Before heading up to the bar the next day to check out Doyle’s stories, Boff drove to the gym with a message for Steven that he hoped would tempt him to quit boxing.
When he arrived, his son and McAlary had just gloved up and climbed into the ring. To Boff, they looked like an odd match for a sparring session. Steven was three inches taller and two weight classes above where the trainer had fought during his career.
“You’re kind of small to be sparring with me,” Steven was saying. “Aren’t you afraid I might hurt you?”
McAlary smiled. “Son, I’m going to put you on your ass in less than thirty seconds. Ready?”
Steven nodded and they began sparring. Sure enough, before a half minute passed, the trainer had blistered Steven with a right hook to the head that sent him down. Looking angry that he had tasted canvas so quickly, Steven popped right back up and threw a bunch of awkward punches, two of which glanced off McAlary’s head but had no effect on him at all.
“Ready to hit the ground again?” the trainer asked.
“I’m not going down anymore!”
But a minute later, McAlary nailed him again with a right hook. Down he went. This time, he was a bit slower getting up.
“Steven, I can keep knocking you down all day. Know why?”
“Uh…because you were a world champion?”
“No. Because you keep your left hand too low. That makes it easy for me—or any experienced fighter—to fire a clean shot over that hand. You’ve got to keep your left high enough to protect your head. Understand?”
Steven nodded. Sure enough, when he remembered to keep his left hand up higher, the trainer was not able to put him down for the remainder of the round.
“Okay,” McAlary said, “we’ll stop here.” He laid a gloved hand on Steven’s shoulder. “Son, the best way to teach a young fighter is not with words but by punishing him for his mistakes. Like I just did with you. On the positive side, I hit you pretty hard, and you got right back up. So you’ve got a wee bit of heart.”
After they left the ring, Steven walked over to his father.
“Having fun?” Boff asked.
“Yup.” Steven fired a playful punch into his father’s shoulder.
“Your basketball coach called me,” Boff said. “One of his starting forwards had to quit the team because his father was upset with his grades. The coach said you’d probably start if you came back to the team.”
Steven shook his head. “Not interested. I’m a boxer now.”
“But you’ve always wanted to start.”
“That was then, Dad. I’m a boxer now. Things are different.”
Boff frowned. “We’ll see,” he said.
As he started to leave the gym, Steven called out, “Tell Coach I said thanks for offering. I’ll get him tickets to my first fight.”
When Boff walked into Bailey’s Pub carrying his laptop bag, he found Cassidy and Hannah sitting in a booth with a man who had salt and pepper hair parted straight down the middle.
“Frank Boff, meet Dave Thamel,” Cassidy said as Boff slid into the booth next to the newcomer. “He’s one of the News’ best columnists. He was a good friend of Nicky’s. I asked him to help us with the research.”
“Mike and Hannah brought me up to speed about what you guys are working on,” Thamel said as he and Boff shook hands. “I want you to know I had the same thought as you. I took a look at a few of his most recent stories, but nothing stood out to me. Well, except maybe one story Nicky wrote about the son of a Genovese capo who sold out the old man for fifty grand to feed a heroin habit. My mob sources tell me the son vowed to get back at Nicky. But before he could make good on his boast, the genius tried to sell stolen jewelry to an undercover cop. He was serving time when Nicky got killed.”
“Contracts,” Boff said, “have been ordered from prison.”
“Not by this kid. He was seriously broke and couldn’t remotely afford to hire anyone. He also couldn’t have asked any mobster for a favor because he’s persona non grata in the underworld for screwing his father over.”
Boff pulled his laptop out of the bag and started to open it, but Cassidy reached out and put a hand on the lid.
“Frank, let’s eat before we start,” he said. “I think better on a full stomach.”
Boff closed his laptop. “Eating always trumps work for me.”
“I took the liberty of ordering for us,” Cassidy said. “For starters, double orders of chicken fingers and mozzarella sticks. After that, I got grilled Virginia ham and Swiss for the men. For Hannah, the health food fanatic, I ordered a veggie burger.”
The redhead frowned. “Being a vegetarian is not being fanatical.”
“In the world I live in it is,” Cassidy said. “Right, Dave?”
Thamel smiled. “Actually, even though I eat red meat, I kind of like vegetarian food. I’m a sucker for a toasted tofu BLT.”
Cassidy wrinkled his face. “A good Irishman like you eats that garbage?”
“You ought to try one before knocking it.”
The old reporter dismissed that possibility with a wave of both hands. “I’d eat dog food before I’d stoop that low.”
A pretty young waitress brought out the appetizers Cassidy had ordered, along with plates, utensils, and napkins.
“Thanks, Alexis,” Cassidy said.
“My pleasure, Mr. Mike.” Alexis had a distinct Irish brogue. “Would the gentleman who just arrived care for a drink?”
“Coke with lime would be fine,” Boff said.
Cassidy put his hand on the waitress’ arm and said, “Alexis is studying to be an actress. She was trained in classic Irish theatre before she crossed the pond. We’re looking at a future star.”
“Only if God be willing, Mr. Mike.”
“Tell me, Alexis, would a good Irish lass like you ever eat a toasted tofu BLT?”
“Had one two days ago. I’m not big on meat.”
Cassidy shook his head. “If your mother and father back in Dublin knew, they’d be ashamed.”
Alexis laughed. “Actually, mum’s a vegetarian, although she does cook meat for my da. She uses gloves to prepare his steaks. Doesn’t even like touching the red stuff.”
While they ate, Cassidy did most of the talking. “New York’s all screwed up,” he began griping. “The old neighborhoods are gone, thanks in no small part to yuppies like Hannah.” He paused in his harangue while he finished off a chicken finger. “Even the Bowery has condos selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars. And don’t even get me started about the Lower East Side. All the immigrant sections have been renovated. They even have a friggin’ Tenement Museum on Orchard Street.”
When they were done eating the appetizers and the sandwiches, Boff, Hannah, and Thamel set their computers up on the table.
Thamel looked at Cassidy, who hadn’t brought a computer. “Where’s your laptop, Mike?”
“Don’t own one. My pudgy fingers can’t navigate those tiny keys.”
The other three quickly booted up their machines, went to the News site, and got all of Nicky Doyle’s recent stories.
“Okay,” said Hannah, “here’s the last story he wrote. He found out some city mail carriers were delivering drugs for a dealer.”
Boff shook his head. “I don’t see a mailman hiring a hitman,” he said. “Nor a drug dealer, either. Dealers don’t make a habit of killing high profile people. It brings them unwanted attention. Let’s look at what he wrote immediately before that.”
Hannah read the headline out loud: “‘Shuttered Park Slope Gas Station Still Pollutes Area.’”
“That was a great story,” Thamel said. “Residents of the area had been complaining for quite awhile about the strong odor of petroleum coming from a ten-thousand square-foot area that used to be part of a BP station.”
“Right,” the redhead said. “And when their complaints fell on deaf ears, one of the residents called Nicky. He went to the neighborhood and interviewed the residents. Back at the offic
e, he called BP’s public relations department and left messages that were never returned. Ditto with emails.”
Thamel nodded. “Being ignored fired up his juices. He wrote a blistering piece about BP and the city officials who were ignoring complaints from the residents.”
“That may be so,” Boff said. “But compared to the flak BP got after the Gulf oil spill? I doubt the company would’ve gotten all that worked up over Nicky’s story.”
“Scratch it,” Cassidy said.
After going back a full year, they had only a couple possibilities, both selected by Boff.
“The first one I want to check out,” he said, “is where Nicky came down hard on a slumlord. Soon after his story appeared, the city ordered the slumlord to clean up and modernize several of his buildings in Brownsville. Those renovations have to be costing him a ton of money.”
Hannah nodded. “The buildings were in one of the worst sections of Brooklyn,” she said. “Prior to Nicky’s story, the city had sat on its hands, despite this slumlord’s numerous code violations. So, yeah, I imagine this guy was really pissed.”
“Okay,” Boff said. “Then there are two questions that need answering. One, did the guy have any history of violence? Two, did he have the mob connections necessary to pull off a hit? Let me make a couple quick calls. I might be able to get a handle on those questions.” He took out his phone and hit the speed-dial.
“Damiano? I want you to check out a guy to see if he has a rap sheet. Name’s Victor Sorriano. Last name spelled with two Rs … Okay, thanks.” He hung up. “She was in her police car. She’s going to call it into her precinct. It should take a couple minutes.”
While he waited for the return call, Boff made another call.
“Vinny, Frank Boff. I’ve got a question. Have you, or any of your compatriots, ever heard of a guy named Victor Sorriano? … Uh huh … Thanks. That’ll be great.”
“Who was that?” Cassidy asked.
“Vinny ‘Gorgeous’ Alfano. He’s going to check Sorriano out and call me back.”
“Alfano, huh. Yeah, I know the guy. He’s a capo in the Lucchese family. About eighty years old and dying of stomach cancer. I actually met the guy at a bar mitzvah—in Jersey, no less. He seemed like a standup guy. If you could get past what he did for a living.”
When Damiano called back, Boff put her on speaker so they could all hear.
Sorriano was convicted of assault and battery when he was in his twenties and did some jail time. Six years later, he got hauled in for a barroom brawl where he broke a whisky bottle over some guy’s head. This time he hired a top mob lawyer named John Pastorini, who got the charges dismissed. Sorriano’s in his fifties now and has been clean the past twenty years. Well, if you can call a slumlord clean.
“Thanks, Victoria.”
Disconnecting, Boff looked at Cassidy. “What do you think?”
Cassidy took a minute, then said, “Well, obviously this slumlord is capable of violence. But just because he used a mob lawyer to beat a rap, that doesn’t necessarily mean he has connections.”
“True,” Boff said. “Although that being said, this guy probably had to know someone to get a mob mouthpiece to defend him. Let’s wait and see what Vinny Gorgeous digs up.”
When Alfano called back a few minutes later, Boff put him on speaker again.
I asked around, Frankie. Apparently this guy has some ties with the Colombo Family. Something about co-owning tenements. Couldn’t nail it down any more specific.
“Thanks, Vinny. I owe you.”
No, you don’t. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dying in some ratty prison hospital instead of my home. Make sure you drop by before I drop dead. Alfano cut the connection.
Boff nodded. “Okay, I think we need to check this Sorriano guy out,” he said, looking at Cassidy.
“I agree,” the old reporter said.
“I’ll try to hook up with the mutt later today,” Boff said.
Cassidy thought for a minute. “As for me, I’ve got a good contact in the Colombo family. I’ll drop by his social club on Arthur Street and break bread with him.”
Boff nodded. “Then I think we have this slumlord covered.” He looked at his computer screen for a moment. “The second story Nicky wrote that’s potentially promising is this one where a WASP stock broker with Goldman Sachs was frequenting prozzies in a Harlem cat house owned by a drug dealer.”
“Yeah,” Hannah said. “One of Nicky’s informants tipped him off to that. So Nicky poked around and found out most of the girls were underage. The broker eventually copped a plea and testified against the dealer.”
“I remember that one,” Thamel said. “The guy was a low-level trader. Got fired over the incident. Then his rich father cut off a trust fund he’d set up for him. Nicky was busy on a new story by then, so he asked me do to a follow-up on the guy. What I found out was that shortly after he ratted out the dealer, the guy was beaten to within an inch of his life. Presumably by thugs sent by the dealer. Nicky’s story ruined this guy’s life.”
Cassidy shook his head. “No. The mutt did it himself by losing control of his prick. It wasn’t Nicky’s fault.”
“Mike,” Thamel said, “guys like that never take blame for their own mistakes. He would’ve shifted the blame to Nicky.”
The men all nodded, but Hannah had her doubts. “I’m not so sure this guy’s a suspect,” she said. “I mean, if he lost his job and his trust fund, how would he have had enough money to hire a hitman? That story broke months ago. Let me Google him and see what I can get that’s more current.” After a couple minutes, she looked up. “You can cross this dummy off.”
“Why?” Cassidy asked.
“The dickhead’s dead. Hanged himself two months before Nicky was killed.”
Boff shut down his laptop and closed the lid. “All right,” he said, “we’ve got one suspect. I’ll have a chat with Sorriano, hopefully today. If we end up scratching him off, we go back and concentrate on the dead cop. I know this was largely a waste of time, but we need to be sure Nicky wasn’t killed for a story he’d already written. Not the one he was working on.” He signaled for Alexis and handed her his credit card.
“Whoa!” Cassidy said. “Alexis, give him back that card. Frank, this is my house. You’re my guest. Put it on my tab.”
“Sure, Mr. Mike.”
Thamel checked his watch. “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he said. “It was great seeing you, Mike. And thanks for the lunch.”
After Thamel left, Boff chatted with Cassidy and the redhead for awhile before taking off, too.
Chapter 10
Boff decided now was the time to bring his information broker, Billy Wright, into the case. He called Wright when he left the pub and asked him to see what he could dig up on Sorriano. Later in the afternoon he drove to his ex-DEA partner’s computer repair shop in Williamsburg.
In order to get himself in the proper frame of mind for dealing with Wright, he slid a CD of Jerry Lee Lewis’s “Great Balls of Fire” into his car’s player. On the ride over, he thought about his ambivalent feelings in working with the guy.
The upside was that Wright was a computer whiz and a master at gathering information. The downside was that the man was a maniacal conspiracy theorist. His current obsession was jet “chemtrails.” Wright was certain that the chemtrails contained harmful chemicals and biological agents the government was spraying at high altitude for a sinister purpose undisclosed to the public. Every visit to Wright’s repair shop included the latest news on chemtrails and the progress the New World Order was making in its mission to take over every government on the planet.
Boff parked a few doors down from the computer repair shop, took a deep breath, and walked to the shop. Even though it was only mid-afternoon, there was a CLOSED sign on the front door. While Wright did indeed fix computers, he only put in two or three hours a day doing it. The rest of his time he worked in his backroom, where he had four computers and a combination printer an
d fax machine.
Boff waved at the surveillance camera mounted above the door and was buzzed in. The door to the backroom was unlocked. Stepping into the inner sanctum, he noted that, as usual, the place was littered with fast food bags, donut boxes, and Styrofoam cups. The only clean spot was the immaculate L-shaped desk where the information broker was working on one of his four big computers.
Wright looked over his shoulder. “Take a seat, Frank. I’ll be right with you.”
Before sitting down, Boff opened a mini refrigerator, took out two Cokes, and set one down on Wright’s desk. Then he sat in another computer chair. After a few minutes, Wright swiveled his chair around. He was a heavy-set man in his early forties with a dark complexion, a round face, and a thick nose.
“Frank, I’ve got some scary new news about the chemtrails.”
“Tell me later.”
Ignoring that, Wright launched into his latest paranoid news bulletin. “Back in ‘95, a document entitled ‘Owning the Weather in 2025’ was submitted to the director of the Air Force.”
“I’m not interested.’
“The document was supposed to be a fictional report not intended for real-life scenarios. But in reality? It was a detailed research paper about the potential for developing aerospace technologies that could control and manipulate the weather.”
“For chrissake, Billy, spare me!”
Wright wagged a finger at him. “This is important stuff, Frank.”
“So send me an email about it. Later. My spam folder needs fattening.”
“Frank, the technologies and capabilities in that report have become a reality. They’re going to use chemtrails to seed the atmosphere and cause hurricanes and monsoons. For what purpose, you ask—”
“—I didn’t ask.”
“—to get rid of people the New World Order considers ‘useless eaters.’” Wright pointed to a table. “There’s the report over there. It’s a copy. Take it home and read it.”
“Are you done? Let’s get down to business. Did you have any luck with Sorriano?”
“Well, you didn’t give me much time, but, yeah, I found some things. This mutt’s one bad dude. The godfather of slumlords. Or at least he was until Nicky Doyle did the story on him. Now, instead of buying more properties, Sorriano’s being forced by the city to spend a shitload of money to renovate the worst of his tenements.”
The Payback Game Page 6