1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  “Hey, Frankie.” Lou walked over and gave him a slap on the back. “They told me you were coming. Anybody fill you in?”

  “The lieutenant gave me the basics. He said you’ve had three now.”

  Mazzetti nodded. “Three, yeah, but this might be the worst.”

  Frankie motioned for Lou to join him in the kitchen. “Lou, listen, I—”

  “Donovan, don’t worry. I knew the captain was gonna give the lead to someone. I’m glad it’s you.”

  “Thanks, Lou.”

  “Let me fill you in. First one was bad, like this. The guy makes them suffer. Kate says they’re dead before he shoots them.”

  Frankie listened as Lou went over the details, then he spent time walking around. He checked the body, looked at the mess on the floor, picked a few things off the dresser then headed toward the kitchen. “What’s this?” he asked, looking at an evidence bag on the counter.

  “Rat shit.”

  “You said there were no clues.”

  “I bagged it, didn’t I? But it’s no clue; it’s rat shit.” Mazzetti laughed. “You want more? We got cat hairs in the sink, but he doesn’t have a cat. There’s probably dog shit in the bedroom, or who knows, maybe in the fuckin’ freezer. But no dog. And we got enough DNA to represent half the criminals at Riker’s.” Mazzetti waved his hand in the air, as if to surrender. “It’s the same old shit. That’s why I got no leads after three killings.”

  “Guess we got too many clues,” Frankie said, and picked up a brown paper bag at the end of the counter. “What’s in here?”

  “Dead rat. Found it in the fridge. How’s that for a psycho? You think this guy ate them?”

  Rat shit and a dead rat. “Mazzetti, I want everything you’ve got on these murders. Every scrap of information. Every photo.”

  “I just told you. We got nothing.”

  “Get it ready for me.”

  “You know something?”

  Frankie remembered the time Nicky and Tony broke into Billy Flannagan’s house and stuck a rat in his fridge. “Maybe I do.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to share?”

  Frankie considered his answer carefully. Some things even partners didn’t share. “I’ll think on it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Is this how you work with a partner? I’d have been better off with Jumbo.”

  Frankie opened the door, turning to Lou before leaving. “I think somebody sent me a message. If I’m right, you don’t want to know.”

  FRANKIE PULLED INTO A parking space and walked toward his apartment. Alex and Keisha, two of the kids from the building, were sitting on the stoop. He was in a hurry to get upstairs, but he always made time for these two. Alex was ten years old and, like a lot of young street kids, he was nothing but ribs and skin. Keisha was twelve and going through one of those slightly chunky phases that young girls hated. “What are my two favorite brats doing out in this cold?”

  Alex didn’t bother to look up. “Not everybody hates cold like you, FD.”

  “You know why we’re here,” Keisha said.

  Frankie sat next to them, shivering when his ass hit the concrete. He reached over and rubbed Alex’s head. “Your mom got company?”

  Alex’s chin rested on his hands. “Yeah.”

  “Besides that, how’s it going?”

  That drew a smile. “Not bad, FD, how ’bout you? Still catching bad guys?”

  “Not so much catching as looking for, but it keeps me busy.” Frankie put as much enthusiasm as he could muster in his voice. “I’ve got to get out of this cold. Why don’t you two come up? I’ll make dinner.”

  “I’ve tasted your cooking,” Alex said.

  “Guess it’s just me and my girlfriend.”

  Keisha straightened her skirt, grabbed hold of Frankie’s hand and walked inside.

  Alex followed. “I didn’t say I wasn’t coming. Your cooking’s bad, but it’s better than what I’ve got.”

  Frankie kept his smile as they walked up the stairs. What he wanted to do was bust Alex’s mother and haul her ass to jail. He would if he could figure a way to keep Alex out of child services.

  When they hit the second floor landing, Keisha’s mother poked her head out the door. “Keisha, time to eat, baby.”

  “We’re eating with FD.”

  She stepped into the hallway, hands on her hips and a stern look on her cocked head. “Girl, how many times have I got to tell you—Detective Donovan doesn’t need you and Alex keeping him from work. Lord knows we need some people arrested in this city. We could use some arrested right here in this building.” She gave Frankie a raised-eyebrow stare when she said that.

  Keisha protested, but her mother put a stop to it. “No arguing.” As she walked back into her apartment she turned. “Bring Alex if you want.”

  Alex sniffed the air then looked at Frankie. “FD, I’m taking a pass on your invite. You smell that pot roast? Gonna be way better than what you make.”

  “Don’t be surprised if I come down to eat with you guys,” Frankie said, and started up the steps toward his apartment. He was relieved to have the night free, but sad the kids weren’t joining him. Some people had soft spots for dogs or cats. For Frankie, it was kids. He couldn’t refuse a kid in trouble. Maybe because of his own troubled youth, or maybe he just thought he could make a difference.

  By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he had his tie off and his shirt unbuttoned, despite the chill of the stairway. He turned the key and pushed open the door, greeted by a vast emptiness. An empty house for an empty person. That’s what Mamma Rosa used to say. He shrugged, as if accepting the inevitable, made his way to the kitchen, opened a bottle of Chianti, then took a shower.

  When he came out, clad in shorts and a T-shirt, he poured a glass of wine and sat at his desk. Writing opened his mind and let him think differently. He thought about the day and the crime scene. Rat shit and a dead rat. The rat held special significance. To any other detective it would have been nothing, but to Frankie it said a lot. If someone from the old neighborhood was involved it reduced his suspect list from millions to a handful. At the top of that handful were two people—Tony Sannullo, crew boss for the Martelli crime family; and Niccolo Fusco, otherwise known as “Nicky the Rat.”

  He clicked the top of his rollerball pen, took a narrow-lined notebook from the drawer and started. Frankie used computers for almost everything, but he preferred to write the old-fashioned way, with a pen on paper. The pen felt comfortable in his hand. Even the nuns back in grade school told him he’d be a writer someday.

  Anyone with penmanship like yours will learn to write. That’s what Sister Mary Thomas told him. Maybe her inspiration kept him going when he wanted to quit. Frankie sipped the wine, put ink to paper and wrote:

  ‘This story started about thirty years ago, down by Philly. But that’s a long way off and a lot of years past. Even so, my memory is clear on this—how you ask—it’s easy for me. Tony, Nicky, and I were best friends. So how did Frankie Donovan, a Brooklyn Detective, and Tony Sannullo, a mob boss, and Nicky “The Rat” Fusco, come to be best friends?’

  Frankie set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t feel right telling this story. Maybe that’s why he couldn’t get started. People say that the past holds the key to the future. Frankie didn’t know how much of that was true, but he knew someone from the old neighborhood was involved with these crimes. If he hoped to solve them he’d have to figure out where things went wrong. Frankie put his hands behind his head and kicked his feet up. If this is about the old neighborhood, then it’s really Nicky’s story. Maybe he should tell it.

  CHAPTER 4

  WITH LIFE COMES DEATH

  Wilmington, Delaware. Summer—32 Years Ago

  My mother’s name was Maria Fusco. They say she struggled with her pregnancy, and that the first eight months felt more like eighteen. Morning sickness lasted four months, then headaches, back pain, stomach cramps—all the things she didn’t wa
nt, especially with her first child. Rosa Sannullo, her neighbor and best friend, said it was a sign, and not a good one. Trouble in the first few months meant the baby might get toothaches or gas pains. The second few months meant a troubled youth. But problems throughout the pregnancy usually meant a bad child, the sign of the devil at work. Rosa always blessed herself when she said this, and she always carried a cornicello—an amulet to ward off evil—to clamp onto the child the moment it was born.

  Rosa stayed with my mother the whole day, dabbing her head with a cool cloth when the fever came, spooning pastine in her mouth when it waned. “Eat, Maria.”

  “Not hungry,” she mumbled. “Where’s Dante?”

  “Dante’s still working. But listen to me. I’ve had four babies, tended to eight or ten more, and I’m about to have another. You need to eat for the baby. He needs strength.”

  Maria’s laugh was weak and forced. “You keep saying he. How do you know it’s not a girl?”

  Rosa scoffed. “A girl would never cause so much trouble. Girls wait until they are grown—then they cause trouble.” She raised her head toward heaven and sighed. “Dio santo. You don’t want to know the trouble they cause then.”

  Rosa scrubbed the pot she cooked the pastine soup in, then set it aside to dry while she finished the dishes. “Besides, you need to have a boy so he can play with my Antonio.” She rubbed her swollen belly and laughed.

  Maria shifted to her side, holding her stomach. “Maybe I should go in.”

  Rosa bent down, put her hand to Maria’s stomach. “Water hasn’t broken, but he is kicking hard. That’s a good sign.” She stood, thinking. “But if you have pain, maybe we should go in. I’ll get Dominic.”

  ROSA TALKED ALL THE way to the hospital, and all the time holding Maria’s hand. “Betty McNulty asked about you. And that Snyder woman down on Chestnut Street.”

  Maria nodded. “She’s nice. How is her little girl doing? Didn’t she have trouble at birth?” Maria’s hands flew to her stomach. Her knees raised. “Rosa.” Her teeth ground together, forehead wrinkled. “Oh, God. It hurts.”

  Rosa patted Maria’s head while she squeezed her hand. “It will be all right. Hold on.” She leaned toward Dominic and whispered. “Sbrigati.”

  “I am hurrying, Rosa.” Dominic stepped on the gas, but every block Rosa yelled more. Half a mile later his tires screeched as he pulled into the hospital entrance. He jumped out, flung open the back door and pulled Maria out, carrying her in his arms.

  Rosa held the door open and shouted. “Get a doctor. This woman is having a baby. And she’s bleeding.”

  An attendant met them in the hall with a wheelchair. He helped Maria out of Dominic’s arms, then rushed her toward the operating room. Rosa grabbed hold of a doctor talking to a nurse. “Dottore, get in there with Maria. That woman is having a baby. Sanguina. She’s bleeding.”

  They waited five or ten minutes before Rosa remembered no one had told Dante, Maria’s husband of ten years. It was difficult to tell at times which one loved the other more. He doted on her and she waited on him as if it were her only job in life. “God help me, Dominic, we didn’t tell Dante.”

  “Calm down, Rosa. Do you know where he is working?”

  “Some job…” She scratched her head. “By the waterfront. Down on Front Street.”

  Dominic nodded. “I know the one.”

  Within half an hour, Dominic returned with Dante, his face etched with worry. He rushed over and hugged Rosa.

  “How is she?”

  “She was in a lot of pain.”

  For more than an hour they sat, and paced, and worried. As Rosa prayed on her rosary beads, Dante got up for the third time. Paced more. Wrung dry hands. “What could be wrong?” His brow was a wrinkled mess.

  “Please sit,” Rosa said. “Worry wears the heart raw.”

  Dante came back to the sofa and sat. “We cannot lose that baby. It’s all Maria has lived for.”

  Rosa looked into his eyes and held his face. Dante Fusco was a stonemason, a strong man. But even more, he was a respected man. She hugged him again then waved to her husband to leave them alone. “It will be all right, Dante. Try not to worry.”

  Minutes later a doctor came through the double doors of the waiting room. He looked around as he took the green mask off his face. “Mr. Fusco?”

  Dante jumped up and ran to him. “I am Dante Fusco. How is Maria?”

  The silence seemed to last a year. As the doctor reached for Dante’s hands, Rosa was up and running to him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fusco,” the doctor said. “We couldn’t save her.”

  Dante heard the words and knew their meaning, but he could not accept them. Something twisted inside of him. Snapped. Broke. He stared at the doctor. No tears. “And the baby?”

  “You have a healthy boy.”

  Dante nodded, then turned and walked away. Walked past Rosa, waiting to console him. Then past Dominic, returning with coffee. He walked out the door and all the way home, never stopping for anything, thinking about nothing but Maria. About the life they would never have together.

  THREE DAYS LATER ROSA went with Dante to get the baby. Dominic drove.

  “Dante, a baby cannot go unnamed for so long. If it does it will lose its soul.”

  “Once I get him home I will find a name.”

  “I always liked Gianni,” Rosa said. “Or Vittorio.”

  “I will think on it, Rosa.”

  Rosa blessed herself. “Think all you need to—just give him a name before Satan does.”

  As they neared home, Rosa reached over and blessed the baby. She had already put the cornicello around his neck. “He should be breastfed. Two blocks over, the Snyder woman’s neighbor just had a baby. She could feed him. And that Irish girl on Maryland Avenue—Camille, I think her name is—her baby is only three months old. She should have plenty of milk. Those Irish always have good milk.”

  Rosa leaned back, rubbing her own enlarged stomach. “This little one is kicking. I think he wants to come out and play.”

  “How do you know it is a boy?”

  “Because she’s a witch,” Dominic said, from the driver’s seat.

  Rosa brushed her hands in the air. “Because I already have four boys, and I have the same feeling I had with them. I must have done something very wrong for God to punish me like this.” She blessed herself when she said it. “Dio Santo. He kicked again. We might not need that Irish girl. It looks as if Antonio will here before the doctor thinks.”

  Dante patted her arm. “You’re a good woman, Rosa. Thank you for your help.” He leaned forward then said, “And thank you, Dominic. I appreciate all that you and Rosa have done.”

  “Don’t forget what I said about breastfeeding. He already looks skinny.”

  Dante sighed. “Rosa, I know how you feel, but babies do fine with formula.” He kept a firm, yet soft, grip on the baby, wrapped in a blanket Rosa knitted. He looked at its twisted features, pinkish face, curled feet. Not a good trade for Maria. Not a good trade at all.

  MY FATHER DIDN’T GIVE me a name until I was five days old. Rosa warned him not to wait, said Satan might claim me.

  Niccolo Conte Fusco—that’s the name he gave me. I guess it’s questionable whether he did it in time. Some, like Rosa, swear he did; others…well, others might say he waited too long. Far too long.

  CHAPTER 5

  COPPERS

  Wilmington—26 Years Ago

  I woke up happy on my sixth birthday. August first was the day I was born, but Mamma Rosa made me celebrate two birthdays—the day I was born, and the day Pops named me, just in case the saints mixed them up.

  School was more than a month away so we had plenty of time to do things. Plenty of time to get into trouble, my father said. He was mostly right. Tony, Frankie, and I ran that neighborhood, at least in our minds. We were six, going on eight, and wishing we were ten.

  Smoking cigarettes was old hat by now. It was one of the things we lived for. Anytime we were
far enough away from home or the prying eyes of a neighbor, there were smokes dangling from the left side of our mouths. Had to be the left side too. I don’t know where that came from, but somebody we saw and admired must have done it that way.

  I was still lying lazily in bed when the front door opened. I heard feet pounding up the stairs.

  “Get your butt up, Nicky.” Tony came in, followed by Frankie.

  Frankie’s real name was Mario, named after his mother’s father, but he didn’t like the way Mario sounded with Donovan so he went by his middle name. If we wanted to piss him off, we called him Francis. Worked every time.

  “Christ’s sake, half the day’s gone,” Tony said. “Let’s go.”

  I jumped out of bed, started dressing. “What’s the rush?”

  “You guys are gonna help with cleaning.”

  “You prick.” Frankie said, and wrestled him to the bed.

  We all laughed, then ran up the hill toward Tony’s house. The hill we lived on was steep, not San Francisco steep, but the kind of hill that was great for stick-boat races in the gutters after a summer rain, or for catching rides on the bumpers of cars when it snowed. Anyway, we were kids and running up hills was fun.

  “This better not take too long,” Frankie said.

  “We’ll be done in no time.” When Tony opened the front door, the sweet smell of garlic hit me. I was hungry before the storm door banged shut.

  “Good morning, Mamma Rosa.”

  “What are you boys up to?” She shut off the upright vacuum and pulled a dust cloth from a pocket on her old plaid dress to wipe the end table.

  “We’re helping Tony clean,” I said. A few steps later we were across the living room and into the dining room.

  “Coffee is in the pot, Nicky. And taste my sauce. Tell me what you think.”

  Mamma Rosa called it “sauce” like the Americans did. Many of the immigrants called it “gravy” or “ragu” and got insulted if you said sauce. It was one of the few American customs Mamma Rosa adopted early on, and nothing was more important to her than her sauce.