“Who’s Aaronwald?” asked O’Loughlin.
“He’s another of them smart-ass Yids Braverman just moved up to rackets,” Cassidy replied.
“Ain’t that something?” said O’Loughlin. They were just passing Bush Terminal, which was dark; O’Loughlin remembered during World War II it only looked dark, but behind blackened windows they were working night and day in those factories. “The whole friggin’ Queens D.A.’s office is Yids. You think at least Braverman would have somebody else on the staff. But everyone he puts on is a Yid.”
“What d’ya mean?” replied Cassidy. “There’s Riccuiti and Lewis.”
“Oh, great, a wop and a nigger. I don’t think there’s an Irishman on the entire staff. Is there? Can you name an Irishman?”
Cassidy thought. “Not off hand.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
From the highest part of the raised highway, they could see the downtown financial center in Manhattan, the darkened shadow of the Woolworth Building, the twin towers of the World Trade Center, still lighted, sending long, bright reflections slithering across the lower bay to Brooklyn. They could see ships anchored in the outer harbor waiting to have their cargoes unloaded. The clock in the tower of the Prudential Building, the two faces of which, from the angle of the highway, looked like the eyes of an owl, indicated 2 A.M.
“Two o’clock and still hot as a bastard,” said Cassidy.
“You think that cheap bastard’d buy us an air conditioner,” O’Loughlin griped.
“Who, Braverman?”
“No, my father-in-law.”
“What in the name of Holy Mother Church does your father-in-law have to do with anything we’re talking about?” asked Cassidy. He guided the car under the Brooklyn Bridge and along the Expressway toward Queens Boulevard.
“He’s got to do with my apartment and the fact that his 129 daughter and grandson don’t even have an air conditioner. The cheap bastard.”
“Not to mention his cheap bastard son-in-law,” laughed Cassidy.
“Yeah, if I could afford it, I’d buy it,” replied O’Loughlin.
“Give up every other of them brews you drink, and you’ll have the money in no time,” said Cassidy.
“It’ll never be that hot,” laughed O’Loughlin.
The small parking lot outside the D.A.’s office in Kew Gardens was filled to capacity with unmarked, dark colored police vehicles. So were the adjoining streets. Cassidy and O’Loughlin each silently made out all the license plates with the police serial numbers.
“Christ, the joint’s crawling with cops,” said O’Loughlin.
“A hell of a lot of cars over here.” Cassidy surveyed, his eyes looking for an empty parking spot. “Ah, here we are, a very pretty little spot,” he said softly as he stopped and backed the car to the curb. “A little tight, maybe,” he muttered to himself, maneuvering to get the car straight. “A neat little job of parking. Tight but neat.”
“You wouldn’t complain like that if you were talking about some dame?” said O’Loughlin.
“Just out of a warm bed with your dear wife and you’re talking about other dames. No wonder that cheap bastard father-in-law of yours won’t buy an air conditioner.”
“It’s not for me, Mickey. For his daughter and little Jamesy,” laughed O’Loughlin.
“And what would she do, shut it off when you come home, Jocko? Jocko my own, you’re talking to your old pal Mickey now.”
They got out of the car and made their way up to the D.A.’s office, which was in a building behind the Supreme Court Building. Just to the rear of the D.A.’s building, was the Queens Branch of the Men’s House of Detention. It was the Queens version of The Tombs, far newer and more modern however, even had piped-in music; which from 6A.M. to lights out was sheer torture. The three buildings formed the core complex of criminal justice in Queens. A policeman in uniform was sitting at the reception desk. He nodded to the two approaching detectives.
“What the hell’s going on?” O’Loughlin asked the cop.
“You’re about the hundredth guy who asked me,” said the cop. “And I’ll tell you, like I told them. I don’t know. It’s all very hush-hush. Some kind of secret raid, I figure.”
“Jesus Christ, a Jewish James Bond, no less, the good people of Queens have for their D.A.,” said Cassidy.
The cop at the desk laughed.
The two detectives walked along the corridor which led to the Rackets Bureau offices. The closer they got, the more they could hear the noises of many men talking, laughing. As they turned the corridor, O’Loughlin and Cassidy saw a hallway full of detectives. All were in civilian clothes, some with just shirts, the tails out of their pants to hide their service revolvers, others with suit jackets and ties, some with shirts and jackets, no ties.
“Okay, okay, quiet down now,” called Stan Greengold, chief of the Rackets Bureau. He was heavy set, with a thick, jowly face, and a space between his front teeth. Green-gold was standing in the corridor, in the midst of the detectives. Another assistant, a new man, probably Aaron-wald, thought O’Loughlin, stood next to Greengold, holding envelopes in his hand.
The hubbub diminished slightly.
“Okay, hold it down,” repeated Greengold. “Let’s get this over with. We have a lot of work to do tonight.”
“What is it?” asked a faceless voice from the crowd.
“Yeah, what are we going to do that’s so secret?” asked another.
“We’re going to take over Borough Hall,” replied a wag in the crowd. “This is a coup d’état,” he said, purposely fracturing the French pronunciation.
“What’s that, a kind of car?” yet another wag asked.
“Knock it off,” admonished Greengold firmly.
The men began to settle down.
“We have assignments for each of your teams,” said Greengold. “Each of your men were given partner’s names. Has everyone met up with his partner here?” He looked around. No one said anything. “Fine, I guess that means you did. Now, each team will be given one of these envelopes.” Greengold took one of the envelopes from Aaronwald and held it aloft. “In the envelope is an assignment. It’s a subpoena the service of which you’re to effectuate as soon as possible after you leave here. You are not to discuss your assignment with anyone, nor even open up your assignments until you’re under way in your cars. The reason that we’re doing it at this hour is that this is all part of an over-all plan and we’re hoping that most of the people you have to apprehend will be in bed, and we’ll catch them all before they have a chance to warn each other.”
“And before the raiders have a chance to warn anybody else, hanh?” asked a sarcastic voice from the midst of the crowd.
“I don’t think this is a press conference,” said Green-gold unflustered. “You each have an assignment, and you have to effectuate it immediately. So let’s get going.” He took all the envelopes and read from the first. “Ludwig and McCarthy.”
Two detectives came forward and took the envelope. “You can go right out now and execute that. Leave as you get your assignments,” he announced to the room. “O’Loughlin and Cassidy.”
Mickey Cassidy took the envelope. He and O’Loughlin made their way back past the reception desk and rang for the, elevator.
“What is it?” asked the cop at the desk.
“Can’t open it until we’re in the car,” said Cassidy.
“Stop the shit,” said the cop.
“Orders is orders,” laughed O’Loughlin. “These guys learned a lot from the krauts in them concentration camps.”
The elevator arrived and the two detectives descended to the ground floor. Once under way in the car, O’Loughlin opened the envelope. Cassidy stopped the car near a street lamp. The envelope contained a subpoena for Pasquale Pellegrino to appear before a Queens County grand jury forthwith.
“Patsy The Crusher,” said Cassidy. “What the hell is up? Nothing new came in on him that I know of.”
“You see the whole pi
le of envelopes?” asked O’Loughlin. “They must be pulling all the bent noses in Queens off the streets.”
“What do you figure?”
“The Compagna killing,” O’Loughlin replied. “What else? They must figure they’ll get all these greaseballs so shook up enough with a grand jury investigation that they won’t make a move and start a war over Compagna.”
Cassidy thought for a moment, then nodded. “That must be it. A quick sweep of everybody so they know we’re right on their ass. This way they’ll be afraid to start shooting in the streets.”
“Why the hell stop them?” said O’Loughlin. “Let them kill a few more of their own. Save us the trouble.”
“Only one thing wrong with that,” cautioned Cassidy as he started the car forward again.
“What’s that?”
“If we let them do that, it’ll take weeks to clean all the grease from the streets.”
O’Loughlin laughed as they headed toward Brooklyn, where they knew The Crusher would most likely be. A grand jury subpoena was valid throughout the state, so they could serve The Crusher wherever they found him.
Cassidy was out of the car now. He had parked on a side street about fifty yards from the High Hat Lounge on Avenue T in Flatbush. O’Loughlin watched as Cassidy cautiously peeked into a side window of the bar, then made his way back to the car.
“He’s in there,” said Cassidy, leaning on the window frame of the car.
“Like shooting fish from a barrel.”
“In a barrel,” corrected Cassidy.
“In your ass.”
“Up to your old trick, hey Jocko?” Cassidy laughed. “And you said you liked girls.” He got back in the car, and drove into the shadows across Avenue T so they could simultaneously watch the front and side entrances of the High Hat.
“What time is it?” asked Cassidy.
“Quarter to three.”
“Shouldn’t be long now.”
Both Cassidy and O’Loughlin knew The Crusher’s entire file, knew where he lived in Queens, hung out in Brooklyn, had his hair cut, everything. They also knew better than to try to arrest him inside the High Hat Lounge, and perhaps start a fight, which, although they would ultimately win, perhaps, by calling for additional police help, might precipitate injury that was unnecessary. Especially since The Crusher would be out of his lair soon enough.
The neighborhood surrounding the High Hat Lounge was mostly residential. Everything was quiet and still in the breezeless heat except for the softly drifting sound of the jukebox in the High Hat, which could be heard whenever the door was opened or closed. Finally, at 3:05, Cassidy and O’Loughlin saw Patsy The Crusher come out He stood on the sidewalk in front of the High Hat with a short, thin man for a few minutes, talking. Sounds of laughter and indistinguishable conversation drifted to the unmarked police car. The two detectives watched as the small man and The Crusher parted, each going a separate way. The Crusher walked half a block and got into his car, a three-year-old Buick. People in The Crusher’s financial position rarely owned new cars. They couldn’t afford such a showing of wealth to the ever inquisitive Internal Revenue Service. The Crusher’s car was on the same side of the street as the police car, headed in the same direction.
“Crusher didn’t get issued a new license, did he?” asked Cassidy, as he watched The Crusher’s car move away from the curb.
“Not that I know of,” replied O’Loughlin. He smiled.
“Then he’s committing the God-awful crime of driving with a suspended driver’s license. A misdemeanor. Now we can even give him a toss. See if he’s armed,” said Cassidy. “Should I stop him?”
“Let him get a little farther away from the bar,” said O’Loughlin.
They followed The Crusher’s car several blocks. It stopped ahead at a red light.
“Pull in front of him,” said O’Loughlin.
Cassidy drove next to, and then cut in front of, The Crusher.
The Crusher watched the other car and its occupants, at first disinterestedly. Then a look of recognition opened his eyes wider. His mouth frowned as Cassidy and O’Loughlin each got out of their car. Cassidy walked to The Crusher’s side of the car. O’Loughlin moved to the passenger side, just ahead of the doors, so he could watch The Crusher through the windshield.
“What now?” The Crusher tossed out in his raspy voice as he lowered the electric window.
“License and registration,” Cassidy asked coolly.
The Crusher studied Cassidy and his outstretched hand. “Let me just look in the glove compartment,” said The Crusher, leaning to the passenger side of his car.
“I wouldn’t try anything funny,” said Cassidy tensely. He reached for his pistol. O’Loughlin braced.
“Officer, I’m surprised,” chided The Crusher. “You think I’m foolish enough to go through some cops-and-robbers scene with you? I’m a peace-loving citizen.” He laughed.
“License and registration,” repeated Cassidy. “And don’t make any fast moves.”
The Crusher rummaged in the glove compartment and came out slowly with the car’s registration. “I can only seem to find the registration, Officer.”
“You know and we know you don’t have a license, Patsy. What’s the act all about?” said Cassidy.
The Crusher laughed. “I was looking, maybe I’d find an old one in there. What are you guys, demoted to riding traffic lights now? Making spot checks?”
“No license, Patsy?”
“But come on!” The Crusher complained. “You stop me at three-thirty in the morning to find out about my license?”
“We came to serve a subpoena,” said Cassidy, handing the paper from the envelope to The Crusher. “But, now we find you committing a crime, driving without a proper driver’s license. Out of the car, Patsy.”
The Crusher studied Cassidy. “You gotta be kidding! Okay, you wanted to give me a subpoena. Okay, I got it Now stop breaking my balls, get out of the way and let me get home.”
“Out of the car, Patsy!”
“Hey, look, what are you breaking them on me for?” asked The Crusher. “You know I’ll show at the grand jury whenever you want me. You’re regular guys. You did your job, so let’s forget about the rest of this for tonight. It’s late.”
“Are you getting out of the car?” Cassidy demanded.
“Puttana,” exploded The Crusher, pounding the steering wheel with his beefy hand. He flung open his car door and got out. He stood about three inches taller than Cassidy. O’Loughlin was as tall as The Crusher, but was outweighed by about fifty pounds. The Crusher was angry, his mouth hard, the muscles in his neck bulging. “Okay, I’m out, now what the fuck do you want?”
“Open the car doors on the other side and the trunk,” Cassidy instructed.
“Open your sister’s ass,” replied The Crusher.
O’Loughlin walked around the car to the side where Cassidy stood. He removed the keys from the ignition.
“Turn around, face the car, lean against it with your hands and feet spread,” said Cassidy.
“Go and fuck yourself, hanh?”
O’Loughlin slipped his service revolver out of its holster and held it pointed at The Crusher. Cassidy did the same. The Crusher looked at them, grimaced angrily, and turned toward the car, leaning forward against it with outstretched arms. O’Loughlin kept his revolver trained on The Crusher as Cassidy searched him.
“Nothing,” said Cassidy.
“Okay, copper? Can I get back in now?”
“Stay where you are,” said O’Loughlin. He had taken a flashlight out of the police car, and now turned it on. He shone its beam inside The Crusher’s car.
“There’s nothing in there,” said The Crusher. “You think I would carry anything knowing you guys are crawling all over the place?”
“Knowing there are a lot of gunsels on the street hunting for a lot of other gunsels because your boss Compagna got killed, yeah, maybe you would,” said O’Loughlin.
“Come on,” disclai
med The Crusher. “It was some fucking nigger. Who’d be looking for who?”
O’Loughlin’s flashlight beam coursed over the seats in the car. Cassidy stood behind The Crusher, watching him. O’Loughlin leaned into the car, his flashlight probing under the seat.
“Hello, hello, what’s this?” announced O’Loughlin, taking a brown paper bag out from under the front seat on the driver’s side. Inside was a .38 caliber revolver.
“Patsy, you weren’t telling us the truth,” Cassidy chided.
“Not nice,” added O’Loughlin. “We’re going to have to arrest you.”
“Come on, stop the shit so I can call my lawyer. I’m not begging you pricks for anything.” The Crusher remained leaning on the car. He said nothing further.
“I guess we should advise him of his rights,” said Cassidy.
“Stuff the rights up your ass,” said The Crusher. “I’m not answering any questions. Just get me to the station so I can call my lawyer.”
O’Loughlin searched around the interior of the car again. “Another paper bag under the passenger’s seat,” he announced. He removed the bag. It contained a .32 caliber automatic.
“Two guns?” said Cassidy. “My, my, Patsy, you’re getting to be a bad boy.”
“You’re pushing your luck, wise guy,” warned The Crusher.
“Don’t threaten me, you guinea prick,” Cassidy lashed back. “I’ll blow a hole in the back of your head.”
O’Loughlin searched the rest of the car, finding nothing else. He took the two pistols, being careful to handle them only through the paper bags so as not to spoil any fingerprints that might be on them, and placed them on the hood of the police car. He put a pen in the barrel of one, removed it from its bag, unloaded it, and replaced it in the bag. He did the same to the other.
“Okay, Patsy, get in our car,” said Cassidy. “You drive. O’Loughlin’ll be right next to you with his pistol in your ear. And I’ll be right behind in your car. Try anything, and you’ll have your head blown off before you can say Mussolini.”
The Crusher turned, his face streaked with anger. “Look, you want to take me to the station house,” he said, pointing a thick finger at Cassidy, “let’s go. I’m not running nowhere. But I’m driving my own car down there. I’ll follow you, or I’ll go up in the front of you. But neither of you are driving my car. You don’t even get in my car.”
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