“What the hell, what you gonna do to me? Crazy world, anyways. They let a punk kid take a walk if he murders some poor old retired shopkeeper.” He shook his head, clearly outraged. “These little punk bastards who beat old people because they’re helpless.” He muttered to himself, realized he had lost track of what he had started out with; came back to it. “Mogliano, that bum. It was a long time ago, what, four, five years? Time runs together for me now, it’s tough to get old, huh, kid? But me, I’ve made my peace; I’ve squared my accounts, so what the hell? You know something, he wasn’t even worth the effort.” He scratched at an eyebrow, then shook his head. “I regret the girl, though. In the old days, it would have been a clean hit, but, like everything else, there are no more quality workers left, you know?”
“Was it a try for Kitty Keeler?”
He waved his annoyance at me; changed his opinion of me. I was stupid after all. “Ah, you have a one-track mind. Kitty Keeler, Kitty Keeler. Listen, pal,” his eyes narrowed and his voice, though still painful and rasping, was strong, certain, “if it had been a try for Kitty Keeler, Kitty Keeler would have been hit. If not in the car with that bum, Mogliano, then another time. The woman was not important.” He clenched his hand into a fist and shook it at me. “With that bum, it was any woman. It was for the insult to my daughter! He held my daughter up to public contempt, as though it did not matter that he made his affairs with women common knowledge.” In a softer voice, he said, “Men are men; they will seek out women, what the hell. But we use discretion; we respect our wives. My wife, may she rest in peace,” he crossed himself reverently, “forty-two years we were married when she left me for heaven, and not once, in all those years, did she ever know about any of my women. Respect; see. You gotta have respect, but this Mogliano, this bum, he respected nothin’.” He leaned back, his head sank into the collection of large, soft pillows. He held out his hands, wrists together; they shook. “So, what you gonna do, cop, ya gonna arrest me?”
“What about Kitty?”
He shrugged. “Keeler is a good kid; she’s a nice girl. Not like the papers are tellin’ stories about her, like she was a tramp. Kitty’s no tramp. She’s a good girl; she’s a smart girl.” He poked his forehead with an index finger. “She got it up here, know what I mean. You can trust Kitty. She’s a smart girl.”
“What about your daughter?”
There was a sudden silence, broken by the hard gasp for breath as Veronne tried to pull himself up from the pillows. “What about my daughter?”
“Did she want to see her husband dead? For the insult to her? Did she think Kitty Keeler was a ‘good kid’? Or did she maybe think there was a score to settle?”
There was a sudden, terrible strength in the old voice; even though it was still a whisper, it was a loud whisper. “You go into matters that do not concern you. Family matters—”
“Well, I guess I’ll talk to her myself, then.”
The emaciated body seemed to rise from the mattress in a swell of strength and bony determination; arms outstretched, clutching at air, eyes blazing, the inarticulate voice a thin, terrible howl, like an animal suddenly caught in a springtrap. At the instant of Veronne’s outcry, the door burst open and two men rushed to his bedside and with small effort eased him back onto his pillows. His breath came in loud, choking, irregular swells.
A third man, an older man than the others, vaguely familiar the way you remember someone from an old, faded wanted flyer, or at least with that kind of face, with a typical expression of contempt or threat, grabbed at my arm and pulled.
“Okay, you, you’ve overstayed your welcome here. Now. Move!”
He might have been old, but the guy had tremendous strength and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t even beginning to exert pressure; this was only his warning grip.
I went with his pressure rather than resist it; with a quick twist, I got lucky. He went sprawling across the foot of Veronne’s bed. Before he could pull himself up and before the other two, who were just a pair of thugs without any class at all, could react, Veronne’s voice, hoarse and strained as it was, held them in place.
“No. No, Lorenzo.” He motioned to the red-faced, fast-breathing man at his feet. “It’s foolish, it’s worth nothing.” He waved the younger guys aside for a better view of me. “Because times have changed, because Lorenzo and me,” he turned his head and spoke directly to the older man, poised at his feet, “because we respect the men now in charge, eh?,” then, back to me, “because this is their day now, you walk out of here alive. A few short years ago, cop, you lay a hand, so much as one finger, on Lorenzo, and you would be a dead man.”
I looked at Lorenzo, who had not mellowed with age. I believed what Veronne had said. I waited until I was through the doorway, then, since you shouldn’t leave your host without saying good-bye, I turned and said, “So long, Mr. Veronne. Rest in peace. Real soon.”
Howard Beach had been built on reclaimed swampland. In the early and middle sixties, some enterprising developers realized that not all Bronx and Brooklyn people sought the good life far out on the Island or in Jersey. There was a large group of people who wanted to move, practically en masse with friends and relatives and traditions and customs, into one-family homes still within the boundaries of New York City.
Tract houses were built upon the dank land of filled-in swamp: row on row on row. Each plot was approximately forty by eighty feet, which allowed for a small front lawn, small back lawn, a narrow driveway leading to a single garage and one of three types of houses: split-level, ranch or Cape Cod. Occasionally, in times of heavy rain, the swamp seemed to reclaim its territory; basements had to be pumped, mosquitoes darted out of the floors, and mildew crept along the walls. But by and large, the residents of Howard Beach were contented with their lives.
The main thoroughfare, Cross Bay Boulevard, was lined with a variety of supermarkets, quick-food drive-ins and take-outs, kosher butchers, delis, Italian groceries, restaurants and fish markets.
There was a large lot adjoining Mogliano’s Volkswagen showroom on the boulevard. I wandered among the used cars that were for sale, then back toward a shed where a few mechanics were working. There were a great number of auto bodies in various stages of disassembly scattered around.
One of the mechanics looked up, squinting through grease. “Yeah? You want somethin’, Johnny?”
I touched the shiny fender of a huge black Lincoln. “This for sale?”
“Naw, nothin’ here. You wanna look at cars, go around the front. Customers ain’t permitted back here.”
I had a good idea why not. I went around the corner and into the showroom, which was filled with bright shiny new VWs. They reminded me of the bright bumper toys in one of the old Coney Island amusement park rides: something silly and cheerful and attractive about them.
There were five men seated around a table toward the back of the room. They were hunched toward each other and I’d be willing to bet they weren’t discussing the automotive industry. There was a small dark old man standing off to one side, leaning against the plate-glass window, watching the others, nodding like a wise old counselor as they spoke. A huge German shepherd, held by the old guy on a short thick black leather leash, sat warily at his feet. Every now and then, a deep growl ran up the animal’s throat, as though he was humming to himself.
A kid came up to me from another part of the showroom. He was short and chunky, with a lot of thick black hair which he wore low on his forehead. Probably because it grew low on his forehead. He looked like the kind of kid who is someone’s nephew: give the kid a break, for his mother’s sake, ya know?
“You wan’ I should show ya somethin’?” he asked me.
“Yeah. I want you should show me John Mogliano. Tell him to break from his friends and come over here.”
The kid wasn’t sure what his reaction should be. His uncertainty registered on his heavy features and in the way he set and reset his wide shoulders and thick neck. He made a neutral, cli
cking sound which could be interpreted as amusement, contempt or cool. He stood sizing me up for a minute, then turned and walked across the showroom and made his way slowly to the table, where he bent and spoke to one of the men. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward me. The man he spoke to stood up, looked in my direction, then patted the messenger reassuringly.
The other men at the table watched as Mogliano approached me, chin thrust out, eyes measuring me for height, weight and occupation. “You wanna talk with me? I’m John Mogliano.”
I decided we didn’t need an audience. “Outside, okay?”
I leaned against a black 1974 Mercedes and watched Mogliano put on a pair of huge dark sunglasses that he pulled from the pocket of his mustard-colored sports jacket. He fitted the glasses carefully behind his ears and smoothed them along the sides of his face. The thick wavy black hair was a toupee; a good one, probably very expensive, fitted precisely to blend with whatever hair was still growing, but close up you could make it for a toupee. If you are particularly conscious of such things; which I am for certain reasons concerning thinning hair.
“When’s the last time you spoke to Kitty Keeler?”
Mogliano’s hands flew open. “Oh, Jeez, that was bad, what happened to her kids, huh?” He shook his head. “Terrible. Jeez.”
“You haven’t answered the question.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, Jeez, maybe a week ago or so. Kitty called me about some kid’s car. Some girl over on Woodhaven Boulevard smashed her VW up pretty bad, so I tole her don’ worry about it, I’d take care a it.” He shrugged expansively. “What the hell, ya do a favor for an old friend, ya know?”
“You consider Kitty Keeler an old friend?”
Mogliano didn’t know how to answer that. He glanced over his right shoulder as though he expected someone to tell him what to say; what was the safe thing to say. “Well, ya know, like she worked at the club, out in Nassau County, years ago. That’s all.” Then, in a sudden burst of enlightenment, he said, “Oh, hey, you mean was Kitty and me ‘friends.’ Not like that we wasn’t. Uh-uh. No, no. Not me and Kitty, not like that we wasn’t.” He shook his head for emphasis.
I lit a cigarette and held the match for Mogliano. As he ducked down, I could see a small rivulet of sweat slowly working its way down from his temple to his cheek. I also inhaled a lungful of musk-based aftershave or cologne. I waited until Mogliano straightened up.
“Tell me, John. You ever feel it was Kitty Keeler’s fault that Ray got hit?”
Mogliano looked alarmed. He glanced around, first over one shoulder, then over the other, expecting to see someone moving in on him. “Oh, Jeez, you gotta be kiddin’.” He cupped his hand alongside his mouth; I had a little trouble hearing him. “Listen, Ray was my brother, know what I mean, but I gotta tell you, if ever a guy was askin’ for it, Ray was.” He jabbed his forehead with his thumb. “Dumb, ya know. I tole him and I tole him, ya don’t kid around with ... ya know. With the big guy.”
“With Alfredo Veronne?”
Mogliano’s head spun around, checking again. “Hey, listen, you said that, not me. Look, it was what, four years ago, what the hell. Like I said, Ray was my brother and all, but even I couldn’t tell him nothin’.”
“What did you try to tell him?”
“Ah, you know.”
“No. I don’t know. Which is why I’m asking you. Look, John, you wanna talk with me here, or you wanna come down to my office?”
Mogliano checked his showroom, the parking lot and the passing traffic. “Naw, look, I’ll talk with ya, only let’s walk along a little, okay? Hey, you wanna have a sandwich or somethin’? C’mon, my cousin got a nice place right across the boulevard.”
I ordered a veal cutlet sandwich, which wouldn’t do my ulcer any harm at all; veal is bland. It was the spicy sauce that I should have refused, but the aromas coming from the kitchen were overwhelming. Mogliano dug into a steaming plate of hot sausages and he talked with his mouth full of food.
“Look, my brother Ray was a kid, ya know? Twelve years younger than me; he was the baby of the family, six sisters and me. We all spoilt Ray. And a good-lookin’ son-of-a-gun, I tell ya, the kid looked like a movie star. Which was bad for him, ya know. Ya couldn’t tell Ray nothin’; he knew it all, may he rest in peace, poor dumb kid.”
I didn’t have to ask many questions now. Mogliano kept eating and talking and I kept eating and listening.
“See, the old man liked the kid’s looks, ya know, so he give him a job drivin’ for him.” Mogliano checked the wall behind him, the empty tables all around us; he leaned forward and didn’t notice the large glob of sauce on the sleeve of his mustard jacket. “That’s how he met the old man’s daughter, ya know, drivin’ for the old man. The minute the girl laid eyes on Ray, that was that. The old man give that kid anything she wanted; like we spoilt Ray, he spoilt her. She wanted Ray, the old man give her Ray. He set the kid up with the club in Nassau County and he put me in to manage it, ya know. Ray didn’t know nothin’ about business, he was there for show, like a host or maître d’. An’ on weekends we had a little band and every now and then Ray would get up and sing a little. He wasn’t no good, but see, that was my oldest sister’s fault; Angie raised Ray from when my mother, may she rest in peace, died and she keeps tellin’ Ray everything he does is great, terrific, like another Sinatra. So anyway, son-of-a-gun, Ray brought the crowds in. I mean, the kid wasn’t any good, but he could put over a song, ya know. He would really pitch it to the women in the audience and soon Ray starts sayin’ he wants to cut a record. See, he believes all these broads tellin’ him how great he was, but it wasn’t his voice they was talkin’ about and I try to tell him it ain’t his voice that puts him over, but Ray says he’s not gonna waste what he’s got in a dump in Nassau County. Swear to God, it was like listenin’ to my oldest sister, Angie, that’s the kinda stuff she’d been givin’ him all his life. And Ray, he’s goin’ out with these broads, all they gotta tell him is they got a uncle or a cousin in show business and the kid laps it up and I’m tryin’ to tell him to watch out, ya don’t play games when your wife’s old man is ... ya know.”
“Then it wasn’t just Kitty Keeler?”
“Are you kiddin’ me? Jeez, any woman comes into the place, she gets a look at Ray and what he’s advertisin’, she’s ready to buy. It wasn’t like that with Kitty. I mean, Ray respected Kitty, know what I mean? They wasn’t lovers; it’s hard to explain. But Kitty’s the kinda girl you could trust, ya know. Like, I never knew any other woman you could call a ‘friend,’ ya know, like a guy is a friend. Kitty handled the books besides being a cocktail waitress, and she knew right away that Ray was rippin’ the old man off. She covered for the kid, but after a while there wasn’t no way. Ray got so sure of himself, like there wasn’t nothin’ he couldn’t get away with, ya know.” Mogliano let his fork fall into his plate; he rocked his head from side to side, held one hand against his jaw. “Dumb kid, dumb kid, may he rest in peace. It still hurts me to think about it, the waste, ya know. Like, he had it all and he blew it. He’d never listen, not to anybody, he knew it all, so now he’s buried in little bits and pieces, dumb kid.”
I reached across the table and picked up Mogliano’s napkin and jabbed at his sleeve. He stared at me, mouth opened; it took him a couple of seconds to realize what I was doing, then he finished cleaning his sleeve himself, dipping a corner of the napkin into a glass of water.
“How come I keep hearing around that Kitty Keeler was your brother’s mistress?”
“Ah.” Mogliano brushed that aside with a wave of the napkin, upsetting the glass of water, which he began to swab and blot. “That kinda talk is because right away, people see a girl around with a guy, especially a guy like Ray, and that’s all they can think about. Like I told you, Kitty’s a special girl. Look, I’ll tell ya somethin’.” His eyes darted around quickly and he leaned over the table. “Somethin’ I never told nobody else. The night Ray ... the night Ray got it, Kitty called him at the club. Right
in the office, I was there. He talks to her a minute, then he laughs and hangs up and turns to me and says, ‘Kitty says I should watch myself tonight. She got the word, which is why she stayed home.’ ”
“Are you kidding me, John?”
He pulled back against the leatherette of the built-in seat, looked offended. He raised his right hand and said, “Swear to God on my mother’s grave, she should rest in peace.”
“What about Veronne’s daughter, John? You think she got the word that Ray was heavy with Kitty Keeler? You think she might have had a grudge against Kitty, held her responsible for the way her marriage was going?”
Mogliano’s eyebrows shot up almost to his fake hairline. “Cindy? You gotta be kiddin’ me. Hell, that girl never knew nothin’ about nothin’ about any of Ray’s girls. She never heard none of the talk about Ray. And I gotta tell ya, he was my own brother, but he was dumb. He bragged about all the women; he said some really dumb things, like ... well, like ...” He debated for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, he shouldna gone around sayin’ things like he did. Ya know, like how he had the old man over a barrel, he could get away with anything as long as Cindy loved him.”
“And then Cindy stopped loving him?”
He shook his head and regarded me with surprise. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. That girl worshiped Ray. She was all broke up when Ray got it. But her father was right, I gotta admit it, she deserved a better husband than Ray. A poor girl like that, the only thing surprised me was that her father let Ray marry her in the first place.”
Investigation Page 14