Back to Brooklyn

by Lawrence Kelter

  “What they did to me wasn’t right. I’m a businessman. I’ve got cash. Those bastards discriminated against me.”

  “And how exactly did they do that?”

  “Some mumbo jumbo about something called debt ratios.”

  “That’s not all that unusual, Hercules. Banks have these things they need before they’ll agree to lend you money.”

  “I’ve got things. What kind of things do they want?”

  “Things like assets, provable documented income, acceptable credit, collateral…things. Anyway, I thought you said you were in some kind of business. How is it you had such an issue with your debt ratios?”

  “I am in business, and I’m making a killing.”

  “I guess I should ask what kind of business you’re in.”

  “I’m in the package business.” He reached into his pocket and handed Vinny a business card that simply read: “Delivering the goods, Manhattan to Montauk.” It had a phone number and website address.

  “So, you’re in the freight business, like UPS or FedEx, correct?”

  “Not exactly.” He edged closer. “Packages, man. Packages.” He paused for a moment. “Picture this, Mr. Gambini. The wife is out of town and you’re feeling lonely. You call me and I deliver a hot little package.”

  “What’s in this…package? Something to put a smile on my face like freshly baked muffins or a tin of Moose Munch?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s in these packages?”

  “Come on,” Lopez said. “You know, man.”

  “No, I don’t know. Anyway, how much do you charge to deliver one of these packages?”

  “From two hundred anywhere up to five hundred…depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “Depending on what kind of package you want.”

  Vinny grew weary of the conversation. “Okay, Hercules. Humor me for a minute. Hypothetically speaking, let’s pretend that I need a package. So, I call you up and I say, ‘Hercules, I’m all alone and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do. Send me over a package.’ And you say…”

  “What kind of package would you like, Mr. Gambini?”

  “What kind of packages do you got, Hercules?”

  “Bronze, silver, and gold.”

  “And I say, ‘Let’s go for broke. Send me over one of your top-of-the-line special gold packages.’ How long does it take for said gold package to arrive? A day or two? Does it come overnight or by standard delivery?”

  “Super priority rush.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “About an hour—door to door.”

  “Whoa. That’s pretty fast. All right, let’s say an hour passes. There’s a knock on the door. I open the door and the package gets delivered. What did I get?”

  “Morena, a six-foot tall Boricua with an ass that moves up and down like it’s on ball bearings, bleach blonde hair extensions, big-ass titties, a whip, and a quart of Astroglide.”

  “Oh.” Vinny said. “Now I get it. You’re a pimp.”

  Lopez nodded.

  “I see. And the reason Chase wouldn’t give you a mortgage loan is because you’re in a cash business and couldn’t document your income.”

  Lopez winked. “Now you’ve got it.”

  “And that young woman who was chasing you down Eighty-sixth Street when you slipped on that slippery grease and fell in front of the bank—that wasn’t by chance Morena, the ravishing six-foot tall Puerto Rican hoe with giant, massive silicone-augmented breasts, was it? And could it have been the lube from her quart-size bottle of Astroglide that you slipped on?”

  “No way, Mr. Gambini.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The girl chasing me was Sophie, a fifty-year-old Polish woman with a hip replacement and a lazy eye. She’s strictly bronze package, and she don’t come with no free bottle of lube.”

  Vinny froze. The conversation was interrupted when someone called his name. He looked up and saw a slight, dark-complexioned man beckoning for him to come forward.

  He carefully enunciated, “Detective Par-eek?”

  The detective nodded.

  “I’ll be right with you, Detective.” He reached into his pocket and handed Lopez his business card. “I think we should talk.”

  Chapter Fourteen: A Parikh by Any Other Name

  “Sit down,” Parikh said. “Do you always answer the phone like that? You’re lucky I maintained my cool.”

  “No, Detective. I’m sorry about that. No offense intended. I just came back from a long trip and I’m kind of sleep deprived.”

  Parikh gave Vinny a hostile stare and sat down.

  “How is it you called me on this matter?”

  “Ms. Cototi is pretty shaken up. I asked if she had a friend or a family member that could help her and the only person she could think of couldn’t be reached. She placed another call and then asked if I could get in touch with you.”

  “I see,” Vinny said. “So why is it this Ms. Cototi is so distressed?”

  “Her boyfriend committed suicide late last night—took a leap from the roof of the eight-floor apartment house she lives in.”

  Vinny winced. “Jesus. That’s awful.”

  “You don’t know the half of it—landed right in front of an oncoming car that ran over him—turned his head into a street pizza.”

  Vinny shuddered. “I suppose you found a note?”

  “No note. Not yet anyway.”

  “But you are ruling it a suicide?”

  “For the time being…pending further investigation. They don’t always leave notes.”

  “They?”

  “The suicide victims. It doesn’t happen often, but sometimes they don’t even have the will to jot down their last few words.”

  “Anyone see it take place?”

  “No. The body was just taken to the morgue. The crime scene investigators are still collecting evidence. We’re still canvassing the neighborhood and looking for possible witnesses.”

  “I see. And there was no one else she could call?”

  “I just told you that. As I mentioned, she tried reaching out for a friend, the deceased’s brother, but he was inaccessible.”

  Vinny removed a legal pad from his briefcase and began scribbling notes.

  “You’re a lefty?” Parikh asked in a critical tone.

  “Yeah, I’m a lefty. There something wrong with that?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied with matching sarcasm. “Do you have a problem with cops?”

  Vinny grinned, covered his mouth, and said in a muffled voice, “Fuck you.”

  Parikh’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

  Vinny shrugged. “Say? I didn’t say nothing. I belched. I’m a no-good, sleep-deprived, left-handed lawyer with indigestion.” He looked down at his pad. “Cototi—one t or two?”

  “One,” Parikh grumbled, his eyes shooting daggers. “Well, two actually, but not together.”

  “What was the deceased’s name and what was his brother’s name, the one you couldn’t reach?”

  Parikh read from his notes, “The victim was Samuel Cipriani. His brother is Anthony Cipriani, the deputy mayor.”

  “The deputy mayor, huh? No shit? And he didn’t come down here when he heard his brother was dead?”

  “He’s out of town, Mr. Gambini. He’s been notified and is flying back from California on the redeye this evening. He lands tomorrow morning.”

  “California, huh? That’s a long ways away. Vacation I guess?”

  “I suppose. Would you like to see Ms. Cototi now or are you planning to irritate me further?”

  “Anything else I should know before I meet Ms. Cototi?”

  “Yes,” Parikh said. “Samuel Cipriani was just released from Sullivan County Correctional. He did seven years for armed robbery. It was his third offense.”

  “You thinking maybe this guy Sam screwed someone over while he was on the inside and the shove off the rooftop was some kind of payback?”
<
br />   “That occurred to me. But it’s way too soon to make any assumptions.”

  Another detective approached Parikh’s desk and handed him a white bag that was printed with red words: The Curry Club. It bore a picture of Buddha. He glanced at Vinny. “Who’s this guy?”

  Vinny jumped up eager to make the detective’s acquaintance and extend his sphere of influence. He extended his hand. “Vincent LaGuardia Gambini, Attorney at Law.”

  “Mulholland,” he replied as his nostrils flared. “Jesus, another lawyer? I swear, there are more of you lawyers than cockroaches and you’re even harder to get rid of.” He turned away.

  “Wait. How much?” Parikh asked.

  “Ten even,” Mulholland replied.

  Parikh handed him a bill. “Thanks.”

  “You bet,” Mulholland said as he walked off.

  “That smells great. Lunch?” Vinny asked.

  Parikh took a sealed aluminum dish out of the bag and sniffed it. “Kolhapuri chicken curry. Just like my mother used to make. I get it over on Eighty-sixth Street. There’s a family-owned takeout place right next to the bank.”

  Vinny’s eyes lit up. “The Chase Bank under the el?”

  “That’s right. You know the place?”

  “Nah. But I have a client who slipped on some grease in front of the bank. That’s why I’m familiar with the area.”

  “Train grease?” Parikh asked.

  “Train grease,” he repeated. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Happens all the time,” Parikh said. “Works its way out of the wheel hubs and falls off the axles.” He pushed his lunch aside. “Like I said, Ms. Cototi is pretty shaken. She’s in Interview One. Would you like to see her now?”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.” He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “I think I need a good night’s sleep. Thanks. And thanks for overlooking my little faux pas on the phone this morning.”

  Parikh pushed his business card across the desk. “One get-out-of-jail-free card, Mr. Gambini. Make sure it never happens again.”

  Chapter Fifteen: Hottie Cototi

  From a distance, Theresa Cototi looked like a kid sitting in an adult chair at the conference table, her legs too short to reach the floor. She jumped out of the chair when Vinny was shown into the room. Her petite figure was formidable in tight jeans and a cropped rib top, making it obvious that although she was young, she was no child. She wasn’t wearing makeup and her long brown hair was disheveled. “You’re Mr. Gambini?” she asked. Her nose was red and her eyes glassy.

  The interrogation room looked drab and was painted in shades of green that had darkened from years of accumulated grime. Vinny smiled warmly to put her at ease and to take her mind off the dreary surroundings. “Yeah, I’m Vincent Gambini. Sorry to hear about your loss.” He placed his briefcase on the table and shook her hand. They both stood in silence for a moment before Vinny suggested they sit down. “I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night. Your boyfriend takes a header off the roof…” He whistled, his eyes wide.

  She shook her head and wiped her nose while tears popped out and drizzled own her cheeks.

  “You know that you really don’t need an attorney at this juncture. You’re not a suspect or nothin’.”

  “I know.”

  He could see the muscles in her throat tighten. A half-filled cup of water was on the table. Vinny slid it toward her.

  She took a sip. “Thanks.”

  “So how come you asked for an attorney?”

  She began to sob. “I guess it was because I was so upset and I don’t really have any family in the area…A friend of mine told me about you. He said that you were a very skilled and persistent attorney…someone I could trust. So, I figured I’d ask you for your help.”

  “A friend? Which friend?”

  “Is that important?”

  “No, I’m sure plenty of people could’ve mentioned my name. It just would’ve been nice to know.”

  “My friend.” She averted her eyes. “He’s kind of private. I don’t think he’d want me to mention his name.”

  “Oh, yeah? Okay. You do realize that I don’t do this for free.”

  She nodded then shrugged. “I’ve got some money.”

  Vinny was thinking about how much to charge when the figures Judge Molloy mentioned at the party popped into his head. He was going back and forth between seventy-five and a hundred dollars an hour, wanting to ask for a hundred but afraid she’d balk.

  “What do you get? Like three hundred an hour?” the trusting young woman asked. “I’ve heard that’s what most attorneys charge—some get more. You don’t charge more than that, do you?”

  “No…not for an initial consultation, which is all this is at the moment. Can you afford that much?”

  She nodded and reached for her bag on the floor. She opened her wallet and handed him three one-hundred-dollar bills.

  “That’s not necessary. I can send you a bill.”

  “Take it. A few years ago another attorney told me the same thing when I was trying to buy an apartment, then he turned around and dicked me—the whole deal went south.”

  “Figuratively speaking I hope?”

  Confused, she chose to remain silent.

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about me, Ms. Cototi, I never dicked nobody. Do you mind if I ask what you do? I mean for a living?”

  “I dance,” she said.

  “You dance? You mean like Swan Lake? Like you’re a ballerina or something?”

  “No,” she said. “I dance in a G-string with a brass pole between my legs, and to answer your next question…no, I’m not a hooker. But I make good tips and I can pay you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He looked her squarely in the eye. “Do I look like I’m worried about getting paid?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Good. Because I think we’re getting a little off topic. You feel up to discussing your boyfriend’s death?”

  He could see that she was having difficulty swallowing and shifted in her chair before speaking. “I guess we should.”

  Vinny pulled out his legal pad. “I understand that your boyfriend, Samuel Cipriani, just got out of jail where he was incarcerated for seven years. How long have you known him?”

  “I met Sammy about a year before he went away.”

  “Did you know he had gone to jail before?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you dated him anyway.”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  Vinny tapped his pencil on the pad. “His being a convicted felon didn’t bother you none?”

  “At first—yeah. But he didn’t act like someone who had been to jail. He was confident and very generous and he didn’t disappear into the night like most guys do after the first time you sleep with them.”

  “And at that time you had no idea he was planning another caper? Um…I mean another crime?”

  “No.”

  “But he always had money in his pocket?”

  “No. Not really. Not all the time. He seemed to be up and down with the money thing. Sometimes, when he was broke, I paid for the things we did.”

  Vinny pushed out his lips and scribbled something down. “Okay. So you didn’t know he was planning a heist, but he did. He was arrested, tried, convicted, and went to jail, and you waited for him for seven long years.”

  “We were in love.”

  “I hope to Christ you were. He was a very lucky man having such a beautiful young woman wait for him all that time.”

  Her face contorted, making her look sad and pitiful.

  “Hey. Take it easy,” he offered, consoling her. “Take another drink of water if you need to. This won’t take long. You okay to continue?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. So he got out of jail. Then what happened?”

  “We picked him up and drove home.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Me and his brother Anthony.”

  “Anthony?” It
took a second for Vinny to make the connection. “Right, the deputy mayor?”

  “Yes.”

  “This must’ve been right before he went to California.”

  She began to fidget. “I didn’t know he was going away. He drove us home. We had a nice dinner together with his parents, and then he left.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Monday.”

  “Monday. Today’s Thursday, so that was three days ago.” He leaned forward with his hands tented. “And what happened in those three days, dear?”

  She shrugged and averted her eyes. “We stayed in.”

  “Stayed in? Where?”

  “My apartment.”

  “For three entire days and nights?”

  “Mostly.”

  “I guess you were very glad to see him.”

  She cast an angry glance. “He was away seven years, Mr. Gambini. Do you really think three days is such a long time?”

  Vinny cleared his throat and looked away momentarily. “And in those three wonderful days and nights, did he say or do anything to lead you to believe that he might commit suicide?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What? You don’t think so or you know so?”

  “He was a little gloomy about his future. You know, ‘I’m a con. I’ll never get a good job. People think I’m a lowlife. Blah, blah, blah.’ That kind of thing, like he was feeling sorry for himself…but I never thought he was so upset that he’d kill himself.”

  “So why would he do it?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Gambini,” she said once again on the brink of tears. “I just don’t know. I figured we were going to spend the rest of our lives together and now, once again…I’ve been dicked.”

  “Uh-huh. I see.” Vinny stood and paced. “Can you take me through it, dear?”

  “Take you through it?”

  “Yeah. The night Sammy died. What happened? Step by step.”

  Her shoulders rose, then settled in a heap. “I don’t know. I was asleep until…”

  “Until what, dear?”

  “Until the police came pounding on my door.”

  “You slept through the whole thing?” he asked, his eyes wide.

  She covered her mouth. “I didn’t even know he’d gotten out of bed. How could that be, Mr. Gambini? How could I not have known any of it happened? He got out of bed, left the apartment, and went up to the roof. I remembered hearing sirens in my sleep, afterward, but…” She became hysterical crying. It took some time before she could continue.