The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  When Payton stepped back and closed the door, Boots snapped a vicious kick to Ungaro’s face. He wanted to mark the man, internal injuries being too subtle for gangsters like Johnny Piano.

  Ungaro spit blood as he rolled away. ‘I’ll kill you for this,’ he said.

  Boots responded by driving his foot into Ungaro’s unprotected back, a stunning blow to the kidney that produced a scream.

  ‘Say it again, mutt. Tell me that you’re gonna kill me.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Boots stomped on the back of Ungaro’s thigh, then cupped his hand to his ear. This time, except for a heartfelt moan, Ungaro kept his mouth shut.

  ‘I don’t know if you heard about this,’ Boots said, ‘but me and your boss had a conversation over at Woodhull. Did you hear about it?’

  Rather than answer, Ungaro tried to get up. Boots let him rise to one knee then snapped out a jab that caught the gangster on the back of the neck. Not the best punch Boots had ever thrown, but hard enough to send the man to the sidewalk.

  ‘I asked you a question. I asked you if you heard about me and Johnny at Woodhull.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard he had some trouble.’ Ungaro rolled onto his back, revealing a bloody mouth.

  ‘Did you hear that I told him, in the plainest language, to stay the fuck away from my investigation?’

  ‘No.’ Ungaro raised a hand to ward off a blow that never came. ‘I mean I didn’t know that part, what you actually said to each other.’

  ‘Well, ya know what I think? I think Johnny heard me loud and clear, which is why he sent you instead of comin’ himself. But you take him this message. No, forget that. You are the message, Stevie. Just go home.’

  Easier said than done. Ungaro’s inner ear had been thrown into chaos and his stomped-on leg didn’t want to support his weight. Boots had to help the man to his feet and then to his car, a late-model Audi that Boots would never be able to afford.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ he said.

  His hand on his weapon, Boots watched Ungaro settle behind the wheel. Boots hadn’t searched the car and his life these days wasn’t about taking chances. Only when the Audi turned left onto Manhattan Avenue and vanished did he knock on Open Circle’s front door.

  The door opened immediately to reveal Lila Payton. The security guard was seated behind her, Payton apparently having decided that Boots was no threat. Boots was tempted to push his way inside and have a look around. He couldn’t really fault do-gooders because most of the time they did good. But he couldn’t bear the self-righteous attitude, either, the one that seemed to come with the territory.

  ‘In a way,’ he said, ‘I’m glad that asshole showed up at your door.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because now I don’t have to convince you. That man? His name is Stefano Ungaro. He works for a gangster named John Pianetta whose son was murdered two days ago. Pianetta’s lookin’ for a witness to that crime. If he finds her, he’s gonna hurt her. It’s as simple as that.’

  Payton’s expression didn’t so much as flicker. ‘What’s that got to do with Open Circle?’

  ‘That’s a long story which I’ll cut short.’ Boots’s hand was already in motion when he realized that he’d put the witness’s photo in his jacket pocket and his jacket was in the trunk of his car. ‘Wait a second. I have something you need to see.’

  Boots jogged to the car, retrieved his jacket and jogged back to Lila Payton. His anger had vanished, replaced by a vague sense of guilt about losing his temper again. He felt exhilarated, as well. Life on the edge, as Jill would say.

  ‘OK, no bullshit,’ he said. ‘John Pianetta? He was guessing about the witness coming here. But not me.’ Boots handed the photo to Lila Payton. ‘The security cameras at the check-cashing place on McGuinness Boulevard captured her passage at nine thirty on Saturday morning. She came along McGuinness Boulevard from where the murder took place and turned up India Street toward Open Circle. You can see her injuries for yourself. She needed a refuge at that moment, which is exactly what Open Circle is.’

  ‘You know, you’re a bully. You were a bully last time I saw you and you’re a bully now.’

  ‘Fine, I agree. I’m a bully. I even agree that all cops are bullies. But that doesn’t change the simple fact that this woman is in big trouble if Pianetta finds her before I do. Which you already know because you looked into Ungaro’s eyes.’

  Lila Payton twisted her mouth into what amounted to an amused frown. She’d checked out Detective Littlewood after their first meeting. According to her sources, he had a white knight complex when it came to protecting the neighborhood. Nevertheless, she didn’t have to cooperate. Open Circle’s clients depended on the shelter’s confidentiality rule precisely because it gave them confidence.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  Boots pointed to the photo. ‘Her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because protecting crime victims is what bullies like me do for a living. She doesn’t stand a chance on her own, not unless she leaves town, which I don’t think she’s in any condition to do.’

  ‘Protect? Bullies like you? Tell that to all the murdered women who secured orders of protection and then found themselves unprotected.’

  Boots raised a hand before Payton could work up a head of steam. ‘Ask yourself this, Ms Payton. Do you really protect the women who come to Open Circle, or is it only a matter of their abusers not being able to find them? Because I’m telling you from the bottom of my heart, you won’t be able to keep Pianetta out. He’ll burn Open Circle to the ground if he has to.’

  ‘You’re asking me for a big favor. You’re asking me to trust you.’

  ‘Call it a favor if that’s what makes you happy. I’ll even go so far as to say it’s a favor I’m obliged to return. In fact, if you want, I’ll give you the number of my cell phone.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ Payton finally smiled, exposing a set of startlingly white teeth. ‘But I have to say, I don’t think you’ve cut a very good deal.’

  ‘Why’s that.’

  ‘Because the woman you’re looking for left here on Sunday morning.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I only know her first name. It’s Corry.’

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘To her brother’s. But don’t get your hopes up. She didn’t tell me his name or where he lives.’

  ‘OK, I get the point. But does she use the name Corry when she’s on the street?’

  Payton laughed. ‘I believe you’re trying to trick me, Detective.’

  ‘Call me Boots. And the truth is that I give my cell number to just about anybody who asks for it. But you don’t have to answer the question because I already know you do outreach to prostitutes. What I don’t know is where Corry works.’

  ‘I can only tell you that we first ran into her on Flushing Avenue by the Navy Yard. On cold nights, we sometimes pass out coffee, rolls and advice.’ Payton frowned again. ‘Sad to say, a lot more of the women take the coffee than the advice.’

  Boots was on his phone before he started the Nissan. He’d lost his temper and the consequences, many of which Jill Kelly was far more equipped to handle, had to be faced. But Jill Kelly had problems of her own.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ she told Boots. ‘My mom was taken to the hospital and I have to get out of here.’

  ‘You want me to go with you?’

  The question caught Jill off-guard. She’d been handling her own problems for many years, neither requesting, nor expecting, support.

  ‘No, Boots,’ she said after a brief hesitation. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate. But I’ll tell you, I still don’t get it. My mom was told that her liver was giving out ten years ago, but she didn’t stop drinking, didn’t even put on the brakes. It’s like slow-motion suicide.’

  Boots nodded to himself. Jill Kelly loved life. The thought of deliberately ending it, slow or fast, was utterly repugnant. Which was not to say she was a
bove putting her life at risk.

  ‘I’ll stay in touch, Jill. Where’d they bring her?’

  ‘NYU Medical Center in Manhattan. Her doctor’s on the staff there. So, how’d you make out?’

  ‘I got a line on our victim. Her name’s Corry and she’s a prostitute, which is what we figured. I’ll start looking for her tonight. What about Karkanian? He show up yet?’

  ‘Yeah, and he’s gonna do the underwater search next week.’

  ‘Did he ask about me?’

  ‘Of course, and he wasn’t all that pleased to find you gone until I told him about the game you played with Pianetta’s testicles. He’s not worried about you being corrupt anymore. Now he’s thinking you’re on a crusade. That worries him even more. In fact, he said, “I don’t need any shootouts.”’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him shootouts are my specialty, not yours.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  With little choice, Boots headed back to the Six-Four after his encounter with Lila Payton. His search for Corry would continue, but not until after working hours when the Navy Yard stroll became active. Meanwhile, he had a debt to pay. Consuela, the security guard at Woodhull Medical, had done him a favor which he was obliged to return. Boots was big on obligation. That’s how societies ran, at least in his opinion. You took a favor, you did a favor, everybody made out.

  According to Consuela, her nephew, Julio Vargas, had been arrested for stealing a car on November 2nd, four days ago. Boots didn’t intend to intervene on Julio’s behalf – it was too late for that – only to present Consuela with the facts on the ground.

  He began at his computer, entering Julio’s name in a search window narrowed to the Sixty-Fourth Precinct. The report came up a few seconds later, leading Boots to nod his head in appreciation. Not all that long ago, he would have spent the better part of an hour hunting for paperwork that may or may not have been properly filed. Or filed at all.

  According to Julio’s sheet, the arresting officer, a cop named Sylvia Armstrong, had turned the case over to Detective Cletis Small, who happened to be seated at his desk thirty feet away from Boots. Clete was interviewing a kid whose iPhone had been taken by three older kids. One of those older kids had flashed a knife, which made the incident serious enough for the detective’s involvement. The Six-Four had a street-gang unit, as required by the bosses, and Cletis was it.

  Boots walked over to Clete’s desk and raised a finger. ‘I need to talk to you about something. I’ll be in the weight room.’

  Cletis Small was a whippet of man, his body all sinew. Though he pumped iron regularly, he couldn’t add weight to his frame. O’Malley and the Bulgarian, whose massive frames were fueled by steroids, had urged Clete to join the party. A health-conscious Small, who had no desire to see his testicles shrink to the size of lemon pits, had refused.

  ‘That bullshit with Pianetta,’ he asked as Boots turned away. ‘That true?’

  ‘We had a one-sided conversation,’ Boots admitted. ‘If that’s what you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘And you’re not worried?’

  ‘No,’ Boots said after a moment, ‘I’m not.’

  True enough, despite the possibility that Johnny Piano might be angry enough to retaliate. For the humiliation, for the arrest of Alberto Buffo, for bloodying Stefano Ungaro. Any of these provocations, all by its lonesome, was enough to invite payback.

  Still, he wasn’t frightened.

  For the next hour, Boots had the weight room to himself. He worked out hard, pushing himself, despite his fatigue. Boots hadn’t used the weight room for almost a week and his body was already losing mass. Even ten years ago, his body was quick to restore itself. No more. Now his efforts amounted to little more than a holding action. Nevertheless, the minute he finished with Consuela’s business, he was headed home for a nap. It was going to be a long night.

  Clete Small was already loosening his tie when he walked into the weight room. A competent detective by anyone’s standards, he had a difficult time with cops like Boots Littlewood, who took crime personally. Small never took his job home with him, and never blamed himself for the one that got away. Another day, another dollar, you took the man’s money and did the man’s job.

  Boots continued on, doing shoulder shrugs, while Small changed into a sweat suit and began to stretch out.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ Small asked.

  ‘You made an arrest four days ago. Two kids for stealing a car which they cracked up on Jewel Street and McGuinness Boulevard.’

  ‘Yeah, I remember. A coupla punks. One of ’em, the kid named Julio, started cryin’ when I ran him down. Funny thing, though, he clammed up when I got him into the house. Meanwhile, the other one …’

  ‘Rafael Quintera.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him. Rafael was the real deal. Not two minutes after I got him in the box, he was offerin’ to rat on his pal. According to him, Julio already had the car when he ran into Rafael at the schoolyard. Rafael didn’t know the car was stolen.’

  Boots dropped the weight to the floor. He wiped his face with a towel and began to wrap an Ace bandage around his left knee. He’d be doing knee bends next.

  ‘And the cops who made the arrest, they didn’t see who was driving?’

  ‘When they happened on the scene, a matter of blind luck, the kids were already runnin’.’

  ‘So, you don’t know who was driving, or even if the kids were in the car?’

  ‘We know they were in the car because we found witnesses who saw the crash. But the wits couldn’t put either one behind the wheel.’

  ‘So, where’s the case now?’

  Small fought a sudden resentment. He had no idea what the criminal justice system had in store for Julio and Rafael, hadn’t given the matter a second thought since he turned over the paperwork, including Rafael’s signed statement, to the DA’s office.

  ‘I got no idea.’

  Boots, on the other hand, did have an idea. The case, itself, was weak, and if Quintera hadn’t ratted on his buddy, they might have both gotten off. The witnesses were unreliable and the cops hadn’t seen anything more than two kids running away. As it was, the prosecutors would have to rely on Quintera’s testimony. Good news for Rafael, bad news for Julio Vargas.

  An hour later, a call to Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount confirmed his prediction. Quintera had been given limited immunity in return for his testimony. Vargas, in light of his age and his clean record, would be offered probation and several hundred hours of community service. Assuming, of course, that he pleaded guilty and forever stained his record with a felony conviction.

  Consuela wasn’t happy when Boots called. Her nephew, she insisted, had only committed the crime of being young and naive. Where was the justice? Boots was appropriately sympathetic, but firm.

  ‘If Julio puts the state to the expense of a trial and he’s convicted, they’re gonna send him away for a couple of years. Fair has nothing to do with it. The plea bargain on the table is the best deal he’s gonna get.’

  ‘But it’s not right, Boots.’

  ‘Neither is stealing cars.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Boots settled into his nap within seconds of turning out the light in his bedroom. He slept until four o’clock when the repeated sounding of a car horn on Newell Street roused him. He opened his eyes, looked at the clock, muttered ‘Shit’ and headed for the bathroom. Thirty minutes later, showered, shaved and ready for the street, he walked out of his bedroom to find Joaquin making coffee in the kitchen. Boots initially thought the coffee was meant for him, an act of generosity on Joaquin’s part rare enough to merit attention. But then Boots stepped into the living room and saw Father Leonzo Gubetti and his own father seated on the couch.

  A parish priest assigned to Mt. Carmel, Leo Gubetti was a Littlewood family friend. He was also Boots’s confessor. Ordinarily, Boots would have been glad to see him. Not today.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ he asked.

 
Boots expected evasion, but the priest got right to the point. ‘This business with John Pianetta. I don’t want it brought into the church.’

  ‘Pianetta brings his business into the church every time he hears Mass.’ Boots waved off the priest’s response. He went back to the kitchen and stayed there until he finished a mug of coffee. Boots didn’t intend to disturb his neighbors’ peace by challenging Pianetta at Mt. Carmel. God’s house was a neutral zone by anyone’s definition.

  But Father Gubetti didn’t know that, not yet, and Boots wasn’t above using the priest’s uncertainty to needle him.

  ‘I suppose you have a stake in this,’ he said to his father as he carried a second cup of coffee into the living room.

  ‘In Mt. Carmel, no. In helping you through your mid-life crisis? Well, Irwin, it’s the least I can do for my only son.’

  Boots ignored the comment. ‘What I don’t get,’ he said to Father Gubetti, ‘is how you can allow a complete scumbag like John Pianetta to receive the Sacraments.’

  Gubetti nodded agreement, much to Detective Littlewood’s surprise. ‘I know who the man is, Boots. I know what he’s done. But I have no right to ban him. The Church isn’t here on Earth to save the saved. Our mission begins with the sinner.’

  ‘What about excommunication?’

  ‘The excommunicated are encouraged to attend Mass, as they’re encouraged to repent and be forgiven. Repentance is the whole point of excommunication.’ Gubetti draped his arms over his considerable paunch. ‘John Pianetta comes into the presence of Jesus Christ whenever he attends Mass. I believe that Jesus reaches out to him. Every single time, Boots. Jesus reaches out and who’s to say that one day John Pianetta won’t reach back?’

  A decent argument, Boots had to admit, but he wasn’t buying. ‘Jesus can reach out all he wants, but he’ll never touch Johnny’s conscience. That’s because Johnny’s a psychopath and he doesn’t have a conscience.’