The Punishing Game (6 page)

Because their Crown Victoria had been
made by the limo driver, Monetti decided to bring his own car for that night’s surveillance. As Colligan stepped into Monetti’s Chevy Impala, he sniffed the air and made a face.

“It smells like farts in here,” the cop said. “Why don’t you use a car freshener?”

Monetti took a quick sniff. “I don’t smell nuthin’.”

Opening his window, Colligan used his hand to fan fresh air into the car.

“Hey,” Monetti protested, “you’re letting the air conditioning out.”

“Tough shit. Next time bring air freshener.”

“Next time bring your own fucking car.”

As he pulled away from the precinct, Monetti cranked his air conditioner up to max. Then he glanced at his partner. “Get on your iPhone,” he said, “and locate the fucking limo.”

Taking out his cell, Colligan turned it on, got the Internet, and worked on it a few minutes.

“The Mobile Guardian tracker says the limo’s parked in the same garage.”

Nodding, Monetti drove downtown and double parked near an office building on East 44
th
Street that had a basement garage.

“Now we wait,” he said.

A half hour later, the limo came up the ramp from the basement. It looked like there was just one person in the back seat, though it was hard to tell through the tinted windows. Monetti tailed the limo to another office building, this one on 34
th
Street, where it double parked near the front entrance. A minute later, a tall white man wearing slacks and a polo shirt walked out of the building and climbed into the back seat of the limo.

I ho
pe you like sushi,
the cops heard Throaty Voice say.

The only thing I eat raw
, a new voice said,
is pussy.

So
order the teriyaki steak. It’s good. Tell me, did you ever hear of a private investigator named Frank Boff?

No. Why?

Throaty voice hacked out a couple coughs as the limo pulled back into traffic, the Impala a couple cars behind it
. “I’m told he’s in town and might be sticking his nose into our business.

So l
et him,
the other voice said
. He won’t find anything.

I’m not so sure of that.
You want a drink?

Johnny Black.

The cops heard ice clinking in a glass.

Boff is trouble, my friend
,
Throaty Voice said after a minute.

He’s ju
st one man
, said the other voice
. What’s the problem?

Boff’s a former DEA agent
. One of the best the agency ever had. I’m told there’s an agency myth that Boff put so many Colombian drug dealers in jail one year that he made a dent in the country’s gross national product.

So w
hy’d this hotshot leave the DEA?”
the new voice asked.
Sounds like he could’ve run the agency one day.
By this time, the two cops were figuring that the new voice belonged to the white man who’d gotten into the limo.

All I know
, Throaty Voice was saying,
is that after Boff quit the agency, he switched sides. Now he helps defense lawyers keep bad guys out of jail. I’m told Boff’s among the best in the country at what he does.

Inside the Impala, Monetti looked at his partner and frowned. “I know about this Boff,” he muttered. “He’s a real scumbag. But if he’s onto these jokers, we don’t have to worry about catching them. Boff’ll nail their asses.”

So put a tail on this Boff,
the white man said,
and when he gets out of his car, cap him.

Throaty Voice laughed.
Boff would spot a tail or an ambush in a heartbeat. A lot of people have wanted to kill him. None have succeeded.

You make him sound like fucking Superman.

Yeah. An evil version.

I’m puzzled
, the white man said.
If this guy makes his living defending felons, why would he be nosing into our business?

Dunno. But
if he is, we better assume he’ll always be one step behind us. We’re going to have to be doubly careful. Boff has been around so many criminals, he thinks like one.

Does he have family?
the white man asked.

Wife and two kids in
Las Vegas.

So threaten his family
.

Another bad move
,
Throaty Voice said
. When you get a chance, look up what happened to an Israeli mobster named Yitzhak Soliman. Jew-boy not only threatened Boff’s family, but tried to kill him. We don’t want to suffer the same fate.

The limo stopped in front of Sushi Hana on
Amsterdam Avenue near 83d Street.

We don’t need this shit now
,
the white man said
. Not when we’re so close
.

W
ell guess what? We’ve got it.

After finishing the last of his morning session five miles on the treadmill, Cullen looked over and saw McAlary staring out the window at something. He stepped off the treadmill and walked over to his trainer.

McAlary pointed. “Your driver is here.”

Looking down at the street, Cullen saw Boff leaning against the rental Honda. Like it or not, he admitted, the man was back in his life. There would be no getting rid of him now. He turned to McAlary. “Ryan, I know you’re mad. But look at it this way. Even if Boff’s wrong about me being the target, don’t you at least want him to catch the people that killed Nino?”

“The cops’ll do that.”

“Bullshit. You know damn well they’ve written it off as a drive-by.”

McAlary turned to Cullen. “Maybe so,” he said. “But why can’t you let Boff do it himself? He’s only been here one day, and already you’ve taken up with him. Danny, what’s wrong with you? Don’t you want to win this fight?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why jeopardize your chances by letting Boff distract you?”

“I didn’t intend to get involved.”

“Right. Shit happens, huh?”

“Maybe it’s something in my nature,” Cullen said. “I wasn’t especially proud of what Boff and I did to Julio’s killers. But we got justice for him. Something the cops couldn’t do, you know. I want to find Nino’s killer as a way of thanking you for all you’ve done for me.”

“Even if it gets you killed?”

“I’ll be with Boff. He wouldn’t let that happen.”

McAlary guffawed. “Is that so? You told me Boff doesn’t carry a gun. How can an unarmed man so grossly out of shape protect you?”

“He
is
armed.” Cullen tapped his forehead. “His
mind
is a weapon. You should’ve seen how he manipulated this Jamaican gang leader yesterday. I didn’t admit it to Boff, but what he turned up on just his first day has me a bit unnerved. It really does look like the drive-by was faked.”

McAlary shook his head. “Danny, you’re a lost cause,” he said, and walked away.

Boff was back behind the wheel when Cullen and Bellucci bounded down the stairs and climbed into the back seat of the Honda.

“Just because I’m going with you,” Cullen said, “that doesn’t mean I’m committed to working with you. If you don’t turn up any real proof that I was the target, I’m outta here.”

“No problem.”

“Where’s the action, chief?” Bellucci asked.

Boff put the car in gear. “I have a
meet set up with the Bloods in Brower Park.”

“Why a park?” Cullen asked.

“Because in a park,” Bellucci told him, “the Bloods can see anything coming in all directions. I gather you didn’t grow up on the streets.”

“
Las Vegas suburb.”

“Unlike your dad,” the kid said. “Who made his bones in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Boff,” Cullen said, “tell me about the Bloods.”

“Why?”

“Like you told me last time with Julio’s killers, it’s important to know who we’re dealing with.”

Boff glanced in his rearview mirror at Cullen. “The Bloods are
New York City’s biggest and best-organized street gang. They’re known for killing their victims with razors and scalpels.”

“Wouldn’t guns be easier?”

“Yes. And they do use them, as you found out. But what strikes more fear in the hearts of your enemies—knowing they might get killed with a bullet or they be slashed to death?”

“I see your point.”

“Their income comes mostly from drug sales,” Boff continued. “They also peddle guns, commit robbery, and do credit card fraud. Most significantly, their enemies are the Cripps, the Latin Kings, and MS-Thirteen. Not the Jamaican Posse.”

Bellucci chimed in. “They have some kind of code, right? I had a buddy who used to run with them.”

“Their code,” Boff said, “has five central tenets: body, unity, love, lust, and soul. Sounds downright spiritual, doesn’t it?” He turned the steering wheel. “Ah, here we are.”

He parked near Brower’s basketball court, where a five-on-five, full-court game was in progress. He stopped a minute to watch, thinking back to his days on the asphalt courts in the
Bronx. Then he got out of the car and led Cullen and Bellucci past the courts to a grass oval surrounded by a walking track and clusters of trees. Two men in their early twenties and wearing baggy blue jeans, bright red T-shirts, and red do-rags were slouched on a bench in the middle of the oval.

“The chunky guy with the nose ring is
Devon,” Boff said in a low voice. “He’s the leader of the gang. The one with the red suspenders is his sissy. At least that’s the rumor.” He raised his voice slightly. “Devon was facing twenty years before I helped get him acquitted.”

As they headed for the bench, Bellucci tapped Boff’s arm. “There’s five more leaning against those trees over there,” he said, pointing.

Boff nodded. “And six were hanging by the cage at the basketball courts.”

“How do you guys know all this?” Cullen said.

Bellucci smirked. “Man, you are clueless about gangs.”

“So, genius, clue me in.”

“All New York gangs have their own colors,” Bellucci said. “The Bloods use red. The guys we saw all had something red—shoe laces, red belts, red caps.”

As they approached the bench,
Devon and the other Blood turned to look at them.

“
Devon, long time no see,” Boff said, coming to a stop a few feet away.

“Wassup, honky?”

“Same ol’ shit. Thank god for guys like you, or my family would starve.”

Devon
laughed. “Devil’s got special plans for you, Boff.”

Boff smiled. “My wife’s working on getting me reservations in heaven.”

“Lotsa luck. You a bad man, Boff. You and me, we gonna have lots of fun together in the Big Fire.”

Boff put a hand on Cullen’s shoulder. “This young man is the guy you tried to kill in front of the Jamaican Posse clubhouse.”

Devon no longer looked amused. “What trash you be talking, man?”

Boff didn’t answer. He just smiled knowingly at
Devon.

“You heard me,”
Devon said, clearly annoyed.

Boff grinned. “That little charade you pulled with the Jamaicans may have fooled the cops, but the Big Boffer is not fooled.” He stepped closer to
Devon and leaned in. “I know somebody paid you to shoot Danny. A deal you bungled by killing Nino Biaggi.”

Devon
turned away. “Nobody gave us cake to shoot nobody.”

The sissy tugged on
Devon’s arm. “Lemme cut ’im, Devon.”

“Shut up, Cory.”
Devon turned back to Boff. “Say what you came to say and go.”

“I’m not after you,” Boff said. “I want the guy who paid you to do it.”

Devon shoved his hands deep in his pockets.

Boff spread his
hands. “Give me something, Devon. Then I can walk away feeling pleased at having seen you again. It doesn’t have to be a name. Just point me in the right direction.”

Devon
stayed silent, so Boff stepped even closer to him. “You know what you’d be doing right now if it wasn’t for me? Playing checkers in the nude at Sing Sing. Instead of sitting in this park on a fine summer day wasting my valuable time.”

Devon
fired a gob of spit onto the grass in front of him.

Boff shrugged. “Okay, have it your way,” he said. He turned to go. “I just want you to know that I’m on this case,
Devon. And with my reputation for winning, you might want to consider being a little more cooperative. It could work to your benefit when the shit hits the fan. And I guarantee you it will.”

They started walking away.

“Hey, Boff,” Devon finally called out. “You like hip-hop?”

Boff turned. “Only if I was deaf.”

Devon locked eyes with Boff a moment. Cullen sensed that something seemed to pass between them, but he couldn’t tell what.

“You really ought to check out hip-hop, Boff. Trust me. If you check it out, I think you might find something you like.”

Boff nodded at Devon as if they were friends, then resumed walking back to his car. 

“Why did he ask you of all people if you liked hip-hop?” Cullen asked when they were out of earshot.

“To point me in the right direction,” Boff replied.

Cullen looked confused. “What direction?”

“I’m not quite sure yet, but at least we have something to go on now.”

“Really?” Cullen said sarcastically. “How is checking out hip-hop going to help you find the person you say hired them?”

Bellucci butted in. “Yusef Force.”

Boff stopped and looked at Mikey. “Which is….?”

“It’s a person,” Bellucci said. “A big hip-guy guy. Yusef Force is his moniker. It’s a play on ‘Use of Force.’”

“And this is relevant because?”

“Dude’s like a multi-millionaire. Has a record label and a big clothing line.”

Cullen turned to Bellucci. “Where’s the connection to me, Mikey?”

“Yusef is heavy into boxing.”

At this, Boff’s interest perked up a bit. “How so? He bets on fights? Gets front row seats at the Garden? Boxes in white collar tournaments?”

“You know who Sonny Ricci is, right?” Bellucci asked.

“Not a clue,” Boff replied.

“He’s a New York boxing promoter,” Cullen said. “Biaggi was the first established fighter willing to sign with Sonny when he started his company.”

Bellucci picked up the thread. “Last year Yusef formed a new company with Ricci. It’s called
Force/Ricci Boxing. They promote and market minority boxers. Yusef uses the boxers to help sell his clothing line and music. Take a wild guess who promotes Jermain Simms?”

“And,” said Cullen, “Jermain Simms is my opponent in this fight.”

Boff’s interest perked up even more. “This Yusef Force promotes Danny’s opponent?”

“Yup.”

Boff was about to ask a follow-up question when something occurred to him. He checked his watch and frowned. “I’d love to continue talking about this now,” he said, “but it will have to wait until later. I have something to do. Where can I drop you guys?”