-Additional message from People’s Guardian.
CHAPTER 35
Acool spring evening.
Pleasant. Nick Carelli and Freddy Caruthers were walking down Fourth Avenue in Bay Ridge. Past a yoga store, past Rent-Your-Kilt, which drew a double take from Nick. Yep. That was the name.
From here you could see a bit of the Verrazano’s crown. One hell of a bridge. After he’d been arrested he’d thought about jumping off it. But thinking about and doing are two very different animals. Would’ve upset his brother and mother too much. After the mad urge had passed he was ashamed he’d even considered it.
“There.” Freddy pointed.
A block away. The Bay View Café. The diner looked pretty decent though the sign lied; there was no view of the bay. For one thing, it faced east, away from the bay. And it offered no view of any water—harbor or ocean or drainage canal or puddle.
“Should call it the Bay Somewhere Nearby Café.”
“Huh?” asked Freddy. Then he got it. “That’s good. Ha.”
The place was clean inside. Nick looked around, noting where the hostess station was, what kind of cash register they had, where the kitchen was located, the doors that opened into it, what the Daily Special board looked like, how many servers and busboys there were—and if they looked like they spoke English as a first, second or third language. Or didn’t speak it at all. Where the food was stored. Big cans of tomato sauce sat stacked against a back wall. Were they empty and just decorative?
Nick knew he had a lot to learn about the restaurant business. Still, he felt good about the prospect. He really hoped Vittorio Gera would come through and accept his offer.
Freddy tapped Nick’s arm and directed him to a booth in the back, where a skinny guy in jeans and a black T-shirt under a checkered brown sport coat sat sipping a Sam Adams from the bottle. He wasn’t using the frosted glass the waitress had brought and the empty mug was sweating.
“Stan. I’m Freddy.”
“Yo.”
“This’s Nick.”
Hands were shaken and Nick sat down opposite Von, who had thick black hair that could’ve used a shampooing and trim. His right palm, Nick had felt upon the clasp, was callused. Wondered what his job was. Knuckles red. Maybe he boxed; he had the muscles for it. Nick the cop made observations like this. Nick the prisoner had too. He wasn’t going to drop that instinct now that he was neither.
Nick scooted over so Freddy could join him on his side of the booth. But Freddy said, “I gotta make some calls. Be five, ten minutes. Leave you guys to it.”
“You know what you want to eat?” Nick called.
“I don’t care. Burger. You guys order. Don’t wait for me.” He fished his phone out and headed to the front of the restaurant, punching in a number. He smiled as he struck up a conversation with the person who’d picked up. Some people did that, smiled or frowned when talking, even though the guy on the other end of the line couldn’t see them.
“So, you and Freddy go way back?” Von was reading the menu like there’d be a test later.
“School.”
“School.” Von’s voice seemed to hint that that was a waste of time. “You drive cars, Nick?”
“I . . . You mean as a job?”
A laugh. “Naw, just you drive cars?”
“I can drive. I don’t have one.”
“Yeah?”
“Really.”
Von laughed once more, as if that were the funniest thing in the world.
“What’re your wheels?” Nick asked.
“Oh, whatever.” And Von went back to the menu.
Nick too looked it over, wondering what would be the fastest thing to order. He wanted this to be over soon. Wasn’t Von’s bizarre personality. Well, it was partly that. Mostly Nick’s gut told him that, despite what Freddy’s homework showed, Von might be connected or whoever he worked for was, and one or both of them might have a record. That was a no-fly zone for Nick, a violation of his parole. He didn’t want to ask Von because, if the answer was yes, then he’d know for certain. He wanted to tell his PO that he’d had no clue.
Best get the info about J and Nanci, buy the guy the best steak on the menu and shut up to let him eat it as fast as possible. Then get the hell out.
But even with the urgency there were the rituals that had to be obeyed, of course. The men chatted about sports, about the neighborhood, about business, even the goddamn weather. Von kept laughing at things that made no sense to laugh about. “There’s a high-rise going up where the Knights social club used to be. You believe it, son-o?”
That was worth a yuk or two.
Nick caught the waitress’s eye and she approached. “We’re ready.”
Von ordered a salad to start, extra Thousand Island dressing, and chicken Parmesan.
Nick got a burger. “Rare.”
Von gazed at him with grinning astonishment. “You’re not worried, worms and shit?”
Nick, gripping patience tightly, said, “I’m not worried.”
“Suit yourself.”
“No fries.” Nick said.
Von blinked, reared back. “You’re fucking crazy. They’re great here, the best. I mean, the best.”
“Then I’ll take ’em,” Nick said.
“You won’t be regretting it, son-o. Bring him a salad too. He needs a salad. Same dressing.” A grin as he turned to Nick. “They make their own here. You could call it Two Thousand Island, it’s so effing good.”
Nick smiled back coolly and ordered the same thing for Freddy. “Two beers.”
“And me, top her off, Lucy,” Von said, tapping the beer, even though the woman’s name tag read Carmella.
Nick said, “Thanks for doing this.”
“My boss owes Freddy. You notice?” Von’s voice dropped. “He looks like a frog?”
“Never did, no.”
“He does. Well, glad to help. Only I don’t know how helpful it’s gonna be.”
“You know Flannigan’s?”
“Did some work at the place last month. You handy?”
“Some. I can do electrical. Plumbing.”
“Plumbing?” A laugh. “I frame like a motherfucker. I was framing there, Flannigan’s. Old man Flannigan gave me a bonus. Pretty sweet. Said it was the best framing he’d ever seen. Anyway, I started to hang there. I got to know some people, the bartenders, the staff.” Von didn’t bother to lower his voice now. “They’re all right. They’re us, you know. Not from some other countries, like you see in a lot of places.” A nod toward Lucy/Carmella.
An urge to wash his hands lapped at Nick’s spine.
“I got to know people there, I was saying. People like to talk to me. I got the gift of gab. Got that from my father. So, I asked around, put two and two together. About what Freddy was asking. And put together this list, might be the guy you’re looking for. A bunch of guys named J. Nothing about a Nanci. But they all got bitches they’re married to or’re fucking. Ha, or both. Here.” He dug into his pocket to retrieve a slip of paper, pulling his jacket aside.
Oh, Jesus Lord. Nick actually gasped.
Von was carrying.
Nick saw the wood grip of something small. Probably a little .38.
Man, this was bad. Freddy’d said there was no way he’d have a gun on him.
Maybe Von’d forgotten. Or lied.
Nick took the grimy sheet of limp paper.
“You okay, son-o?”
Nick couldn’t say anything. He looked around. Nobody else had seen the piece.
“Yeah. Haven’t eaten all day. I’m starving.”
“Ah, well, here we go.” The salads arrived, both drenched in dressing. No appetite whatsoever.
Von peered at Nick and said in a loud voice, real loud: “What’s a four-letter word that ends in K and means intercourse?”
Carmella had heard; Nick knew the joke was for her benefit.
Nick said, “I don’t know.”
“How ‘bout you, Lucy?” Von asked the waitress, who blushed. He roared, “Ha! The answer’s ‘talk’! Get it?”
She nodded and gave a polite laugh.
Nick started to chow down fast. Breathless.
“Easy, son-o. You’ll choke to death. . . . You see that? She didn’t get it. She didn’t know ‘intercourse’ also means ‘talk.’ That’s what I’m talking about, with them.”
Lord, I’m sitting across from a man with a gun. No, an idiot with a gun.
Nothing to do but hope for the best.
Nick ate a few disgusting forkfuls as he scanned the names Von had brought him. Jackie, Jon, Jonny. There were ten altogether.
“Not much of a shortlist,” Von said, chewing. A bit of dressing launched itself tableward.
“No, man. It’s good. Appreciate it.” Names and some addresses, some businesses. Nothing jumped out. He would have to do more homework but he’d pretty much figured he’d have to.
Von continued, “According to my boys—and girls—these dudes hang at Flannigan’s some. Or used to. They’re all kinda quiet about what they do. You get what I’m saying. Quiet. Get it?”
“Great. Sure.”
More salad, wolfed down.
Von said, “You are one hungry son of a bitch.” That eerie giggle.
“Yeah, like I said.” Chewing, swallowing, trying not to puke. And a goddamn hamburger on its way.
Nick eased the list into his jeans pocket.
And that was when he saw the figure outside.
A guy, in a suit, one that didn’t fit so well. Gray. Blue shirt, button-down collar and a tie. Crew cut. He was walking past the restaurant, looking in, a neutral expression on his face. He stopped, squinted and leaned forward, peering through the window.
No . . . oh, no . . . Please.
Nick stared down at his salad.
Another plea.
Another prayer.
It wasn’t answered.
The door to the restaurant opened and closed and he felt, as much as heard, the big man make his way to the booth. Coming straight for them.
Shit.
Didn’t matter if Nick glanced at the newcomer or not; he was making a beeline for the two men. He decided it was probably better to glance his way—it’d look less guilty. He did this now and studied the face, keeping his own as emotionless as possible. He couldn’t summon the name. Not that it mattered. He knew what the guy did for a living.
“Well, if it ain’t my old buddy, Nick Carelli.”
He nodded.
Von looked him over.
“The hell you up to, Nick? They let your ass outa the system, did they? What happened? You stopped giving guards blow jobs with those pretty little lips of yours.”
Von swallowed his immense chew of salad and said, “Fuck off, asshole. We’re—”
The gold NYPD shield stopped about a foot from Von’s face. “Do what?”
Von, who would face a mandatory year in prison for the gun, even if he had no priors, shut up and looked back to his salad. “Sorry, man, I didn’t know. You’re just busting his chops. Whataya mean, let him outa the system?”
Von would know, of course. He just wanted to inflate his innocence preserver.
But Detective Vince Kall—Nick got the name—turned away from Von to his prey of choice. “So you didn’t answer me. What’re you doing here, Nicky Boy?”
“Come on, Detective. Give me a break—”
“Or I could give you a third chance to answer the question.”
“Having dinner with a friend.”
“Your PO know about it?”
Nick shrugged. “If he asks I’ll tell him whatever he wants to know. I always do. It’s just dinner. Why’re you busting my ass?”
“You reconnecting with your friends?”
“Look, I’m not hassling anybody. I did my time. I’m legit now.”
“No, bad cops’re never legit. Once bad, always bad. Like a whore. She may give up the business but she’ll always be somebody who got dicks up her ass for money. Am I right?”
“I just want to get a job, something going, get on with my life.”
“How’s the guy you beat the crap out of, Nick, you got busted for? I heard he had brain damage or something.”
“Come on, please.” Nick wasn’t going to give Kall the I’m-innocent speech. A shield like this’d never believe it and it’d only rile him up more.
Kall turned to Von, who was concentrating—way too much—on his salad.
“And who is your little friend here? What’s your name?”
Von swallowed, looking guilty as sin. “Jimmy Shale.”
“Whatta you do for a living, Jimmy?”
“Can you ask me that?”
“I can ask you what you beat off to at night. I can ask you where your boyfriend likes you to kiss him. I can ask—”
“General contracting and construction.”
“For who?”
“A bunch of companies.”
“Most guys I ask, they give me a straight answer. They say Helmsley or Franklyn Development. You say a bunch of people.”
“Well, Officer—”
“Detective.”
Von was leaning back and staring up coldly now, attitude flowing from his eyes. “Well, Officer Detective, the fact is I work for a lot of people. Because I’m good at my job and a lot of people want me. And I’m not real happy, the way you’re talking to me.”
“Really? And your happiness counts why, Jimmy?”
Nick’d been thinking the worst that could happen was that the cop would find Von’s gun, bust him and then word would get back to Nick’s PO that they’d been together and there’d be a hearing and Nick might very well get his ass kicked back inside for the violation. But there was one step past worse: Von would decide Kall had pushed him too far and would empty five blunt .38 slugs into the asshole detective’s body. No, four into his body and one into his face, just in case he was wearing a vest.
Nick tried, “Look, Detective, let’s just take this down a notch, okay? I’m—”
“Shut up, Carelli.” Leaning toward Von. “You, asshole. Lemme see some ID.”
“ID. ID. Sure.” Von, that weird grin on his face, wiped his fat lips with his napkin and placed it back in his lap. Then he started to reach for his pocket. “I’ll show you some fucking ID.”
Yes, he was going for his gun. Kall was dead.
And so was Nick.
He assessed angles. From the depth of the booth he couldn’t leap forward and wrestle the gun from Von’s hand. If he shouted to Kall that Von was armed, he’d be admitting he knew.
Von started to rise, hand near the piece.
“Detective!” Carelli started.
But just then a staticky voice crackled from Kall’s belt.
“All units. Ten thirty. Carjacking in progress. Four One Eight Fourth Avenue, Bay Ridge. Two black males, twenties, believed to be armed. Silver Toyota. Late model. No tags at this point.”
“Shit.” The cop was looking out the window. The address was virtually across the street.
He yanked the radio off his belt. “Detective Seven Eight Seven Five. At the scene of the ten thirty. Bay Ridge. Send backup. K.”
“Roger Seven Eight Seven Five. Two RMPs en route. ETA four minutes. K.”
Nick lost the rest of the transmission. The detective was headed outside, hand on his weapon. He pushed out the door, turned left and vanished from sight.
Freddy, head down, entered before the door closed. He stormed up to them. “Come on, you guys. Get out. Now!” He tossed two twenties on the table. Von leapt from the booth, Nick behind him, and they followed Freddy through the kitchen and out the back door into a pungent, trash-filled alley.
“This way.”
Nick said to Freddy, “You called it in? You did that?”
“Had to do something. Didn’t look good, whatever was going down. We gotta move, though. He’ll find out it was fake in about five minutes.”
“They’ll trace you,” Von said.
“A burner. Jesus, you think I was born yesterday?”
