by J. L. Abramo
“Dolores.”
“Dolores. Good looking?”
“Extremely good looking. And you should hear her voice. It could melt ice.”
“I have heard her voice. Twice.”
“Oh?”
“A woman called my office the other night just as I was heading out the door to meet you. She said she was interested in employing my services and held me up long enough for me to miss all the action. It was Dolores Atanasio.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. When I heard that voice a second time after following her from her crib to Eighteenth Avenue and caught her rubbing elbows with Sonny Balducci.”
“Balducci. Fuck me.”
“I’d guess she’s been fucking Sonny, too.”
“Do you think they snuffed Frankie?”
“Good chance, but she called from Sonny’s bar so was nowhere near the scene. And a dozen goons will swear that Balducci was at his joint all night. There’s no evidence. And the fact that Sonny is nailing Frankie’s wife is not much help as a motive since so were you.”
“What do we do?”
“I think I left Balducci curious about who the fuck I was. I’m afraid there’s not much we can do but wait to see how curious. See if he tries to look me up, shows his hand, which honestly is not a happy thought.”
“And if he doesn’t bite?”
“I try nudging him a little harder.”
“I’ve put you in danger.”
I thought about saying danger is my middle name or nobody twisted my arm but it was no time for clichés.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
Because what good does worrying do.
It was time to stop avoiding Tony’s mother so I parked in my reserved spot behind the pizzeria and rapped on the back door that led into the kitchen.
The door was opened by one of the two or three high school kids who prepped pizza toppings and readied pies for the oven as requests came in. There would be two or three employees in front, taking orders and working the dining room run by one or the other of the restaurant’s two managers. Carmella had lots of faith and trust in her managers—her brother’s daughter, Maria, and Richie’s wife, Barbara. I found Carmella at the large six-burner range stirring tomato sauce and grilling Italian sausage.
“Sit, Nicholas,” she said when she saw me. “Would you like espresso?”
“Sure.”
She lowered the heat under the marinara and asked one of the kitchen staff to keep an eye on the salsiccia.
I sat at the small table which served as the meeting place for Carmella and her personal guests.
She made her way over a few minutes later with two cups of coffee and homemade anisette toast on a tray.
“I can cook up some potatoes and eggs,” she said.
“This is fine.”
“So?” she said as she sat at the table.
So indeed.
“I just came from Rikers. Tony seems to be holding up well.”
“He’s been there less than twenty-four hours. How will he be holding up in a week,” she asked, “in a month?”
Good question.
“He won’t be there that long.”
Either she didn’t hear me or she knew damn well I was only saying what I thought she wanted to hear.
“Another man’s wife. He should have learned better than that.”
She was talking about a thirty-seven-year-old man as if he was a twelve-year-old schoolboy, but she probably still thought of both of her sons as boys after raising them on her own since her husband died fighting a fire more than twenty years earlier. And Tony was the baby.
“No disrespect, we both know Tony forgets to use his head at times but he didn’t kill Atanasio. And I won’t stop until I prove it.”
“I have to get back to my work, it helps distract me. Have more coffee, you haven’t touched the biscotti.”
With that she returned to her sauce and I quietly made for the back door.
“You’re a good boy, Nicholas,” she said from the stove without turning to watch me leave. “God bless you.”
Amen.
When I got up to my office I found a message from James Gleason on the answering machine. I was about to return the call when Detective Marina Ivanov walked in, crossed to the desk and sat in the client’s chair.
“What happened to knocking on the door?”
“I knock, you say Come in, I come in, you say Have a seat, I sit, you say What can I do for you. I’m a very busy girl, Ventura. I thought I would move it along.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I assured you we would talk, and here I am good to my word. Tell me everything you know about what went down at the beach the other night.”
“A little uncertain about your chief suspect?”
“I’ve known Tony Fazio since grade school, he wouldn’t harm a fly,” she said. “But I can’t help him.”
“Can I ask you a question first?”
“Go.”
“If there was a list as long as my arm of people who would not be heart-broken by Frank Atanasio’s death where would Sonny Balducci appear on the list?”
“Near the top. Why?”
“Why near the top?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions.”
“Bear with me.”
“Do you know Carmine Pugno?”
“I know who he is. I’ve had the displeasure of dealing with his brother Freddy. I met his old man once.”
“Carmine’s second-in-command, Paul Mancini, was recently convicted for illegal gambling and prostitution under RICO. He is now residing in Ossining leaving an opening in the organization. Frank Atanasio and Sonny Balducci were the top candidates, and both were actively campaigning for the position. The Pugno family’s selection process just became less complicated.”
“And Frankie’s widow?”
“Miss Alabama two thousand four, what about her?”
“Do you think the red Mercedes, the villa on Shore Road and the stash in the basement will ease her grief?”
“Are you suggesting Balducci or Atanasio’s wife had something to do with Frankie’s death?”
“Or both.”
I told her about Dolores Atanasio’s call to the office on the night of the murder and about finding the widow in Balducci’s company the following night.
“Did you record the phone call?”
“No.”
“Did Sonny have his hand up her skirt at the bar?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing. We are living in the CSI age, Nick. Prosecutors don’t favor theories. They prefer evidence like finding a suspect at the scene of the crime with a smoking gun.”
“I’m well aware of that, Marina. I would simply like to know if I come up with a brilliant idea to clear Tony, can I count on your help.”
“When you come up with a brilliant idea I’ll listen.”
She left me to it.
I called James Gleason. He was agitated.
“He wants the cash today.”
“Calm down, James. Where and when?”
“Wrapped and dropped into a trash can at the Kings Highway subway station. The Highlawn Avenue end of the southbound platform at two.”
It was a good choice. The station would be nearly deserted early Sunday afternoon, with few if any waiting for a ride to Coney Island. There would more likely be commuters waiting on the opposite platform for a trip to Manhattan, and that is where my eyes needed to be.
“I have the money,” Gleason said.
“I thought we agreed to eighty-six that idea. You do nothing. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m worried if he doesn’t find the money, he’ll be angry and release the photographs.”
“He’ll be very angry, but he won’t release anything until he reaches you to find out what the fuck happened and impress upon you how pissed-off he is. I don’t believe this guy cares at all whether your daughter’s career goes down
the gutter or she wins a Pulitzer. He’s only interested in the cash, and for the moment he figures you for the highest bidder. If there comes a time when someone else is willing to pay more, you won’t hear from him again and it will be too late. And I need to learn how he got the photographs in the first place if we hope to put an end to it.”
“How will you learn that?”
“I’ll ask him. Trust me. Ignore his calls and let me take it from here.”
He agreed so I called Maria.
Maria Leone was working her way through graduate school, helping her Aunt Carmella manage the pizzeria to cover tuition at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. Occasionally, when I needed an extra set of eyes or a female voice for an anonymous phone call or internet research that was beyond my technological skills, she assisted me in exchange for authentic hands-on investigative experience and an occasional meal as long as the food wasn’t Italian.
It was nearly two in the afternoon. I sat in my car at the corner of West 8th Street and Highlawn with a clear view of the subway entrance. Maria was already in place down on the northbound platform. A suspect approached on foot from the direction of 6th Street and entered the train station. I moved my position to 6th and Highlawn while I waited for a call from Maria to confirm we had our man.
“He’s on his way back up. He did an excellent job digging through the trash. He doesn’t look very happy,” Maria reported. “Need anything else?”
“I’ve got it from here, thanks. I owe you dinner.”
“You know my number. Over and out.”
A minute later he came out of the subway station and began walking in my direction.
He passed my car and climbed into a beat up Toyota parked at 5th Street. I followed him to an apartment building on West 4th and Avenue S opposite the Junior High School. I couldn’t follow him in, but I was pretty sure his license plate would get me the specifics I needed.
I called my friend Eddie at the 78th Precinct. Eddie always reminded me about the risks he took running plates for me but always came through. I soon had a name, Robert Holden, an apartment number and a telephone number for James Gleason’s antagonist.
“This guy has a PI license,” Eddie added.
“Gives us all a bad name.”
I called Gleason, telling him again to ignore any phone calls.
And as I drove to my boat the brilliant idea I needed to enlist Detective Ivanov’s help and get Tony Fazio back out on the street collecting garbage began taking shape.
It was the last day of March and it was finally beginning to feel like spring.
I sat on the deck of the houseboat and called Dolores Atanasio.
She answered with that killer voice.
“Did Balducci pay you to set up your husband or were you just ready to trade one low-life thug for another,” I said.
“Who is this?”
“Shut up and listen.”
I took her silence as a go ahead.
“I know Sonny Balducci killed your husband. I know that only you could have told Sonny where Frankie would be Friday night. If you tell me everything you know about what happened at the Parachute Jump, you might stay out of prison.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You would be a lot more convincing if you had said I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have you on tape calling my office from Sonny’s Saloon Friday night with the bullshit story about an imaginary daughter at the exact time your husband was walking into an ambush. How will you explain that to Detectives Ivanov and Falcone?”
“Why haven’t you told them already?”
“Because I want Balducci. He bugs me.”
“Sonny will kill me if I talk.”
“If you don’t talk, I’ll put the word out that you did. So it would be a smart idea to help me put him away where he can’t reach you. And you will talk, either to me or to the homicide police.”
I must have sounded sincere because she rolled over.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Who was there that night?”
“Sonny and Rocco.”
“Rocco?”
“Big guy who watches the door at Sonny’s bar.”
“Rocco knocked Tony out.”
“Yes.”
“And when Frankie showed up Sonny put two in his chest.”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’re as easy as Tony said you were.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“Letting Tony go down for a murder rap wasn’t exactly nice, and let me add I think you belong in the bowels of Tony Fazio’s garbage truck.”
“I told you what you wanted to know, how do I get out of this mess?”
“Run,” I said.
I hung up the phone and turned off the tape recorder.
At eight that evening Holden’s Toyota Camry was still parked in front of his building. I rang the bell for Apartment 1-A. Lionel Jackson. The building superintendent. As I expected he came to the lobby door.
“Can I help you?”
“Mr. Jackson, I was hoping you could let me in so I could surprise Robert Holden in apartment three E.”
“You a cop?”
“Private,” I said, and showed him my nifty laminated ID card.
“If the tenants enjoyed surprises, this door would not be locked.”
“Are you a friend to Mr. Holden?”
“I don’t really care for him but that’s not the issue.”
“Holden is trying to hurt an innocent young lady and I would like a chance to dissuade him. I need to get in, and when I’m at his door, I would like you to call him and claim that someone is trying to break into his car.”
“And I’ll do this because?”
“Because I think you know the guy is wrong, you seem to be a man who cares about doing the right thing, and my client is willing to pay two hundred bucks for the favor,” I said, and showed him the two Franklins.
A few minutes later I stood outside the door to Holden’s apartment. The phone rang inside. Then I heard him rushing to the door. When he opened the door, I hit him in the jaw with my brass-knuckled right fist. He went down hard. I pulled him in and handcuffed him to a wrought iron radiator. Then I sat on a sofa and waited for him to wake up.
“Jesus, Bob, what made you believe anyone would bother breaking into your heap of junk Camry,” I said when he opened his eyes.
“What the fuck,” he yelled.
“You need to turn down the volume and watch your language, Bob, or I’ll have to stuff a sock in your mouth. I’m going to use your phone. I need you to be quiet and pay attention.”
I made the call.
“Sonny’s Saloon.”
“Ace?”
“Who’s this?”
“I need to speak to Sonny.”
“He’s not here. Who is this?”
“Well, where is he? It’s a little early in the evening to be playing hide the sausage with Dolores Atanasio, don’t you think?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“Tell Balducci I’d like to talk with him about a little video I shot at the Parachute Jump Friday night. Tell him to call this number at nine sharp.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“It’s been suggested before,” I said. “Nine. Sharp.”
I gave him the phone number and ended the call.
“You’re trying to squeeze Sonny Balducci?” Holden said. “You are out of your mind.”
“No, you’re trying to squeeze Balducci. That was a bluff, Robert. Either Sonny calls back or he doesn’t. Or he simply locates this phone and sends someone over to visit. We should know by nine. But before I tell you what you are going to do and say if he does take the bait, we need to settle the Deirdre Gleason business. First you tell me how you got the pictures, and then you give me every one of them.”
“I took the photos more than three years ago, through a motel window in Jersey. My client wanted proof that her college
professor husband was doing one of his students. When I showed her the photos she said never mind and she never paid me. I guess they kissed and made up. I could have used the photos to bleed the professor, but I wasn’t so desperate for money back then. A few weeks ago I saw the girl on television and thought I could make a quick score. There’s an envelope on the kitchen table addressed to her father, all of the photos and the negatives are there. I was planning to send it as soon as I got the cash. I wasn’t planning to milk Gleason. I needed help getting back on my feet and forgot my manners. I regret it. Take the envelope. Tell the man I’m sorry. Please don’t get me involved with Balducci.”
I removed the handcuffs.
“I need you on this,” I said, “and it will give you a chance to clear your conscience.”
I told Holden what he needed to say if the call came at nine.
I called James Gleason to tell him his cares were over.
I called Marina Ivanov to ask her to be handy.
I pulled my .357 out of my jacket pocket.
“Will that be necessary?” Holden asked.
“I hope not, but I’d feel a lot better if we both had one.”
He retrieved a .32 Police Special from a kitchen cabinet.
“Will this do?”
“Should do fine.”
“Look at us. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
Nice thought.
We waited.
Holden and I rehearsed a few times while we fortified ourselves with Johnnie Walker Red. The phone rang at nine sharp. Holden let it ring four times and put it on speaker.
“Sonny Balducci?” Holden said.
“Who is this?”
“Not important. I have a short film I shot Friday night at Coney Island that you might like to take off my hands.”
“What were you doing with a movie camera down at the beach, studying the seagulls or capturing tender moments under the boardwalk?”
“You’re asking all the wrong questions. I was sure you would be more interested in what it had to do with you. I’m watching the video now. Big ape bringing another guy down from behind with a stranglehold and you looking on. A third cat arrives and you plug him twice, then you put the weapon in the hand of the poor sap on the ground. Bring back memories?”