The Striver

by Stephen Solomita

  ‘Did you hear me, Boots? I said I’m coming along.’

  Detective Littlewood’s grin vanished as quickly as it appeared. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way, partner. Without you I’d be lost. But I need to make a call before we go. It’ll only be a minute.’

  Boots carried the house phone into the bedroom and dialed Frankie Drago’s number. Though he was unaware of Karkanian’s threats, he knew that retaliation was likely. If Frankie became a target of that retaliation, he could be sent back to prison. That would leave Boots unable to bet the Yankees when opening day finally rolled around.

  ‘Hey, Boots, are you OK?’

  ‘You heard about what happened?’

  ‘I heard Ungaro shot a cop and I naturally wondered if it was you.’

  ‘It was my partner and she was wearing a vest. But I didn’t call to chat. I called to advise you to shut down until further notice.’

  ‘Jesus, Boots, my mom had to get new dentures and they’re gonna cost two grand. Where am I gonna get the money if I shut down?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frankie, but from what I hear, in prison they pay you thirty-five cents an hour.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Corry Frisk’s eyes were glued, not to the task at hand, but to the mirror as she guided a trimmer across her brother scalp. Tommy’s eyes were riveted to the same mirror. He was sitting on a chair in the bathroom, watching his shoulder-length hair drop from his head to the floor. Behind the pair, in the bedroom, Tommy’s new clothes were laid out on the bed. Levi jeans, a blue sweatshirt bearing the NY Giant’s logo and a pair of low-end Nike athletic shoes, still in the box. A zip-up fleece jacket hung from a hook by the front door.

  ‘You hurtin’?’ Corry asked. She, herself, had popped two OxyContin tablets and was feeling no pain whatever.

  ‘I’m good.’

  Corry continued on without disputing the claim. This wasn’t about salvation. This was about passing muster in a dangerous world and she trimmed her brother’s hair evenly. If they weren’t in a hurry this morning, she would have sent him to a barber.

  Tommy swept up the hair while Corry made them a blueberry-pancake breakfast. Call it a pre-victory celebration. When they finished, at eight thirty, she and Tommy went for a ride. The temperature was already in the mid-fifties and the clear blue of the sky was broken only by a few scattered clouds. Fluffy clouds, to be sure.

  ‘What happened to winter?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘Winter’s over for you and me. We’re going where those chilly winds don’t blow.’

  Corry was referring to Florida and Tommy’s friends, most of whom were vets and sure to understand what Tommy and his battered sister were going through. All they had to do was get there. All they had to do was survive.

  Corry would have liked to take a walk, if only to measure Tommy’s effect on the general public, but the closest patch of green was a cemetery near Astoria Boulevard. Her own appearance wasn’t likely to pass unnoticed, either. The swelling was almost gone, but the cuts and the bruises remained. It would take another week before she could pass for normal.

  ‘You waitin’ for anything in particular?’ Tommy asked.

  Corry shrugged as she took a throwaway cell phone out of her purse. She flipped it open, punched in Amoroso Construction’s number and brought it to her ear.

  ‘Amoroso Construction, good morning, how can I help you?’

  ‘Let me speak to John Pianetta.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  The woman with the hard voice picked up next. ‘Mr Pianetta’s not in yet. I expect him in an hour.’

  ‘That’s funny, because I told him I’d be calling at nine.’

  ‘What, you don’t read the papers? You’re the only reason he’s comin’ in at all.’

  Ten minutes later, they were parked in front of a candy store on Junction Boulevard, reading identical copies of the Daily News. A small photo of John Pianetta appeared on the lower-left corner of the front page, a photo taken in better days. Pianetta was shaking a priest’s hand in front of a church.

  Gangster Questioned in Attack. (story p.3)

  The story described a police shootout in Greenpoint, a close call for two cops who’d been attacked by a gangster long associated with the Pianetta crime crew.

  Corry tossed the paper in the back seat. Pianetta had a good reason for being late, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t playing her in some way.

  ‘Funny,’ she told her brother, ‘how you can convince yourself that you’re runnin’ the show when you’re really fucking desperate.’

  Like Tommy had gotten his hands on a dozen OxyContin tablets, but she’d already taken most of them and there was no money to buy more.

  With no real option, they drove into Astoria where they found a parking spot on Vernon Boulevard that offered a view of the East River on the far side of a small park.

  ‘What you think,’ Tommy said after a few minutes of silence, ‘is let it be them and not us.’

  Corry encouraged her brother with a nod. Tommy had a habit of starting his conversations in the middle, then working forward and backward.

  ‘Them who?’ she asked.

  ‘The Humvees were the worst, but even the MWRAPs … I mean, when you were in an MWRAP and got blown up, you mostly survived in one piece. Like it didn’t kill you, so you’d think you were all right.’

  Tommy stopped to watch a man let his dog, a golden retriever, off the leash. On a mission, the dog shot into the park, ears back, tongue lolling. It traced wide circles in the grass, coming within a few yards of its master, then darting off at the last minute.

  ‘Most patrols were conducted on foot, but …’

  ‘But you still had to get there.’

  ‘Exactly. Usually that meant a convoy, anywhere from three to ten vehicles traveling in a line over some narrow road. We knew we’d run into IEDs because there were IEDs on all the roads in the south.’

  Corry looked down as a police cruiser came up behind Tommy’s car. The two cops inside gave them hard looks, but didn’t stop. Tommy waited until they turned a corner before pulling away. In all likelihood, if they weren’t on a call, they’d circle back.

  ‘So, you were saying, Tommy?’

  ‘So, I’m sayin’ that you think, OK, I’m still in one piece, so I’m all right. But then one day you’re goin’ down that road and you think, please, Lord, make it them and not us. Make it the guys in front of us or behind us. Blow them up and not us. Please, Lord. Please, please, please.’

  Thirty minutes later, Corry was on the phone with John Pianetta. Or someone pretending to be John Pianetta. ‘What’s it gonna be, yes or no?’ she asked.

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Thirty grand is a lot of money.’

  Corry took a breath. ‘Not for you.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Call it a lucky guess.’

  ‘You got a big mouth, lady.’

  ‘Look, I appreciate that you’re under a lot of stress, what with shooting the cop and all. But I got problems of my own. You don’t give me a straight answer in the next five seconds, I’m gonna hang up.’

  ‘OK, fine, tell me where and when.’

  ‘Two hours from now in Fort Greene Park. There’s an open area, a meadow, at the southeast corner by DeKalb Avenue. I’ll be standing in the middle.’ Corry hesitated for a moment, then added, ‘I’m expecting to see your face.’

  ‘You think I’m gonna come alone?’

  ‘You wanna bring a couple of bodyguards, feel free. As long as you’re there. And by the way, if you try to drag me out of the park, I’m gonna start screaming.’

  FORTY-TWO

  Boots decided to start where he began, at Solliano Pizza, the only definite location where Corry and her brother had been sighted. The shop was located at the intersection of Elmhurst Avenue, Roosevelt Avenue and 90th Street. Boots intended to search for Corry’s residence, which meant that Roosevelt Avenue, solidly commercial, could
be excluded from the canvas. Nevertheless, there were still a dozen streets and hundreds of low-rise apartment buildings to explore. Jill had been stone-faced on the ride out to Jackson Heights, but she wasn’t likely to hold up if they were on the street for hours.

  Boots had suffered a fractured rib during his rookie year when he was smashed from behind with a pool cue. If he remembered right, he’d passed the better part of the following week on his couch while the Yankees lost five games in a row.

  ‘I’m thinking that Corry chose the pizza parlor,’ Boots said before they got out of the car, ‘because it was close to her brother’s apartment.’

  Jill opened the car door. ‘Didn’t you draw the same conclusion yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah, but I was hung up on identifying her and I didn’t make the right search. I started with local businesses, hoping some restaurant made a delivery to the brother’s apartment. I should’ve gone residential right away.’

  Boots matched his stride to Jill’s somewhat halting gait as they walked the block to Solliano Pizza. Both knew they were on thin ice. Jill had been placed on medical leave, an automatic given her injury, and Karkanian had personally impounded Boots’s weapon, another automatic. Boots now carried a backup piece that wasn’t registered with the job. If he got caught with it, he’d face an NYPD disciplinary board. If he got caught without it, on the other hand, say by the wrong people …

  Boots and Jill arrived as one of Solliano’s workers raised the iron grate protecting the store’s front window. The man paused for a moment, his expression quizzical, only to have Boots wave him off.

  ‘Two things, Jill. The delivery men told us the guy in the camo gear who caught their attention was standing on the other side of Roosevelt Avenue. They also told us that Corry walked across Roosevelt Avenue after she finished her business with Shoona. But that’s where Elmhurst Avenue and 90th Street come together, and nobody was sure which street she took. Now we have to make a choice.’

  ‘I pick Ninetieth Street.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Elmhurst comes in at an angle.’

  Boots paused as a 7 Train pulled into the station. The 7 Train was another reason there were few residences along Roosevelt Avenue. The din was tooth rattling.

  ‘I don’t think I understand your logic,’ he said when the train halted, ‘but I’ll bite. From here it’s a matter of luck anyway.’

  The housing along 90th Street was typical for this part of Queens, a mix of single-family homes on tiny lots, two-story attached garden apartments and low-rise, brick apartment buildings. Nothing fancy here, no luxury of any kind. New York’s shrinking middle class lived in neighborhoods like this in each of the city’s outer boroughs. At one time they would have been predominately Italian and Jewish. Now they hailed from every populated continent.

  Their badges clipped to the lapels of their jackets, Boots and Jill split up to work both sides of the street, knocking on doors, describing the man they were looking for, moving on. When they were confronted by an apartment building, they rang the bell for the superintendent, leaning on it until someone replied. The supers in New York were famous for ignoring tenant complaints, especially out here where Christmas tips were few and far between.

  They came together again at the first corner. Boots examined Jill closely. If she was in pain – which she had to be – she was keeping it to herself. She looked more determined than grim.

  ‘One hit, Boots. A woman in mid-block. She recalls seeing a long-haired man wearing camo a couple of times, but has no idea where he lives.’

  ‘Does she remember where she saw him?’

  ‘Walking down the block. Probably. And don’t ask from which direction, because she doesn’t recall.’

  Two hours later, they stood on the corner of 90th Street and Thirty-Fourth Avenue, three blocks from where they started. They’d interviewed several people along the way who remembered seeing Corry’s brother, but nobody who could place him. Most important, they’d spoken to the super, or one of his workers, in each of the multi-family apartment houses. These men serviced the individual apartments and they knew their tenants. One and all, they denied ever having seen the long-haired soldier.

  ‘You still up for this?’ Boots asked.

  ‘I’m good, Boots. Really.’ Jill shook her head. ‘I once broke my ankle. Sky diving on a day that was much too windy. This is nothing by comparison.’

  ‘Then let’s get moving.’

  Boots had long subscribed to the old adage, it’s better to be lucky than good. That’s because you could always claim that a piece of good luck resulted entirely from your hard work and many brilliant insights. On this day, his and Jill’s first break came when Boots decided to walk back to Roosevelt Avenue, the better to recharge his caffeine level. Afterward, they’d canvas Elmhurst Avenue.

  They got their second break on 90th Street between Thirty-Fifth and Thirty-Seventh Avenues when a mail carrier walked through the door of a red-brick apartment house. A middle-aged black woman, she didn’t miss Jill’s raised hand or the badges clipped to the cops’ lapels when she turned into their path.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ The woman’s large eyes didn’t widen or narrow. Nor did her neutral expression change.

  ‘Is this your regular route?’ Jill asked.

  ‘That it is. Four square blocks of paradise. I’ve been out here for the past five years.’

  ‘Good, because we’re trying to locate a man who lives in the neighborhood. You’d remember this guy for sure. He’s young, in his twenties, and he walks around in a camouflage jacket and pants. His hair hangs to his shoulders.’

  ‘Oh, sure. I know who you’re talking about. Thomas Frisk. In fact, I’ve spoken to him a couple of times while I was filling the mailboxes in his lobby. I got a nephew, my sister’s boy, who did two tours in Iraq.’

  ‘His lobby,’ Jill asked, ‘which is exactly where?’

  ‘Right across the street. He’s in … Three B or Three C. I forget which, but he gets a disability check the second Thursday of every month.’

  Jill took in the situation and smiled to herself. Boots had personally canvassed the five-story apartment house on the other side of 90th Street. He’d questioned the building’s superintendent, who’d denied any knowledge of a long-haired ex-soldier living in one of the apartments. Jill didn’t ask herself why the man had lied. Human beings lie for good reasons, bad reasons or no reason at all. That said, not everyone who lies to the cops has the misfortune to be standing outside, hosing down the sidewalk, when the cops discover that lie. Boots was already crossing the street, his shoulders hunched.

  FORTY-THREE

  Detective Littlewood was halfway across the street when Jill’s half-shouted demand wormed its way into his consciousness. ‘Stay cool, Boots, I’m not supposed to be on the job. Plus, I don’t think I’m really up for a brawl.’

  Boots didn’t intend to harm the man he approached, though he did mean to frighten him into cooperating voluntarily. An Irish immigrant, his brogue intact, the man had identified himself as Shawn Doyle. Now he turned off the hose and sucked down a quick breath.

  ‘Don’t tell me why you lied, because I don’t give a shit.’ Boots came close enough to lean over the smaller man. ‘Just tell me where he lives. In Three B or Three C?’

  ‘I figured the lad had enough problems—’

  ‘What did I just … Hey, lemme see some ID. In fact, lemme see your green card. You don’t have one, I’ll march you straight down to immigration.’

  ‘Boots, hang on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he’s sorry.’ Jill caught Doyle’s jittery eyes. ‘You are sorry, right? For lying to the cops, which is not a crime, but a definite act of defiance. You know, like an upraised finger. That’s why my partner’s upset.’

  Doyle stepped back until his shoulders touched the wall behind him. ‘All right then, I was foolish, lyin’ to you like I did. But I was only tryin’ to do the right thing behind a man who fought for his co
untry.’

  ‘And now you’re going to do the right thing by telling us if he lives in Three B or Three C.’ Jill smiled. ‘Call it penance.’

  ‘Tommy lives in Three C, but I’m sayin’ it won’t help ya.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because he moved out a couple of hours ago, him and his sister.’

  ‘For good?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I saw him with my own eyes loadin’ suitcases and a duffel bag into a van. “Are you goin’ on vacation?” That’s what I asked the lad. “No,” he says, “I won’t be comin’ back. Anything left in my flat, it’s yours now.”’

  Boots looked at Jill and smiled. Corry had followed his advice without ever hearing it. The advice to get her ass out of town.

  ‘You have keys to the apartment?’ he asked.

  ‘That I do.’

  ‘Get ’em.’

  None of the furniture in Tommy Frisk’s one-bedroom apartment had been removed, not the flat-screen or the small stereo or even the knick-knacks, but the closets and dresser drawers were empty.

  Boots sat Jill in a chair while he methodically searched the apartment. He was looking for any indication of where Corry and her brother were headed. As a law enforcement matter, locating the pair would be relatively easy. A simple subpoena, for one thing, would produce a list of their outgoing calls. If you worked the list hard enough, you’d find them. And Tommy’s disability payments would provide another trail when he got around to changing his address with Social Security, as would visits to any of the Veterans Administration’s hospitals or clinics.

  These were avenues of investigation unavailable to John Pianetta or Teddy Winuk. They’d get no further than this apartment, after which they’d return to the business of creating mayhem on Boots Littlewood’s turf. And Boots would gladly return to his own duties at the Six-Four. He was starting to miss his routine, the basement workouts as well as the rhythm of the squad room.