Murder Has Consequences

by Giammatteo, Giacomo

  Tom pulled down Ben’s underwear, exposing his ass cheeks, then took out his knife and began carving. When he finished he taped a note to the stall door.

  This will give those cops something to think about.

  CHAPTER 14

  Where Is Marty Ferris?

  Wilmington, Delaware

  Frankie tore out of the morgue parking lot, and called Nicky. It rang five or six times before going to voicemail. “Nicky, where are you? We need to talk. Now!”

  A minute later, Frankie’s phone rang. He grabbed it off the seat. “Nicky?”

  “Bugs, what’s going on? I heard about Bobby—”

  “Where did you go after you left Teddy’s?”

  A long pause followed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I went to play cards.”

  “I went to the shop that night; you weren’t there. I went to your house, too.”

  “Yeah, well I’m sure these questions came from Borelli, and it’s none of his business.”

  “This is a murder investigation; it sure as hell is his business.”

  Nicky paused and Frankie could almost feel those hawk eyes staring him down. “Let me put it straighter, Bugs. It’s none of your business.”

  “If that’s the way you want it—fine. But you better get your alibi straight because Borelli will be looking hard at both of us for this.”

  “Did you do it?”

  “Are you fucking crazy? Don’t try and turn that shit on me.”

  “I’m hanging up. You’re obviously not in the mood to talk. Sorry again about your dad. You know we all liked him.” The line went dead.

  Frankie felt like tromping on the gas and racing down the street, but he knew better. As bad a driver as he was, he’d probably have a goddamn accident. Besides, maybe Borelli was right. Maybe Frankie did kill Bobby after all. Until the report came in he wouldn’t know shit. He did hit him with a fucking mug full of beer.

  “Please don’t let that be it, God. I don’t need Donna hating me any more than she does now.”

  Frankie fielded a lot of questions when he got home, brushing them aside by telling them it was police business, but soon he got Donna upstairs, alone.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “I’ve got to be with Mom.”

  “There are plenty of people with Mom. I need answers.”

  “About what?”

  “Finances. You said you were broke, but Bobby was talking to me about buying a bar and said he had big deals coming up. You know anything about that?”

  She brushed it off. “He always talked like that. All his life he wanted to own a bar. I think he figured it was the lazy man’s way out. Own a bar and the money rolls in without working, just have to stand around and talk to people. Stupid fuck.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “He’s my husband. I’ll talk about him any way I like.”

  “Yeah, well there was more to this than that. I can tell. Besides, Borelli said there was a checking account in Bobby’s name with a decent amount of money in it? You know about that?”

  “Of course I knew,” she said, but she said it too fast. Donna never was a good liar. “I forget how much he…we had in there, but it was pretty good.”

  Frankie nodded. “Borelli said there was almost three grand in there.”

  “I know. We’ve been saving for a vacation.”

  Frankie took her chin and lifted it, staring at her with all the compassion he could manage. “Donna, there was fifty grand in there—fifty—not three.”

  He saw the gaping eyes, the dropped jaw. This was no act.

  “What?” she said.

  “Where did he get it?” Frankie asked.

  Donna’s mind must have been racing. “Where did he get that kind of money?” Then, as if she just thought of it. “What’s going to happen to it? They can’t take it can they?”

  “If they can prove he got it illegally, they can.”

  She got off the bed, covering her face with her hands. “You’ve got to stop them. That’s our money. They can’t take it.”

  “Where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know where he got it, but if it’s in our bank account, it’s ours. They can’t take it.”

  Frankie pushed her back to the bed. “Don’t start spending it, because sure as shit that money’s going to be confiscated.” He hugged her, and held her for a moment. “I’m going down to be with Mom. Do you want me to send someone up here to be with you?”

  She seemed to get a grip on herself. “No, I’ll be all right. Go on.”

  Frankie took the steps to the living room slowly. He didn’t want to face his mother’s questions or her sorrow. He just wanted to be back in Brooklyn working a case with Lou.

  His mother was sitting on the sofa. She had stopped crying, at least for the moment, and was surrounded by relatives offering comfort. Frankie walked up and took her hand. “You want to go for a walk, Mom?”

  Her eyes lit up. She stood with a strong resolve. “A walk might do me good.”

  About halfway up the block, Frankie started talking. “You know how sorry I am about Dad. I wish I would have talked to him more the last few years.”

  “He was proud of you. He always bragged about you.”

  Frankie choked back a tear. She was saying all of the things he didn’t want to hear. Why didn’t she tell him what a prick his father had been and how he hated Frankie’s guts.

  “Was he a nice guy, Mom? I mean—”

  “He was a gentleman, Frankie. A fine gentleman.”

  “You always fought. Why did you even marry him?”

  She was silent for a long while. Silent as they passed the Brezlors’ house, and the Gibsons’, and the Schmidts’. Then she spoke, but in a very low voice. “Because I was carrying a baby in my stomach.”

  That shocked Frankie, but not as much as his mother probably thought it would. Things were different in her time. “Mom, that’s not so bad. Remember, I had to get married too.”

  She squeezed his hand and cried. “But the baby wasn’t his, and he knew. He knew, and he still married me.”

  “What?” Frankie didn’t mean to sound so shocked, but he realized it too late.

  His mother seemed to stumble on the sidewalk. “That’s right. Donna is not his child.”

  Frankie’s throat tightened. He felt a sharp pain in his gut. He didn’t want to ask this question, but he had to. “And me?”

  His mother stopped, hand going to her heart. Her tears came easily now. “I don’t know. I wish I did.” She fell into his arms and let her tears fly.

  Frankie hugged her and patted her back, but inside he seethed. He’d heard rumors when he was a kid, but had refused to think they were true. When he met Alex last year, it was the first time he let himself believe the rumors might be true, but he still didn’t know. Not for sure.

  No wonder his father questioned her when she went out and demanded to know where she’d been. No wonder he treated Donna and Frankie like shit. All of these years Frankie had looked at his mother as a saint for putting up with his father. Now he realized neither one of them was a saint.

  Goddamnit, Mom, why did you tell me this?

  ***

  Jimmy Borelli went through the checklist of people he had talked to so far. Only a few remained to be interviewed—the two women with Tim and Russ; Nicky Fusco; and Marty Ferris. Of all of them, Marty was the one Jimmy wanted to talk to the most. He left a message on Marty’s answering machine but got no response. His work said they hadn’t seen him. So where is Marty? Is he dead? Jimmy lit a smoke and savored the first drag, the best one. There’s only one person I know of who wants Marty Ferris dead—and that’s Nicky Fusco.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sister Thomas’s Rules

  Wilmington, Delaware

  They held Bobby’s wake two days later at Maldonaddo’s. Most of the people there showed up to offer condolences; Jimmy Borelli came armed with questions. He got there early, paid his respects to Frankie and Donna, then sat
in the back, taking notes on who was and wasn’t in attendance. Prominent on the “wasn’t” list was Nicky Fusco, though Borelli didn’t expect him to come, not with Donna ranting and telling anyone who would listen that Nicky was the one who killed her husband. Jimmy made note of it, but took the accusation with a grain of salt; Donna had nothing but suspicions to fuel her rage.

  Jimmy got up when Jack McDermott came in and slid down the pew so Jack could sit next to him. “Hey, Jack,” he whispered. “How’s it going?”

  Jack gave him a skewed look. He had hung out with Jimmy’s older brother, but he and Jimmy had never been friends. “All right, I guess. Came to pay respect.”

  “Yeah, some shit, huh? First Frankie’s father, now Bobby. Bad luck, bad timing. All of it.”

  “I guess so,” Jack said, but kept his focus on the front.

  Borelli leaned close to him. “Jack, you seen Marty Ferris around?”

  “I hardly know Marty.”

  “Is that so?” Borelli sat silent for a moment. Donna was crying something terrible up near the casket. When she slowed down Borelli again leaned in close. “I only asked because I heard you were talking to him at Teddy’s the night Bobby got killed.”

  Jack shot him a look to kill. “Just two drunks talking, that’s all.”

  “What about you, Jack? I know you wanted Bobby dead.”

  Jack’s face twisted into a crooked smile. He leaned close to Borelli and whispered, “I wanted Campisi dead more than anybody, except maybe Fusco, but you’re gonna have to get new suspects, because neither one of us did it.” Jack poked Borelli’s chest with his finger. “And maybe you should keep your questions to the proper place. This ain’t it.”

  Borelli must have realized he wasn’t getting any more from Jack, so he moved to the next pew. He asked a few more questions of people, but every time he did he noticed Frankie fuming from his spot at the front.

  About midway through the viewing, Frankie motioned for Borelli to join him outside. Jimmy got up and followed. Frankie had a smoke lit by the time Jimmy got out the front door.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you, Borelli?” Frankie pushed him, taking him off balance.

  Jimmy held his hands up, but he took a stance as if he was ready to fight. “Go easy, Donovan.”

  “Fuck your easy. This is the second time you’ve interfered with us burying our dead. I’m sick of it.” Frankie tossed his cigarette into the grass and got real close. “I don’t know how you were raised but in my family we respect the dead, and the ones grieving. Now get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass.”

  “I’ll go, Frankie, but the questions won’t go away. I got a case to solve.”

  “Solve it another time.”

  “All right. I’m leaving.” Jimmy walked down the sidewalk, got into his car and left, Frankie watching him the whole time.

  ***

  The wake didn’t last long; not many people showed up for Bobby. When it was over everyone went back to Frankie’s mother’s house for the second time in as many days. Nicky and Angela dropped off food, but didn’t stay because of Donna, and there were trays of food from Mrs. Robino’s, the restaurant that had served more funerals, wakes and weddings than all the priests at St. Anthony’s and St. Elizabeth’s combined. Lining the dining room table were trays of baked ziti, ravioli, manicotti, meatballs, sausage, and pastries that were just this side of the devil himself. In the kitchen was more wine than beer, and more than a few bottles of limoncello, the magic elixir that served happiness and sorrow in the same frozen glass.

  Frankie got his mother and Donna situated and fed, then headed to the kitchen where he downed two glasses of limoncello before ducking out to the back porch with a glass of wine. He punched Nicky’s number into the cell phone and waited for him to pick up.

  “Hello.”

  “Nicky, it’s Bugs.”

  There was a slight pause. “How’s it going, Bugs?”

  Frankie lit a smoke, sucked on it, then filled Nicky in. “Listen, the reason I’m calling is Borelli. He’s pressing hard on Bobby, but also on Marty Ferris. You know anything about where he is, or why he’s missing?”

  “I barely know Marty.”

  “Word is you talked to him at the bar the other night.”

  “I did, but we didn’t say much before I left.”

  “So what does ‘didn’t say much’ consist of?”

  Nicky didn’t speak for a moment, then, “I told him Rosa didn’t want him around anymore. Something like that.”

  “Don’t tell Borelli you said that. He’d take it the wrong way.”

  “I know the drill.”

  “I know you know the drill. I’m telling you because Borelli seems intent on pinning this on you or me.”

  “He got any reason? Did you do it?”

  “You are nuts, aren’t you? I’m a cop. Of course I didn’t kill him.”

  “As if cops don’t kill people. I heard what you said, Bugs, but no shit this time. Did you kill him or not?”

  “Fuck no, I didn’t kill him. I already told you.”

  “Okay. Then we’ve got to go with Sister Thomas’ rules. Since you didn’t kill Bobby, and I didn’t, we’ve got to figure out who did.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  “Probably so,” Nicky said, “but figuring out who did it and proving who did it are two different things, so let’s go through the questions. Who had motive? Who wanted him dead? Or, just as importantly, who wants you framed?”

  “There was money in a bank account. Fifty grand.”

  “There’s the ticket. He didn’t get fifty grand from nowhere. I’ll check with Doggs and the guys, but Bobby didn’t win it gambling. He wasn’t that good or that lucky.”

  “Tell me more about Sister Thomas’ rules,” Frankie said. “I must have missed class those days.”

  “Grab a couple of Angie’s meatball sandwiches and meet me at the park. We’ll talk.”

  Frankie laughed. “The meatballs are gone, believe it or not.”

  “Then meet me at Casapulla’s, and we’ll grab a couple of subs. Make it fast, though. They’re getting ready to close.”

  “You know I can’t refuse a sub from Casapulla’s. See you there.”

  ***

  I knew Bugs couldn’t refuse a sub from Casapulla’s, not after being gone for so long. There were a lot of places that made subs in this country, but none even came close to the ones in Wilmington.

  I headed down Union Street, across the Elsemere Bridge and turned right, then took a quick left and another right onto Casapulla Avenue. I laughed every time I went to Casapulla’s; where else was a street named after a sub shop. I parked in the lot across the street and waited five minutes before Bugs pulled into the lot next to me. He already looked five years older, and he’d only been home a few days. I got out of the car and walked toward him, a smile on my face.

  “I wish I could be at the house with you.”

  Bugs made a face I knew from thirty years ago, a no-fucking-way type face, and shook his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to be there. Not with Donna and Mom both in full gear.”

  I laughed with him, knowing he was right. Donna had taken a dislike to me, probably rubbed off from being married to Bobby all these years, but in any case, it wouldn’t be good for me to be there. “How’s your mom holding up?”

  “Better than I thought. But shit, you won’t believe…” He brushed his hand in the air. “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. It’s nothing,” he said, and quickly changed the subject. “What are you getting?”

  “Same as always. Large Italian, sweet and hot, with extra provolone.”

  Bugs laughed. “You never change. That’s what I’m putting in your coffin, all of your favorite foods.”

  “No way you’ll be around to put anything in my coffin, you half-Mick bastard.”

  Bugs winced. When he didn’t come back with some smart-ass dago comment, I knew something was wrong, but I let
it go. “What about you? Italian with extra hot peppers and no pickles?”

  He burst into laughter. “I guess I’m predictable too.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” I said, and grabbed his arm. “Let’s get the subs. I’m starved.”

  We walked into Casapulla’s with hunger in our stomachs and in our eyes. The smell of the place nearly knocked me out it was so good. There was nothing except Mamma Rosa’s meatballs and sauce that smelled as good as a great sub shop.

  Paula greeted us from her position behind the counter. “Hey, Nicky.” She’d been working here so long she seemed like a fixture.

  “How’s it going, Paula?”

  “Same as always,” she said, then stretched to get a closer look at Bugs. “Jesus Christ, tell me that ain’t Bugs Donovan.”

  “The one and only,” I said. Frankie flashed his famous smile, the one he kept in reserve just for the girls. Paula wasn’t a girl anymore—she was a little older than we were—and married, but she looked great, with her dark hair tied back in a bun, and her arms muscular from running the meat slicer every day for almost thirty years. I thought about Paula a lot, always did like her. In fact, if I didn’t have Angie, she’d be the one I’d go after, if for no other reason than I’d like to smell her when she came home from the sub shop. There’d be nothing better than making love when your wife smelled like an Italian sub.

  “It’s been a long time,” Bugs said.

  “Long time?” Paula said. “Been ten, maybe twelve years. Where the hell you been?”