by Fred Galvin
“Who did Stump shoot?”
Frankie was almost crying. “No, no! It was Stump who got shot. That psycho asshole Lucci. He just shot Stump and it was all my fault.”
Ronnie smiled to herself. Leverage, what a great concept. She realized that she needed to cement a relationship with Finacci, as distasteful as that seemed. Someone had to advocate for the late Louie Calzone and now there was also the shooting of Stump at the Delancey Social Club to contend with. If she was going to do both, she needed Frankie to trust her. Going to Brooklyn was a smart move. She knew that the Mariucci Family’s primary turf was Manhattan’s Lower East Side and that they would be relatively safe in Brooklyn. If Frankie had half a brain, which was debatable, he’d come to the same realization.
She pulled up to the EATS 24-7 Diner.
Frankie looked up at the sign, the 4 flickering off and on. “What’s this dump? Why are we here?”
“Think of this ‘dump’ as your safe house. Come on, let’s go inside. The food’s a lot better than you’d think.”
Flo turned around from the TV as the bell over the door dinged, ever-present cigarette butt dangling from her lip. She squinted through the smoke.
“Hey, it’s the female half of the D-Team. Where’s the other half?” Noticing Frankie, she deadpanned, “And who’s your blood-spattered friend?” Did nothing shock her?
“Oh, he’s had an accident. Thought we’d grab a coffee for my friend here, a tea for me, and two slices of the best apple pie in Brooklyn while he cleans up a little. We’re going to grab the back booth, K?”
“Sure. Java, tea, ’n two wedges o’ apple pie comin’ up. And it ain’t just the best in Brooklyn. It’s the best in all Noo Yawk.”
As Flo called in the order, Frankie looked at Ronnie. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Frankie, it’s like I said. If you want to stay alive, hang in here with me. The bathroom’s back there. And don’t get any ideas. The back door to this place has been jammed shut for years and even if the bathroom window could open, you’d never fit.”
“Shit.” Frankie rose and nervously walked to the GENTS room, head on a swivel.
Flo brought the coffee, tea, and pies. “He’s a real beauty. What kind of accident did he have? Get cawt in a meat grindah?” Her Brooklynese was in full force today.
“Something like that. Thanks Flo. I’ll say hi to Dan for you.”
While Frankie was washing off the remains of Stump, Ronnie forked up a piece of pie, took a sip of coffee, and made a phone call, all while keeping an eye on the bathroom door. The call wasn’t to DD or for backup.
“What we discussed, it’s happening now. Can you be ready? Good. I’ll be calling you back in a few minutes with him as we planned. Unless you hear otherwise from me, we’re on. We should be there soon.” She paused and listened. Then, “Yeah, where we agreed. See you then.”
~~~
The United States Federal Witness Protection Program, also known as the Witness Security Program or WITSEC, is administered by the Justice Department and operated by the US Marshals Service and is designed to protect threatened witnesses before, during, and after a trial.
New York, the District of Columbia, and three other states have their own witness protection programs for crimes not covered by the federal program. The state-run programs provide less extensive protections than the federal program.
WITSEC, while highly effective, is not an absolute safe haven. In 2009 a US Marshal was sentenced to four years in prison for leaking information to the Chicago mob about a protected witness. Bribery has long tentacles and, if the bribe is big enough, they can reach and envelop anyone.
~~~
Frankie returned to the booth. The Stump debris was cleaned off his skin but stains remained on his suit, shirt, and tie. “That bathroom is disgusting. I swear something was swimming around in the toilet.” He eyed the pie, forked up a piece, sniffed, and then took a cautious bite. “Hey, you were right. This is pretty good.”
Ronnie’s tone was not so cordial. She removed her shield from her belt and slapped it on the table. It got Frankie’s attention. “Look, Finacci. This isn’t a friendly little chat. I’m a cop and you’re a murderer.”
Frankie turned his palms up in a pleading manner. “I told you, I didn’t do Stump. It was Lefty Lucci. And he’s going to do me too if—” He hesitated.
Ronnie waited. Instead of finishing his sentence, Frankie picked up his fork and stabbed another piece of pie. Ronnie grabbed his wrist halfway to his mouth. “I’m not talking about Stump. I’m talking about Louie Calzone. Remember him?”
Frankie’s tough-guy demeanor cracked for an instant but he recovered quickly, or at least tried to. He pulled his wrist loose. “Who? Oh yeah, Calzone. Too bad about him but it was necessary.” Then he realized he had just basically confessed to the killing. “I remember you tried to hang that one on me too. Well, I didn’t do him either.” He averted eye contact. A clincher to an experienced detective.
But Ronnie let it go, at least for the time being. “You just said that Lucci is going to kill you too if … if what, Frankie? What do you have to do to stay alive? What do you have to do to keep Lucci from killing you too?” Then she remembered seeing Lucci obviously prodding Papalini into the Town Car with a gun in his back. It’s not generally understood by the general public but detectives can say anything during an interrogation, even flat-out lies. “Papalini’s already dead. Lucci has seen to that.”
That did it. Frankie dropped his fork. His eyes opened wide, pleadingly. “Papa’s dead? How do you know that?”
Tapping her shield on the table, “I’m a cop, remember?”
Frankie was sweating now. “Shit!”
Ronnie felt she was close and delivered the push that toppled the dominoes. “Look, Frankie. I can help you. I can protect you if you tell me what he wants from you.”
Frankie looked up at her, all pretense gone. “Yeah? How?”
“Have you ever heard of WITSEC?”
“Wit-what?”
Internally Ronnie rolled her eyes. Is he really that stupid? What mobster hasn’t heard of WITSEC?
“WITSEC. The Witness Security Program. WITSEC. It’s a federal program to secure the safety of cooperative people in your situation. New York State has its own program with the same purpose.” She took her phone from her jeans back pocket and held it up between them enticingly. “All I have to do is make one call.” She let that sink in for a moment, holding his eyes. To his credit, he stared right back and didn’t blink. “But you have to help me. Lucci killed Stump and Papalini. What does Lucci want from you?”
Frankie hesitated. He ran his hand through his hair. Ronnie knew he’d finally cracked. He blurted out, “Oh, shit!” He appeared to have to push the words out. “He wants 250K and the Book!”
“Book? What book? And why the money?”
“The real Book. The one with all the numbers before my skim! I’ve skimmed two hundred over the past two years. He wants it all back plus vig. I have to deliver both by nine tonight or he’ll kill my wife, he’ll kill Tina, and then he’ll kill me. He’s a psycho, man. I’m tellin’ ya he’s nuts. First he shot Stump in the foot and then he blew his head off. ”
Ronnie figured Tina was either a sister or a mistress as she seemed important to Frankie. It really didn’t matter. “Frankie, the program is designed to protect you, your wife, and Tina. Now, talk to me. So the 250K is to cover what you’ve been skimming from your bookie operation, right? And this book is their proof?”
“Yeah, right on both counts. You can do this? One phone call? How do I know you’re not shittin’ me?”
“You don’t believe me? Okay.”
She picked up her phone and held it so Frankie could see the screen. She scrolled through the contacts, stopping at WITSEC. She hit the green phone icon to initiate the call and put it on speaker. The call rang once and was picked up.
“New York State WITSEC Marshals Office. Agent Ortega.”
Frankie st
ared at the phone, up at Ronnie, back at the phone.
“Agent Ortega, this is Detective Deveaux, NYPD.”
“Yes, Detective. Good to talk to you again. How can I help you?”
“I may have a case for you. Do you have time this afternoon?”
“Let me see.” Keyboard clicking could be heard. “Yes. I’m clear from two onward.”
“Great. Please block some time for me. Let me get back to you with details.”
“Will do, Detective. I believe you have my cell if you need to call after the office is closed.”
“I do, Agent. Thank you.” She disconnected.
Ronnie knew to wait for Frankie’s reaction. He stared at the phone and then up at Ronnie. “What now? I told you Lucci’s going to be expecting me by nine tonight. If I don’t show with the money—”
Ronnie gave an internal fist pump. The hook was set. “So you want our help to protect you, your wife, and what was her name? Tina?”
“Yeah, me and my wife for sure. You can forget about Tina. Besides, my wife would probably kill her anyway.”
Ronnie’s disgust for this lowlife grew. He basically just issued this Tina, probably his mistress, a death sentence without batting an eye. Soon the mob would do their best to “coerce” her to tell all she knew about Frankie’s whereabouts. “Okay. We’ll put you and your wife in a hotel tonight until we finalize arrangements with WITSEC tomorrow. We’ll go pick her up now. Do you need to call her to get ready?”
“No, better not. She might freak and start making calls.” Then he paused and Ronnie figured she knew why. “So, what do you want from me for this witness protection gig?”
Ronnie was waiting for this question and was ready. “We’ve had eyes on you for some time. We know you are an influential member of the Mariucci Family and can help us out. Today you witnessed a brutal murder and can give information about Papalini’s fate as well. From what we know about Lucci and his reputation there’s no doubt that he will not hesitate to carry out his intentions to eliminate you if you don’t come through tonight.” She was a good bluffer. Although this was all actually standard stuff and she knew that Frankie wasn’t aware. She let that sink in then added, “And my guess would be he’d carry them out later even if you do. So you’re doing the right thing by helping us and letting us protect you. It’s really your only option.”
Frankie seemed to swallow it all. Ronnie shook her head internally in wonderment. Then he suddenly sat forward and looked around conspiratorially. There were four other customers in the diner, none within listening distance, and Flo was intently watching a game show. “Listen, I’ve got to make a stop to get some cash. It’s … a substantial amount … if you know what I mean. There’s some in it for you if we can make that stop first.”
Ronnie figured that was coming too. “Sure Frankie. Let’s get going.” As they rose to leave, Frankie was suddenly unsteady on his feet. “Man, my head’s spinning.”
Ronnie nodded and took his elbow. “That’s understandable given all you’ve been through today.” They got into her car. “Where is your wife now?” He gave her the address. “You should ride in the back seat and stay low. I’ll guarantee your safety. Now stay real low and leave it to me. Maybe close your eyes and rest.”
He yawned. “Yeah, sure. I don’t know how to thank you. I’m feeling really exhausted. I need to rest up. Wake me when we get there.”
All Ronnie could do was wonder how someone could be so dense. How had this idiot managed to stay alive this long? Well, it didn’t matter. The mild sedative she had put in his coffee was beginning to overcome the adrenaline that had been rushing through his bloodstream. He’d be out for a while.
Louie Calzone, wherever he was now, was about to receive justice, as were probably more than a few others on Frankie Finacci’s whack list that the NYPD may never know about. It may not be exactly the kind of justice Ronnie was sworn to uphold and to a certain extent she had some regrets, but not many. There was no possible way she was going to let Fast Frankie Finacci get away with Calzone’s murder. She supposed she could have just let Lefty Lucci have his way with Frankie but then she wouldn’t get the satisfaction of meting out justice herself, however sideways it may be. And she surely wasn’t even remotely going to consider putting him in any kind of formal protection program. A trial and a long sentence would be his future.
~~~
Roje Deveaux was a moderately successful charter boat captain in Jamaica. Does that surname sound familiar? Yes, Roje was Ronika Deveaux’s younger brother. Roje was coming off a very good three-year run of Caribbean charters and had decided to take a break. His boat was very seaworthy and could easily make the trip up the inland waterway along the coast to New York City. He had made several stops on his trip. Roje had not seen his older sister in five years and wanted to surprise her. He certainly did so when he called and said he had moored his boat in a cozy little inlet on Staten Island’s western coastline not far from Manhattan.
“What? How did you get here? You sailed all the way up here?”
“Yes, Ronika. I turned right at Cuba and I didn’t drown once!”
Ronnie had kept in touch with Roje via Skype and knew he was successful and that he was an expert sailor. He had taken her of a “tour” of his boat by carrying his laptop from bow to stern and she was impressed. It was his home and it was neat and orderly.
“That’s wonderful. When and where can we meet? I want to show you New York City.”
That was about two months earlier. I met him twice during that time frame. While they were not twins, their facial features were strikingly similar. At six foot three inches, he was a strong man. I had actually gotten him to reveal his home island as Jamaica. I looked at Ronnie, who had never specifically told me where she was from, with a raised-eyebrows-now-I-know look. She grinned and shrugged a raised-eyebrows-so-what shrug.
~~~
Ronnie looked over her shoulder at the comatose Finacci in the back seat and laughed aloud. She had to hand it to her brother Roje, a.k.a. WITSEC Agent Ortega. She would have to find a small replica of an Academy Award Oscar and present it to him for Best Supporting Actor in a Dramatic Bullshit Role. Not bad for a charter boat captain from Jamaica. He had been only too happy to participate in a real New York City police adventure. It was a nice break and might go a long way toward helping him with the beautiful Jamaican women. She could just imagine Roje saying, “So, while I was visiting my sister in New York (she’s a homicide detective, you know) I played a vital part helping her solve several murder cases. I even played the role of a special agent in a sting operation.” The beautiful Jamaican woman would undoubtedly reply with “Really? A sting operation like in the movies? Oh my. Tell me more about it.”
Yes, as Ronnie heard Finacci’s sedated heavy breathing in the back seat, she thought of one of her favorite sayings: What goes around, comes around.
She made a mental note to find a tight T-shirt with that message on it. Maybe the first half of the saying in a semicircle above her right breast and the second half under the left. She’d surprise DD with it knowing he would get a kick out of it and be hard-pressed to not stare too long at the messages. He was pretty easy to tease.
While Frankie was snoring away, she made a call. “Hi, it’s me … Yes, it went beautifully, Agent Ortega … Yes, he believed you … No, you can’t have a real detective’s badge. Besides, it’s a shield, not a badge. Remember, you’re a Jamaican charter boat captain, not a WITSEC agent. Maybe Amazon has one … He’s in the back seat out like a light. We’re on our way … It’s okay, he’s under control. He should be ready to come around about the time I get there. Is the weather going to be a problem? It’s getting dark and rainy … Okay good. See you soon. Thanks, Roje.”
Across from Governors Island on Brooklyn’s west end, Wolcott Street dead-ends at the East River. There are several warehouses where trucks unload their wares for storage for eventual transport to one of the major docks for loading onto container ships. There is a seldo
m-used loading dock with several cleats for boats to tie up to temporarily. Vehicles came and went without notice, especially at night.
Ronnie knew of this spot because she and DD had arrested Harpo Mancini there just as he was about to board a small boat waiting to take him to parts unknown. Harpo was so-named because he looked just like his famous namesake Marx Brother although this Harpo was no comedian. He was a cold-blooded killer responsible for several mob hits on the Lower East Side. Ronnie and DD had received a tip that he knew the vises of the law were about to close in on him. He had decided that he needed to “make like a baby and head out” as my CI had quoted him.
So Ronnie was parked with a groggy Fast Frankie Finacci when Roje eased his charter boat alongside the dock. She got out of the car and helped her brother secure lines. It was raining. Not heavily, but steadily.