by J. L. Abramo
I gave him the information.
“I’ll call you as soon as I can break loose and we’ll work out the safest way to get to them. I don’t want you going in alone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said.
“By the way.”
“Yes?”
“I spoke with a friend at the Sixty-Eighth, asked him to keep a lid on my inquiry. The DOA that landed at Calvary was a drug pusher, peddled on the street. He had been charged a few times but it didn’t stick. He had lacerations on his face and chest consistent with a fall.”
I might have mentioned that burns on the face and chest were also consistent with air bag injuries but I didn’t.
“A fall killed the guy?”
“Loss of blood from two gunshot wounds, neck and chest, killed the guy.”
“Call me as soon as Sam gets back from the doctor,” was all I said.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten anything substantial so I called down to Totonno’s and had Carmella send up a potato and egg hero on seeded Italian bread.
I had just polished off the sandwich when I received a call from Hector Ramirez.
“Can you come to the restaurant, Nick?”
“Now?”
“If at all possible. There is a gentleman here who would like to speak with you.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” I said.
When I arrived at the restaurant, Hector sent me to the back room. I was greeted by a well-dressed man in his mid-sixties. He invited me to join him at a table.
“Mr. Ventura. My name is Alfredo Garcia. Hector tells me you are a man who possesses nobility. He says you are a righteous man.”
“That’s very flattering,” was all I could think to say.
“I am the president of Seguridad, our neighborhood association. Besides sponsoring community educational, sporting and social events, we also work diligently to keep the neighborhood safe—particularly for our children. In the past six months we have lost three of our young ones to drugs, one was my fourteen-year-old grandson. We identified the devil who was responsible and we notified the police. They let him go twice for lack of evidence. I called a community meeting and we discussed the situation.”
Garcia paused for a moment to allow me to speak. I had nothing to say so he went on.
“We confronted the man and gave him a clear message, fair warning. If he was seen again anywhere in the neighborhood, there would be serious consequences. A few weeks ago he was spotted here on Third Avenue.”
Brooklyn Justice.
“I understand,” I said.
“All of the good families here hope that you do.” Then, to let me know he was finished with the subject, he added, “Would you care for coffee?”
“I need to go,” I said as I rose to leave.
“Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Ventura.”
“Does Seguridad accept donations, Mr. Garcia? To assist funding your programs.”
“We can always make good use of such support.”
I bid farewell to Hector on my way out. He thanked me for coming down. I thanked him for the opportunity. I climbed into the Monte Carlo planning to spend some more time with my uncle while I waited to hear from Sullivan. As I was pulling away, Pugno rang my cell. I wasn’t very surprised he had found the number. Carmine could probably dig up the Pope’s cell phone number and text His Holiness a Happy Easter greeting.
“They left the hotel,” he said. “My guys tailed them across the Verrazano and through Staten Island as far as the Goethals Bridge. I advised them not to follow the Roses into New Jersey.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
“Be careful. These boys can be extremely dangerous, especially on their own turf.”
With that he ended the call.
I was tired of having a phone attached to my left ear so I decided to drive out to the 70th Precinct where I could give John Sullivan the news face to face and debate our next move even if we had to sneak into an interrogation room for privacy.
The cubbyhole Sullivan and his partner Sam shared as an office was unoccupied so we settled there. He poured coffee, I replayed Pugno’s report.
“Looks like we’re going to New Jersey,” John said.
“When?”
“I can get out of here as soon as Sam returns. I’ll need to go home first and let Maggie know what’s going on. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can pick me up at the house.”
“Good. If anything changes I’ll be at the hospital.”
“Nick.”
“Yes?”
“Bring your gun.”
I rolled up in front of the Sullivan residence just after six.
John was waiting out on the sidewalk.
He looked back to the house, where his wife Maggie stood inside at the window, before climbing in beside me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Six Hundred North Maine Avenue.”
“Atlantic City,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Guess you know the place pretty well.”
“Very well.”
I’d had a lot of bad luck in Atlantic City.
We made it down in less than three hours. Just before nine I parked in a lot off North Rhode Island Avenue that served the Atlantic City Aquarium and we walked from there.
North Maine Avenue had not earned a square on the Monopoly Board but it sat in a prime location and I imagined it wouldn’t be long before the four homes between Caspian and Liberty Avenues would be traded for a hotel. The Rose brothers occupied the corner house at Caspian. There was a large green park across Caspian to the north and a narrow beach across North Maine on the Absecon Inlet to the east. From the second story deck of the house there would be a view of the ocean. There was an alley running behind the house and a good-sized yard in front. A prominent sign on a well-groomed front lawn read Beware of Dog. There were rooms lit inside the house on both floors and the Chrysler sat in the driveway.
The neighboring house was dark.
We decided John would take the back and I would watch the front. We decided we would wait for the dog to drag at least one of the brothers out to the park and agreed to give it ninety minutes before deciding something else.
Not long after ten, I was out of sight at the north corner of the house when the redheaded Rose walked out of the front door leading a German shepherd the size of a pony on a leash that could have towed a truck. He had to come in my direction to cross Caspian Avenue to the park. The animal was certainly large enough to warrant the notice on the lawn, but if I was easily discouraged by warnings I would be selling vacuum cleaners in Des Moines instead of hiding behind a Magnolia bush at the Jersey Shore.
If the German shepherd was a watch dog, he hadn’t been watching. When pumpkin head passed my position I hit him fast and hard from behind. A crack on the back of the head with the butt end of my .357 brought him to the ground like a test of the theory of gravity. He was out cold. The dog took off across Caspian Avenue with his tail between his legs dragging twenty feet of half-inch derby rope behind him and disappeared into the park without a peep.
So much for appearances.
I wrapped red’s legs, arms and mouth with duct tape until he looked like a pizza delivery kid. I shoved him under the magnolias and went to fetch John.
“Where’s the pooch?”
“Wasn’t exactly a guard dog. Probably halfway to Ocean City by now.”
We dragged the body to the back of the house and handcuffed him to a fence post for extra measure.
We agreed that trying to grab each of them outside the house was still a good idea and we were really in no big hurry so we waited again. We were guessing when Mike or Pat didn’t come back Pat or Mike would step out to investigate. I was hoping that before too long we would know who was who.
I stationed myself across North Maine and Sullivan stood sentry on the blind side of the front door. Twenty minutes later the second Rose stepped out onto the porch and look
ed toward the park. I called to him, something like Can you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall and, before he could recommend practice, John had a .44 pressed against his head.
I skipped across the street and followed them into the house.
Ten minutes later we had the two positioned like matching bookends on a long black leather sofa. If either of them had anything to say it would have to wait until we removed the gags. John and I sat on armchairs separated by a high table sipping from tumblers of twenty-four-year-old Glenfiddich borrowed from the Rose’s well-stocked bar and going through their wallets.
Turned out Michael was the carrot top.
“So,” John said, crossing to the sofa, “you enjoy beating old men and scaring little girls.”
He yanked the tape from Michael’s face. The skin around his mouth was as red as his mop.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
Not very imaginative so I decided I would save eloquence for my next trip to the opera.
“We know exactly who we’re fucking with” I said.
I walked over to the front door and picked up the metal softball bat leaning in a corner. I took it over to the sofa and cracked Pat on the left knee swinging for the fences. His muffled complaint was not wasted on his brother.
“You could have broken his fucking knee.”
“And if I didn’t I could try again.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“We want you and your brother to read this statement,” John said, pulling the document from his inside jacket pocket, “and then you will both sign it. My friend here brought his notary seal.”
It was true. It earned me a couple of extra bucks a month. Conveniently I was licensed in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.
The wording was short and to the point. The undersigned were employed by Vincent Salerno to forcibly influence testimony in a felony trial, and to that end had kidnapped a minor and assaulted a senior.
“This is a coerced confession. It would never hold up against us in court.”
“Thanks for opinion, Darrow,” I said. “But it will be a big headache for Salerno. And we’re not all that interested in getting you into court.”
For the sake of variety I hit Michael in his right knee with the bat.
I was guessing his protest could be heard in Trenton.
Another ten minutes later the affidavit was signed and sealed and we had their writing arms rewrapped and Michael’s mouth taped again.
Then Sullivan took his turn with the bat, crushing Michael’s left knee and Patrick’s right. While he was at it I went to the kitchen, filled two bowls the size of wash basins with food and water, and opened the back door in case the pooch came back. When I returned John was saying goodbye to the boys.
“If you ever crawl back into Brooklyn again, we will kill you,” he said. “As in kill you.”
The dog was sitting outside the front door. He licked my hand and I let him in. He jumped up onto the sofa between the brothers and assumed a sleep position. I closed the door.
“Think anyone will miss them enough to swing by and recycle the duct tape?” I asked as we walked back to the aquarium parking lot.
“Who cares.”
We drove back to our little town.
I woke up late the next morning. Sunday. The law takes no days of rest.
John Sullivan got the Rose’s statement to the DA who in turn got it to Salerno’s attorney who convinced his client to plead guilty to second degree voluntary manslaughter. Class C felony. Maximum penalty five to fifteen. The jury trial was vacated and John missed his opportunity to testify. He didn’t really mind. Salerno was sentenced by a judge to twelve years imprisonment without parole. It seemed mild punishment for taking a life, but the justice system is just that. A system. And personally, I didn’t believe I could handle more than a week in the joint.
I drove out to the hospital to visit Sal and found Roseanna Napoli sitting at his bedside. She somehow had him smiling behind the wires holding his jaw together.
“Are you talking dirty to an old man?” I asked.
“I was telling your uncle about the time you slipped on the deck of the houseboat and demolished a hundred and fifty dollar bottle of sixteen-year-old Black Maple Hill Kentucky straight bourbon.”
Nice.
There were a dozen red roses in a vase on the side table.
“Did you bring the flowers?”
“I brought the Daily Racing Form,” she said. “Your friend John Sullivan sent the roses.”
We sat with Sal until he slipped into sleep and then drove over to 17th Avenue for Cuban sandwiches at the Quetzel Restaurant in Bensonhurst.
I told Roseanna about our adventure in Atlantic City.
“My hero.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I have no choice. What do you think about spending the rest of the day on your houseboat keeping track of the tides?”
“I have some business to take care of and a bottle of Booker’s I would prefer intact, what about your place at six?”
“Just because you popped for a sandwich and a cup of chicken soup don’t expect me to slave at a hot stove over a pot of tomato sauce with sausage and meatballs for your Sunday dinner.”
“I expect no such thing,” I said.
“Good, then it will be a surprise.”
I dropped her at her neighborhood Italian grocery.
“Bring wine, and don’t forget the bourbon,” she said and hopped out of the car.
I watched her float into the market and then I called Ben Foster.
I asked Ben if he could meet me where we had met three days earlier and he said he would be there. I recommended we meet inside the place instead of in his pickup. I found him at a booth near the front window, pulled up a bench and waived at a waitress for two cups of coffee.
“I’ll bet the farm no one is going to show up looking for the cash. I would rather skip the details.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s what you can do.”
“Shoot.”
“You send an anonymous donation of ten grand to an organization called Seguridad in Sunset Park and you can keep what’s left. Lose the briefcase.”
“And you’re good with that?”
“Yes.”
“What about your fee?”
“Three days on the clock, some gasoline, let’s call it five hundred dollars. Send me a check at your convenience,” I said, handing him a business card.
“Thank you.”
“Call Sol Goldman at Fillmore Real Estate and mention my name. I think he can get you into a larger apartment.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good luck,” I said as I rose to leave.
And that was the end of it.
I arrived at Roseanna’s place at six with a good bottle of Chianti and a bottle of bourbon in perfect condition. She was wearing a full apron I was certain her mother once wore.
“Are you hungry?”
“Sure.”
“I need a shower. Open the package of pasta, start a fire under the pot of water, throw the bread into the oven, stir the sauce, open the wine and have two glasses poured before I get back.”
“Make it quick,” I said.
THE FIST
I parked my 1973 Monte Carlo behind the pizzeria at nine on a Monday morning and decided I would drop in to have coffee with Carmella Fazio before heading up to my office next door. I tapped on the entrance to the back of the shop and Carmella let me into the kitchen. She was always enthusiastic about seeing me, and that morning was no exception. She invited me to take a seat. While she poured two cups of espresso and plated homemade sesame Regina cookies, I picked up the New York Daily News from the table and unfolded it. The prominent photograph on the front page was of a man around my age with movie star good looks. The bold headline above the photo read: MOB BOSS GUNNED DOWN IN BROOKLYN.
“Terrible business,” Carmella said, joining me at the table. “Carmine came in
occasionally for pizza or calzone. His father would visit regularly when my dad was alive.”
I had never met Carmine Pugno, although I had spoken with him on the phone several times in the recent past. I had met his father, twice, both times strictly out of necessity. Ferdinand Pugno was not a man I would normally join for a casual afternoon shooting the breeze. I did have a history with his other son, Freddy, and had made it my business to keep it in the past.
I opened the newspaper and found another photograph of Carmine, this one not as flattering. He was lying face down on the sidewalk in front of Torres Italian restaurant on Bay Parkway in Bensonhurst, with one arm dangling off the curb. Even in a black and white newsprint photo, there was no mistaking the extensive blood loss from what was clearly a gunshot to the head.
“This is going to stir up big trouble,” I said, dipping a cookie into my coffee.
“I hope it doesn’t come to Coney Island,” Carmella said.
We spent half an hour changing the subject. Tony and Richie were great, Maria was doing very well in school, the pizza business was excellent, Uncle Sal was slowly recovering, and it was promising to be a very lovely June day. I thanked Carmella for the refreshments and left for my office. When I reached my desk, I found a voice message from Ferdinand Pugno on the machine.
I would soon learn what big trouble really was.
Ferdinand Pugno referred to himself as a “retired businessman”—in much the same way Meyer Lansky had years earlier. Ferdinand’s nickname, “The Fist”, had a double meaning. It described his legendary reputation for heavy-handed persuasion and was the equivalent of the word pugno in English.
Ignoring Pugno’s request for a return call was pretty much out of the question. He answered the call personally, which in itself was not customary.
“I was sorry to hear about your loss.”
Inane, but what was I supposed to say? I wasn’t in a big hurry to ask him why he had called me in the first place.