A Black Sail

by Rich Zahradnik

  “Last time I was here,” Taylor said, “you called yourself a PR consultant. Pretty good joke. What’s your real job?”

  “Friend of the family.” A grunt. “Goddamn it hurts. This is coercion.”

  “When you say ‘family,’ do you mean the Fronti family?”

  “Best be careful of the names you throw around. Some things aren’t safe for reporters. Or local yokels.”

  Dove shoved Lucco’s face into the blue shag carpet. “That’s a little cryptic as threats go. Could you be more precise?”

  Muffled noises from the rug.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Dove let go of the hold and walked toward the door, eying Lucco the whole time. Taylor exited first. The two of them walked over to Main Street.

  “Nice moves,” Taylor said.

  “Wrestled in high school. Holds and drops are a lot more effective than throwing your fists around. Never know whether you’re going to land a blow. Or where. If the bad guy is locked up in a hold, he can’t hit you.”

  “No offense, but, ah, you’re more than a few years out of high school.”

  “Work out with my son. He was sectional champ for Dobbs. Wrestled his way through Penn State. College degree and best he can do is the job I got him. This economy is awful.”

  Taylor considered the tall, bulky—even lumpy—man and strained to block out the image of him training on a mat in a wrestling singlet.

  “How did you do?”

  “All the way to states. Lost in the final. Different era. My son faced tougher competition.”

  Taylor pulled Collucci’s crumpled note out of his pocket.

  Please, somewhere else. My life is at stake.

  He handed it to Dove.

  “That’s something to think about.” Dove passed it back. “Because of the bugs? How would the FBI hearing something put his life on the line?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe today’s the first time his listeners heard about the threat against his wife. Why indicate that to us? The biggest menace I can think of—aside from arrest—would come from Bridget’s father, assuming you’re right and Carl’s the murderer.” They turned onto Main Street. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee and go back and watch the house for a while. Maybe I’ll get a chance to ask about this note.”

  “Suit yourself. That man is so closely watched on all sides, I can’t imagine anything is going to happen tonight.”

  In fact, nothing did, not for two hours.

  The sun settled behind the mountains on the far shore of the river, the Hudson turning from blue to purple to near black. The lights of a freighter floated over the water like a mirage as the dark-hulled ship slipped down river.

  Taylor took a chance on a break for a quick dinner and came back. Collucci and Lucco’s cars were still parked in the gravel driveway.

  At a few minutes before nine, Lucco came out and walked toward Main.

  Taylor couldn’t afford to go in until he knew how long Lucco would be gone, so he followed the mobster at a safe distance to see what he was up to. In the middle of town, Lucco entered a bar called Bobo’s. Taylor waited a couple of minutes, approached the saloon and peered under a Schlitz sign hung in a small, round window. Lucco had a mixed drink in front of him and was gesturing and talking to the bartender, who was either permanently glum or not so happy to see him.

  Taylor jogged back to the house, where he almost collided with Collucci coming out the front door with a big suitcase.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Collucci, looking frightened at Taylor’s sudden appearance, hurried past him and put the bag in the trunk of the white Thunderbird. He stopped on the stoop. “This is my chance. He goes there most nights around this time. Stays an hour or three.”

  Taylor followed Collucci inside to the master bedroom in back, where Collucci stuffed handfuls of underwear into a second smaller suitcase. Collucci walked fast down the hall with the bag and crossed the gravel drive to the car with its trunk still open.

  “Okay, no mics. Where are you going?”

  “Leaving. Once you handed me the note, I knew I had to get the hell away. No one can know about the surveillance.”

  “I’m not the only one. The NYPD. Dove. This is the least undercover undercover operation ever.”

  His eyes widened. “That makes it so much worse. I’ve got to leave.”

  “Have the feds threatened you?”

  He climbed into the big sedan. “I can’t be in the middle anymore. Can’t take it. I’ve lost Bridget. There’s nothing for me here.”

  “The FBI will chase you down.”

  “No! I’ll get somewhere safe.”

  “Where?”

  Collucci hit the gas. The wheels spun, throwing gravel so it rattled like gunfire against the garage door.

  Taylor wanted to follow him, needed to, but couldn’t. By the time he located Dove, Collucci would be long gone.

  He left the empty house and made his way to the train. Collucci had to be heading for an airport.

  Taylor got that one wrong too.

  Chapter 20

  The body of Carl Collucci was dumped on the Bowery at the corner of Grand Street sometime after six in the morning on Saturday, July 10. The cops got a tip around then.

  Taylor heard chatter on a scanner he had at home at about eight and ran for the subway, arriving 20 minutes later.

  The Fifth Precinct team was still at work.

  The corpse was sprawled across the sidewalk. Collucci had been shot in the right eye—Taylor was willing to bet twice like his wife—with an extra one for good measure in his chest. A .32 revolver lay in his open right hand.

  At first, Detective Benny McWilliams didn’t want to have anything to do with Taylor. That was until he heard Taylor had spoken with Collucci as he was running from his house the night before.

  “When’d he leave?”

  “A little before nine fifteen. Who reported the body?”

  McWilliams laughed out loud.

  The evidence guys were still collecting what they could. The meat wagon idled right at the curb, its engine burning oil and spewing blue-gray exhaust that made Taylor dizzy.

  “But they did report he’d been dumped?”

  “Car stopped and a body was pulled out of the trunk by two men. No make or model on the car. No descriptions of the men. About as much as you can expect from the citizenry of our fair city.”

  “You know his wife was murdered last week?”

  “Yeah, got the call. Detective from Brooklyn is coming over.”

  “Phillips?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “His body ending up here at the edge of Chinatown.” A glimmer of hope? “There’s a story I’d quit working. Theory was the Leung tong killed the wife because they’re warring with—”

  “Killing wives would be out of character. I’ve worked here five years. The tongs operate different from the Italians, but I’ve never seen them do that.”

  “Then what does Collucci dead at the south end of Chinatown mean?”

  “Means your idea is shit. The tongs are like the mob when it comes to bodies. They don’t leave ’em in their own backyard.” So much for that glimmer. “What did Collucci say to you last night?”

  “The FBI has his house wired. He knows. When I told him I knew, he said he had to get away. It was like other people knowing threatened him. He didn’t say who or why. Phillips, the whole Seven-Two squad, the Dobbs Ferry cops, they’re all aware of the FBI operation.”

  “Fuck, those fibbies know how to get things done. Can’t catch commies. Can’t catch radical bombers. Can’t record the mob without everyone knowing.”

  “Collucci was scared bad. Said he couldn’t be in the middle anymore.”

  “The FBI’s scary if they get something on you.”

  “Collucci claimed he was clean.”

  “Uh-huh. With FBI wiring all over his house.”

  “Packed two suitcases and left. I thought maybe an airport.”

  “So
meone got him before he got wherever he was going. You have anything might point to who did the murder?”

  “His father-in-law, Liam O’Malley, is a small-time gangster in Queens. He was furious with Collucci when I last saw him. Blamed Collucci for his daughter’s death.”

  “That’s not much. What a mess.” McWilliams pushed his hands through gray hair. He’d been on the job a long time—almost-to-retirement long. “We’ll finish this at the Fifth. Phillips is going straight there.”

  Taylor climbed in the back of McWilliams’ car. Bridget Collucci. Carl Collucci. Mary Singer. Mary got in too deep because Taylor hadn’t been careful enough. If only she’d stayed at the halfway house … yeah, but onlys wouldn’t make the guilt go away. Last night, Collucci had said he had to go because Taylor knew about the FBI. The grim jury, his conscience, convened. Should Taylor also take the blame for what happened to Collucci? The way this story was going, yes seemed the automatic answer. But he’d hardly been the first to learn of the surveillance—or the first to talk about it. He had been the first to warn Collucci word was out.

  The FBI’s ineptitude worried Taylor and intrigued the jury. He couldn’t see a connection yet, but it had doomed Collucci. Connections mattered. Anger knotted his stomach as he took a last look at Collucci’s body. This didn’t need to happen. He had to discover why and get the story out to the world. To get the facts, he had to ask questions. Once he started, people acted and reacted. Villains made their moves. If he didn’t go after crime stories because of what might happen, he’d have nothing left to write about. That was what Samantha was trying to make him see. The jury came up hung on Collucci. It was waiting to see how things played out.

  His conscience could do whatever it pleased. Anger over Collucci and guilt over Mary would have to be the spur he needed. It was all he had. He’d do just about anything to nail this story.

  The forensics men closed their boxes. McWilliams yelled a last instruction out the window of the car. The body was lifted onto the gurney and the gurney pushed into the wagon.

  At the 5th Precinct, McWilliams put Taylor in an interview room and went to make calls. Taylor sat there for 45 minutes, after which McWilliams’ partner, a much younger detective named Morrissey, came in with coffee, sugar packets, and Cremora. The coffee was bad, and with the Cremora, turned into a kind of sludge. Taylor drank it anyway. Sludge was better than no coffee at all.

  After another half hour or so, Phillips showed. From his wobbly walk and shifting, watery eyes, it was an easy money bet the detective had come straight from a bar.

  McWilliams, Morrissey, and Phillips sat across from Taylor in the small, close interview room. They looked like a board of inquiry.

  Taylor set down the cup of sludge. “A smart cop gave me some good advice. He said the heroin war might be going on even if Bridget Collucci’s murder isn’t connected. Why not use Carl’s killing as probable cause to sit Shi down—ask him what the tong’s up to with China White.”

  With a drunken giggle, Phillips said, “Taylor’s nuts. Always been nuts. Most reporters play the game. Get good stories. Play along some more. Get better stories. Not Taylor. Head first right inta the wall.”

  McWilliams gave Phillips a sidelong glance like he already regretted inviting the Brooklyn detective.

  “And you’d want to go along?” McWilliams said.

  “I’m the one who saw the delivery of the China White in Harlem. This way I don’t get shot trying to interview him.”

  “Protecting reporters is not the business of this precinct.”

  Phillips acted like that statement was even more hilarious. Young Morrissey seemed only capable of taking notes.

  “Drop the complicated stories about drug conspiracies,” McWilliams said. “You know anything else about Collucci?”

  “He had mob muscle at his house. Nick Lucco and another guy. Never got his name, but Collucci mentioned a Jimmy. I know they’ve been there since Bridget’s murder.”

  “All the time?”

  “Lucco was whenever I was. Only saw the other once, when they both jumped me. Lucco even did the grocery shopping. Last night, he went out to a local bar. That’s when Collucci decided to run.”

  “What was mob muscle doing in the house if Collucci was clean?”

  “One good question I never got to ask. My guess, Lucco was assigned as security after Bridget was killed. Collucci left a lot of unanswered questions. You talk to the FBI?”

  “Getting the runaround. They’re good at that. It’s worse than fuck off because it wastes more of my time.”

  Taylor exhaled, fluttering his lips. He couldn’t fault McWilliams. He was doing the best job he could with the body he had.

  Phillips, on the other hand, sat there with a boozy grin on his face. Bridget Collucci’s case was his, and he’d done jack shit.

  The interview wrapped and they all left the room, McWilliams pulling the door shut. He had a glum look Taylor knew well—it said this was one of those fucked-up cases that would take a long time to solve. Like forever.

  Outside the Fifth, Taylor pulled Phillips’ shoulder to turn him.

  “What the hell have you been doing on your case?”

  “Don’t answer to you.”

  “Nah. To your bartender. Dove told you Collucci threatened his wife. Why didn’t you pull him in?”

  “Don’t remember getting the tip. Was a dead end anyway, asshole. Obviously Collucci didn’t do it. Or he wouldn’t be dead now.”

  “Collucci was the lead in this case. You didn’t follow up. Something was and is going on. Now we’ve got no Collucci to explain it.”

  “You’re right. There is more. I’ve got leads. You’ll see.” The boast was so empty it had an echo inside it.

  “Maybe the FBI told you to fuck off home and leave this one for the big boys?”

  Phillips shoved his forearm into Taylor’s neck and drove him to the wall of the precinct house. Two uniforms made as if they were going to come over. Phillips flashed his gold badge, all the while pressing on Taylor’s throat. Taylor gasped for air, inhaling Phillips’ hot, stale whiskey breath.

  “You’re one unholy pain in my ass. I figure, cut a deal with you on disclosing the body, you’re going to go away and leave me alone. You don’t. Stay the fuck away from my case. I’ve got enough work without dealing with amateurs like you and being called to Chinatown by that geezer McWilliams.”

  Talking made Phillips angrier, furious. He pushed harder, choking off Taylor’s flow of air. Taylor wasn’t even getting the whiskey fumes. He tried to call Phillips a coward.

  An airless mumble.

  Phillips had Taylor’s left arm pinned. He struggled with his right arm to break free. Phillips might be a drunk, but he was a strong drunk.

  As a circle of darkness closed in from the edge of Taylor’s vision, someone pulled Phillips off. Taylor bent over, hacking and spitting. Some officer must have decided whatever was going on didn’t look so good right in front of the precinct house.

  Taylor got that one wrong too.

  He was grabbed—again—and thrown into the back of a sedan. Still coughing, Taylor sat up on the seat. Phillips gave him the finger. The car pulled away.

  The window wouldn’t roll down. Taylor didn’t care. Voice hoarse from Phillips’ pressure on this throat, he still screamed at the window. “You’re in my next story, asshole. As the fucking idiot who missed it all.”

  The screaming almost hurt more than the choking.

  The dark suit sitting on the passenger side turned. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “The Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Great. Just the guys I need to speak to.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Not what I was looking for. But we can start there.”

  Taylor took out his notebook. The agent grabbed it and threw it out the window.

  “You know, you and the tong have the same reaction to a reporter’s notebook. Odd similari
ty.” He rubbed his throat. A burning. There’d be a bruise. “Littering’s not exactly a federal offense, but hardly sets the right example. What about all those junior G-men in New York looking up to you guys.”

  “I’m serous. Shut the fuck up or you go out next.”

  “I doubt it. You’re the taxi service. We’re going to see your boss. Very Special Agent Gilly, I’m guessing. He wouldn’t want me on the pavement.”

  The agent turned his strangely thin head and fixed watery light-blue eyes on Taylor. “He may, once he’s had to listen to you.”

  After several more bids—all answered with some variation on shut the fuck up—Taylor sat back for the ride. Everybody was playing at angry, but none of them gave a shit about the dead. He was going to rattle all of them until he found out what was going on.

  The car slid into quick-moving traffic on the FDR.

  “Why aren’t we going to the federal building?”

  He got the same answer every other question produced, which caused him to worry he hadn’t seen FBI IDs. He knew what the answer would be if he asked for them now. They plunged into the Queens Midtown Tunnel, came out the other end and the miles ticked by. As they did, Taylor became ever more nervous his rescue from Phillips was some kind of trap. The car swung around the huge Aqueduct Racetrack, took a left onto a side street, and stopped in front of a three-story commercial building with no sign. Not even a street number.

  Taylor relaxed a bit.

  Typical FBI. So undercover you know they’re here.

  Nevertheless, when he was introduced to Gilly, he still asked to see identification. Better safe than shot.

  “Did these gentleman not identify themselves?” Gilly, with a square face, blond hair and broad shoulders, pulled out his ID wallet with a forced smile.

  “They had one answer for everything.”

  The second floor of the building was a big room with tables agents were using for desks. The blinds on the front windows were down and closed.

  Nothing secret going on here.

  “Why aren’t we meeting at the federal building?”