“That’s against the rules of good journalism,” he said stubbornly.
“This will be another great story for you.”
“Like I said, I love your article.”
“Just keep Willie’s death out of the paper for a few days and stay out of my way. Okay?”
“Okay boss,” Jerry said. “I’ll be invisible.”
“That would be nice.”
I went to my office and found Lou there.
“You must be feeling better,” I said, sitting in front of his desk.
“I’m getting there.”
“Good, get to work. I need one of your illegal reports on a Vincent Pestrito from Brooklyn, New York. He’s a priest. I want to know if he has cousins named Anthony and Gino Pestrito and what their stories are.”
“When do you need it?”
“Now. Drop everything.”
“What about Grover?” Lou asked.
“Fuck Grover. He’s being held in federal custody. Let him rot.”
“Where is he?”
“Palm Beach or Miami,” I said. “The Feds have a long list of people who want to kill him.”
“I hope I’m on it?”
“You’re second.”
“Who’s first?”
“Joy,” I told Lou. “How’s she doing?”
“The Girl Wonder is unbelievable. She does rehab three times a day.”
“She wants to be ready to walk down the aisle.”
He smiled. “Where should I call you when I finish this report?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you’re done.”
He stopped smiling.
“Weary Willie died today,” I said. “Now it’s murder or manslaughter. I need this information.”
“I’m on it.”
“It’s strictly confidential.”
“Understood.”
Three hours later I got an e-mail from his adjoining office: You think this is easy? I’ve condensed and added comments.
Name: Vincent Pestrito
DOB: February 12, 1959
Born: Brooklyn, NY
Education: Bay Ridge High. Entered the seminary
Father: Santino, had one brother, Guido, who had two sons, Gino and Anthony
Occupation: Priest, Brooklyn, Flushing, Staten Island; 1996: Boca Raton
Marital Status: Married, 7 children - just kidding, I’m tired. Sorry.
Criminal Record: None (yet) …
Name: Gino Pestrito, Vincent’s first cousin
DOB: April 22, 1960
Born: Brooklyn, NY
Education: 11th grade
Marital Status: Married, widower
Father: Guido; had one brother, Santino, who had one son, Vincent
Current Residence: Boca Raton, FL
Occupation: Janitor
Criminal Record: Extensive
Name: Anthony Pestrito, Gino Pestrito’s younger brother
Other Facts: Same as above …
I drove to Rutherford Park looking for Bailey. I found her under the covers, under the boardwalk. My flashlight illuminated her face. Her eyes were closed, and she was motionless. She looked dead.
“Bailey,” I said in a hushed tone. “It’s me, Eddie.”
“Willie died today,” she said, barely moving her lips.
“I know.”
“Did you know he was my husband?”
“Your sister told me you were married. The way you took care of Willie made me think he might be the guy.”
“His name was Brian Sweeney.” Her eyes opened, glistening with tears. “I made such a mess of his life, Eddie. He had a wife he loved, but she died. I fooled him into marrying me, and then I killed his unborn child because I was driving drunk. While I was in the hospital recovering, Brian ran away. I think he just snapped from all the losses he suffered and couldn’t take it anymore. When I recovered from my injuries, I ran away, too.”
“To find him?”
“To lose me. I was a drop-dead alcoholic who screwed up everything I touched. I was a burden to my parents, tormented my sister, killed my unborn child, and destroyed my husband’s life. I didn’t want to be Bailey Carr or Sweeney anymore. I left home with three bags of stuff and became Three Bag Bailey.”
“Where did you go?”
“I was so drunk most of the time I didn’t know where I was.”
“How did you survive?”
“I had some money when I left home. That lasted a while, and when it ran out, I stole, worked, begged, and a few times I sold myself to men. I wasn’t always old and ugly.”
“Your sister said you were beautiful.”
“She did?” Bailey seemed surprised. “Well, I guess I was. It didn’t last long.”
“You’ve had a hard life. You beat yourself up physically and mentally.”
She nodded. “One night I woke up in a train yard in North Platte, Nebraska, with no idea how I got there. I bummed a cup of coffee in a diner, and I guess I passed out. The lady who owned the place got me to a local church that had a detox and rehab facility in the basement. The priest who ran the place wouldn’t let me out till I was totally clean. When I was released, I took the next train out of town and never had another drink. I can’t say why.”
“You were ready for a change,” I said. “How did you find Brian after so much time?”
“It was totally by chance. Over a year ago, I was in a Savannah Greyhound bus station trying to bum a ride anywhere. I was looking for something to eat in a trash bin, and a picture in a discarded newspaper caught my eye. I took the paper out of the trash and saw it was a photo of a sad-faced clown next to an article entitled ‘Weary Willie - Homeless in Boca.’ It was written by your friend Jerry Small.”
“Someone must have taken a bus from Boca to Savannah and tossed the paper. Don’t tell me you recognized Brian in all that makeup after more than twenty years?”
“I didn’t recognize him. I just knew it was him.”
“How could you?”
“Brian Sweeney idolized Emmett Kelly, the original Weary Willie. After I lost the baby, I guess Brian didn’t want to be himself anymore and became Weary Willie.”
Glenn Kessler, a good psychiatrist and lousy investor, told me that people will abandon one life for another if they’re traumatized enough. It was possible this had happened to Brian Sweeney, but I wasn’t convinced.
“Brian was a kid in the fifties when Willie’s popularity was declining,” I said. “In those days Brian had Ted Williams, Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle to idolize. Why pick a sad-faced, old clown?”
“Because Emmett Kelly Senior, Weary Willie the First, came from Sedan, Kansas, and so did we,” Bailey said. “When Brian’s life fell apart, he ran away from his hometown and chose to become his hometown’s hero.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
“There’s an Emmett Kelly Museum in Sedan even though Senior left Kansas years ago. Emmett Junior was born in Texas and became Willie the Second. His son Paul was born in Arizona, and he became Willie the Third until he went to jail for murder. Brian Sweeney became Willie the Fourth until he died today.”
“Did you go to Boca right after you saw that picture in the paper?” I asked.
“It took me a while to work up the courage.”
“Did you find him right away when you got here?”
“It didn’t take long, but I was afraid to approach him. What the hell was I going to say after all the years?”
“‘I’m sorry’ would have been a good start.”
“I decided to watch after him for a while,” she said. “I talked to the other homeless in the area about him. No one knew much. He was quiet and harmless. Not very social. I ate lunch sitting right next to him at the soup kitchen one day and said hello. He smiled, but I could tell he had no idea who I was.”
“Are you sure it was Brian? It’s been a long time, and you’ve both killed a lot of brain cells along the way.”
“It was him. And as soon as I found him again, he ge
ts killed. I’m such a jinx.”
She started crying full force and put her head on my shoulder. I held her, saying nothing and letting her cry herself dry. After a half hour, she pushed herself away and reached for something behind her. “Look what I got.”
I shone the flashlight where her hands were fidgeting. She held a stack of clothes. It took me a moment to realize what it was. “Willie’s clothes?”
“I took all his stuff,” she said. “The hospital doesn’t know.”
“Aren’t you going to bury Brian in Willie’s clothes?”
“I don’t know what to do. The morgue still has his body because some nitwit is delaying his burial. When they release him, I’ll get him dressed proper.”
I didn’t bother to tell her I was the nitwit holding things up.
“I even have the fake flower he wore in his lapel.”
I reached for Willie’s derby and put it on my head. “How do I look?”
She sniffled. “With makeup, you look like him. You’re about the same size.”
I took Willie’s jacket and tried it on. It was baggy like a clown’s suit … but it fit.
“Bailey, you just gave me an idea.”
“I did?”
“Want to help me capture the people who hurt Willie and send them to jail?”
“Sure. What can I do?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep.” On an impulse, I kissed her forehead.
“Eddie,” she called after me as I departed, “thank you for being my friend.”
“My pleasure.”
I drove to my apartment. Claudette asked where I’d been.
“I spent some time with my other girlfriend.”
“How is Bailey?” she asked, not taking her eyes off America’s Got Talent, on television.
“She’s struggling with survivor’s guilt.”
“Do you really think Weary Willie was her husband?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said, grabbing a ladder and my Spy Master camera.
“No happy, romantic ending?”
“Sorry.”
“Where are you going?”
“Making preparations to catch two thugs and a priest.”
“Have fun,” she said without looking up.
We all deal with apprehension in our own way.
It was after 10:00 p.m. when I parked my car two blocks from St. Mary’s and walked through the woods to the side of the church. I was carrying the little ladder, a fake pen that was really a flashlight, and my Spy Master camera. Silhouetted by moonlight, standing on top of the Dumpster, Bailey’s raccoon guarded its food supply. I altered my course to avoid a confrontation with the little prick and moved quietly toward the rear staircase. I double-checked for cars in the lot. There were none.
The light over the door at the bottom of the stairs was out. It was always out, and I wondered if it was broken. I went down the stairs quietly, and when I got to the bottom, I opened the short, four-foot ladder and climbed the four steps so that I was eye level with the unused light. I removed my fake-pen flashlight from my shirt pocket, turned it on, and stuck it in my mouth. I aimed it at the outdoor light fixture screwed into the stucco wall. I affixed the Spy Master camera to the top of the metal shade over the lightbulb, angling it properly so the camera could video the entire staircase. I checked the remote system, and it worked. I could put the camera off and on from about twenty-five yards, which was plenty for my purposes. I folded the ladder and got the hell out of there.
The scene was set for tomorrow night.
Mr. Johnson and I woke up at the same time the next morning, surprising Claudette and me. “You must be doing something dangerous today,” she said, patting MJ as if he were her pet schnauzer. “Regrettably I have to be at the clinic early. Sorry.”
“What am I supposed to do with him all day?”
“Tell him to be patient until tonight.”
“Tonight’s no good. I’m working late beating up some people.”
“I’m sure they deserve it, dear,” she said, stroking my face.
Blind faith eliminates the need for a lot of conversation.
I went to the office. A note on my desk from Lou told me he was picking up Joy from the hospital and bringing her to the Embassy
Suites. Call me if you need me, he wrote.
I had planned on reviewing my plans for tonight with Lou and decided to use this opportunity to visit Doc Hurwitz’s grave instead. I took a ride to the Fort Lauderdale nonsectarian cemetery where Doc had made arrangements. He gave instructions, a month in advance of his death, for a tombstone to be erected immediately after he was buried rather than waiting the customary year. It read simply:
SOLOMON “DOC” HURWITZ
MARCH 20, 1925 - APRIL 3, 2006
I looked at the dash between his birth and the date of his death and thought about how he had lived his life. He was a child of the Great Depression who fought his way up in the world the only way he knew how. I had tried to put him in jail several times, but now I was at his gravesite to say goodbye.
“Hi Doc,” I said to the stone and felt like an idiot. “Your letter was a big hit, and it’s going to help put those clinics out of business. Thanks. By the way, I understood your message about Fabio Cunio and had a good laugh. I can’t believe you’re conning me even after you’re dead.
“I want you to know that a new bill designed to close the pill mills will be submitted to the Florida legislature soon. Two contacts of mine are writing the legislation, and they agreed to my request that they name it the Shoshanna Bill. I hope this helps you rest in peace.”
I don’t believe Doc heard a word and I don’t believe there’s an afterlife. But when I was finished talking to the headstone, I felt better.
I returned to the office and busied myself preparing for the evening’s activity. I checked my equipment, my time schedule, and my strategy. It was important to surprise, confuse, and unsettle the enemy before the battle began. As with all battle plans, my success depended on many factors. But, Sun Tzu, in his book The Art of War, wrote, If you know your enemy and know yourself … you don’t have to worry about the outcome of any battle, or something like that.
It was early afternoon when a tall, thin young man walked into the office. He looked familiar. When he smiled, I recognized him.
“Teofilo,” I said, returning his smile. I got up from my desk and hugged him. “How are you?”
“Lucky to be alive.”
“Me, too.”
We hugged like survivors.
I invited him to sit down. “Tell me about it,” I said. “I didn’t see much.”
“It happened so fast. The gunmen walked in and started shooting. I got up from the stool and must have caught one gunman’s attention. He came towards me and aimed his weapon at my face. Just before he pulled the trigger, Mr. Brown stepped in front of me and lunged at the shooter. I heard an explosion, and the next thing I know I’m on the floor with Mr. Brown on top of me. I was covered in blood. I heard a lot of gunfire after that, and I guess I passed out because I woke up in the hospital. When I got home, I heard you survived and tried calling. I never got you.”
“I’ve been a little busy.”
“I know. I read about you in the papers.”
“So what have you been doing?” I asked.
“Not much. I still have to get a job.”
“Do you still want to box?” I asked, remembering our last conversation before the shooting.
“I would love to box.”
“You’d need your mother’s permission. Will she let you fight?”
“Since I survived the massacre, my mother believes I am destined for great things. She feels it was fate that brought us together.”
“I’d like to meet her. You told me your mother had personal reasons for leaving Miami. Is there anything I should know?”
“I was her reason. We moved in with family in Miami, but they were involved in many illegal things. As soon as she got a job in
this area, we moved. She said it was all meant to be.”
I’m not a big believer in fate. I believe life is random, like missing a boat or dodging a bullet. But anything’s possible.
I called the PAL gym and got Barry Anson on the phone. Barry ran the place and coached the fighters. I asked him if he had time to look at a new prospect.
“It’s a quiet day. Come over whenever you want,” he said.
“How about now? I have a busy afternoon and night.”
“I’ll be here, and Steve Doherty is working out for the next hour. Maybe Steve can take a look at him, too.”
Steve was a seventeen-year-old light heavyweight and our best fighter. He knew talent. “Great,” I told Barry. “I’m on my way.”
We were at the gym on Second Avenue in ten minutes. I introduced Teofilo to Barry and Steve. “Looks like a welterweight to me,” Barry said, handing Teofilo a pair of gloves and head gear. “I’ll spar with him and see what he knows.”
“I’ll spar with him,” Steve said. “It’ll be a good workout for me.”
“You’re too big and too experienced for him,” Barry said.
“I won’t punch,” Steve said. “I’ll just move around the ring and let him do the fighting.”
When Teofilo took off his shirt to get in the ring, we were all impressed. He had a wiry fighter’s build and reminded me of Sugar Ray Leonard. Steve was twenty pounds heavier, but when they faced off in the ring, he looked twice the size. “Show me what you got,” Steve told Teofilo, and smiled. The kid from Cuba raised his hands and began to move effortlessly. He swayed like a cobra and mesmerized us. He struck without warning and hit the more experienced fighter repeatedly. When he threw a three-punch combination, he rocked Steve on his heels. Surprisingly, Teofilo stopped punching and with his gloves urged Steve to come after him and punch. Steve looked at Barry for guidance. Barry nodded. Steve moved forward and threw a wide-arced left hook that thudded off Teofilo’s right shoulder. The force of the blow knocked the smaller man sideways, and Steve moved forward to throw a right. Instead, he was greeted with two sharp left jabs and a beautiful right cross. Bam! Steve went down on one knee, more stunned than hurt. He got up embarrassed, ready to go after Teofilo.
“That’s enough,” Barry said, and the two fighters took a step back.
“Sorry,” the Cuban kid said to the bigger fighter.
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