1 Murder Takes Time

by Giacomo Giammatteo

Suit smacked my hand away. “Let’s get Tony.”

  We picked Tony up then walked to the corner to get Frankie.

  “What’s up, Frankie? Why so glum?”

  “Same old shit. Always one parent that’s a prick.”

  “At least you got two parents.”

  Frankie looked at me with a sad face, one I’d always remember. “Sometimes two parents aren’t so good.”

  “Hey guys, let’s forget the depressing shit. We got a game to work.” Tony tried lighting a match while he walked but it wasn’t working. “Gonna be a big game.”

  “Lot of tips,” Suit chimed in. “Lot of tips.”

  I scoffed. “If you’re lucky enough to get a winner. Get a loser, and they’ll be borrowing from you.”

  “You’re just pissed ’cause you always get losers,” Frankie said.

  The other guys laughed and I was forced to agree. “Can’t catch a break on that.”

  “Who’s playing?” Frankie asked. His mood seemed to be brightening.

  “Everybody. Charlie Knuckles, Mikey the Face, The Whale, Jimmy the Gem, Paulie Shoes. Probably more.”

  “Who ain’t playing?” Suit asked.

  We set a fast pace to the smoke shop, where Nicky the Nose was standing duty for Patsy. He let us into the back room, checking the street first to make sure no one was watching. As soon as we entered, we heard Patsy “The Whale” Moresco’s laughter rolling through the room. If you judged happiness by laughter, Patsy was the happiest man alive. Tony used to say that if you wanted to find Patsy, follow the laughter, and he’d be at the end of it, his big fat palm banging on a bar or a table—something.

  “Frankie, get your ass over here.” Patsy sat at the bar, on a stool that looked too frail to support him, his meaty hand clasped around a drink.

  Frankie ran over, eager to get an early start on the night. Serving drinks earned good tips, but it was usually a bad omen. The guys who drank typically lost in the game, and that’s where the big tips came in.

  Pretty soon, everyone had shown up, and Doggs assigned the players. Tony got Paulie Shoes and Charlie Knuckles, and he couldn’t have been happier. Knuckles almost always won, and he was the best tipper. People would think with a name like “Knuckles” it was because he had big knuckles. It was the opposite. Charlie blamed it on the nuns beating him with rulers, and though it didn’t make sense, it earned the nickname. Paulie Shoes was another story—he loved shoes. When he was a kid, he spent all his money on them. He had ripped pants and shirts with frayed collars, but his shoes were always new. Paulie Shoes was a 50/50 shot, but if he won big Tony would be in business.

  Suit got Tommy Tucks and Patsy. Frankie got The Nose and Pockets. And I ended up with The Face and Doggs. I was hoping for Jimmy the Gem, but he didn’t show; still, I wasn’t unhappy with the pick. Face could do good if he caught cards, but Doggs was too tight. Only way he’d win big was if the other guys got drunk or went on tilt.

  Before we started, Doggs brought out a coffee can with a lid. “I just caught eight goddamn cockroaches in the back room,” he said. “I’m gonna let the fuckers go. The one who kills the most bugs wins ten bucks.” Doggs knelt on the floor, turned the can upside down then opened the lid. Eight roaches ran like hell as soon as they hit the floor.

  Frankie’s eyes lit up. “That ten bucks is mine.”

  Tony and Suit laughed like hell. This job was tailor-made for Frankie.

  The Donovans had the misfortune of living next to the DiNardos, who reigned over an empire of cockroaches, water bugs, flies, and an assortment of other pests. That would’ve been okay if the bugs had respected property lines. But those German roaches must have inherited more than an ancestral name, because they always tried grabbing new territory. No matter how much concrete sealant or stucco Mr. Donovan put on his basement walls, those bugs found a way to breach the barrier. During hot summer nights, when everyone had their windows open, the screams of the Donovan girls echoed for blocks whenever a roach ran across the floor or, God forbid, across the bed.

  Frankie was invisible to his father. The only praise he earned was for killing bugs, so he got good at it. Got to be so he could out-think a roach, knowing which way it would turn before it moved. He could stomp a roach and catch a fly at the same time. Doggs didn’t know it, but he had entered a fixed race.

  Frankie went into action, stomping, whacking and even using the broom handle to kill the bugs. Within a few seconds, Frankie killed every roach before anyone else got one.

  Mikey the Face laughed so hard he choked. “What the hell was that? Did you see that shit? Frankie killed them fuckin’ roaches like he had a machine gun.”

  “Frankie, hell,” Doggs said as he peeled two fives off his wad of bills. “Gentlemen, meet Bugs Donovan.”

  While Doggs congratulated him for a good show, Face peeled a five from his stack and tossed it to Frankie. “Here you go, Bugs. One helluva job.” Everyone laughed, but this time the laughter held a note of respect. Killing was killing. It didn’t matter if it was roaches or people; killing took finesse, and these guys respected it.

  Frankie finally had a name. We tried forcing names on him before, but they didn’t take. Names weren’t like that. You couldn’t force them. Had to come on their own. ‘You gotta earn a name’ Paulie Shoes always said.

  Doggs checked to make sure the doors were locked then took his usual seat, back to the wall so he faced the main entrance. “You hear about Moynihan getting whacked?”

  I plopped a drink on the table in front of Knuckles. “Not sorry to hear that. He always busted my balls.”

  “Guess that’ll teach him to pick on Little Nicky,” Doggs said. Everyone laughed, as if they knew a joke we didn’t.

  I looked over at Tony and Frankie, but they shrugged. Guess they didn’t know either.

  The game kicked off at eight. Before long they were heavy into play. By ten, Knuckles was up a grand. He tossed Tony a ten-spot and a leash. “Take Pisser for a walk. And make sure he does it all.”

  Tony stuffed the ten in his pocket. “What kind of fuckin’ name is Pisser?”

  “Watch your mouth, you piece of shit.”

  “Where you want him walked?”

  Knuckles grunted. “That’s more like it. Take him to the park. And be patient. That dog will piss on everything he sees.”

  “Jesus Christ, Knuckles I don’t have all night.”

  Knuckles laid his cards on the table and turned to stare at Tony. “You got ten dollars, you shit. If I tell you to walk that fuckin’ dog to Philly and get him a cheesesteak, that’s what you’ll do.”

  Tony headed toward the door, his hand waving in the air. “Okay. Okay. Fuck.”

  “Watch your fuckin’ mouth. I already told you.” Knuckles turned to Doggs. “I don’t want that kid no more. Next time give me The Rat or Bugs.” He shook his head as he picked up his cards, mumbling. “Can’t stand ungratefulness in a boy.”

  Shoes crushed his cigar out in the ashtray. “Hope he doesn’t run into Chinski’s dog. That son-of-a-bitch is nasty, and it can run.”

  “Should be in a race,” Face said, then looked around the room. “You know, that ain’t a bad idea. We should get all the dogs in the neighborhood and have a race. Bet on them.”

  I smiled, but I wanted to laugh at him. How the hell is he gonna have a dog race in the neighborhood? I’m stuck with two losers, and now Face was thinking about dog races instead of cards. Just win a pot, I wanted to tell him.

  Suddenly an idea hit me. When Face said we should have a race, it reminded me of the way those roaches ran when Doggs dumped them on the floor. Face was right; the neighborhood needed races, but not with dogs—with roaches.

  CHAPTER 13

  WHAT’S IN A NAME?

  Brooklyn—Current Day

  Frankie drove home with the heater cranked up to 75. He circled the block looking for a parking spot, then saw Keisha and Alex playing step ball. He picked up energy drinks and beef jerky, which Keisha loved, then came around again.
On this pass, Alex flagged him down. Frankie lowered the window. “What’s up?”

  Alex pointed to construction cones blocking part of the street next to the curb. “Saved you one, FD. Figured that might be worth something on a day like this, knowing how you hate the cold and all.”

  Frankie laughed as Alex cleared his spot. The kids called him FD. He didn’t know if it stood for his initials or “fuckin’ dick” but he didn’t care; they said it with respect.

  “Who’s got five for old FD?” Frankie said as he got out of the car.

  “Sure as shit ain’t me,” Alex said, and held his hand out to bump fists. “You know we don’t do that slap-five shit no more. How old are you?”

  “Too damn old, I guess.” Frankie tossed a pack of jerky and handed them the drinks. “How’s my best girl?” Keisha was an adorable kid, twelve years old, with smooth chocolate skin and long hair she wore in pigtails.

  “Waiting for you to make my day. You’re the only one who laughs, besides me and Alex.”

  “You’re both full of shit.” Frankie started to walk away but Alex called him back.

  “Hey, FD. How ’bout you stay and share a smoke with your little buddy?”

  “You’re too damn young to share a smoke,” Frankie said, but he stopped at the stoop and handed one to Alex, then stood around to talk.

  “FD, why you always jiggling change in your pocket?”

  “To remind myself that I need real money. Cheese. Green. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “If you don’t think that change is real, hand it over to Alex.”

  Frankie laughed, but he gave Alex his change and went inside. The steps to his apartment were worn from years of tired feet scraping them. He was tired, too, and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But he knew he’d end up working; he couldn’t get his mind off the girl. If Nicky had anything to do with this, the girl was a key. When Nicky called, he said she was in trouble, and not the kind of trouble that got solved in a back room of a dark alley. This was mob trouble, and these killings had mob written all over them. Of course that brought Tony Sannullo into play too. Tony knew about the girl. And he knew a lot more than what he was saying.

  Three cold beers later Frankie quit work, thought about popping in an old movie, but decided to open his mail instead. He had the normal assortment of bills, and a large padded envelope addressed to Mr. Mario Francis Donovan.

  Who the hell sent this?

  He pulled the tag on the envelope, opened it, then reached inside, drawing his hand out immediately. “What the fuck?” Several roaches lay next to the package. Frankie grabbed the envelope by the bottom and shook it. More roaches came out. “Eleven,” he said, and remembered the significance. There was no question now that this was someone from the old neighborhood. Only a few people knew about that—Tony, Paulie, and Nicky. Maybe a couple of others. Frankie thought about it until his brain felt fried, then went to bed, falling asleep in minutes.

  WHEN IMAGES OF THE roaches woke Frankie for the third time, he decided to get up and take notes. Years ago, he started keeping notepads by the bed, a little thing called the NiteNote. Greatest thing his ex ever bought him. He pulled the pen from the NiteNote, which kicked on a battery-powered light, then wrote on the 3x5 cards it held.

  Bugs and roaches. Not coincidence.

  Frankie decided to make a few charts.

  Nicky:

  Friends

  Honor

  Girls

  Nuns

  Prison

  Fearless

  Smart

  Rosa

  Tito

  Cleveland

  Tony:

  Friends

  Honor

  Girls

  Nuns

  Mob

  Conniving

  Smart

  Rosa

  Tito

  Brooklyn

  Frankie learned early on that this line of thinking proved successful. As he went through the case, he would write down anything that coincided with these words, adding more as he went along, and perhaps scratching some off. Already he could fill something in, and he wrote next to the “Smart” column—killer is definitely smart. Has us confused. Knows police procedure. As more thoughts came to mind, he filled in the chart. When he hit a lull, he stepped back to look at it from afar. Sometimes it made a difference.

  Right now Frankie wished he could distance himself from the case. But this was his first big homicide, and he needed to trust that his legendary Irish luck would pull him through. It had done a good job so far: it had helped him survive gang fights, a broken marriage, seven years on the force—street duty, robbery, drugs, back in robbery—all without compromising his morals.

  He lit a smoke, vowed to quit once again, then laughed at his predicament. At least he could still laugh. Nicky could laugh too, but not Tony. A laugh from him was as rare as a curse word from Mamma Rosa.

  Frankie got up to make coffee. Might as well take advantage of all the vices. He needed to be sharp for this analysis. He owed both of them that much, especially Nicky. And if this was Nicky, then Frankie had to help him. Nicky would do the same. He had done the same, many times. Frankie laughed at the memory of when Nicky backed down four guys just by staring at them. Never said a word. Of course he did have his father’s eyes. That was a scary man. Frankie often wondered about him, ever since that day in Schmidt’s back yard, when Nicky thought Mikey the Face was going to kill his father. It was the day of the roach races.

  CHAPTER 14

  ROACH RACES

  Wilmington—19 Years Ago

  It was an early morning meeting and everyone was there: Tony, Frankie, Mick, Paulie and me. Tony recruited Paulie because we needed extra help. I wouldn’t go so far as to call Paulie stupid, but Tony manipulated him like Gepetto did Pinocchio.

  I got everyone’s attention then laid out the plan. “We do it just like the track. We’ll make odds and take bets.”

  “People in this neighborhood will bet on anything,” Tony said.

  Bugs lit a cigarette and handed one to Mick. “Yeah, Shoes and Patsy bet on what color gum balls come out of the machine—twenty bucks a pop.”

  “Who’s gonna catch the roaches?” Mick asked.

  “Bugs is—who do you think?” I said.

  Five minutes later, Bugs headed down to DiNardo’s basement with a jar. He was supposed to get eleven roaches, ten for the race and one extra. He came back within twenty minutes, holding a jar full of frantic, nasty roaches.

  “Twelve,” he said. “Got an extra one in honor of Suit.”

  We laughed our asses off. Suit didn’t like the number eleven. There were eleven kids in his family and he lived on the eleventh house on the street, number 1111. “Too many fuckin’ elevens” Suit’s father always said, and Suit took it to heart. If he was eleventh in line at school, he’d push somebody out of the way so he could be tenth. He wouldn’t even play football because there were eleven guys on the team. Suit avoided elevens like Paulie Shoes did thirteens.

  We all got a good laugh, but then got to work. Tony’s job was to write the numbers on small pieces of paper, which Paulie glued onto the roaches’ backs. Bugs painted a small circle on the concrete, about the size of a coffee can, then another one about eight feet in diameter, making it almost four feet from the coffee can to any part of the circle. This was no scientific calculation, it was dictated by the space we had on the German kid’s concrete pad. The concept was simple: Suit would put the roaches in the coffee can, then we’d turn it upside down in the little circle. When he lifted it, the roaches would scatter, heading in all directions. The first one to cross the line won.

  “How do we do the odds?” Suit asked.

  Never being too good at math, things like odds boggled Suit’s mind.

  “We should ask Doggs,” Tony said.

  I nixed that idea. “He’ll be betting. Can’t trust him if he stands to make money.”

  “Who we gonna trust?” Tony asked.

  �
�Sister Thomas.” Bugs said, and acted like it was a good idea.

  I smacked him in the head. “You’re gonna ask Sister Thomas to calculate odds for our races? What the hell is in your head?”

  “Doesn’t she always say to put what we learn to practical use?”

  Tony was all smiles. “He’s right, Nicky. Nothing more practical than this.”

  “You ask her. I’ve had my beatings for the month.”

  Tony and Bugs braved Sister Thomas’ wrath and discovered not only was she willing to help, she was well-versed in race-track odds and how to calculate them based on previous performance. This made us wonder about the life of nuns in general, and of Sister Mary Thomas in particular.

  “When are we gonna have it?” Mick asked.

  We decided on Saturday and tacked signs to telephone poles throughout the neighborhood. By 12:30 on the day of the races, we only had four people in the backyard, not counting us. We were damn disappointed. But by five to one, we had thirty, maybe forty, paying customers. I tapped Mick on the leg. “This is gonna be big.”

  At one o’clock, Suit gave a loud, shrill whistle, signaling the start of the first race. The crowd gathered around. Must have been fifty people crammed into Schmidt’s yard. Bugs stood on the concrete stoop and announced that bets were closed for this race, then Suit grabbed the coffee can and set it down on the little circle. He tapped the bottom of the can, making sure all the roaches were on the concrete, then slid the lid out from under it and lifted the can.

  Roaches scattered everywhere. Frankie’s sisters screamed. Everyone except the DiNardo kid stepped back a few feet. Calls from the experienced track people drowned out the others.

  “Come on, number two!” Mr. Schmidt yelled, his roach being in the front, but at the last minute the roach turned and ran the other way. He laughed and tore up his ticket. “That’s why I don’t go to the track.”

  Number five raced across the finish line a second later, followed by numbers seven and ten. I tapped Tony on the shoulder. Nervous as shit. “How’d we do?”