Blood Street

by Alves, Carl

  “Tony’s not going to find out shit. That guy can’t zip his fly by himself.”

  “Tony’ll take care of things.”

  “Why don’t you do your own investigation?” Karen asked.

  “’Cause Enzo trusts Tony, that’s why. So Tony’s gonna check things out and he’ll see I was telling the truth, ‘cause there ain’t no other way to see it.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right, baby.” The Goat drew her in and kissed her. Since yesterday they had been going at it nonstop, and it was wearing him out.

  Suddenly she pulled away from him. “Let’s get married, Patrick.”

  “You know the time ain’t right just now.”

  “When will it be?” Karen asked.

  “Soon. When it happens, this wedding will blow your mind. First class all the way.”

  He smiled. If he could deal with the Grim Reaper, he could deal with marriage.

  Chapter Four

  “What else would you like me to pick up?” Federal Bureau of Investigation Special Agent Mark Andrews glanced at the grisly photos on his desk as he spoke to his wife on the phone. “Okay, chicken breast. Should I pick up some rolls? Sure… I’ll probably be home around six. How’s Sarah? Tell her daddy says hi… Okay. I’ll see you later. Love you.”

  He stared once more at the shots of the butchered bodies of John Debenedetto and Tina Monterullo. Butchered wasn’t quite right. It was more like bitten and torn apart. The Philadelphia police officers present called him in to view the murder scene because they believed the deceased was a member of Enzo Salerno’s crime regime. Mark confirmed the identity of John Debenedetto, also known as Johnny Gunns.

  It was the most bizarre mob death he had ever seen. Scratches, bite marks and wide punctures covered the bodies. There were no usual gunshots, stab wounds or other markings normally found on a murder victim.

  His superiors weren’t interested in this murder. Mark understood the FBI had shifted priorities in recent years. Some of his agents had been pulled in order to combat terrorism. Other departments of the FBI, including his own, had weakened as a result.

  Mark made his bones by tackling organized crime in Philadelphia. For over a decade, he worked to bring the mob to its knees. The bureau had rewarded and highly decorated him for his efforts, but in recent years he had come away empty-handed and frustrated. Part of the problem was his reduced budget, and the other was Enzo Salerno.

  Mark couldn’t pin anything on the bastard. The mobster kept a low profile. Since Salerno and his regime did not exist in the public’s eye, Mark’s superiors didn’t make it a high priority to bring him to justice. He was intelligent and cultured and operated his empire like a business, albeit one that used violence and extortion. He was also as slippery as a fish.

  On several occasions, Mark thought the bureau would pull him and his team off the assignment. If that happened, then who would stop Salerno? Salerno had gotten too big and powerful, controlling many areas of commerce and politics. If Mark could get some solid, concrete evidence, perhaps he could indict the mob boss.

  He looked at the photographs for the hundredth time, trying to piece together how the victims were killed and who did it. The investigating officers spoke to Jim Debenedetto’s neighbors. One lady told the officers she saw a suspicious character leaving the house at the time of the murders. It’s not like these bites could have belonged to an animal. The bite patterns were distinctly human.

  Mark put away the pictures. His sources on the street had not provided any useful information. Maybe he could arrange a sit down with Salerno. The two had met before at neutral territories. He may be able to convince Salerno that they could help each other in this matter.

  Mark took a deep breath. He had to pick up the groceries and make it home by six. Unfortunately, his wife and kids were used to him working late hours.

  His marriage had undergone trying times, mostly when he took his work home with him. His wife Victoria was an intelligent woman with an even temperament that contrasted with his fiery temper. He loved his two kids even though he didn’t always show them affection. Spending so much time away from home, it was hard to get involved in their lives. After dealing with the worst element of society, he sometimes found it hard to separate his work mindset from his home mindset.

  Working with local officials, he systematically dismantled the Philadelphia mafia. When the Italian mafia weakened, they targeted the Russian and the Jamaican mobs and brought them down. The other ethnic crime factions were easier to defeat. They lacked the political connections of the Italian mafia. The only thing holding Mark’s career back was that he often voiced his opinion when he disagreed with the brass. He knew he should hold these opinions to himself if he wanted to advance in his career, but his temper got in the way of good judgment.

  Mark made a few more phone calls. The first was to see if an identification had been made on the torn skin found near the two bodies. The second was to a neighbor who saw a man entering the house shortly before the police arrived.

  The call to the lab turned out to be a dead end. The skin belonged to Debenedetto and Monterullo, apparently torn off in the struggle. How could the perp not have left fingerprints or hair fibers at the crime scene? It was like he was dealing with a phantom.

  His second call was no better. The lady who saw a man entering the house was not home. He sighed and got ready to leave. Why was he wasting time and energy on this case? It probably didn’t involve mafia activity. The locals could handle an animal attack or some other strange killing. Perhaps it was the bizarre nature of the murder that attracted him. Maybe he just wanted to see Salerno’s reaction.

  He put on his coat and closed his briefcase when his boss, Special Agent Rick Carroll, entered the office. Rick was heavyset, in his late fifties with graying hair and a thick mustache. Rick would look much better if he trimmed his hair and mustache.

  His boss’s face looked worn. “Hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, home,” Mark said.

  “Better tell your wife you might be a while.”

  Mark frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “We had another one. Just like your friend Johnny Gunns.”

  Mark put his briefcase down. “Where?”

  “Near Kensington. A young Vietnamese woman in her early twenties. Her body wasn’t mutilated like Johnny or this girl, but the bite marks are the same.”

  “Was she missing a lot of blood?” The most glaring thing he read in Debenedetto and Monterullo’s autopsy reports was that the killer had nearly drained both bodies of blood.

  “I don’t know,” Rick responded. “Let’s take a look. I’ll drive.”

  “Okay. Let me call Victoria.” He hoped she would understand, because he had a feeling that this was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Five

  Tony Scrambolgni sat at a private table at the rear of Stephano’s Restaurant drinking a cognac and smoking a cigar, waiting for Enzo to arrive. Stephano’s made the best veal in the city. Their gnocchi and Sunday gravy wasn’t shabby either.

  He had been antsy of late. He puffed on the cigar, trying to stay calm. Enzo would ask about Johnny tonight, and he didn’t have any answers. He hoped Enzo wouldn’t show, but that was wishful thinking. The boss was always punctual.

  Earlier, he and a member of his crew had spoken to Jim Debenedetto’s neighbors, asking if they had seen anyone peculiar at the time in question. Several of them had seen someone that matched The Goat’s description. He was tall with strawberry blonde hair, icy blue eyes and no facial hair. His shirt had been covered with blood. Each person said he looked like a vampire.

  Tony tried to steer them away from this characterization. Perhaps the man was Eastern European, which could account for his pale skin tone. Or maybe the lighting was poor, and that’s why his skin looked pale. The blood could have been makeup or a gravy stain. No matter how much he tried to guide their story, they insisted he looked
like a vampire.

  So what to do? No way he would tell Enzo a vampire killed Johnny.

  Enzo arrived alone. The hostess took his coat and led him to their table. Tony greeted him with a hug and offered him a cigar.

  Enzo held out his hand. “No thanks. Trying to cut back.”

  Their waiter brought Enzo a glass of red wine. After Enzo’s broiled flounder arrived and he still had not brought up the murder of Johnny Gunns, Tony figured maybe Enzo forgot about it. Halfway through the meal, Enzo said, “So what can you tell me about our friend Johnny? His funeral is Tuesday at Saint Cecilia’s.”

  Tony nodded. “I spoke to his mother this morning. She’s handling it like any mother would. She was absolutely hysterical. I mean, in our line of work, you never know when you’re gonna buy your ticket, but it’s always toughest on the mothers. Her other son’s a drunken moron, which doesn’t make things any easier.”

  Enzo pursed his lips. “I sent flowers today. So what about the investigation?”

  Tony drained his glass of Chianti. He wished he had a shot of whiskey instead. He took a deep breath and searched for their waiter, hoping he could stall by ordering another drink. “Well, the pictures of Johnny and his girl were…real fucked up. They were torn apart. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. That dickhead Brown showed them to me. I was about to strangle that son of a bitch.”

  Enzo shrugged. “He may be an asshole, but he’s useful.”

  “If you say so, boss. I also looked at the coroner’s report.”

  “Good work,” Enzo said.

  “Yeah, um, that was all fucked up too.”

  Enzo’s brows arched. “How so?”

  “Well ya see, both Johnny and the girl were missing about eighty percent of their blood.”

  Enzo chuckled. “Sounds like the work of our vampire.”

  Blood drained from Tony’s face. He eyed the exit, wishing he could leave. “I don’t know what to say, other than it was all fucked up. Some of their organs were missing too.”

  “Could somebody have killed them to harvest their organs?” Enzo asked.

  Tony shrugged. “I thought maybe an animal did this, but the coroner said the bites were human. You wouldn’t think that could happen in South Philly, but who knows.”

  Enzo continued eating.

  “And there’s one more thing. Several neighbors saw a guy leaving the apartment. Guy had some blood on him, you know, near his mouth and on his shirt collar. And, um, this guy fit The Goat’s description pretty good.”

  “Ah, our fearless vampire.”

  “Hey you said it, not me.”

  Enzo finished his flounder. “So, tell me what you think.”

  “I don’t know, boss. I mean, it was probably some sick fuck with a hard-on for Johnny. The whole blood and organs thing, well who knows?”

  “What about The Goat’s story?”

  “Given the circumstances, I would say that maybe it wasn’t crazy for him to jump to his conclusion, but I don’t believe in that shit.”

  Enzo signaled the waiter and ordered an Espresso. Tony got another drink. Halfway through the Espresso Enzo stared at him. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to get this sick bastard and find out why he killed Johnny. Then you’re going to kill him. Got it.”

  “This guy’s gonna pay, boss. No doubt about that.”

  The Goat waited in his BMW for Fat Paulie to leave his house. He wasn’t crazy about this assignment, but was in no position to complain. Tony thought it would be good for him to tag along with Fat Paulie in addition to his regular duties. Tony wanted him to learn about other aspects of the business besides the bookmaking operations he ran.

  This was a sign of respect. He had been doing a good job, and Tony rewarded him. If this worked out, he could rise in Enzo’s regime. The drawback was working with Fat Paulie. He was a rude bastard with bad hygiene. When they worked together, Paulie insisted he do shit work like pick up his dry cleaning or wash his car. Just this morning, he told The Goat to trim his hedges. What do I look like, his bitch?

  His mood was already foul after Tony told him the police recovered a bullet lodged in the wall of Jim Debenedetto’s house. This bullet had come from his gun when he shot at the vampire. He already discretely disposed of the gun. They could not pin the murder on him since neither Johnny nor Tina had any bullet wounds, but it would look bad if they found out the bullets came from his gun.

  To make matters worse, Karen kept getting on him about Tony’s investigation. She always got pissy whenever he brought up the subject. She told him Tony would make him look bad. This led to several shouting matches between him and Karen. He trusted Tony, and more importantly Enzo Salerno trusted him. In the end, Tony would confirm what he said, ‘cause there’s no other way to see it.

  The Goat waited outside Fat Paulie’s house with his car running. He lit a cigarette. If he was going to take so long, he could have at least invited me inside. Paulie had told him to wait a minute so he could get a bundle of cash for the next job. Eight minutes later, he was still waiting.

  Finally Fat Paulie waddled out from the front door. He’d done more than just get cash, as evidenced by the marinara sauce smeared on his chin. Paulie opened up the passenger side door of the BMW and plopped himself inside.

  “It’s about time. I think I used a half tank of gas while the car was idling. What, did you grab a side of macaroni while you were in there?”

  Fat Paulie looked at his reflection in the vanity mirror and used his sleeve to wipe the stain on his face. “Shut up and drive.”

  “Where we goin’?” The Goat asked.

  “I told you, we’re gonna see some Russian dude in Gray’s Ferry. Vladimir something. If you don’t have any other questions, why don’t you just fucking drive.”

  “I thought you said he was Ukrainian?”

  “Ukrainian, Russian, what’s the difference. It’s all one big, fucking cesspool anyway.”

  The Goat frowned. “So what’s this guy’s deal?”

  “This Russian bastard owes money. I was going to put the screws to him, and he tells me he’s got a plan to get all the money he owes with interest, lots of it. So I’m a businessman. If he can make money, I’d like to hear it. Says besides what he owes, he’d like some start-up cash. Probably just to get some coke or move out of that shithole he lives in. Anyway, we’ll talk to him. If I don’t like what I hear, then we send him a message.”

  The Goat nodded. He didn’t need any further explanation.

  As The Goat drove, Fat Paulie took out a comb and fixed his hair. “It’s a shame about Johnny. I heard he went down in a bad way.”

  Blood drained from The Goat’s face. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “He was all messed up. So what do you know about it?”

  “What do you mean by that? I had nothin’ to do with it.”

  “I mean the two of you were friends,” Paulie said. “What’s your problem?”

  “I ain’t got a problem. I don’t know anything about it. Just what I heard on the street.”

  “What time’s the funeral?” Fat Paulie asked.

  “Eleven.”

  They barely spoke the rest of the way. The Goat kept glancing back in the rear view mirror as he drove. He pulled up to a rundown apartment building in the Gray’s Ferry section of Philadelphia. A young black kid stood by the stop sign on the street corner near The Goat’s car. The boy lingered, staring at the BMW. The Goat glared at him. “What are you lookin’ at? Beat it.”

  The boy shuffled away.

  Fat Paulie put on his coat. “You gotta watch out with the people in this neighborhood. Bunch of animals.”

  They walked through the front entrance of the apartment building and up two flights of steps. By the end, Fat Paulie needed a rest.

  “You all right there?”

  Fat Paulie put his hands on his legs. “Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  The Goat walked to apartment 328 and knocked on the door. The building smelled
like stale food and laundry detergent.

  A young Russian girl with short brown hair opened the door. She was no older than nineteen with pale skin, long legs and exotic features. She wore a light blue robe and had smoky brown eyes that mesmerized The Goat.

  “Is, um, Vladimir here?” The Goat asked.

  The woman walked into the apartment and motioned for them to follow.

  Empty takeout boxes and half-full bottles of vodka littered the chaotic apartment. The air was dense and stuffy. Feeling claustrophobic, The Goat wanted to open a few windows and get fresh air.

  “Cozy place, huh?” Fat Paulie asked.

  The Goat did not respond. He wanted to get this meeting over with.

  The unshaven Ukrainian emerged from the bedroom. He towered over his two visitors, standing at six and a half feet tall. He was long and lanky, with groggy eyes that suggested he had just awoken. “Welcome to my apartment, gentlemen. Please take seat.”

  The Goat eyed the filthy sofa. “I’ll stand.”

  “This is Vladimir Usa…us…” Fat Paulie began.

  “Vladimir Ustanov.” His accent was as thick as mud.

  They all shook hands. The Goat could tell right away that this guy was sharp. He had an air about him that he could hold his own with the college professors at Drexel.

  “Right, right. This is my associate Pat Adesso. We call him The Goat.”

  “Oh, because of beard,” Vladimir said. “I understand. Can I offer you drink?”

  Fat Paulie said, “Yeah, give me one of those strong ones you guys make.”

  Vladimir fixed a Screwdriver for his guest.

  “So Vladie, we’d like to hear about this operation you plan on starting,” The Goat said.

  He handed Paulie the beverage. “In Ukraine, I was biologist. I come to this country seeking opportunity and I find none, so I make own opportunity.”

  Fat Paulie nodded. “Don’t we all.”

  Vladimir sprawled himself on his checkered, hole-filled sofa. The Goat felt ill thinking about the critters that occupied it.