COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “You’ll find the third nine-mil in Rabbit’s shoulder,” I said to him. He nodded and bagged the rounds.

  “We’ll run ballistic on all of them, but some are pretty messed up.” He rejoined his team after his hopeful declaration and the group headed to their van.

  “Why don’t you get yourself changed and come to the precinct? I’ll meet you there.” It wasn’t as much a question as an order.

  “I’ll be down in an hour.”

  I stepped outside and looked for an empty cab, but saw none. I crossed the street and delved into the crowd leaving the office buildings. It always amazes me that in the city of so many millions of people you can be alone.

  And I needed to be alone. My earlier reactions had been smooth and methodical—my mind and body following the routine, learned from my training in the Rangers. There’d been no anger, and even less thought, just movement—action and reaction.

  With everything over, my emotions now hit in full force. What the hell had that been about? It made no sense, why warn me off like that? You just don’t warn someone off a murder case. Compounding it all, was the fact Rabbit had been hurt. How had he gotten involved in this when all I’d asked him to do was to get me some info on Streeter?

  Something was screwy. If Scotty had gotten mixed up with gangsters, there had to be reasons and I knew it wasn’t money. While my feet pushed the cement pathway of the city streets, my anger ebbed and my thoughts straightened out. I had nothing to put my finger on, to help me understand why gangsters were involved with Scotty. He was a writer of plays, not a player, and not someone who played with these kinds of people.

  It had to be something else. Nothing following Rabbit’s phone call made any sense, which in a crazy way made its own sense, because there was no logic to Scotty’s death. I headed uptown toward home. When I opened the door to my apartment, my anger was all but gone, but my head was locked into the puzzle.

  I shrugged off the bloodstained suit, dumped it in the corner, cleaned up and dressed again. In the kitchen, I pulled a green bottle from the fridge and drank half of it in a single gulp before going to the counter and sitting down in front of Scotty’s computer.

  I hit the space bar and the screen flickered on. After twenty minutes of scanning, I came to his last two entries.

  It’s been a busy day. Albright called twice about the rewrite. He’s scared it won’t be done in time and he’s pressing me hard. Why? He knows if the play isn’t right, it won’t make it. Why is he pushing me so hard?

  I stopped reading, wondering the same thing myself. Albright wasn’t stupid. A flawed play would make his investment worthless. Did he think hounding Scotty would get him to produce? It was possible; a man like Albright was used to pushing people into doing what he needed.

  I looked at the next entry. It was this past Saturday.

  She called today. She wants to have dinner tonight. I agreed. I’m starting to understand my feelings now. I should have known from the beginning what was wrong.

  But to bring up her past…. What kind of damage will I do? I need to speak to Amanda about it. She’ll know how I should handle this.

  What the hell was that about? His writing was excited and so un-Scotty it took me by surprise. It was almost like a teenager. And why did he want to speak to Amanda? I glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to get to Chris, whom I was sure was still at the local precinct waiting for me.

  The phone rang. The number on the CID screen was Gina’s. “This is a surprise.”

  “What, you didn’t think something happened with the Carinomas or the Contes would cross my desk? You’re like a… trouble magnet—all you have to do is be someplace and trouble finds you. What happened?”

  I explained the scene at the Looker’s Club, and finished with, “you find out anything more about the show’s investors?”

  “I’m still waiting on the stuff. As soon as I get it, I’ll let you know. Gabe,” she added, her voice going soft, “be careful, please.”

  “I always am,” I replied, doing my best to keep things honest.

  On the way from my apartment to the street, I called the office. Femalé answered on the second ring. “Working late?”

  “Just finishing up,” she responded quickly. “What’s up?”

  I filled her in on the earlier action and before she could say anything, I went on. “I’m on my way to the precinct to give my statement. Then I intend to do some checking.”

  “You okay?”

  “I’m pissed.”

  “I bet. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Of course not,” I mumbled.

  “Gabe, please watch your back.”

  “I will. Also, check up on who owns the Looker’s Club on Eighth.”

  “Will do. See you in the morning.”

  Outside, luck was with me this time. A yellow cab was discharging one of my neighbors. I slipped into the seat, gave him the precinct’s address and called St. Vincent’s as we drove to check on Rabbit. He had just come out of surgery and was in recovery. He wouldn’t be allowed visitors for a while.

  I spent an hour at the precinct, giving my statement and letting them fire my Sig Sauer so they could match the ballistics from the bullets I’d fired. My chambering was already on record, but they were following the procedures to the letter.

  Everything was finished by six, and when I told Chris I was going uptown, he offered me a ride. Rather than turn down the ride and get him to wondering where I was going, I accepted the ride and told him to drop me off on Fiftieth Street. As he pulled out, he said, “Anything to add… something you might have forgotten in there?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “I told it as it happened. What about the goon with the piece?”

  Chris cast a quick glance at me while he maneuvered around a cab. “Arthur Pinella has a short sheet, mostly juvi. He’s low-level muscle for the Contes. You hurt him bad, amigo.”

  “Not as bad as I should have.”

  “What about the guy who split… any thoughts?”

  I had been thinking a lot about him. “I don’t know who he was, just that he was different. He’s well spoken—soft and clear.”

  “There’s been talk about some new blood moving into the families. Since the Gotti’s and their pretenders have been all but eliminated, and the other families are losing their muscle to the blacks and the Hispanics, things have been changing.

  The crime families of New York were never my specialty. Most of my work was for regular people, and while I knew a lot of the ‘boys’, I’d only tangled with them a few times. Most of my knowledge came from my time inside the joint. “They’re coming from where?”

  “Out West; Nevada, California - No one knows for sure. The FBI is looking into it, but they tell me they’ve come up dry as well.”

  I doubted that. The FBI’s Organized Crime Division had a ton of intel, much of which it did not share except on a need to know basis. I would have to call Gina about this.

  Chris pulled to the curb on Madison and Fiftieth Street, put the shift into park and turned to me. His deep blue eyes locked on mine. “Don’t hold out on me Gabe. Not this time.”

  I matched his stare. We’d been friends for much too long to keep playing this game. “Okay. The club was the second time I’ve been warned off the case. The first time was two days ago. I got a call—not the same voice. It told me to keep out of the case. To let it go.”

  “And of course you told him to stick it someplace, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “What else?”

  “Albright. He’s broke—almost bankrupt, but he dug up a million and a half to invest in Scotty’s show. That doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

  Chris’s eyebrows notched upward. “Why? If the play makes it, he’ll double the investment in the first year. You know that.”

  “If, is the operational word. Don’t forget scene two had problems and Scotty wasn’t about to let the play go on the way it was. He may have scared Albright.
”

  “Enough to kill him? I don’t think so.”

  I thought about what had happened at the Looker’s Club. “Depends on where his money came from, doesn’t it?”

  “Have you asked him?” Chris shot back.

  “No,” I admitted. “I’m looking into it myself.”

  “Try asking him. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, “but I doubt it. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  “Gabe, what about scene two?”

  I gave him an easy smile. “Scotty finished it. I’m delivering it to the theatre tomorrow. After all, I’m now in charge of the damned play.”

  Chris laughed. “Life’s a circle, amigo, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. Chris, did Scotty ever mention a woman he’d been seeing?”

  “Serena Hirsch. You met her today at the funeral.”

  “No, someone else.”

  He did a double take. “We’re talking about Scotty. I don’t ever remember him seeing two women at the same time.”

  “There was another woman—but they weren’t lovers, they were friends. I have his journal. But he never names her. It was as if he were afraid to write her name down. It’s strange, don’t you think?” I opened the door, but hung for another second before getting out. “And the way he wrote… It wasn’t the usual Scotty. Talk to you tomorrow. Give Amanda a kiss for me,” I said before he could work his puzzled expression into a question.

  I got out, stood on the corner, and waited until Chris pulled away before I crossed Madison and headed to the Looker’s Club on Eighth: Chris wouldn’t be happy with me.

  I stood on Eighth Avenue, caddy-corner across from the club for several minutes, watching people going in and out the front door. Most were middle-aged businessmen: dressed in nice suits, others dressed casually, but they all had the same purpose in mind: to watch the girls dancing at the poles while imagining they were the poles. Sometimes you can take the stupid out of men, sometimes you can’t.

  Five minutes later, I crossed the street. When the bouncer caught sight of me, his eyes widened, his hands slid beneath his jacket. All it took was one shake of my head for him to pull his hand out and, before he could say a word, I waved him to the side. I got a similar reaction from the floozy behind the counter. She didn’t ask for the ten buck cover charge; rather, she tried to look away.

  "Remember me?” I asked with a broad smile. She nodded, her lips drawn into a tight line. "Where’s the boss?"

  She pointed toward the rear of the bar at a dark area where a thin outline of light showed around a black door. It looked more like the door to hell than the office of a strip club.

  "Don’t tell him I’m coming.” I slipped my hand under my jacket and started in; ignoring the girls sliding up and down the polls like it was their own silver hard-on.

  When I was ten feet from the door, it opened to disgorge a gorilla of a man. I guessed the girl hadn’t taken my warning to heart. The man was three inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than I was. His bad fitting jacket showed a bulge at the hip. I figured it for a forty-five. His arms were crossed on his chest and his head cocked to one side. "So you’re the famous Gabe Storm. Ya don’t look so tough."

  I stared into dark deep-set little eyes. "Try me.” My voice was colder than my eyes.

  "Do come in," called a voice from inside the office. The gorilla smiled and stepped aside, his right hand dipping into his jacket and going around the bulge of the forty-five.

  I squeezed passed him and stepped into the office. Carlo Santucchi sat behind a big black desk. I’d never met the man before; I’d heard of him, and there wasn’t much I’d heard, a few newspaper articles and some whispers. He was in middle management, if you will, in the Canterino family to be exact. He ran a half a dozen clubs and a string of call girls on the Upper East and West Sides.

  I went to the chair across from the desk, opened my jacket which gave him a clear view of the Sig, and sat down.

  "You caused a big stink here today. Not good for business."

  "I thought I made a rather big bang."

  Santucchi’s eyes hardened as he took stock of me. "Maybe, maybe not: What do you want?"

  "I want to know who tried to take me out today."

  Santucchi shrugged. Blue silk rippled as his shoulders went up and down in a quick shrug. "I haven’t the slightest idea. I was uptown at a meeting."

  "Counting your money, right? I hear you have a nice cash business going on uptown."

  Santucchi’s face tightened. His eyes narrowed dangerously. "My business ain’t your concern."

  "It became my concern today. Who tried to take me out?” I asked again.

  "I can’t help you. You were in a private room. Special customers like to use it for parties."

  "And no one knows who was there, right?"

  "That’s right, no one here knows.”

  "Bullshit. Someone put down a man I consider my brother. I’m going to find out whom, and if you’re involved, you go down as well. Believe that."

  A strange look flashed across the gangster’s face, but it disappeared as fast as it had come. "You’re a tough talker for someone who’s standing alone in my office."

  "People like you need someone to back them, I don’t. Why not make this easy and get my good side. Who was it?"

  This time Santucchi moved his head from side to side. “I already spoke to the cops. I don’t know who it was and I don’t know who did your friend. They know I run a legitimate business here. But the truth is I wasn’t here, so I can’t help you."

  I leaned forward, my chest touching the desk; my arms hanging low so he couldn’t see me reach across and grip the Sig. I was close enough for his designer after-shave to annoy my nostrils. "Pay careful attention: either you help now, or you’ll regret it. I don’t give a damn about who you are or who you work for, I will take you down."

  Santucchi’s eyes glinted like two dark diamonds. "You’d better leave before I have you thrown out. Storm, I don’t know anything, and I never will as far as you’re concerned."

  "Okay, my friend, if you want me for an enemy, you got it.” I pushed away from the desk, keeping my right hand low so he wouldn’t see the Sig in my right fist.

  The hood leaned forward across the desk, his face mottled in anger; his words came from between clenched teeth. "You think you’re the first asshole to threaten me? I’ve buried everyone who’s come after me, and I’ll bury you if you don’t walk away and stay away. And Storm, I ain’t your friend."

  I heard the oversized bodyguard slip behind me. "Tell the schmuck behind me, if he takes one more step I will blow you apart.” I raised the Sig and pointed at his face.

  Santucchi looked from my gun to my face. He nodded and waved off the guy. He spread his arms, his palms facing the ceiling. "Listen to me Storm, stay away from this."

  I knew he wasn’t telling me to stay away from him; he was telling me stay to away from everything. "Is that a no, you won’t give me any info?"

  "That’s a no. Get the fuck out!"

  I holstered my piece and turned. The bodyguard stepped back and glared down at me as I walked by. I paused at the door to look over my shoulder. "We’ll talk again."

  Chapter 17

  I took a walk through Fantasyland East. Broadway is like no other street in the world: A smorgasbord of the physical and visceral where anything can be found, including plays, food, gadgets, booze, ice cream, clothing, jewelry, movies, records, fifteen and twenty dollar versions of the world’s most expensive watches—anything. Along with the goods, came an assortment of humanity that would have made P.T. Barnum proud.

  The blend of cultures on the Great White Way, served to remind me of the times I’d spent here with Scotty. But uppermost in my thoughts as I headed downtown was the knowledge his body was now a small pile of ashes. And what was it I was doing to find out who killed Scotty besides walking the streets aimlessly?

  Less than I should be, I told myself. I pushed aside my dark emotions an
d rethought the train of events at the Looker’s Club. Something in the scenario didn’t play true, but I couldn’t pinpoint what. I had no doubt Santucchi knew every detail of what had happened earlier; his blatant warning for me to stay out of it served to strengthen my understanding. There had been something obscure, even weird, in our talk—almost as if he were saying one thing and I was hearing another.

  Such was the last thought hanging in my mind when I reached Forty-second and turned west. Three quarters of the way between Tenth and Eleventh, I stepped into Save Them.

  There were a few people working the phones and two were making changes to the milk carton wall. I noticed my hooker had been moved to top row status.

  Samantha Collins was talking to a man who stood a half foot taller than her, looked to be in his mid-thirties and was dressed in tan slacks and a pale green short sleeve sport shirt. When she saw me, she said something to the man and came over to me. “Gabriel, this is unexpected.”

  “I was in the neighborhood. There are a few things I’d like to talk to you about, if you have the time.”

  “Of course, just give me a moment.” Returning to the man, she spoke a few words and shook his hand. Then she motioned me toward her private office.

  The small office was austere: One wall was decorated with old grey file cabinets. Another held push-pined pictures of kids from four to eighteen. The wall behind her desk was as windowless as the rest. Centered upon it was her degree from Hunter College of Social Work, and at least a dozen awards given to Save Them, and to Samantha Collins. Samantha was devoted to Save Them

  “I’m afraid we ran out of coffee about a half hour ago,” she began as she sat down.

  I sat across from her in an old hardback chair. “I’m fine, thank you. Have you spoken with Paul Gottlieb yet? Did he give you any information about Scotty’s will?”

  “He called yesterday to say he would be sending out a letter. He didn’t go into details. I….” She paused, her forehead furrowed by three distinct grooves. “If it had been anyone other than Scotty, I would have been concerned. But he wouldn’t let anything happen to us.”