by Joe Corso
CHAPTER 2
As was his habit, every morning Red sat at his favorite table by the window, reading his morning paper and enjoying a cup of espresso coffee. This morning the front door opened and Doc walked in followed by a young lady wearing black. Red hadn’t seen Doc since the LIE deal, so for him to be here this early Red figured it had to be important. He put down his coffee, folded his newspaper and put it aside, and waited for Doc and the lady to approach him, his eyes never leaving the woman. She was young—late twenties or early thirties—and wearing dark glasses. She took them off as she approached the table. Her eyes were red from crying. Her carefully applied mascara ran down her face like black daggers. Without knowing her story he surmised she had a problem she couldn’t deal with herself, so she went to Doc. And by bringing her here, it meant that Doc was unable to help her, which was unusual, because Doc could fix just about any problem.
Red rose from his table and, without a word spoken but with a slight nod of his head, motioned for them to be seated. “Good morning, Doc.” He looked at the young woman. “And you are?”
She opened her mouth and was about to speak, but Doc placed his hand gently on her arm and spoke for her. “This is Mrs. Susan Moretti. Her husband was murdered and his killer was just released from prison for lack of evidence, even though her brother-in-law witnessed the crime.”
“Hold on a minute, Doc. Let’s start from the beginning. Why was her husband killed? What was the motive?”
Doc looked at Susan and said, “Why don’t you tell Mr. Fortunato how it happened.”
Susan took a napkin from her pocket, dabbed her eyes and began telling how and why her husband was murdered. “My husband Tom is—or was—a frustrated guitar player. He wasn’t very good, and he made it worse by singing while he played, because he was a worse singer than he was a guitar player. He couldn’t sing a note or carry a tune. But that was what made him so endearing to everyone.” She stopped talking for a moment trying hard to hold back the tears that threatened to erupt; but as she began talking about her husband she lost the battle and started to sob. She took a few deep breaths and slowly regained her composure. “He was a New York City fireman, thanks to Doc, and every Christmas, after we put the kids to bed, he’d take his guitar and a bottle of whiskey and go down to the firehouse and have a holiday sing-a-long with the boys. They loved it, he loved it, and between songs, even though it wasn’t allowed, he and the boys would have a few drinks. It was his way of cheering them up. He did the same thing on New Year’s Eve. That’s the kind of man my husband was. He cared about people and they cared about him, especially his friends. They all loved him.”
Red knew it was therapeutic for her to talk, so he waited patiently between sobs for her to regain her composure. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin and took a deep breath.
“He loved country music,” she said, “and on Tuesday evenings it was country music night at Tex’s Country Tavern. Him and Frank would head to Tex’s and have a few beers, relax and enjoy the music. It was a weekday night and since they had to work the next day, they’d leave Tex’s about midnight. Usually I would go with him, but that night I couldn’t find a baby sitter, so I stayed home with the kids and he went with his brother. Now I wish to God I would have gone with him. We’ve been going there for years, and him and his brother were regulars there. When Debbie—that’s their waitress friend who they knew for years—when she brought them their drinks a rough guy who’d had a little too much to drink followed her to their table.”
With occasional breaks, during which Susan cried and took time to gain her composure, the story gradually emerged. As Debbie went to place the drinks on the table the man grabbed her roughly by the arm, causing her to spill one of the drinks. Paying no attention to the brothers, he told her she was finished serving drinks for the night and ordered her to go to his table. She jerked her hand free from his grip and told him she wasn’t going to his table. She was busy working. The man laughed, but as he was about to reach for her again Tom stood and grabbed his hand, pushing him back roughly. The thug was about to say something but thought better of it when Tom’s brother, Frank, stood and pushed his brother gently aside. Frank was a foot taller and more intimidating than Tom, and it didn’t go unnoticed by the angry thug. The man looked at Tom and then at Frank and knew he was in a no win situation. Smiling grimly, he pointed his finger at Tom. “This ain’t over by a long shot.” Tom made it clear to him that Debbie was their friend and she was with them.
When the man went back to his table Debbie told the brothers she was frightened. “I’m afraid he might follow me to my car. It’s dark in the parking lot and when I close up it’s usually empty and I don’t want to be surprised by this guy.”
Tom told her not to worry. He and his brother would wait until she got off work and together they’d walk her to her car. She felt better after hearing that. After the bar closed she hurried to the front door where the boys were waiting. When the owner switched off the lights Frank slowly opened the door, carefully stepped out and looked around for any signs of the stranger. It was dark and he didn’t see anyone, so the two of them walked Debbie to her car. When Frank opened the car door Tom told him to stay with Debbie. He didn’t want her left alone.
“I’ll go get our car and pick you up here. Don’t leave her alone for a second.” Tom’s car was the only other car in the lot, but it was parked at the other end. He was about three car lengths from his car and busy searching for his car keys when the man who threatened him earlier stepped out of the shadows. Without any warning he gutted Debbie’s husband. Tom was taken by surprise and he never saw it coming. His intestines were spilling out and was trying to hold them in. At the same time, with the little strength he had, he called to his brother for help, before collapsing onto the parking lot tarmac. Frank heard him calling and looked up to see a man running away as his brother fell to the ground. Frank ran to his brother screaming his name, but when he got there the man who stabbed Tom was nowhere to be seen. Tom was dying. With tears running down his cheeks, Frank picked up his brother, his blood and guts spilling all over him.
“Hold on, Tom. Don’t you die on me.” He kept repeating it like a mantra as he carried his brother across the length of the parking lot to his car. Frank placed Tom in the passenger’s side of the car and rushed him to Flushing Hospital. “Hold on, Tom, I’m taking you to the emergency room. We’ll be there soon, so hold on. Don’t leave me, Tom.”
“When I arrived at the hospital,” Susan concluded, “Frank told me that when he placed his brother in the car Tom looked at him and said, ‘Frank, it’s too late. He killed me.’ Then he closed his eyes and died.”
Red motioned to Tarzan to bring three brandies. It was a little early in the day for liquor but the woman needed it and, after hearing her story, so did he.
Red felt bad for her. It was true that he had killed a number of men in the past but it was always for a reason. He would never kill someone if there was another solution; and he never killed an innocent civilian no matter the reason.
“Do you know where this man lives?”
Doc answered for her. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “It’s all in here, Red. It’s part of the record. I got it from the court clerk.”
Red opened the envelope and glanced at it as if he wasn’t interested. But his gaze lingered on The Greek’s picture longer than he intended. Then he replaced it in the envelope on the table.
“Hmmm, Zach the Greek. I heard of him. I thought he was still in the joint.”
Doc answered, “He was. He got out recently, after doing three years in Sing Sing.”
Tarzan placed the drinks on the table and left. Doc knew the calm look on Red’s face belied a hidden fury. He smiled inwardly because he knew that even though Red gave the impression he wouldn’t or couldn’t do anything for her, that was anything but the truth.
Susan picked up the picture, sneered and threw it back on the table. Red picked it up.
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��Judging from the picture the police took when The Greek was booked, he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the arrest.”
“Look at the smirk on his face,” Susan said.
Red gave the woman an understanding look then spoke to her softly. “This guy is the scum of the earth, but I don’t know what you want me to do, Mrs. Moretti.”
Her eyes lit up and her nostrils flared. “You don’t know what I want you to do? How can you say that? I want you to kill him. That’s what I want you to do. He murdered my husband, the man I loved with all my heart and soul. He was my life, and now my husband’s murderer is walking the streets free as a bird. There was no justice for Tom and it’s not fair, Mr. Fortunato. He killed my husband, a good family man whose kids no longer have a father; all because of this evil man, this murderer. You must do something. Please. I have no one else to turn to.”
Red, feeling her pain, shook his head and sighed. She didn’t deserve to have her life destroyed by some would be wise guy. Although he didn’t say anything while listening to her tell him her sad story, he had made up his mind to get involved and do something about this. But the last thing he wanted was for her to know he was planning to help her. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d do yet.
“I know how you feel, Mrs. Moretti, and I wish I could help you. But no matter what you think, I’m not a murderer. I run a night club. Now if it’s money you need, that I can help you with.”
Mrs. Moretti rose from the table and stood defiantly before him. “I’m not here for your money, Mr. Fortunato. I came here for justice, but I can see now that I wasted my time. Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Fortunato.” With that she turned and, with her head held high, walked quickly to the door and left the building.
Red looked at Doc. “Go after her, Doc. That kid’s got guts. Make sure she gets home safely.”
As soon as Doc and Mrs. Moretti left, Red pushed his coffee aside, got up from the table and walked to his office, where he sat down in front of his IBM Selectric typewriter and typed out a note. Tarzan followed him in and sat down in a seat opposite Red, in front of the desk.
“What was that all about?”
Red sighed and explained what had transpired.
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
Red sighed again. It seemed he was never going to get on a plane and go to his movie studio. “I can’t let things like this happen in my neighborhood without doing something about it. I have to be the judge, jury and executioner when something like this isn’t handled by the law. This punk killed a man because he prevented him from hurting his friend, a hard working kid who was trying to make a living.” Red was getting worked up and he pointed his finger at Tarzan. “Take us, for example. Protecting a woman is something any of us would do; and yet this fireman is dead because he did what we would have done.” Red rubbed his temples. “Are Joey Bones and Piss Clam here yet?”
“No, but let me check the bar area. They might have come in while we were talking.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll check the monitor on my Vericon system.” Red pressed a few buttons and the monitor came to life. He waited a moment for the black and white pictures to come into focus, then looked at the picture of the front bar. Piss Clam was at the bar reading the papers, but Joey Bones hadn’t arrived yet. Just then, out of the corner of his eye, Red spotted Joey Bones on one of the screens, walking through the front door. Red motioned Tarzan toward the door. “Joey just walked in. Go tell him and Piss Clam to get in here. I want to talk to both of them right now.”
The boys entered Red’s office and sat down.
“I have a job for the two of you.” He opened the center drawer on his desk, took out a small revolver and handed it to Piss Clam. “It’s a Smith and Weston 22.”
Piss Clams looked at it, wondering why he gave him this pea shooter.
“Don’t question the gun, Piss Clam, because you’re gonna use it soon.” Red then handed them a picture of Zack the Greek. “You two are gonna pay this guy a visit and you’ll both be wearing gloves. I don’t want powder burns showing on your hands. Joey, you’ll have your gun trained on the guy while you, Piss Clams, will convince the guy to sign the note that Tarzan will give to you. Once he signs the letter get right up close to the bum and put one in his temple. Then put the 22 in his hand so it looks like he committed suicide. I want it to appear as if he regretted having killed a good decent family man. This way the cops will buy the suicide angle.”
Piss Clam looked sheepishly at Red and said, “I know it’s none of my business, Boss, and you know I’ll do whatever you want . . . but there’s no profit in this, so why are you getting involved in the fireman’s wife’s problem?”
Red was silent for a long moment, which made Piss Clam nervous, thinking maybe he overstepped his bounds and should have kept his thoughts to himself. But Red interrupted his self-doubting thoughts. “Do you remember when Albert Anastasia had Arnold Schuster killed because Schuster recognized Willie Sutton, the famous bank robber, when he came in to his shoe store and turned him in? Anastasia killed an innocent civilian because he didn’t like the fact that he squealed on the guy and turned Sutton in. The guy was innocent for Christ’s sake. You guys are gonna whack a bum that killed a fireman who tried to protect an innocent girl. He did the right thing. The Greek did just the opposite”. Red, who usually didn’t justify his actions to any of his men, did so now. It appeared that he was trying to convince himself as well as the other two that he was doing the right thing. “Look, The Greek hired a good lawyer who, after listening to this guy’s story, gave him a pass. Maybe the fix was in with the judge. I don’t know and I don’t really care. He’s about to get a new trial where I’m judge and jury, and this time he’s not getting a pass. I pronounce him guilty and I sentence him to death.” The more he thought about it the more aggravated he became. “I don’t want a worthless piece of shit like him walking the streets of Queens where he might make some other young woman a widow. Not on your life, Piss Clam. Now get out of here—the both of you—and do your job. Oh, and on your way out get the note from Tarzan and tell him I want to see him.”
“You wanted to see me Red?”
“Yeah. Get a hold of Bull. The two of you are going to go to the Bronx. I have a piece of business I want you to do for me. You guys are gonna be detectives today. Here, take these. Keep one for yourself and give one to Bull.” Red handed Tarzan two sets of official police IDs, complete with their pictures and badges. “Lt. Zablonski dropped in last night.” Zablonski was the cop who had taken Creighton’s place when he died.
“What did he want?”
“He came in with an early Christmas present. There’s a drug dealer in the Bronx known as Mario the Donut Man. He has a coffee and donut shop he uses as a front. He uses it to launder the money he makes from the drugs he distributes. Well, Zablonski’s the one who busted him twice and if he gets busted a third time, he’ll be a three time loser; and when he goes away this time, they’ll throw away the key. Zablonski found out that Mario has a very large amount of cash stashed in his house to pay for the drug delivery he’s expecting. Zablonski’s partner had an operation and is on sick leave and he was assigned a temporary partner. The kid is straight out of the academy and Zablonski doesn’t trust him. He’s gonna take tomorrow off and you two will go with him on this job. Let him do the talking and everything will be all right.”
Tarzan looked at Red sideways. “What’s our cut in this deal?”
“Seventy-five percent. He gets to keep 25 percent.”
“Geez, you would of thought he would have asked for more.”
“I would have given him more of a cut if he asked, but he didn’t. He knows enough not to be greedy. Besides, he knows he can trust us.”
The following day an unmarked police car pulled up in front of a coffee shop on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, and two men got out while a third man stayed behind the wheel. Zablonski, with Tarzan behind him, rang the door bell to the apartment above the coffee shop. A woman answer
ed and when she saw Zablonski she became very agitated and began speaking and sputtering her words out nervously, saying, “Mario’s not here. He’s done nothing wrong. You can’t come in here like this.”
Zablonski smiled and pushed her aside. “Your husband is a convicted felon. I can come into your house anytime I want and I don’t need a search warrant.”
Zablonski and Tarzan walked through the house and straight to the kitchen, where fat Mario was busy counting the money spread six inches high across the table. His eyes widened fearfully as Zablonski walked into the kitchen and he instinctively raised his hands in supplication. Words spilled from his lips as he tried unsuccessfully to explain the money.
“This is not my money, Lieutenant,” he stammered a little too quickly. “I’m just counting it for someone. You gotta believe me. I’m just counting it for someone.”
Zablonski smiled coldly but his eyes never left the cash sitting there, waiting to be taken.
“Give me a break, Lieutenant. I can’t take a third bust. I’ll be a three time loser and they’ll put me away forever.”
“Sorry, Mario, there are no deals for you today. I’m gonna have to take you in.” Zablonski turned to Tarzan. “Detective, do me a favor and call treasury for me.”
Mario’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets and he raised his hands, waving erratically.
“Please, please don’t do this. Look, take what you want. Take it all, but don’t turn me in. I’ll be sent away for the rest of my life.”
Zablonski rubbed his chin as if he were considering what Mario just told him. “Yeah, I guess it would be a shame to have you go away and never see your wife and kids again—and you’re asking me to give you a break. You want me to forget about all of this . . . And for that you’re telling me I can take what’s on the table here. Do I have that right so far?”
“Yes. Yes. Take it all but don’t drop a dime on me. I can’t take the hit. I can’t do the time. Not at my age.”