by J. L. Abramo
“Plan might be too strong a word for it, but I thought I’d start with a couple of anonymous phone calls. See if I can rattle a cage or two.”
Gibson left with my solemn word I would keep him informed. I also assured him the games would not begin until the following day.
As risky as confronting Chapman and Sanders might be, missing dinner with my mother on her birthday that evening could be far more dangerous.
My mother lived at the house where I grew up. In Gravesend. The hood had been an Italian-American stronghold for three generations, John Sullivan’s family being one of the few exceptions. It was now predominantly populated by Russians and Chinese. No big deal. Mom was one of the last holdouts.
I knew who to expect at the gathering.
Aunt Francesca, my mother’s oldest sister, who was also a widow and Mom’s cantankerous roommate. Her husband had killed himself plowing into a concrete divider on the BQE trying to avoid hitting a dog. They say he died instantly. So did the dog, who was hit by another vehicle.
Also on hand would be my sister Barbara, her husband Bob, and their pair of mismatched adolescent kids. Bob was the owner a fish market, which would be no surprise to anyone who asked what he did for a living if anyone needed to ask.
And my father’s brother, Sal, was a regular. Uncle Sal was a drinker, a gambler and a womanizer. The only thing that distinguished him from my old man was that Sal remained, miraculously, a survivor.
I ran home for a quick change of duds, stopped for flowers and a bottle of wine on my way to Gravesend, and braced myself for yet another stimulating evening with la mia famiglia.
Surprisingly, during a mostly incoherent conversation with my drunken uncle, I picked up the notion of how to bluff our way through the next day.
The next morning, while I waited at my office for Uncle Sal, I dug up biographies of Detectives Chapman and Sanders.
My uncle arrived at eleven, thankfully sober.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” I asked.
“Are you sure you’re good for the half-case of Crown Royal?”
My uncle the extortionist.
“Yes.”
“Bene, facciamolo.”
Which was his colorful way of saying Good, let’s do it.
A flip of a coin earned Detective Sanders the dubious honor of a phone call.
“These were my mother’s,” Sal said, referring to the pair of antiques we sat on.
“Yes, they were. Would you like to have them?”
“Why would I want a pair of ancient uncomfortable chairs?”
“Okay, then,” I said, hoping my patience would hold up, “let’s do it.”
I passed him a slip of paper listing the information I had on Detective Sanders and I pushed the telephone across the desk.
Sal called the 90th Precinct and asked for Sanders. I listened in on the phone’s loudspeaker.
“This is Sanders.”
“Listen to me very carefully.”
“Who is this?”
“You are not listening. I did not ask you to speak. The well-being of your wife and children depend on how well you can pay attention. Can I continue uninterrupted?”
Uncle Sal’s slightly exaggerated Sicilian accent was a nice touch.
“Yes,” Sanders said.
“You have money which belongs to me. You will bring all of it to the Del Rio Diner on Kings Highway and West Twelfth at two. I know where you live, I know where your wife has her nails done, and I know where your little Bobby and Annie go to school. Don’t be late.”
And with that, Uncle Sal ended the call.
“How did I do?”
“Fine.”
“I think it could have been better. I have a few ideas I want to try on the other detective.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Why?”
“If they are in it together, Chapman will hear it from Sanders. If not, I would rather deal with them one at a time.”
“Can we play some hands of briscola?”
“Sure,” I said. “If I can find a deck of cards.”
“Can I have a drink?”
“Sure.”
After beating me soundly in two consecutive games, Sal lost interest.
“I’m hungry,” he said. “Will we be able to eat at the Del Rio?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then I’m going down to say hello to Carmella and grab a few slices. Can I bring you back something?”
“No, thanks.”
“Can you spare ten dollars?”
I gave him a twenty, and asked him to watch the time.
A few minutes later he walked back in.
“That was quick,” I said, before I noticed Sal was being led in by a man holding the barrel of a .38 to my uncle’s head.
The stranger with the gun closed the door behind them, moved my uncle onto the empty chair, and spoke directly to me.
“If you don’t tell me what the fuck this is about, and why you were insane enough to threaten my family, you will tell it to my captain after I beat your grandfather to a pulp with this gun.”
“I’m his uncle.”
“Shut the fuck up, old man.”
“Take it easy,” I said. “I needed to get your attention.”
“You fucking got it, and now you have thirty seconds to try keeping it.”
“It’s about your partner Chapman lifting a bundle of money from that apartment in Williamsburg and killing Kevin Morrison and Peter Chekhov to cover his tracks.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t know how else to put it.”
“What the fuck makes you think Chapman could do that?”
“Judging by your reaction, I’d say we’re all out of other suspects.”
“You better hope you can convince me,” Sanders said.
I don’t know if I convinced him, but it was enough to make him wonder.
“Do you know where Chapman is now?” I asked, after I had told the tale and Sanders had holstered his weapon.
“I can’t be certain. He was at the precinct when I left.”
“Did you tell him about the call?”
“After I traced the call I ran out. I didn’t talk to anyone.”
“Do you have his cell phone number?”
“He will wonder where you got it.”
“The more Chapman has to think about the better.”
Sanders gave me the number.
“Mi sono preparato,” Uncle Sal said, finally finding the courage to open his mouth. “I’ll try sounding tougher this time.”
“I got this one.”
“Are you going to call him now?” Sanders asked.
“Not right away. I think you should get back to the precinct, have a good reason ready in case anyone asks why you ran out, and act normal, whatever that looks like at a police house. I’ll call you with any news.”
After Sanders left I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and handed it to my uncle.
“For a bottle of Crown,” I said. “Consider it a down payment. And thanks for your help. I’ll take it from here. I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
“A bottle of Crown Royal costs more than twenty dollars.”
“I gave you twenty for pizza less than thirty minutes ago.”
“I forgot.”
“I won’t. I’ll bring you five more bottles as soon as this is over.”
Once my Uncle Sal left, I decided it was time to recruit Detectives John Sullivan and Dale Gibson for backup. I called Gibson first.
“I believe Chapman is our man,” I said.
“Are you sure or not?”
“There’s no other answer, but I still have no real proof. I’ll need to bluff, convince him I have something on him and hope he bites.”
“I can almost understand the temptation, seeing seventy grand, drug money, there for the taking,” Gibson said. “But killing a fellow officer, it is very difficult to believe. What now?”
“Can we mee
t me at my office at eight and work out the best approach before I contact Chapman?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be there alone. Ring the doorbell, I’ll come down and let you in.”
“I’ll see you then,” Gibson said.
Gibson arrived just before eight and followed me up the stairs. Outside the door to my office I felt the gun pressed into my back.
“Is there roof access?” he asked.
“Yes. Looking to take in the view of the ballpark and the beach?”
“Go.”
I led him up and out to the roof. He told me to walk over to the far end. I looked out at the Atlantic for half a minute before I spoke.
“Looking out at the ocean, the size of it, always helps give me clarity and perspective. Are you planning to shoot me in the back?”
“Maybe you’ll jump.”
I turned to him.
“I called Chapman and Sanders. If they don’t hear from me in the next thirty minutes they will come looking, and have a warrant ready to search your place for the money.”
“How did you know?”
“You knew it was seventy thousand. I never mentioned the amount.”
“They won’t find anything at my place. The money is behind the toilet tank in your bathroom downstairs. I left it there during my last visit. And this gun is the one that killed Kevin Morrison, the weapon Peter Chekhov used to murder my partner.”
“Chekhov killed Morrison?”
“And Chekhov took the money from the apartment in Williamsburg and most likely tipped the others that the buyers were undercover, which would account for their inhospitable greeting when Chapman and Sanders arrived. They were lucky to get out of there alive.”
“What tipped you to Chekhov?”
“A call from Kevin, just before he was shot, saying Chekhov was tailing him. No one else really knew about the money and I guess Chekhov wanted to keep it that way. Kevin’s big mistake was not trusting his partners in the first place, and letting himself be played by a low-life snitch. After Morrison was killed I went into Chekhov’s apartment and found the cash and this gun. And then I waited for the chance to kill the motherfucker.”
“You nearly killed me.”
“It wasn’t my intention.”
“And you told no one.”
“I wanted Chekhov dead, and I was hoping to get away with murder.”
“What now?”
“That’s up to you. Either the gun disappears and the money somehow gets to Kevin’s wife and kids, or you turn me in. As I told you the last time we met, you have nothing to fear from me.”
Gibson placed the gun down on the rooftop.
“I don’t understand why you stepped into the middle of this mess,” he said. “What was Kevin Morrison to you?”
I pulled out my wallet and removed the dollar bill.
“Just a client,” I said. “I’d better call Chapman and Sanders.”
After calling off the troops I let Gibson leave, and so did John Sullivan who had been covering me the whole time.
“I’m glad it wasn’t a cop who killed another cop,” he said.
“Did you hear it all?”
“I didn’t hear a thing.”
Later that night I walked to the end of the deserted Steeplechase Pier and tossed Chekhov’s .38 into the deep blue sea.
The next morning I was back at my office early. The Fazio brothers were making good progress on their work. A flyer taped on the window announced that the Grand Opening of the remodeled Riviera Beauty Salon was only six weeks away. The new name was a nod to Morrison’s runaway Buick.
I stuffed the cash into an envelope and addressed it to Morrison’s widow, with an anonymous note recommending she forget about it until it was time to send a kid to college.
Morrison’s murder would remain an unsolved case.
Gibson, Chapman and Sanders were on the same page, and would all be at Morrison’s funeral later that day while the bagpipes played.
After mailing the package I walked down to Ocean Wine and Liquor and ordered five bottles of Crown Royal to be delivered to Uncle Sal.
On my way back to the office I slipped into a grocery store for a package of gum.
I used the dollar bill Kevin Morrison had left me as a retainer, feeling I had finally earned it.
THE LAST RESORT
Anthony Fazio was a lifelong friend. Tony and his brother Richie ran a private sanitation service called A-1 TRASH REMOVAL. The idea was to appear first in the Yellow Pages Phone Directory—but AAA TRASH REMOVAL and AA TRASH REMOVAL had better ideas. Nevertheless, the Fazio boys were doing very well. Carmella Fazio, who was like family to me, was proud of her sons—although she would rather have seen them working beside her in the renowned pizzeria she operated on Neptune Avenue in Coney Island.
My office sat on the third floor above a newly remodeled beauty salon in the building adjacent to the pizzeria. The building was owned by Carmella and she gave me the family rental discount. On a chilly afternoon in March, Tony walked into the office with a large pizza pie and a huge problem.
“Do you remember Frank Atanasio?” he asked as he slid a slice onto a paper plate and pushed it across the desk.
Only too well. We ran together in high school. And running with Frankie put me into enough hot water to dash my hopes of ever becoming an NYPD detective. Atanasio flunked out of Lafayette High, graduated to wise guy and last I heard was a Made Man with the Pugno crime family. I guessed I was going to hear more.
“What about him?” I asked, against all good judgment.
“Frank suspects his wife is cheating on him and wants proof. He asked me if I knew a good private dick. I recommended you.”
“Private Dick?”
“His vernacular, not mine.”
“Tony, as hard up as I am for paid work lately and as foolish as it is for me to be finicky, you know I avoid domestic intrigues like the plague—particularly if the client is a head case like Frankie.”
“He’ll pay whatever you ask, and I’ll throw in two tickets to the Mets’ opener. Seventh row center behind home plate.”
“That’s very generous, but I’ll pass.”
I admit I was wondering why Tony would give up choice seats to the home opener to help Frank the Tank.
“Please, you have to take this case, Nick. You have to convince Atanasio his old lady isn’t fooling around.”
“What is this really about, Tony?”
“It’s about me sleeping with Frankie’s wife, and about what will definitely happen to me if he finds out.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“My mind had no say in the matter.”
“Fuck.”
“You can say that again.”
“Fuck,” I said.
“Will you help me, Nick?”
There was no way to say no.
“Fuck. Yes.”
“Great.”
Fucking great.
“I’ll set up a meeting,” Tony said. “How about tonight?”
“Sure. Why not,” I said, though I could think of a hundred reasons.
“I have to run, Nick, there’s a world of trash out there. If tonight works for Atanasio I’ll call you later with the particulars. Enjoy the pie.”
And Tony ran out.
Before I could decide whether to reach for another slice or slap myself in the head there was a rap on the office door.
“Come in.”
The man who walked in was well dressed and tentative.
“Nick Ventura?” he asked.
“Have a seat,” I said, indicating the customer chair. “Care for pizza?”
He settled heavily into my grandmother’s ancient oak dining room chair, one of the pair that accented my unmemorable office décor.
“I need help, Mr. Ventura. My name is James Gleason and I’m in serious trouble.”
More trouble.
Trouble was my business.
“Call me Nick. How can I help you, Mr. Gleason?
”
He talked. I listened.
Gleason was being blackmailed. He had received a package delivered to the office in Brooklyn Heights where he was partner in a small but very successful law firm. The package contained sexually explicit photographs of his daughter, Deirdre. Deirdre Gleason had recently landed a job with a network news program and was on the fast track to a very lucrative and public position. On the road to stardom. The photographs could derail her in a heartbeat.
“Twenty thousand dollars in cash or the pictures find their way to the World Wide Web.”
A bargain. A down payment.
“How were the photos obtained?”
“I’m not sure. Is that important?”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Do you need to see the pictures?”
“Not at all. Does your daughter know about the situation?”
“No, and I pray she never does. The one photo I saw, I could not bear to look at the others, was very candid. Deirdre may not even know they exist. She has worked so hard, Mr. Ventura.”
“Call me Nick. And you haven’t gone to the police because you can’t depend on their discretion.”
“Exactly. I have the money.”
“Spending twenty thousand now won’t guarantee your troubles are over. Copies of the photographs will continue to exist. And the more celebrity your daughter attains the more damaging and more valuable they would become. I think if you hadn’t already considered all of this you wouldn’t be sitting here. How is the exchange to take place?”
“He said he would call with instructions. Can you help me?”
“There’s only one way out, and it’s tricky and risky.”
“I’ll do anything. Try anything,” Gleason promised.
So I explained what we had to try to do.
It was time to sharpen my pencil and dig out my appointment book.
I was waiting for a call from Tony to confirm a meeting with Frankie Atanasio regarding spousal infidelity and anticipating a call from Gleason with the hope I could somehow safely work my way in between a father and his daughter’s nemesis.
The call from Tony came first.
It has been said March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb but it was only a few days until the end of the month and the big cat was still baring its teeth. As I walked the three long blocks up West 16th Street from my office toward the beach I wished my matching New York Giants wool cap and scarf weren’t at the houseboat. Either Tony or Frankie had decided against meeting at the office so I was headed to the Parachute Jump holding my coat collar tight at the neck.