by J. L. Abramo
I pulled out my wallet and found Angela’s business card. Her last name was DiMarco. I praised myself for being perfectly correct about her ancestry. I dug out my cell phone and called her. She said she knew a very good seafood restaurant at Mays Landing. She would pick me up at my room at six. I drove to the hotel.
I changed into something casual and was about to go searching for a little bite to eat to hold me until dinner when I heard the knocking. I opened the door.
Charlie Mungo stood at the threshold.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“How did you find me?”
“I’ve been watching Kitty’s place. I saw you show up and followed you when you left. We need to talk.”
Mungo reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. I thought it was a gun. I was about to slam the door shut when I heard the first shot. Mungo’s legs went out from under him and he fell forward into the room. I caught him in my arms. Then a second gunshot and we were both knocked to the floor.
When I finally opened my eyes I found myself in a bed at the Atlanticare Medical Center in Pleasantville. I was hooked up to an IV and felt like I’d been hit by a defensive lineman. Angela was sitting in a chair at my bedside.
“How am I?”
“Better than the other guy. A bullet went through the victim and broke your skin. No internal damage, it popped right out. Another inch or two and you would have lost your ability to be such a smooth talker. Your head took a good hard bounce on the floor, knocked you unconscious. You lost blood. You’ll live.”
“The shooter?”
“Clean getaway. No witnesses. Detective Lawrence is in a yank to talk to you. My cousin Theresa is a nurse here, she smuggled me in and she managed to hold Lawrence at bay—but he’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“If you wanted to break our dinner engagement you could have simply called.”
I discovered it hurt when I laughed.
“When can I get out of here?”
“Don’t hold your breath. I collected your things and checked you out of the hotel.”
“My car?”
“The hotel manager said its okay where it is for now. No charge. It’s probably as safe there as anywhere while you’re stuck in here. Is there anyone you would like me to call?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“Find me something to eat that’s easy to chew and as easy to digest and I’ll tell you everything.”
“I’m on it,” Angela said, and quickly left the room.
I closed my eyes and must have dozed off.
Angela gently shook me awake twenty minutes later. She had raised the bed back and moved the hospital table into the dining position. There was a Styrofoam take-out box, a paper napkin, a plastic fork, and a large paper cup of soda with straw set in front of me.
“What do we have here?”
“Don’t you like surprises?”
I opened the box. Meat loaf and mashed potatoes with gravy.
“How did you know?”
“It was all I could find at the local diner that was soft and warm and not soup. I hope you like Dr. Pepper.”
“Diet?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
Angela’s cell phone belted out a Dire Straits tune.
I was liking her more and more.
“I need to take this. I’ll be back in a minute. Enjoy your meal. Don’t eat too fast.”
She left the room. I dug in.
Angela walked back into the room talking.
“The man who was killed at your hotel was identified. Charles Mungo. It made the news at five. Someone saw his mug on the tube, came forward and named him as the perp who gunned down a poker player at the Taj Mahal a few days ago.”
“Who named Mungo?”
“My source doesn’t know.”
“Who’s your source? Do you have a cousin at the ACPD also?”
“Glad that bullet didn’t kill your sense of humor. Just a friend at the ACPD. That’s all he could say.”
“Would you like the rest of this meat loaf?”
“No, but thanks for asking.”
“Then please move this table and I’ll tell you all I know.”
I gave her the no-frills account. Theodore Lincoln, Kitty, Freddy Fingers, Charlie Mungo, Vincent Corelli and the errant business card discovered on Corelli’s body.
“So, there’s nothing you’re really sure of,” she said after the synopsis.
“I’m sure of one thing—my name is on a list that is getting shorter by the day.”
“Just when you think you’re out, they pull you back in.”
“Not bad.”
“I do Scarface better.”
“So, what do you think?”
“I think you need to get some rest and be ready for Detective Lawrence. I’ll be back in the morning and I can tell you what I think and you can tell me if you could use my help.”
“Thanks.”
“I’d do the same for anyone who liked L.A. Confidential as much as I did.”
FOURTH MOVEMENT
19
I found a doctor standing at my bedside early the next morning. He greeted me with a lot of mumbo jumbo about my condition, the prognosis, and told me how lucky I was.
I didn’t feel lucky.
“Do you have any questions?”
“When can I get out of here?”
“Not today. We’ll take you off the morphine later this morning to see how much it really hurts, and remove the bandages to take a peek at the wound. And I want you to try a walk around the ward.” And adios.
Visiting hours started at eight and Detective Lawrence was first in line. I wondered if he had camped out overnight like a teen at an Apple store jonesing for the latest iPhone.
I managed to survive another interrogation. No, I didn’t know Charlie Mungo. No, I didn’t have any idea why he came to my hotel room and he never had the opportunity to explain. Yes, I would be leaving Lawrence’s neck of the woods as soon as possible.
“Can you tell me who fingered Charlie Mungo for the Lincoln assassination?” I asked.
“A solid citizen who prefers to remain anonymous.”
Fine.
“Is that all, Detective? I think it’s time for my sponge bath.”
He didn’t stick around and he neglected to thank me for my cooperation.
Angela popped in at nine, moved the hospital table into place, and set down a plate wrapped in aluminum foil. I uncovered a perfect frittata—eggs, potatoes, garlic, onion, sweet red pepper and grated pecorino Romano. It was a beautiful sight.
“What, no Thomas’ English muffin?”
“I couldn’t resist, I devoured it on my way over.”
“Did you whip this up?”
“All by myself.”
“It’s a work of art.”
“I can have it framed for you.”
“It looks too good to eat.”
“Well, decide, either eat it while it’s still warm or ask it to marry you. How did it go with Lawrence?”
“Same mutual evasion, different day.”
“Did you see a doctor?”
“Yes, he booked me for another night.”
“Probably the safest place to be until we find out who tried to kill you.”
“You think I was the target?”
“I think you and Charlie Mungo were both targets and someone was lucky enough to find you propped in the same shooting gallery. You said Mungo followed you to your hotel, either someone followed him or someone was watching you.”
“No one knew where I was staying except you and Freddy Fingers.”
“I never got to tell Freddy where you were staying.”
“Oh?”
“I left him a message last night, asked him to call me. He never did.”
“Maybe he lost interest.”
“Maybe.”
&n
bsp; “You said we.”
“What?”
“You said until we find out who tried to kill me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“If you want my help just ask. Think about it. Now, as much as I would love to spend the day in this hospital, I have to make a living and I have work to do. I’ll come back this evening, I’ll bring dinner.” She walked over to the chest of drawers on the opposite side of the room, unplugged my cell phone from the wall charger, and brought it to me. “It should be fully juiced. You might want to check for messages.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Don’t lose my grandmother’s plate. See you later,” she said, and was quickly gone.
There were four missed calls—three from Tom Romano and one from John Sullivan. I called Tom.
“I’ve been trying to reach you since last evening,” he said. “I have a gig for you, a very good paying gig. How soon can you get to my boat?”
“As soon as I can get out of this fucking hospital.”
“What are you doing in a hospital?”
“Recovering from a gunshot wound.”
“What the fuck happened? Did you find Charlie Mungo?”
“He found me, and he took two in the back.”
“Jesus. Did you hear Vinnie Corelli took two in the chest?”
“John Sullivan paid me a visit, said they found one of my business cards on Vinnie’s body.”
“What’s that about?”
“No idea.”
“Which hospital, I’ll come to you.”
“A hospital in fucking unpleasantville New Jersey. It’s a long story. As much as I would love a job that actually pays, it will have to wait. But while I’m trapped down here, I could use your help up there.”
“What do you need?”
“Freddy Fingers.”
“The exiled son of Ferdinand ‘The Fist’ Pugno? What about him?”
“Fingers said he knew Mungo, from back in the day when Freddy was still in his old man’s good graces. And Fingers seemed to know a lot about Vinnie Corelli. I would be interested in knowing if Freddy had any contact with Mungo or Corelli recently.”
“I can ask around.”
“Do you know why Pugno Senior banished Freddy?”
“When the old man retired, he handed the reins over to Freddy’s brother Carmine. The younger son. Everyone could understand the move. Freddy was never really cut out for it, Carmine was the right choice. But being passed over is still a severe insult in the culture. Freddy wasn’t happy, and he wasn’t quiet about his discontent. He was complaining a lot, in all the wrong places. He was finally warned to shut up or ship out. Why all the curiosity about Freddy Fingers?”
“Because he approached me, I would never have given him a second thought otherwise, and now he’s got me wondering if he’s in the middle of this somehow.”
“Guys like Freddy are lonely. He may simply be starved for attention.”
“I was ready to drop this whole fucking business until someone tried to punch my ticket.”
“Perhaps it was just a warning.”
“Then I’d like to know who to thank for it.”
“I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
I was about to return John Sullivan’s call when a nurse came in and gave me all the excuse I needed to put it off.
“Your doctor will be in shortly. I’m going to take you off the intravenous pain killer and remove your bandages so he can take a look.”
She removed the IV. I experienced a great sense of freedom. I wondered if I would be screaming for another dose in thirty minutes.
“Should I remove the gown?” I asked.
“You can just drop the front. I wouldn’t want Angela to get jealous.”
“Cousin Theresa?”
“At your service.”
I moved the bed clothes up to my waist and pulled the gown off my arms and chest. She carefully removed the bandages.
“How does it look?”
“I’ve seen a lot worse, and eventually it will match the scar on your other shoulder.”
The doctor walked in, took a quick glance, and left.
“Very efficient,” I said.
“Let’s take a walk,” Theresa said.
She hooked me up with a walker and a robe to cover my back and we took a stroll around the ward. My legs were rubbery but I attributed it to the morphine fix and I was feeling no pain.
Theresa got me back into my bed.
“How do you feel?”
“Tired. And I’m beginning to feel pain in my head and my shoulder.”
“I’ll be right back.”
She returned with two tablets and a paperback book. She dropped the tabs into my hand and poured me a glass of water.
“Morphine?” I asked, knocking them down.
“Tylenol PM. Man up. Angela left this for you, in case you get bored,” she said, handing me the paperback. “Ring if you need anything.”
And see you later.
I looked at the title.
Italian Americans of Newark, Belleville, and Nutley.
I read until the Tylenol put my lights out.
“Sit up,” Theresa said, shaking me awake. “Lunch time.”
She placed a plate in front of me. BLT on white toast and French fries. I dove in. The toast and bacon were crisp, the fries were crunchy.
“This is unusually good hospital food.”
“That’s because I brought it back from Essl’s Dugout. Eat before it loses its edge.”
“I might have to start calling you Mother Theresa.”
“I already have two kids, three if you count my husband. Did the book put you to sleep?”
“Not at all. I’m curious about the choice.”
“Angela is a Nutley girl. She thought you might be interested in where she comes from, and thought it would help you get a handle on where she’s usually coming from. I think she likes you. I hope you’re not a heel.”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond.
“Do you need anything else?”
“Coffee?”
“I’ll send some up,” she said, and skipped.
I cleaned my plate and reached for my phone. Not my idea of dessert, but it would be smart not to let John Sullivan wait any longer.
Unlike Tom Romano, Sullivan already knew where I was and why.
“I have an unsolved homicide up here, there are two down there that are related, and your name keeps popping up,” he said, skipping the small talk.
I decided to tell the truth, just not all of it. Risky since I had no idea what else Sullivan knew.
“I was at the apartment on Avenue J. I found Corelli dead. I still have no idea why he had one of my cards.”
“Why didn’t you call it in?”
“I saw the patrol car pull up before I had a chance, figured a nine-one-one would be redundant.”
“Why didn’t you mention it when we spoke?”
“I could say you didn’t ask, but I wouldn’t want to piss you off.”
“I’m already pissed off. What brought you there?”
“I was looking for Charlie Mungo.”
“Why?”
“A job.”
“For who?”
“I can’t say.”
“Client confidentiality?”
“Something like that.”
“What made you think you would find Mungo there?” John asked, obviously getting impatient.
“Tom Romano did some asking around for me.”
“Do you think Mungo killed Corelli?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Mungo surprised me at my apartment later. He spotted me on Avenue J and tracked me down. He thought I killed Vinnie. I convinced him I didn’t. He sounded very sincere about wanting to find out who did. He admitted to killing Theodore Lincoln, claimed he was contracted by Corelli, suggested I forget we ever met, and went on his way.”
/> “Did you give this to the ACPD?”
“No, it’s hearsay.”
“What took you back down to Atlantic City?”
“I wanted to inform my client I was off the case, face to face. Mungo found me at my hotel, said we needed to talk, and then the shooting started.”
“How are you?”
“Gee, John, I thought you’d never ask. I should be out of the hospital tomorrow. I told you everything I know.”
“No, you didn’t. I have an informant who sells rumors on the street like they were I LOVE NY T-shirts and I know you’re holding out. We go back a long time, Nick, and I like you, but this is business. Here is my best offer. You have two days to make it up here to see me, time to recover and time to think it over. Then you will honestly tell me everything you know. If you don’t show up I will put out a warrant and have you escorted. Get it?”
“Got it.”
“Terrific. I’ll see you day after tomorrow,” he said, and that was that.
I thought about calling him right back. Give him Katherine Lincoln and Freddy Fingers and let the NYPD and the ACPD sort it all out. But someone had taken a shot at me, and I took it personally. And since I had a two-day grace period, I decided to use it. The thing was John Sullivan knew me well, and I couldn’t be sure if he was giving me time to convalesce or time to do some of the work for him.
Angela poked her head through the door just before three.
“You’re early.”
“Theresa says they’re cutting you loose around this time tomorrow. She’s getting off work now and we’re going to move your car over to my place. I need to run. I’ll be back around six.”
“Angela.”
“Yes?”
“There’s a three-fifty-seven in the glove box, can you put it in a safe place.”
“Done,” she said, and was gone.
With three hours to kill I decided to read a little more about the Brownstone Quarries of Nutley, New Jersey.
Angela returned at half past six with a large bowl of baked Ziti Siciliana. The bowl matched the breakfast plate.
“Whip this up also?”
“I could have, but it was a busy day. I pulled it out of the freezer. My mother never lets me go home from a Sunday dinner visit without taking leftovers. Eat while it’s still piping hot from the microwave in the nurses’ break room. I need to make arrangements for your release. I expect to see an empty bowl when I get back.”