THE BARREL MURDER - a Detective Joe Petrosino case (based on true events)

by MICHAEL ZAROCOSTAS

  “Wait! What’s that? Take that one out.”

  Schmittberger pulled out a wrinkled ticket and squinted at it.

  Petrosino leaned closer over his shoulder. “What’s it say?”

  “Hold the reins, Joe, let me see.”

  The ticket had a number at the top, 27696. Beneath that was a weakly printed name in cursive letters: B. Frye. The address beneath that was completely faded except for the words, Bowery and New York.

  “What’s the fine print say in the middle?”

  “It says, ‘Contract for pledging goods for one year or less, 1903-”

  “That’s a pawn ticket!” Petrosino snatched the ticket. “It’s rubberstamped April 14, 1903, the same day the barrel was found. Max, I thought you already went through these things before? Why didn’t you spot this?”

  “Hey, don’t forget your place again, Joe. What do you think, that I’ve been hiding it from you? I would’ve tossed it if that was the case, you stupid Dago.”

  “I didn’t think that.” Petrosino heard the doubt in his voice and began to wonder again.

  “Wipe that look off your face. I’m tired of it. I’ve had plenty other leads to run down before they got cold, and I haven’t gotten two nights’ sleep in a week. Besides, you can’t read that chicken scratch there either. It could be a ticket for anything.”

  Petrosino held the ticket up to the buzzing light. “I can read it, all right. It says, ‘HC Watch, 1.00.’ Hunting case watch, one dollar. And it’s made out to, what is that name? ‘Johni.’ No last name.” Petrosino held the ticket in front of Max’s handsome moustache. “See it now, boss? It’s not as plain as the Hebrew nose on your face, but you can decipher it. If the Chief and the DA knew about this, your head would be falling into a basket.”

  Schmittberger stared at him. “I oughtta lick you, you wiseacre.”

  “Not today you can’t. You’re still on suspension, remember, Inspector? If my ass ends up in a sling, I’d have to fill out a report. Wouldn’t I, sir?”

  Schmittberger smiled. “You’ve got cast iron balls, you sly little mutt. Of course I missed it the first time ‘cause I don’t think like a greasy Italian thief. What’s the other side say?”

  Petrosino flipped the pawn ticket over and skimmed the contract terms. “Says if the ticket’s returned within one year from the pledge date, the goods can be redeemed on payment of the pawn plus twenty-five percent interest. Except, of course, the broker’s not responsible for fires or burglary.”

  “With our luck on this case, there’ll be a fire and a burglary before we get there.” Schmittberger pocketed the pawn ticket. “Get your derby. We’re off to the Bowery.”

  Chapter 28

  A statuette of San Nicola of Bari sat in the barred window surrounded by pistols, jewelry boxes, silver hair combs, engagement rings, pearl-handled looking glasses, a shiny violin, driving goggles, and an Oriental bust of ersatz jade. The bearded San Nicola was painted dark as a Moor, and he wore a bishop’s mitre and a red and gold mantle. In his left hand was a scepter and in his right were three gold spheres, the familiar symbol for a pawn shop. But the stencil on the glass had a dressed-up title: Frye’s Collateral Loan Office, 276-278 Bowery.

  Outside the entrance, Schmittberger pointed. “Lookie there, Joe, St. Nicholas is waving us inside to hock all we got. Patron saint of New York.”

  “And pawnshops . . . and thieves.”

  “That’s our dear old city.”

  A bell on the door jingled. They walked into the dusty collection of glass display cases holding every imaginable cast-off that a desperate person could sell for a few miserable pieces of silver. The place smelled of sweat and shame. Petrosino glanced around the room full of souvenirs and noticed a well-dressed man looking at a jeweled broach the size of an egg in his hands. He looked as if he were agonizing over something, mumbling to himself. Petrosino walked up to the main counter where another man who looked like the proprietor stood. His fat moon face fell in folds over his collar. He pretended not to see Petrosino and Schmittberger and locked his cash drawer while dumbly scratching at dandruff in his hair. A few dozen wall clocks and cuckoos ticked frantically away on the wall behind him.

  “You Frye?” Petrosino asked.

  “In the flesh. Who’d like to know?”

  “I’m Detective Petrosino and that’s my boss.” Petrosino thumbed toward Schmittberger who was bending over a case stocked full of pocket watches. “We’re investigating a murder.”

  “Morning to ya.” Frye leaned on elbows fat as baked hams, yawned. “Say, ain’t it a little early in the year fer a donation? To yer fine benevolent society, The Pequod Club?”

  The wealthy gentleman tripped over himself and out the jingling door.

  Frye watched the gentleman exit with disgust. “That fish ain’t never hocked nuttin’ before. Would’ve given him five bucks for his mudder’s brooch, too.”

  “I bet you would’ve given him five bucks for his ‘mudder,’ too,” Schmittberger said from his crouch, wiping dust from a glass case and squinting at watches.

  Petrosino said to Frye, “You’re supposed to keep a broker’s book with the name and address of your customers. Get it out.”

  Frye’s eyes shifted in their fat slits. He stepped over to the drawers and leaned down, pulling out a large book. “Got a transaction in mind, Your Honor, or should I just pluck one outta me bum?”

  “Crack wise again and you’ll be gumming your cakes, pork chop. Look up April 14, ticket number 2-7-6-9-6.”

  Frye licked his sausage fingers, flipped through his book. “Here ‘tis. That ticket was issued to ‘Johni’ on April 14 for receipt of a gold filled watch. Gave a buck for it.”

  “Swell. What’s the fellow’s full name and address?”

  “All I have here is ‘Johni’ from Elizabeth Street.”

  “You didn’t ask for a last name or a street number, you lousy fucking fence?”

  “No, officer. Must’ve slipped me mind.”

  “Open the drawers there, let me see them.” Petrosino watched Frye’s hands shake as he opened all the drawers. The one that had been locked was full of money. “Why don’t you keep a package of photographs in a drawer so you can see whether a customer is a known thief from the Rogues Gallery? Don’t you know you’re supposed to do that, unless you’re a fence?”

  Frye shrugged. “I ain’t in the question-askin’ business. If I was to do yer job for ye, then I oughtta get a salary from the Police Department. Which I ain’t got yet.”

  Petrosino smacked Frye’s face hard. “I warned you once, wise ass. What did this ‘Johni’ look like? Was he a big man? And what time of day did he come in?”

  “Take it easy now. Me mind’s all foggy.” Frye turned back to the wall of clocks, hemming to himself. “He came around four o’clock, I recall. That’s when I wind the clocks.”

  “It’s that one!” Schmittberger shouted. “That’s our watch, Joe.”

  Petrosino was champing at the bit, but he said coolly to Frye, “Take that watch out of the case for us. Quick.”

  Frye waddled over to the case where Schmittberger was pointing. Frye brought out the watch and laid it on a frayed velvet cloth. There it was, a gold filled hunting case pocket watch with a locomotive engraving. Petrosino picked it up and examined the surface to be sure. Curved scratches, like those from a fingernail, were all over the neck and next to a screw of the stem winding arrangement. This was Benedetto Madonnia’s watch. Petrosino heard all of the wall clocks ticking and tocking, and his heart felt as if it were beating just as fast.

  He wrapped the watch in the cloth and pocketed it. “We got ‘em, Max.”

  “An Ox in the electric chair, that’ll be a first.” Schmittberger grinned and shook hands with Petrosino. “Good work, Joe.”

  Petrosino said to Frye, “Lock up shop or find someone else to run it.”

  “What the devil fer?”

  “You’ll see. You’re coming with us.”

  As they dragged Frye o
ut, a plump female version of Frye wobbled in, shrieking, “The pawn’s one dollar and twenty-five cent! That’s still our watch. Ye rooked us, ye dirty thieves!”

  “We have to keep it as evidence,” Petrosino said, “but we’ll gladly return your husband.”

  Schmittberger stayed behind. He was still on suspension and wanted to avoid being seen at The Tombs. Petrosino walked the pawnbroker alone into the detention center and across the Bridge of Sighs as prison keepers unlocked gates. The light faded with each step, and Frye’s face was as pale and lonely as a single light bulb in a mineshaft. Petrosino told him not to speak. Shadows of silent men were crammed in the cells, their eyes glowing like tin coins behind the bars. Turnkeys escorted them around the last corner where they saw Sandy Piper, The Whale himself. When The Whale came down the corridor, the iron gates on the prison cells rattled in his enormous wake.

  “Boy oh boy, it’s himself, the Detective. How are ya, sir?” The Whale had a mouthful of peanuts, and empty shells clung to his uniform. He shook Petrosino’s hand.

  Petrosino said, “I need this man to view The Ox.”

  “Oh, I’ve been keeping an eye on him for you. On all them thieves, like you-know-who said. They’re nay going nowhere’s with me on the job, Detective, sir.”

  Petrosino nodded, anxious to get on with it. They moved into another corridor and stopped in front of a dark communal cell. Petrosino grabbed Frye’s shoulders, pointing him in The Ox’s direction. The pawnbroker’s eyes grew big and white as egg shells, staring at the sweaty mass of Tomasso “The Ox” Petto, who was doing push-ups on the filthy floor.

  “Did you get a good look?”

  Frye nodded his three chins and pulled away from Petrosino like an intractable dray horse. They went into a suffocatingly small interrogation room, and Petrosino shut the door behind them.

  “Well, was that him who pawned the watch?”

  The pawnbroker wheezed from the excitement and walking. “I tell ye truly, I don’t remember what the feller looked like.” He wiped trails of sweat from his ballooning cheeks and huffed in desperation, “I swear on me mudder’s grave. It’s no use keepin’ me here.”

  Petrosino thought that the pawnbroker was telling the truth and asked The Whale to escort Frye out and bring The Ox into the interrogation room.

  “I’ve got brass knuckles if you want ‘em,” The Whale said.

  “No need,” Petrosino said, “I’ve got the goods on him now.”

  “Aye.” The Whale nodded like an obedient child. “Shame we can’t work him over.”

  The Whale went out and returned with two guards pulling Tomasso Petto at the end of his chains. Petto loped over to a bench, looking sideways at the guards and Petrosino, keeping his rubbery lips clenched. He looked as massive as ever, and his head wounds we’re healing. But there was a veil of rage over his eyes. Threads snaked out of the edges of his wrinkled tan suit and blood crusted brown on his shirt collar.

  Petrosino said in Italian, “That witness saw you, Petto. Wanna know where?”

  Petto’s eyes moved between Petrosino and The Whale. Petto’s bulky shoulders shrugged.

  “That was your pawnbroker,” Petrosino said. “He saw you on April 14th, the day Benedetto was found in the barrel. Said you pawned a gold watch for a buck.”

  “He’s a lying piece of shit.”

  Petrosino pulled his chair up to Petto’s bench and sat face-to-face with The Ox. He could feel the guards and The Whale draw into a tight circle around them. Petto’s eyes were as cold as the “hawk” wind off the Hudson River, and Petrosino peered into them. “I know more than you think, Petto. I know you were told to make an example of Benedetto.”

  Petto licked his lips in silence.

  “They said to keep at the job and shut his mouth. The Fox gave the order.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “And now we have the pawn ticket from Frye’s. You pawned a dead man’s watch the same day he was killed. The day you made an example of him. You’re done for.”

  “I never pawned any watch.”

  “Then how do you explain the pawn ticket we found on you?”

  Petto’s eyes blinked, and his chains rattled as he squirmed on the bench. “Oh that thing? Yeah, I had a pawn ticket. A friend gave it to me for safekeeping.”

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  “Johni.”

  “How long have you known this Johni?”

  “Three years. He’s a countryman of mine, a friend from Corleone.”

  Petrosino could see the wheels turning in Petto’s eyes. “Go on. And how did you come to get this Johni’s pawn ticket?”

  “He gave it to me for safekeeping. We stayed together on April 13th. He slept in my room with me in Williamsburg. We had breakfast in the morning, then he gave me the ticket.”

  “What’s Johni’s last name?”

  Petto searched for an answer. “Don’t know.”

  “You say you’ve known Johni for years, you stayed in the same rooms, but you don’t know his last name? You’re a bad liar even for an ugly ape.”

  “Don’t call me that. I don’t like that.”

  “Where’s Johni live?”

  “I saw the watch on Johni four months ago,” Petto said. “He must’ve pawned it himself.”

  Petrosino yanked Petto’s moustache. “Stop buying time. What’s Johni’s address?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What’s the address in Williamsburg where you stayed with him?”

  “My room? That’s 324-326 South Street.”

  “That’s the address you gave when you were booked. We ran it down, and it’s a vacant lot. Tell me another lie.”

  “No, what did I say 324? I mean 2-3-4.”

  “We’ve got a witness, the pawn ticket, and the watch from the man you killed. There’s only one thing you can do to save yourself. Tell me who gave the order and why. Tell me the truth. Was a cop involved? The Fox?”

  Petto’s chains rustled on the bench, and he looked past Petrosino and around the circle of faces above the both of them. He stared at The Whale and frowned. “I told you the truth, Parsley. Johni gave me the ticket. To keep for him. I’ve never seen that pawnbroker or that dead bastard Madonnia in my whole life.”

  “I don’t believe you, you hairy cunt-faced ape.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Does The Clutch Hand know you were fucking his girl, Marie, before you moved on to her sister, Federica?” Petrosino watched Petto flush red. “You know, Petto, I think maybe Federica knows about you and this killing. How would you like it if I gave her a nice fuck for you? How does she like it? Let me guess: in the culo?”

  “A Sicilian would never threaten a man’s woman. And you wouldn’t talk to me like that if I wasn’t in chains, Parsley.” Petto’s stare made Petrosino feel as if cold fingers gripped his heart. “How are your ribs? I felt them snap like twigs. When I get out, I’ll finish the job.”

  “Tough guy.” Petrosino drew out Madonnia’s necklace and dangled the crucifix in front of Petto. “You took Benedetto’s watch after you killed him. Why didn’t you take this, too? It was on the throat you slashed. You left it behind because you’re afraid of Hell, aren’t you?”

  “Fuck you, Parsley.” Petto spat in Petrosino’s face.

  Petrosino wiped the spit from his nose and punched Petto in the mouth. Two of Petto’s teeth speared through his lip, and blood leaked down his chin. Petto laughed and licked his red lips. Petrosino’s knuckles stung, but he ignored the pain.

  “When they strap you in Old Sparky,” Petrosino whispered, “you don’t die right away. The smell is the worst part. You can smell your own hair burning. Just like you’re in Hell.”

  “FUCK OFF!” Petto jumped from the bench, tearing at his chains. The Whale and the two guards jabbed Petto with clubs and muscled him to the door as he screamed, “I’ll have a witness who’ll testify to an alibi for me! You’ll see, Parsley! I’ll be back on the street, and you’l
l be the one who gets fucked in the ass!”

  III

  THE SYNDICATE BOSS

  Petrosino (left) escorting Tomasso “The Ox” Petto (second from left) to the Tombs with two other detectives

  Chapter 29

  Petrosino set the pawn ticket and Madonnia’s gold pocket watch on Chief Inspector McClusky’s desk. McClusky looked at the items as if they were junk from an ash barrel.

  “That pawn ticket was on Petto when we pinched him, Chief,” Petrosino explained.

  “So?”

  “So we’ve got him dead to rights. The ticket was given for that watch. He sold it on the Bowery. Madonnia’s son identified that watch. Madonnia had it when he came to New York.”

  “So Petto had the victim’s watch.” McClusky grunted. “You find anything else?”

  “I’d like to talk to Petto’s gal. Her name’s Federica. Petto got hinky when I threatened to squeeze her. That’s the only loose end.” Petrosino held back on the ciphers. He and Schmittberger had discussed it again after the trip to the Tombs, and they didn’t want anyone else to know about the notes until they tumbled out who “The Fox” was. And Petrosino suspected McClusky even as the Chief smirked at him now.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about chasing one of these gangster’s whores. This evidence will do.” McClusky looked down at his polished fingernails, still smiling but in a way that unnerved Petrosino. “Did you find this pawn ticket and watch on your own?”

  “The ticket was locked up in Evidence. I took it to the pawnbroker, but he couldn’t identify Petto.” Petrosino touched the gold pocket watch, trying to get the Chief to hold it. “Madonnia’s boy said the watch had a locomotive on it. See there?”