “Trust me, I didn’t. When I asked him if he was packing to come to
New York, he pretended his battery was dying and hung up.”

“Well,” the trainer gave this a minute’s thought, “maybe he was just curious about the weather here.
” There wasn’t much conviction in his voice, though.

Cullen blew out a sigh of disgust. “Aw fuck, fuck, fuck! I don’t want to think about Boff right now.”

“Me, neither. If that wanker comes here, we’ll deal with him then, like you said in the cab. Now let’s get the hell to the gym and work out.”

They broke into a fast jog down
St. Marks Avenue, and by the time they arrived at the gym, they were both soaked with sweat. McAlary used the key Michelle had given him to open the dead bolts. Like most old-world gyms, Biaggi’s didn’t have air conditioning, so it felt like a steam room inside. Biaggi may have been dreaming of a fancy new facility, but this one was a no-frills gym with one decent ring, an assortment of punching bags and weights, and one treadmill. The overhead lights were fluorescent and harsh.

They ducked into what passed for a locker room. Beat-up old lockers. A couple benches. Small bathroom with a sink. Two toilets.

After they changed into their workout gear, McAlary walked over to the 130-pound sack and began pounding it. Cullen shadowboxed in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Back in his own environment, Cullen felt relaxed for the first time all day.

They had been working out for about fifteen minutes when they heard footsteps coming rapidly up the stairs. They stopped working out and looked at each other. In
Las Vegas, McAlary never locked the gym unless he was out with his family. This was Brooklyn. Whole different world.

“Any chance you locked the door?” Cullen asked.

McAlary shook his head.

“Maybe it’s that gang again,” Cullen said.

Bracing for the worst, they watched as the door opened. Instead of the Bloods, however, in walked a good-looking white kid of around twenty with spiked black hair streaked blond at the tips.

“What are you doing here, son?” McAlary said. “The gym is closed.”

“I trained with Nino,” the kid said. “I was out of town for a few days with my grandparents when he was killed.” He hitched up his baggy jeans. “I was walking the streets, just to, like, clear my head, when I saw the lights on in here. For a minute, I thought maybe it’s all been a mistake, that Nino was alive and in here.”

He walked over to McAlary and shook his hand. “I’ve always been a big fan of yours, Mr. McAlary.”

“And who might you be?” the trainer asked.

“Mikey Bellucci.” He turned to Cullen. “I’ve watched a bunch of your pop’s fights on
DVD. I like those old-school fighters. Mikey Bellucci got his style from them.” He laid one hand over his heart. “Mr. Cullen, I hope you kick Jermain Simms’ ass.”

“Thanks.”

Bellucci turned back to McAlary. “Coach, do you mind if I work out for a while?”

“Okay. But we’ll be closing up
in a half hour.”

“No problem.”

As Bellucci hustled into the locker room, McAlary went back to pounding the bag and Cullen started skipping rope. In a few minutes Bellucci came back out wearing just trunks and boxing shoes. Cullen guessed he was about five-foot nine, maybe a hundred-fifty pounds. He looked like he didn’t seem to have an ounce of body fat.

While he skipped rope, Cullen watched Bellucci climb into the ring and start shadowboxing. Cullen was immediately impressed with his exceptional hand speed.
I thought I was fast.
This kid puts me to shame.

As Bellucci began gliding around the ring like a skilled dancer, Cullen stopped working to watch. So did McAlary, though Bellucci didn’t seem to notice them. Then he picked up the pace. His hands were incredibly fast. As unexpected tears suddenly came rolling down his cheeks, Cullen and McAlary quickly turned away. After ten minutes of shadowboxing, the kid climbed down out of the ring. McAlary tossed him a towel.

“Son, how many fights have you had?” the trainer asked.

Bellucci’s face beamed with pride as he said, “Fifty amateur. Mikey Bellucci won forty-two and took silver in the U.S. Nationals. Nino wanted Mikey to try out for the Olympics. But Mikey needed to start making money. Be his own man. I’m undefeated in five fights as a pro.”

McAlary put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “You’ve got some real talent, son.”

Bellucci smiled. “Nobody can touch Mikey Bellucci in the ring,” he said quietly. “He’s too fast. Too skilled.”

Cullen had heard some elite older fighters switch from first person to third in referring to themselves, but never someone so young.

Bellucci sat on the apron of the ring. As he toweled his sweaty face the bravado was suddenly gone, replaced by a grim look. Looking down at his hands, he whispered, “What am I going to do now without Nino?”

McAlary put a hand under Bellucci’s chin and raised it. “Get your chin up, son. There’re plenty of trainers who’d be glad to have a fine young prospect like you.”

Looking up at McAlary, Bellucci shook his head. “Nino was more than a trainer to me. Coach was like a father. He taught me things about life. My own father was a scumbag. He abandoned me when I was only seven.”
Bellucci looked down at his hands and continued. “After my old man was gone, my mother shacked up with some guy in Jersey. The fucker liked to beat on Mikey when he was drunk. Which was pretty much all the time. So Mikey split and moved in with his grandparents here in Crown Heights. They wanted me to become a doctor.”

Cullen looked at him, but didn’t say anything. Neither did McAlary.

Bellucci looked up and laughed. “Some doctor! I got thrown out of high school my sophomore year for fighting. So what else is new? I fought in the streets, in classes, anytime someone even looked at me funny. Then one day Mikey’s grandfather took him to Nino’s gym. Grandpa figured Mikey would get the shit kicked out of him and never want to fight again.” The boy smiled. “I did get the crap knocked out of me, but I came back the next day. Kept taking a beating and returning. Nino liked Mikey’s guts and determination. I had zero money and couldn’t afford to train, so Nino waived his fee and took me under his wing.” He stood up. “Now look at me. A doctor of the Sweet Science.”

McAlary gave Bellucci a playful punch on the shoulder. “Well
, Dr. Bellucci, I have the right prescription for you. I promised Nino’s wife I’d take over the gym until she finds a buyer. You can train with me.”

Bellucci eyes widened. “For real? Man, you and Nino….I, like, watched those three wars you guys had a hundred times. The thing Mikey liked best was you and Coach never backed down.” Bellucci patted his chest. “There’s no quitter in Mikey Bellucci. You gotta kill me to beat me.”

“So, Mikey Bellucci,” McAlary said, “you have a fight coming up?”

“
In three weeks. A Broadway Boxing show.”

“How about I help get you ready for that fight?”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Sure,” McAlary said. “I like winning.”

“Oh, man, that’s great.”

“Right now,” Mikey’s new coach said, “I want you to go home and get some sleep. Then show up tomorrow at eight sharp and be prepared to work your arse off.”

“Word!” Bellucci headed into the locker room with a bounce in his step.