Gravesend

by J. L. Abramo

  “Come in,” says Ripley. “Sit.”

  She takes a seat opposite Ripley.

  “I found out some things about Titan,” she says.

  “Refresh my memory,” he says, looking up from the folder. “Titan?”

  “Titan Imports. The car shipment stopped in Mexico.”

  “Got it. What do you know?”

  “The owner is Tony Territo. His father, Vincent, was a captain in the Giambi crime family until he retired in the early eighties, when Giambi moved the operation out to Long Island.”

  “I didn’t know they were allowed to retire.”

  “Vincent was given special permission by John Giambi,” says Stone. “Territo lost his oldest son in a private war with another family twenty years ago. The kid was nineteen years old. Vincent Territo told Giambi that he’d had enough.”

  “Where did you get all of this?”

  “Google search. Tony Territo has a clean record; he’s had the dealership on 4th Avenue in Bay Ridge for ten years. Sells very expensive foreign cars.”

  “Interesting, Stone, but there’s really nothing there. I’ve got a desk covered with work that needs to get done. There are court dates coming up fast. We don’t have the time or the manpower to watch this guy Territo with the outside chance he might screw up. And that’s if he’s done anything to begin with.”

  “The driver in Mexico claims to have the goods.”

  “They always do,” says Ripley, “and from a Mexican jail you would finger your own mother to make a deal. I think we should throw it back to New York or Connecticut. Let the auto theft insurance companies hash it out.”

  “Okay,” says Stone, rising from her seat.

  “Okay, keep an eye on Territo. A few days, tops. Don’t forget to record your mileage.”

  Tony Territo arrives at the dealership shortly after eleven on Tuesday morning. As he crosses the showroom, one of his salesmen is showing a Mercedes convertible. Territo fights off the urge to get involved.

  Territo sticks his head into the small office behind the cashier’s window.

  “Good morning, Tony,” says Theresa Fazio with a big smile.

  “That’s a lovely dress, Terry.”

  “Oh, this old thing,” she says, blushing.

  “It’s very flattering,” he says. “Any calls?”

  “Charlie from Ciaburri’s garage called. He said that the BMW got done yesterday and is going in for the paint job at noon today. He said he can deliver the car here tomorrow afternoon. Charlie said you can call him if you have any questions. I bet you’ll be glad to have your car back.”

  “You’d win that bet. Anyone else call?”

  “Your cousin Stevie said he had the information you wanted.”

  “Great, thanks. How about having lunch with me today?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Let’s make it around one,” he says.

  Territo walks to his office and sits at his desk. He thinks about Colletti, about Colletti’s imbecile son, about the thought of the fuck wanting his car. Territo has the crazy idea of calling the garage, asking that the BMW be painted an entirely different color. The thought passes. Richie Colletti is an imbecile, but he’s not that stupid.

  Instead, Territo calls his cousin Steve.

  “The kid you wanted to know about, Bobby Hoyle,” says Stevie. “He was supposed to get out on bail yesterday, but it didn’t happen.”

  “What did happen?” asks Territo.

  “From what I could find out, one of the goons in his cell attacked the kid, unprovoked. The Hoyle kid tried to defend himself and got in a lucky punch. The other guy is in the hospital.”

  “Is he going to make it?”

  “I heard that it’s touch and go,” says Stevie, “and he hasn’t talked to anyone. The Hoyle kid is going to stay inside, no bail, at least until the thing is cleared up.”

  “Okay, stay on top of it; I want to know the minute this guy comes around. If he ever does.”

  “You think Colletti was behind it?”

  “I’m sure of it, but I’d like to have some proof,” says Territo. “I could use a little leverage right about now.”

  “You got it, Tony. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Thanks, Stevie,” Territo says and disconnects.

  Tony Territo tries to put his mind on more pleasant thoughts. Lunch with Terry Fazio. He calls to find out what’s on the room service menu at the Hotel Gregory on 83rd Street.

  Frank Sullivan and Sal DiMarco walk the two blocks to Campo’s grocery. Sully is quiet, nervous. It has been a while since he talked with someone about a job.

  When they arrive, Joe Campo makes it simple.

  “I figure you could use a day or so to get settled,” he says, “so you can start tomorrow or Thursday, it’s up to you. Just let me know, so I can tell my wife that she can take off.”

  “I can begin tomorrow,” says Sully.

  “Fine, do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, you can help make deliveries. You’ll also be helping receive deliveries, stocking the shelves and covering the counter. You won’t be doing anything that I don’t also do myself. I can start you at twelve dollars an hour, if that suits you, and I can help you get medical insurance if you need it.”

  “Thank you,” says Sullivan.

  “Thank you. It will be a great help. There will be weekend work required, is that alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Come in around seven. I have a big delivery every Wednesday.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Good. Grab that box on your way out. Consider it a sign-on bonus.”

  Frank Sullivan looks down at the cardboard box at his feet. Breakfast cereal, milk, eggs, bread, canned tomatoes, pasta, sugar, salt, canned tuna.

  “There’s some sliced ham and cheese there also,” Campo says, “and grab a few cans of soup from the shelf. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Campo. You won’t regret this.”

  “It’s Joe, Frank, and I’m sure I won’t. Listen, Frank, I realize that this is quite a step down from running your own business, but my intention is to treat you as an equal. I only wish I could afford to pay you more.”

  “You are being more than generous, Joe,” says Sully. “This is not a step down; it is an incredible step up.”

  A man with one hand, unaffectionately known on the streets as Stump, is trying to sell two tickets to a sold-out Neil Diamond concert when Mendez appears. The price is seventy-five dollars apiece, the buyers are delighted, the tickets are phony. When the uniformed police officer comes up to them outside the train station at West 7th and Avenue U, the couple takes off toward 6th Street and Stump is left holding the tickets in his left hand. His only hand.

  “Jesus, Rey,” says Stump, “could your timing possibly be any worse?”

  “I need some information, Stump,” says Mendez.

  “It’s going to cost you, Rey. You just blew a hundred-fifty-dollar sale.”

  “Don’t push me; I’m not in the mood. We’re trying to find a guy named Victor Sanders from Sunset Park. The guy sells pharmaceuticals he’s been lifting from Lutheran. We need to talk with him. Right away.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  “Ask around, Stump, do what you do best. Call me,” says Mendez. “Soon.”

  “Okay, but let me have something, Rey, I’m totally tapped out.”

  Mendez pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and passes it to the informant.

  “Jesus, Rey, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?”

  “I told you not to push me, Stump.”

  “Okay, I heard you twice the first time.”

  Murphy sits in the squad room, alone.

  Everyone else is out on the streets.

  Vota is teamed with Ivanov. They decide to talk with Paul Ventura’s employers and co-workers. See if the man had any enemies at work, or had a pr
oblem with a customer. Maybe something Paul Ventura didn’t necessarily know about.

  They also planned to visit the bank where Mary Ventura worked as a loan officer. Maybe she turned down the wrong person. The burial of the Venturas’ son was scheduled for this morning; the detectives agreed to wait until it was behind them before they confronted the boy’s parents again.

  Samson would try to talk with George Addams at the funeral home where his son’s wake begins today. Try to catch Addams before the afternoon viewing. Try to discover if the man had any problems with clients, disgruntled ex-employees, anything. Samson calls Sandra Rosen at the 68th and asks if she could join him. Maybe she could talk with the wife again. Detective Rosen says she would meet Samson at the mortuary.

  “Murphy,” says Officer Landis from the doorway.

  “Come in, Stan. What do you have?”

  “The report just came in from the search at Victor Sander’s place. They said it was like a drugstore. None of the Pavulon, but just about everything else you could think of.”

  “No surprise there,” says Murphy.

  “The guy had caller ID. They were able to get numbers for all the incoming calls for the last two days. Mostly solicitors, a call from his mother, and a call from a pay phone. That was it.”

  “It’s hard to picture the guy having a mother. Does she know where he is?”

  “She says no.”

  “I guess she would. Where was the pay phone?”

  “Corner of 5th Avenue and 69th Street.”

  “Are you kidding?” says Murphy.

  “Nope. Less than two blocks from where the Addams kid was found.”

  “I want someone on that booth twenty-four-seven.”

  “Already arranged,” says Landis.

  “Jesus,” says Murphy. “How do you like that?”

  He parks the Oldsmobile next to the dumpster in the Staples parking lot on 5th Avenue at 94th Street. He walks into the store. He needs new blades for the X-Acto knife. And a box of crayons.

  At the checkout counter a young girl rings up the sale. He pays in cash.

  “Would you like a free bumper sticker?” she asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Here,” she says, putting it in the bag. “Take it. It’s free.”

  He walks back to his car and places the bag on the front passenger seat. As an afterthought, he pulls the bumper sticker from the bag.

  It reads: God Bless America.

  He carries it to the rear of the car, peels off the backing, and sticks it to the bumper. Covering the one that is already there.

  The one that read: Baby on Board.

  As he slowly returns to the front, he glances into the rear seat. He opens the back door, unbuckles the seat belt that holds the child seat, and removes the child seat from the car. He carries the child seat around to the dumpster and tosses it in.

  He climbs into the passenger seat and drives off.

  SIXTEEN

  Wednesday morning.

  Sal DiMarco picks up his daughter out in front of her apartment for the drive to NYU Medical Center. Lorraine had made the MRI appointment for 10:00 a.m., hoping that the morning rush into Manhattan will have tailed off by 9:30.

  As they cross the Manhattan Bridge, Sal asks if she has told Lou Vota about the medical test.

  “I never got around to it,” she says. “Maybe it’s nothing. And Lou has enough to deal with in his job.”

  Sal thinks about scolding his daughter for not giving Lou the benefit of the doubt, for not trusting that Vota could handle the news. But Sal realizes that there are times when it is best not to compound a loved one’s fears and anxieties with more bad news. It is for this reason that Sal has not told Lorraine about the homeless woman, Annie, about her final act of desperation.

  “What’s the latest with the Bobby Hoyle case?” asks Sal, changing the subject.

  “It’s not too good. I’ve been working up a brief. There’s a hearing scheduled for Friday morning. The man who attacked Bobby has a long record of violence, which may help in our argument of self-defense. I’m hoping that we can at least clear Bobby of the shooting incident. I’ll need Frank Sullivan to sign an affidavit and appear in court on Friday to swear to what he witnessed that night.”

  “I’m sure Frank will be glad to help. Let him know what time Friday, so that he can make arrangements with Joe Campo. Sully began his new job this morning.”

  “That’s great, Dad. How does he like the apartment?”

  “Very much. After he spoke with Joe about starting work, Frank insisted that he and I discuss payment for the rooms. We finally agreed on a monthly rent. I had to fight to get him to lower his offer. And he wants to invite us all down for dinner soon.”

  “It just goes to show that things can turn out well, even when unexpected,” says Lorraine. “It makes me feel less anxious about the test this morning. And it makes me think about Annie from Bay 38th. Maybe something good is headed her way.”

  Sal is silent, staring through the car window, like someone who cannot make up his mind. Lorraine knows the look on his face.

  “Dad?”

  “Should we take First Avenue or the East River Drive?” Sal DiMarco asks.

  Serena looks over the latest issue of the Brooklyn Eagle, hot off the presses this Wednesday morning. She finds her article on page 37. Short, boring opinions from four Sunday evening moviegoers below a photograph of the reporter and a headline with all the imagination of a rainy day weather report.

  What’s New on the Big Screen.

  God.

  Serena closes the paper in disgust. Her consolation is the belief that before long her work will appear on page one. And not page one of a fifty-cent weekly.

  She will need help. Information on the two killings has been incomplete at best. Serena needs more. She decides that she will need to be patient. She does not want to rush forward with a story that is pure sensationalism. Serena wants to show the world, or at least New York City, that she is a serious, professional journalist. She will take her time. Serena can only hope that someone with a tabloid mentality doesn’t beat her to the punch.

  Serena knows that she has a very advantageous head start. She knows that the two murders are connected. She knows about the fingers. And she has Detective Andrew Chen’s card on the desk in front of her.

  Vota and Ivanov have arranged to meet with the boy’s parents at half past noon. Paul Ventura will join them at his wife’s home during his lunch break from the auto parts store. Mary Ventura has decided that she would not return to work until the following week.

  Before leaving for the appointment, Lou Vota phones Lorraine at her office.

  Victoria Anderson takes the call.

  “Lorraine is out this morning,” she says. “She should be back here by two.”

  “Is she in court?”

  “No, she had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “No. Just a regular checkup,” says Victoria, wishing she knew less.

  “Please tell her I called,” says Vota. “I’ll try back this afternoon.”

  “I sure will.”

  Murphy walks in as Vota prepares to leave.

  “What’ve you been up to this morning?” asks Vota.

  “Walking the streets around the Graham house, looking at bumper stickers. It’s really amazing what people will put on their cars. I saw one that read: Honk if you believe Britney Spears is a Virgin.”

  “Sounds like an anti–noise pollution campaign,” says Vota. “Any idea where Samson went off to?”

  “He had a meeting with Chief Trenton.”

  “I bet he was looking forward to that.”

  “Like a root canal,” says Murphy.

  As predicted, the day has warmed considerably, the temperature rising into the low fifties. It has been an unusually mild season. It almost seems as if winter has lost its place in the rotation.

  Stump finds Dwayne Harris alone on a bench, watching a half-court basketbal
l game in the park opposite Lafayette High School. Harris is drinking Colt ’45 malt liquor from a quart bottle, no brown paper bag, no pretensions.

  “Stumpster,” says Harris. “Grab a seat. I’d offer you a drink but I forgot the paper cups.”

  “I just came over from the train station on U,” says Stump, sitting. “I was trying to unload a pair of concert tickets and I saw something I thought you’d be interested in.”

  “There’s not much that doesn’t interest me on Avenue U,” says Harris. “What is it?”

  “I saw a guy selling to a couple of school kids on 8th Street.”

  “Selling?” says Harris, suddenly very interested. “Selling drugs?”

  “Looked like cocaine.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. Who would be crazy enough to sell coke in my neighborhood? The guy must be from fucking Mars.”

  “Dyker Park, I think.”

  “This dead man have a name?”

  “Jesus, Dwayne, I had it a second ago, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  Harris digs out a large roll of cash, peels off a fifty and hands it to Stump.

  “Pacheco,” says Stump, stuffing the bill into his shirt pocket. “José Pacheco.”

  “No fucking way, José,” Harris mutters.

  “Dwayne, you know a guy named Victor Sanders from Sunset Park?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” says Harris, holding his hand out, palm up. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

  “It’s not important,” says Stump.

  “I’m yanking your chain, Stumpy, never heard of the guy. What kind of concert tickets are you hawking?”

  “I sold them. Anyway, I don’t figure you for a Neil Diamond fan.”

  “Neil Diamond, are you kidding? The cat is from fucking Brooklyn. Jesus, ‘Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show’ is like my all-time favorite tune. Let me know if you get your hands on any more tickets.”

  “Sure,” says Stump, not certain whether Harris is still yanking. Not really caring.

  A teenager trots across the avenue from the direction of the high school. She is out of breath when she reaches the bench. She sits near Dwayne Harris. Very near.