Dancer in the Flames

by Stephen Solomita

  ‘You asked for a lawyer,’ Boots said. ‘Are you takin’ that back, Frankie?’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  ‘So, what do ya want?’

  Drago took a deep breath as he sucked up every molecule of courage from his small reservoir. ‘Ya know, Boots,’ he finally said, ‘you been placin’ bets with me for a long time. If that should come out …’

  Disappointed, Boots glanced around the kitchen, at what he knew to be Angie Drago’s creation: the yellow walls and counter tops, the pale red curtains over the windows, the dark green cabinets, an off-white linoleum floor speckled with mica. Behind Drago’s head, a religious calendar displayed the risen Christ. No more than a yard away, a wall clock bore the portrait of a smiling Minnie Mouse.

  ‘You sealed your own fate,’ Boots told Drago, ‘when you arranged your sister’s body the way you did. You can’t fix something like that, not after the media gets wind of it. In addition to the Crime Scene Unit, there’s an inspector from Borough Command and a prosecutor downstairs. They’re gonna hold a press conference later on, after you’ve been arrested.’

  Boots sipped at his coffee, trying to cool it down even as he took it into his mouth. Still, it was too hot and he burned his tongue. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means,’ Boots explained as he set down the mug, ‘that I wouldn’t save your ass even if I could. It means you have to pay for what you did to Angie, before and after her death.’ Boots flashed his here-and-gone smile as he pushed the chair away and stood up. ‘That’s just the way it is,’ he said. ‘No hard feelings.’

  Drago motioned for Boots to sit back down. ‘Awright, forget about the threat, which I didn’t mean anyway. I’m not gonna rat you out. I got somethin’ much bigger to trade.’ The bookie welcomed Littlewood’s scrutiny. He’d finally gotten the bastard’s attention. ‘I’m not gonna beat around the bush. I have information – which I am willin’ to share under the right conditions – regardin’ Christopher Parker, the cop who got killed down by the bridge three weeks ago.’

  Drago lit a cigarette, then blew a stream of smoke over the cop’s head. Boots inhaled as it went by, sucking the air down into his lungs. ‘Are you tellin’ me,’ he asked, ‘that you know the identity of the shooter? And think twice before you answer. You lie about somethin’ like this, you’re gonna think you were sightseein’ in Hiroshima on the day they dropped the bomb.’

  ‘Boots, do I look like a schmuck?’ Drago scrutinized the detective’s features, one by one, finally deciding that the guy was such a hard read because he was so ordinary. The nose just a little too short, the mouth a little too pinched, the blue eyes a little too narrow, the chin a little too prominent – Boots was neither ugly nor handsome, nor remarkable in any way.

  ‘I don’t know who pulled the trigger,’ Drago finally admitted. ‘I’m not makin’ that claim. But I do know somebody who watched the hit go down. And that’s what it was, Boots. A hit.’

  Boots nodded once, then rose to his feet. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll relay the message. But I’ve got one piece of advice, which you should really take to heart.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When the time comes, show remorse.’

  Boots set the wheels in motion by reporting Drago’s gambit to his immediate superior, Lieutenant Carl Levine, commander of the Sixty-Fourth Precinct’s detective squad. Levine took the offer to Inspector Mack Corcoran, who commanded all of Brooklyn’s detectives. Corcoran huddled briefly with a pair of Homicide detectives, Artie Farrahan and Thelonius Tolliver, before approaching Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount. Another discussion followed, after which Blount, Corcoran, Farrahan and Tolliver went upstairs to interview Frankie Drago.

  Boots watched the posse mount the stairs before wandering into the living room where he found his boss sitting on the couch. Lieutenant Carl Levine was a short man with a thick neck that ran straight up into his round skull. His bony jaw was large and his broad nose short, leaving his mouth an isolated slash of pink midway between these two landmarks. In his mid-fifties, Levine was fast coming to the end of a long career. Under ordinary circumstances, he might have been proud of that career – the Detective Bureau was a prestige assignment for any lieutenant. But Levine’s wife had deserted him more than a decade before and his two children were grown and gone. With no replacements in sight and no significant hobbies, retirement was little more than a black hole into which he would pour the remainder of his days. Levine’s wistful eyes reflected this truth. Among the detectives at the Six-Four, his nickname was Lieutenant Sorrowful.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Boots said after a moment. ‘I’ll have a confession out of Frankie Drago within an hour.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Frankie will never talk to Corcoran.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because Frankie’s been around the block. It’d be different, of course, if he knew the name of the shooter. Then he’d have to testify and the state would have to be nice to him. But the way it is, once he reveals the name of this witness, the criminal justice system will no longer need his services. That’s why Frankie’s gonna want somebody in the room he can trust.’

  For once, Levine’s eyes grew merry as a deep chuckle rumbled up from somewhere in his gut. He and Boots had been working together for many years.

  ‘And that somebody he can trust would be you?’

  ‘What can I say, boss? By now, the poor jerk’s gotta be desperate.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Boots heard the posse’s footsteps on the stairs. He turned in time to watch Inspector Mack Corcoran, with Blount and the two detectives bringing up the rear, march into the living room.

  ‘He’ll only talk to you,’ Corcoran announced. ‘He thinks you’re his friend.’

  Corcoran was in his mid-forties, a rising star who’d jumped from captain to inspector as if the rank of deputy inspector didn’t exist. Boots let his gaze travel past Corcoran’s slash of a mouth, past the cold, suspicious eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses, to the full head of brown hair that crowned his scalp. Dye job or a top-of-the-line rug? Boots couldn’t decide.

  ‘Don’t test my patience, Detective.’

  ‘If you want the name of the witness,’ Boots finally said, ‘I can get it for you. No problem. And while I’m at it, I’ll have Frankie confess to whatever he actually did to his sister.’

  Corcoran glanced at his two Homicide detectives, but they remained impassive. Both were acquainted with Boots Littlewood, having made use of him from time to time when searching for a witness or a suspect in the Six-Four. Boots knew everybody, had enough snitches to fill a high school gym and was generally cooperative. Alienating his affections was not on their agenda.

  Halfway up the flight of stairs separating the apartments of Frankie Drago and his mother, Assistant District Attorney Thelma Blount abruptly sat down, turning to face Boots Littlewood in the process. She rummaged in her bag for a moment, then removed a thin silver flask and unscrewed the top before taking a quick chug. Finally, she thrust the flask at Boots.

  ‘You have a bet on the game?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t remind me. The last thing I need is to get aggravated again.’

  ‘Boots, I’m trying to be sympathetic.’

  ‘I don’t want sympathy. I want the umpires to get the calls right. I won that game twice over.’

  Boots took the tiniest of sips, barely enough to wet his tongue. Shortly after Blount’s divorce became final two years before, he and Thelma had passed a frenzied weekend at a honeymoon resort in the Pocono Mountains, virtually all of it on a heart-shaped water bed. They’d emerged from their tryst good friends, though neither had expressed a desire to repeat the experience.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Blount finally asked.

  ‘About Frankie or about the witness?’

  ‘Start with the witness.’

  Boots squatted down until he was face to face with the ADA. ‘Frankie’s tellin’
the truth. Somebody he knows claimed to witness Parker’s murder. But was that individual also tellin’ the truth? Frankie Drago’s a bookmaker. His deadbeat customers have lied to him so many times that he’s developed a cop’s nose for horseshit. On the other hand, Frankie has every reason to exaggerate. We’ll just have to see.’

  FOUR

  Boots positioned himself with his back to the sink, leaving the arena of the kitchen table to Drago and Blount. By mutual agreement, Littlewood’s role in the proceedings would be limited to that of honest broker.

  ‘Mr Drago, are we ready now?’

  ‘Yeah, let’s do it.’ When Frankie Drago swallowed, his bobbing Adam’s apple created a series of ripples that flowed through his jowls to finally meet at the back of his neck. Game time, he told himself. Do or die.

  ‘You claim that you have personal knowledge of a witness to the murder of Captain Christopher Parker,’ Blount continued. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah, personal knowledge. As in the witness described the circumstances under which he did his witnessin’ in great detail. My guess, he was coked up that night because he usually keeps his lip buttoned.’

  ‘Did he recognize the shooter?’

  ‘I asked him, but he wouldn’t say.’ Drago looked over at Boots. ‘You know this guy, Boots. You and him have crossed paths many times.’

  Boots nodded. ‘Any chance he pulled off the hit?’

  ‘None. And when I say his name, you’re gonna know why.’ Drago turned back to Thelma Blount. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘it’s your turn. What’s in it for me?’

  Thelma stared at him for a moment. She was a small woman, in her late thirties, with a thick head of extremely curly hair that tended to pull away from her scalp as the day progressed. It was very late, well past midnight, and her dark red hair now surrounded her face like a halo.

  ‘Given the totality of the circumstances,’ she said, ‘I’m not willing to make any deal with you until I know exactly what happened on the night your sister died. It’s that simple.’ Thelma paused long enough to let the message sink in. According to Boots, Drago wanted nothing more than to unburden his guilty conscience. ‘If you wish, Mr Drago, we’ll keep it off the record for the present. But I won’t go in blind, not with the media already alerted.’

  Frankie again looked over at Boots, and again Boots nodded once. For just a moment, Drago was puzzled, but then he recalled the detective’s parting advice: Show remorse.

  ‘With Angie, it was always the weight,’ Drago said, ‘the weight and my health. I got high blood pressure to the point where I get chest pain, adult-onset diabetes, and my ankles and knees hurt so bad on rainy days I need a cane to get around. This is my fault, accordin’ to Angie, because I’m a fat slob, because I don’t have any self-discipline, because I’m weak. All through dinner she went at me – the soup, the salad, the pasta, the dessert – I was talkin’ too much, eatin’ too fast, chewin’ with my mouth open. Finally, I told her, “If I wanted a wife, I woulda married one. Leave me the fuck alone.”’

  As his story progressed, Drago’s eyes gradually dropped to the tablecloth, until he was finally staring at a crude representation of the Roman Colosseum that included a leaping leopard and a fallen gladiator. ‘The point I’m makin’ here is that Angie had these times when she just got mean. Myself, I think her hormones were outta whack, and I told her so, too, but she never got tested. That’s because she liked being nasty. I swear to God. The way some guys like to hurt people with their fists, Angie liked to hurt people with her words. And I wasn’t the only target. When Angie was in one of her moods, Ma took a beatin’, too, along with the grocer, the butcher and the girls at the beauty parlor. Even Father Ryan got his share and everybody knows he’s a fuckin’ saint.’

  Boots tuned out when Drago began a detailed account of the two hours before Angie came downstairs to watch Law and Order. Turning toward the sink, he found his box of Tic Tacs and shoved a few into his mouth. For the past month, he’d been hoping for a grace period, even five minutes, without wanting a smoke. Meanwhile, he couldn’t find ten seconds of peace in an entire day.

  Boots refocused as Drago wound up for the big finale. By then, tears were flowing in intermittent drops from the inside corners of both eyes.

  ‘Angie came down at ten o’clock and right away she went off on me,’ he said. ‘Only this time she started in about my business. I was too soft, too weak. My customers didn’t pay when they lost. This guy owes me this much. That guy owes me that much. Meanwhile, Ma’s dishwasher leaks and her apartment needs paintin’ and the toilet don’t flush right and the stair railing’s been loose for the last fuckin’ year. After a while, I couldn’t stand it no more. I felt like I was on fire, like if I didn’t do somethin’ I’d burst into flames. So, I jumped up and ran into the kitchen.’

  Drago’s head rose slightly, though his eyes never left the table. His tears were coming faster now.

  ‘Angie followed me. It’s unbelievable, right? I’m tryin’ to get away, to create a little space, but she won’t let me go. Boots, then and there, I knew she’d follow me even if I left the house, even if I got on a rocket ship and flew to the moon. There was no gettin’ away, no place to hide. And her words were like bullets, the way they came out of her mouth – she was spittin’ razor blades at me. I remember spinnin’ around, tryin’ to keep my back to her, but she just kept followin’ me until I finally stopped. Then she said, “What, ya wanna hit me? Huh? Well, go ahead, ya fat slob. I dare ya.”’

  By the time Drago raised his head to look at Boots, he’d turned the jets up to full. Tears streamed from his eyes, a thin trail of snot ran from his nose to his quivering upper lip, sobs erupted from deep in his chest.

  ‘I pushed her, Boots. I did it. Just like you said. I slammed her chest with the palms of my hands and she went flyin’ backwards. But I swear on my soul that I never even thought about the basement stairs. I never thought for one second that she was gonna die.’

  Boots rummaged in the cabinets until he found a roll of paper towels. He stripped away the plastic sheeting, then tossed the roll to Drago. The bookie tore off several sheets and wiped his face before continuing.

  ‘What you said, Boots, about Angie bein’ alive for two hours? That can’t be right. It just can’t be. She didn’t have any pulse and her eyes … I’m tellin’ you that Angie was gone before I got down the stairs. If I thought for one second she was alive, I would’ve definitely called nine-one-one. This was Angie, my sister. I don’t care how pissed off I was, I loved her, too. You know that Boots. You know I loved her.’

  In fact, the forensic evidence Boots reviewed before coming to Drago’s home revealed Angie’s cause of death to be a cerebral hemorrhage that killed her within seconds. And while a pair of contusions had been found on her chest, they were extremely faint.

  ‘Mr Drago,’ Thelma said after a moment, ‘you need to finish.’

  Though Frankie continued to stare at the tabletop, he felt his mind slowly rotate, felt every emotion, felt even the possibility of emotion spill out. All along, he’d believed that confession would be good for his soul, that he’d be somehow restored. Now he was left as shriveled and empty as a punctured balloon. He wondered how many times Boots had done this over the years, and to how many people.

  ‘When I ran down the stairs and saw that she was dead, it was like I went crazy, like all my thoughts were crazy thoughts and I couldn’t do a fuckin’ thing about it. I kept tryin’ to imagine myself explainin’ to Ma, explainin’ to the cops, but I couldn’t get it straight in my mind. All I knew was that it was my fault Angie was dead and I had to make sure nobody found out. So when I heard about the snowstorm, I just figured …’

  Suddenly, Drago leaned back in his chair. He laid his hands on the back of his knees and drew out his lower lip. Though his eyes were red and swollen, they were now dry.

  ‘I’m done,’ he declared. ‘I gave you what you wanted. I told you the truth.’

  Boots watched Thelma’s full li
ps compress and her eyes narrow. Time for the bad news, time to put the squeeze on Frankie Drago. The sad part was that what Drago did to his sister, assuming his confession was truthful, amounted to no more than second-degree manslaughter, and maybe not even that. Meanwhile, Blount was set to lower the hammer.

  ‘We’re going to charge you with first-degree manslaughter,’ she said, ‘with a recommendation for bail. That’s if you cooperate on the cop killing. If you don’t, the charge will be second-degree murder and you’ll be remanded without bail until the time of your trial.’ Blount straightened in the chair. She was staring directly into Drago’s eyes. ‘You understand, Mr Drago, that you’re going to get the fifteen minutes of fame that naturally follows dumping your sister’s naked body in a public park. And you might also want to consider that every judge is a hanging judge when the media’s looking over her shoulder. The maximum sentence for second-degree murder is twenty-five to life and that’s exactly what you’ll get if you’re convicted.’

  Drago shook his head as though trying to rid himself of an insect that had crawled into his ear canal. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her. I didn’t even mean to hurt her. I just wanted to get her away from me.’ He looked over at Boots. ‘This ain’t right, what you’re doin’ here. You know it happened the way I said. You know that—’

  ‘Mr Drago,’ Blount interrupted, ‘the statement you just gave is off the record. If you refuse my offer, it ceases to exist. That leaves the prosecution with the series of lies you told Detective Littlewood, with the forty-eight hours between when your sister died and when you disposed of her body, and with the way you chose to display her. Trust me on this, when a jury sees the photos taken at the crime scene, they’ll want to tear the flesh from your bones.’

  Drago let his eyes drop to his hands as he dealt with Blount’s threat. I should wait, he told himself. I should get a lawyer and let the lawyer bargain with the DA.

  But he would have to find that lawyer first, then sit in jail until the deal was cut, all the while hoping the payoff would be more generous than the deal he’d already been offered. Drago finally raised his head to look at Boots.