The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Bellucci asked.

  “He calls it foreplay. He’s going to tease the meter and give it a case of blue balls.”

  “Blue balls?”

  “It’s his term for frustrating the meter until it goes out of order.”

  Bellucci made a face. “The man’s, like, totally weird.”

  It took over a minute, but finally the meter’s screen went haywire and changed from EXPIRED to OUT OF ORDER. Boff pocketed his quarter and turned to Bellucci.

  “By law we can park an hour at an out-of-order meter,” he said. “I’m a firm believer in saving money whenever I can.”

  As they entered the restaurant, a pretty young hostess greeted them with a smile. “Table for three?” she said.

  “Actually,” Boff said, “There’ll be a fourth party. I’m Frank Boff. Armando is expecting me.”

  Nodding, the hostess picked up a nearby phone. “Mr. Perez, Frank Boff is here now to see you ... Yes, I will.” Turning to Boff, she said, “He said to take a table. He’ll be out in a few minutes.” Then she led them to an oval table near a wall filled with framed photos of Cuban landscapes and a large map of the island. After giving them menus, she left.

  As they opened the menus, Boff leaned over to Bellucci. “If you like pork, Mikey, I recommend the Masas de Cerdo Fritas. That’s what I’m having.”

  After Bellucci quickly read the English translation of the dish, he nodded and said, “Oh, yeah! Mikey’s goin’ for that, too.”

  “Hey, Boff,” Cullen said. “Do they, uh, have something a little less fattening? I still have to lose eight pounds to make weight for my fight.”

  “The grilled chicken with steamed vegetables is right up your alley,” Boff said. “Or, if you want to be adventurous while still watching calories, try the house specialty. A Cuban burger. It comes with ham and roast pork on top, choice of cheese, plus french fries and a soda. You can skip the cheese and the bun, and I’ll eat the fries for you.”

  Cullen closed his menu. “Burger it is.”

  Another pretty young woman came over, took their orders, and left.

  Glancing after the waitress, Bellucci said, “What’s with all the beauties in this place? Even the babe tending bar is hot.”

  “Cuban women, Mikey,” Boff replied, “are widely considered among the most beautiful in the world.”

  Then he turned and smiled as he saw approaching the table a portly man in his fifties with short black hair and a pencil thin mustache.

  “Frank!” the man said. “Where’ve you been? Five years, I haven’t seen you. I thought you liked my food.”

  Boff stood up and hugged Armando Perez. Cullen had never seen him hug anybody except his wife. This guy must be special.

  “I do love your food, Armando,” Boff said as they sat down. “The only reason I haven’t been in is because for the last five years I was living in Las Vegas.”

  Perez looked puzzled. “But, Frank, you don’t like gambling. Why would you want to live there?”

  “For one reason. And one reason only. Las Vegas has a much higher rate of violent crime than New York. Recently, however, I moved back to the Bronx to be near my mother.”

  Perez smiled. “How is Thelma, anyway?”

  Boff smiled with pride. “Mom’s seventy-two and still going strong. With my father gone, she runs the family candy store all by herself.”

  “She also,” Bellucci muttered, “takes numbers and the football sheets for a bookie.”

  “And,” Cullen said with a grin, “she has a pump-action shotgun behind the counter.”

  Boff frowned. “Didn’t I ask you guys never to mention that again?”

  Cullen grinned. “Guess we forgot.”

  Perez pointed to the boxers. “And you guys are?”

  “The one with the beat-up face,” Boff said, “is Danny Cullen. He’s allegedly a very good boxer. The other one, who goes to a blind barber to get his two-tone haircut, is Mikey Bellucci. Apparently another good fighter.”

  Perez nodded. “Boxers, huh? I’m a big fan of boxing. Most Cubans are. On the island, the two most popular sports are baseball and boxing.” He turned to Boff. “Did you order yet?”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Perez shouted over to his bartender. “Ana, bring me a mojito.”

  As Boff spread his napkin on his lap, he said, “So, Armando, how’s your son doing these days?”

  Perez’s face beamed. “Thanks to you, Frank, he’s married and practicing law. And he and his lovely wife are expecting their first child!”

  “That’s good news,” Boff said. “Most of my clients, after I get them an acquittal, they invariably get back in trouble again.”

  Perez laughed. “Frank, that’s because most of your clients are riff-raff. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Boff recalled how several years back, Perez’s son had been accused of date rape. While he made it policy, out of respect for his wife, never to defend rapists or child molesters, after talking with the son he was convinced the case against him wasn’t righteous. So he took it on and helped the son’s lawyer get an acquittal.

  The bartender glided over on long, shapely legs and set Perez’s drink down on the table. Perez put his hand on her arm. “Danny, Mikey, this is my youngest daughter, Ana.”

  Bellucci shot up out of his chair.

  “Ana! I’m Mikey Bellucci. Professional boxer and future world champion. Next time I’m in Union City, maybe, like, you and I, we could go out for lunch or dinner or something?”

  Ana smiled coyly. “Perhaps.” Then she headed back to her bar.

  Bellucci pressed both his hands to his heart. “Ah, marone, I’m in love.”

  Which made Perez laugh. “Stand in line Mikey,” he said. “Ana’s a heartbreaker.”

  As soon as the food arrived, Bellucci dug right into his platter. “Awesome!” he said through a mouthful.

  Perez looked at Cullen, who had just cut off a piece of burger with roast pork and ham on top and tasted it. “And your burger, Danny?”

  Cullen gave him thumbs up. “Terrific.”

  Finally Perez turned to Boff. “So, Frank, what brings you here besides the best Cuban food north of Havana?”

  “I’m looking into the murder of a Cuban boxer. Rafael Oquendo.”

  Perez shook his head. “Such a tragedy,” he said. “He was the pride of Cuba. A legend. The whole community here in Union City is shaken. Who would do such a thing?”

  Boff put his fork down. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. The body was left on the sidewalk with a noted pinned to the shirt. You didn’t read about that because the police keep some details out of the newspapers just in case they get people who didn’t do it confessing to the murder. The note said, ‘From now on, this is what happens to Cuban boxers who defect.’ So I’m wondering if you’d heard anything about a rogue Cuban gang doing Castro’s dirty work here.”

  Perez lowered his voice and leaned closer to Boff. “Frank. This is something you and I should discuss alone. Finish eating. Then we’ll go into my office. Mikey and Danny can sit at the bar and flirt with Ana.”

  After desert, Perez led Boff into his office and shut and locked the door. There were more framed photos of Cuban landscapes on the walls and a figurine of Jesus on the cross hanging above them. Sitting behind his desk, Perez opened a deep drawer and pulled out a bottle of amber-colored Havana Club rum and two small glasses.

  “Would you like some, Frank? It’s gran reserva. Aged fifteen years.”

  Boff held his thumb and index finger about an inch apart. “Just a sip.”

  After pouring the short shot, Perez handed the glass to Boff, then put a couple inches of rum into his own glass. He took a sip, nodded his approval, and leaned back in his leather chair.

  “First, Frank, you need a little background about Cuban Olympic boxers who defect. While some attain glory and riches in this country, the sad fact is far too many of them don’t. The main reason some grea
t Cuban amateurs fail here is that the temptations of nightlife—especially in Miami—seduce the fighters. They had no experience dealing with freedom before. In Cuba, all they could do was train and compete. Here, there are a lot of things to do besides box.”

  He paused to sip some more rum. “Another problem for the defectors is when you put money in their pocket, they want to buy everything they couldn’t before. The ones who take to the fast life lose the edge they had as amateurs. And the results aren’t pretty. After failing as professionals, they tend to fall by the wayside. Some wind up in jail. Others succumb to drugs."

  Boff nodded. “Do you think Oquendo was one of those types who took to the fast lane?”

  “I honestly couldn’t say. But what I can say with some certainty is it’s highly unlikely there’s a Cuban hit squad operating in this country. It’d be much too risky for Cuba, because if they got caught, Washington would turn their trial into a circus and embarrass Castro internationally. Also, Frank, bear in mind that even though Rafael was an Olympic gold medalist, for every great Cuban boxer who defects, there are a dozen more top prospects ready to take his place.” He shrugged. “So I doubt old Raul was upset for more than a few days about Oquendo’s defection."

  “Armando, what you say makes sense. But I still need to spend a little time exploring the possibility that the boxer’s murder was related to his defection. If only to eliminate it as an angle.”

  Perez leaned toward his old friend. “Well, if you are, I know someone who might be able to help you. My friend Marcos won gold for Cuba at lightweight in nineteen eighty-eight. He would’ve repeated in ninety-two, had he not run into a fighter named Oscar de la Hoya in the second round. Right after the Olympics, Marcos defected. Like many who flee Cuba, he wound up in Miami, boxed professionally for a while, and then did well for himself in business.” He paused to take another sip of his rum. “Marcos has many influential contacts in Miami’s Cuban community. If there’s a rogue gang operating here…or a lone assassin, he’d know.”

  “Can you give me his phone number?”

  Perez shook his head. “I’ll have to speak to him myself. He won’t talk to you.”

  “I understand. When can you call him?”

  “I can try now.”

  Walking over to one of the framed pictures of Cuba, Perez took it off the wall, set it down on a chair, and went to work on a wall safe that was behind it. After punching in a code, he opened the safe, took out an address book, brought it back to his desk, and sat back down.

  “Marcos speaks English, Frank, but prefers Spanish. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  After thumbing through the address book until he found what he was looking for, Perez picked up his desk phone and dialed. He talked for several minutes, then hung up.

  “Frank, what Marcos said is he hasn’t heard a thing about a Cuban hit squad. He said he’d ask around to make sure, but was confident nothing would turn up. To him, the more likely reason Rafael was killed, was because he had gotten himself into some sort of trouble.”

  “That’s what I think, too.” Boff stood up and shook Perez’s hand. “Thanks for making the call.”

  “De nada.”

  “As usual, the food was great. Next time I’ll bring my wife.”

  “Good. I like Jenny.”

  After draining what was left in his glass, the restaurant owner walked his friend out of the office. “Frank,” he said, “it’s a real pity what happens to some Cuban boxers who defect. Their talent just goes to waste because nobody in America teaches them anything about how to live here. Just to box. They basically exploit them. And if the kid doesn’t pan out?” He shrugged. “They get rid of him.”

  Chapter 10

  The woman from the Plaza was sitting in the back seat of a taxi rolling down St. Marks Avenue, a quiet residential street in Crown Heights. She checked her Timex watch and frowned. It was eleven o’clock. She was late. But ignoring the time, she leaned forward and tapped the driver’s shoulder.

  “Sir, please stop here,” she said.

  He briefly turned his head. “But the address you gave me is another block away.”

  “Yes, I know. But I’d like to walk the rest of the way to get some fresh air.”

  She handed the cabbie a twenty and a ten. “Keep the change.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The woman getting out of the cab looked nothing like the elegant lady at the Plaza. In place of the designer dress, she was wearing a Gap button-down white shirt with only one tail tucked in and antique Levi’s jeans with holes in the knees. Replacing the high-fashion Manolo Blahnik black leather pumps were red canvas sneakers with kelly green laces. Gone also was the Gucci bag. In its place, slung across her shoulders, was a faded canvas backpack. She looked like a typically grungy college sophomore.

  As she began walking down the deserted sidewalk, she passed a narrow alley where a ragged-looking man was jiggling a coin cup. Reaching into her pocket where she kept quarters for beggars, she stopped briefly and dropped four in his cup. Then, setting her backpack down on the sidewalk, she opened the flap, took out a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, and handed it to the man, too. The beggar smiled broadly.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Beena hungra all day.”

  Pleased with herself, the woman picked up her backpack and resumed walking. Soon she came to a three-story limestone with bay windows on the first and second floors. At the top of the stairs, she pressed an intercom button.

  “Who is it?” a male voice asked.

  “Kate Upton.”

  As the door buzzed open, she walked in and climbed the stairs. Reaching the second floor landing, she smiled when she saw Cullen and Bellucci standing outside the door to their condo.

  “You’re late, Marla,” Cullen said. “I was getting worried.”

  Bellucci laughed. “I told Danny you dumped him for a better man.”

  Walking over to Cullen, she kissed him on the lips, but within seconds, Bellucci tapped on her shoulder.

  “Hey! What about some love for Mikey?”

  Spreading her arms wide, she hugged him, too, pecked him on the cheek, then turned back to Cullen.

  “Sorry about being late, Danny. I had to stay after class to speak with Professor Blasi. If I’d known you’d be worried, I’d have called to let you know.”

  “Well, hell, Marla. I can’t help but worry. You ride the damn subway all the time. I wish you’d take a taxi instead.”

  As she accompanied the young boxers into the condo, Marla said, “A taxi from Columbia is way too expensive.”

  “So I’ll give you money for it.”

  She shook her head. “You know I pay my own way. Meanwhile, I think I should be worried about you.” She touched his bruised face. “What happened?”

  Bellucci held up a fist. “I pounded his ass in the ring,” he said.

  “Like hell you did,” Cullen snapped back. He turned to Marla. “I was doing a sparring drill in which I wasn’t wearing gloves. Mikey was the only one allowed to throw punches. Damn McAlary.”

  “Well, it would seem,” she said, “that you need more work on your technique.” She giggled. “At least I’m glad that Mikey didn’t bruise your mouth.”

  After another quick kiss, she set her backpack down on the coffee table. It made an audible clunk.

  “Whatcha keep in there?” Bellucci asked. “Rocks?”

  “Mostly books. Plus sandwiches for beggars. And my iPhone.”

  Bellucci picked up the backpack. “Man, you’re humping some weight here,” he said. Setting the backpack down again, he opened it, took out a thick book, and read the title out loud. “Ethical Dilemmas and Decisions in Criminal Justice.” He looked at her with a mock serious face. “This good? D’you think I can borrow it when you’re done?”

  Marla laughed, pulled the book out of his hand, dropped it back in the backpack, and led the boys into the kitchen. Cullen took jars of peanut butter and jelly off a shelf and grabbed a loaf of wheat b
read from the countertop. After collecting three paper plates and plastic utensils, he set everything down on the kitchen table. Then he opened the refrigerator, took out a quart of milk and a pint of low-fat cottage cheese, and brought these to the table, along with three clean glasses. As he poured their milk, he said, “So, Marla, tell me about your class tonight.”

  “You’d just be bored.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Well Mikey’s interested,” Bellucci said as he reached for the bread. “I studied street law after they kicked me outta high school. Got me a bachelor’s degree in how to get busted for picking fights.”

  Marla gave him a playful punch, then took the bread out of his hand and started making sandwiches for him and her. Ever mindful of his weight, Cullen dipped his fork into the bland cottage cheese.

  “Danny,” she said, “do you really want to know about my class?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?”

  “It deals with ethics in the CJ system.”

  “In English,” Bellucci said.

  “CJ for Criminal Justice. The course basically covers all three segments of the CJ system—police, courts, and corrections.”

  “I took me some classes in courtroom justice,” Bellucci said. “I know a lot about being arrested.”

  After handing a sandwich to Bellucci, she turned to her boyfriend. “Danny, how’s your class going?”

  “One more night and I finish and get my certificate,” he said.

  “That’s great! Does Boff know?”

  Cullen let out a short laugh. “Hell, no. If I told him I’m taking a course in investigation, he’d just laugh at me. The Boffer doesn’t think I’m very smart. That’s because I didn’t go to college. He’s always telling me that anyone who makes his living punching people in the face can’t be all that bright.”

  Marla put her sandwich down. “You’re smart, Danny. Trust me.”

  “But nowhere near your level,” he said. “I mean, you’ve got a friggin’ B.A. from Princeton and you’re a second-year law student at Columbia. Now that’s smart.”