“And what do I tell them the assignment is?”
“Just say you have a client who needs protection. And you don’t trust any of your men to get the job done as well as they could.”
“What is it you think these cops can do for you that I, or any of my ops, can’t?”
“When the time comes,” Boff replied, “the cops will know without me telling them.”
Wallachi didn’t look too happy about that explanation. “For chrissake, Frank, I can’t work in the dark.”
“Let’s turn around.”
On the way back, Boff laid out his entire end-game scenario. When he was done, all his friend could do was shake his head.
“That’s nuts, Frank. There are so many things that could go wrong. Why don’t you just let the D.A. handle this?”
“Do I really need to answer that question?”
Wallachi shot him a sour look. “You know, Frank, some criminals actually do go to jail.”
“Not the ones I defend.”
“Do you have Kevlar?”
“Yes.”
“When did you buy it?”
“About eight years ago. I was defending some mope accused of murdering a cop, and I got death threats.”
“Eight years? Well, I suggest you buy a new one. The latest models protect more parts of your body.”
“I’ll buy one tomorrow.”
When they reached the book store, Boff finished his coffee, crushed the cup, and tossed it into the gutter. Then he put one hand on his friend’s arm. “Pete, can I ask you not to bring Manny numbnuts along?”
Wallachi shook off Boff’s hand. “Oh, sure, you can ask. But the boy needs to learn. So, yeah, he’ll still be part of our team.”
“Well, if the damn kid gets me killed, I’m going to blame you.”
“If you get killed, my friend, the only person to blame will be you.”
Chapter 61
The next day Baumgartner phoned Boff with an upbeat progress report.
I called Emilio in for questioning.
“Good. Did you leak it?”
Very reluctantly, but, yes, I did. To the Daily News. I also met with the FBI for help on the off-shore thing and in putting pressure on Bruno’s businesses.
“Great work.”
What about you? What are you doing to push this along? I sure as hell hope it’s not something illegal.
“I have another call coming in, Carl. Gotta take it. Bye.”
It came as no surprise to Boff that, later in the day, he received a call from Emilio.
We need to talk, the mobster’s son said. White Horse Tavern. In an hour.
Parking was difficult near the tavern in the West Village, so Boff splurged on a cab. He could have gotten there faster by subway, but knowing that so many people in the world wanted him dead, he had a bit of a phobia about being underground.
The White Horse was the first bar Boff had gone to in college. It had opened its doors back in eighteen-eighty as a longshoreman’s bar, but when the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas became a regular patron, the tavern gained some cachet among the Bohemian set, especially in the Fifties. The place still had its old-world look and was one of the few taverns in New York that accepted only cash.
Boff found Emilio standing at the bar drinking a mug of beer.
“Let’s take a table,” the mobster’s son said.
They went into the first of two back rooms and found a small table in front of a four-by-six-foot blowup of Dylan Thomas standing at the White Horse bar drinking from a foaming mug.
A waitress walked over to them as they sat down.
“I’ll take a cola with lime,” Boff said.
“Another mug of the house ale for me.”
Emilio waited for the waitress to leave, then, “I got called in for questioning by the D.A. today.”
Boff said nothing.
“Did you have something to do with that?”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because the assistant D.A. I talked to seemed to have a pretty good grasp of the same kind of things I told you. In confidence, I might add.”
Boff shook his head. “There isn’t a D.A. in the city I’d give the time of day to, let alone information on a case.”
After the waitress delivered their drinks, Emilio leaned toward Boff. “Look, you can deny it all you want,” he said, “but I know you had a hand in tipping off the D.A. Didn’t you tell me you had no interest in hurting me?”
Boff took a healthy drink of his Pepsi before answering. “At the time I didn’t have any interest in hurting you. That’s because I believed Alicia was the one who hired the hit man.”
“And you think differently now?”
“Correct. Your father told me he never introduced Alicia to any of his friends. So Alicia didn’t know any mobsters. Which was not what you told me. By process of elimination, that means you were the one who contracted the hits.”
Emilio leaned back and glared at him. “Is that what you told the D.A.?”
“As I said before, I didn’t talk to the D.A.”
Emilio pointed a finger at him. “My father wouldn’t be happy if he found out what you did.” When Boff didn’t respond, he took a good tug on his beer, then said, “Are you wearing a wire, Frank?”
“Not at all. You wanna search me? We can go in the bathroom.”
Emilio studied Boff’s eyes. “That won’t be necessary,” he finally said. “Alicia’s dead, so there’s nobody left who could finger me. Not even you, because you don’t have any hard evidence.” After a pause, he added, “Why can’t you just let this thing go and return to defending scumbags?”
“Why? Because some people sent by you tossed my apartment, gave my kid a concussion, and wired a bomb to my car ignition.”
Emilio nodded, as if suddenly getting the point. “I get it,” he said. “This is personal for you. Is that it?”
Boff squeezed more lime into his Pepsi and dropped it in the glass. After taking another drink, he stared back at the banker without saying anything.
“I asked you,” Emilio said in a cold voice, “is this personal for you? It’s a simple question.”
Boff took another drink.
Pounding the table with his fist, Emilio almost shouted, “Dammit, Frank, everything was going good until you interfered.”
Now Boff smiled. “If things were going so good, how come you had to kill six people?”
Emilio glanced around to see if anybody had heard what Boff had said, then turned back and lowered his voice. “I meant that I was getting my life back in order. The escort service was helping me recoup money I lost speculating on the market.”
He sucked down the last of his beer. Although he looked really angry, he spread his hands and made his voice sound casual. “Frank. Frank. Things don’t have to be this way between us. I could pay you some cash and feed you a few stock tips.”
At this Boff let out a derisive laugh. “I’ve got plenty of money. And considering the way you and your compatriots almost bankrupted Wall Street, I’ll pass on your so-called stock wisdom.”
“Don’t make me call my pop in on this.”
“If you tried to, you’d have to use some strong evidence to convince him that I was involved in the D.A.’s decision to call you in. Evidence, my friend, you don’t have. Failing that, I suppose you could just shoot me yourself. If you had the balls. Which I seriously doubt.”
He leaned forward and fixed his eyes on Emilio’s. “You know what you are? You’re the privileged son of a rich man. You were handed everything and accomplished nothing. Your sole contribution to the world has consisted of encouraging gullible people to go heavily into debt, the weight of which wiped many of them out and nearly collapsed the economy.” He leaned back, as if he were relaxing. “You should’ve gone into your father’s business. At least then I’d be talking to a real man.”
A smile suddenly creased Emilio’s face. “I see your game, Frank. You’re trying to goad me into doing something that wou
ld expose me to risk. Well it won’t work, pal. I’m free and clear of any ties to the service, and my bank account is practically brimming over. As for the service, I’m already in the process of shutting it down.”
A young man and a woman holding hands walked over to look at the photo of the famous poet. The guy pointed to Thomas. “That’s Dylan Thomas,” he said. “He died here at the bar.”
Boff turned to him. “Actually, that’s not true. Dylan Thomas drank here. Then he went home and became ill. A few days later he died of pneumonia.”
The young man frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I’m a literary historian.”
After giving the so-called expert a sour look, he took his girl into the bar’s second back room. Boff and Emilio watched them go.
“Why’d you show the kid up?” Emilio asked.
“He was wrong. I like to get things right.”
“Yeah. Is that what you think you’re doing with me?”
When Boff didn’t answer, he signaled for the waitress, asked for the check, and stood up.
“This was an interesting conversation, Frank.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Despite your reputation, you’re in over your head.”
“I’m good at treading water.”
When the waitress handed Emilio the check, he put some cash on the table, then leaned down close to Boff and whispered, “Even good swimmers have been known to drown.”
Chapter 62
Boff was pretty sure Emilio was going to come after him pretty soon, so now he tried to work out of his house as much as possible. While his plan was to lure Emilio into making a move on him, he wanted the attempt on his life to happen at a time and place of his own choosing. Figuring that the gym was pretty safe, he put on his new Kevlar a couple days later and drove there without calling Wallachi to tail him.
Before trudging up the stairs, he surveyed the sidewalks and parked cars for signs of Emilio or anyone else who looked suspicious. Satisfied that the gym wasn’t being watched, he climbed the stairs and went inside. As he watched Cullen work, he noticed that the boxer seemed to be going through his rigorous drills much faster than he had six weeks ago and he didn’t look tired.
“Okay, Danny,” McAlary said, “let’s do the popcorn drill.”
By now, Boff knew what this drill consisted of. McAlary would stand behind a heavy bag and hold it in position while Cullen took some preliminary shots at it. Then the trainer would shout, “Popcorn,” which was the signal for the boxer to hammer the bag with as many punches as fast as he could for the next three minutes. Sort of like a popcorn popper bursting kernels.
Sierra was standing near the bag now and holding a lap counter as Cullen launched his blistering assault on the hundred-thirty pound sack. When the three minutes were up, instead of looking exhausted, Cullen danced on his toes and threw a few more punches.
“How many, Angel?” McAlary asked.
“Five hundred shots.”
“Good.”
Cullen frowned and stopped dancing. “Good? How about great?”
“Great is when you hit five-fifty.”
“When I hit four-fifty, you said great was five hundred.”
At that, McAlary smiled and walked away. After grabbing a towel, Cullen walked over to Boff. “I’m in the best shape of my life,” he said.
“I can’t say the same for me. It looks like Emilio is going to try and kill me.”
“Oh, man. What are you going to do?”
“I’ll have Wallachi. And Wally One-Eye.” They both smiled. “And a couple off-duty cops following me.”
“But instead of putting yourself at risk, why not just let your D.A. friend nail Emilio?”
“To a degree, I’m doing that. Carl’s working with the FBI to get an indictment. But it will take time.”
“Enough time for you to kill Emilio, right?”
Frowning, Boff looked around to see if anybody had heard what Cullen had said. “I would prefer you didn’t say things like that with other people nearby.”
“Okay. So…how are you going to eliminate the threat?”
“Use myself as bait. It’s my least favorite way, but I can’t come up with another scenario right now. Let’s not talk about it. Go back to your training.”
“I gather you won’t be coming to my fight.”
“I already bought front-row seats.”
Cullen looked surprised. “Don’t you think being exposed in a crowded arena would be…er…pretty risky? Why don’t you skip the fight? I’ll understand.”
Boff shook his head. “After all the time I’ve spent in this hot, smelly gym, I’m not going to let Emilio stop me from going to your championship fight.”
“Well, then do me a friggin’ favor. If you get killed in the arena, try and wait till after the fight. I wouldn’t want the biggest fight of my life disrupted.”
Boff smiled. “You got it, buddy. By the way, I found tape on YouTube of your opponent. Marco Diaz looks pretty tough.”
“I’ll beat him. Count on it. Not only will I win, but I’m going to knock him out.”
“I certainly hope you do. And if I live to see it, well, that’d be a nice bonus.”
***
Although Boff felt he was in control of the situation with Emilio, it frustrated him to know that all he could do was wait for the banker to make his move. On the plus side, he didn’t mind staying home because he got to see more of his wife than he usually did. And even Steven was reasonably pleasant to be around these days. More or less.
He certainly didn’t lack for things to keep him busy. A case had just dropped into his lap that promised to be a lucrative one. An orthopedic surgeon was being sued for malpractice because he had operated on a patient’s wrong knee. The surgeon claimed it wasn’t his fault because a hospital worker had scrubbed and shaved the healthy knee, not the one with the torn ligament. It looked like the kind of case that could drag on for at least two months. Even better, he had raised the price of his fee and retainer because he had a pathological dislike for doctors.
Although he had no idea when Emilio would act, he was pretty certain that if the D.A. and feds squeezed his father’s business and put Bruno’s life in jeopardy, the son would feel compelled to retaliate.
A week passed without anything happening. At the end of the week, Baumgartner called to tell him that he and the FBI were steadily cutting off the flow of money from Benvenuti’s various businesses, especially his bookmaking. From his mob contacts, Boff learned that Benvenuti’s soldiers blamed the boss’s son for the heat, and, indirectly, Bruno himself for not keeping a tighter leash on the kid.
When a couple of Benvenuti’s men bolted to the Colombos looking for work, Boff knew the end was near for Bruno. He wasn’t pleased about that because he liked the man, but if he wanted to push Emilio over the edge, this was the best way to do it. He also knew that with Bruno gone, he’d have a clear path to his son without fear of retribution.
A few days later, Baumgartner called again. Benvenuti had disappeared. He might have fled the country. Boff figured the mob boss had left the earth. Or more specifically, was six feet under it wrapped in plastic.
Two days after Benvenuti was reported missing, Boff received a call from Vinny Gorgeous.
That person we talked about? His name came to my attention again. Your name did, too.
“Did you give the green light?”
Not a chance. You’re my friend. Plus, he’s damaged goods now. It’s not smart to do business with him. He could shop somewhere else, but I doubt anybody will want to touch him. But, Frank, this doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods. This person could try to do the job himself.
“Thanks for the heads up.”
Be careful.
Boff called Wallachi. “It’s going to be soon. Come to my place and we’ll talk.”
Chapter 63
After pouring a mug of coffee for Wallachi and another for himself, Boff carried the cups into the livi
ng room and sat in a chair facing the investigator.
“Here’s the deal, Pete. Basically, whenever I’m going out, I’ll call Emilio and let him know exactly where I’m heading.”
“Daring him to try something.”
“That’s the plan.”
“So where do me, Manny, and the two cops fit in?”
“If Emilio tries to shoot me, the cops can either arrest him, or, if I’m lucky and Emilio actually shoots me in the vest, then our boys in blue can even kill him.”
Wallachi didn’t look too pleased about that scenario. “This is the craziest thing you’ve ever done.”
“Probably.”
“Did you at least buy the new Kevlar I recommended?”
“Yes.”
“Well, unless he pops you in the head, you should be okay.”
“He’s not going to shoot me in the head. Trust me. No way am I going let him get that close to me.” Boff took a quick sip of his coffee. “Working in my favor, I’m betting Emilio has little or no practice or experience with guns. Given that, he’d have a tough time hitting a small target like my head. Which means he’d probably go for the bigger zone.”
Wallachi, who hadn’t touched his coffee, finally took a drink. He nearly spat it out. “Jesus Christ, Frank! What kind of crappy coffee do you use?”
“It’s Maxwell House. It’s cheaply priced and very tasty.”
“Cheap, yeah, for sure. But tasty? I’ve had instant coffee better than this. You got any brandy I can put in this mud?”
Boff walked over to his bar, selected a bottle of Remy XO, carried it back, and set it down on the coffee table in front of Wallachi.
“XO?” Wallachi said. “Man, I never figured a tightwad like you to spring for a bottle like this.”
“I didn’t. It was a present from a grateful felon.”
Wallachi poured some of the cognac into his coffee, tasted it again, and made another face. “Shit. This cruddy mud’s killing the cognac. Lemme have a snifter.”
Getting up again, Boff fetched a snifter from the glass case behind the bar. Wallachi poured some Remy into it, swirled it, sniffed, and drank.
The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery) Page 29