by Robert Child
Chapter 2
ARCH STREET, PHILADELPHIA, WEEKDAY MORNING
A jet-black-haired white man, 40, mustache, in a brown Taurus flashes his ID to a Deputy U.S. Marshal as he enters the government parking garage. This same man later leaves a street vendor, holding a large steaming coffee. Continuing to walk, he grabs a Daily News out of a red vending box. The headline reads: SCARPONI BACK FROM VACATION
Spying the headline, he shakes his head and walks past an embossed emblem on the facade of a brown building that reads ‘FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION’.
FUGITIVE SQUAD ROOM, FBI HEADQUARTERS, PHILADELPHIA
Early morning din is peppered with comments about last night’s Flyers game as agents continue to arrive and remove their suit jackets. Special Agent Frank Murray, Black-Irish Catholic from Boston with accent and temper to match, enters with his large coffee and Daily News. Sean Jones, a younger agent, new to the Squad, calls out to him.
“Frank, hey Frank, New York on line two.”
Murray eyes the phone, knowing these calls never mean good news. Reaching his desk, he picks up the receiver of a beige blinking phone and punches the button.
“Murray.”
“Got another one, Frank, need your help.” It’s Agent Stan Mancini from the New York FBI Office at Federal Plaza. He’s gazing at a folder full of graphic black and white crime scene photos.
Murray frowns, reddens. “Look, I’m done doing favors, Stan, I–”
Mancini interrupts, “Six-year-old, strangled, sodomized–”
Murray holds up his hand, as he tries to stop Mancini, as if he can see him in New York. “Mancini, stop sending me these. I’ve been trying to get off this damn squad. Call another agent.”
“Can’t. I want to keep my job. And face it, Frank, these cases are what you were made to do.”
Murray sighs.
Mancini makes it personal, “Look, Frank, the guy killed a kid. A little girl.” And I got a phone lead on him in Philly.
Silence as Murray ponders how much evil he has seen in the world. The fugitive squad was a constant parade of depravity and dirt bags, always the next guy worse than the last. It had taken a toll. But Frank survived by becoming a criminal’s worst nightmare. He did take it personal, and his methods had gotten him in hot water more than once. To him – it was anything to get the job done. That’s why they kept him around.
“Alright, Stan, send the Air-Tel. I’ll find him.”
“God help this guy when you do,” Stan mutters.
“I don’t think God will have anything to do with it,” Frank says as he hung up the phone and picked up his newspaper again. Scarponi’s tanned smiling face smirks from the front page.
D’ABRUZZO’S FLOWER SHOP, SOUTH PHILADELPHIA
Scarponi, in his signature windbreaker, walks determinedly down the sidewalk with another man, heavyset, carrying a spiral notebook. Nick “The Crow” Consiglioni, 42, con-man supreme who’d sell his firstborn to the highest bidder, wears a golf shirt and sweatpants. The men reach a flower shop and Scarponi enters while The Crow hangs outside for a smoke.
Older, dapper Frankie “Flowers” D’Abruzzo, 60, rushes around from behind the counter for a proper greeting. He kisses Scarponi on both cheeks.
“I heard youse was back in town. Youse in all the papers.”
Scarponi nods, “Frankie, I need to do a special delivery.”
“Anything, anything,” D’Abruzzo pants as he reaches for his order book.
Outside, Consiglioni throws down his butt, grinds it into the sidewalk, and looks in the store window. Scarponi points to some white chrysanthemums as Frankie looks at him oddly. Consiglioni turns back to the street, smiles. It was good to have “the little guy” back.
FUGITIVES SQUAD ROOM, FBI HEADQUARTERS, PHILADELPHIA
Young agent Sean Jones hurries through the squad room with a piece of paper and arrives at Frank’s desk.
“Frank, that trace came back, you were right, North Philly.”
Murray grabs the paper, scans it and smiles.
EL BOHIO TAVERN, NORTH PHILADELPHIA
At the corner of a dreary line of row houses in the Puerto Rican section of Philadelphia on North 5th Street, a bar with red curtains drawn open has a small cardboard “open” sign hanging from a nail inside the door.
Short, sweaty, foul-mouthed tavern owner, Raul Gomez, 30, with a half-finished cigarette hanging from his mouth, watches a Phillies Game. At a beat-up table in the corner, three rough Hispanic men, wearing all black, play pool.
Murray pulls up into a space in front of the tavern. Alongside him is a younger agent, Jose Diaz, 28 and eager.
“That New York fugitive used a pay phone in this building. Now, Diaz, follow my lead. You’re only here to translate,” Murray says, finishing with a nod that asks, “got it?”
As Murray and Diaz enter, Murray surveys the room in the way that only an experienced agent could. Then, he directs his attention to Gomez.
“Afternoon Ra-oool. How’s the game?’
Gomez starts shaking his head.
“Ah you motherfuckin’ feds, ain’t ya got nothin’ better to do, man? I’m sick of you bustin’ in my place.”
A loud click of switchblades echoes from the corner of the bar. The three Hispanic men have suspended their game. Diaz opens his jacket slightly, revealing his waist holster, but Murray waves him off.
Gomez continues his rant.
“I told you I run a clean place – no drugs. You scare away all my customers.”
Murray, smirking, slowly looks around the virtually empty room.
Gomez reaches for a wooden baseball bat under the bar.
“I see a few dirt bags – I don’t see any customers. Agent Diaz, you see any customers?”
“None,” Diaz icily replies.
“Ah, jódale y su compañero pequeño de asno!” Gomez counters.
Diaz’s face reddens and he steps forward, but Murray turns and stops him short.
“Care to translate?”
Diaz, coldly, “You don’t want to know.”
A crack cuts the air. Gomez pulls back the bat he just slammed on the bar.
Murray and Diaz instinctively draw their .357 Magnums.
Diaz covers the men near the pool table and shouts, “FBI! Drop the knives. Manos Arriba!”
Clinking blades drop to the floor as the men raise their hands.
Murray leans in to Gomez.
“Raul, you and I need to chat,” and he waves his Magnum in the direction of the men’s room. Complying, Gomez throws the bat on the bar. Murray grabs him by the collar and pushes him hard into the filthy bathroom. Inside, Gomez turns back to Frank with a blank look.
Murray slides his gun back into his waist holster.
“Baseball bat, nice touch – even I reacted.”
Gomez shrugs.
“Just curious, what’d you say in Spanish?’
Gomez, embarrassed shakes his head as Murray pulls a photo from inside his jacket. It’s a Hispanic-looking man, stringy hair, tank top – the escaped fugitive from New York.
“Have you seen this guy? He raped and murdered a six-year-old kid. Traced his number to a pay phone here.”
Finding a cigarette in his pants and lighting it, Gomez confirms the trace.
“Yeah, he’s been livin’ upstairs about a week in number five. Think he’s out some place now.”
Murray, hopeful, “You got the key?”
“No, man, just his,” as Gomez puts his cigarette out on the floor.
“I’ll be back early morning with some more agents.” Murray returns the photo to his jacket and begins to turn.
Gomez suddenly becomes nervous.
“Hey, wait a minute, Frank.”
Frank stares down Gomez, quizzically.
“You know, you gotta make it look right. You know.”
Gomez nods to the bar outside. He’s got a reputation to uphold as well as a nice side income with the feds. He doesn’t want any suspicion.
/> Murray rolls his eyes as Gomez rushes to the sink and grabs a bunch of paper towels. They’ve done this dance before.
Murray wraps the towels around his right hand reluctantly.
“You know, Raul, this is getting old.”
Gomez shrugs.
Murray winds up and slams his wrapped hand into a stall door.
Gomez hangs a moment, surprised at the force of Frank’s punch, then drops to the floor with a pained shout, “Ahhh!”
Diaz and the other men around the pool table wince at the sound. Murray, disgusted, stares down at the bar owner sprawled across the floor.
“You know, Gomez, you gotta work on your timing. Now, stay down a couple of minutes while we get out of here.” Gomez nods and gives a thumbs-up.
Murray exits the men’s room rubbing his fist. Diaz, gun still trained, questions Murray with his eyes. Murray, not breaking stride, provides an explanation loud enough for the whole bar to hear.
“Come on, let’s go. Raul’s got the shits – didn’t want to be disturbed.”
Both walking briskly to their car, Murray turns to Diaz.
“He’s a long-time source. Our scumbag’s got a room upstairs.”
SUBURBAN HOME, RICHBORO, PA
Front door swings open filling a foyer with late afternoon light as two children, a seven-year-old boy with dark hair and a six-year-old girl with golden curls color at a breakfast table near the kitchen. Frank enters his home carrying a six-pack.
Stevie Murray jumps off his chair and runs towards his father.
“Daddy!”
Picking the boy up, “Hey, Tiger.”
His girl, Carrie, remains sullen pouting in her chair.
“Daddy, Stevie said I can’t use the blue markers cause that’s a boy color.”
Frank calming her, “You can use any colors you want, honey. There’s no boy or girl colors.” As he continues into the kitchen, he pauses and kisses Carrie on the top of the head.
Carrie sticks her tongue out at Stevie. He reacts.
“Dad!”
Putting an immediate stop to the war, “Look, guys, I just got home, alright? Settle down.” His patience is thin these days.
Moving quickly around the kitchen, Murray’s wife, Marlene, a 37-year-old who is attractive in a harsh way with nice curves, is a dissatisfied gold-digger who hasn’t hit pay dirt yet. In a red dress and in a rush, she appears dressed to go out. A big pot of water boils on the stove.
“Hi, hun. The spaghetti has another five minutes. Sauce is on the counter. I have to go finish getting ready,” she says as she slides past Frank, minus a kiss.
“Getting ready? For what?” Frank asks, trying to remember if she had mentioned anything about tonight.
She responds patronizingly.
“I told you, Sandy wanted to do a girls night out.”
Frank’s brain searches the memory banks.
“I won’t be late.” Not waiting for his reaction, she continues upstairs.
Frank lets it go. At least I bought beer, he thinks as he returns to the kids.
“Okay, guys, go on upstairs and wash up for dinner. I guess it’s just us tonight.”
The kids reluctantly trudge upstairs as Murray loosens his tie and trails behind them. Moving slow from the long day, Frank stops at the top of the stairs and sees the hall bathroom door ajar. Marlene is in the mirror adjusting her hair, trying to make it look perfect. She picks up a small spray bottle of perfume and gives a quick general burst. She sprays a second time at her cleavage.
Murray’s face tightens as the hall bathroom door shuts.
SUBURBAN STREET, RICHBORO, PA – NEXT MORNING
A Bucks County school bus stops for Carrie and Stevie on a corner with six other children. Marlene and two other mothers, around 35, wait off to the side. Marlene, looking tired in a nurse’s uniform underneath an overcoat yawns and yells after her kids.
“Have a great day, guys!”
She turns and continues the half block back to her home.
A white FTD van passes her and pulls into her driveway. Marlene looks at it oddly, then smiles from a secret pleasure and picks up her pace to meet the van.
A young FTD deliveryman dressed in white with a cap exits the van and goes around to the back. Opening the double doors, he grabs an arrangement of white flowers and picks up a clipboard. Looking strangely back around at the house, he is jarred by Marlene’s excited arrival.
“Are those for me?” she bubbles.
The deliveryman looks again at the house and back to Marlene.
“Murray?”
“Yes,” she says as she reaches for the arrangement.
“Then, I guess these are for you.” Letting go of the flowers, he continues. “It’s funny I usually deliver this kind to funeral homes.”
“What?” Marlene blurts out.
“Yeah, you have to sign for ‘em.”
She holds up the card.