CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Car accident? Oh, you mean…”

  I cut her off.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said even that. I’m only authorized to speak to Mr. Carmichael. Will you please get him?”

  “It’s after five o’clock. I didn’t think you were allowed to call people after work. My husband is a fisherman and was out all night. He’s taking a nap. And I just got in from work myself. I haven’t even started dinner.”

  She sounded like a nice woman, able to work, dress her kids nicely and keep a neat house. She could have lied and said he wasn’t home. I suspected that lying was hard for her. Porgie had married up. I felt like an asshole.

  “Mrs. Carmichael. I’m not a telemarketer. We have no rules concerning phone calls. They made me work tonight. Believe me, I’d rather be heading home to my family.”

  “Yes, of course. Please hold on.”

  There was some background noise and a man’s voice, getting closer to the phone with every utterance.

  “Jesus Christ. Environmental what? OK. Let me handle it. I said I was sorry didn’t I? Jesus Christ.” Finally, “Who is this?”

  “Is this Paul M. Carmichael?”

  “Yeah, yeah, now who are you again?”

  I went through my phony agency spiel gain, promoting myself to a more intimidating “supervising agent.”

  “What’s this about an accident?”

  “Are you the owner of a 2004 Volvo, license plate number RWA-667?”

  Silence. Porgie was trying to remember his plate number. I wondered if he went to the window to look out into the driveway. I didn’t hold it against him. Sometimes I can’t remember mine either.

  “Yeah.”

  With his record he knew better than to lie to a “Federal Officer,” especially about information the officer obviously has. Congress made it a crime to do that. I happen to think it’s a dumb law.

  “Your vehicle was involved in an accident Saturday morning on Matterhorn Street?”

  “I guess so. I don’t know the name of the street.”

  I still didn’t either. I’d just made up the name.

  “But you left the scene of the accident, is that correct?”

  “Are you shitting me? I took down a fucking bush and scraped a tree. What are you, the Gestapo? There was nobody else involved. I didn’t even call my insurance yet. How did you find out?”

  “A man in a nearby house observed the incident and wrote down your plate number. He called the police, but it’s not a local matter. An arboreal hit-and-run is a Federal crime. It was referred to my office.”

  “A ar-what? Hit and run! On a fucking tree!”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, to let him know I was insulted.

  “You may not know it, Mr. Carmichael, but hillsides of a certain pitch and slope are Federally protected because of their propensity for landslides. We can’t let this sort of thing go unpunished. Too many shrubs and trees get knocked down and pretty soon a hill like that will slide down into the bay. Like Cromwell Center.”

  He was momentarily speechless, which was fortunate, because I was rapidly running out of ridiculous things to say.

  “Listen, if there is a fine involved…”

  “Mr. Carmichael! Obliterating a protected bush is a misdemeanor. Leaving the scene is a felony.” Well, almost run out.

  The mention of a felony would scare the hell out of him. For all I knew it would have been his third strike and he thought he was facing life in Marion with Bubba the weightlifter. It was time to set the hook.

  “Look,” I said. “You seem like a nice family man. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, but I can’t see you facing a felony when you obviously weren’t aware that you had to stick around. Am I right?”

  “Yeah. Of course. I’d never hit-and-run. Anything. Even a tree, had I known. I made my kids watch that Ken Burns thing on the national parks, you know. I’m all for the environment.”

  “Well, perhaps we can work this down to a simple misdemeanor and a fine.”

  “Sure. Yeah. That would be Great. Thanks.”

  “Of course, a misdemeanor fine can run up to $5,000.”

  “Jesus!”

  “There may be another way. Perhaps we can talk in person.”

  “You want me to come in?”

  “No, I was thinking maybe we could meet someplace neutral, like a diner or something, just to hash this out.”

  In the silence that followed, I could almost hear the light bulb snap on over his head. I was just another chiseler.

  “When,” he said. There was relief in his voice.

  “How about tonight, say in an hour? You know the Olympus Diner on Amboy Road in Annadale?

  “Tonight?”

  “I’m working several cases on the Island, in the field, so to speak. I’m in the neighborhood. No use dragging this kind of thing out, don’t you agree?”

  “Yeah, sure, Mr. Harper. How will I know you?”

  “I don’t think it will be crowded. I’ll sit in a booth near the men’s room. I’m wearing a dark blue suit and a green tie with miniature redwoods on it. See you around 10?”

  “OK. I’ll be there.”

  “That will be grand, Mr. Carmichael. “Just grand.”

  With my emphasis on “grand” I was pretty sure Porgie would show up with a thousand bucks to make his “arboreal” infraction disappear. He was a wiseguy. He’d have a petty cash stash in the basement. If not, he had time to stop at a couple of ATM’s on the way. I could have asked for more. Maybe I could have said “that will just be too grand.” But that’s a lot of ATM’s, and I didn’t want Porgie knocking over a convenience store on my account.

  CHAPTER 17 – FOOT SOLDIER

  The Olympus Diner was at the intersection of Arden Avenue and Annadale Road in what 40 years ago was, despite being surrounded by an urban megalopolis, the middle of nowhere. If a spaceship landed in the community back then, aliens might have mistaken it for North Dakota. Now there were gas stations, convenience stores, supermarkets and drug stores on every corner, and strip malls in between. Behind them were rows of townhouses facing each other on streets so narrow that the Fire Department complained its trucks had difficulty navigating. That was somewhat mitigated by the fact that developers had also neglected to put in sidewalks, so the fire hydrants were actually in the streets. It must be confusing for dogs, and anyone trying to curb them.

  The bright and shiny Olympus, which in fact looked a little like an alien saucer, was a fairly new addition to the area. Like the 20 other diners in the borough, it was owned by Greeks. I know people who believe that Indians and Pakistanis are cornering the market on gas stations as part of a Muslim-Hindu plot to bring the country to its knees in a Slurpie version of Pearl Harbor, but no one has offered me an explanation for the Greek monopoly of diners. All I do know is that they make a hell of a cheeseburger, one of which I had just finished in my car as I waited for Porgie Carmichael. I sipped my coffee and lamented the fact that I’d passed on the apple pie I’d spotted in the glass case near the register. Porgie was running late and I was starting to worry that he might indeed have stopped off to knock over a convenience store to get the bribe money when a Kia pulled into the parking lot and he got out.

  It was late and the lot was almost empty. I had parked near the fence that bordered the property as far away from lighting as I could get. I got out and walked to the entrance while Carmichael parked. When I got there I turned and started walking toward him. He would assume I’d just left the diner. I timed it perfectly. We were in a blind spot not visible from any windows. Porgie was wearing a gray sweatshirt over blue sweatpants, a red Mets jacket and black running shoes. He’d dressed hurriedly, or in the dark. I’d only spoken briefly to his wife, but she didn’t sound like a woman who would normally let him out of the house looking like that. I was not wearing the suit and tie he was expecting, having changed into an old Army jacket and a golf cap I keep in the trunk.

  I put my collar up and pulled down the brim of the
cap. Carmichael was trudging along with a scowling intensity and barely noticed me as we met. I was just another hard-working blue-collar guy.

  “Hey, Porgie, long time no see. How’s the fishing?”

  Despite the seriousness of his mission, a fisherman is a fisherman. He brightened.

  “Not bad,” he said smiling. “Cold front scattered the blues but the fluking is still pretty good. No doormats but…”

  The smile froze, as his eyes drifted down to the pistol pointed at his belly button. It was a .22 caliber Ruger Government Target pistol I also keep in the trunk of my car. I occasionally take it to the range so I could feel like Annie Oakley. The Ruger is accurate to 50 yards and I could put out a grouping that could cover a deck of cards. On the downside it has the stopping power of a badminton shuttlecock. But the gun had a long thick “bull barrel” that in the dark could be mistaken for a silencer. It would impress a minor-league wiseguy with a bad conscience.

  Porgie was better looking than his license or mug shots. He had a long face, pale skin that looked a bit weathered from the sea air and a shock of red hair. All of which made him resemble a shorter Conan O’Brien. But not much shorter. He had a couple of inches on me, and maybe 20 pounds. Long arms and big, tough-looking hands replete with fresh red welts and old scar tissue. No matter how careful you are on a party boat a dying bluefish will get in its last licks, or some idiot will hook you. I wasn’t about to fool with Porgie. He still didn’t recognize me. He started to say something. I cut him off.

  “Just turn around and walk to that car over by the fence.” I didn’t think he was carrying. The only outline in his jacket looked like a folded envelope. He was reluctant to head into a darker area. “Move. If I wanted to ace you, I’d have done it already. But don’t try my patience.”

  We walked to my car in silence. I knew his mind was racing. I dropped a couple of feet back and held the gun at my side. It wasn’t so dark that somebody from the diner would ignore a guy walking across the lot with a rod pointed at another.

  Porgie was no tuna sandwich. He made his move just as we got to his car, solving my problem, which was how to impress him with the hopelessness of his situation. He whirled and launched a haymaker at my head, which just grazed me. It takes sand to try to punch a guy holding a gun. But what he should have done was kick me in the groin.

  That’s what I did to him. Not willing to waste months of rehab, I used my good leg, which lessened the impact. Unfortunately, I had to put a lot of weight on my other leg and a sharp pain had me wondering which of us got the better of the deal. I needn’t have worried. My leg felt fine after a second, whereas Porgie was doubled over making a sound like a foghorn. I clubbed him with the butt of the pistol. He sagged to his knees and I opened the door and trundled him in. I went around to the other side, reached into the glove box for a set of cuffs and locked his right hand to the steering wheel. I’m not a sadist. I left the other arm free so he could massage his gonads but not reach over to me. I looked back to the diner. All was quiet. I took the envelope from his pocket and got in the passenger seat and waited for Porgie to recover. It didn’t take long. A guy who mates on a head boat and handles hooks, filets knives and razor-toothed bluefish is used to pain.

  “What do you want, man?” He was sitting up and had rattled the handcuff-steering wheel apparatus. “Tell Frankie I can have his money next week, no problem.”

  “I don’t work for your shylock, Porgster,” I said. “And if I did, I’d sure as hell want to know where the thousand bucks you have in this envelope is going.”

  He patted his now empty pocket. My face was in the shadows and he gave no indication that he recognized me.

  “Listen, I’m here to meet a guy. He’s a Fed. If I don’t show up, I’m screwed. He might even come out here looking for me. Then your ass is grass.”

  I leaned forward so he could see me more clearly. Using my “government” voice I said, “Now, why would I do that, Mr. Carmichael. I’m already here.”

  I took off my cap and turned down my collar. He stared at me.

  “Shit. Rhode. The guy we followed. You’re the tree guy?”

  “Yup. And, if you’ll pardon the pun, you’re about to find out that my bite is much worse than my bark.”

  He didn’t find that funny and turned around to stare out the windshield.

  “I can’t believe I let myself get suckered like this. Son of a bitch!”

  “Yeah. You might consider a new line of work.”

  “Big fucking deal. I’m just a foot soldier, man. Guys don’t usually roust guys like me. I wasn’t expecting it. And guys don’t usually get called at home.” He turned to look at me accusingly. “That ain’t kosher.”

  He had me there.

  “I’m sorry. I saw the kids’ stuff in the yard and didn’t want to brace you in front of them. So I winged it.”

  “And it’s not like you’re so fucking special,” he said. “It took you a while to spot us tailing you and we didn’t really know what we were doing. I ain’t a shooter, but if I was, you’d be fish food.”

  True. I could have been dead twice, or once more than really necessary.

  “Don’t remind me, Porgster. It’s a miracle we’ve even met. But since we have, let’s get down to business. Why have you been tailing me?”

  “You know I ain’t gonna tell you. I’m no rat.”

  The front door of the diner opened and three men walked out. One of them stopped to light a cigarette and the other two leaned on the railing. The man smoking said something and all three laughed. It was the laughter of men who spent a lot of time together. They were all wearing identical blue windbreakers and golf caps. I couldn’t read the lettering on the jackets but there appeared to be bowling ball logos on the back. I couldn’t make out the letters on the caps either, but it might have been NYPD. Maybe FDNY. I wanted them to be firemen. The lot was now even emptier and my car was beginning to look out of place. Of course, it would look out of place anywhere, but I still didn’t want some off- duty cops to check it out, since cops are never really off duty, especially in New York. I leaned over, put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  “Turn on the headlights, Porgie,” I said.

  “You nuts? I can’t drive like this.”

  He hadn’t spotted the men.

  “Just do it,” I said, and rapped his knuckles with the barrel of the gun.

  He did and I rolled down the window, turned on the radio and put the volume up. The car was now so conspicuous it was hopefully inconspicuous. All three men looked over. Probably cops. I willed them to ignore us. They finally did and went back to their bantering. A minute later they walked to separate cars and drove away. No high fives, back slapping or secret handshakes. Definitely cops. I left the engine running and the headlights on. Now nobody could see what was going on inside the car. The radio station was playing Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson.” I reluctantly turned it off before they got to Joe DiMaggio.

  “Look, Porgie, I kicked you in the balls, knocked you on the head and cuffed you to a steering wheel without breaking a sweat. I’m pointing a gun at your head. The way I see it, I have two options. I can put two bullets behind your ear with a minimum of fuss and noise. It’s a 22 and there won’t be any blood. I uncuff you, push you into the lot and drive away. Cops will figure you pissed off the Carluccis somehow and close the case faster than a ten-dollar lap dance. You want to be the victim of a perfect crime to protect the Carluccis? Or maybe I just rough you up some more and leak it to them that you spilled your guts. Got a coin I can borrow? I think I’ll flip for it.”

  I didn’t tell him about the only real option I had, which was to do nothing.

  “You are fucking crazy. I got kids.”

  “I’m not saying I’d like to do either. But I also don’t like guys following me around and proving that I’m such a goddamn idiot. You’re not a made man. Half the Carlucci family has turned state’s evidence. They’re a bunch of bums. Who are you protecting? T
ell me what I want to know. It stays between us.”

  Porgie banged his head on the steering wheel. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Promise?’

  “I promise. And hope you don’t die.” I tapped him lightly on the noggin with the barrel of my gun. It was a little over the top, but it worked.

  “They just wanted us to tail you to see who you were talking to, where you went. They didn’t say why. I’m just a fill-in, for Christ sake. Their regular tail guy’s in the hospital. Something wrong with his throat. Where’d you find that fucking hill, man? Last time I was that scared my kids talked me onto some monster rollercoaster at Six Flags. I was glad I was in my wife’s Volvo.”

  “You tailed me in your wife’s station wagon?”

  “Mine was in the shop. Angie pitched a fit I messed the Volvo up. First the headlight, then the tree. It’s her baby. She drives the kids in it, you know, because it’s so safe. I got to figure out how to get it fixed. She won’t let me near it now. Had to borrow the Kia until my own car is ready.”

  “Why haven’t you reported it to your insurance company?”

  “I got a $500 deductible. Money’s tight.” He looked at me. “You took my last cash. I was saving to buy the twins real bikes.”

  “They look kind of young.”

  “I know. I’m gonna get the ones with training wheels that I can take off later. All their friends have bikes now.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe I fell for the tree hugger bullshit. But you know, them environmental nuts stop dams and stuff cause of some minnows, right? I got a couple of felonies. I couldn’t chance another bounce. I was relieved when I thought you just wanted to be greased.”

  “And the Carluccis just wanted you to see who I was talking to?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Who said it? The old man?”

  Carmichael hesitated. I didn’t say anything. I sat there quietly and looked menacing, not easy to do when wearing a cap that says “Staten Island Children’s Museum Golf Outing.” But since I knew about the Carluccis, I guess he felt it didn’t matter.