One Police Plaza

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by William Caunitz


  10

  TUESDAY, June 23

  Malone drifted in and out of fitful periods of sleep; his dreams a kaleidoscope of his frustrations. When daylight slid into his bedroom he was propped on pillows staring at dust particles riding the rays of the sun. They reminded him of those damn containers being shipped in and out of those damn warehouses: so visible, yet untouchable. Just for one quick look inside one of them. But how? he asked himself. They’d know how. Of course! He looked at the clock. They’d still be around. He untangled himself from the sheet and sat up, taking the telephone book from inside the night table. Opening it, he slid his finger over the alphabetized tabs until he reached the Z’s. Zambrano’s number was the only listing on the page.

  Zambrano’s drugged voice came alive when Malone asked him to meet him right away. “At this time of the morning?” It was a pro forma utterance. Inspectors weren’t supposed to be called out at five in the morning.

  “It’s important. I need your help.”

  “When and where?”

  Malone stopped the car for the red light on the corner of the Bowery and Broome Street. He glanced over at the derelicts sleeping in hallways, then directed his stare up to the traffic light. There was no traffic coming so he drove through the light, turning into Broome Street.

  He parked on Center Market Place and walked to the corner of Grand Street. He stepped into the opaque doorway of the Dutchman’s to wait.

  “Hey, Dan,” Zambrano shouted, crossing the street.

  Malone could see the excitement in his eyes. Zambrano was doing what he loved most in the whole world; playing cop in the streets of New York City. “Whadaya got?” Zambrano asked, stepping into the doorway and taking his place next to him.

  “I want you to arrange a meeting with Carlo Fabrizio. I want a favor from him.”

  Zambrano’s face became taut. “And what makes you so sure I can arrange such a meeting?”

  “It’s an open secret that you have a special relationship with him.”

  Zambrano spread his hands in front of him and at the same time shrugged an Italian gesture of mercurial agreement. “What do you want from him?”

  Malone told him.

  Peddlers were setting up their stands along Mulberry Street. Neighborhood women bargained in Italian. Malone noticed one dressed in mourning black bartering with a fish peddler. The man ignored her entreaties and continued to bathe his fish with buckets of ice.

  Three-quarters of the way down the block they stepped off the curb and cut across the street. They nudged their way through a crowd and around two stands to four steps leading to a cellar club. The two small windows on the side of the façade were painted black. Brass letters across the door read: NESTOR SOCIAL CLUB, MEMBERS ONLY. They started down the steps. Malone rapped on the door with the hard knocks of a cop demanding entrance. A big man whose muscles were outlined in a dirty T-shirt opened the door. He wore a Byzantine cross on a gold chain around his neck. He raked his fingers through his hair, measuring the strangers. “Wadaya want, cop?”

  Malone pushed past him. It was a large room with a padded bar running the length of the far wall. A grossly ornate espresso machine on the end of the bar reminded Malone of an altarpiece. Several card tables were scattered about. In the corner, next to the bar, five men sat playing poker. They looked up at the intruders. The bouncer ran up behind Malone and turned him. “You gotta motherfucking search warrant, cop?”

  A distinguished-looking man in a blue business suit lumbered up from his place at the card table and waved the bouncer off. “It’s okay, Cheech.” His hair was pure white and the nails manicured. Malone noticed that his teeth had been capped and that, despite his smile, his eyes were cold and menacing. He came up to Zambrano and threw his arms around his shoulders. The ritualistic hug and kisses of old friends followed. “How are ya?” Tony Rao asked.

  “Good, Tony.” Zambrano made the introductions. Rao motioned them to sit, at the same time holding up three fingers to the bouncer to indicate that he wanted three espressos.

  “What brings you here?” Rao asked Zambrano.

  “I want to see him,” Zambrano said.

  Cheech brought the espresso and backed off.

  Rao fixed his stare on the thin slice of lemon floating in his cup. He picked up his spoon and aimlessly dunked the skin. “Impossible. He don’t see nobody outside the Family. That Abscam thing made him leery of all outsiders”—Rao looked Zambrano in the eye—“even old friends.”

  Zambrano leaned across the table. “You tell Carlo Fabrizio that Nicholas Zambrano wants to see him.”

  Rao daintily picked up his cup and drank. “I’ll see that he gets your message.” Rao wrote a telephone number on the back of a matchbook and handed it to Zambrano. “Call this number at eleven o’clock this morning.”

  When they walked out of the Nestor Social Club twenty minutes later, Mulberry Street was still crowded with vendors and early-morning shoppers.

  Malone turned to Zambrano. “Breakfast at Ratner’s?”

  “Why not? We got four hours to kill.”

  Carlo Fabrizio’s legs dangled over the side of an immense bed. He was a frail man with sunken eyes and a beaked nose. A smile graced his lips when he heard Zambrano’s request. He dismissed Rao and lay back in bed, staring out the open doors at a gently swaying tree. He thought back to his first meeting with Zambrano.

  Twenty-nine years had passed since the day he first saw the cop trudging through the snow. When Zambrano passed the Hicks Street Social Club he glanced inside. Carlo Fabrizio and another man were standing by the window watching the shifting snowdrifts. Fabrizio nodded to the patrolman. Zambrano nodded back.

  “Carlo, watch!” The man standing next to Fabrizio ran to the door. He went outside and scooped up a handful of snow, pressing it into a ball.

  Zambrano had a sudden sense of something behind him and wheeled. His face recoiled from the sting of the snowball; his hat flew into the snow. The man turned and ran back into the club, laughing. “Didya see the look on that dumb cop’s face?”

  The door was flung open. Patrolman Zambrano stood in the frame, hands tucked deep into his winter overcoat. Water dripped down the side of his face. His eyes scoured the club, darting from man to man. He spotted his quarry leaning over the bar. Zambrano moved toward him. Fabrizio watched. The cop had balls, he thought.

  “Whatsa matter? Can’t ya take a little joke?” the attacker bantered at the approaching cop.

  Zambrano answered in Italian. “Me? Sure, I can take a joke. What about you?” Zambrano slid his hands out of his pockets. Thongs of a blackjack were tightly wrapped around his right hand; garbage can handles that had been woven with black tape were gripped in his left hand. The attacker’s eyes widened and his hands shot up to his face in a fruitless effort to protect himself. The blackjack smashed into the side of his head. A jagged gash appeared and quickly filled with blood. The man started to sink to the floor. The cop pivoted to his left and lashed forward, smashing the metal knuckles into his face. The scrunching of shattering bone caused men to shiver. The man’s eyes rolled up into his head as he splayed to the floor, unconscious. Zambrano tucked the blackjack and knuckles back into his overcoat pocket and turned to leave.

  Fabrizio blocked his way. “He’s one of my people.”

  “Then you should teach him some manners.”

  “And why is that, paisan?”

  “Because your men are a reflection of you. If they’re assholes that automatically makes you one.”

  Fabrizio nodded. “Makes sense.” He moved aside.

  Zambrano moved past him then stopped, turning to face him.

  “That street out there belongs to me. If any of your people ever give me a hard time again, I’ll blow their fucking brains out and plant a throw-away on them. I’ll be a hero.”

  “A capisce.”

  During the succeeding years their paths continued to cross. Whenever Fabrizio saw the brash cop he’d walk away from his entourage and spend a few
minutes talking with him. The seeds of a friendship were sown; a friendship that could never come to fruition. Fabrizio would always end their chance meetings by saying he’d better leave. “Someone might see us together. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  When Zambrano married there was a coffee table of Italian marble, a gift from Carlo Fabrizio. When Fabrizio’s mother died, the Zambranos attended her wake. As Zambrano knelt at the prie-dieu, Carlo Fabrizio came up behind him. “I hope you didn’t park around here. They’re taking pictures across the street.”

  The bond between the cop and the mafioso was sealed forever one sweltering August night. Patrolman Zambrano was standing in the lee of a doorway sneaking a smoke as he waited for the sergeant to come by and give him his “see.” The crack of gunfire jolted Zambrano into a tingling state of awareness. He dropped his cigarette and stepped from the doorway. There were two more distinct shots. Zambrano drew his revolver and moved cautiously in the direction they came from. A man staggered from an alley holding his side. He stumbled across the sidewalk and sprawled into the street. It was Carlo Fabrizio.

  “I think they’ve cashed in my chips for me,” he said to the familiar face kneeling over him.

  “Shut up! I’ll get you to a doctor.”

  Zambrano snapped his head toward the sound of the running feet. Three armed men careened the corner. “Kill them both,” one shouted. Zambrano threw himself over the wounded man. He gripped his revolver with both hands. The men were firing at him. Zambrano was scared but he recalled the admonitions of his firearms instructor at the Academy. Don’t jerk the trigger; cock and squeeze; aim for the body; keep both eyes open. Zambrano fired; one of the advancing men fell with a bullet in his stomach. A fusillade of gunfire erupted and bullets thudded into the asphalt around the cop. One of the men stopped to take careful aim. Zambrano fired two rounds double action. The man lurched forward, his gun went limp in his hand; he looked with disbelief at the cop then fell dead. The third man looked at his fallen comrades and ran.

  Fabrizio clutched the policeman’s arm. “I’ll never forget what you did tonight … never.”

  At precisely eleven o’clock, Zambrano telephoned the number Rao had written on the matchbook.

  “La Terazza at three o’clock,” an anonymous voice said.

  A Ford station wagon and a Mercedes were parked in front of the restaurant. Well-dressed men loitered on the sidewalk in front of La Terazza. “Are they for us?” Malone asked.

  “That’s his normal retinue.”

  The trolling men spotted the policemen and separated, taking up positions along the building line and against parked cars, their surly eyes locked on the cops. Tony Rao was sitting by himself in the outdoor café”. “Tony?” one of the bodyguards called. Rao looked up, casting an appraising eye in the direction of the policemen.

  La Terazza was a tumult of activity. Waiters in white tailored shirts picked their way from table to table. Tourists gawked at the display cases filled with Italian delicacies.

  Carlo Fabrizio was in the rear of the restaurant. He was alone, save for one waiter by his side. He sat erect, his hands clasped in front of him.

  “He looks like the little old winemaker,” Malone whispered.

  Fabrizio rose to greet his friend. The head of the largest crime family in New York City hugged Zambrano and kissed his cheeks. He acknowledged Malone’s presence with a nod.

  “You look well, Carlo,” Zambrano said, choosing a cannoli from the tray of pastries on the table.

  “I feel good, Nicholas.” He smiled. “Remember that night with the snowball?”

  “Whatever happened to that guy?”

  “He continued to do stupid things until one night he had an unfortunate accident … a permanent one.”

  Malone felt awkward listening to Zambrano and Fabrizio reminisce. He had done business with them in the past and would be the first to admit that they can make impossible things possible. But sitting with Fabrizio was like extending diplomatic recognition to organized crime. You do what you gotta do, Malone rationalized.

  “What is it you want?” Fabrizio asked, shifting his eyes from Zambrano to Malone.

  Zambrano turned to Malone who took the cue. He removed a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Fabrizio looked down at it.

  Tapping the paper with one finger, Malone said, “This is a list of warehouses that are located in various cities around the country. It’s important that we find out what’s stored inside of them.”

  “Is this important to you, Nicholas?”

  “Yes it is,” Zambrano said.

  “Will there be any … problems?” Fabrizio asked, sliding the paper into his pocket.

  “They’re all guarded,” Malone said. “But your people, with their special expertise, should have no trouble getting in and out without being spotted.”

  Fabrizio looked stern. “I hope not, Lieutenant. That could be very unfortunate. For both of us.”

  At 2 P.M. that day Yachov Anderman, David Ancorie, and the Braxtons suddenly resurfaced and started to go about their daily routines as though nothing had happened. Malone’s first instincts were to drag them into the Squad and have a nice long talk with them. But he knew that that would gain him nothing. By this time they had their stories straight and their lawyers waiting. And they could stall any interrogation for some time, time that Malone instinctively knew he didn’t have to spare.

  At 3 P.M. Thea and Aldridge Braxton entered the subway station at Fifty-ninth Street and Lexington Avenue. The subway was not the Braxtons’ regular method of travel. But today they were forced to tolerate the indignities of public transportation in order to ensure that they were not being followed.

  Afternoon shoppers crowded the subway platform, many carrying the Bloomingdale’s “brown bag.” Aldridge Braxton leaned over and looked into the dark tunnel. He stepped back and checked the time. “Damn trains,” he muttered. A businessman stood a few feet away from him meticulously turning the pages of the New York Times into another fold. A black man sashayed along the platform. He was wearing jeans and a brightly colored dashiki. His feet were encased in a worn pair of blue-and-red sneakers. A red portable radio in the shape of earphones was stretched over his head. There was a bone necklace hung around his neck and dark sunglasses hid the movements of his eyes. White people gave him a wide berth. Middle-class blacks withered him with their looks while the brothers and sisters smiled. The businessman looked into the tunnel and slapped his newspaper into another fold.

  An RR rolled into the station. Passengers stepped back from the edge of the platform. Every car was tattooed with graffiti. One of each double door shuddered open. People lunged out of the train even as new passengers pushed forward. Arguments started and profanity seasoned them. Thea and her brother elbowed and shouldered their way aboard. A finger was thrust into Thea Braxton’s crotch. “Did you do that?” she snapped at her brother.

  “Do what?”

  “Never mind,” she muttered.

  Every conceivable part of the car was covered with spray paint. People were crushed together and groped for straps that were already crowded with hands.

  “Wachder doors,” shrilled a barely discernible Latin accent over the loudspeaker. “Denext estacion goinbe Blige Plaza.” The train jerked forward, stopped, lurched several times, jerked forward again, then left the station. Aldridge Braxton surveyed the crush of pressing people. He moved his head close to his sister. “God! How do they survive this day after day? They’re like fucking cattle.”

  The businessman stood among the crush, the top part of his paper dropping into his face. He stared out at the naked lightbulbs as they whizzed by the graffiti-covered window. He could see the Braxtons in the glass’s reflection.

  The black man in the dashiki was in the front of the car, listening to his music and shuffling to its beat. The people around him tried to keep their distance, none looking at him for fear of offending. During his last musical gyration he snapp
ed his head back and adjusted his sunglasses. He could see the Braxtons clearly. They were the straphangers in front of him, to his right.

  As the RR train bearing the Braxtons roared through the tunnel approaching the Queensborough Bridge, Ahmad Marku and Iban Yaziji left their Soho loft and hailed a passing taxi. A Con Edison repair crew was at work on the corner. One of the crew slid the manhole cover back while the other member of the crew folded the orange safety stanchion. The taxi bearing Marku and Yaziji turned south onto West Broadway.

  Jack Harrigan had just completed the details for the installation of wires on the Braxtons’ telephones when the detectives inside the Con Edison truck radioed. They had tailed the two men onto the FDR Drive and were now driving over the Triborough Bridge heading south.

  At Bridge Plaza the Braxtons left the train at the elevated station and hurried down the staircase. They stopped in front of the change booth and watched the passengers descend the steps. The businessman had his Times neatly folded under his arm when he walked past. Aldridge Braxton went to the exit door that led to the connecting bridge between Bridge Plaza north and south. He pushed through the door and moved to the middle of the bridge. Traffic coming off the lower level of the Queensborough Bridge was heavy. Green Line buses queued the north side of Bridge Plaza. He saw nothing suspicious. They weren’t being followed, he was convinced. He motioned to his sister.

  The black man with the dashiki danced down the staircase. He hurried over to the exit and peered down into the street. He watched the Braxtons get into a taxi. He made a mental note of the license plate number and pushed the antenna on the right side of his earphone down in front of his mouth.

  “Special two to Central, K.”

  At 3:58 P.M. a citywide alarm was transmitted over the police radio network. All units on patrol were instructed to be on the lookout for the taxi carrying the Braxtons. “Do not intercept. Report location and direction of travel,” the dispatcher radioed.

 

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