The Con Man's Daughter

by Ed Dee

  "I don't know what he kept in his safe," Angelo said, blowing a smoke ring. "Maybe the panties of his old girlfriends." Eddie noticed the stump of his little finger. Angelo bragged that it had been chopped off by a hit man from Calabria. Paulie told him it was a woodworking accident in his garage.

  Eddie said, "Did Paulie ever mention a set of black loose-leaf binders that belonged to Marvin Rosenfeld? They contained phony corporations."

  "Yeah, Paulie sold them to Anatoly Lukin. Why the hell do you think Lukin hired you? I thought partners told each other everything."

  "We know different about Paulie, don't we, Ange?"

  "Let's not speak ill of the dead, my friend."

  Wooden balls rolled across the deep red clay. A red ball close to the pallina was knocked away by the green ball. The old man in the Panama hat slapped dust off his hands, pleased with himself.

  Angelo said, "You ever see Paulie's villa?"

  "Never had the pleasure."

  "You never went, really?"

  Eddie took a deep breath and looked away. A breeze blew, shuffling papers on the tabletop: a Racing Form, a copy of the New York Post Eddie had read from cover to cover in the FBI office a few hours earlier. Angelo took a metal tape measure and used it as a paperweight on the Racing Form.

  "My brother, the ex-cop," Angelo said, "he builds a house that should have been on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I tried to talk to him, but he never listened. He thinks because he's in Italy he can spend like a drunken sailor and no one will notice. Called attention to himself, that's what he did."

  "Paulie keep a lot of money in the safe?" Eddie asked.

  Angelo laughed and shook his head.

  "If the motive was robbery," Eddie said, "why did they throw his head at my house?"

  "Because someone knows more than they should, my friend."

  "Knows what?" Eddie asked.

  "My brother is dead. Stop playing games, Eddie."

  "If there was some secret to know," Eddie said, "how would these people who killed Paulie hear about it?"

  "Maybe Paulie told them. They beat him, tortured him, and he told them."

  "How would they know enough to ask Paulie the question in the first place?"

  "It has been my experience over the years," Angelo said, "the bigger the secret, the shorter its life."

  "I would think the opposite."

  "You are some piece of work," Angelo said, "you know that? I remember the first time my brother brought you to my house. You had the balls to tell that joke about a little kid playing with shit in the street. Remember that? A kid making a statue with shit. When someone asked him what he was doing, he said he was making a statue of an Italian cop. At first, I thought my friends were going to throw you on the barbecue pit. I said to Paulie, 'Who is this stupid Irish bastard telling guinea jokes here, of all places?'"

  "They didn't."

  "I know. You got their attention, got it good, and then you delivered the punch line: The person asked the little kid why he didn't make an Irish cop instead. The kid said he was going to but he didn't have enough shit."

  Angelo laughed; the joke still had a bite for him. Eddie was struck by the peacefulness of all the sounds. The soft breeze through the leaves of the trees, the wooden boccie balls rolling, a rake combing lines in the copper-colored clay, the voices.

  "So I shouldn't be surprised," Angelo said, "you have the balls to come here and accuse me of being a rat."

  "I'm not accusing you of anything, Angelo. I'm trying to figure out how many eyes I should keep open at night."

  "Keep them all open, Eddie. Just like I do. And stay away from Richie Costa. That's your last warning."

  Chapter 21

  Friday

  3:00 P.M.

  The afternoon turned into one of those warm spring days when you can smell the new grass. Eddie threw his raincoat in the backseat. He'd worn a sports jacket for the FBI meeting. He should have arrived in a ripped T-shirt. That would have been the wardrobe they expected. If Eddie despised one thing in his life, it was bullies. His rules were simple: He hated people who hurt other people. It didn't matter whether it was physically, emotionally, or financially. French Cuffs had used the FBI's muscle in a heartless, cowardly way. At a time when Eddie was desperate, this arrogant bastard had decided to play tough guy. With an innocent woman's life in the balance. There'll come a day, Eddie thought. There'll come a day.

  Warm weather had lured the denizens of the Bronx into the streets. Jump ropes snapped, Rollerblades whirred, and boom boxes confirmed that rap now ruled. Eddie parked at a meter in front of the bakery on East 187th Street. He put his S &W in the purple Crown Royal bag and wedged it in the seat springs. Ten minutes later, he came through the door of the Bronx Knights Social Club with both hands raised above his head. He held a flat white box in the air.

  "Peace," he yelled to a dozen gun barrels pointed his way.

  "Just do a one-eighty, Eddie," Lino Terra said. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out."

  "Cannolis from Ferrara's," Eddie said. "An offer you can't refuse." He put the box on the table and opened it. He stepped back, held his jacket open to show he was unarmed.

  "Stick those up your ass," Richie Costa said. Richie's face was half-covered by a white bandage. He looked like the Phantom of the Opera.

  "I just left Angelo Caruso," Eddie said. "He said I could talk to Richie for five minutes as long as I behaved myself."

  "I don't give a shit about Angelo Caruso," Richie said. "You get your ass outta here, and take your fucking pastries with you."

  "Angelo said we're all family men," Eddie said. "His brother and I were family. He said you guys would understand."

  "We understood one time," Lino Terra said. "You don't get away with that shit twice."

  "I'm not here to hit anyone," Eddie said.

  "Good-bye," Lino said.

  "Most of you guys have kids," Eddie said. "Lino, back me up here. If someone snatched your beautiful little girl Marissa from Saint Anthony's one morning, you'd understand then, right? A bunch of you guys have kids; I know that. Or maybe I'm wrong here. Maybe you can't know until it happens to you. How helpless you feel, how desperate."

  "Is that a threat, you crazy fuck?" Lino said.

  "Somebody shoot this mick cocksucker," someone yelled.

  "Do something for me," Eddie said. 'This is all I ask. When you tuck your kids in tonight, give them a kiss for me. I would never want any of you guys to feel the pain I'm going through right now. That's from the bottom of my heart."

  "You always go too far, Eddie," Lino said.

  "How far would you go, Lino? All I'm asking is one simple thing: I want to talk to Richie for five minutes. Come on… you can't give me five minutes?"

  The ticking of a ceiling fan was the only noise. The TV above the bar had the sound turned down. They were watching CNBC; the stock market ticker ran across the screen. Like the micks from Yonkers, the bent-nose guys from the Bronx Knights were into their portfolios. Lino Terra patted Eddie down. They gave him five minutes with Richie, out of earshot, but they'd be watching.

  "Make this quick, asshole," Richie said.

  Eddie gently touched Richie's shoulder. He could feel him trembling.

  "You are my last hope," Eddie said softly. "Without you, my daughter dies."

  "Don't put that weight on me, you cocksucker. I had nothing to do with it and I don't know what the fuck is going on."

  "I need to find Sergei Zhukov."

  "Oh, like I know where the Russkies hang out."

  "Don't make me beg here, Richie. I'm not good at it. I'm serious. I need you to be serious. Listen to me: If you don't help me here, I will kidnap Lino's daughter. Then I'll get the others. And they'll all know it's because of you, because that's exactly what I'll tell them before I leave here."

  "Don't put me in the barrel like this. If I knew anything, I'd tell you. You gotta believe that. Only thing I know is that he lives in Queens. I went drinking with hi
m a coupla times, after we closed the Eurobar."

  "He lives in Rego Park. Where did you drink with him?"

  "Always Russian clubs. One place in Manhattan, on Fifty-second Street, but mostly Brighton Beach joints. And poker games-the guy is a heavy-duty cardhead. One of the worst degenerate gamblers I ever saw. He'd bet on stupid shit, like two cabs pulling away from a light, old ladies running for a bus. Shit like that."

  "Tell me about the card games," Eddie said.

  "We hit a little game in one of the clubs, but the guy loves high stakes. He goes for ten, twenty grand without batting an eye. Every Friday night, he goes to this game. I went with him once. But it sucked. All Russian guys talking gibberish. You don't know if they're fucking you or laughing at you, or what."

  "Where is the game?"

  "You'll never find it. When I played, it was in an apartment on Avenue U. But it moves every week. They got these fucking psycho luggers."

  "Where did you meet the luggers?"

  "Parking lot on Brighton Eighth, near the beach. You park your car and they have luggers drive you to the game."

  "How good are the luggers?"

  "In-fucking-credible," Richie said. "Best wheelmen I ever saw. No way can you tail them. It's impossible. They go down one-way streets, make a U-turn, and come back at you. Then they drive down another one-way street the wrong way all the way. Red lights mean nothing. They drive over the sidewalk. The guy we had drove through a fucking park, across the softball field, a fucking city park."

  "Better than your dad's luggers?

  "Better and way crazier. These mutts don't give a shit about losing their licenses. They just get a new one sent from Russia with a different name, then take it to Motor Vehicles and get another New York license. No problem."

  "Who else was at the game?"

  "All Russian guys. I couldn't remember even if you tortured me. I went to that one game. Miserable. I remember the food sucked. All this greasy shit, little white fish that looked like that Jewish shit. All kinds of greasy white sauces I never saw in my life. Some guy in a lab coat delivered it. Sergei was bragging about the food. He said they get it catered from some big deli in Brighton Beach."

  "M and I International?" Eddie said.

  "Could be. Don't hold me to it."

  Richie jumped when Eddie went to shake his hand. Richie wasn't accepting apologies. The Bronx Knights were never going to forget that beating, so Eddie grabbed the cannolis, said, "Ciao," and left.

  Chapter 22

  Friday

  6:00 P.M.

  Big stakes card games are all-night affairs. Eddie knew he wouldn't get to bed before dawn. He had a few hours before the start of his high-roller hunt for Sergei Zhukov, so he drove to Yonkers to touch base with the people who loved him, win or lose, his little cheering section from the hill. Friday nights, he knew exactly where they'd be.

  It had taken Kevin Dunne several years to unearth the hidden character of the North End Tavern. He took all the credit because he and Eddie had done most of the work themselves. The art of renovation, Kevin claimed, was in knowing what not to change. Except for a steam cleaning, the old tin ceiling remained untouched, as did most of the original woodwork. They'd sanded and refin-ished the oak floors and replaced the bar with a classic mahogany horseshoe-style one they'd bought from a Connecticut salvage yard. The biggest visual difference came when they stripped the plaster walls away to expose the old brick, a move that sent the bar regulars home clucking about the latest Dunne brainstorm.

  Kevin hoped the step back in time would help lure back several decades' worth of Yonkers kids who'd moved upstate, the majority of them less than an hour away. Nostalgia was the hook. Kevin scoured the city, collecting old street signs and photographs of the city: the trolleys, Getty Square, the Schoolboys' Race, the Sacred Heart High School Bagpipe Band, the Yonkers Marathon, dozens of high school sports photographs, and Eddie Dunne's face on the cover of Ring Magazine. Every time you looked at the walls, a new black-framed remembrance stared back at you. Most of the former Yonkersites who appreciated these images were in or near retirement. Kevin's goal was to trade regular trips down memory lane for some of their discretionary income.

  The plan included a series of special nights: Gorton High School night on the second Thursday of every month; Sacred Heart on the third Tuesday; Yonkers Fire Department and PD retirees, and so on. "Mini-reunions," he called them. All he had to do was contact the alumni associations and word of mouth would be all the advertising they'd need.

  The limited menu presented the biggest problem. The present limit was one dish a night, and Martha was adamant about sticking to that. "The customers are family," she said. "Family members do not get a menu." On Sunday, the lone entree was pot roast, mashed potatoes, and string beans. The same vegetables came with the entries all week long. Occasionally, a seasonal vegetable would replace the string beans. Monday brought roast chicken; Tuesday, liver and onions; Wednesday, franks and beans; Thursday, beef stew; flounder on Friday; and Saturday was burger night. For the hard to please, burgers and fries were available every night except Friday. Saint Martha would not sell any meat on Friday, no matter what the old men in Rome decreed. But one Friday night, Kevin let a regular customer run to the corner to pick up a pizza for his fish-hating kids. Martha said, "There you go; the floodgates are open."

  The usual Friday crowd surrounded the bar when Eddie walked in with a pizza and a box of cannolis. The subject at the bar was the latest plot of bartender B. J. Harrington. At issue was the wisdom of the deceptively tough Harrington's ongoing public effort to engage Britain's Prince Charles in a boxing match to decide possession of Northern Ireland. B.J. was attempting to have a crown he had purchased at a theater auction declared the official crown of the king of Ireland. Possession of the official crown, he figured, would give him legal standing to challenge the Brits. Although he was twenty years older than the prince, B.J. was confident. He'd lined Eddie up to train him. Five rounds, winner take all. Registered letters were flying back and forth across the pond.

  Babsie Panko and Grace waited for Eddie in a back booth. For him, it had been a day of carrying white boxes. Babsie grabbed the cannolis and put them on her side of the booth. "Dessert for later," she told Grace.

  "Don't let Aunt Martha see the pepperoni," Grace said.

  Babsie opened the pizza box and cut slices all the way through. She scooped them out one at a time and put them on the rose-trimmed plates Kevin had bought from a wholesaler on the Bowery. The restaurant had been all Kevin's doing. Their father, Kieran Dunne, had not emphasized food in his thirty years in the bar business.

  "You look beat," Babsie said.

  "I'm fine," Eddie said. "I'll go see if Kevin wants a slice."

  "Your brother is putting new ice in the urinals," Babsie said.

  "Why does he do that?" Grace asked.

  "It's a guy thing," Babsie told her.

  "It's stupid," Grace said.

  "God, you're getting more like me every day," said Babsie.

  Grace ate half a slice, then went to the jukebox to press numbers. The Wurlitzer played only songs from the fifties, mostly doo-wop and Elvis. You didn't need quarters; Kevin kept it on free play. An Irish bar without music, he claimed, was just another wake.

  "What happened with the feds today?" Babsie said.

  "Nothing helpful. How's Kate's bedroom working out for you?"

  "It's fine."

  "If I haven't said it before, Babsie, I really appreciate your moving in. I mean it."

  "Expressing gratitude is an effective way of changing the subject. It forces a polite Polish Catholic girl like me to say, 'You're welcome.' I said it Now, let's try to remember that I'm not the baby-sitter; I'm the lead detective. Tell me about the meeting."

  "They wanted to rehash the Rosenfeld case."

  "That's your claim to fame, right? You and Paul Caruso. The shoot-out in Marine Park. You recovered a couple million dollars."

  "Money that Rosenfeld had be
en laundering for Evesi Volshin from the gas-tax scam."

  "Remind me how that worked," Babsie said.

  Like all great rip-offs, the gas-tax scam was simple. A handful of gasoline distributorships were responsible for paying the twenty-eight-cents-a-gallon tax. Anatoly

  Lukin, who worked for Evesi Volshin at the time, had front men buy wholesale gasoline for their distributorship. They then moved it, on paper, through a series of bogus corporations. The gas was sold to independent retailers at cut-rate prices. The retailers received a forged invoice stamped "All taxes paid." Of course, the taxes were never paid. Lukin always designated one of the corporations in the daisy chain as the "burn" corporation, the one required to pay the taxes. For years, nobody missed the tax money, but then investigators finally discovered the "burn" corporation was nothing more than a post office box in a dry cleaner's. The corporate principal was an elderly Russian émigrés, who suddenly disappeared.

  "It's easy to believe the big money estimates," Babsie said. "Ripping off the government for twenty-eight cents for every gallon, and this went on for years. Boland said the money was coming in so fast, Rosenfeld had trouble washing it all. That's why he had it in his safe at home. He kept it there until he could move it."

  "You talked to Boland?"

  "He called me after you walked out of the meeting."

  Babsie was wearing jeans and had her shoulder-length gray hair held back in a ponytail. Each time one of them took a slice of pizza, she closed the box and put the napkin holder on top to hold it down.

  Eddie said, "They think that I took these black binders that contain the paperwork for a slew of phony corporations."

  "Boland told me someone removed the binders from Rosenfeld's house after the double homicide and that they wound up in Lukin's possession. Now they're missing again. You're the natural suspect."

  "I don't know where they are now, Babsie. But apparently, my partner sold them to Lukin after the Rosenfeld murder. I saw his brother Angelo today; he said that Paulie told Lukin I was in on it. I wasn't."