The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  Teddy sat at Sanda’s little Formica table and watched her prepare a late-night snack. Sanda hadn’t protested when he called, hadn’t asked for an explanation, or even clarification. Just as well because Teddy didn’t have an answer that passed his personal smell test.

  Sanda turned to him, a plate of fried cheese perogies topped by a mound of sour cream in her hands. As she leaned down to lay the plate on the table, the edges of her semi-transparent peignoir came apart to reveal her small, round breasts. All very calculated, as Teddy knew, but effective nonetheless.

  Teddy cut one of the perogies in half, dipped one of the halves in the sour cream and stuffed it into his mouth. Maybe, he thought, this is what I want. Or maybe it’s all I can hope for.

  Handsome and very fit, with an easy charm when he chose to be charming, Teddy never had trouble meeting college-educated women who talked about their jobs and their friends and their Twitter followers and their Facebook postings, about where they spent their last vacation, where they hoped to spend their next vacation, the next bonus, the next pay raise, the riches they expected to accumulate through talent, hard work and perseverance.

  Somehow, they didn’t see themselves as the good worker ants they were. Somehow, they imagined themselves to be savage competitors, when they didn’t have an ounce of fight in them. Somehow, in the end, they turned him off.

  ‘You wanna quit?’ Teddy asked, the question out before he considered the consequences.

  ‘Quit? What am I to quit?’

  ‘Whoring.’

  ‘To do what, Teddy? Clean floors of rich peoples? I am illegal.’

  ‘I can set you up with a decent apartment, take care of your bills.’

  ‘Then I am not to quit whoring.’ Sanda flashed her wistful smile, the one that hinted of secrets Teddy would never know. ‘I am to be Teddy Winuk’s personal whore.’

  ‘You mean you wouldn’t be doing it out of love?’

  This time Sanda laughed. ‘When I arrive in America, I look in my suitcase, but love wasn’t there. Stupid Sanda. I must have forgotten to pack this.’

  Teddy was still chuckling when he finished his meal and pushed the plate away. ‘What if I gave you a job?’

  ‘Job for committing crimes?’ Sanda put a finger to Teddy’s lips. ‘If I am charged with crime I will be returned to Romania.’

  ‘I didn’t say there were no risks. But there are risks to what you’re already doing, like the chance that you’ll make a date with the wrong guy and get your throat slashed.’

  ‘You are doing this for what reason, Teddy? For love with me?’

  ‘Sanda, baby, I’ve never been to Romania. Hell, I don’t know if I could find it on a map. But I left my love somewhere, too. Maybe on a subway car in the Bronx.’

  FIFTEEN

  Boots hightailed it through the rain, from his car to Frankie Drago’s little porch. He rang the bell as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief still damp from his foray into Woodhull Medical Center.

  The porch light came on and Drago’s face appeared in a little window on the door. A second later, the door opened.

  ‘Hey, Boots, come on in. You want a beer?’

  Boots and Frankie Drago shared a common history that had culminated with Frankie sentenced to a year and a day in prison for involuntary manslaughter, the victim in this case being his sister, Angie. Released only a month before, Drago was already directing the bookmaking operation he’d turned over to a nephew while he was away. The kid had done a good job, according to his uncle, expanding the operation. As a result, Steve Marrone was now a junior partner.

  Prison had been good to Frankie, who’d done his time on an honor unit at the Otisville Correctional Facility. Now forty pounds lighter and toned by long hours in the weight room, he felt as if he’d somehow been returned to his youth. He felt vigorous, powerful, ready to meet any challenge. Except, possibly, Boots Littlewood’s sour expression.

  Boots followed Frankie into the kitchen. He accepted a beer and sat at the table. Nothing had changed in the months since he’d been here. The tail on the Minnie Mouse clock still twitched back and forth. The plastic tablecloth still depicted the glories of ancient Rome. Pale red curtains still covered the windows. Never mind that Angie Drago had died in this kitchen. Or that she’d been the one to decorate the room.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Drago asked.

  If Boots was the hard-ass detective who dragged a confession out of Frankie Drago, he was also the detective who guided Frankie through the criminal justice system and showed up at Frankie’s parole hearing.

  ‘I’ve reviewed the case many times and I believe Angela Drago’s death to be entirely unintentional,’ he’d explained to the Parole Board. ‘And I was there when Mr Drago made a full confession. At the time, he was about as remorseful as a man can be.’

  Boots had been wearing his usual three-piece suit, the vest a bit snug over his broad chest, his blue tie pulled tight against the collar of his white-on-white shirt. Between the clothes and the buzz cut and the big, square face, he’d been every inch the cop. You listened to him because he brought a cop’s cold calculation to his argument.

  Here it is. Take it or leave it.

  Lucky for Drago, the board had taken it, releasing him on his first try, and now Boots Littlewood held Frankie’s marker, which he’d continue to hold into the indefinite future. And Boots wasn’t shy about collecting debts. The guy had the instincts of a loan shark.

  ‘You heard what happened,’ Boots said. ‘With Carlo Pianetta?’

  ‘Yeah, he got caught with his pants down.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘C’mon, Boots, it was all over the news tonight. They found him with his pants down. Me, I’m thinkin’ he was a homo. I’m thinkin’ he was bending over when he bought the farm.’

  Boots closed his eyes for a moment. The whole point of confronting Johnny was to prevent him from learning this particular detail. ‘What exactly do you mean when you say “all over the news”?’

  ‘OK, I watched the story on the local news at six o’clock. Channel Four, NBC. They claimed the story was exclusive to them, but so what? Bet your mother on this one, Boots. By eleven o’clock, it’ll be on every station. And the front pages of the News and the Post tomorrow morning.’

  Calm down, Boots told himself. It’s done, finished, over. Some asshole at OCCB leaked the detail to his favorite reporter. Now you have to live with a new set of facts. A far more complicated set of facts. Like the fact that there’s only one innocent in this scenario and that’s the woman Carlo assaulted. You’ve been assuming that she’s safe, wherever she’s hiding, because Johnny Piano doesn’t have enough facts to put the pieces together. Now he does. And Johnny isn’t stupid enough to conclude that his son was gay. Carlo was a pussy hound if there ever was one. Sex was his only recreation. His wife knew it. His father knew it. Hell, his kids knew it.

  ‘Anything else?’ Boots asked. ‘Any other little details heretofore known only to investigators? Were there any pictures, for instance?’

  Frankie bridled at his reaction to the cop’s narrowed eyes and tightened fists. Boots had a volcanic temper when aroused and Frankie instinctively backed off, his tone somehow apologetic though he’d done nothing more than tell the truth.

  ‘No pictures. And really nothing more than what I already said. I mean the station was playin’ up the sex angle, which you gotta figure is natural. Nothin’ sells tickets like sex.’

  Boots twirled the beer bottle between his palms. He’d have to move faster now, much faster, and that meant a lot of guessing. Educated guessing, but guessing nonetheless.

  ‘What about on the street, Frankie? What are you hearin’ on the street?’ Boots raised a hand. ‘No, scratch that. I want to know if you pay off Johnny Pianetta.’

  ‘What kinda stupid question is that? Yeah, I give Johnny a piece. There’s no way I could operate in this end of Brooklyn without payin’ the tax.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Boots admitted. ‘I take it
back.’

  ‘Look, Boots, there’s advantages to payin’ off. Like a heads-up when Vice targets the neighborhood. Like nobody messes with me because they know I’m connected. Peace of mind, right? That’s what I get for the money.’

  Boots’s cell phone sounded the opening notes of the tune ‘Chances Are’, the Johnny Mathis version, his mother’s favorite song. Annoyed by the intrusion, he took the phone from his jacket and checked the screen. Lieutenant Sorrowful, another messenger with bad news.

  ‘What’s up, boss?’

  Boots listened for a moment, then said, ‘Will do.’ When he turned to Frankie, his smile was so nasty it could only have been inspired by infantile delight.

  ‘You know Silvy Mussa?’

  ‘Sure. He’s Johnny Piano’s main runner.’

  ‘He’s protected, right, by the same people protecting you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, someone forgot to watch his back. Silvy’s at Woodhull, recovering from three gunshot wounds.’

  Frankie’s chest tightened. ‘You think he was robbed?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m going to Woodhull to ask him.’ Boots finished his beer and laid the bottle on the table. Trailed by Frankie, he walked to the door and stared through the window at the splatter of raindrops on the pavement. ‘See, Frankie, the thing we really want to avoid is a mob war and there’s only one way to do it. The police have to take Carlo’s killer into custody. Otherwise, it’s gonna be family feud time. The killing could go on for years with nobody knowin’ who’s gonna be the next casualty.’

  ‘Fine, but what’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘The hit on Carlo? At first, I thought the shooter was somebody with a personal grudge, Carlo being a scumbag of the first magnitude. But that’s yesterday’s news, what with the assault on Silvy. There’s a crew out there willing to attack the Pianetta family, simple as that.’

  ‘And you think I know who they are?’

  ‘No, I’m thinkin’ that you speak to a lot of people in your line or work. I’m thinkin’ you’re gonna hear rumors. I know you’re not a rat, but I want you to pass them on to me. Think of it as self-preservation. I mean, you spend every Wednesday at Silky’s Bar collecting and payin’ off on the week’s bets. Have I got that right?’

  Frankie could have pointed out that Boots put down a bet on nearly every game the Yankees played, but he didn’t want to get sidetracked. ‘Not everyone loses, but, yeah, that’s the routine.’

  ‘So, how many people know that, Frankie? How many people know you’ll be carryin’ a bagful of money on Wednesday night when you finally head home? And who might they have told?’ Boots tapped Frankie on the chest. ‘Believe me, if the people who killed Carlo and shot Silvy aren’t afraid of Johnny, they’re not gonna be afraid of Frankie Drago.’

  Boots left it at that. He’d planted a seed and that, for the time being, would have to do. Still holding his cell phone in one hand, he hustled through the rain to his car, started the engine and turned the heater’s fan to full high. The engine was still warm. Thank the Lord.

  Relying on memory, Boots tapped out Jill Kelly’s cell number. Jill had asked for an adventure and now she’d get one.

  ‘Hey, Boots,’ Jill said, ‘I hope you’re not canceling out on me? I have enough trouble with my self-esteem.’

  In fact, as Boots knew, recklessness, not self-esteem, was Jill Kelly’s problem. But he didn’t argue the point, launching, instead, into a description of the NBC newscast and the assault on Silvy Mussa.

  ‘Right now, there’s a cop standing in front of Mussa’s door. Nobody in or out except family, which in Mussa’s case means no visitors at all. Silvy’s wife has Alzheimer’s. She’s in a nursing home and their only kid, a daughter, lives in Ann Arbor …’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘What could I say? I try to keep up.’

  In fact, Boots relied mainly on the three graces: Fianna Walsh, Dorota Nitski and Jenicka Balicki. Well into their seventies, gossip was their lifeblood, the nourishment that kept them going. On warm afternoons, they sat in front of Jenicka’s apartment and conferred with every passing neighbor. On Sunday mornings, they worked the crowd at their respective churches. On Wednesdays, bingo night, they plied the gamblers at St Anthony’s.

  Silvy Mussa’s wife, Anka, was the daughter of two Polish immigrants who’d moved into Greenpoint shortly before WWII. She and Jenicka Balicki had begun attending Mass at the Polish church when they were children. They’d continued the practice until Anka, in Jenicka’s words, couldn’t tell the difference between a confessional and a Porta Potti.

  ‘But this is the thing, Jill. When Johnny hears about the shooting, he’s gonna go crazy, what with his son already being portrayed as a homosexual. For sure, he’s gonna run over to the hospital. For sure, he’s gonna have a bodyguard with him, probably armed. For sure, I could use a little backup.’

  ‘Ahhhh.’ Jill’s little sigh of appreciation went right to Boots’s groin, danger being Jill’s foreplay of choice. ‘Gimme a second.’

  When she came back on, her tone was matter-of-fact. ‘It’s costin’ me, but Simone decided she can stay after all. I’ll be at Woodhull in about a half-hour.’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the parking lot. That good?’

  ‘Actually, I do have a question.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Would you be terribly upset if I whistle the theme song to High Noon as we come down the hallway?’

  SIXTEEN

  When Boots and Jill came out of the elevator on Woodhull’s pre-surgery unit, the atmosphere precluded any serious drama. John Pianetta, his son, Tony, and a third man stood at the end of the hall, talking quietly. Just past them, a uniformed cop lounged against the wall. He stood up straight when he saw their gold shields, but said nothing.

  The three gangsters turned when Boots and Jill emerged, but except for John Pianetta’s little scowl, quickly returned to their conversation. They didn’t look up when the pair walked past them, not even when Boots fixed them with the hardest cop stare in his cop-stare arsenal. Only Boots recognized Tony Pianetta, yet both dismissed him as no threat. The third man, in his mid-thirties, drew closer attention. His eyes were as blank as they were dark.

  As Boots had predicted, Johnny Piano’s body was being guarded.

  Boots and Jill didn’t slow until they approached the uniformed cop. Tall, broad and very young, his nametag read Gilden.

  ‘Littlewood and Kelly,’ Boots said by way of introduction. ‘Is this Silvy Mussa’s room?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s in there with his wife.’

  Jill grabbed the back of her partner’s arm. ‘You might wanna slow down here,’ she said.

  Too late. Boots was already pushing through the door. Ahead of him, a woman leaned over the room’s single bed. She was in her forties, at most, way too young for Silvy Mussa. Not that she hadn’t made an effort. The bone-white makeup and the tight bun did make her look older, but she’d put on that makeup way too thick and the shoulders of her navy sweater were flecked with powder.

  The woman’s eyes jumped from Boots to Jill, then to their gold shields, finally to the expression on Boots Littlewood’s face. She drew back slightly and looked to the side as she considered her options.

  ‘Who are you?’ Boots asked.

  ‘Hey, Boots, take it easy. That’s my wife.’

  The head of the bed rose a few inches to reveal Silvy Mussa’s smiling face. The smile was drug-induced, at least in part. His pupils were mere pinpoints. But there was another element, too, one Boots recognized. More scars, more glory. He’d taken three bullets and lived to tell the tale.

  Boots drove his foot into the side of Silvy’s bed, the jolt hard enough to excite the pain receptors in the man’s brain, despite the narcotics. The bullets fired into Silvy’s body had fractured several bones in his shoulder and cracked his left femur. This time, when they spoke out, he listened.

  ‘Jesus …’

  ‘
Stop right there, Silvy. I don’t allow anyone to use the Lord’s name in vain. And if you were about to call me Boots again, you need to think twice. That’s because you’re a piece-of-shit gangster and I’m a New York City police officer. My name, as far as you’re concerned, is Detective Littlewood.’

  Boots didn’t wait for an answer. Nor did he notice the amused smile on his partner’s face. He grabbed the collar of the blond woman’s coat and yanked her through the door.

  ‘Officer Gilden, I want you to search this woman for a weapon and then take her into custody.’

  ‘What?’ The woman’s broad mouth turned down at both corners until the ends rested to either side of her narrow chin. ‘What for?’

  ‘For interfering in a police investigation. I knew Anka Mussa before she went into a nursing home and you’re not her.’

  Boots finally turned his attention to John Pianetta and his companions. The bodyguard’s blank expression hadn’t changed, leaving Boots to wonder if it was the only one he had. Johnny Piano and his son, however, were both smiling. They’d pressed his buttons and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Or so they apparently thought.

  Jill at his side, Boots approached to within six feet of the bodyguard. ‘You’ve got a bulge beneath your coat on your right hip that leads me to believe that you’re armed. I want you to turn around, put your hands on the wall and spread your feet. If you don’t, I’m authorized to use whatever force necessary to make you comply.’

  The bodyguard wore a black, microsuede raincoat. Confused by the unexpected command, his fingers moved toward the opening in the unbuttoned coat. The movement was tiny, almost a tic, but did not go unnoticed. Jill Kelly’s weapon leaped into her hand, the draw so fast it seemed like a magician’s trick.

  ‘Keep your hands apart or I’ll kill you,’ she said.

  There being nothing in Jill Kelly’s voice or expression to belie the threat, all three gangsters froze.

  Boots, on the other hand, finally relaxed. He’d gotten his own hand to the butt of his weapon before Jill completed her draw. The last time they’d been in this position, he was still trying to unbutton his coat.