The Case Of The Lumbee Millions (Woody Stone, Private Investigator, Series)

by R. D. Herring

“Don’t lose your train of thought,” I said. “Look on the bright side, you may not live to see Pinky again.”

  Scalise blathered on about owing Testa two large. He thought he had a Chinese angle when he heard the rusty piece of shit was the clue to a fortune in gold bullion. He hatched the idea of stealing it and trading with Testa against his debt. Sally and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

  “How’d that work out for you, Einstein?”

  “Shit, that bastard kept it. He gave me a shot to the kidney and ran me off.”

  “Adam,” I said, “you’ve been cooperative, and you’ve got your own problems; so I’ll tell you how you’re gonna make things jake. You’re gonna pack whatever shit you got and leave this house, leave South Brooklyn within the hour. If I ever see or hear of you in Bath Beach or Bensonhurst again, I swear by the baby Jesus, I will crush your nuts and feed them to you.” I put him out with a short right to the jawline. Sal and I grabbed our hats and bounced.

  ***

  Once we had the wire on Pinky Testa, Sal suggested we drive over and talk to Detective Frank Keenan who worked at the 76th Precinct. The 76th covered the waterfront in Red Hook. I knew Frank from Jack Dempsey’s and he and Sally sparred at the gym. The 76th Station House was on Union Street. A modern two-story building with a brick and blue tile skin, it looked out of place surrounded by hundred-year-old brick and sandstone tenements. Union Street was very clean.

  We found Keenan in the Detective Squad Room on the second floor. He sat with his back against the far wall, up to his elbows in paper, at an old worn desk. Obviously Frank was the head bull around there. Everybody stared at the intruders, but they got out of his way when he walked us over to get a cup of black sludge a pencil would have stood up in. He dragged up two chairs in front of his desk.

  Frank was old school. He’d been on the job for twenty-five years and seemed to enjoy his sludge, “Sure is good to see some faces from the city. I’m gettin kinda burnt out on the Puerto Ricans around here.”

  Not wanting to let it switch to his meeting, I dove right in, “Frank, we’re looking at a scumbag grifter of the bookie type, named Pinky Testa. You know this jamoke?”

  He laughed, “Yeah, shu-wa do. Pinky Testa and his dwarf brother, Armando. He’s the little turd that used to keep a retired, toothless circus lion in a basement right over here on President. Before they got raided, that’s how they used to motivate loan shark deadbeats to get current with arrears. Oh, and Pinky drives a new Buick.”

  Sal set his cup a’ joe on the desk and pushed it forward a little, “Dey both still around, Frank?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry to say.” He turned in his chair and ran his beefy index finger across a wall map of Brooklyn. He tapped a spot near the waterfront, “Right here. They operate out of a small warehouse on Pioneer Street, in the 100 Block. We can walk up front and get you the address.”

  “What do you think, Frank, these tough boys?”

  “Woody, these assholes are punks. They’ll act tough if they got the bulge on ya.”

  Back in the Studebaker, I took a pull on my flask to get the taste out; Sal took a pass. Pioneer Street ran one-way from the waterfront, so we circled the block along King Street trying to pipe the rear of the warehouse. It was a jumble of industrial discards. Spaces that had once been open now were junkyards - there was no easy access to 115 Pioneer from the back.

  Back around on Pioneer, we parked across and a few doors down from the two story brick warehouse. There was a ten-foot roll-up delivery door in the middle with barred windows on each side. The building attached on its left, but there was a blocked alleyway with a door on its right. Sal and I sat and watched the old place for fifteen minutes, but no movement.

  We started to talk about taking a closer look, when a brand new Buick drove past and parked in front of the address. It was the right place - there weren’t many new Buicks in that neighborhood. An oily looking goombah in a sharkskin suit and a pair of sunglasses got out and went through the alley door.

  I asked Sal if he was packing. He shook his head, so I handed him the .32 auto off my ankle. He dropped it in his coat pocket. I drove up the street and re-parked so we didn’t have to pass in front of the warehouse to get to the alley door. Inside the alley, steps led up to an entry door. But we worked our way to the back of the building.

  CHAPTER TEN

  (Wednesday, June 7, 1961. Red Hook, Brooklyn.)

  We stood behind Testa’s building on the opposite side of the King Street junkyards. A concrete warehouse loading dock, made unusable by the scrap metal in the yard, was littered with old chairs and crushed butts. Sal kept watch while I climbed the side steps and pushed on the metal fire door. It creaked open a couple of inches.

  I told Sal to go back up the alley and into the front door; I’d go in the back and meet him in the middle. It took a minute to get in the rusty metal door without sounding the rust alarm. I was working my way forward around pallets, then boxes, when Sal called out, “YO, Pinky!”

  “WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?”

  I moved forward and caught sight of Sal standing in the middle of the warehouse. Our friend in the shiny suit came out of a side room still wearing his sunglasses. He gripped a pack of Pall Malls in one hand and a lighter in the other. Neither man noticed me.

  “I got business, Pinky.”

  “Make it fast, old man. You’re trespassing.”

  Sally marched right over in front of the jamoke. Testa Towered over Sal’s five-foot, five-inch frame. Sal tightened his fists. Testa lit his pill, “You look like you’re gonna beat me up. Is that what you’re gonna do, gramps?”

  Lightning. Sally hit him so fast and hard, the egg dropped like a freight elevator. I heard his jaw snap from 25 feet away. Testa was on queer street. I holstered my gat and walked on out, “Need any help, Sal?”

  “Got it, Wood.”

  “What happened to meeting in the middle?”

  “Soon’s I cleared dat door, I was standin in center ring wid my dick in my hand. Had to go to Plan B.”

  We started for the office, when Sal stopped and turned, “YO, Armando!” There was no answer and Sal shrugged, “Either gone or hiding, good either way.”

  The object of our search, in all its rusty ugliness, lay on the front of Testa’s desk. Back on the sidewalk, Sal adjusted his new pair of Ray-Bans then gave the spear-tip looking thing a rap on a wooden light pole. Shards of oxidation crust fell away. “Pipe dis, Woody. Roman numerals?”

  I took a look, “Shit, I don’t know. Could be letters inscribed on the metal”

  At the car, Sal handed back my .32 auto, “Thanks, anyway. Heaters are noisy.” I just smiled. I slid behind the wheel and mentally closed out the Case of the Hop-head Break-in. Then I said, “SO, what the hell is written on that chingaso?”

  “Dunno, Wood. Can’t read it.” Sal’s voice surprised me. I didn’t realize I had spoken out loud. “Woody, remember Pappalardo? He’s got dat salvage business on Gold Street in Vinegar Hill.”

  “Sure, Jack Pappalardo, but he’s on Front Street on the corner of Gold. He helped us pull the oil drum full of Benny Martino parts out of the bay two years ago.”

  “Remember he was showin us how he melted rust off boat hulls?”

  “Yeah, what was the stuff he used? Marine jelly, or something.”

  “Maybe we should stop by, Wood.”

  We drove a few blocks to Columbia Street and turned north. The Vinegar Hill Neighborhood sat past the east end of the Manhattan Bridge three miles away. Six feet tall corrugated steel fencing guarded Pappalardo’s corner work lot. I turned into the yard through open gates and slammed on the brakes. The sparks were flying like the Fourth of July.

  Three leather-clad welders attacked the sides of a small barge sitting on a raised lumber platform. I honked and the three lifted their blacked-out helmet visors and eyeballed us. Jack Pappalardo waved and reached to shut off his acetylene supply. The other two returned to their plan of destruction.

  “Hello,
Jack.” Sally and I walked in his direction.

  He climbed off the ladder and removed his gear, “Hey, Woody, Sal. It’s been a while. Did the bad guys stop droppin em in the deep end of the pool?”

  “Those assholes still drop em wherever they can. I’m amazed any of em are left. Say, Jack, you got a minute? We’d appreciate your opinion on this hunk of iron,” I pointed to the rust chunk in Sally’s hand.

  “Shu-wa. Come on in the office. Nice and cool inside.”

  A window air conditioner chugged away in the office. The temp was more hospitable than out in the yard. Jack hung his leather sleeves on a coatrack and headed for a cabinet, “You boys want a drink? I got the good stuff.” He handed each of us a shot glass and filled them with a thickish pumpkin colored liquid. He and Sal tossed theirs back and smiled, so I downed mine.

  Jack reached out to get the rusty artifact from Sal and started inspecting it. I swiped at my eyes. They watered from the rotgut Eyetalian liquor. It looked like mule piss and ran over my tongue like sweet lemon syrup cut with lighter fluid.

  “You can almost make out writing under the rust,” Pappalardo said.

  “Dat’s right, Jack. We’re wonderin if youse could cut summa dat rust for us.”

  “Hell, yeah. We can slap on some naval jelly. That’ll clean it up right down to the bare metal.”

  “What is that stuff,” I asked?

  “Phosphoric acid in a gel form. You gotta wear gloves, but it’ll dissolve oxidation on steel and iron so’s you can wash the rust right off. We might have to use a wire brush on this thing. Come on back in the shop.”

  Jack put on a pair of heavy rubber gloves and retrieved a gallon can labeled ‘Naval Jelly - PELIGRO’. After prying off the lid, he used a paintbrush to slather gel on both sides of the piece. He laid it on an oversized cookie sheet, “There, most of that rust will melt in about an hour.”

  Sal stood to my right rear. I’d been concentrating on the evil looking naval jelly. The penetrating stench reminded me of the taste of whatever Jack had served out front. I did a reflex jerk when Sal spoke, “Great! Any place to get a sangwich around here?”

  “Shu-wa. Take a left out the gate on Front Street. The Bridge Cafe’s on the corner at the end of the block, a short walk. Woody, you better move your wheels off to the side first.”

  The late lunch crowd filled the booths in the busy diner. A middle-aged blonde with sagging breasts and bad teeth worked the counter. We placed our orders and I told Sal I was going to call Gina with an update. The diner phone booth still took nickels. I dug the Kowalski number out of my billfold, dropped the Indian-head and dialed.

  “Kowalski residence.”

  “Mrs. Kowalski, it’s Woody.”

  “Oh, Woody, are you all right? We were getting worried.”

  “We’re just fine. No luck finding the missing money, but we did locate your mother’s artifact.”

  “Oh, she’ll be pleased. Did that Scalise boy have it?”

  “No, ma’am. Matter of fact, when we got to his house, he was all packed. He’s got travel plans.”

  “No surprise there. Odd as it may sound, I think Mildred will be happy he’s leaving.”

  “Yeah, relationships are funny. Is Gina there, please.”

  “Just a sec. GINA, it’s your boss.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Hey, sweetie. Just wanted to let you know we found that hunk of iron. I’ve got a guy in Vinegar Hill cleaning it up a little. Looks like there’s something written on the metal under all the rust. Hope that doesn’t upset your Grandma.”

  “Doubt it. I didn’t even know she had the thing.”

  “That’s good. In for a penny, in for a pound, my granny always said.”

  “She sounds very… British. Say, are you okay, you big ape?”

  “Sure, fine. Why do you ask?”

  “Cause you took off out a’ here this morning like a jet plane.”

  “No, everything’s jake. Today’s been duck soup. Hon, what do you think about staying at your mother’s place and I’ll just see you at the office tomorrow morning?”

  “Shu-wa, if you don’t mind seeing me in the same clothes two days in a row”

  “No problem there. You’d look good wearing nothing.”

  “WOODY!”

  “That didn’t come out quite right. Kid, I’ve been breathing fumes. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Bye, Woody.”

  When I got back to the counter, Sal was gone. I looked around, spotted him in a booth by the front window and slid across the vinyl opposite. A steaming cup of java waited on my side of the table. The waitress arrived with Sal’s burger and my ‘Lunch Special’, prime beef stew.

  “Some folks left, so I grabbed a booth,” Sal said.

  “Yeah, that’s good. More room.”

  “Plus, da waitress is better looking.”

  “What did you think of Grandma Collins’ story, Sally?”

  “Sounded bout right. She prob’ly did leave the door open.”

  “No, I mean about the family legend, about the gold bullion.”

  “I’m wid you, Wood. Where’s a guy gonna get that much gold? Didn’t the gov’ment snatch up all da gold?”

  “Shit, that’s right. FDR confiscated all privately owned gold thirty years ago. I remember my daddy talking about it.”

  Sal’s eyes narrowed, “Sounds like a racket.”

  “It was, but whatchu gonna do? They paid folks twenty dollars an ounce in paper money for their gold. If you got caught with gold after that, it was a ten large fine and ten years in the joint for you.”

  “For gettin caught wid your own property?”

  “Yeah, and if you think that was a bum deal for the citizen, the government immediately jacked up the price of gold. That made Joe Blow’s dollar bill worth even less.”

  Sal shook his head. We ate like we’d actually been doing real work.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Benny Martino, a thick-necked Eyetalian kid, thought muscle ruled. He grew up in Vinegar Hill, which butts up against the southern perimeter of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. His father, Tommaso Martino, operated a dry cleaning business on Bridge Street.

  A lanky Irish hoodlum named Kevin ‘The Shiv’ Daltry controlled extortion and general skullduggery in that part of Brooklyn Heights. He was also called Spider, but seldom to his face. Kevin liked to play with edged weapons. Word on the street was he liked ‘wet work’, in close cutting. Not everyone had the constitution for that sort of thing; Spider was a special kind of psychopath. He and his boys ran the protection racket between Dumbo and the Navy Yard.

  Benny Martino and his drinking buddies were jealous and bored and, mostly, stupid. Benny challenged Spider for part of the action. He should have stuck to dry cleaning.

  I got involved in the neighborhood spat through the backdoor. The Father, Tom Martino, called me on a Thursday morning and said his son had been missing for four days. I told him to go to the police. He balked at the idea; seems the police were already looking for his son, and had been for more than a year.

  I lied and told him I didn’t have the time. He said he’d double my fee. His son always came home every night to check on his mother; she’d been in poor health for the past two years. The truth was, business was slow. I told him I’d stop by that afternoon.

  I didn’t much like involving myself with the street punks. Most of them grew up homeless kids. They had one thing in common, getting shit on their whole life and now someone still controlled them. That didn’t excuse the crap they got involved in, but it explained a lot of their behavior.

  The mobbed up Eyetalian goons at least pretend to operate with a code, even if it’s to no one else’s advantage. The street thugs are young and unpredictable. They panic and do the first stupid thing their scared brains come up with. The old-timers on the Mississippi always said the young rattlesnakes are the most dangerous.

  It was mid-morning when Martino phoned my office. I called Jack Dempsey’s and talked
to Sal Spitieri. He agreed to meet me outside the Muncey Building, so I took the Williamsburg Bridge west into the city to pick him up. When I waded into the hornet’s nest in Vinegar Hill, I wanted him to watch my six o’clock. I asked Sal if he liked the Irish, he said, ‘Depends on how you cook em’.

  We crossed the East River on the Manhattan Bridge and dropped into the Vinegar Hill Neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. I briefed Sal on the phone call from Tom Martino, “He sounded like a stand up guy. Hard to understand why his asshole son couldn’t stick to the dry cleaning business.”

  “Wood, it’s just the luck of the draw. We can’t see God’s plan. Wouldn’t understand it if we did.”

  Martino’s Dry Cleaning was located at 49 Bridge Street. We touched base with the father. Same story as on the phone, Benny hadn’t been home the previous four nights. He added the younger Martino liked to spend time with his friends at the Napoli Bar at 57 Pearl Street.

  Tom Martino gave me a three-year-old snapshot of him and his son. They were both smiling in the picture. I asked Tom about the gold ring Benny was wearing. He said it had been the boy’s grandfather’s signet ring. It had a crest with an “M” embossed on it.

  We rousted a couple of Benny’s people at the Napoli. They were drunk. Long story, short, for months they’d been trying to grab a share of the local rackets from the Irishman, Spider Daltry. Daltry kidnapped Benny and sent word, three days before; his release would cost two large. With twenty-four hours to act, and no hope of raising the money, they hit the street. They found out Benny was being held on Harrison Alley, off Evans Street, and tried to rescue him.

  They got beat up for their trouble and got a couple of bullet holes in their jalopy. Most seriously, one got his back unzipped with a razor courtesy of Kevin ‘The Shiv’ Daltry. The next day they gunned up and reorganized. They went back to the same abandoned carriage garage on the grounds of the Commandant’s House.

  The property was an empty, rundown, 150-year-old mansion that had been occupied by the Commandant of the Navy Yard. The avenging goons said all they found were footprints in blood pools all over the floorboards of the detached garage. One of them, with evil intent in his drunken eyes, spilled what he knew of Spider Daltry’s rep with cutlery. He added, the Irish Clan operated out of the back room of Ring’s Bar at 205 Plymouth Street. Sal and I faded and let them get back to their wake.