The Killer Sex Game (A Frank Boff Mystery)

by Nathan Gottlieb

  “Ahhh! That’s better.” He put his snifter down. “Did I tell you this plan of yours sucks?”

  “More than once.”

  “Well, can you at least tell me the places you’re planning on going out to?”

  “I’m not sure. The only place I definitely intend to go to is the Garden. For Danny’s fight.”

  “What? Are you crazy, Frank! Do you have any idea how vulnerable you’ll be in an arena that seats over eighteen thousand people?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to let Emilio dictate where I can and can’t go. I’ve bought ringside seats next to me for you, Manny, and the two cops. Hey, it should be a good fight. You’ll enjoy it.”

  “Like hell we will. We’ll be too damn busy watching your ass to pay any attention to it. How many people do you think will be at this friggin’ fight?”

  “Apparently quite a few. The fight takes place the day after Mexican Independence Day. Celebrations are planned all over the city for that weekend. And, as luck would have it, the guy Cullen’s fighting is a world champion from Mexico.”

  “Oh, terrific! There’s gonna be a shitload of Mexicans flooding into the city, not to mention the three hundred thousand or so who live here.”

  “Correct. I’m guessing there’ll be upwards of ten thousand people in the arena. I called one of the ticket services. They said seats are going fast.”

  “How the hell do you expect me to protect you in a crowd like that?”

  “The way I figure it, if Emilio shows, he’ll try to take me out with a silencer. Either entering or leaving the Garden. Inside it, his best bet would be to catch me at a refreshment stand. So if I’m hungry or thirsty, I’ll send Manny. I can’t see Emilio shooting at me in the arena. Not with thousands of people watching. Unless he has a death wish.”

  “Which he might very well have. Frank, you wiped out a major source of his income, played a role in his father’s death, and now he’s facing pending charges that could put him away for life. So don’t rule out Emilio going for broke. Understand? And do me one favor. Don’t stand up during the fight. I don’t want you making yourself a six-foot five-inch target.”

  ***

  A couple days later Baumgartner called with more news.

  We’re closing in on Emilio.

  “Are you at a pay phone?”

  Yes. The FBI dug up his account in Barbados. They showed a picture of Emilio to bank officials, who confirmed that he was the same person who opened the account under the name Derek Jeter. The FBI and the IRS are in the process of drawing up a case as we speak.

  “Good work, Carl.”

  There’s more. The FBI has an undercover agent inside the Lucchese family. The agent told us Emilio had contracted several times with a family button. We picked up the button and started sweating him. He’s not being cooperative yet, but eventually we’ll get him to finger Emilio in exchange for witness protection. It’s over, Frank. In a week we’ll have Emilio behind bars. Two weeks at the latest.

  “That’s great.”

  There was a pause at the other end. Frank, you sound too casual. Are you even listening to me?

  “I can repeat every word you just said if you want me to.”

  Dammit, Frank! Whatever you’re planning on doing, call it off!

  Boff said nothing.

  Emilio’s going to jail. There’s no need for you to try to get justice your own way.

  More silence.

  Say it, Frank! Tell me you’ll stand down!

  “Look, Carl,” he finally said. “What if you arrest Emilio and he hires a hotshot defense attorney. What if he gets a couple private investigators like Frank Boff. And then he walks. I can’t take that chance.”

  There are no investigators as good as you.

  “Thanks for the compliment. I’ll think it over.”

  Don’t fucking think it over! Just say yes!

  “Talk to you later, Carl.”

  As soon as Boff hung up, he called Alfano.

  “I just heard one of your people is off the streets.”

  Yes.

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  I believe you. We have a rat in the house. I’m taking care of it.

  Alfano hung up. Boff thought of calling Baumgartner back and telling him to have the FBI pull their agent, but if that happened, the mob capo might get suspicious of him. He’d be damned if he’d put his life at risk for a fibbie.

  Sleep was elusive again that night. After lying awake in the dark for an hour, Boff quietly got out of bed, making sure not to disturb Jenny, made himself a mug of hot cocoa, and wandered into in the den. He had a choice to make and it wasn’t an easy one. On the one hand, his disdain for the justice system made him wary of letting Carl and the FBI handle Emilio. On the other hand, as much as he wanted to punish Emilio, risking his own life was not a terribly attractive alternative. There were, he figured, three ways that scenario could play out. One, Pete’s cops could catch Emilio in the act of trying to shoot him. If they arrested Emilio for attempted murder, it would give Carl a much stronger chance of convicting him on the other charges. Two, Emilio might actually succeed in shooting him in the chest or back and get killed by the cops. And three, the least attractive alternative, was that Emilio could get lucky and pop him in the head. As satisfying as it would be to watch Emilio die, there was also a case to be made that life in prison would be a slow, agonizing death for the young man. Emilio had said he’d gotten involved with the escort service because he couldn’t bear to give up his lifestyle. Life in a maximum security lockdown would be a devastating change of lifestyle.

  Somewhere around three in the morning, working on his second Remy, Boff made his decision. If Baumgartner was able to indict Emilio before he tried to kill him, well, he’d be okay with that. If not, he was determined to go through with his plan.

  It wasn’t perfect either way he looked at it. But it was the best he could do.

  Chapter 64

  Tired of waiting for Emilio to make his move, Boff decided the time had come to bait him. Besides, he had some loose ends to tie up with Wright and wanted to pay him for his services. Before leaving his apartment he made two calls. The first was to Wallachi, asking him to bring Manny and his two cop friends and tail him from his condo building to Wright’s place. The second was to Emilio. He left a message telling him when and where he was going.

  On the way to Wright’s shop, Boff checked his rear view mirror frequently to see if anybody besides Wallachi was tailing him. If Emilio was on the street, neither he nor Wallachi could detect him.

  When Boff walked out of the computer shop after wrapping up his business with Wright, he noticed that a taxi with a passenger in back was double-parked nearby. The taxi’s door opened. Out stepped Emilio. Wallachi’s crew immediately sprang out of the Crown Vic, which was parked about twenty feet away.

  Worried that their presence would discourage Emilio from trying to shoot him, Boff held up his hand to signal his team to stay put by their car.

  As Emilio walked over to Boff, he glanced at Wallachi’s crew and smiled. “Scared, Frank?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  As Emilio reached into his right pants pocket, Boff grabbed the banker’s wrist. Wallachi and his team drew guns.

  “Whatever’s in your pocket,” Boff said, “bring it out slowly.”

  “Sure, Frank.” Emilio grinned, and with Boff still holding his wrist, he drew his hand out of his pocket. All he was holding were a pack of Marlboros and a lighter.

  Boff still didn’t let go of his wrist. “Now I want you to pull out the pocket lining,” he said.

  Emilio pulled out the lining. The only thing left in the pocket was some loose change that fell to the ground.

  Boff let go of his wrist.

  With another glance at Wallachi’s team, Emilio said, “Gee, Frank. Four guys to protect you from one little old banker?” He shook a cigarette out of his pack, lit up, and said t
hrough the smoke he blew out, “You must be scared.”

  “Of you? Not really. What does worry me is that the indictment the D.A. is preparing for you could pull you off the street. I like my chances of getting justice better if you don’t have to go to trial.”

  Emilio took a couple quick drags. Though his lips were grinning, Boff could see nothing but anger in his eyes.

  “As long as I get even with you, Frank, I don’t care what happens to me. Men who don’t care anymore are the most dangerous. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “True. But as I said at the White Horse, you’re not much of a man. You’re probably more of a danger to yourself than you are to me.”

  Emilio’s smile faded. After taking one more hit on his Marlboro, he flicked the butt at Boff’s chest and headed back to his taxi. Just before he got in, he turned back, made a gun with his right hand, and mouthed, “Pow!”

  As the taxi drove off, Wallachi walked up to Boff. “Frank, call off this damn vendetta now! He could’ve shot you as soon as he stepped out of the cab.”

  “And? He’d have to be a pretty good marksman to hit me from that distance. Especially in the head. If he’d hit me in the chest, your two cop buddies would’ve had him—dead or alive. It doesn’t matter to me. I’m really sorry he didn’t try.”

  “Didn’t you say you wouldn’t let him walk right up to you? How could you be so dumb? If he did have a gun in that pocket, and you didn’t grab his wrist in time, he could’ve shot you in the head from that range.”

  “It wasn’t dumb, Pete. From the moment Emilio saw you and your crew, I knew he wasn’t going to shoot me.”

  “And what’s the basis for that piece of wisdom?”

  “Simple logic. Despite what you say about him having a death wish, I can’t see him going on a suicide mission. He’ll want to catch me by surprise and get away clean.”

  Wallachi looked around. “Well, only time will tell about that. Meanwhile, what I don’t understand is why the hell he showed up here in the first place?”

  Boff shrugged. “If he had street smarts, which he doesn’t, one reason could be he wanted to flush out my protection in order to see what he was up against. But I don’t think that was his intention. I think he just wanted to throw a scare into me. See me sweat. Which, as you well know, I rarely do.”

  Wallachi frowned. “Is this damn fight on TV?”

  “HBO.”

  “Then stay home and watch it.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “It’s not my life we’re talking about here,” Wallachi shot back.

  “Exactly. Which means I get to do with it whatever I want.”

  The investigator shook his head. “You’re the most stubborn asshole I’ve ever known.”

  Boff smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Wallachi motioned for Manny and the two off-duty cops to come over. The cops were in their early forties and appeared to be fit.

  “Artie, Jimmy, this is Frank Boff. He used to be a DEA agent.”

  Boff noted that Wallachi had conveniently not mentioned his current profession. After shaking hands, they made small talk for awhile, then Boff headed for his car, reaching inside his pocket for his trusty bomb detector as he went.

  Chapter 65

  When fight night finally arrived, Boff left another message on Emilio’s mobile phone, telling him where he would be and the exact location of his seats. As he and Wallachi’s team approached the Madison Square Garden lobby entrance, they were on high alert in case Emilio rushed them with a gun in his hand. But they got inside the lobby without seeing any sign of him.

  Nearly everybody has to walk through a metal detector to enter the arena. Wallachi held a brief conference with a Garden security guard and explained why they had guns, but it didn’t do any good. All of them, including the off-duty cops, had to surrender their weapons.

  Boff frowned. This is not good.

  Boff noticed that the only people who didn’t have to go through the metal detectors were members of the media, who were wearing press credentials on lanyards around their necks. The guards checked their press IDs, then waved them around the metal detectors.

  As soon as they entered the arena, Wallachi and Manny quickly positioned themselves in front of Boff, while the two cops walked behind him. As they headed down the steps to their ringside seats, his four bodyguards eyeballed the large crowd for signs of Emilio. Boff knew that even if the banker were in the arena, it would be very difficult for his bodyguards to spot him among the raucous Mexican fans of Cullen’s opponent who were waving flags and making ear-crushing noise with their plastic horns, drums, and accordions. A mariachi band was playing in the aisles of the upper-tier seats, and Boff figured there were more than a few tequila bottles being passed around. If he got killed, this rabid crowd would probably think it was part of the entertainment and cheer.

  Knowing the walk to their seats would expose him to an anonymous shot from the crowd, Boff nearly held his breath until they were seated. They were still exposed, but much less so. As the fighters for the preliminary bout entered the ring, he slouched down in his seat and let out an anxious sigh.

  Boff barely paid attention to the opening fight. He was too busy trying to figure out how and when Emilio would try to take him—if he was indeed in the arena. Then he recalled how everybody but the media had to go through a metal detector. If the mobster’s son wanted to bring a gun into the arena, the only way he could do it would be to secure a press credential.

  Boff suddenly stood up.

  “Get down for chrissake!” Wallachi said, tugging on his arm.

  “I have a question. I need an answer.” Shaking loose of Wallachi’s grip, he started around the ring toward where the members of the press were seated. Wallachi and Manny stuck close behind him. Boff stopped in front of a writer who was typing furiously on his laptop. The placard on his desk read William Trillo Pound4Pound.com.

  “Sorry to disturb you, buddy,” Boff said, “but I have a question.”

  Trillo looked up, a frown on his face. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of filing a report?”

  “This’ll only take a second. I’m a private investigator and a good friend of Danny Cullen.”

  That caught Trillo’s interest. “Can you get me into Cullen’s locker room after the fight?”

  Boff smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m pretty sure I can.”

  “Okay. What’s the question?”

  “How could someone who’s not a member of the media get a press credential?”

  “Well, all press credentials are issued by the fight promoter. They’re pretty darn stingy about handing them out. Probably the only way someone could finagle a cred would be to buy one off someone who has one.”

  “Is that done?”

  “Not a lot. But, yeah, it happens.”

  “How much would one go for?”

  “Oh, I dunno. I guess, depending on the fight, anywhere from three-fifty to a thousand.” Trillo looked at his watch. “I really have to get back to my story. I’m on an early deadline.”

  “Thanks for the info, buddy. I’ll try to get you into Cullen’s locker room.”

  Boff and his guards returned to their seats. As they sat down, Wallachi poked Boff in the arm again. “You’re thinking Emilio bought himself a credential so he could bypass the metal detectors?”

  Boff nodded. “It’d be the only way he could bring a gun in. Unless he had one of those plastic jobs like John Malkovich used in In the Line of Fire.”

  “That was bogus,” Wallachi said. “There’s no known gun made entirely of plastic. The closest thing is probably the Glock Seventeen. It’s an automatic pistol. Has some plastic parts, including the grip and trigger guard. But even the Seventeen is still about eighty percent metal.”

  “If Emilio did buy a credential,” Manny said, “then wouldn’t he be sitting in the press area where we could spot him?”

  Boff shook his head. “No. Once he got past the metal detectors, I’m su
re he’d remove the credential and sit in his seat in the general arena. He’d have bought one within shooting range of me.”

  When it came time for Cullen’s fight, the house lights went off and spotlights were trained on the ring. Wallachi and Manny stood up to try and scan the crowd around them, but it was too dark for them to see anything beyond the first few rows of seats. Shaking their heads, they sat back down.

  “Losing the house lights sucks,” Wallachi said. “It gives Emilio the perfect cover to slip into his seat.”

  A spotlight suddenly lit up the entrance that led into the arena from the locker rooms, and Boff saw Cullen step into the light. He was decked out in a black silk robe with gold trim, the same colors his father had worn. As the boxer started walking toward the ring with McAlary, Kate, and the trainer’s cut man, Davies behind him, the predominantly Mexican crowd showered him with boos and hisses.

  Cullen spotted Boff and nodded to him just before he climbed into the ring. Boff had never seen the kid’s eyes so intense. After Kate slipped off his robe, Cullen threw some fast combos in the air, and then, still throwing combos, he glided around the ring to test how tight the canvas felt. It was taut, meaning it favored his foot speed, which was far better than the plodding Mexican’s.

  The crowd suddenly erupted in a thunderous roar. Turning, Cullen saw the Mexican champion, Marco Diaz, entering the arena. He was wearing a huge sombrero and a lime green silk robe with bright red trim as he took the ring walk accompanied by his trainer and assistants, a mariachi band, and a couple guys waving a big Mexican flag. Nearly everyone in the audience stood up and cheered.

  Wallachi leaned toward Boff. “I hope to hell this is a quick fight so we can get out of here fast.”

  “Danny has a good track record of early knockouts.”

  After the ring introductions were made by announcer Michael Buffer, the fighters were given instructions by the referee in the center of the ring. Then they touched gloves and walked to their respective corners to await the bell. Cullen kept bobbing up and down on his toes to get his blood flowing. He also stretched his mouth wide open a couple times. A tight jaw is easier to break.