Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “Who’s that, Bird Dog Two?”

  “Tony Balls Spacavento. He’s just passed us, walking on Brighton Beach Avenue, about a block east of us now.”

  “As in Organized Crime’s Tony Balls?” Becker said into his radio.

  “Very affirmative, Mother Hen.”

  “You sure?”

  “Saw his face on the wall-chart everyday for two years when I was on the Task Force, Mother Hen. Know that big plug-ugly anywhere.”

  “What’s he doing, Bird Dog Two?”

  “He’s stopped walking now. He’s standing on the sidewalk, one block west of Romanoff’s.”

  Becker tried to angle his view through the windshield. The parked cars ahead were in the way. “Bird Dog One, do you see him?”

  “We make him, too, Mother Hen.”

  “Are you sure it’s Tony Balls?”

  “Bird Dog One. No question.”

  “Bird Dog Two. No question.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Looks like he’s waiting for something, or someone, Mother Hen.”

  “Bird Dog Two, get out of there. Drive around the block. Re-position yourself further west.”

  “We’re okay where we are, Mother Hen. We’re on the opposite side of the street.”

  “I don’t want him to see you, but keep a close eye on him.”

  “Affirmative.”

  In a short while, Sascha Ulanov came out of Romanoff’s and stood on the sidewalk in front, smoking a cigarette. He was not too steady on his feet.

  “Mother Hen, Brown Jacket just came out of the restaurant. He looks wasted.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Smoking, looking around.”

  As Sascha stood in front of the restaurant, he shook hands with a man who exited a car and entered the restaurant with a woman. He talked to someone else he knew. When he was half-through with his cigarette, he flicked it toward the gutter and turned to walk in a westward direction.

  “Bird Dog One. Brown jacket is walking west on the sidewalk.”

  “Is that in the direction where Tony Balls is?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Bird Dog Two, what’s your position?”

  “A block and a half further west, Mother Hen. We see Brown Jacket. He’s walking in this direction.”

  “Bird Dog Two. Where is Tony Balls at this point?”

  “East of us. Brown Jacket is further east, walking towards Balls.”

  “Are they on the same side of the street as you, Bird Dog Two?”

  “Negative. We’re facing in the opposite direction. They’re on the north. We’re on the south side.”

  “Bird Dog Two, is there a street where you can you make a right turn if they get too close?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “If they get close, make the right, get away. It’s imperative that they don’t see you.”

  “Affirmative.”

  When Sascha neared the spot where Tony Balls was gazing into the hardware store, it appeared as if he was going to pass right by the store. At that moment, Tony Balls turned and began to walk in the same direction as Sascha. They were almost side-by-side. Suddenly, Sascha turned and walked back toward Romanoff’s. Tony Balls didn’t turn, but stopped, kneeling to tie his shoe-lace. He then stood, walked to the next corner, and made a right turn into the side street, walking away from Brighton Beach Avenue.

  “Mother Hen, Bird Dog Two. Something funny just happened.” Bird Dog Two described what they had just observed.

  “Did they talk to each other, Bird Dog Two?”

  “They might have, Mother Hen. Couldn’t say for sure.”

  “Do you still have Tony Balls in view?”

  “Negative. He turned right into the side street.”

  “Bird Dog One, you’re still facing the west?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Go after Tony Balls. See if you can see where he is.”

  “Apprehend him, Mother Hen?”

  “Negative, definitely negative on that. Just see if you can get a bead on him, follow him. Bird Dog Two, you stay on Brown Jacket.”

  “Brown Jacket is going back into Romanoff’s, Mother Hen.”

  By the time Bird Dog One made the turn into the side street, Tony Balls had apparently entered a car and left the area. Bird Dog One rounded the block in an attempt to find Tony Balls, but was unable to do so.

  “Sschhhh … a night.… sschhhh,” came over Becker’s radio.

  “Mother Hen, the C.I. has just come out onto the sidewalk with the driver of the Lexus.”

  “How you going to get home,” Uri said to Nichols. The transmission was clear now. “You got a car?”

  “No, I came with a car service.”

  “I’ll drive you. Get my keys,” Uri said to the parking attendant.

  “Are you kidding? First of all, you’re with the ladies. And, second of all, you’re wasted.”

  “You think I can’t drive like this?” asked Uri.

  “You can hardly stand up.”

  “I don’t stand when I drive.” Uri started to laugh loudly.

  “No, man, really, let me take a car service. I want you to stay here, get laid, all that. Stay and have a good time.”

  “You sure?”

  “Sure. I’ll get a car service. Can they call from inside?”

  “Yes, wait. I will have them call,” said Uri.

  “I’m going to take car service,” Nichols said into the night air, as he faced the street, with his back to the restaurant.

  “Smart little druggie,” Becker said to himself.

  “Follow the car service for a few blocks, and then I’ll get out and come with you,” said Nichols.

  “I have them call,” Uri said into Nichols’ transmitter. “I wait with you.”

  “Great, man, great.”

  “You have a good time?” said Uri.

  “Fabulous. Next time, get three ladies.”

  “You want this one, take her,” said Uri with a wave of his hand.

  “No, man, not tonight. That’s yours. Get me another one.”

  “Okay, next time.”

  In a few minutes, a livery car pulled up in front of the restaurant. Uri gave Nichols a couple of embraces, and they said goodnight. Nichols entered the vehicle. It started toward Ocean Parkway.

  “Bird Dogs, Mother Hen is going to follow the car service. Stay on the Brown Jacket and the others. Follow them—discretely. Advise me.”

  “Roger,” said the two Bird Dogs.

  Becker turned right at Ocean Parkway and followed a half-block behind the car service vehicle. On Avenue R, Nichols had the car service driver pull to the curb. When the car service vehicle turned the next corner and disappeared, Becker pulled to the curb and picked up Nichols.

  “Do you still doubt me?” Nichols said to Becker as they drove back toward Manhattan along an almost deserted Ocean Parkway.

  “We have a bit more than we had before, that’s for sure,” said Becker. And we also have something we didn’t have before: Mr. Tony Balls, he thought to himself.

  “More? Shit, you have three couriers carrying heroin, being picked up by their Boss. You got everything that I said inside that joint; Russian drug route, couriers, the whole nine yards. How come you didn’t swoop them up?”

  “I can swoop up those four fish any time,” said Becker. “Immigration has all their information, passports, addresses, all they need. The reason I didn’t swoop them up is that it would be premature. I want to follow that stuff to every dirty little Russian that touches, buys, sells, and injects that poison. What I want to know is what you were talking about inside with Uri. The transmission was garbled.”

  “You didn’t get everything I was saying with him?”

  “Listen.” Becker rewound the recorder and let it play out through the loud speakers. There was nothing but squawks, static, and an occasional word.

  “That’s all you got?”

  “What were you talking about?” said Becker.<
br />
  “What we talked about—” said Nichols, thinking. “What we talked about was that I told him I needed more. That things were good. He said that if things were good with me, things were good with him. He said he’d send couriers—different couriers—out this week. We talked about how maybe we needed at least one trip a week. He said he thought that we could stash plenty of kilos in a safe-house in a couple of months.”

  “You’ve answered your own question why I didn’t swoop them up, even though I’m sure they were carrying drugs. I’d rather follow them to every person that’s doing business with this renegade drug-ring. We bide our time, we’ll get all of them.”

  “I learned another thing,” said Nichols.

  “What’s that?”

  “These guys are madmen. I told Uri that Red Hardie is still the boss of The Brotherhood, even though he’s in jail, that he was keeping us from really making big bucks. You know what he said?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He said if I could find out where he was, if they could get at him, they’d get rid of him for good,” said Nichols, “so we could take over the whole operation.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Not you and me,” Nichols laughed. “Me and Uri. The Russians will do a job on Red if they get half a chance. After that, you take the Russians down, and the whole drug business in New York will be right in our laps. The Brotherhood will be on top of the drug market, and through me, you’ll be on top of The Brotherhood. Drugs keep going, under control, you guys keep doing your thing, under control. Very sweet, don’t you think?”

  “You never stop, do you?”

  Nichols shrugged. “What’s wrong with that? You’d be in a position to contain the whole drug market in New York except for people you’re friendly with. You’d be a hero to your agency. And your friends—if you know who I mean, like me—would be in pretty good shape, too. What do you think?”

  “I think that you think you’ve got this whole thing tied up in a neat little package for yourself with a ribbon and all, don’t you?”

  “For the moment.” Nichols smiled.

  “Don’t forget, if everything goes according to that devious mind of yours, if I let it happen, remember, I’ll have no compunction swatting a fly who doesn’t keep his word or who blows smoke at me.” Becker turned his gaze from the road, looking intently at Nichols. “You get me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Park Avenue : August 4, 1929 : 7:15 P.M.

  A black Buick sedan was driven to the curb in front of a tall apartment building on Park Avenue. A uniformed doorman moved quickly toward the car, reaching for the handle of the rear door.

  “Good evening, Miss Swanson,” the doorman said, smiling at the young woman in a white silk blouse and long, tight, white skirt, cinched by a black patent leather belt. On her head, she wore a white cloche with a black band. The hat extended rakishly down the left side of her head. Her shoes were black and white Spectators.

  “He here yet?” the young woman said to the doorman.

  “No, Miss.”

  “Good. I’m not late.” She started toward the entrance.

  The doorman shut the car door and scurried quickly toward the entrance doors. “How’s the show going?” he said. “I read real nice reviews in the paper.”

  “Everything is great, thanks,” she said, smiling into the doorman’s eyes. Her eyes were dark, sparkling. “Buy Anaconda.”

  “Still Anaconda? Thanks yourself, Miss,” the doorman smiled, touching the peak of his cap. “Penthouse,” he called to the elevator operator who was standing inside the foyer.

  The elevator traveled to the top of the building, opening into an apartment that occupied the entire floor. A butler held out a tray of champagne glasses on a silver salver. The young woman took one and walked into the parlor, smiling, looking about. One wall of the parlor consisted entirely of French doors leading to a balcony that overlooked Park Avenue. Small groups of people were spread around the room. A heavy set Negro was playing jazz on a Baby Grand piano in one corner.

  “Good evening, Miss Swanson,” said Jerome Marks, the host, in white slacks, blue blazer, and foulard ascot.

  “Oh, hello, yourself,” she smiled, touching her champagne glass to his. “Frank’s not here yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Nice party,” she said, looking more closely at the knots of people.

  “Anything you need, just ask.”

  “Thanks.”

  A tall, thin man with slicked blondish hair and glasses walked toward the actress. “Hello, Miss Swanson,” he smiled.

  “Hello, Joe,” she said. “How’s everything downtown today? Any tips?”

  “Well, I’d say you might look.…” at that moment, the elevator gate scissored open. A man with slicked-back dark hair and a prominent nose, walked off the elevator. “Here’s Frank now.”

  Frank Costello, in an elegant white suit, wing-tipped, black and white shoes, entered the parlor. Several people glanced at him momentarily.

  “Hello, sugar,” Costello said to the actress. “You look great. Hello, Joe.”

  “Hello, Frank,” said the man with the glasses.

  “Hello, Frank,” the host, Marks, said, coming over to shake Costello’s hand. “Some champagne?”

  “I don’t drink. Excuse us a minute,” Costello said to Marks and Miss Swanson. “Joe and me have a little something to talk over”—he then turned to Swanson—“then we have to get going over to the Park for dinner before the show.”

  “Fine with me. I’ll just mingle.”

  “Let me introduce you to some of the others,” Marks said to Miss Swanson.

  Costello walked toward one of the open French doors that led to the balcony. Joe snared a glass of champagne from a roving waiter and followed. “Anything wrong, Frank?”

  “A lot. I’m on my way to see Jimmy at the Tavern on the Green,” said Costello. “There was some trouble a little while ago.”

  “Trouble with the product?”

  “No. A couple of mugs were killed—bludgeoned, a real mess.”

  “Who? I guess I shouldn’t ask.”

  “Some rogues from the Bronx. They stepped on the wrong toes.” Costello dismissed the rogues—and their rubout—with a single lift of his eyebrows.

  “You kidding?” Joe was visibly shaken. Costello fixed Joe with his dark eyes. “No, I guess you’re not. When was this?”

  “About an hour ago. The newspapers are starting to get all over it, making like it’s another Valentine’s Day party. Jimmy’s a little miffed because I assured him there’d be no rough stuff, like there was in Chicago.”

  “Jimmy doesn’t need any more trouble than he has at the moment,” said Joe. “How many did you say? Two?”

  “Three.” Joe shook his head ruefully. “I’m going to talk to him,” said Frank. “You try to reach Hines. We may need him to smooth Jimmy’s feathers.”

  “I’ll make it a point to see him straight from here. He’s probably at the ‘21 Club’.”

  The two men watched the traffic on Park Avenue down below for a moment.

  “Is this going to cause us any problems, business-wise?” Joe asked.

  Costello dismissed the concern, now with a purse of his lips. “I don’t see no reason why it should. You see it as a problem?”

  “If it’s not a problem with you, it’s not a problem with me,” said Joe. “Say, Frank, this actress, Miss Swanson, is she … are you …?”

  “You like her, Joe?”

  “She’s really something. Beautiful.”

  “Joe, it’s okay. She’s just an occasional friend to me. You like her, she’s yours. I got to get going over to the Park. Make sure you see Hines, so he can talk to Jimmy. We don’t want the Police or the newspapers to make more out of this than it is. That wouldn’t be good for business.”

  “I’ll see him, and I’ll even make a couple of calls to the newspaper people. Keep it in perspective. You sure you don’t mind, Frank, about—” Joe nodded
toward Miss Swanson.

  “About what”? About Gloria? Joe, what’d I say?”

  Joe smiled.

  Bay Ridge, Brooklyn : July 31, 1996 : 10:30 P.M.

  Moscarella’s was a nice looking Italian restaurant, for Brooklyn. Actually, for anyplace. It compared well with fine restaurants in Tuscany, where the food was served in clean, well-lit rooms of little pretension, with straight-backed chairs, and square tables, where the cuisine, not decor, was the stellar, the only reason for being there. The expensive Italian restaurants in Manhattan, with dimly-lit ambiance and elegant decorations, where the showcase is more important than the show, were really New York restaurants, a breed and species all their own, totally unlike their counterparts in Italy.

  From Moscarella’s folding glass doors on Third Avenue, you could see the double stranded pearls of the Verrazano Narrows Bridge’s suspension cables stretched across the dark Narrows. Inside the Restaurant, the walls were peach, the same color as the table linens and napkins. The bar was mahogany, with a hammered copper surface. Crystal glasses hung from mahogany racks above, suspended from polished copper chains. Everything was shiny, brilliant.

  Tony Balls’ brazen laughter filled the area as he stood with his back against the bar. Seated on a stool next to him was Flor. Next to her, facing the bar, a crystal stem glass in hand, was, il proprietario, Enzo Moscarella. Except for the three, and a busboy hauling out the evening’s trash, the restaurant was deserted. Tony Balls glanced out through the front windows as a police car passed. “Bitza merda,” he muttered.

  Flor shook her head. “You shouldn’t talk like that in front of a lady.”

  “Hey, Flor, give me a break, okay?” said Tony Balls. “This is just us here.”

  “You only make it harder on yourself, sayin’ things like that all the time. They hear you, not out in the car, but when you practically say it to their face, they could make things hard for you, just to get back at you. You never know.”

  “Hey, Flor, not for nothin’, but I don’t give a freak about them guys or anything they can do.”

  Flor shrugged.

  “Hey, Tony, how about I buy you two another drink—in my fancy new glasses,” said Enzo, stepping behind the bar.

  “Now you’re talkin’,” said Tony Balls, turning to face the bar. He put his arm around Flor’s shoulders. “Cops just get me steamed every time I see them.”