“You’ll do what we tell you to do, Patsy,” said Cassidy. “Don’t start anything you can’t finish.”
“Oh, you think I can’t finish it, hanh? Let me tell you, cocksucker,” The Crusher shouted now at the top of his lungs. His chest swelled with rage. “You get in my car, go ahead, just get in my car.” His eyes were wild as he glared at Cassidy.
Both O’Loughlin and Cassidy had their pistols trained on The Crusher now.
“Stand easy, Patsy,” said O’Loughlin. “Don’t make trouble. You’ll end up dead.”
“I want to see you get in my car,” he rethreatened Cassidy, “and, you cocksucker, I’ll kill you.” The Crusher was purple in the face now. “Go ahead, get in the car. You’ll get me. But I’ll tear you apart first. You’ll have to kill me. Go ahead. I want to see you get in my fucking car. Go ahead, wise fucking cop. Get in. Go ahead.”
Lights were starting to light the windows of nearby houses. People appeared at the windows to watch the disturbance.
“Come on, you Irish prick. Get in my car. Let the people see how brave you are. You piece of shit.”
“Mickey, what the hell’s the difference,” said O’Loughlin. He realized they’d have to kill The Crusher in front of all the now awakened neighborhood. “Let him drive his own car in front, we’ll follow. If he makes one phony move, we can blow his brains out.”
“Why the hell should this punk tell us what to do?” objected Cassidy.
“He’s not having his own way,” said O’Loughlin. “He’s going with us to jail. Why start something here? Look at the windows. Who needs all the aggravation of a hearing with the Civilian Complaint Review Board if we kill him? Especially over who drives that piece of shit car.”
“Go on, you fuck, get in and let me tear your fucking throat out. Come on.”
“You lousy greaseball,” said Cassidy softly. “When we’re down at the station house, I want to see how tough you are.”
“Oh, then you’ll be tough, hanh? With fifty other Irish cornuti around, you lily-livered fuck.”
“Don’t get too carried away, wop,” warned O’Loughlin. “You get in that car and drive real slow in front of us over to the precinct on Church Avenue. You know where that is, don’t you?”
“I know.”
“One mile an hour over twenty,” O’Loughlin emphasized, “and I’ll blow your fucking brains out for trying to escape. You don’t even have to try. Just go one mile over twenty and you’re dead, you punk.”
The Crusher stared at O’Loughlin, then got into his car.
“One more word out of you, and you’ll be dead,” said Cassidy, white with rage. “Civilian Review Board, Jesus Christ himself, I don’t care. One more word, just one more word …”
“Come on, Mickey,” said O’Loughlin. “Let’s just do our job.”
14
Thursday, August 17, 6:35 A.M.
Marc stood at the railing of his apartment terrace, watching the early morning sun slowly stretch its warm light across the Hudson River and the Jersey shore beyond. The weather was pleasantly mild, a little cooler than yesterday. Maria was still asleep.
The City, too, was still asleep, or at least dozing fitfully, which is as close to sleep as New York ever gets. The river was smooth and dark, deserted except for a single tug churning slowly down-river beside a flatbed barge loaded with railroad boxcars. A small spray of white water bounced low on the prow of the tug.
The Chinese glass chime Marc had hung on the sheltered side of the terrace danced and clinkled in the morning breeze. The sound reminded Marc of deserted early summer mornings long past, when, as a youngster at the beach house, he could hear that very same clinking sound carried on the wind for long distances, to be discovered, after considerable meandering, chiming its pleasant notes in the quiet corner of some deserted porch or from under an awning awaiting the day’s sun. It was a delicate sound which even a single voice could drown. It was a good sound, too, thought Marc. It meant peace and tranquillity; it was the quiet before the day’s storm; it’d be the quiet after the day’s storm. It was the music of the world at rest.
“Here’s your coffee,” Franco said softly, carrying a tray with two steaming cups of cafe con leche and some buttered rolls. He was usually the second riser in the household.
Marc turned and took a cup and a roll from the tray.
“What’s the schedule for today?” asked Franco, as he put the tray on a nearby table. “You want me to go with you anywhere?”
Marc sipped the cafe. “Well, first we’ll drop Mrs. Conte at her school. Then I want to go to the office for a while. After that, I’m going to see Mrs. Wainwright at her apartment around eleven. I want to get a little unhysterical information from her about the way her husband was killed.”
Another tug, running alone, turned at the Battery and began making a quick run upriver.
“You want me to go with you?” asked Franco.
“Sure, why not? Maybe you’ll come up with one of your great theories about who committed the crime or how he—or she—did it. Then you can throw the ball to Maria, and between the two of you, you’ll come up with something absolutely wild.”
“You have to admit our theories are good sometimes, right?” Franco smiled.
“They sure are,” Marc smiled too. For it was true. Maria and Franco, on their own, sitting around at night, figured out harebrained, abstruse theories on the cases Marc was handling, which witness was telling the truth, where new evidence could be found, how to obtain it. And although usually their theories were way out in space, often the thinking moved Marc’s investigation onto a side road which with some patience, led to something important, something Marc hadn’t thought about.
The phone rang.
Franco grimaced as he rushed to answer it before it disturbed Maria. He opened a metal box on the wall of the terrace. The phone was inside.
“Conte residence.” He listened. “It’s a cop. Patsy Pellegrino was arrested for weapons,” he said, holding the phone receiver out to Marc.
Marc took the phone from Franco. “Hello. To whom am I speaking?”
“This is Detective Cassidy of the Queen’s D.A.’s squad, Counselor.”
“The D.A.’s squad? Is this arrest on an indictment?” Marc inquired.
“No, Counselor,” Cassidy replied. “It started really just as a simple service of a subpoena for the grand jury. But it ended up with possession of two loaded pistols.”
Marc looked skyward at that. “What time do you think he’ll be arraigned?”
“Gee, I don’t know, Counselor. We’re processing him now. His prints still have to be sent up to Albany for verification. Who knows how long that’ll take. Sometimes two, sometimes six hours. It’s hard to say, you know?”
“You figure about noon? That should leave enough time for everything,” said Marc.
“I would think that ought to do it,” agreed Cassidy. “We might be finished earlier though. You know, we can’t tell how long it’ll take.”
“Well, I’ll figure to be in court about noon,” said Marc. “If it’s any earlier, perhaps you can give me a ring at my office.”
“I can’t promise anything on that, Counselor. I’ll try and work it out for you,” said Cassidy. “If we get through earlier, we’ll try and give you a ring.”
“Fine,” said Marc. “Let me say for the record that I don’t want my client questioned or interrogated in any way without my being present.”
“Say no more, Counselor,” said Cassidy, laughing. “In the first place, we aren’t going to question him. We don’t have to. But if we did have a mind to, what’s the sense, you know what I mean? I mean we’re lucky if this guy gives us his name. You know, he’s been around this mill before.”
“Okay,” said Marc. “I just have to earn my keep.”
“Got ya, Counselor.”
“Can I talk to my client for a moment?” asked Marc.
“Sure, Counselor. Hey Pellegrino,” Cassidy called at the other end of the
phone. “Your lawyer’s on the wire.”
There was a shuffling sound at the other phone. “Hello?” rasped out the voice of The Crusher.
“Hello, Patsy.”
“Good morning, Counselor. I’m sorry to disturb your beauty rest, but I’m glad I got you. These guys come along and …”
“Let’s not talk about it over the phone, Patsy.”
“Right, right, I got ya, Counselor. When am I going to see you? You’re going to be in court, aren’t you?”
“I’ll meet you there about noon. If the Judge calls the case before then, just tell him your lawyer is on the way and you want to wait.”
“You think they’ll do that?” The Crusher asked cautiously. “I’ll feel a whole lot better if you’re there when I get there, Counselor.”
“I don’t know exactly what time you’ll get there,” said Marc. “The detective said he’d try and call me if you get there earlier.”
“I’ll give this broken-down cop the dime,” The Crusher said lightly.
“I’ll take it,” Marc heard someone say in the background at The Crusher’s end.
“Listen, Counselor, do me a favor and give my wife a ring. I been out all night now. Tell her why, and tell her I’m okay. No sense getting a beef from my wife for no reason.” The Crusher laughed. “And listen, tell her to call, she knows who, you know, and make arrangements for me. Tell her. She’ll know. This way I can make bail right away. You gonna get me reasonable bail, at least, aren’t you, Counselor?”
“I’m sure I can get the Judge to set bail, Patsy. I don’t know how reasonable it’ll be. But he’ll set bail.”
“I know you can do it, Counselor. I got all my confidence in you. As usual.”
There was another shuffling the phone at The Crusher’s end.
“Okay, Counselor?” asked Cassidy, getting back on the phone.
“Fine, thanks,” said Marc. “See you in court.”
“Right,” said Cassidy.
“You’ll have to wait a few minutes, Counselor,” the policeman at the reception desk on the fifth floor of the Queens D.A.’s office said to Marc. “Mister Greengold said he’d be with you in a minute.”
“Thanks,” said Marc. He sat on a wooden bench against the light green wall. Occasionally, people would walk along the corridor in which Marc sat, some carrying papers, some whistling, others just walking. Almost all took a drink at a water cooler in the corner near Marc. Put a water fountain anywhere, and people suddenly realize a thirst they hadn’t noticed before they saw the cooler.
“You can go in now, Counselor,” said the policeman at the desk.
“Thanks.” Marc rose and walked along the interior corridor, in the direction the policeman had pointed. Stan Greengold turned the corner of the corridor, walking toward Marc.
“Hi, Marc,” said Greengold.
“Hello, Stan. How are you?”
Greengold shrugged. “What’s the sense of kicking?”
“Will you tell me why the detectives brought Pellegrino here instead of directly to court for arraignment?” Marc asked. “When I talked to the detective this morning, he said he’d meet me in court, not here. If he hadn’t called and told my office he would be here instead, I’d be sitting in court right now.”
Greengold shrugged again. “I had nothing to do with it, believe me, Marc. The cops were ordered to bring him here first.”
“Whose orders? For what?” Marc asked.
“Marc, I just do or die, or whatever that lousy poem said. I was told to tell the detectives to bring him over here, so I had them bring him over here.”
“You didn’t interrogate him. I advised the police …”
“Marc, I didn’t interrogate him.”
“Then why all this cloak-and-dagger aggravation?” Marc asked. “All you had to do was call me and I would have produced Pellegrino here any time you wanted. You knew I represented him.”
“I knew, I knew,” agreed Greengold. “And I know you would have brought him in. But orders came from the top.”
“What for?” Marc repeated.
Greengold repeated his shrug.
“When is he going to be arraigned?”
“Right now,” Greengold replied. “As soon as you and I finish, the detectives will take the two of you through the lobby. He goes in cuffs.”
“The detectives? Cuffs? You think he’s going to run? I want to talk to him alone.”
“Can’t let you do it,” said Greengold.
“Why not?”
“Marc. I’ve got orders. He goes in cuffs.”
“Stan, this whole procedure is a little far out.”
“What do you want from me? I just work here.”
At that moment, The Crusher was brought around the corner of the corridor, manacled, between the two detectives.
“For Christ’s sake, Stan!”
“Marc, believe me—I’m not getting my jollies giving you and Pellegrino a hard time.”
“Where’s Braverman? I want to talk to Braverman. This is starting to smack of interference with my client’s rights.”
“Braverman’s in a press conference right now,” replied Greengold.
“A press conference? No wonder we’re having all this trick maneuvering! He’s making a big splash about the Compagna killing and organized crime—with my client as the main attraction. This is an outrage. I really mean it, Stan. It’s an outrage and a total lack of propriety. What is Braverman, a lawyer or an entertainer with press agents and publicity?”
Greengold shrugged. “I just follow orders.”
“We’ve got to take him over now, Counselor,” said O’Loughlin. “Hurry up so we can get the hell out of here,” he whispered, leaning toward Marc. “We’ve been on the go since midnight.”
“I been out a lot longer than that,” said The Crusher. “Come on, Marc. Stop wasting your breath with these people so they can make a spectacle of me. Then we can all go home.”
“I’ll be back,” Marc said to Greengold.
“Suit yourself,” he replied. “Whatever good it’s going to do you.”
Marc, The Crusher, and the two detectives took the elevator down to the main floor. As soon as the doors of the elevator opened, Marc could see reporters and photographers clustering in the corridor leading to the courthouse. There were television crewmen with portable lights and cameras standing nearby. They immediately engulfed the small group from the elevator and backed along the corridor with them as they moved toward the other building. Cameras were not allowed inside the courthouse, so they were working quickly.
“What kind of bullshit is this?” demanded Pellegrino.
“You’re a news story,” replied Marc. “All about how Braverman is cleaning the streets of people who are in the midst of a gangland war.”
“What war?” Pellegrino twirled as a photographer came close, flashing a strobe light in his face. “Get out of here, you bastard, I’ll stick that camera up your ass.”
Other reporters with microphones came close to the small group as they made their way through the crowd.
“Let us through,” said O’Loughlin.
The reporters hurled questions at Pellegrino, about Compagna, about how he was killed, about how Pellegrino thought he was killed, if there would be a war, if he thought a rival gang had been responsible.
“No questions, please,” Marc kept saying in vain. “No comments.”
“No comments, you bastards,” rasped Pellegrino. “What country is this, anyway? Germany? Stop harassing me, you Nazi bastards.”
Another reporter came forward with a microphone.
“No questions, please,” said Marc.
“Who do you think killed your boss, Compagna?” the reporter asked, ignoring Marc, thrusting the microphone at Pellegrino.
Pellegrino, helpless with both hands manacled, took a swipe at the microphone with a deft kick. He knocked it from the reporter’s hand. The reporter held onto the cord, restraining the microphone from hitting the pavement. “Hey,
watch out, you knocked my station sign off,” the reporter complained.
“I’ll knock you off,” said The Crusher.
Finally, the detectives gained the door to the court-house. They pushed The Crusher past the crowd through the door. The other three men walked in right behind him and shut the doors.
Judge Galloway set twenty-five thousand dollars bail on Pellegrino and adjourned the case to August 23. As Marc walked back to the spectator section of the court-room, a bondsman got up from his seat in the courtroom and walked over to him.
“I’ll be bailing him out in a couple of minutes, Counselor,” said the bondsman. “I hope this guy don’t take off.”
“I doubt it,” said Marc. “Tell the defendant I’ll wait out in the hall.”
“Okay.”
The usual crowd was milling about the corridor: policemen, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, were in abundance. Marc saw Cassidy and O’Loughlin come out of the courtroom with two other men. They stood near the doorway, talking. The other two men looked like detectives too.
In a few minutes, The Crusher and the bondsman came out of the courtroom. The Crusher smiled and started in Marc’s direction. As he was walking, one of the men standing with Cassidy and O’Loughlin intercepted him and displayed what appeared to be a legal document.
“What? Are you kidding me?” The Crusher exclaimed angrily, loudly.
Marc walked over quickly.
“This motherless …” stammered The Crusher. He was choked with anger.
“This is the United States Marshal Salerno,” introduced Cassidy. “This is Pellegrino’s lawyer, Mister Conte.”
“Counselor,” said the Marshal, “we have a federal warrant for your client’s arrest.”
“What kind of railroad bullshit is this,” rasped The Crusher.
“Take it easy, Patsy,” said Marc. “What’s the charge?” Marc asked the Marshal.
“Title Eighteen, Appendix Section Twelve Hundred and One and Twelve Hundred Two, Counselor,” replied the other Marshal.
“What’s that?” Marc asked.
Courthouse Page 17