Invasion of Privacy - Jeremiah Healy

by Jeremiah Healy

  =20=

  Stopped at a traffic light back downtown, I checked my watch. Only 1:00 P.M. Still an hour before picking up Nancy, and plenty of time to visit the office for any mail Olga Evorova might have sent me. From what Rick Ianella had said the first time I met him, he and Cocozzo were more likely to be camped outside the condo, where there was some parking, than outside the office, where there was none. Even so, rather than put the Prelude in the space next to the dumpster off Tremont, I left it three blocks away and walked the rest.

  At my building's entrance, I looked around. The trolley ticket guy, with nobody at his booth across the street, was the only person paying any attention to me. Upstairs, I stood outside the pebbled-glass door for a full minute, hearing nothing. Using my key on the lock, I went inside, skimming the mail that had come through my slot. All but one envelope had a return address on it, and the exception proved to be from a former client whose daughter I'd tracked down a year before, the letter thanking me again, because the girl was still at home and now doing well in school.

  Facing the windows, I called my condo number, got Primo Zuppone's voice twice on the tape machine, and hung up. Next was my answering service, with two more messages from him. Nothing else.

  I was returning the receiver to its cradle as my door opened. Coco Cocozzo came in first, wearing the same suit, a semiautomatic nearly lost in his right hand. Close behind was Rick Ianella, a different suit but the same expression on his face.

  Cocozzo said to me, "Up, and real slow."

  I did what he wanted.

  "Assume the position against the wall."

  I went over to it, legs spread apart, palms leaning into the plaster above Junior's punched holes. Cocozzo planted the outside of his left shoe against the instep of my left foot and began to frisk me.

  I said, "This come kind of natural to you?"

  The balding man brought the barrel of the gun up hard between my thighs, but not as hard as he could have. I bit back what was in my throat.

  Cocozzo found the Smith & Wesson Chiefs Special on my right hip and pulled it free carefully Finishing the search, he stepped back.

  Ianella said, "Turn around and look at me, dickhead."

  I turned. "The trolley guy, right? You paid him to watch for me."

  Cocozzo said, "We paid four shifts of them, just in case you decided to show up when we weren't around." The scar through Junior's eyebrow was twitching like a rabbit's nose. "Coco and me, we been waiting since Friday for you to fucking call us, and that fucking Primo says you ain't been answering your phones again. I been in touch with Milwaukee, telling them, 'Let my father know, it's gonna be any time now.' Only you been letting us down, shit-for-brains. How come?"

  "I didn't have anything to tell you, until now."

  Ianella moved closer to me. "Until now?"

  "Yes. I found out some things, but I want Primo here when I tell you about them."

  Junior contorted his features like a chimpanzee's, nodding elaborately but not sincerely. I figured I knew what I was coming.

  Ianella made the quick effort to cuff me on the chin, the way he had with Zuppone. I parried it, the edge of my left hand slashing into the fleshy part of his right forearm. Junior bent at the waist, his left hand clawing at the place I'd hit him, the mottling coming over his cheeks.

  j

  "You little fuck, I'm gonna—"

  "Boss?"

  The younger man turned toward Cocozzo. "What?"

  "Probably be easier, we just call Primo on his car phone, get him over here."

  A look of disbelief. "You don't think I can handle this I piece of shit?"

  Softly, patiently, Cocozzo said, "I know you can handle him, Boss. It's just you might not want to handle him here, and Primo's the one with the car and maybe a place we can take him."

  Junior brought himself under control, then jerked his head toward the telephone. "Do it." I

  * * *

  From the floor of the Lincoln's backseat, I could hear Primo Zuppone say, "Mr. Ianella, I don't think—"

  "You don't got to think." Junior was in the front, on the passenger's side. "You just got to find us a place, so's we can have a talk with dickhead here."

  Cocozzo sat on the leather upholstery above me, one shoe resting lightly on the back of my neck, the muzzle of his weapon just under my earlobe. He said, "A quiet place, Primo."

  We were in the car for about half an hour before I could feel the suspension leaving a good road for a potholed one, my nose bouncing off the floor mat, the transmission hump compressing my ribs. Then Zuppone braked very gradually, killing the engine.

  Junior said, "This looks good. Your people control it?"

  "Yes, Mr. Ianella. But—"

  "Let's go."

  I heard and felt the doors of the Lincoln open.

  Primo pulled on my right shoe. "All right, Cuddy. Back out, real slow."

  Once my feet were on the ground, Cocozzo said, "Hands behind your neck."

  With Zuppone leading, the others trailed me toward a derelict industrial building, windowpanes rock—broken on the first two floors. At the main entrance, Primo keyed a huge padlock, the door swinging inward, the way they were built before the Coconut Grove fire in 1942. A wave of dank air greeted us as we moved inside, the pang of old blood hanging heavy between the stone walls and above the stone floor.

  Junior said, "Fucking place smells like a slaughterhouse."

  Primo shrugged. "That's what it was, Mr. Ianella."

  Cocozzo said, "Lights work?"

  "We got a utility thing, down the hall."

  "Why don't you go put it on," said the balding man. Zuppone faded into the darkness, his steps even, like a sentry marching along his castle's battlement. At the end of the hall, one of those hooked and caged lamps with a rubber handle came on. Hanging from a nail in the crossbeam, it spotlighted Primo's head and torso.

  Cocozzo nudged me between the shoulder blades, but with the off-hand, not the gun one. A careful guy, Coco. Not exactly a good sign for my future.

  I walked toward Zuppone, Ianella saying behind me, "Fucking slimy stones, gonna ruin these loafers."

  Primo said, "Hey-ey-ey, I'm sorry, but this was the best place I could—"

  "Shut up and let's get to it."

  I could see Zuppone's cheeks whiten in anger around his acne scars as he unhooked the light from its nail, giving himself plenty of slack in the long extension cord. We moved down the corridor, almost a torch-lit processional. Primo stopped at a solid oak door with an oversized, icebox handle. He yanked on it, and the door groaned on rusty hinges. A while since anyone else had been through it.

  "Hey," said Ianella, "we gonna find a guy wearing a hockey mask in there?"

  Cocozzo said, "With a chainsaw, maybe."

  "No, Coco. You're thinking of a different fucking movie altogether," said Junior.

  “Actually, Boss, I was thinking of Cuddy here."

  Ianella grinned and nodded. "That's good, Coco. I like that, yeah."

  The interior of the locker spread before us, twenty feet square, the big meat hooks still embedded in reinforced beams running the width of the room. A couple of gouged and stained oak benches occupied the center of the space, some cobwebbed cutlery like cleavers and long-handled knives on an old oak stand against one wall.

  Junior looked around once, returning to the old cutlery. "Perfect." Then, to Primo, "Pull one of those fucking benches over here."

  Zuppone hung the lamp from one of the meat hooks, then did what he was told.

  Ianella put his right foot atop the bench, a football coach about to diagram a play for the defense. "Cuddy, you go sit on the other one."

  I went over to it, turning and lowering myself, the old oak feeling as cold as the old stone had looked in the corridor.

  Cocozzo picked a wall and tested it with the pads of his fingers before deciding not to lean against it. Primo moved to the other side of where I was sitting. If you'd had a compass, Junior and I would have been nort
h and south, Cocozzo and Zuppone east and west.

  Ianella spoke to me from ten feet. "Okay, dickhead, we did this like you wanted. Now talk to us."

  "Can I put my hands down?"

  He looked at Cocozzo, who said, "Yeah."

  I brought them to my lap. "Here's what happened, as straight as I know it. A woman comes to me, says she wants her boyfriend investigated. I find out he isn't what—"

  Junior said, "We heard all this shit. Cut to where DiRienzi's at, or"—glancing meaningfully toward the old oak stand—"we start cutting you."

  I just watched Ianella. "When I told the client what I'd found out, that your bookkeeper wasn't who he claimed to be, I think she went down to see him at his condo unit. There's some indication they took off together."

  The mottled look. "What's this 'some indication' shit?"

  "His neighbors overheard an argument. One of them saw your guy loading suitcases into her car the night he cleaned out his bank accounts."

  "What night's this?" said Cocozzo.

  I still addressed Ianella. "Thursday."

  "The night we got here," said the balding man.

  "Right. Only thing is, my client never touched her own money, and when I went around to the parking lots at Logan—"

  "Where?" said Junior.

  To my left, Zuppone's voice said, "That's our airport, Mr. Ianella."

  "When I checked the lots, I found my client's car, a flashy Porsche."

  "There another kind?" said Cocozzo.

  "Which didn't strike me right, since your bookkeeper was driving a much quieter car for dumping. And the parking attendant said the male was driving, when my client told me she never let anybody else touch the car. And the driver waved to the attendant."

  Junior said, "Waved to him?"

  "Yes."

  Shake of the head. "That Judas fuck DiRienzi never waved to anybody in his life."

  Cocozzo said, "He was a cold guy that way, Cuddy. No personality, you know?"

  I said, "Even if DiRienzi was Mr. Congeniality, he wants to ditch the car and disappear. Why would he try to make an impression by waving to anybody?"

  Cocozzo didn't reply.

  I went back to Ianella. "Which is what I meant before by 'some indication.' I think it's possible they took off together, but those things seem wrong."

  Junior looked over at Cocozzo, who said to me, "You been sticking your nose into DiRienzi's cover, the feds running the witness program should have been on to you."

  "They are. They say they don't know where he is, and they don't care."

  Ianella said, "The fuck does that mean?"

  "I think it means he's already given them what they wanted, which was testimony against your father, and now they'd just as soon he did disappear as have to be accounted for."

  "Accounted for?"

  Cocozzo said, "Like if we got to him, Boss. Only we didn't." The balding man turned to me. "You say the neighbors where he lives told you that DiRienzi and his girlfriend were arguing on Thursday night, right?"

  "Right."

  "Seems to me, they were lovey-dovey before, now they're not, it's gotta be because the girlfriend tells him she hired you."

  "Probably."

  "Yeah, but that means DiRienzi oughta know his cover ain't blown, except to you and her, right?"

  Cocozzo's point was a conversation-stopper. I hadn't thought about it that way.

  Junior looked lost. "The fuck you saying here, Coco?"

  The patient voice. "What I'm saying, Boss, is that DiRienzi knows the only one on to him is his own girlfriend and Cuddy here, then his new ID is still just line, account of we don't get into town ourselves till Thursday night and Cuddy don't know who his 'client's boyfriend' really is till we see him at his office on Friday."

  I didn't like where this was leading.

  Cocozzo said, "Which means that Thursday night, DiRienzi's got no reason to run. He just calls his keepers, and they straighten things out, and he gets to stay Mr. Whoever-he-is." From ten feet away, the muzzle of the semiautomatic hovered about heart-high on my chest. “If Cuddy's been telling us the truth, that is."

  Primo Zuppone stepped toward Ianella. "Cuddy don't lie."

  Junior looked at him, astonished. "The fuck you saying, he don't lie?"

  "I seen him in a bad situation before, Mr. Ianella. I grant you, the guy might have more balls than brains, but he don't lie."

  Junior glared, the mottling spreading upward and breaking like a wave over his features. "Primo, this dickhead knows he's gonna die here he don't tell us what we want, and you say, 'He don't lie, Mr. Ianella?' What's the matter, all those pimples spoil your brain too?"

  The rage ran visibly through Zuppone. "Mr. Ianella—"

  "Shut the fuck up, pizza-face."

  Cocozzo said, "Boss . . ."

  "You too, Coco, for chrissake. Give me his piece."

  "His piece?"

  "His gun, the one you took off him. I mined my loafers in this fucking pigsty, I don't want to wreck the suit too, playing butcher boy with those fucking knives."

  Cocozzo reached into a jacket pocket, sending the revolver to the younger man in an easy, underhand toss. When Junior caught it, he moved toward my bench, hefting the gun rather than pointing it. Cocozzo shifted with him, so as to have a clear field of fire toward me.

  Ianella said, "Coco thinks you're lying, I think you're lying, no matter what this fucking stooge here believes."

  Primo made a noise, deep inside.

  Junior turned to him. "You got something to say, pizza-face?"

  Cocozzo said again, "Boss . . ."

  "Shut up! Answer me, pizza-face, you got something to say?"

  "Mr. Ian—"

  The quick cuff to the chin, rocking Zuppone a little this time. "When I ask you that question, and you know I don't want to fucking hear nothing from you, you just shake your head, you understand? You keep your mouth closed and you just shake your fucking head, you got it?"

  Primo's whole body was shaking as he just nodded this time, once and decisively.

  Now Junior turned back to me, glowering down. "Your story don't add up, Cuddy, and I think you're running some kind of game on us. But even if you ain't, even if you're just stone fucking stupid and DiRienzi outsmarted you, the fact is, you lost him, and you don't have a single fucking clue where he went. And that makes me very fucking mad."

  Speed-talking, Zuppone said, "Mr. Ianella, DiRienzi ran before Cuddy here even met you, so—"

  This time not a cuff, but a backhanded clout that knocked Primo sideways. "Shut the fuck up, you fucking pimple-freak, or you'1l get the first slug! And you, Cuddy, you make me fucking sick. My father's rotting away in a cell because some Judas fuck set him up and sent him up, and then you lose the piece a shit who should have paid for it. Which means you get to pay for it. One part of you at a time."

  Junior cocked the revolver and pointed it at my crotch, a step too far away for me to lunge for it. I was still going to try when Cocozzo made the only mistake I'd seen him commit.

  He stepped toward his boss, blocking his line of sight on Primo.

  Zuppone drew the Beretta from its shoulder holster and shot Rick Ianella twice. Junior lurched against his bodyguard as the balding man was trying to elevate his own gun hand. Then Primo emptied the rest of the Beretta's clip into Cocozzo, who fired his weapon three times, reflexively but harmlessly, into the ceiling. Dust from above began waiting slowly downward as the two Milwaukee mobsters, clutching each other like clumsy dancers, fell to the floor.

  I looked at Zuppone, the Beretta jacked open and empty, the trembling of his right hand scattering the smoke curling up from the chamber.

  "Primo—"

  "No! No." His voice was raspy. "Don't say a fucking word till I tell you." Then he seemed to notice how the gun was moving in his hand and lowered it. Something short and harsh in Italian was followed by, "The fuck did I do here?"

  * * *

  We were coming over the Charlestown Bridge into the B
oston Garden area of the North End when Zuppone stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth and said, "All right, talk."

  "Thanks."

  Zuppone glanced over to me, then at each of the Lincoln's mirrors. "For letting you talk?"

  "No, for saving my life."

  A movement of his head that was more shudder than simple shake. “Maybe only temporary, for both of us."

  "How long can you leave the bodies there?"

  "After I drop you, I make a couple, three calls from a pay phone, handle it the same way as last time."

  Which meant a no-questions-asked team from the friendly funeral home. "And the death certificates?"

  "Dr. T.—the guy helped us out before?—he'll put down anything I want. Only thing is . . ."

  "The people in Milwaukee will expect the bodies back for burial, right?"

  "Right. And our coordinator here—the one who called them out there in the first fucking place—he's gotta be satisfied that this didn't happen the way you and me know it did."

  "Which means?"

  "Which means that I gotta fucking account for a clip full of bullets in two organization guys. And that means I gotta give Milwaukee and our coordinator somebody who pulled the fucking trigger."

  "Some somebody."

  "Yeah, but preferably not me."

  Zuppone couldn't quite make the tone light enough. I said, "DiRienzi is the only candidate who comes to mind."

  "Even that's gonna be a tough sell, he was only a paperwork guy, not muscle."

  "And why weren't you around when he was shooting your out-of-town guests, who ought to be checking in with their people in Milwaukee soon."

  Zuppone made a careful left turn. "I'm glad you appreciate my situation."

  "It gets worse. I wasn't going to hand DiRienzi over to Junior, I'm not going to help you bundle him on a plane back to the Midwest.”