Brooklyn Justice

by J. L. Abramo

  But when something feels very wrong, my intellect goes out the window.

  When I walked into Clemente’s I spotted Tom at the bar, sipping what I could confidently guess was a Jack and Coke. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, a cotton Hawaiian print shirt, flip-flops and a straw hat—suggesting he had strolled over from his crib.

  “I ordered a couple of Angry Lobster Rolls with fries to go. Should be out any minute,” he said in the way of greeting. “I have a very cold twelve pack of PBR on the boat. It might be a little cooler on the water.”

  “Sounds perfect, I’m buying.”

  “Too late.”

  A young woman came from the kitchen and handed Tom two large brown paper bags and I followed Romano out of the restaurant.

  Tom’s crib was a houseboat that sat parked in a slip on the waters of Sheepshead Bay, a few hundred yards from Clemente’s outdoor dining patio.

  “How do you sleep on this thing with all the rocking?” I asked when we climbed aboard.

  “Like a baby in a tree top.”

  The deck was equipped with an all-weather green plastic table and matching chairs. Tom dropped the bags onto the table and walked into the cabin. He quickly returned with plates, forks and two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

  “I managed to get the information you were looking for,” he said as he took a seat opposite me and began plating the sandwiches and fries. “I believe it’s reliable.”

  “Sorry if I wasted your time, Tom, but I’m not sure I’ll need it.”

  “No worries, it took no time at all. Let’s eat and drink and you can tell me about your adventure in Atlantic City while you decide.”

  Twenty minutes later, Tom cleared the table and came back with more cold beer.

  “So, both Freddy and the widow fingered Mungo as the shooter.”

  “With conviction.”

  “And I suppose I don’t have to tell you Charlie Mungo is a very nasty character.”

  “I got that.”

  Tom reached into the pocket of his Bermudas, pulled out a folded slip of paper and handed it to me.

  “Well, this should tell you where to find him. I won’t be offended if you tear it to pieces.”

  I stuffed the paper into my shirt pocket and didn’t pull it out again until I had left Tom’s boat and climbed into my car. I did tear it into pieces—but not before taking a good long look.

  9

  Four identical brick buildings stood on Avenue J between East 15th Street and the elevated train station. Each had storefronts on the street level and two floors of apartments above, very much like the building that housed my office.

  Tom’s note said I would find Charlie Mungo on the top floor above Dave’s Supermarket.

  I stood on the opposite side of the avenue trying to decide what to say to Mungo if I found him there. Tricky, since I really wasn’t sure what I was doing there in the first place.

  The decision to throw on a sport coat and transfer my .357 from the glove box of the Monte Carlo to a jacket pocket was not as difficult to make. After all, I was thinking about confronting a cold-blooded killer. The temperature had soared into the high nineties and as I started across the avenue I felt blatantly overdressed.

  I climbed the stairs to the top floor, hand in pocket gripping the .357. The door marked 201 was located just off the landing in the front of the building facing the avenue. I moved to the right of the doorway and knocked. The door opened slightly into the apartment. I pulled out the gun and waited, listening for a response or sound of movement.

  Nothing.

  I finally took a look through the doorway and saw him. I stepped into front room of the apartment.

  He was lying on his back and there were two holes in his chest seeping blood.

  Vincent Corelli.

  I checked for pulse, he was finished.

  There was no good reason to stick around.

  As I headed down I heard someone rushing up from the ground floor. I ducked through the door that led to the second story apartments and held it open an inch or so, just enough to see who was barreling up the stairs. I didn’t know the man. He continued up and I quickly continued down.

  On the ground floor landing at the foot of the exit door a white object caught my eye. I picked it up and stuffed it into my jacket pocket with the handgun.

  It was a white lace-trimmed handkerchief.

  The Monte Carlo was parked at the southwest corner of 15th and J, in front of Di Fara’s Pizzeria. I sat in the front seat of the car with a Sicilian square on a paper plate and a Cherry Coke. If the man coming up the stairs was headed for Apartment 201, I doubted he would hang around any longer than I had after finding Corelli’s body. I waited, but before he reappeared a patrol car from the 70th Precinct rolled up in front of Dave’s Supermarket. Two uniforms left the car and walked into the building. One came out minutes later and made a call on the car radio. The other was either holding a “possible suspect” up in the apartment or the man I had nearly bumped into had found another way out.

  I decided it was time to disappear. I knew John Sullivan would be showing up soon and I didn’t want to be spotted. Johnny might find it hard to believe I drove all the way out to Midwood just to pay five bucks for a slice of pizza.

  I knew John for as long as I could remember. We grew up on the same Brooklyn street, attended the same schools from kindergarten through Lafayette High, dated the same girls occasionally, and shared a common ambition—to wear NYPD blue.

  John made it.

  Because where you are from is one thing, and who you are from is another.

  Sullivan came from Irish immigrants on his father’s side, Sicilian on his mother’s. His father was a retired police sergeant. After high school John went on to Queens College, met an Irish-American girl who became his wife and the mother of his children, graduated with honors from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, entered the department and rose quickly through the ranks to Detective Lieutenant. Homicide.

  I was second generation Italian-American. Dad was a gambler and a drinker who was killed by cirrhosis of the liver. I made it out of high school by the skin of my teeth, and couldn’t find a girl who could handle me for more than a few months. Although I had magically avoided long term incarceration, my rap sheet forever disqualified me from joining the police force.

  I had tried and failed at a number of occupations until I took up the underappreciated trade of private investigation. And my success in that line of work was questionable.

  Sooner or later, the discovery of Vincent Corelli’s body in Charlie Mungo’s apartment would earn Charlie “person of interest” status—and if Mungo was eventually identified as the shooter in Atlantic City, John Sullivan would want to talk with everyone who was in the room when Theodore Lincoln was killed, particularly those who sat at his poker table.

  Including me and the unpredictable Freddy Fingers.

  Before Sullivan inevitably landed on my doorstep, I felt it would be helpful to know what urged Vincent Corelli to leave his reasonably safe haven on the Indian reservation and risk showing his face in Brooklyn.

  And try to discover if Kitty Lincoln had misplaced a handkerchief.

  Of course, I could have simply waited for Sullivan to come knocking and told him everything I knew or thought I knew, but suddenly I wanted to know more.

  I needed a distraction. A new case wouldn’t hurt. I drove back to my office in Coney Island.

  10

  The only message waiting for me was from Katherine Lincoln.

  Nick. I need to see you. Gramercy Park Hotel at 8.

  Please.

  Short. Sweet.

  Not the distraction I was hoping for.

  I knew the Gramercy well, though I had never made it past the lobby desk.

  With several hours to kill I decided to drop by my place and attempt to make myself look presentable.

  I stepped into my apartment and was closing the door when I heard the sound behind me. Too late.

  The ne
xt thing I remember was the throbbing pain at the back of my head. I wanted to check the damage but found my hands were tied and I was strapped into a chair. When I opened my eyes I discovered it was one of my kitchen chairs. Sitting opposite me was the man I had almost run into on the stairs of the building on Avenue J. His hand rested on the kitchen table gripping a .44 Magnum.

  At least now I knew what hit me.

  “Ouch.”

  “Why did you kill Vinnie Corelli?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stood up from the table, holding the gun, stepped up and slapped me across the face with his free hand.

  “I heard you going down the stairs and spotted you from the window on the third floor landing as you left the building. I knew who you were. Vinnie had pointed you out to me a few times.”

  “More than once, I’m flattered.”

  He slapped me again.

  “Ouch.”

  “I’m losing my patience.”

  If what he had been demonstrating to that point was patience, I thought I should adjust my attitude.

  “Corelli was dead when I got there.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because if you believe I killed Corelli, then whoever actually killed him gets a free pass. And you’re making me nervous hanging over me with that cannon.”

  “If you didn’t kill Vinnie, what were you doing there?”

  “You have me at a disadvantage.” I said, almost comical coming from someone tied to a chair. “You know who I am but I’m not sure who you are. But if you happen to be Charlie Mungo, I was there looking for you.”

  “Why were you looking for me?”

  “To ask why you killed Theodore Lincoln.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’d slap you for lying, but my hands are tied and you’re holding that Magnum. Looks like a push. Why don’t you untie me and then do yourself a big favor.”

  “Like?”

  “Like disappear. If you’re not wanted for murder yet, it won’t be long.”

  “Maybe.”

  There was a short pause in the conversation. I was guessing Charlie didn’t know quite what to do. I picked up the ball.

  “Who put you up to shooting Lincoln?” I asked.

  “Who sent you looking for me?” he asked.

  “Untie me, Charlie. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

  I won’t say Charlie and I bonded, but we did have a nice talk over coffee and Entenmann’s Cherry Cheese Danish. Being a gracious host, I elected to go first.

  “Katherine Lincoln offered to hire me to find you.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Okay, I wasn’t being totally straightforward.

  “Did she tell you I shot her husband?”

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you think I did?”

  “Someone else made you.”

  “Who?”

  “I won’t say. But why did you think you could walk up and whack the guy in the middle of a room full of players and not get made?”

  “Bystanders are afraid to look at a shooter’s face. No one is anxious to be a key eyewitness in a murder investigation, especially the characters in a casino gambling room who prefer remaining low profile. I put my head down, dropped the gun, and got out.”

  The thing was, he may have been right. I know I didn’t care to look, and as far as I knew no one had come forward to identify Mungo. The only two people who seemed certain he was the shooter were keeping it a secret from everyone except me. Lucky me.

  “What happens when Corelli is found dead in your apartment?”

  “I’m not an idiot. I can’t be connected to that place. It’s officially unoccupied. The building is owned by a dummy real estate management company out of Canada. The apartment is essentially a safe house.”

  “It wasn’t too safe for Corelli.”

  “Vinnie called, asked me to meet him there. I got over there as quick as I could. How did you find the place?”

  “Not important. How did you find this place?”

  “Directory assistance. Did you tell your client where to find me?”

  “Never had the chance. And I think she changed her mind about hiring me.”

  “So, why come looking for me?”

  “Curious.”

  “Why I killed Lincoln?”

  “Yes.”

  “Corelli offered me twenty thousand dollars to do the deed.”

  “Where would Corelli find twenty thousand dollars?”

  “I didn’t ask. I knew Vinnie a long time. If he said he was good for it, I took his word.”

  “Did he mention why he wanted Lincoln killed?”

  “I didn’t ask. But Vinnie wasn’t very fond of the guy who snatched his woman.”

  “Love? Jealousy? Revenge?”

  “People are funny that way.”

  “Guess you’re out twenty grand.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Vinnie was a friend, and someone is going to answer for killing him.”

  “So, where are we?” I asked.

  “There is no we. Forget it. You forget me, I forget you. Sorry I hit you.”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  And he left without further ceremony.

  I was ready to forget it until I remembered I had an invitation to the Gramercy Park Hotel— and I hated to miss an opportunity to finally get a look at the inside of the place.

  11

  I jumped into the shower, rinsed the dried blood out of my hair. The throbbing pain had gone, I thought I would live.

  I poured a few inches of Johnny Walker Black over ice and worked on it while I inspected my wardrobe. The August heat hadn’t subsided much so I opted for function over form—a light-weight cotton suit and a short-sleeved dress shirt. I managed to get into the shirt and slacks before there was a knock on the door. I checked the time. If I hoped to make it to the Gramercy by eight my caller would have to settle for a very short visit.

  I opened the door to John Sullivan.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Or two,” I said. “Come in.”

  I escorted Sullivan to the kitchen and offered him Charlie Mungo’s chair at the table.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’m off duty. I’ll have what you’re having.”

  I poured him a scotch and took a seat.

  “What’s up? I asked.

  “Do you remember Vinnie Corelli?”

  “Sure. Good fielding shortstop, not much of a clutch hitter.”

  “Bump into him lately?”

  “Not since he was chased out of Brooklyn. Looking for him?”

  “Found him in an apartment on Avenue J, with two in the chest.”

  “Dead?”

  “Very.”

  “And?”

  “Found this in his pocket.”

  He reached into his jacket, pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag and placed it on the table. It contained my business card.

  “Any idea why he was holding this?”

  “None. However there are a lot of those things floating around. I’m a shameless self-promoter.”

  “Okay,” he said, knocking down the rest of his drink. “Looks like you’re getting ready to go out, I won’t hold you. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a call.”

  We both rose from the table and I walked him out to the hall.

  “Catch you later,” he said, and he was gone.

  Sullivan was tenacious. Eventually he would have more questions and I always found it easier playing dumb if I actually knew something.

  12

  I called the Gramercy to let Kitty know I was running late. I was informed that Mrs. Lincoln had checked out. I couldn’t blame John Sullivan for causing me to miss the appointment, since she had left the hotel hours earlier—before my chat with Charlie Mungo.

  Speaking of Mungo, I had really wanted to know why he was
nicknamed “The Stick” and had forgotten to ask. I had however asked him where he imagined Vincent Corelli would dig up twenty thousand to finance the hit and he didn’t seem interested in the particulars.

  I was less indifferent.

  As far as Kitty was concerned I could only guess, and I was afraid to guess. I found the invitation to visit her at the Gramercy Park and her early departure difficult to reconcile. If there was anything I felt certain of it was that the short phone call she took in my office changed her game plan. But her plan and her game were still a riddle and I believed the solution was out of reach from this side of the state line.

  The decision to go back to Atlantic City so soon was not a happy one. I was very conscientious about keeping my visits few and far between. Proximity to the big poker game was dangerous for me, regardless of my primary mission. And what made the return trip even less appealing was the sad fact that to learn more about the late Vincent Corelli and his ex-wife, and be better prepared for any future interrogation, I would need to enlist the help of an unlikely ally.

  The thing is, when you have burning questions you go where you think the fire hose may be.

  THIRD MOVEMENT

  13

  Shortly past three the following afternoon I checked into the Day’s Hotel in Egg Harbor Township off the Garden State Parkway. Fifteen miles from the Atlantic City boardwalk, it was far enough to avoid temptation and keep my return unadvertised. For the time being, I wanted only one person to know I was back in the neighborhood.

  If Freddy Fingers was sincere about wanting to make friends, I was ready to introduce him to his new best buddy.

  I called to have Freddy paged at the Taj Mahal, expecting to leave a message.

  To my surprise he was on the line a few minutes later. He was either in between poker hands, or still trying to decide which game to sit in on and totally fuck up.

  He agreed to meet me. I chose the where, he chose the when. I asked him to keep it under his hat.

  “I have just the right lid for the occasion,” he said.