Tragic

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  A tall, austere woman who tied her long gray hair back into a bun that made her face more severe than necessary, Hirschbein had been the assistant director when Duran disappeared. She’d had her own horrific experiences with domestic violence; her alcoholic ex-husband after years of beatings and emotional abuse had shot her and left her for dead before committing suicide. She could be tough when it came to championing the shelter’s mission and fierce in her defense of women who needed help. But, unlike Duran, she had not let one man’s cruelty change her kind and gentle nature, nor cause her to blame all men for the actions of some.

  Marlene always suspected that Duran recognized that she needed someone to balance her grim outlook with a more positive perspective when she appointed Hirschbein to the position. After Mattie disappeared and it was clear she wasn’t coming back anytime soon, the shelter’s board of directors, which included Marlene, had promoted Bobbi Sue and never regretted the decision.

  “Good morning, Marlene,” Hirschbein replied, her sudden smile making her look ten years younger. “Yes, if you don’t mind. A seventeen-year-old with an infant came in a few nights ago. She told us her boyfriend hit her—she’s got a pretty good black eye and a split lip; said that it was the first time and that he’s been acting out of character. She thinks he’s in some sort of trouble and took it out on her. But after that she clammed up and won’t give us his name or press charges.”

  “What’s her name?” Marlene asked.

  “Nicoli Lopez,” Hirschbein replied. “Says she lives in the Bronx now, and she’s originally from Brooklyn but her father won’t let her come home.”

  “Want me to talk to her?”

  “Yeah, if you would. Maybe you can get her to open up. I’ll send someone to bring her to the room.”

  A few minutes later, Marlene was sitting in what the staff called “the Room,” or “the Room of Tears,” a small, but comfortable place that looked more like a young woman’s bedroom than where battered women were asked to describe why they’d come to the shelter. The room had once been not much different than an interview room at a police station with its plain, unadorned walls and institutional furniture. But it had softened under Hirschbein’s direction with some of Marlene’s money. Landscapes and still-life paintings dominated the wall art; light was provided by windows and lamps rather than harsh fluorescents; and the furniture consisted of overstuffed chairs and a fainting couch with a small coffee table in front of it.

  Marlene had settled on the couch when there was a knock; a frightened-looking Hispanic teenager entered. Noting the girl’s swollen lip and a purple bruise around her eye, Marlene felt the old anger surge in her again. Few things in the world raised her ire like men beating on women. She smiled as much to calm herself as to reassure the teen.

  “Hi, have a seat,” Marlene said warmly. “Are you Nicoli?”

  The young woman nodded but didn’t speak as she sat down in the chair across from Marlene.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Marlene Ciampi. I’m an attorney and private investigator, and I volunteer here at the shelter, where I try to help determine how to keep you safe and, if necessary, deal with the person who did this to you. I understand you have an infant.”

  The girl looked up and smiled slightly. “Yes. Billy Junior. He’s six months.”

  “Such a nice age,” Marlene said. “I’d give anything to go back and relive those days with my own kids.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Three. A girl . . . or I should say, a young woman now; she’s going to be married next fall . . . and twin boys in high school.”

  “Wow, you don’t look that old,” Nicoli responded.

  Marlene laughed. “Well, thank you. But I think I’m supposed to be helping you, not fishing for compliments.” Noting that the teenager seemed to be relaxing, she forged ahead. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, and I know it’s difficult to talk about, but I understand that your boyfriend hit you. If that’s true, then we need to make sure that behavior doesn’t continue and that you and your baby are safe, whether you and your boyfriend remain together as a couple or not.”

  Nicoli’s smile disappeared and she lowered her eyes. “He didn’t mean to,” she mumbled.

  Marlene frowned. “That’s a pretty good black eye to get from somebody who didn’t mean to. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances, but that didn’t give him the right to hurt you.”

  The girl remained quiet and a tear fell from her cheek onto the table. She sighed. “What I meant is that it wasn’t like him to hit me,” she said. “Bill’s usually really nice and puts up with a lot, especially from my dad before we moved out. He’s never hit me before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, honey,” Marlene said. “The important thing is to make sure there’s not a repeat performance. If he needs to get counseling, maybe we can do something about that.”

  Nicoli looked at Marlene again through teary eyes. “He never used to even yell at me until . . .” Again, the teen stopped talking and looked away.

  “Until what?” Marlene asked.

  Nicoli shrugged. “I don’t really know,” she said. “He got involved in something. I could tell he was nervous, or scared about it, but he said it was going to pay a lot of money and then we could get our own apartment. Things were going to be good for us.”

  “So what happened?”

  “About three or four weeks ago, sometime before Christmas anyway, I started noticing changes in him,” Nicoli said. “I’d wake up at night, and he wouldn’t be in bed. He’d be standing over by the window, staring outside. A couple of times, I’m pretty sure he was crying. But when I asked him what was wrong, he’d tell me to mind my own business.”

  “You think maybe he committed a crime?”

  The girl’s lips twisted. Then she nodded. “I think he did something with his friend, Frankie DiMarzo,” she said. “Frankie’s no good. They met in juvie and Frankie is always trying to get him to do stuff they shouldn’t. My Gnat’s no angel—”

  “Gnat?” Marlene interrupted.

  “It’s Bill’s nickname,” Nicoli explained. “Anyway, this wasn’t their usual bullshit crime, like selling pot or a grab-and-run at a liquor store. I heard him talking to Frankie on the phone after whatever it was they did and he was pretty upset. He said, ‘That Russian fucker didn’t tell us this was big-time. Now it’s all over the papers. I want my money and then I want to forget about it.’ ”

  Marlene frowned. “All over the papers? Any idea what he was talking about?”

  “No. A couple of days before that he went somewhere in his car with Frankie. He didn’t get home till late, and the car smelled like cigarettes.”

  “He doesn’t smoke?”

  “Uh-uh,” Nicoli said. “Neither does Frankie. Gnat used to, but he quit because of the baby. Now he just chews tobacco. It’s disgusting, but he says it calms him down.”

  “So you think it was something he did that night that has him on edge?”

  The girl thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “No. He was nervous and wasn’t sleeping good after that, but he went out again with Frankie, and whoever smokes the cigarettes, again a few nights later. That’s when he changed. The call to Frankie about the Russian guy was after that.”

  “He say anything more on the phone to Frankie?”

  “No. He turned and saw me standing in the doorway. He told Frankie he had to go. He was pissed off that I was listening.”

  “Is that when he hit you?”

  “No . . . at least not right away. I asked him again what was up, and he said nothing and told me to quit sneaking around,” Nicoli replied. “That night he got up again and was crying, so I asked him again. He got mad and things got out of hand from there. He called me some names, and I told him I was taking Billy Junior and going back to my folks. He tried to stop me from leaving, so I pushed him. That’s when he hit me.”

  Nicoli stopped talking and her chin fell to her chest as her shoulde
rs shook and a sob escaped. “I’m so worried about him,” she said at last. “He’s a good guy, he really is. He tries so hard. I just think he’s in something over his head.”

  “Sounds like it,” Marlene replied. “But what? Maybe I could talk to him sometime and if he needs help . . .”

  “That’s what I told him after he hit me . . . that he needs help.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “That no one could help him now.”

  7

  JACKIE CORCIONE LOOKED AT HIMSELF in the mirror and didn’t like what he saw. But it wasn’t the beginnings of a receding hairline or the still-faint lines etched around the corners of his mouth and eyes that troubled him. The small pot belly and the random gray hairs he couldn’t seem to keep dyed weren’t the big concern. Nor were the dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, though they were a consequence.

  It was the accusations he saw in those eyes that disturbed him. Murderer. Betrayer. Coward. Or the last words of Vince Carlotta, “You son of a bitch!”

  Jackie leaned closer to the mirror to see the man behind those eyes, the one making the accusations. But there was no one.

  Judas. The voice inside his head almost screamed the name at him, and he stepped back from his reflection. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Vince Carlotta had never done anything to him. Quite the contrary, he’d always treated Jackie like a kid brother. He was always the one with a kind word or praise when his own father mostly registered disappointment.

  Although he’d never told Vince that he was gay, he was pretty sure that Carlotta knew his secret and had not judged him. Never called him a faggot or queer or pansy like Vitteli and Barros. Never threatened to tell his father. And yet look who you’re in bed with, he thought.

  Greed had done him in and set him on this course he seemed unable to alter. He liked nice things, nice clothing, and nice, good-looking friends who fawned over him as long as he was paying the bills. He liked going to trendy clubs and throwing money around. He liked taking those friends and lovers to Broadway shows and the latest, hottest restaurants in Manhattan. He lived in a 3,500-square-foot loft atop a former warehouse overlooking the Hudson River in gentrified Hell’s Kitchen, and took frequent vacations to the Hamptons and Martha’s Vineyard and Key West. He gladly played the part of a young, successful gay man in New York City. But it took money, lots of money, more than he made.

  So he’d started stealing from the union. At first it was just a little bit, just pocket money. Then it was more and more, though it never seemed enough to keep up with his needs. He told himself that he deserved it and that it made up for his father’s lack of faith in him. And as chief financial officer and legal counsel, it was easy to hide the transgressions. He thought he could get away with it forever.

  Then one day several years before Leo’s death, Vitteli walked into Jackie’s office at the union headquarters, followed by Barros, who closed the door behind them. “I know you’re cooking the books,” Vitteli stated flatly. “Joey’s been asking around, and there’s no way your salary covers your little habits.”

  Jackie felt a ball of cold fear settle in his stomach and radiate out into the rest of his body, but he tried to lie his way out of it. “My dad gives me money on the side,” he explained. “Sort of an allowance.”

  Vitteli guffawed while Barros smirked. “Shit, Jackie, you’re a terrible liar,” Vitteli said. “You started sweating before I said a word. But tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to talk to your dad about this ‘allowance,’ and maybe some of your other habits. We’ll see what he says.”

  “No, please,” Jackie had begged. “I’ll stop stealing, I promise. I’ll change my lifestyle, I mean it.”

  The other two men laughed. Then Vitteli put his knuckles on Jackie’s desk and leaned forward. “I don’t give a shit about your little butt buddies,” he sneered. “That’s your business as long as you play ball. You’ve been cooking the books and now I want you to cook them for me. But not this penny-ante bullshit you been getting away with; we’re going to go whole hog and you’re going to figure out how to do it.”

  Although it wasn’t really necessary, Vitteli had also made it clear that Barros didn’t like him. “And Joey is the one guy you don’t want showing up in your bedroom some night if you get my drift.”

  So Jackie had figured out a way to siphon money from the union pension accounts, which was then invested in a lending company that “loaned” the money to a false corporation that listed cronies hired by Vitteli as its owners and corporate officers. That money was then invested in stocks, other companies, and ventures, some of them quite risky but with big upsides.

  A quick review of the union financials showed a small but steady return on the investment, but the truth was that the enormous profits generated went into the pockets of Vitteli, Barros, and himself.

  Still, it was a house of cards, and any number of bad-luck or bad-timing scenarios could send it crashing, losing the pension funds and bankrupting the union. However, Vitteli, Barros, and Jackie would be protected by many layers of obfuscation while the blow to the membership would be explained as a downturn in the economy or investments that had turned sour.

  The plan had worked to perfection for several years. In that time, Jackie had made sure that he was the only one who truly understood the ins and outs of the scheme. He was no idiot and wasn’t going to leave to chance that Vitteli would consider him to be an asset and not sic Barros on him.

  As long as the uneasy alliance lasted, and the status quo was maintained, there was little danger of discovery. However, his father’s death had thrown a wrench in the works: he would have to be replaced in an election. And Vitteli was sure that if Carlotta won the election, he’d bring in auditors.

  “Bastard doesn’t trust me,” Vitteli had said to Jackie the day after it was announced that there would be an election for the next union president. “Can’t say I blame him. And if he does, they’re going to find our little business venture. Then my ass, Joey’s ass, and your ass are all going to end up in the joint. Now me and Joey, we’ll be okay; we can watch each other’s backs and take care of ourselves. But imagine what life is going to be like for your cute little rear end. You’ll be some big hairy hillbilly’s girlfriend from the day you walk in and hear the gates clang shut behind you. And he won’t be gentle.”

  Terrified by the thought of prison, Jackie had come up with a way to rig the election. He’d also contacted an old Harvard fraternity brother who was working for the Labor Department and asked him to keep an eye out for any complaints from Vince Carlotta or his lawyer, Mahlon Gorman. As a union lawyer, he was well aware of the Landrum-Griffin Act’s “exhaustion of union administrative remedies” rule that required any complaints be dealt with first at the union level. To be sure, Carlotta’s complaint would be dismissed by union management, but it would only buy them time. He’d still have them over a barrel, and eventually he would have prevailed.

  Vince wished it could have been as easy as Charlie and Barros leaving the union, and himself stepping down as union chief legal counsel to work under Gorman. But Carlotta would have discovered the financial manipulation and he wouldn’t have hesitated to go to the district attorney to press charges. That’s what Vitteli said when he announced that Vince had to die.

  Jackie had recoiled at the suggestion. But reminded again by Vitteli of what his life would be like in prison—“if the membership doesn’t kill you first for fucking with their pensions”—he’d agreed. “It’s him or us.” And so he helped lure Vince into the trap.

  Now, a month later, his hands shook and his eyes were often bloodshot, with dark circles. He didn’t even want to think of what his father would have thought of him at that moment. Murderer. Betrayer. His eyes locked on the stranger in the mirror. You son of a bitch.

  “Judas,” he said aloud. He was suddenly reminded of an article he’d seen in the Times announcing the lineup for the summer’s Shakespeare in the Park productions. Mac
beth had been the headliner. It was a play with which he was very familiar, having played the part of Banquo in high school, and a particular quote from the main character sprang to mind: I am in blood stepped in so far that should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o’er.

  Jackie forced himself to stand up straight and look his mirror image in the eyes. There’s no going back, he thought. You’re just going to have to learn to live with the guilt. It’s that or prison. He shuddered. And that’s not even a choice.

  Leaving the bathroom, Jackie walked out of the bedroom suite and into the living room, where his current boyfriend, Greg Lusk, sat reading the Times. Lusk was a big, rugged guy who rode a Harley-Davidson and liked to watch sports on television. He played college football and might have made the pros except for tearing his ACL during his senior college season. When they’d met at Therapy, a gay bar on 52nd Street in Hell’s Kitchen, he’d joked that he dated the lead cheerleader but was in love with the quarterback.

  Lusk was different than other lovers he’d had in the past. He was a successful entrepreneur who made a good living and didn’t look for handouts from Jackie. He was something of a homebody, and while he could dance like Patrick Swayze and looked great in a tux, he preferred a good book and dinner at home to the club and restaurant scene.

  Looking up when Jackie entered the room, he smiled and said, “Hey, good-looking, you off to your meeting with the boss and his pal?”

  Jackie barely managed to smile back. “Yeah,” he said without enthusiasm. “I shouldn’t be too late.”

  Greg frowned. “You okay?” he asked. “You’ve been looking like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders, and I’m getting worried. You want me to go with you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t subject you to those guys. I’m fine,” Jackie replied. “Just tired. You be here when I get back?”