I shot him a withering look.
“Did you hear what I just said? The woman in the truck? She’s dead,” I repeated, wondering if he’d understood.
“Yeah, well. It’s probably because she didn’t pay her Mob tax or something,” Hogan retorted, and sat down behind his desk.
I watched as he pulled a doughnut and a small cup of coffee from a paper sack.
“Mob tax? What’s that?” I asked, still feeling half asleep.
Hogan gazed at me as though I were a total moron.
“Don’t you know anything, Porter? And you call yourself a New Yorker,” he scoffed, and bit into his doughnut. “Haven’t you ever noticed those big, black limos that pull up to the piers like clockwork every month?”
“Yes,” I replied, though I’d never given it much thought.
“Well, what do you think they’re doing out here? You should try using your powers of observation next time you spot one. You’ll notice a couple of guys get out with briefcases. It’s not legal briefs they’ve got stuffed in there. Those jerks are mopes with the Jersey Mob. They’re collecting their monthly fees from the shipping companies,” he explained.
“And what do the shipping companies get in return?” I naively questioned.
Hogan took a sip of coffee and wiped a stray drip off his chin.
“In return, the mob lets them stay open and continue to do business,” he revealed. “It’s kickback money. More than nine thousand people work at this port. What do you think would happen if the longshoremen suddenly decided to go out on strike?”
“Big trouble,” I responded.
“Big, big trouble, all right,” he agreed. “Car dealers wouldn’t receive their brand-new automobiles, clothes wouldn’t reach department stores, and there’d be a nasty jolt to the economy. It’s just the nature of the beast. That’s how this port is run. Could be your friend refused to play ball. In which case, the fire was probably set to teach anyone thinking of doing the same thing a lesson.”
“Or perhaps it was something else,” I proposed.
“And what would that be?” Hogan gamely questioned.
“Remember that anonymous phone call I received the other day? The one about Bitsy von Falken owning a shahtoosh shawl?” I reminded him.
“Yeah, and I told you that one shawl on a dead socialite does not a case make,” he responded, quoting himself verbatim.
Score one for Hogan, I thought. At least the guy still had his memory.
“Well, the woman that died in the fire last night is the very same person that discovered her body. But that’s not all. She also found Bitsy von Falken wrapped in a shawl,” I revealed.
“And how do you know that?” he asked.
“Because the woman, Magda, told me,” I responded, doling out this miniscule scrap of information.
“Right. And then, of course, she was killed. So naturally, it must all be tied together. I think you’ve got shahtoosh on the brain,” Hogan said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. “Besides, we already talked about this, and you said that the cops didn’t find anything.”
“That’s true. They didn’t,” I replied, knowing that the shawl was safely at the forensics lab.
I had no intention of tipping my hand until I was certain the wool was shahtoosh and had some idea of exactly what I was up against.
“So then, the police must have it now,” Hogan said.
“No. Magda found the shawl and kept it,” I lied. “Perhaps her murder is somehow connected.”
“To a shawl? Earth to Grasshopper. Come on, Porter. What do you think is going on? Wait. I’ve got it. Another socialite was filled with shahtoosh envy and decided to whack von Falken for it. Unfortunately, she forgot to take the shawl along with her and your lunch lady got her hands on it. That’s why your friend was killed, right?” Hogan shook his head in amazement. “Sometimes I wonder how you ever made it to special agent in the first place. Talk about your crazy conspiracy theories. That’s the worst crock of shit I’ve heard yet.”
“Of course, I don’t believe that the killer was another socialite,” I began to explain.
But Hogan cut me off, holding up a single finger.
“That’s enough. And don’t you dare think of prying into this thing, either. You know damn well about our budget cuts. We’re not going to waste one red cent over some goddamn shawl,” Hogan said, laying down the law. “The rule is that only high-priority cases are to be taken.”
Naturally. Probably because too much money was spent by bigwigs flying to the Caribbean to sip drinks by the pool while discussing the endangered species trade. Meanwhile, hardworking agents were relegated to Kumbaya courses, like Hand-holding 101, and brainwashed into not making waves.
“And I suppose that murder doesn’t qualify as high priority,” I sniped.
“That’s right. Especially when it’s not within our jurisdiction,” Hogan promptly shot back. “If your friend ever found any such shawl, then it probably burned up in that fire along with her. In which case, the problem has been solved, and good riddance.”
Hogan rubbed his hands together as if having cleverly disposed of an annoying inconvenience. That simple gesture totally infuriated me. I’d be damned if I’d let Magda’s death be written off that easily. However, I also knew enough to keep my mouth shut for now.
No question, Hogan would have my butt should he learn the shawl not only existed but had already been shipped off to the lab. I could only hope that it proved to be shahtoosh and had the makings of a good case. Otherwise, I’d be sent shuffling off to Buffalo in no time flat.
Hogan finished his doughnut and slapped his palms on his desk as if having come to a decision.
“You look like hell, Porter. Take the rest of the day off as sick leave and go home,” he ordered.
I had no problem with that. But first I went into my office and checked for any messages. There were five on my answering machine. Each was from Santou wanting to know where I’d disappeared to last night, and if everything was all right. I must have forgotten to turn my cell phone on after retrieving it from the recharger. I called him now, not wanting to put it off a minute longer.
“I swear, you’re going to make me crazy, chere,” Jake swore. “You’ve got to remember to keep that damn thing turned on.”
“I’m sorry. My mind was elsewhere,” I apologized, guilty as charged. “I had a call from Magda during dinner last night. She didn’t feel safe in her truck, but refused to go to a shelter or let me come by and pick her up.”
“This is the same woman that I saw on TV in that field where von Falken was found?” Santou clarified.
“Yes. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Especially after Terri’s phone call in the middle of the night.”
“Come on, Rach. Don’t tell me that you let his psychic mumbo jumbo get to you,” Jake lightly scoffed. “You know that’s nothing more than a bunch of hogwash.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, as a legion of goose bumps broke out on my arms. “Both he and Magda had a premonition, and they proved to be right. There was a fire at the port last night. Magda’s truck was burned down.”
“And Magda?” Jake asked.
“She was inside,” I said, my voice cracking with emotion.
“I’m sorry, chere. But the fire could have been due to anything. Really. An accident, or even a robbery gone wrong,” he said consolingly.
It was as if Santou already knew what I was thinking.
“Don’t jump to conclusions until you’ve learned more,” he warned. “One other thing. Do me a favor and be careful out there. We’ve been intercepting vague threats concerning Newark Airport. Try to be extra vigilant and keep an eye out for anyone that’s the least bit suspicious.”
Terrific. Like I hadn’t heard that one before. It would include just about everyone I knew, along with Hogan, who ranked high on my list.
“You can stop worrying for the moment. I’m being sent home for the day. Apparently Hogan wants me to get my beauty sleep,”
I told him.
“He’s right, chere. I hear that smugglers are more likely to cooperate with good-looking agents than ones that are haggard and tired,” he joked.
Santou should only have known the lengths to which I would go to get someone to twist and turn.
“Oh, by the way, Gerda offered to take care of Spam while we’re at work. That’s where you’ll find him now,” Jake added, before I hung up.
I grabbed my things and began the drive home. Magda’s unworn coat lay on the backseat like a waiting shroud. It chided me by its mere presence.
She wouldn’t have been killed if you hadn’t taken the shawl, but simply left her alone. It’s your fault that the woman is dead, it seemed to say.
I wondered if that were true. Had my interference set a chain of events into motion? It’s possible, her death had been meant as a warning. Or had Magda known more than she dared to admit? In any case, it was yet another episode that fueled my ever-expanding collection of demons.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I finally managed to connect all the dots. Part of that involved giving Magda a proper send-off. I phoned Nunzio as I sped along the turnpike.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” he good-naturedly inquired.
What a surprise. The man was actually beginning to thaw. A former boss of mine once said that I was like having flat feet: You eventually got used to me.
“I wanted to ask if I could have Magda’s remains, whenever the police are through with them,” I replied.
“What in hell for?” Nunzio inquired, seemingly puzzled by my request.
“She doesn’t have any family over here. In fact, I don’t believe she had any family at all. I want to make sure that she gets a proper burial,” I explained.
“Exactly how well did you know this woman?” Nunzio asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice.
“Not well at all. She was just a casual acquaintance that I spoke to whenever I bought coffee,” I responded, playing down any connection.
“Uh-huh. First she calls you, instead of the police. And now you want to get hold of her bones. If you ask me, something doesn’t add up,” he declared.
Any trust that had been building between us instantly vanished.
“I don’t know what else to tell you,” I said, not in the mood to quibble.
“Why do you care what happens to her remains, anyway?” Nunzio continued, refusing to let it go.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be all alone? Think about it, Nunzio. The woman worked all day in the cold, and then slept on the floor of her truck, for chrissakes. She didn’t have a home. I think the least she deserves is to have someone care about where her bones are laid to rest,” I retorted, surprised by my own strong feelings. “So, will I be able to get her remains or not?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” Nunzio formally responded, having morphed back into his old official self.
“By the way, have you discovered anything more about the fire last night?” I inquired, deciding it was worth a shot.
“You’re asking about a case that’s under active investigation. I’m unable to comment at this time,” Nunzio responded, effectively shutting me out.
I hung up feeling more frustrated than ever. There had to be a way to put the jigsaw puzzle together, in spite of Hogan and Nunzio’s maddening roadblocks.
Faced with a long stretch of tank farms and chemical plants, my mind began to wander. It’s strange how some things in life change while others remain the same. For consistency, nothing beats larceny, greed, murder, and the endangered-species trade.
I flashed back to those shiny black limos that parked at the piers, sleek as well-fed seals, and immediately knew who might be able to provide me with answers.
I bullied my SUV into a small space in the parking garage and quickly rushed home. I didn’t stop to get Spam, but dashed into my apartment, took a fast shower, and then picked up the phone. I punched in a memorized combo of numbers, only to be caught by surprise as strange voice answered the line.
“Vincent Bertucci’s residence,” announced a woman in a nasal tone.
“Can I speak to him, please?” I inquired, wondering who it might be.
I’d never seen Vinnie with a woman in all the time that I’d known him. So why was a female suddenly living at his house?
“He’s not here at the moment. This is his answering service. Can I take a message for you?” she responded robotically.
I left my number, feeling both annoyed and perplexed at this turn of events. Since when did a Mob guy hire an answering service to screen his phone calls? If something was wrong, I wanted to know about it.
I’d met Vinnie ten years ago, but it seemed as if I’d known him all my life. We’d bonded in New Orleans, where we were both proverbial fish out of water. Bertucci had been a bodyguard for a smuggler, while I was a rookie agent with U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Since then, he’d worked his way up the ranks of the Travatelli crime family, while my career had remained on a lateral path. We’d come to an understanding during that time. He didn’t deal in the endangered-species trade, and I kept my nose out of the construction and sanitation businesses.
Vinnie had put himself on the line for me over a year ago. He’d literally saved my butt in Hawaii, while nearly losing his own. For that, I still owed him big-time.
It only took a few minutes before Vinnie returned my call.
“Hey, New Yawk. What’s up?” he asked, in his native drawl.
“I could ask the same of you. What’s with the answering service?” I inquired.
“Oh, just the usual business,” came his noncommittal response.
Though I remained curious, I knew better than to ask any more questions over the phone.
“So did you call just to shoot the breeze, or is there something on your mind?” he queried.
I could nearly hear him drumming his perfectly manicured fingernails straight through the wire.
“A little of both. Have you got time to meet me for coffee?”
“Yeah, I think I can squeeze you in. But we’ll have to do it pronto. My morning’s pretty booked up and so is my afternoon,” Bertucci responded.
Well, wasn’t he the social gadfly.
“Do you want me to come to Queens?” I asked, more curious than ever as to what was going on.
“Nah. I’m already here in the city. Let’s meet in Little Italy. You know the spot,” he instructed.
I’d gotten used to Vinnie’s fixation with verbal shorthand. He always figured any phone line that he used was being tapped. I didn’t want to tell him the Feds were swamped with more important matters these days. Not only would it hurt his feelings, but it might spur him on to other illegal activities in order to regain their attention. He believed that being on their watch list was a lot like celebrities and the tabloids: Once the press, or the Feds, lost interest, your career was pretty well shot.
“I’ll see you there in half an hour. How’s that?” I asked.
“I’ll be waiting with bells and whistles on,” he wisecracked.
Little Italy, as it had once been, barely existed anymore. Most of the area was now a front for the tourist trade. This was due to Chinatown, which had steadily spread and taken over, much like an ink stain.
Gone were the old Italian grandmothers who had cooked up a storm in the cramped kitchens along Mulberry Street. The restaurants were now all Chinese owned and operated, though they still retained their paesano names. The waiters remained Italian, in a ruse to draw in unsuspecting customers.
I parked near the corner of Elizabeth and Grand. That was one of the perks of being in law enforcement. I could park wherever I pleased. This was official business and I wasn’t about to pay for taxis and subways out of my own pocket.
I placed my handy dandy parking placard in the window and then walked to a small café that was more or less a “social club.” It was one of the few spots in the neighborhood that the Chinese didn’t dare set f
oot in. I entered to find Vinnie already seated and sipping an espresso with his back to the wall. If I hadn’t known it was Bertucci, I’d have thought I was meeting an Italian movie star.
Gone were the polyester leisure suits, as well as the pointy alligator shoes. Vinnie was decked out in an expensive Brioni number. A camel hair overcoat was draped over his shoulders, and a fedora perched jauntily on his head. His open-collar shirt revealed a perma-tan that would have sent Terri dashing back to the nearest salon in envy.
Bertucci still weighed in at three hundred pounds; however, my eyes were drawn more to his twenty-four-karat-gold chain than to his heft. Dangling from it was a medallion of St. Anthony the size of a small spare tire. Vinnie barely lifted a finger before an ancient waiter came shuffling over.
“Give the lady a cappuccino and bring us a plate of pastries,” he ordered, without my having to ask.
I looked at him and shook my head, utterly impressed.
“I know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but what’s going on? You look terrific,” I said, feeling a bit envious.
I was more aware than ever of my discount-clothing fetish. Maybe Terri was right. Perhaps it was time that I threw caution to the wind and blew some money on a more stylish wardrobe.
“I’ve got a new sideline going,” Vinnie revealed, his lips curling up in a satisfied smile.
“You mean in addition to all your other business ventures?” I joked.
“What can I say? I’m a true-blue American entrepreneur,” Vinnie replied, looking like a well-cured side of beef.
“So, are you going to tell me what it is? Or do I have to guess?” I asked, as the waiter placed a platter of biscotti, Napoleons, tiramisu, zeppoli, and cannoli before us.
“This one? He’s the new Johnny Depp,” the waiter proudly said in a thick Sicilian accent. The old man smiled broadly, revealing blank spaces where there should have been teeth.
“Johnny Depp, my ass. I’m more of a Bobby DeNiro,” Vinnie protested.
I saw him slip the waiter a twenty.
“I’m not even going to try and figure it out. What’s going on?” I asked, not having the slightest idea what either of them was talking about.
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