Scratched

by JJ Partridge

  Young Jimmy surveyed the crowd, acknowledging encouraging comments, when Benno, his head low over the bar, caught Young Jimmy’s attention. Young Jimmy’s head jerked up, his eyes searched the room, he saw me, and his face registered indecision. Was he playing to win, or putting on a great show just to dump? The next game, the deciding game, would tell. Across the room, No-Neck made a noisy entrance and pushed into the crowd no doubt looking for Benno. He saw Benno at the bar, took two steps in his direction, and the lights went off.

  For a count to five, everything in the room, except for gasps of shortened breaths, stopped. Then, a cacophony of shouts, loud swearing, the sounds of bodies shuffling against one another. An emergency spotlight over the bar triggered, catching ghostly figures twisting away from the shaft of brilliance as the door of the interior staircase blew open in a burst of a half dozen cops. Flashlight beams like searchlights caught the crowd that shrank away as the cops fanned out, corralling those scattered around the room back toward the game table, batons and foot-long metal flashlights raised, their voices profane and threatening. Bill Tuttle, in uniform, appeared in the mix, directing a cop here or there. The book, caught in a flashlight beam, chewed mightily as he was hustled against the far wall along with complaining sports with hands in their pockets protecting their cash.

  I was about to get swept up by a cop brandishing a baton when I was saved by a punch thrown by someone near the book that got the cop’s attention. Benno flashed his badge to another cop in the light of his cell phone, and we were momentarily alone between the staircase door and the men’s room. The commotion gave cover for Young Jimmy, in a crouch, to sneak from behind the bar, and using me as a shield, he made it into the men’s room. Benno followed. The ruckus was still getting lots of cop attention, batons at chest level pushing the angry sports to line up against the wall, when Young Jimmy and Benno, with Smoot in tow, slipped out of the men’s room through the door to the staircase. I joined them, bouncing off walls in the dark as we descended to a landing where Benno said something I couldn’t hear. Young Jimmy nodded, opened an electrical circuit box, yanked up a lever, and the lights were back on.

  Smoot appeared winded but otherwise as placid as an Arkansas fish pond in August as we moved into the restaurant. Benno pointed him to a table set with linen napkins, utensils, and glasses; Smoot sat facing Young Jimmy and began talking to him comfortably in a low voice, as Benno and I made for the kitchen. Benno quickly had the commercial refrigerator open and handed me plates of cold cuts, pickles and onions, and a pot of mustard. “You knew?” I asked.

  “You can’t have a national pool champion, an honoree, in the can overnight, can you?” He filled a water pitcher while I grabbed Bud Lights from the refrigerator and popped their caps.

  “I guess not.”

  “Tuttle warned everybody, didn’t he, that Providence was not going to be the Big Sleazy, not on his watch.” He found two loaves of sandwich bread in a drawer and took out a handful of slices. I removed single serving bags of Wise potato chips from a carton. “So, a bust can’t be a surprise to anyone. Anyway, no harm, no foul.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How are they going to prove there was any gaming? In the dark? No cash stash, because everybody kept their cash until the match was over and they settled up. Whatever else that could be evidence is in the book’s gullet. All Tuttle’s got is a crowd in a pool room. ‘Who’s playing?’ ‘Couple of guys.’ Lot of suspicion but no facts. The sweaters and sports will be pissed and it’ll cost ’em lawyer’s fees to get out of the tank tonight but they’ll be on the street in a couple of hours. No winners and no losers.”

  We headed back into the dining room; I brought the beer, bread and potato chips, Benno, the cold cuts. “Benno, you …”

  “Yeah. I know it’s not perfect but how much time did I have? Who knew how it would turn out. Win? Lose? So, your buddy keeps all his earnings and winnings to date and whatever he bet on himself. Smoot’s gonna be okay. Reputations saved.”

  And I would never know if Young Jimmy was playing to win or if he was going to dump.

  55

  It wasn’t quite over.

  Two young cops, followed by Bill Tuttle, bumped down the stairs to confront four late-night snackers. We were told to stand and we did; they took our names and addresses, as a red-faced Tuttle blasted Young Jimmy, ripping him up and down, telling him that he would be charged with running a gambling nuisance at the Club, and that he was going downtown with the rest of the deadbeats. Was this tirade for the benefit of the two cops? As for me and Benno, what I hoped were theatrics heated up. “So, enjoying a couple of beers and a nice chat about pool?” Tuttle growled at me, “And you on the goddamn Commission!”

  “I resigned,” I responded. “Wedding on Sunday.” My resignation had been dated and witnessed by Marcie this afternoon and mailed.

  My response was received as smart-alecky. Disgustedly, Tuttle sent Young Jimmy upstairs with the two cops and told us three to clear out. I wanted, expected, a wink and a nod, at least a grim smile, but there wasn’t any. I didn’t get to ask him who let the cops into the restaurant or who hit the master electrical switch precisely at twelve thirty. Or who set the table.

  I closed the garage door and stumbled up East Street and into the house. Nadie’s note was on the refrigerator door: I love you, I’m tired and I’m going to bed. Zelda and Ida are at the Renaissance. Everything is still on track. See you in the morning.

  I poured two fingers of Jameson to puzzle out what had happened.

  Police department vans were filling up with the sports as we snuck Harley Smoot into Benno’s car for the champ’s return to the Omni. As he got in, Smoot said, “Thanks, boys. Screwed up a great match. Next time I’m in town, you tell Jimmy I want to play again. Y’all come.”

  Before he left, Benno told me how, with a throw-away cell phone call on his way to the landfill, he had made the deal with Tuttle and worked out timing and logistics. Tuttle had agreed that Young Jimmy and Smoot wouldn’t be swept up in the raid if they could make it out of the Club before the raiding cops had them lined up. As for Young Jimmy, as the Club’s owner, he would go downtown like everyone else, but no tank time. Since Benno said, there was only one more night left on the event booze license, there really wasn’t much that could happen to the Club. “Gambling nuisance? Sounded good,” said Benno, “but ain’t gonna happen.”

  “The lights?” I asked.

  “Tuttle’s idea.”

  “How did the cops get in? Was the door open?”

  His answer was interrupted by a patrol car showing up next to the Taurus. He got into his car and I left into mine.

  The whiskey was smooth and went quickly. I poured another finger, added two ice cubes and went to the den. I focused on the match: as between the two shooters, a tied or interrupted match is one never played. In other words, Harley Smoot’s play lived up to his reputation as a supreme shot maker and sportsman; our local hero was to be remembered as being a game away from victory in a big money match with an all time great. Not a bad result. Not intended, but not bad. Something for Young Jimmy to hold on to, and the local pool fraternity to gossip about.

  That would have made a neat ending, except for Zito and Scuiglie. Zito will call Young Jimmy’s loan and I remained a target. The Mini’s destruction and my abduction showed what Zito could do. This would end mano a mano. How? Where? How does an East Side guy challenge extortion and retribution from a Hill guy?

  An idea rattled around in my brain. Pinball like, it caromed from bumpers into slides to be slapped back by flippers as I focused on Zito and the Palagi loan.

  Thirty minutes later, I e-mailed Joe Laretta and left a message on his cell phone to meet me in the morning. I had a plan but I might end up catching a falling knife.

  56 Saturday

  NOT WANTING TO DISTURB Nadie, I had slept in my clothes in the den. I used the lavette off the hall to wash up and left a Post-It note explaining my need to catch up on work, pl
edging that I would be back from the campus before noon, and that I would keep my cell phone on. In fact, after a double espresso and two glazed donuts from the Dunkin’ Donuts on Gano Street, I did go to my office to shave, change clothes, and wait for Laretta’s call. That came at eight twenty.

  “To whom does the criminal bar owe its thanks?”

  “For what?”

  “For the busy, lucrative night. Had a bunch of calls myself but referred them out to guys who deserve some pay back. Easy doings. Out of town guys with cash will pay anything to get out of the tank. Want to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. I never asked. How did it go with Zito?”

  My carjacking stung Laretta, eliciting a string of expletives, including a few in Italian. Being used, being part of a setup, was disrespectful to him, a black mark on his reputation. “On the Hill, an insult has to be faced down right away.” He said he had to confront Zito this morning, but then he paused. “No, I got to go see somebody. You know what I got to do? You know where I’m going?”

  I said I thought I did. Sunday on Columbus Weekend. The Godfather scene. I asked to come along.

  “Are you nuts? Somebody like you offends him just by breathing. Do you have any idea what could happen?”

  “Maybe,” and under protection of attorney-client confidentiality, I gave him background on last night’s raid at the Billiard Club without casting light on who did what to whom, Italo Palagi’s debt to Heritage Finance for the vendetta money that never got to Italy, and my suspicions as to the reason why. I also told him of my willingness to guarantee Young Jimmy’s loan in return for peace from Zito, that his ‘somebody’ might have to make the deal.

  He listened, and relented. “A one-in-ten. Depends on whether he okayed the hit on you after Zito got his message to lay off. And how much credibility I’ve still got. And his curiosity after what I tell him. A long shot …”

  I drove the Charger—it had to be the Charger—across town, up the Hill, and parked on Dean Street at the rear of Heritage Finance, two cars behind Laretta’s black Mercedes sedan. I joined Laretta as the dashboard digital clock of the Mercedes read nine forty-five. I felt compelled to put out my hand to him which he shook curtly. He was dressed informally in slacks and open collar shirt. He hadn’t shaved and his face was etched in anger, but his voice was lawyer smooth. He discouraged me from trying to see Scuiglie, said he would represent me if allowed to make a case. I repeated my determination to do it myself if at all possible. He shook his head at my stubbornness and asked me questions about Palagi, the estate, and the loan from Heritage Finance, quickly assimilating facts. At ten o’clock, he said sternly, “Let’s go,” and we left the car.

  It was a clear morning, bright and the buildings’ shadows were stark. Around the corner at Atwells Avenue, familiar Italian music blared from speakers. The street was closed to traffic for the holiday weekend’s events, food and souvenir vendors were busy setting up, and early shoppers gathered on flag-lined sidewalks. I could smell fresh bread from the bakeries. We passed a brick two-story with an ornate arch over its front door, its plate glass windows, with shades drawn, had gold lettering spelling out ‘Heritage Finance Company’ and ‘Fast, Friendly Service.’ An Italian tri-color hung over the door. Laretta snarled. “Hope the fuck is licking his wounds from last night.”

  We continued another block and came to a low-slung clapboard building with a weathered sign that read Atwells Social Club. Three mildewed plastic chairs leaned against dirty glass windows which had been painted black on the inside; conspicuously, no vendors had set up on its sidewalk. Laretta tried the door and it was locked. He knocked loudly and the door opened enough for a huge shaved head loudly chewing gum to peer out. A voice from the darkness said, “Joe Laretta? What are you doin’ here?”

  “I’ve got to see somebody. I’ve got something that has to be delivered personally.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Somebody that’s part of it.”

  “Wait right there, Joe,” the voice rumbled.

  The door closed shut and Laretta turned to me. “That’s Paulie Matto. A capo. I just got him off a fraud charge on an insurance claim scam.”

  Two minutes later, the door opened slightly. “Joe, go around to the back.” The door shut.

  We retraced our steps around the corner to Dean Street, on to a crumbling concrete sidewalk to the rear of the Social Club. Waiting for us by an overflowing waste bin and a dented, paint-chipped, metal door were the Jersey Boys in full leather mode. Their eyes were red and puffy probably from a lack of sleep in the tank at the police station.

  No-Neck put up a hand. “Just you, mouthpiece. ”

  That made me ballsy. “How you doing, fellas? Did that greaser ever get his car back? You know, that shit mobile from Broad Street?”

  Ditto, a few bricks short of a load, was slow on the uptake but not No-Neck. He whipped the back of his hand to Laretta’s chest. “Tell him to back the fuck off.”

  As Laretta braced his shoulders, I defused the moment. “I’ll wait in the car, Joe.”

  Laretta held his tongue, nodded, gave me the keys to his car, and was patted down as I left. He followed No-Neck inside while Ditto remained posted at the door. Ten minutes later, Laretta rejoined me in the car. “You never know, do you. All my life I’ve tried to get inside their heads and I can’t.”

  “What happened?”

  “Told him how pissed I was, pissed enough not to represent any of his boys. I told him a whole load of shit was coming his way because Zito, using his guys, had stupidly carnapped the Mayor’s best buddy, and that one way or the other, you would eventually get even with Zito.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “I could be wrong but I don’t think he authorized the move on you. Whatever else he is, Scuiglie is shrewd, doesn’t take unnecessary chances. Guess he figured I wouldn’t screw around with him and he had to know that Zito’s ego could blind him. Anyway, I told him I came to bring a resolution between you and Zito, and you’re outside in my car. Told me to wait. I think Frannie is getting a call.”

  We sat in silence, the boiling mad Laretta muttering an occasional expletive in Italian, until the Bentley pulled into the chain link fenced lot behind Heritage Finance. Through a side mirror, I saw Sal get out, slam the door, and check the area before Zito got out of the rear door. They stormed past the Mercedes without looking inside. Zito was a head shorter than Sal, no more than five five, his shiny black hair in a ponytail, his shoulders wide and covered by a maroon dress shirt. Ditto opened the metal door and let them in, but not before saying something that directed their attention to the Mercedes. Laretta got out and started toward them; from inside, knowing they couldn’t see through the sunlight’s reflection on the windshield, I shot them a middle finger salute.

  They all went inside.

  I hadn’t seen Sal snap the fob that would lock the Bentley’s doors after Zito got out. I thought, a gift, an unexpected opportunity! I left the Mercedes and approached the Bentley from the driver’s side and was quickly inside. My left hand squeezed down between the console and the seat approximately to where it had been stuffed only days ago. I felt the metal tube, managed to grasp it, inspect it, and put it in my shirt pocket. My gambit would be legit! Would it work? I was excited enough to fail to check for a scratch on the paint on the passenger side door. And luckily I didn’t because I barely made it back inside the Mercedes when the door to the Social Club opened and Ditto jerked his thumb at me. I had been summoned.

  Having seen Laretta searched, I knew the drill. My arms were stretched against a cinder block wall, my feet spread. Ditto was rough around the crotch but since I wasn’t carrying, it didn’t take long, the metal door opened, and I was pushed down a dark hallway. Ditto opened another metal door, and left us, and I faced Frannie Zito. Behind him stood Sal.

  The room didn’t have windows and its fluorescent tubes barely perked up the lighting to dreary. Zito’s eyes were bloodshot, with purple pouches below, yet, his hard face held
a smirk: probably thought I came here as a humbled, humiliated, beaten man, with my lawyer pleading for mercy.

  I took a step inside. Laretta was seated on a folding chair facing Gianni the Brow Scuiglie half hidden behind a huge metal desk, No-Neck standing at his side. Despite his nickname, I was not prepared for Scuiglie’s appearance: Cro-Magnon forehead that held huge black eyebrows, a nose that began thickly before it flattened out over a large mouth with fleshy sensual lips, pale brown eyes with an intensity that got your attention. A white scar sliced through one eyebrow and ended at a receding hairline of cropped, jet black hair. He wore a dark blue shirt under a red cardigan sweater, a regular Mister Rogers. Unbidden, I sat on a folding chair next to Laretta. Scuiglie had a smoker’s rough voice. “Joe, this better not be a fucking waste of my time.”

  Laretta, eyes like slits, answered stiffly. “You know I take care of my clients and I wouldn’t waste your time.”

  Scuiglie didn’t respond. He had the same flinty smile as Don Briguglia of Basilicata and I remembered I had heard a rumor about this windowless office—that it was virtually impossible to bug because a prior Hill boss had the room sheathed in lead. Became known as the tomb and for good reason.

  “As I told you, I made an arrangement with Frannie to see my client last night. My client had a proposition.” Laretta’s voice crackled with anger. “The bullshit between him and my client was supposed to be over, everything supposed to be cool. Frannie made the meet at Hard Core. My client didn’t like it but still went there and Frannie was a no-show. This, like I said, embarrassed me.”