Sons of the City

by Scott Flander

  “No, we’ve met. You remember me, don’t you? Captain Lanier?”

  Doc glanced at me. “Bravelli’s going to be coming out any minute.”

  What was I going to do, shoot Bravelli and Lanier?

  “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” Michelle said, reaching for the door handle to go back in.

  “Michelle, does your father know you’re dating Mickey Bravelli?”

  She pulled the door open. “You’ve made a mistake. My name’s Lisa.” And she went back inside.

  Lanier looked at the closed door for a moment, then turned away.

  “You think he’s going to tell Bravelli?” Doc asked.

  “He better not.”

  Lanier walked over to the Lexus and leaned against it, and we watched him light a cigarette. The back door of Sagiliano’s opened again, and this time, Mickey Bravelli came out.

  “Yo, watch the car,” he said. Lanier stood upright and said something we couldn’t make out.

  Bravelli was close to the microphone, and we didn’t have any problem hearing him respond. “Well, keep somebody else’s car warm.”

  “Finally, I’m seein’ them together,” said Doc, jubilant. “I knew if I came here often enough, sooner or later …”

  Bravelli seemed in a hurry. “They said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “That’s right,” said Lanier, walking up to him. “You know who I am.”

  “Yeah, so? You been coming around here all the time. Ain’t there no bars around where you live?”

  “You know that my job is to put you in jail.”

  “So?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t have to be like that.” “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Maybe we can work out a deal. You know, you help me, [help you.”

  Bravelli looked at Lanier for a long moment.

  “What do you think I am, stupid?” he finally said. “No. All I’m saying is—”

  “You probably got this whole place wired up, you probably got people listening to everything we’re sayin'.”

  “There’s nobody listening.”

  “Either arrest me or get the fuck out of here.”

  “That’s the point, I don’t want to arrest you. I think we can work together.”

  Bravelli looked around, then spoke to the large, unseen audience he imagined was in the alley. “I’m a law-abiding citizen. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He turned back to go into the bar.

  “Wait,” said Lanier, trying to figure out what else he could say.

  “I ain’t gonna wait,” said Bravelli. “And there ain’t no reason for you to drink beer here no more. That bartender, he don’t like cops. You don’t want him spittin’ in your beer, do you?”

  Bravelli opened the door and walked back inside Sagiliano’s, leaving Lanier alone in the alley. He stood looking at the door, you could tell he was deciding whether to go in after Bravelli. He decided against it, though, and walked out of the alley.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Doc asked.

  “Don’t ask me,” I said. “I’m just glad he didn’t mention Michelle.”

  “It’s amazing,” Doc said. “I come here every other night for two weeks, nothing happens. Then I see two things in one night. ‘Course, I don’t understand either one of them …”

  Again Sagiliano’s door opened. Michelle and Bravelli were coming out.

  “So, which ones are we going to?” Michelle asked him.

  “Why don’t we start at the Taj Mahal?” Bravelli said. “Then maybe we’ll hit Caesars and Trump Plaza.”

  “Fine.”

  “And guess what? I want to buy you a really nice dinner, Leez, with candlelight and everything. You can have whatever you want.”

  “That sounds lovely, Mickey.”

  They continued talking as they moved toward the car, though they were soon out of range of the microphone. It didn’t matter, I knew where they were going—Atlantic City.

  Which meant I didn’t have to rush out of here in front of Doc. And he wasn’t going to make the connection once Bravelli was found dead.

  After all, what was one more mob hit in South Jersey?

  TWENTY

  Traffic on the Atlantic City expressway was light, and I sped past the darkened blueberry fields and through the New Jersey Pine Barrens. There was plenty of time to work out how I’d kill Bravelli: once I found them in the casino, I’d wait for them to leave, then follow them to the parking garage. I’d come up behind Bravelli with Junior Vincente’s gun, two shots, pop-pop, one to take him down, the second to make sure. Michelle would be upset, but that couldn’t be helped.

  She was deluding herself. Bravelli would never forgive her betrayal once Bender’s story hit the street. There was probably even a chapter on that in the Official Mob Handbook. Rule 235: Someone betrays you, kill ‘em. If it’s your grandmother, just make sure you’re in the will first.

  Near the end of the expressway, I could see the brightly lit casino-hotels, all lined up along the ocean like they were intentionally trying to block everyone’s view. There was no doubt which casino was which—on each was its name in giant red letters you could see miles away: Caesars, Trump Plaza, Tropicana. It was like The New York Times Large Type Edition of casinos.

  My first stop was the Taj Mahal. It was the gaudiest, ugliest, most pretentious casino in Atlantic City—just Bravelli’s speed. I parked my Blazer in the Taj’s monstrous garage, and headed for the casino floor.

  I cruised through the cluster of craps tables, then past the long line of blackjack dealers, then onto roulette and baccarat and the other games. The casino wasn’t crowded yet, so it was pretty easy to get a look at everyone there. No sign of Michelle or Bravelli. The slot machines were in four major areas, and it didn’t take long to glide through each. Not bad, I thought—I’d covered the whole floor in twenty minutes.

  I made quick tours of Caesars and Trump Plaza as well. But by the time I got back to the Taj to begin my second round, it was far more crowded than before. Atlantic City was kicking into high gear for the night, and the casinos were becoming swirling streams of gamblers. By my third trip through the Taj, just after midnight, faces were blurring together. All I saw were row after row of flashing, clanging slot machines, and craps tables surrounded by shouting men, and endless blackjack games, each half hidden in a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

  I’ll never find them, I thought. I don’t even have a chance of finding them. But then I had an idea: maybe I could catch them as they came back from Atlantic City. They’d almost certainly be coming down Walnut—it was the only major westbound street with timed lights. Everyone took it. All I’d have to do is wait at 67th, where Westmount began, and watch for the white Lexus.

  I got back into town a little over an hour later, and swung by Bravelli’s house, just to make sure the car wasn’t there, then over to Michelle’s apartment. Her windows up on the third floor were dark, though that didn’t tell me anything.

  Then I spotted the Organized Crime Unit’s beat-up white van parked directly across the street from the clubhouse. Not a bad idea, I should have thought of it myself. Everyone in Bravelli’s crew would recognize that van—in fact, I knew that was the idea. The mob guys would assume that police were doing surveillance on the clubhouse, not watching the apartment two doors down.

  At least I didn’t have to worry about blowing their cover. I got out of my Blazer and walked up to the van. There was no one in the front, but I knocked on the passenger door. It was dark inside—for a moment I thought it might be empty. But then I could see someone coming from the back, climbing into the passenger seat. It was Doc. He rolled down the window.

  “What are you doin’ here, Eddie?”

  “Has she come back yet?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Who you got in there?” I asked.

  “Take a look.” Doc opened the door, and I stuck my head in. On the metal-mesh benches in the back were three
black-suited guys from SWAT, drinking coffee and holding automatic weapons on their laps. One was looking out the van’s back window at the street in front of Michelle’s apartment.

  A few minutes later, I was parked in my Blazer on 67th facing Walnut, waiting for the Lexus. Maybe those SWAT guys would be able to protect Michelle, maybe not. And suppose she didn’t go back to her apartment—then they wouldn’t be of any help to her at all.

  As I sat there, I realized that just two blocks to the north, at 67th and Chestnut, was where Jeff had been shot the night before. I knew there’d be no sign now of what had happened at that intersection. Everything had been swept away. But that’s how it always is—someone’s gunned down on the sidewalk, and that night or the next day, the TV cameras find the splotches of dried blood. Soon, though, a neighbor comes by and hoses off the sidewalk, or it rains, and people walk over the spot like nothing had ever happened there. The only reminder is a remnant of yellow police tape still tied around a stop sign or street light.

  If you’re a cop in one place for a while, you can go down any block and say, a woman was shot in that house; an old man was stabbed on the sidewalk here; the intersection coming up was where Darren Roberts of Two Squad got broad-sided one night by a drunk driver. Every cop has a living street guide in his head. Everyone else just sees empty streets and sidewalks.

  Eventually it started getting light. From the apartments over the stores, and the row houses down the block, men with white T-shirts and jeans and brown work boots emerged, carrying lunch pails or small red Igloo Playmate coolers. The black construction workers came out on one side, the whites on the other. As they got into their cars and pickup trucks, they stole glances at each other across the street, but didn’t say anything, didn’t even nod hello. They all had to know each other—hell, I bet they usually gave each other rides to work—but today there was an invisible wall that no one seemed willing to push through. And that surprised me, that the black community’s anger was no longer limited to the police.

  I was starting to get a little sleepy, and it was hard looking at every car coming down Walnut. After a while I tried just watching for colors, just looking for white, letting the other colors fade by. Yellow, green, light blue, deep green, black. It was very relaxing, very peaceful. The cars were swooshing by, their sounds growing softer and softer …

  A bus honked its horn from far away, and I opened my eyes and had to blink and squint to keep out the bright sun. The sidewalks were full of people. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard: 10:52.

  I started the Blazer, and screeched onto Walnut, then raced I down to a nearby 7-Eleven. The newspapers were right inside the door, I grabbed a Post and started looking for the gossip column. As I flipped through the pages, I caught sight of Jay Bender’s smirking photo next to his name, which was written in huge letters. I scanned down to the fourth item. There it was:

  We all were saddened by the senseless death five weeks ago of Police Officer STEPHEN RYDER, son of Commissioner BEN RYDER. Now, apparently, Stephen’s sister, Sgt. MICHELLE RYDER, has left the force.

  Michelle was recently spotted doing manicures at Angela’s, a beauty salon on Locust Street in the city’s Westmount section. As she goes from clipping criminals to clipping nails, we wish her the best of luck in her new career.

  A true pinnacle of journalism. I had no doubt that by now, Bravelli had seen the article. I pictured in my mind someone in his crew reading the Post over coffee at the Walnut Diner, yelling “Holy shit!” and then leaping up to run to the shiny new pay phone by the door.

  The other manicurist at Angela’s had quit, so Michelle was the only one the place had. It wouldn’t be hard for Bravelli to figure out who Lisa Puccini really was.

  I threw the paper back on the pile—I wasn’t paying for that crap—and walked back to my Blazer, furious at myself. I had the chance yesterday, I thought, I should have called Bender and told him that if he printed the story, I’d kill him. He didn’t know who I was. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  My first instinct was to get back over to Michelle’s apartment. A minute later I was there, swinging around the corner onto Locust.

  The white van was gone. Had something happened to Michelle? I found a pay phone nearby and called Doc’s number at OC. Doc isn’t here, Stan Allen told me. He’s out on the street.

  I paged Doc and keyed in the number of my pager. Then I called the Commissioner’s office. He wasn’t there, all I could do was leave my pager number with the sergeant.

  Where was Michelle? I went across the street to the door leading up to her apartment, then up the stairs. Her door showed no signs of forced entry, at least that was good. I pounded on the door, called Michelle’s name. No answer.

  I went back downstairs and into Angela’s, breathing in the odors of sweet shampoos. Three women were cutting customers’ hair; one turned and gave me a can-I-help-you look, with the relaxed confidence of an owner. She was willowy, with short dark hair and big round brown eyes, and she paused, mid-snip, as I approached.

  “Are you Angela?” I asked.

  “Yeah?” Her eyes narrowed. Obviously I didn’t come in to get my hair cut.

  “You seen Lisa today?”

  “Who are you?”

  I pulled out my wallet and showed her my badge. She stepped away from her customer, and sort of half pushed me toward the front desk. The other haircutters were looking.

  “You see the Post today?” I asked.

  Her lips got tight. “Yeah, I seen the Post.”

  “You know Lisa was going out with Mickey Bravelli.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I have to find her before Bravelli does.”

  “What was she doin’ workin’ here, playin’ a joke? You don’t joke around with these people.” It was like she was insulted anyone working for her could be that stupid.

  “Have you seen her?” I asked.

  “She was supposed to be in at nine.”

  “Can I check her apartment?”

  Angela snorted. “I ain’t lettin’ you up there.”

  “What if she’s lying there dead, and it comes out that you wouldn’t give police access.”

  Angela bit her lip. “Karen,” she called over. “Give Miss Caparella a People magazine to read. I gotta go upstairs for a minute.”

  Michelle’s apartment was dark, and we went from room to room, with Angela switching on and off lights. It was like she was showing off the place to someone who might rent it.

  Nothing seemed disturbed. If any of Bravelli’s people had been in here, they had been very neat about it. I checked under the bed and in the closets, including the one I had hidden in.

  My pager went off.

  “Do you mind if I use the phone?” I asked Angela.

  “It’s Michelle’s phone, not mine.”

  I called the number. It was Doc.

  “What happened?” I asked. “How come you’re not in front of the apartment?”

  “The detail was canceled,” he said. “About an hour after you came by last night.”

  “Who canceled it?”

  “We got a call from Lanier, he said the Commissioner was pulling the detail.”

  “Lanier? Did he say why?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You should have stayed there until you were sure Michelle was all right.”

  I hung up and turned to Angela. “If you see Michelle,” I said, “make sure you tell her about the Post article.”

  “Oh, I’ll tell her,” said Angela. “I’m going to sit her down and find out what this is all about.” Her lips got tight again. “You don’t know these people, you don’t know what they’re capable of.”

  Throughout the day, I made the rounds through Westmount again and again. Every once in a while I’d call Michelle’s apartment, and then I’d call Sammy at district headquarters. Anybody been reported shot, I asked?

  “This is the t
enth time you’ve called,” Sammy would say. “Nothing’s going on. It’s quiet for once.”

  “How about gunshots, anybody even report any gunshots?”

  “Not since you called five minutes ago.”

  Just before six o’clock I stopped by the district. As I walked into the operations room Sammy shook his head, like, Here comes the crazy man.

  “What’d you do, sleep in your clothes?” he asked.

  “I think so.”

  “You know, they do have these modern inventions. They’re called beds.”

  “Sammy, have I told you today to fuck off?”

  “Not yet.”

  In unison, we both said, “Then fuck off.”

  He was laughing, but then he saw the worry in my face. “You gonna tell me what this is all about?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s a very long story.”

  “By the way,” said Sammy, “the captain’s looking for you. He’s in his office.”

  My pager went off again. I walked over to an empty desk and called the number—this time it was the Commissioner.

  “Sorry it took so long to get back to you,” he said. “Michelle’s all right.”

  “Oh, man, am I glad to hear that. You talked with her?”

  “Late last night.”

  “So you were the one who pulled the detail from in front of her apartment.”

  “Yes, of course.” He seemed surprised I was asking. “From in front of both her apartments. We don’t need them anymore, she’s in a safe place.”

  “Where? Where is she?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  The Commissioner said he was attending an all-day conference in Valley Forge, and he had to be there for an evening session. He had a few minutes after the dinner there, and he suggested we meet halfway, on Lincoln Drive at Wissahickon Creek. We agreed on eight o’clock.

  I stopped by Kirk’s office. He stood up from his desk, and walked around to meet me.

  “Just the man I want to see,” he said. “I need you to go out on a complaint against police.”

  “I’m not here today,” I said. “I’m off.”