90 Church

by Dean Unkefer

  Exactly on time, Leonard, the Frenchman, brought the suitcase of heroin into the park. Then Louis Turko came into the park from the other side, carrying a paper shopping bag. Five minutes later Turko came out of the park carrying a suitcase. Flowers immediately arrested him and seized the ten kilos of heroin.

  But something went wrong. Leonard, who by now was supposed to be carrying the paper bag of Turko’s money, left the park empty-handed. He was arrested anyway. Flowers was dumbfounded over the missing money. His agents, now assisted by the police, converged on the park, searching it foot-by-foot, emptying every trashcan and looking into every conceivable place that could conceal a bag of money. It was impossible that anyone could have stolen it and left the park unnoticed with all the surveillance and cameras. Although there were no government funds involved, Flowers was desperate to find answers.

  Finally he ordered all the agents to return to the office to watch surveillance films of the entrances. It took over an hour to develop the films so whoever had the mob’s money was long gone. Leonard and Turko refused to make any statements and were held in isolation. The surprise and speculation grew to such a point that finally everyone just stared at each other in silence.

  Everyone was under suspicion – everyone except, of course, Michael and Dewey, who were under guard in a government car more than a block away during the exchange. I had seen all of this before. I knew to expect the unexpected. Dewey tormented Flowers with stupid questions: “Andy, what do you think really happened?” and “From your experience in dealing with the Mafia, Andy, do you think he really carried the money in, in the first place?” and “Andy, maybe the Frenchman still has the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on him. Do you want me to search him again? Did you check all of his pockets?”

  Flowers’ head jerks got worse.

  Blanker gave the case back to Michael. Michael didn’t like conspiracy cases because they took too much time to prove in court, and so he let the Frenchman go. Turko, however had a previous arrest and now had been arrested with ten kilos of heroin, a major felony with a minimum of twenty years in jail.

  Things got much worse. Judge Carl Wineburg handled Louis Turko’s arraignment. The same judge that Michael accused of leaking information to Turko that got Danny Cupp killed and who everyone thought, except me, got Jerry Ramirez killed too. Flowers was furious. This demonstrated to me, at least, that Flowers was trying to bring justice to the case. But Michael told Judge Wineburg that there was a vendetta by the government against Turko from a previous case and that he would personally vouch for Turko’s character. Turko paid a five-thousand-dollar bond and walked out of the courtroom.

  Flowers was livid and began calling his friends at the Justice Department to investigate everyone, including the judge. He said bail should have been one million dollars because of the crime and prior record. Five thousand dollars was outrageous. He accused Michael of being part of the Mafia and ruining the case. For once I understood. I knew what the low bail meant. Like Michael always says, “When you’re guilty you believe the worst in people.” Turko had lost two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Mafia money on top of the fifty thousand he had lost in the Charles Stuckey case. The low bail was all the proof the Mafia needed to convince them that Turko had turned into a rat for 90 Church. The next morning when Turko was picking up the morning paper he was shot and killed. By the end of the week there were four more murders of Mafia thugs as they tried to imagine who else besides Turko was “cooperating” with 90 Church.

  While the Italians were busy killing themselves, we sat studying the surveillance films hour after hour, watching people come and go on a sunny afternoon – men, women, children, pets, strollers with babies. Michael just sat in the corner of the conference room, smoking a cigarette, not saying a word. Then, as I watched the film for at least the fifth time, I saw it! I lost my breath; I couldn’t stop my reflexes that now were going to get me killed. I looked across the room to Dewey and he was staring back at me. It was too late; he knew that I knew. Fear gripped me like electric shock. Dewey was going to kill me! The agents could watch the films for the next ten years and not solve the mystery of who took the money out of the park – because it was Dewey! Up on the bright screen, people coming and going, was a young boy riding a bicycle wearing a baseball cap, with a knapsack. His face showed to the camera only a second, but it was enough, it was Dwight … Dwight Paris Junior!

  COUNTRY BOYS

  Now I had a solid case against Dewey and Michael and they knew it. I could never survive against them, but I was not going to go to jail for the rest of my life for murdering a pimp and giving a few bags of smack to a strung-out friend. No one talked to me in the office. It was as if I didn’t exist.

  A few days later, I found a plain white envelope in my mailbox at the office. The return address was handwritten: Albert Hall – the apartment I had lived in with other new agents during our training in Washington, more than three years ago. The enclosed note read: 2:30 today. First and 67th and was signed Steve. Agent Steve Doll worked in the Atlanta office. He, Jerry Ramirez, Del Ridley, and I had all roomed together at Albert Hall during our training.

  I met Steve on the corner. He hadn’t changed a bit, but he hardly recognized me. He just stood for a minute, shocked at my appearance. “Pick a place that’s private,” he said. “I know what’s going on in the Bureau. Nothing is safe anymore. Wherever you want to go is fine.”

  We walked about two blocks and I chose a cheap hotel at random. We walked in, registered, and went upstairs to a room. He was carrying a briefcase and set it on the bed. Inside was a tape recorder; he took it out and plugged it in. I asked if he was here on a case, and he answered, “No one knows I’m here.”

  He played the tape. Between the thick Southern accents of two men talking to a third and the background bar-room noise, I could hardly understand what they were saying. But I heard them talking to the third guy, who they called Caldwell. He was very angry with the other two and kept screaming at them, “Why? Why?”

  The two voices argued, “We don’t give a shit if he was a Fed. You were the one who told us about him. You said your spic Frenchman told you he was coming.”

  Caldwell responded, “I didn’t tell you to kill him. No one was to be killed. The drug deal was off because we had to put the stuff off on someone else. Now those people are dead, too, because of you assholes. I told you to take the money, not to shoot him. You just don’t shoot a federal agent.”

  Steve then turned the tape off. I looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

  Then he explained: “The two hillbilly brothers on the tape killed Jerry Ramirez. Jerry was working with Jack Connors and me to make a buy on a dealer in Atlanta. We were following up on the lead you gave us from the Henri Manasso case. You told us that Caldwell was Manasso’s lawyer. We brought in a local informant to help Jerry get close to Caldwell. When everything went bad, Jack and I thought the informant had killed Jerry. When we tried to arrest him he pulled a gun on us – so we had to shoot him. We were wrong. The lawyer, Caldwell, set up the drug deal with the hillbillies as the gophers, but there were never any drugs. When he couldn’t get the dope, Caldwell set up a heist. He told the hillbillies to rip Jerry off; Jerry had ten thousand dollars for the buy, but when Jerry wouldn’t give up the money they shot him in the head, and then we killed the informant who we thought did it. Manasso told Caldwell that Jerry was an agent; but somebody had to tell Manasso. Who?”

  I turned cold with fear and shame. “I don’t get it.” I forced myself to look at the pictures that he had spread out on the bed. “These guys aren’t dealers, they’re too country. Do you know who the hillbillies are? Do you even know their names?”

  Steve pointed to the file, “Sure we do. They’re the Weary brothers. Everyone knows who they are and where they live.”

  I leafed through the file then said, “How could you make such a mistake? Weren’t you there when they got the informant?”

  Steve looked down. �
�I was there; I put a bullet in him, too. He was Connors’s informant, a bad guy, but he didn’t kill Jerry. We even found the gun in his car, but Caldwell put it there. He set it all up. He’s smart, and he sent the hillbillies to rob Jerry. When Jerry got shot, Caldwell knew there would be heat so he told us that the informant was double-crossing us and had shot Jerry, then he planted the gun. We believed him at first. Things got even better for Caldwell when we killed the informant. Case closed.”

  “You don’t have any proof,” I said. “The tapes are not enough, and you know an informant can turn on you in a second. Besides, Flowers’ Task Force already investigated it. Flowers and the Justice Department did a big report; they said it was the informant who shot Jerry. There was no mention of Caldwell or the two Weary brothers. I read it. Why bring this to me? Take the tape to them; they’re the government, they’re supposed to find Jerry’s killer.”

  Steve shook his head. “You, Michael Giovanni, Dewey Paris and the others at 90 Church are heroes. All you’ve done – the undercover work, the Mafia – everyone respects you, the cops, ATF, Secret Service, everyone. You’re the greatest weapon this country has against drugs and crime.”

  “That’s a nice speech,” I said, “but I don’t feel like a hero and you have no proof of who killed Jerry.”

  He dug in his briefcase. “You’re too busy on the street to even understand what’s going on around you. Here’s your proof!”

  He handed me a piece of paper. It was a copy of a Justice Department memo from Flowers to Caldwell. The subject line read: Grant of Immunity. It protected Caldwell. He would not be prosecuted for the death of Agent Jerry Ramirez, or any other crimes he had committed up until the date of the memo. The immunity was conditional upon making felony cases and testifying against a list of agents. The list included everyone connected to the Manasso case: Steve, Connors, Michael, Dewey, and me. There was also a special paragraph that said Caldwell could work on future cases and be paid for his information.

  Steve stared at me. “You just don’t get it. This is going on all over. They’re willing to let Jerry’s killer walk, just to get us. Just think of what else they’re doing! Where the fuck is the justice in all of this? Where the fuck is the right and wrong?”

  Again Steve reached into his briefcase, pulled out a file, and opened it up. There were more photographs of the two Weary brothers and an old broken-down gas station and trailer with a Budweiser sign. “This is where they hang out. It’s in Helen, Georgia, outside of Atlanta. Nice, huh? They are really bad guys. Once they raped a local girl and held her captive for days while her husband looked for her. They did everything to her, finally killing her. Everyone knew they did it, but Caldwell got them off. They’re animals. We let these people walk around free after they killed Jerry? I can’t stand it!”

  I looked at him and said, “Why me?”

  Steve packed his briefcase, and handed me the file. “Someone has got to go down and stop these hillbillies before they do any more damage. Someone has got to get Caldwell. But Flowers is protecting him. Find out who at 90 Church told Manasso. It’s the first place to start. Everyone thinks it was Flowers, but I’m not so sure. Flowers is bad, but not that bad. There is no reason for him to tell Caldwell or Manasso about Jerry.”

  I stared at the memo. My hands were trembling but I managed to say, “They’re assholes. They can’t touch me. I’ll wipe my ass with this memo.”

  Steve could see how nervous I was. “I quit three days ago and took those files, but I’ll help you. These people are easy to find. All the information is in there. I have to go now. I have to go home. I’m looking for a job.”

  When I got back to the office it was buzzing with news. The Task Force was preparing secret indictments against at least six agents. Pike called me aside and said, “All they want is either you or Michael, or Dewey, and all of this is over. If Michael gives you up, he won’t do any time. You know he’s sick.”

  “Michael is stand-up,” I said. “He’ll never give me up. How about the others?”

  Pike pulled on his tie and shook his head. “They may have something on Connors; I don’t know what, something about the Ramirez killing, leaking information to a lawyer in Atlanta named Caldwell.”

  It was all coming to a head now; them or me. Flowers was smarter than I thought and he had a lot of perseverance. I was tired and couldn’t fight any more. I had to save myself. I had to turn on Dewey and Michael and now with the missing money from the United Nations Park I had a solid case against them. I had to take Flowers’ immunity deal.

  LOST FRIENDS

  Rather than go back to the office for the rest of the afternoon I went to see Charles DeWitt. He hadn’t been playing at Count Basie’s and I was concerned about him. DeWitt was dying of cancer, and the heroin helped him deal with the pain. I wanted to know for certain that he hadn’t told Flowers anything more.

  DeWitt lived on the top floor of a broken-down tenement. I knocked on his door but there was no answer. It was unlocked so I walked into a dark room. I could see the silhouette of a light hanging from the ceiling and I pulled the chain. In the middle of the room was a bed. DeWitt was under a white sheet, and the sheet was covered with hundreds of black dots. I heard a strange rustling noise and the black dots scrambled off the sheet and covered the floor completely. They were huge roaches – thousands of them. At the end of the sheet, I could see DeWitt’s kind face. He opened his eyes and gave me a weak smile.

  I knelt down and asked him if the Task Force had been to see him. He nodded his head yes. I asked him what they wanted and he said, “The usual; they asked me if you helped me with drugs. I said no. They never mentioned that Dewey fellow or Michael, only you.”

  He closed his eyes as if he couldn’t be bothered. He was dying. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a bundle of nickel bags of heroin and placed it on the bed next to him. He looked up at me and said, “Thank you, thank you for saving my life. I can’t leave here ever again.” I was about to go when he motioned and pointed across the room. He pointed to his worn but shiny trumpet. He wanted me to bring it to him. I picked it up and set it by his side, like a Teddy Bear. I turned out the light and walked out the door.

  Next I went to see Tony Degaglia. I called his mother’s apartment but there was no answer. I went anyway, thinking she’d be back by the time I got there and could tell me where to find him. When I arrived, Tony’s mother was sitting in a rocking chair on the sidewalk. She had been evicted. Tony had taken every dime she had to buy heroin. All of her clothes, furniture, dishes, everything she owned was piled next to her on the street. The family album with Tony’s photos was on her lap. She recognized me but didn’t say a word. She was probably seventy-five years old, with nowhere to go and no money. I asked her where I could find Tony. She said he was living in the basement of an abandoned building on the corner of 186th and the Grand Concourse. I counted out five hundred dollars of government money and put it in her hand. I had to close her hand on the money or it would have fallen in the street. As I walked away I turned and looked again into her face. She looked back at me with a blank stare.

  That night I found Tony where she said I would. There was at least four feet of water covering the basement floor. A small catwalk, barely above the water, led to a wooden platform supported by boxes and tables that were already under the water. Tony was lying there in a drug-induced stupor on a mattress on the platform, only about six inches above the surface of the water. A single light bulb hanging from a wire burned overhead. Tony recognized me and greeted me with a hesitant smile, like DeWitt had given me. “I didn’t mean to betray you,” he said. “I wanted to stand up. I won’t give them anything from now on.” His arms were covered with needle marks and sores. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No, Tony, I’m not here to kill you.” I reached in my pocket and gave him a bundle of nickel bags of heroin. “This will get you through the night. I’m going to come back tomorrow and put you in rehab. I know that you’re going to stand up.�
�

  He grabbed my hand. “You’re the best friend I ever had in my life. Thank you. Do you forgive me for what I have done to you?”

  I knelt down on my knees, hugged him, and said, “Yes, I forgive you, you are better than me. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  Everything was piling up too fast, I needed a break. After a considerable effort I found a bar on the East Side that I had never been in before. It was small, dark and cozy with normal customers who paid taxes and worked nine-to-five at an honest job. I tried to talk to them, to relax, but soon I was alone with my own terrifying thoughts and downed at least eight vodkas.

  I started at the beginning, remembering my first case, Elliott Goldstein, the advertising executive that I turned into a “major drug dealer.” The image of Elliott hanging on the wall with his bloody fingers burned in my mind. I knew where all these thoughts were taking me and that liquor and cocaine were the only way out.

  * * *

  By the time I got home it was eleven o’clock and pouring rain so hard I could barely see through it. I was stone drunk and needed a line of coke. As I parked the car, I looked up and saw there was a light on in my apartment. I had been calling Daisy once a week. I tried to tell her what was happening to me, but only in a homogenized, cleaned-up version. The same type of lies that I had been telling her from the beginning. I hadn’t seen her in months. The light was a welcome sight. She opened the door for me with a book in her hand. There was no warm smile. “Christ, every time you come home you’re drunk. Nothing changes. Who’s dead now?”