GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5)

by Lawrence de Maria

  “How’s Scar?” Wayne asked. “Brought home any zebras lately?”

  Wayne, who lives in my neighborhood, has occasionally cat sat for the feral feline who has made my house the base of his operations. Scar, named after his many wounds, may be the largest tomcat I’ve ever seen.

  “He’s fine. Slowing down some. Sticks to wildebeests.”

  “I just ran into Alice,” Wayne said. “Gave her a couple of tickets to a play we’re putting on Sunday afternoon.”

  Wayne was fond of Alice, especially since after returning from Europe she temporarily moved into my place while waiting for the lease to run out for the people subletting her Manhattan apartment. She had taken over much of the Scar-watching reins. I tried to smile. I knew that most of the theater’s open dates were on Sundays, with afternoons usually reserved for productions that wouldn’t attract an audience of lifers on Devil’s Island.

  “Really? What’s it called?”

  “Dying Is Wasted on Corpses,” he said. “We classify it as experimental dramaturgy.”

  He saw the look on my face.

  “I know. But some of our funding from the city is tied to the development of local talent. A certain number of our productions must showcase them.”

  “Even if they are untalented?”

  “What was the last thing you wrote, wise guy?”

  “Does a shopping list count?”

  “Alice is looking forward to Sunday.”

  “I think she may have used up all her Alton Rhode torture credits for the month with this rally,” I said. “I’m inclined to pass.”

  Wayne finished his beer and smiled.

  “Did I ask you how Scar was? Oh, yes, I think I did. I hear Alice will be moving back into her apartment soon.”

  “Blackmail? Don’t you think I can find someone else to watch him?”

  “I prefer catmail. Alton. I’ll save you two good seats. Should be a couple of thousands of them. I’m fairly certain we won’t sell out.”

  I was debating whether to sneak another hot dog when I heard the band strike up some Souza. As I walked back to my row, I saw Alice deep in conversation with Michael Sullivan and a woman. I was momentarily startled, since the woman had auburn hair. It brought back memories of another night at the same ball park with Sullivan and his late wife, also a redhead. They all turned at my approach.

  Sullivan looked better than he had in months. His eyes appeared brighter and his skin had a healthier glow. Someone had told me they spotted him working out at a local gym. We shook hands and he introduced me to the woman. Her name was Linda Cronin. She was smaller and less stunning than Sharon Sullivan had been, but that was no knock on her. Sharon had been a Rockette. Linda was merely very good-looking. She had a pleasant, cultured voice and I could sense that Alice liked her. Which meant I probably would.

  “Mike wants to know if we want to grab a bite after this,” Alice said.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I was just telling them how tough it was to get you here tonight.” Alice said.

  “It probably got easier when you mentioned the free beer,” Sullivan said.

  “Don’t you like politics, Alton?” Linda asked.

  “Politics, yes. Most politicians, no.”

  “Does that include Mike?”

  “He’s the best District Attorney we’ve had since Hector was a pup.”

  “What a nice thing to say.”

  “Faint praise, Linda,” Sullivan said. “He’s marking me on a curve.”

  I turned to Alice.

  “Just saw Wayne Miller.,” I said. “Death Is Wasted on Corpses? You do know the Yankees and the Red Sox are on TV Sunday, don’t you?”

  “I’ve got your six, honeybun,” Alice said with the smile that cannot be denied. “It’s an 8 P.M. game. We’ll be home in plenty of time.”

  She leaned up and kissed me. Goner. Then she turned to continue chatting with Linda Cronin.

  “Any progress on Panetta, Mike?”

  The murder of the Medal of Honor winner had roiled the borough as few homicides in recent memory. Staten Island takes its war heroes seriously. At one time, those that were home-grown had ferries named after them. That has since changed. Now ultra-patriotic politicians, most of whom had been no closer to combat than fighting over the last hors d'oeuvre at a cocktail party, name the boats after themselves. But when it was revealed that Panetta, who only recently moved to the borough, was brutally slain in his home, there was genuine outrage, particularly among veterans groups.

  “We have DNA evidence,” Sullivan said, “but no suspects. It appears to be what everyone assumes. A home invasion.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Looks that way. The guy lived simply and apparently didn’t have much, so it’s hard to tell what might be missing, other than some cash and maybe a watch.”

  “Hell of a way for a war hero to wind up.”

  “I’ll say. We’re pulling out all the stops on this one, but I have to tell you it doesn’t look good.”

  “The hairs don’t help?”

  “All we know is that they came from an African-American male. But that doesn’t help us unless we can find someone to match them with.”

  “No one noticed a black man in that neighborhood?”

  Staten Island has become more racially tolerant in recent years, but Panetta lived in a neighborhood where blacks were virtually nonexistent.

  “Nobody even noticed a white man,” Sullivan said. “Anyone. Coming or going. The M.E. put the time of death around the dinner hour. It was nasty out, too. Not many people roaming around outside.”

  “The cause of death was strangulation. A bit unusual for a home invasion and robbery, isn’t it? Didn’t Panetta put up any kind of fight?”

  “Apparently not. We think the killer knocked him out with one punch after he opened the door. His jaw was broken. Then the bastard finished him off with what was handy. In this case, a cord from a lamp.”

  CHAPTER 2 - SPEECHES

  The high school band had been playing a medley of service anthems, each one greeted by applause from the crowd, which had thickened to several thousand. The final anthem was the Marine Corps Hymn and it predictably received the loudest ovation. During the medley, the honor guard, made up of men and women from all the services, had been marching toward second base. As opposed to the pot-bellied veterans usually trotted out for such local rallies, the military personnel in this honor guard all looked young and trim. We all grabbed seats.

  “I don’t think they got those kids from the local V.F.W. hall, Mike” I said.

  “Yorke has a lot of pull. War hero and all. I’m surprised he went with a high school band. I guess the London Philharmonic was booked.”

  “Beer and hot dogs? No caviar?”

  “It’s a ball park. If he’d staged this in the Ritz, it would be Cristal and Beluga.”

  I was getting the impression that Sullivan didn’t much like Nathanial Yorke. After all, his name had been floated as a potential candidate for the office Yorke was seeking. I don’t like working on assumptions, so I asked him.

  “I wouldn’t want the job. I’m not even sure I want to run for District Attorney again in two years.”

  He left unsaid the reason. It had taken the combined efforts of several people, me included, and the bending of a few laws, to keep Sullivan from resigning after his wife’s mysterious death.

  The music stopped and the speeches began. After the usual palaver from several local pols, the outgoing borough president moved toward the microphone. In addition to everything else, he was an atrociously bad speaker, given to grammatical lapses and frequent malapropisms. I began to tune everything out, until he was introduced as “Dr. Mario Blovardi.”

  I looked at Sullivan.

  “Doctor?”

  There was a look of genuine pleasure on his face.

  “I didn’t know he was a physician,” Linda Cronin said.

  “He’s not,” Mike said.

  “Then, he has
a Ph.D.?”

  “Nope.”

  “He never went to college,” I said. “He made his money selling used cars in New Jersey before he moved to Staten Island and made the easy transition to politics.”

  “Then why are they calling him a doctor, if he’s not?”

  “He really doesn’t rate the title,” Sullivan said. “But the Governor just appointed him to a Board of Trustees and he wants people to call him that.”

  “You must be joking,” I said. “Unless you’re talking about the state prison farm system.”

  Sullivan’s grin grew wider.

  “Actually, the Board of Trustees of the State University of New York.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  “I know, I know,” Sullivan said. “It makes no sense. But Blovardi isn’t as dumb as he sounds. I happen to know he even believes in evolution, despite the fact that his physical appearance argues against natural selection.”

  “You two sound like a pair of snobs,” Alice said. “Educational elitists. It’s unbecoming, especially from someone with peanut shells all over his shirt.” For emphasis, she brushed them off me. “He’ll probably make more sense than some of those blowhards in Albany with five advanced degrees to their name.”

  As usual, she had a point. Alice shared my jaundiced view of academia, a trait I found particularly admirable in a college professor. I worried her candor on the subject would be a hindrance to her career, which was taking off. She had already received some feelers from the Ivies.

  “Sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I’d be willing to pay admission to see that tough little conniver run amok at a board meeting full of academic poseurs.”

  “Maybe he’d be able to do something about the spiraling sticker prices on state college tuition,” Alice said. It was one of her pet peeves. “At one time, kids who qualified got a free ride in state schools. Now, most have to go into hock, just like private school students. It’s a damn disgrace.”

  “I thought the money from the state lottery funded education in New York,” Linda said. “It’s billions and billions.”

  The three of us looked at her.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Doctor” Blovardi’s speech, meant to introduce his successor, was blessedly short and noticeably lukewarm. I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Finally, Nathaniel Yorke took the microphone.

  He was a good-looking guy in his 60’s, tall with wavy silver hair and a confident mien. An excellent speaker, he started off by acknowledging everyone standing near him, and then thanked the crowd for coming out “on such a beautiful New York evening, when I’m sure you’d rather be doing something, anything, else.” He introduced his wife, a handsome woman with dark hair who looked years his junior. Then he made his campaign pitch, promising a “clean sweep” and a “new beginning,” which would be followed by “startling initiatives” on education, transportation and crime. Yorke didn’t mention that those were three areas over which the city’s five borough presidents had little control ever since the new City Charter stripped them of much of their real power. Undeterred, he noted that while Staten Island students had some of the highest test scores in the city “we can do better.” He expressed disbelief, which seemed genuine, of the latest toll hike on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to $13.

  Then he brought up the Panetta murder.

  “As a Vietnam veteran myself and the proud recipient of the Silver Star,” Yorke intoned, “I mourn the loss of a man who won our nation’s highest honor in the war we both fought. If elected as your Borough President, I will do everything in my power to ensure that the perpetrator of this evil deed is brought to justice and punished.”

  “Well, that must be a comfort, Mike,” I said.

  “God help us.”

  I ate more peanuts. Finally, Yorke got to a topic where a borough president did have some clout: real estate development.

  “Under my administration,” Yorke said, “St. George will no longer be known as just a place where the ferry stops. It will be a destination for not only New Yorkers, but for the people who visit our great city.”

  He then went on to outline the “Renaissance Harbor, the vast redevelopment of the entire North Shore waterfront that represents the biggest private investment — almost $2 billion — since the construction of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge almost a half century ago.”

  Yorke noted that the plan had the backing of the Mayor and City Council, which, he stated, promised to repair crumbling infrastructure and provide transportation improvements to mitigate its effects on the North Shore.

  “The centerpieces of the project, developed by Atlantic partners, a consortium of American and European companies,” he said, “are a 350,000-square-foot mall containing 120 designer outlet stores, a 145,000-square-foot hotel with 320 rooms and a 700-foot-high Ferris wheel designed to carry 1,600 riders at one time in 40 massive capsules. The so-called St. George Wheel will be almost twice the size as the famous London Eye. There will be a high-speed monorail linking the ferry terminal and adjacent bus depot to Brooklyn over the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, constructed by Deutsch Eisenbahn, a German company that is the leader in the field.”

  Yorke spread his arms.

  “In two years, this lovely ball park will be surrounded by some of the most magnificent edifices on the face of the earth. Finally, Staten Island will be getting the recognition and wealth that it has long deserved.”

  There was long, and apparently sincere, applause. I nudged Sullivan in the ribs.

  “What do you think, Mike?”

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s not all smoke and mirrors this time. It will all come down to whether they can get the unions on board.”

  “Why wouldn’t they go along? It will mean plenty of jobs.”

  “Atlantic Partners and the Germans want to keep union participation to less than 25 percent. The unions want 100 percent. That’s quite a gap.”

  Finally, the speeches were over. Yorke walked into the stands and began working the crowd. He soon spotted Sullivan and came over to us, followed on his heels by a short, stocky man holding a clipboard.

  “Mike, thanks for coming,” Yorke said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line by mentioning the Panetta murder. I know your office is doing everything possible.”

  “No problem, Nat. I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.”

  I got the impression Yorke wasn’t crazy about the “Nat.”

  Sullivan introduced the three of us. Close up, I could see that Yorke sported a tan deeper than could have been accounted for by the local weather, which had only warmed up recently. It set his silver mane off nicely and was undoubtedly the result of time spent in warmer climes. Yorke, who didn’t introduce the man who was with him, was polite and said all the right things. I did think he spent a little too much time smiling at Alice, but I decided not to hold that against him. She made a lot of men smile. Some even pawed the ground and whinnied. His wife joined our little group. Her name was Teresa and close up didn’t appear as young as I’d originally thought. Probably mid-40’s. She had a nice figure, a pleasant manner and an accent that said Boston.

  So, after another round of introductions, I said, “Boston?”

  “Close enough. Wellesley Hills. Just west of Boston.”

  I turned to her husband.

  “But you’re not.”

  “No,” Yorke said, “I’m a New Yorker, through and through. Upstate. Near Oswego.”

  “What brought you to Staten Island, Mr. Yorke?” Alice asked.

  “Please call me Nathaniel, Alice” he replied. “And to answer your question, it was a combination of things. I believe this borough has great potential, especially after the closure of the landfill. Staten Island’s proximity to Manhattan and its position at the nexus of the Northeast Corridor ensure its prosperity. It has beautiful neighborhoods and a vibrant populace. And, of course, there is one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Naked ambition.
” Yorke laughed. At least I think it was a laugh. “Terry and I haven’t even unpacked our carpetbags.”

  It was a good line, meant to disarm, and it did.

  “Nathaniel, we’re running late.” It was the man behind Yorke. “We’ve got to move this along. There are a lot of people anxious to meet you.”

  It was true. The line of well-wishers was building up in the aisle. Yorke looked at him.

  “OK, Claude, hold your water. I’ll be right with you.”

  He turned back to us and smiled.

  “I don’t run my campaign. My staff does. Terry and I are going out for a bite to eat after this. Would you care to join us?” Yorke was looking at Mike Sullivan but quickly added, “All four of you, of course.”

  “Nathaniel, you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow.” It was Yorke’s staffer. “I’m sure these nice people would understand.”

  “Claude, all the more reason we need a little break tonight. What do you say, Mike?” He looked at me. “Mr. Rhode?”

  We agreed to all meet at La Strada, a reliable Italian restaurant on New Dorp Lane in New Dorp, at 8 P.M.

  “I’ll make a reservation,” the staffer said. He didn’t look happy.

  “Make it for six people, Claude,” Teresa Yorke said. “Take the night off. You’ve earned it.”

  Now the man really looked unhappy. He looked at the candidate.

  “We could discuss some matters over dinner, Nathaniel,” he said.

  “I think you should really take the night off,” Teresa Yorke said, with an edge to her voice. “Isn’t that right, Nathaniel?”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea, Claude. The campaign can wait a day. Go on home. Come on, Terry, once more into the breach.”

  He and his wife left and started shaking hands. The staffer glared at us as they walked away and then followed. Alice and Linda Cronin began chatting. I looked at Sullivan.

  “Who was the flunky with Yorke, Mike? I don’t think I’ve seen him around.”

  “He’s no flunky. That was Claude Bowles. Campaign manager.”

  “He from upstate, too?”

  “Yeah. Been with Yorke since the beginning, when he was an alderman in the city of Oswego. Claude’s a pain in this ass but he knows his stuff. Yorke has never lost an election.”