The Case Of The Little Italy Bounce (Woody Stone, Private Investigator Book 1)

by R. D. Herring

  That henchman was Poor Jack Mack who I thought was doing a stretch up the river. I ended by telling Dan I didn’t know what to say about it all going down in a skid row dump I’d stopped in to grab a beer and call a cab. I told him that my being there probably saved the ankle’s life. She might be some use to us.

  “Look here, bo,” Dan said, “I called your office and left a message the other day. I wanted to tell you that Jack McCoy got an early release from Sing-Sing. Believe you me, the DA’s office is looking into that travesty of justice.”

  “WHAT,” I choked on the booze. “I got a history with that maggot!”

  “Woody, I’m more aware of that than most. I also left two messages at the Taft. I even had a message slid under the door of your apartment. Look, I’m not one to talk...” his voice trailed. His veneer of composure cracked a little.

  “DAMMIT, Woody,” Dan lit a Camel, “everybody drinks. Hell, I wouldn’t trust somebody who didn’t drink. I’m just trying to say, sometimes I worry about ya, son.”

  I’m pretty much unflappable, but whatever was on Dan’s mind was making me nervous. I needed to get Groucho back over there. Then I thought... might not be the time.

  “I’m fine. Been doing without sleep - laying in a lot of bushes.” It even sounded lame to me. “Tell me about Poor Jack Mack.”

  “Well, he’s a shithead, but you already know that. What I’m saying is, Poor Jack’s not really the news here... When I asked you to locate Joe Gallo and trail him for a couple of days, I needed to know if he was really going to arrange a meeting with Vito Rossi. What I didn’t tell you, and probably shouldn’t be telling you now, is that my office has Gallo’s nuts in a vice over a murder in Pig Alley six weeks ago. We think it was his cousin, a hophead gavoon named Spillazzo, who made the hit. Gallo was with him; and Gallo doesn’t know how much we know.”

  He sipped his whiskey then continued, “We questioned Spillazzo and let him bounce to lay the groundwork. Course, Joseph Gallo’s been in the rackets since he was ten. We didn’t think he was gonna turn, but we leaned on him anyway. It was talking to a brick wall until we said all we wanted was some scoop on Vito Rossi. The thought of removing the East Side Boss made his little rat-like eyes light up, pure career advancement for him. The only conditions he had were no testifying and police protection if he requested it. His loyalty brings a tear to my eye.”

  What brought a tear to my eye, and sweat to my forehead, was the spinning of the room. When the hell did all this go down? Did I live in a parallel universe? I put my hand up to my clean-shaven face.

  “Stone, you okay”? Dan leaned forward in his chair and clicked his glass on the table. Groucho thought he had the signal and appeared with two tall whiskeys neat. I loved Ol’ Groucho.

  ***

  Joey Gallo was about my age. He grew up on the streets in Red Hook on the Brooklyn side of the East River. He started as a numbers runner for various organized crime mutts in his neighborhood. He got very ambitious and very ruthless.

  Everybody called him Crazy Joe. He was said to be flamboyant, well read and liked by all. I didn’t know and really didn’t care. I would’ve just as soon crush his windpipe. He spent a lot of time at the Copacabana. I picked up his trail a few days earlier at Roseland Dance City on 52nd Street. Pretty boring stuff; he was staying at a local hotel that week.

  A quick two-ounce-gulp of liquid gold cleared my head. It had been in the papers the previous month, what they called the ‘Pig Alley Hanging’. Except it wasn’t really a hanging, and it wasn’t in Pig Alley. Benjamin ‘Bugs’ Fein, a West Side labor racketeer and extortionist was an all-around Jewish gangster. His body was discovered hanging by one dead ankle from the 9th Avenue El. His tongue was missing. That bit of butchery was the calling card of Crazy Joe and his band of merry men.

  Fein’s flying corpse hung right where the elevated train ran past Charles Lane, a narrow alley from Washington to West Street in the West Village that the locals called Pig Alley. Charles Lane was the old northern boundary of Newgate State Prison, which stood there at the foot of the Hudson 150 years earlier. Benny Fein was a powerful guy in his own circles. However, if the Eyetalians want you dead, you get dead.

  The funny, maybe most shocking to the general public, part of the story was how Benny’s humble final resting place was spotted. Eleven Wall Street types were flying low overhead in a helicopter on their way to La Guardia Airport at 6:45 one morning when they spied Benny’s inverted wave.

  The Port Authority-West had opened Manhattan’s first commercial heliport at 30th street in 1956. For a while after ‘The Pig Alley Hanging’, tourists competed with businessmen for the fifteen seats onboard the New York Airways helicopters.

  By the evening edition, The PM Daily and other tabloids hit the street with a huge picture of Benny Fein’s lifeless fingers reaching for the asphalt. For 30 years, Arthur Fellig, better known as ‘Weegee’, had made a good living prowling the New York streets with his 4x5 Speed Graphic camera. If there was a mob hit, a burning tenement or a mangled driver in a car wreck, ‘Weegee’ got the picture for the yellow rags. He got that moniker from his magic knack of showing up at a crime scene before the cops arrived. Not everybody knew he had a police radio in his car.

  ***

  “Yeah, sure, I’m okay, Dan. I was thinking about what you just spilled,” I broke open a fresh deck of Luckies.

  Dan crumpled his Camel pack and reached for one of mine on the table. “There’s more”, he said from behind the Zippo flame. “This morning, Gallo calls. He’s not a tough guy today; he’s a piss stain. Says Rossi put a contract out on him. He doesn’t know why. Says everything was jake when his meeting with Rossi broke up at Umberto’s last night. Says I gotta help him like I said I would. Woody, you say you kept an eye on that meet?”

  “I didn’t leave until I saw Gallo leave about seven o’clock. You wanted to know if and when they met. That’s what I confirmed. I didn’t follow him back to his hotel cause I thought the job was done.” I was uncomfortable repeating myself.

  “Woody, if you directly drove the few miles to garage your car on Delancey, I’d say you were in that Water Street dive before eight. If all that shit went down after eleven, don’t you think you had more than a couple of beers?”

  I was dumbstruck. I was on my feet and on the street, in my mind. What I managed was, “So, did you help Gallo?”

  “I got him parked at the Hotel George Washington on Lexington Ave, the corner of 23rd Street. He’s Charles Smith in Room 208. I told him to stay put; somebody will be over. I’m trying to keep it low key, but I need him grilled right away. Cops’ll just spook him.”

  “Duck soup. I’ll find out what he’s got.” I was feeling better. Things were moving ahead. “Let’s get a couple ‘a those meatballs.”

  “Don’t have time.” Dan was already going through the ritual of getting vertical. “Call me at the office after you talk to Gallo. I also get from the North Side that Vito Rossi set up a council meeting at Rao’s Restaurant this afternoon.”

  Rao’s Restaurant was in the Eyetalian neighborhood in East Harlem, home away from home for the mob, right across from Jefferson Park. Bet if you dug up that park, you’d find more bones than in all of Egypt. My thought was, Joey Gallo’s seen his last Friday night at the Copa. He was about to trade his dancing shoes for concrete boots.

  I gave Dan a short cupped-fingered salute. He gave me a smile with one side of his mouth and turned smartly on his good leg. After that, I didn’t want to watch. I decided to get another belt before chow.

  ***

  It was so vivid. I vaguely knew it was impossible for me to be five years old again. I had on my cowboy boots and I was sitting on my white bicycle with the enclosed chain. It had the metal windscreen that said ‘Highway Police Patrol’. I got that for Christmas in 1934.

  We were at Pop Gilliam’s house across from Powell Road Park in Collierville, Tennessee. I was kind of mad. Mama’s Daddy’s driveway was gravel and I couldn’t make any he
adway even with the training wheels.

  Ronnie and I always loved taking the eight-mile ride out to see Pop Gilliam. To hear Pop tell it, he only did one important thing in his life. He charged up San Juan Heights with Teddy Roosevelt and the First U.S. Volunteer Cavalry in 1898. He loved to talk and tell stories about those days. His stories were far more illuminating than the written history of the Spanish-American War.

  He said they shipped out of Tampa, Florida and had to land in Cuba without the use of landing craft. When the Rough Riders and horses had to swim to shore, so many horses drowned that they became an infantry unit. Pop told us how they all had suffered terribly in the tropical heat and indirect fire from the town of Santiago. It was a puzzlement to Ronnie and me - Pop admired Roosevelt greatly, even though he said he was blunt and no gentleman. He was not a fan of Roosevelt’s Yankee ways.

  He told how the Negro 10th Cavalry ‘Buffalo Soldiers’ had been smack-dab in the middle of the battle and probably carried the load. It was the first time Negro troops were sent to serve outside United States territory. After the war, five Buffalo Soldiers were awarded the Medal of Honor. Lieutenant ‘Black Jack’ Pershing had been one of the officers in the 10th Cavalry.

  He showed us his thick wool uniform and told us how it didn’t fit anymore. We loved him very much. He was a happy man.

  Daddy took the training wheels off my white bicycle, so I was ripping around in a big circle on Pop Gilliam’s sandstone patio. Flat on my face before you could say Jack Robin. My eyes were closed but I could feel Pop Gilliam’s hand on my shoulder.

  ”You okay, son?”

  “You okay, sir?” It was Groucho Marx when I opened my eyes. I lifted my head off my folded arms. “Are you all right, sir?” Groucho again.

  “Sure, why?” I reached and crumpled my empty pack of butts.

  “I think you may have gone to sleep. The dinner crowd is starting to arrive. It’s not me, sir; some of them are talking.”

  “What are they talking about? What time is it?”

  “Sir, it’s almost six p.m. Perhaps you’d like to move into the bar. If you’d care to go ahead and choose a booth, I’ll bring your fresh drink straight away, sir.” His eyes added, ‘Please’.

  “I’d like to, chief, but I’m working.”

  I stood and straightened my suit coat. I found a five-spot and pressed it in his hand. He snapped to attention and clicked his heels. At least I rated in the finer establishments. I scooped my hat from the side chair, dodged the menacing six-foot plants and headed for a light I hoped was the front door.

  CHAPTER NINE

  (Saturday, June 11, 1960. George Washington Hotel, Manhattan.)

  Twenty-five blocks south, the hack dropped me at the George Washington Hotel. The Lexington Avenue main entrance of the looming brownstone was manned by not one, but two liveried doormen. I was mildly surprised to see I was only a couple blocks from Gramercy Park. The park was familiar. For a few weeks, I’d been seeing a drop-dead gorgeous dish that worked as a nurse at the nearby Bellevue Medical Center. She was a real tomato that loved to throw down a blanket under the stars.

  I remembered walking with her along the gravel paths in that park because she liked fireflies. The truth finally surfaced, she was off in the conk; she said all I wanted to do was drink and talk about cars. She did teach me a new word, truculent. It put me in mind of a Mack truck - that’s about all I remember of that conversation. Couldn’t quite remember what the word meant, and that thought made me smile. Life is good, if you don’t weaken.

  No answer to my knock at Room 208. Did Dan say 203? 28th Street? Tighten up, boy. I pounded three times on the heavy wooden door.

  “Open up. I’m with the DA’s Office!”

  ***

  Joey Gallo’s career had been a skyrocket from the backstreet alleys of Red Hook. In 1957, he took over the rackets left to him by the late Massimo ‘Tony The Freak’ Moratti, the waterfront racketeer and longshoremen's union leader. Gallo had married Rosa Sgarbi, the daughter of the Democratic district leader, Franco Sgarbi, increasing his clout.

  Though the five Eyetalian families dominated organized crime in the City, they allowed Gallo to operate in the Twin Bridges Area as long as they got their cut. Crazy Joe used to kidnap members of the Irish and Jewish street gangs from Hell’s Kitchen and the West Side and hold them for ransom.

  Although he ran the rackets such as gambling, policy, and loansharking, he was against the sale of drugs in his neighborhood. He wouldn't allow it. Don’t give him any medals; he was still malignant scum.

  In 1958, a young upstart, Ray DeMeo, attempted to take the neighborhood from Joey, muscling in on his territory and maiming a Gallo underling. Some trouble boys put the screws to DeMeo. They left him for dead in the light industrial area on Sheriff Street on the East Side. Sadly, he lived.

  DeMeo responded by hiring an Irish-American dropper named Joseph ‘Mad Dog’ Sullivan to assassinate Tom ‘The Greek’ Kapatos. The Greek was Joey Gallo’s friend and chief lieutenant. By Christmas Joe Gallo had moved his young family out of the Lower East Side to Woodside, Queens. He was afraid for their safety.

  On New Year’s Day, Ray DeMeo was found naked, tongue-less and gutted right back on Sheriff Street, whatever that message was.

  ***

  I was pounding on the room door again, “Charles Smith, I’m from the DA’s Office!” I heard movement inside.

  “Put yer mug in frunna da peephole.” his voice sounded muffled through the oak. I didn’t like standing in front of doors. My great granddaddy was gut-shot.

  The door cracked. Slowly Gallo opened it as if he’d recognized me through the peephole. The bloated scent of cologne hit me square in the kisser. One eye was showing around the door when he spoke.

  “I saw you outside Umberto’s Clam House last night.” What do you know? He did recognize me.

  “Never mind that,” I pushed the door, walked in and tossed my hat on the sideboard. “Word is, you got big problems today.” I started a quick tour of the room as he closed the door.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  He was right behind me when I pulled the curtain aside and looked out onto 23rd Street. His shirt was unbuttoned to below his chest. A gold crucifix, weighing three, four ounces, hung from his neck. He was used to being in charge, and I could see the goon was nervous.

  “My name is Stone. I’m working with the DA’s Office. You know Dan Logan, right? Right. He sent me over to talk to you. We know that Vittorio Rossi and, I assume, the whole Gambino Family has put the black dot on you.” I didn’t really know all that, but Gallo’s face confirmed it.

  Gallo had the look of a guy who had been athletic as a younger man, and maybe still did a few push-ups, but he was starting to go to seed. I had to establish right quick who was in charge in that room.

  “So get your head out a’ your ass and sit down there. SIT... down... there.” I lit a Lucky and offered him one. He studied me as he lit it. He was calming down.

  “Don’t mind if I call you Joey, do you...? Joey, are you packing heat?” His reflex hand movement toward his coat told me he was. “Listen, I know you’re not used to a situation like this. Let me hold your piece while I’m here talking to you. This is something Dan Logan told me to do.”

  I was trying to sound sure of myself, but you could’ve bowled me over with a feather when he took the snub-nosed .38 from under his arm and laid it on the coffee table. I took two steps and stuck it behind my belt on the side.

  “You got a plan, Stone?” He had the eyes of a Cobra.

  “That depends on what you can tell me, Joey.” I didn’t intend to tell him that Vito Rossi was having a family sit down in East Harlem, maybe as we spoke. I parked myself in an easy chair. “Why’d Rossi put a hit out on a money maker like you?”

  “I’m telling ya, I got no idea. This whole thing stinks to high heaven. What I do know is that Logan wanted me to get close with Rossi. Sure, I say, nothing out a’ da ordinary there. You scratch my back, I�
�ll scratch yours.”

  This guy was singing like a canary. A death warrant loosens the lips, sometimes other body functions.

  “So, I meet with Rossi last night at Umberto’s. We were having dinner. His driver comes in about seven and whispers something to Rossi, who says to me, gimme thirty minutes. Come back, we’ll have a drink. I’m kinda pissed over the treatment, so I drove off in my car intending to go to my hotel. I cooled down a little after going around the block and went back to look for Rossi. He’s still squattin at the same table. He spotted me and waved me over to take a chair. He made a big deal out of apologizing for the interruption. He had the waiter bring my meal all over again.”

  Joey pulled out a pack of Viceroys, lit one, and ran a hand over his greased-back hair. He poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher on the end table.

  “Then what?” I asked. I thought it was getting good; I had no idea...

  “Nothing for about an hour. Then Rossi’s driver, they call him Big Nig, came back to the table. This time, he’s just standing there talking. He told Rossi, ‘He’s at a bar on Water Street gettin soused’. I didn’t get it. I watched them both. ‘Good’, Rossi finally said. ‘He’s been nosing around plenty. Call Jack McCoy. Tell him to get strapped and meet me there. It’s gonna end tonight’.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, thinking I could catch this low-life in a lie. “Anything unusual about Vecchio?” Gallo’s eyes snapped to me; guess he thought nobody could name names.

  “Yeah, matter of fact, he was limping real bad.”

  “Prob’ly gout. You sure Vecchio said, ‘he’? Who were they talking about?” Like I didn’t know.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. No idea, they never said a name.” Cobra eyes and a lipless fish mouth.