Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  “You don’t look happy,” he said.

  “This book might as well be written in Chinese.”

  “What’s the subject?”

  “Probability, and if it doesn’t begin to sink in soon, the probability of me making it through this class will be zero percent.”

  “I’m going out to throw a football with some friends. Why don’t you take a break and come along, get some fresh air?”

  “I would love to, but I really need to get somewhere with this before class tomorrow. Have fun.”

  “Can I bring you back anything?”

  “Bring me a turkey, swiss and avocado club sandwich on sourdough toast and a Chinese interpreter.”

  Murphy grabbed the cell phone from the restaurant table and answered it after one ring.

  “Mendez will be at the place at eleven with search warrant in hand,” Samson said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Thanks for the latitude.”

  Murphy checked the time before putting the phone away.

  “The captain hooked us up. We need to be at Bianca’s place in an hour.”

  “I’d love to be in on that party, but I’m late for Mass at Saints Mary’s,” Stevie said.

  “Thanks for your help,” Murphy said.

  “Thank my cousin, it was all Tony.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Do it in person, Tony likes visitors bearing food.”

  Mendez was waiting in plain clothes when they arrived.

  “I’m off-duty,” he explained.

  “Are you going to stick around?” Murphy asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  The place was a converted storefront, the entrance at street level.

  “Should we knock?” Maggio asked.

  “We did knock, and we identified ourselves,” Murphy said. “I guess he didn’t hear us. Can we get through this door?”

  “I played soccer in school. If you both give me a shoulder, I can knock the door into next week.”

  Maggio stood between Murphy and Mendez, threw his arms around their shoulders, lifted his legs off the ground, swung a few times, and then hit the door with both legs fully extended. The door came off the hinges and traveled at least five feet into the front room. When they went in, Al Bianca was on the floor trying to crawl out from under it.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Get up,” Murphy said, as Mendez and Maggio moved the door aside.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Give him a hand,” Murphy said.

  Maggio and Mendez stood Bianca up in front of Murphy.

  “Let me see your hands.”

  Bianca lifted his hands and Murphy hit him full force in the mouth.

  Bianca went down again.

  “Cuff this motherfucker to the radiator and find something to shut him the fuck up.”

  Mendez slapped on the handcuffs, Maggio grabbed a dish rag from the kitchen sink.

  “That looks really nasty,” Murphy said, as Maggio stuffed it into Bianca’s mouth. “Mendez, show him the warrant. Al, nod if you need it read to you. Let’s get this door up in the doorway before we attract an audience, and then we tear this fucking place apart.”

  They replaced the door, all pulled on latex gloves and they went to work.

  Ten minutes later, Mendez called Murphy into the kitchen.

  “Found these under the sink.”

  Murphy pulled a zip-lock from his jacket pocket and passed it to Mendez.

  “Gallon size,” Mendez said. “Nice.”

  “I’d like to put his fucking head in it. Please bag those and wait until I call you in.”

  Murphy went back to the front room and went down on one knee in front of Bianca. Maggio came in from a back room.

  “You are under arrest for the premeditated murder of John Fazio. If you say you don’t know what I’m talking about, we will hit you with the door again. In fact, don’t say a thing until you answer one simple question,” Murphy said, and he called Mendez.

  He took the bag from Mendez and dropped in onto Bianca’s lap.

  “My question is, Al, did Joe Bando not pay you enough for new leather gloves to replace this pair soaked with John Fazio’s blood or did you save them for sentimental reasons? Let’s get this animal into a cage where he belongs.”

  “Should I pull the rag out of his mouth?” Maggio asked.

  “No, I hope the motherfucker chokes on it.”

  A touch football game naturally led to several rounds of cold bottled beer and it was nearly three when Vinnie Salerno finally made it home on Sunday afternoon.

  Alison was still at it, nose in the textbook, scribbling in a notebook.

  “Sorry I’m so late. I brought your sandwich.”

  “I made an omelet.”

  “You can take the sandwich for lunch tomorrow.”

  “By then it will be so soggy I’d need to use a straw. We can share it for dinner, I’ll make a salad.”

  “I was planning to order a pizza for dinner, for the game.”

  “The game?”

  “The Giants are on NBC tonight. Cris Collinsworth, Al Michaels, and Big Blue. The game.”

  “I need to watch the debate tonight.”

  “What debate?”

  “The Democratic Party candidates,” Alison said.

  “Who cares?”

  “I have to write a report on the debate for my Political Science class so I’m guessing my professor cares.”

  “When is it due?”

  “Thursday.”

  “I can record it, and you can watch it anytime you like before then.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “The DVD machine Carmine sent from Chicago for a house warming gift records onto blank discs.”

  “And you know how to do that?”

  “I program the time and the channel and the machine does the rest. And you can pause it, go back, go forward, whatever you want.”

  “I hope its fool proof.”

  “Cute. I’ll make you a deal, you watch the Giants with me and I’ll watch the debate with you.”

  “That sounds very romantic, how about I choose the pizza toppings?”

  Thomas Murphy and Lorraine DiMarco sat at a table in Joe’s Bar over drinks late Sunday afternoon.

  Murphy had intended to schedule a get together for a long time—and had been putting it off for just as long for no good reason. After taking care of the business with Al Bianca, he impulsively called Lorraine on the chance she had a few hours to spare for an old friend. Lorraine hurried down to the bar.

  The meeting was casual, comfortable. They shared a mutual respect, and more than that they truly liked each other. They had both faced life changing challenges over the past year or so—individually and mutually.

  Lorraine asked about his mother, asked about Ralph, and asked about Sandra Rosen—allowing him to decide whether to talk about Sandra or about him and Sandra.

  Murphy asked about her law practice, her parents, and asked about her health—allowing her to decide whether or not to talk about the brain tumor treated more than a year ago and if she still had a clean bill.

  And they talked about Lou Vota who they had both loved. With the help of the time that had passed, it was easier to talk about Lou, they found they could talk more about his life than his death, and their reminiscences most often brought smiles and sometimes laughter.

  “Rumor has it you’re moving up,” Lorraine said.

  “Bad news travels fast.”

  “You’re not pleased?”

  Murphy poured another scotch before considering the question.

  “First of all, its time, in the eyes of the department it’s like growing up. And if I run the detectives squad it will lighten Samson’s work load, so he can concentrate on all of the bullshit necessary to operate the precinct—budgets, personnel, vehicles, and the dreaded public relations.”

  “Are you worried it will chan
ge your relationship with the others?”

  “It didn’t for Sam when he moved up and I’m hoping it won’t for me. I have great respect for the detectives at the Six-one. Not to sound too much like Popeye, I am who I am, I’m good with who I am, and for some reason I am well liked. I believe they will all want me to succeed and will help me succeed. And I won’t be locked in an office. I’ll go out on calls with them whenever I can.”

  “It will still become you and them, Tommy, that’s the nature of rank and authority. But I’m sure it will work out, if you don’t let power go to your head.”

  “No worries. Power won’t go to my head, I leave that to scotch and beer chasers. Speaking of rank, rumor has it you have been seeing one of my soon to be underlings.”

  Lorraine had to laugh.

  “It’s too soon to comment. So, for the time being, I’ll plead the fifth.”

  “Would you like another beer?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Murphy went to the bar and came back with two cold bottles.

  “Lorraine, I hate to talk business when we’re having so much fun being silly—but I could use some advice.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you remember Tony Territo?”

  “Tony Territo is quite unforgettable,” Lorraine said. “What about him?”

  “He helped us out. I said I would try to help him.”

  “How do you expect to help him? He killed four men. He was convicted and they relocated him from a mansion in Bay Ridge to a cell at Rikers.”

  “But they didn’t throw away the key. Look, I don’t condone his actions, but he killed four men who nobody in their right mind would miss. And he had the mistaken idea they had killed his teenage daughter. He is not what I would call a role model, but he had no previous record of violent crime and I don’t believe he is a menace to society. I believe there are degrees of guilt, shades of innocence, and they all congregate on the same avenue. And as far as blame goes, there is nothing to gain by assigning it. Bad things happen to good people as well as to bad ones. When you blame yourself you are being self-indulgent and when you blame others you are ducking responsibility. Territo will be eligible for a parole hearing eventually, maybe there is some way to get it moved up, but I don’t know how to present the suggestion to the D.A.”

  “I won’t be his attorney, but I’ll look at his case and the trial record and share my thoughts on how you might approach the prosecutor.”

  “That would be great, Lorraine. Thanks.”

  “Is this so you can tell Territo you tried?”

  “It’s so I can tell myself I tried.”

  “Shades of innocence,” Lorraine said. “I like that.”

  THIRTY SIX

  Monday morning, detectives from the Six-one were scattered throughout the Kings County Criminal Courts Building.

  The wheels of justice were spinning wildly.

  Murphy and Maggio sat in on the arraignment of Al Bianca.

  After considering a number of options presented by the District Attorney, Bianca had elected to name Joe Bando as his solicitor and swear to it at trial.

  “So, Bando has a key witness killed and in the process creates another key witness,” Maggio said. “Do you think Bando will try finding a hit man to silence the hit man?”

  “I’m not that imaginative,” Murphy said.

  Across the hall, Detectives Ivanov and Rosen witnessed the arraignment of Kenny Ramirez, who was charged with the abduction and subsequent assault resulting in the death of David Rose.

  Ramirez would be facing arraignment in Queens County later that day, charged with the murder of Rebecca Ramirez and the attempted murder of Jimmy Samson.

  In a third courtroom, Detective Ripley attended a bail hearing for Victor Bronski and Vladimir Markov.

  Bail was denied in both cases, and trial dates were set for both defendants who would be prosecuted separately.

  Later that Monday morning, Annie Maggio and other members of the senior campaign staff were with candidate Marco Acevado preparing for the primary election scheduled for the following day.

  Sarah Sanders was behind a desk at New York One, preparing questions for an interview with the winner of Tuesday’s election.

  Marty and Linda Richards brought their daughter Sophia home from the hospital.

  And in a private service, attended by his wife and son, David Rose was unceremoniously put to rest.

  On Tuesday morning, Officer Rey Mendez met with Chief of Detectives Stanley Trenton in Trenton’s office.

  “I am pleased to inform you that you will be among six members of the New York Police Department, including Thomas Murphy, who will be promoted to or within the Detectives’ Division in a ceremony this coming Monday. You will be awarded your detective’s shield at that time. You will be assigned to the Sixty-first Precinct under the command of Captain Samson, and your specific duties will be determined at Lieutenant Murphy’s discretion. Congratulations and good fortune, Detective Mendez.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You can, of course, invite anyone you wish to be at the ceremony.”

  The one person Rey Mendez wished could be at the ceremony was Stan Landis.

  Senderowitz phoned Samson at the Six-one just before noon.

  “I thought it would be good to catch up.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch, Bernie, I’ve been buried in work here.”

  “Have you had anything to eat lately?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “If you can sneak away for an hour or two, the Smith Street Canteen between President and Carroll is fairly quiet after the lunch rush, and the food is very good. I need to talk with you. I know it’s out of your way, but I’m not up to driving yet and I can walk there.”

  “How about meeting there at two?” Samson asked.

  “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

  Early Tuesday afternoon, Maureen Rose hand delivered a letter to the Administrative Office at Midwood High School.

  Her son Jason would not be returning to classes.

  They would be moving back to the Boston area, where her parents still lived, and Jason would be transferred to a third high school in less than four months.

  Samson and Senderowitz sat at a window booth looking out onto Smith Street.

  “How are things going with Sarah?”

  “Sarah has been a great help, Sam, and she has been keeping a close eye on me.”

  “As in looking out for you?”

  “As in looking in all the usual hiding places. Don’t get me wrong, it’s good having her back in my life,” Bernie said, “but there is also the fear I’ll disappoint her again. I haven’t had a drink in more than a week, but it’s not because I couldn’t use one. What else am I missing?”

  Samson brought Bernie up to date.

  “The killer of Jenny Greco and Patty Bolin was identified and found dead, closing the ‘Hangman’ case. Peter Donner has been cleared of any suspicion in the first murder, but his inappropriate actions put Jenny Greco in danger and I doubt he will be very well-accepted at school, have much luck with the girls, or be allowed to remain on the football squad for that matter. Vladimir Markov employed someone to replace the man who shot at you, and Alex Holden was killed. Both Markov and the shooter are being held without bail awaiting trial for murder and conspiracy. Nicky DeSantis, who shot and killed Stan Landis, was himself found dead, an apparent suicide.”

  “I heard Kenny Ramirez was apprehended.”

  “Ramirez turned up in Denver and Ivanov had to fly out to fetch him.”

  “How is Jimmy doing?”

  “We moved him to New York Hospital in Queens. He is doing physical therapy and getting psychological counseling. We’re very optimistic. It was a traumatic experience, no question, but compared to the burdens Peter Donner and Jason Rose will have to bear, Jimmy could be considered relatively lucky.”

  “It sounds like it was an eventful week at the Six-one.”

  “On
ly because it is so insane out there. Ours is not a business where it is necessarily good to be busy,” Samson said. “But enough of that, what did you need to talk with me about?”

  “I heard Murphy and Mendez are being bumped up.”

  “Its official on Monday, Murphy will take over the detectives’ squad and Mendez will join them.”

  “And how is Maggio working out?”

  “Good, I like him.”

  “You might consider stealing him from the Fifth Precinct permanently.”

  “I’ve thought about it.”

  “It sounds like you’re in good shape on Coney Island Avenue.”

  “What’s on your mind, Bernie?”

  “I’m planning to put in my retirement papers.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “I no longer have the energy to be chasing criminals all over creation, Sam. The heart attack was a wakeup call.”

  “I would hate losing one of the best noses in the department.”

  “One of the biggest at least.”

  “Can I propose something?”

  “Okay.”

  “Hold on to those papers for a while. Let me speak with Trenton while I’m in such good graces with him. See if we can work out limited duty, keep you in the department as a part-time consultant—bring you in when we are in need of your invaluable instinct and intuition.”

  “That sounds like a sure way to earn resentment for stepping on toes.”

  “Your input has always been welcomed, often solicited. I don’t see why that would change.”

  “Let me think about it before you approach Trenton and then, if I decide to go for it, I can always hope he says no.”

  Shortly after the polls closed Tuesday evening the local television and radio stations projected a winner in the primary election.

  At eight, from his campaign office on Kings Highway in Gravesend, Marco Acevedo conceded. Acevedo congratulated his opponent, thanked those who voted for him for their support, and thanked his staff of consultants and volunteers for their valiant efforts.