ROSES FOR UNCLE SAL
I was lying in my bed on the houseboat in the middle of a terrific dream in which I was sitting in a poker game at the Taj Mahal in Atlantic City with three kings and a pair of aces in my hand and twelve grand on the table when the sound of my name jolted me from my fantasy with the subtlety of a punch in the stomach.
“Nick.”
My eyes popped open and I found John Sullivan standing over me.
“Are you trying to stop my heart?”
“I need your help.”
John Sullivan coming to me for help was the perfect example of the idiom—the shoe is on the other foot.
It was serious.
“Get the coffee going. I need to throw cold water on my face and get into my clothes. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“It’s Annie,” he said when I joined him at the table in the kitchen area.
Annie was his fourteen-year-old daughter.
“Jesus, John, is she all right?”
“She was grabbed by two men on her way home from theater rehearsal last night. Christ. I’ve told her a million fucking times to either walk in a group or call for me or Maggie to come pick her up.”
“Was she hurt?”
“Annie is a tough cookie. She said they didn’t touch her, but she was terrified.”
“What happened?”
“She was blindfolded and put in the back seat of a car with one man, the other drove. She was assured she would not come to any harm as long as her father did the right thing next Wednesday. She was dropped off in front of our house. When she pulled off the blindfold she saw the car race away. Big dark blue sedan, maybe a Lincoln or Chrysler, she couldn’t make the license plate. Damn it, Nick. They fucking knew where she lived and where she goes to school.”
“What’s next Wednesday?”
“Next Wednesday is the day when my sworn testimony in court could possibly put Vincent Salerno away for a very long time.”
Vincent Salerno had been indicted by a grand jury six months earlier on a charge of first degree voluntary manslaughter. The trial was set to begin in Kings County Criminal Court with opening statements on Monday.
Salerno had grown up around organized crime. His father had been an attorney for the Colletti family before Dominic Colletti and his two sons were assassinated in Brooklyn.
Vincent had never been invited to join the inner circle. He was generally unpopular with crime bosses due to his recklessness and his blatant disrespect for tradition. When his father passed away, leaving him a substantial inheritance, Vincent invested in pornography—importing hard core sex films from Europe for distribution in the states.
Salerno increased his wealth if not his popularity.
Salerno had been twice accused of distributing films featuring underage girls. In each case, there was not enough evidence to prove prior knowledge and the District Attorney decided not to seek criminal indictment. Instead, Salerno was required to pay modest fines and ordered to pull the movies out of circulation.
No one doubted Salerno was aware of the offense, and he became even more disfavored by the family-oriented Italian-American criminal community because of their strong rules regarding crimes against children.
Vincent Salerno was about to be tried for fatally beating his fiancée, Monica Ricci. She had been twenty-five years old at the time.
A close friend of the victim would testify that Monica had talked about breaking off the engagement with Salerno. Ricci had expressed her growing concern about Salerno’s violent temper.
A number of witnesses would describe a loud argument between Salerno and Ricci at a restaurant in Bay Ridge on the evening of her death. The same witnesses would testify that the couple left the restaurant together. A neighbor would testify to seeing Monica and Salerno arriving at her apartment building together. Another neighbor would testify to hearing what she described as a yelling match coming from the vicinity of Ricci’s apartment. Fifteen minutes later the same neighbor heard someone running past her door. She looked out of her window and saw a man climb into a large, black, late model automobile and speed away. She called 9-1-1.
Vincent Salerno drove a year-old black Cadillac.
A few hours later a pair of detectives arrived at Salerno’s house in Carroll Gardens. He greeted them in a bathrobe and appeared to have just showered. They informed him of Monica Ricci’s death. He demonstrated surprise. He did not invite them inside and answered their questions through the partially opened front door. He was asked to recount his evening, asked when he last saw Ricci. He said they had gone out for dinner, had a “bit of a disagreement,” he drove her home, walked her to her door, left immediately without going into her apartment and came directly home. One of the detectives later reported he had noticed what “may have been blood” on the outside doorknob of the front entrance and on the floor near the threshold. The detectives asked if they could take a look inside and were told by Salerno they would need a search warrant. When investigators returned the following morning with warrants for both the house and Salerno’s Cadillac they found no damning evidence, although one of the forensic detectives reported a faint smell of ammonia in the vehicle.
Although the bulk of the evidence against Salerno was circumstantial or based on hearsay it was enough to persuade the grand jury to send the case to trial after taking Detective John Sullivan’s testimony into account.
When Sullivan arrived at the scene, Monica Ricci was being placed into an ambulance. She was alive, barely. One of the medical attendants told John the girl would likely not survive. John hopped into the back of the ambulance hoping she would be able to speak. En route to the hospital she named Vincent Salerno as her assailant.
She was rushed into the emergency room, furiously worked on for twenty minutes and died.
The prosecution would argue that Monica Ricci knew she was dying when she made her statement to Detective Sullivan in the ambulance.
The name Vincent Salerno had been her last words.
Under Rule 804(2) of the Federal Rules of Evidence a “dying declaration” might, at the discretion of the presiding judge, be determined an exception to the hearsay rule, be admitted into evidence, and presented to a jury.
“What are you thinking, John?”
“If we can track down the men who messed with my little girl and encourage them to testify they were acting on behalf of Vincent Salerno it would, on top of my own testimony, tip the scales in favor of the prosecution and should be enough to convince a jury. If we can’t find them my family is in jeopardy and I may be forced to do something that goes against everything I believe in.”
“Commit perjury.”
“Yes. We have less than a week. I need your help. If Salerno suspects we are hunting for his muscle, he might resort to something worse than threats. And I can’t use the department. If the situation was known, and I recanted my earlier sworn affidavit, it would be patently obvious. I would be finished and Salerno probably walks.”
“How about your partner?”
“I could trust Sam, but I won’t ask him to risk his own career and reputation unless there is absolutely no other choice. It’s you and me, Nick, and I need to take a back seat. You need to find out who in Salerno’s circle, family, friends or ‘business’ associates, would have been willing to deliver the message. You need to be careful who you talk to—Vincent Salerno cannot know anyone is looking. You need to watch your back. And you need to move quickly.”
“I’ll do the best I can, John.”
“That’s all I ask, Nick,” Sullivan said. And he left me to it.
I knew a number of cats on the street who could possibly have ideas about who Salerno might employ to deliver his warning to Sullivan, but not many who I could depend on for discretion.
John had done a very thorough job of summarizing what needed to be done, but the words that spoke loudest to me were watch your back.
There was one person I knew who, if he was willing to help, would keep my interest in Salerno under wraps.
That was if he was willing to grant me audience in the first place.
I called the number I had and spoke with a guy who I guessed was an appointment secretary and who sounded like Rocky Balboa.
A few hours later I received the callback. Ferdinand “The Fist” Pugno would see me at Il Toscano Ristorante on 235th Street and 42nd Avenue in Queens at one.
I had met with Pugno at his restaurant in Douglaston once before. On that occasion it was in a small private dining room in back. When I arrived at one I found him sitting at a table near the front window. I joined him at his table.
A big thug who I assumed was the Stallone impersonator watched us very closely from the bar.
“Can I offer you lunch?” Pugno asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
He waved a waiter over to the table.
The waiter wore black tuxedo pants, with a stark white shirt and black tie. The light reflecting off his spotless black patent leather shoes was blinding. He was at least sixty years old and had likely worked in the place forty years.
“Riccardo. Tenere il pranzo. Due caffé per favore.”
He waited for Riccardo to bring the coffee and retreat.
“So?” he said, as he loaded his cup with sugar.
I explained how I hoped he could help me.
“Vincent Salerno is a maggot. The man has no family, no friends, and his business associates are worms. The only way he could get any help to do his dirty work is to pay for it.”
“Do you have any ideas about who could be so employed, a pair of men who work as a team?”
“There are more than a few candidates. You may do better talking with my son Carmine. He knows Brooklyn much better than I do, and it could have saved you a trip out here.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting your son Carmine, and coming out here was no hardship,” I said.
Which was my polite way of saying I prefer dealing with the devil I know and will you help me or not?
“Remind me why I should bother with this.”
“Because it will help John Sullivan, who I believe you at least respect, and because I treated your son Freddy leniently when he caused me so much grief down in Atlantic City.”
“I heard you broke Freddy’s jaw.”
“It was a lucky punch. Can you help us?”
Pugno looked deeply into my eyes for a moment before answering.
“I’ll look into it. And I will ask Carmine to do likewise. Are you certain you won’t join me for lunch? The fried calamari is wonderful.”
“No offense, but I have other business. Thank you.”
I walked out to my Monte Carlo. I felt confident I could count on Pugno and his son Carmine to do some asking around and keep my name out of it. But I couldn’t count on results, couldn’t put all of my eggs in one basket.
I drove back to my office in Brooklyn to give my Uncle Sal a call.
Sal was my father’s younger brother and he possessed many of the same unappealing character traits my old man had perfected in his own time. One of the only things that set the brothers apart was the fact my uncle was still alive. But Sal was a first-rate con man, a marvelous actor and was better at bluffing than anyone I had ever known. And what I needed was a totally convincing performance.
Whether motivated by his respect for his late brother, affection for me, or the need to have something to do, when I asked Uncle Sal for a favor he never said no.
I still had to pay him.
When Sal didn’t answer his phone at home I tried SOS, a private “social club” housed in a storefront on Avenue S.
“Sons of Sicily, this is Joe.”
Joe Greco. Joe the Barber. He had cut my hair from the time I was five years old up until the time I began to care about how I looked. He had to be in his late-eighties and he was still butchering the kids in the neighborhood.
“Buongiorno, Giuseppe. It’s Nicky. Is my uncle there?”
“We’re in the middle of a pinochle game.”
“Please tell him it’s important. It will only take a minute.”
A moment later Sal was on the line.
“I’m bidding on aces around and a run in spades.”
I had decided I needed time to work on a script and needed to give John Sullivan time to locate a venue. The next day would have to do.
“I need some help.”
“When?”
“Sometime tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll call when I’m sure.”
“Okay.”
And that was that.
I called the 70th Precinct and was, for a change, immediately connected to Detective Sullivan.
“Well?”
“I’m working on it, John. I’ll run it by you later. First I need an empty apartment preferably above a storefront on a busy avenue, preferably in Bensonhurst, Gravesend or Coney Island, a working phone with an unblocked number, and cable TV would be nice. And I need it by tomorrow.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Don’t count on the television.”
He signed off without asking questions.
I was flattered.
An hour later Carmine Pugno called my office. I was not thrilled about him having my number.
“My father reached out to me,” he said. “I just wanted you to know I’m on it.”
“Thank you.”
“I have a number of ideas, but thought I would narrow the field before I give you any names. Try to save you some useless running around.”
“I like that idea. Thank you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“By the way.”
Here it comes.
“Yes?”
“A while back I received a couple of voice recordings relating to Sonny Balducci. I have often wondered if you know anything about it.”
“I can’t say that I do.”
“I ask because whoever provided the information did me a great service and deserves a show of appreciation.”
“When someone does another a good turn, he or she is not necessarily looking to be rewarded, or to be widely acknowledged for that matter.”
The last thing I needed was to earn a place on Carmine Pugno’s buddy list, or for it to be even casually suggested I had anything to do with Sonny Balducci’s demise.
“I understand,” Carmine said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I didn’t ask him what he thought he understood. I really didn’t want to know. I simply thanked him a third time and we were done for the moment.
I called Roseanna Napoli’s cell. I felt I could use company that evening. I was hoping she was not booked for her occasional night gig at a privately funded Classical music radio station. During the day she taught American Literature at Brooklyn College. Roseanna was multi-cultural. She was one of those rare humans who could be both intelligent and smart at the same time. I met her at a fundraiser for the station, where for one hundred bucks I earned a dinner, a few glasses of wine, and a reputation for being a supporter of the arts. We immediately hit it off at the event and it stuck.
“I’m in between classes, make it quick. You’re pretty good at that,” she said with a failed attempt to suppress an audible smile.
“Cute. Are you spinning Vivaldi tonight?”
“I’m free as a bird.”
“Can I come over to your nest?”
“I’d rather come to your place. I’m really in the mood for linguini with clams and Clemente’s is a lot closer to your crib than mine.”
“I still have trouble sleeping on the boat.”
“Who said anything about sleeping?”
“You are a nasty girl.”
“Nasty is in the eye of the beholder. How about seven?”
“Make it half past.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Have to run.”
John Sullivan called.
“I found an unoccupied apartment on Avenue J and East Fifteenth above the bagel shop. A complaint came in from the landlord, the tenant skipped out on his lease last week, four months behind on rent. I took care of a delinquent phone bill and reinstated service. There’s no caller ID block and the address is listed in the reverse directory. It’s a corner apartment on the top floor with windows looking down to both the avenue and Fifteenth Street. The landlord will give us the place for two days. I told him it would help us track down the deadbeat. You can pick up the keys at the shop after eight tomorrow morning. Can I ask you what it’s about?”
I explained my plan.
“Sounds iffy.”
“Uncle Sal can be very convincing.”
“And Plan B?”
“Carmine Pugno is doing some research.”
“You called on Carmine Pugno.”
“Not exactly, but he’s lending a hand. You weren’t mentioned.”
“And Plan C?”
“I don’t have one yet, I’m being optimistic.”
“Don’t you feel uncomfortable about putting your uncle out there?”
“I do, but I’ve talked myself into believing they won’t kill the messenger. Did you manage to get a television?”
“No luck. Does your uncle like to read?”
“Only the Daily Racing Form.”
I called Uncle Sal to tell him I would pick him up in the morning and give him the details over breakfast.
“Are you buying?”
“Yes.”
“Steak and eggs at the Benchmark?”
It was twenty dollar menu item. Uncle Sal had very refined tastes when I could afford it.
“Sure. Be ready at eight.”
I moved over to the only fairly comfortable piece of furniture in the office, a small sofa upholstered in dark brown corduroy that my generous landlady had waiting for me there when I moved in. On the blank side of a Chinese restaurant flyer I began listing the points Sal would need to include in his presentation when the time came. The ringing of the telephone woke me up.
“Ventura Investigation.”
“Mr. Ventura?”
“Speaking.”
“Benjamin Foster. Tony and Richie Fazio gave me your name. I’d like to talk with you about hiring your services.”
“What’s it about, Mr. Foster?”
“I would prefer talking face to face. I could be at your office in twenty minutes.”
I looked at my watch. It was nearly six.
I didn’t want to keep Roseanna waiting. I was fairly certain I had used up my tardiness quota for the month.
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“It’s been waiting for two days. I’m feeling anxious.”
Foster had mentioned the Fazios, and I was not in a position to refuse the possibility of paid employment.
“Can you be at the Miami Bar on Avenue X and East Twenty-Second Street in fifteen minutes?”
The place was five minutes from my houseboat.
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll meet you out front,” I said. “I’ll be the guy with the question mark floating above his head.”
Fifteen minutes later I was almost to the entrance when I was stopped by the sound of my name. He was behind the wheel of a beat-up Ford pickup parked in front. He invited me to get in.
He was wearing leather work boots, jeans and a khaki button down shirt with the name Ben embroidered on the chest pocket.
The first question I usually ask a prospective client is Why aren’t you talking to the police, but I had a strong suspicion the answer would soon become self-evident.
“What’s it about?” I asked. Again.
“If I retain your services, is there investigator-client privilege?”
“Confidentiality?”
“Yes.”
“Up to a point. But I’m not an attorney and I’m not your priest, so if you killed someone you would be better off not telling me about it. How do you know Tony and Richie?”
“I help out on one of their garbage trucks occasionally, most of the time I work at an auto salvage yard on Shell Road.”
“And?”
“Day before yesterday, I had to pull a taillight assembly and lens off a late model Nissan Sentra for a customer. The customer also needed a tire. The car had been front-ended, the rear end was clean. You need to unfasten the unit from inside the trunk to get it out. There were no keys so I had to pop it open with a pry bar. I found a briefcase in the spare tire compartment.”
“And it was full of cash,” I said facetiously.
“Just over thirty-five thousand dollars.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I went through all of the paperwork we had on the vehicle, including a police report, title and a bill of sale from the insurance company. The car had been found crashed into a support column under the Gowanus Expressway two weeks earlier. The owner reported it stolen two nights before. He had left it running when he ran into a newsstand for a pack of cigarettes. He claimed a couple of CDs and a leather sport coat were the only valuables aboard. It was towed to a service station where an insurance adjustor wrote it off as ‘totaled’, the chassis was twisted and the engine crushed. It ultimately landed at the junk yard. There was no mention anywhere of a briefcase.”
“And you’ve been sitting on it for two days trying to decide whether or not to part with the cash. If you’re looking for advice, Ben, providing good counsel is not my strong point.”
“I’d like to know where the money came from, I want to employ you to try finding out. If and when you do, I’ll let you judge if I need to give it up. I’ll stand by your decision.”
“Making moral judgments is not one of my best skills either. And what if I come up empty?”
“Then I’ll turn it in.”
“Can you get me a copy of the police report?”
“I have a copy.”
He reached into the glove box, found the document, and passed it to me.
“I’ll need to think about it, I’ll get back to you,” I said. “Meanwhile, we never had this conversation.”
I climbed out of the pickup, hopped into my Monte Carlo, and rushed home in time for a shower and a drink before Roseanna arrived.
Jackson Browne observed maybe people only ask you how you’re doing because that’s easier than letting on how little they could care.
That was not the case with Roseanna Napoli. Roseanna always made me feel certain she was sincerely interested in how my day had gone. And she was always gracious enough to hold on until I had completed my discourse before jumping in.
So over dinner at Clemente’s I gave her an earful.
“Is your uncle is up to this?”
“I think so. I’ll know better after I actually give him the details.”
“Anything I can do?”
“For instance?”
“I could play the mysterious witness. I’m a pretty good actor myself.”
“I’m hoping it doesn’t get that far.”
“Keep it in mind,” she said. “And how about the other thing?”
“I don’t know. What I do know, from everything I’ve seen and heard, is that finding a briefcase full of cash has a way of turning unlucky.”
“You look exhausted. I should let you get some rest.”
“I decided when I called you that I could last a few hours.”
“Does that include the hour we sat here?”
The more time I spent with Roseanna Napoli the more I felt I had perhaps met my match. It was an entertaining and scary thought.
“I recommend we blow this pop stand and race to the houseboat, we’re wasting precious moments.”
“Lead the way, Skipper.”
Early the next morning Roseanna shook me awake. It took some extra effort on her part to help my body distinguish her prodding from the natural movement of the bed, which rocked on the bay like a cork in a goldfish bowl. She reported she had to run home to change costumes and prepare for her lecture at nine. If I recall correctly she was planning to discuss Thomas Wolfe and William Styron, two writers from the Deep South who had spent time living in Brooklyn, emphasizing how their sojourns in Kings County influenced their respective work during those periods. I knew she could pull it off. Roseanna could make Who’s Who in Professional Badminton sound fascinating. My own interest in American writers ran more to who smoked cigarettes and who had spent some time in the slammer.
Roseanna reminded me I had an appointment with Uncle Sal at eight, gave me a peck on the cheek and was gone.
Sal managed to polish off a twelve-ounce T-Bone, eggs, home fries, Texas toast and pay attention at the same time.
He pushed his empty plate aside just as I came to the end of my narrative.
“So,” my uncle said. “This pimp Vincent Salerno will be able to get the address.”
“With no trouble, and that’s what we want.”
“And he’ll send his hired help.”
“I think he will.”
“But they won’t move on me.”
“He’ll have them watch for a while, hope you lead them to the witness.”
“The imaginary witness. And when he gets tired of waiting?”
“You don’t have to do this, Uncle Sal.”
“I’ll do it. I just want to consider all of the possibilities.”
“Keep your eyes on the street. Two men in a dark blue sedan. Try to get the license plate number. Then call me. John and I will take it from there.”
“Let’s go. Leave a big tip, the waitress liked my jokes. And we need to pick up a bottle of Dewar’s on the way.”
I parked in front of the building and ran into the bagel shop to pick up the keys. Sal continued studying the Daily Racing Form in the passenger seat. I had grabbed the thirteen-inch color TV with built in DVD player from the houseboat on my way out, my entire home entertainment center, and a few Martin Scorsese films. I pulled the set from the trunk as Sal climbed out of the Monte Carlo.
“What do you have there?”
“A television.”
“Looks like an alarm clock.”
“Are you coming?”
He followed me into the building.
The entrance to the floors above the shop was just west of the storefront. The door to the street was unlocked and led to a short hall lined with doorbells and mailboxes. One of the two keys unlocked a second door, accessing the stairway. It could also be unlocked from inside each apartment by buzzer. The second key unlocked the apartment on the third floor, where my uncle and I would roll the dice.
By eleven I was confident Sal had it down. John Sullivan had given me a direct number for Vincent Salerno. I turned on the phone speaker, punched in the number, and handed the receiver to my uncle.
Sal cut him off in the middle of Hello.
“Mr. Salerno, I represent a woman whose testimony could hurt you badly in court next week.”
“Who is this?”
Sal didn’t miss a beat.
“She witnessed you entering Monica Ricci’s apartment on the evening of Ms. Ricci’s death. I believe this would contradict a sworn statement claiming you never entered the apartment. She will testify unless she has fifty thousand good reasons to remain silent.”
Nice touch. Uncle Sal was clearly enjoying himself. After a few seconds Salerno got his tongue untied.
“It’s bullshit. No one saw me go into the apartment that night because I never went in. It will be her fucking word against mine.”
“And it will be up to a jury to decide who is being truthful.”
“I don’t believe you have a witness, and if you do she’s lying to you. One or the other or both of you are trying to shake me down, and it’s a bad idea.”
“Believe what you will. The offer is on the table. I can arrange for you to meet her if it would help you make up your mind. Today is Friday. The trial begins Monday. We would like an answer by tomorrow evening.”
“Why wait until the last minute to try baiting me?”
“It was my advice. I felt it would make it much easier for you to come to a quick decision. She is planning to speak with the prosecutors first thing Monday morning.”
“And what will they think of her failure to come forward six months ago?”
“She will say she was afraid to speak out, considering what she knows of your temper. It doesn’t really matter. The value of her testimony will persuade the DA to offer immunity. Call me by six tomorrow if you are interested in dealing. Otherwise, good luck in court. Would you like my phone number?”
“I have your number. Go fuck yourself,” Salerno said and hung up.
“How did I do?”
“Great, Sal.”
“What do you think?”
“I think what I thought before. He will send his boys and they will watch. If you stay put, so will they. And as soon as you can ID their vehicle call me.”
“I brought a pinochle deck. Can you stay for a few hands?”
“I have some business. Watch Goodfellas. I’ll have Di Fara’s send a pie up in a couple of hours. Don’t drink too much of that scotch. I’ll call you this afternoon, and you call me if you need anything or if anything looks wrong. I appreciate your help. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. Get out of here.”
I ran across the avenue and ordered a pizza to be delivered at two.
I felt obligated to make a timely decision regarding Benjamin Foster’s moral dilemma.
The question was: How can you inquire about who may have misplaced a briefcase full of cash without broadcasting the fact that someone found it?
The answer was: You can’t.
I needed a different approach, and I had an idea. But first I wanted to know more about the prospective client.
I called Tony Fazio.
“A-1 Trash Removal.”
“Tony, Nick.”
“What’s up?”
“Ben Foster?”
“He reached out to you?”
“He did.”
“What’s it about?”
“I really can’t say, Tony. What can you tell me about him?”
“Ben is a good guy. A very hard worker. He must put in sixty hours a week at the salvage yard, and helps us out when he can. A wife and two small daughters, three and five, all crammed into a tiny basement apartment on West Ninth Street. Not much more I can tell you.”
“That’s enough. Thanks.”
It was enough for me to take a ride to see Hector Ramirez in Sunset Park.
According to the police report, the Nissan with a treasure in the trunk plowed into a support column beneath the Gowanus at 3rd Avenue and 43rd Street. Hector and his wife Rosa ran a restaurant at 36th and 3rd, a block south of Sunset Park High School. When something out of the everyday came down in the neighborhood it was a very good bet Hector Ramirez had heard something about it.
Hector and Rosa served up some of the tastiest Caribbean dishes in Brooklyn at Café La Morena. I had been a frequent patron for years. Three months earlier Hector asked for my help. His son had been running around with a group of schoolmates who were pulling stereos out of cars in Park Slope and Hector caught wind of it. When confronted by his father, Raul swore he wasn’t involved in the robberies. Hector believed the boy, but was worried about guilt by association and peer pressure down the line. He wanted to knock some sense into the kid but thought it would be more effective coming from outside the family. Hector enlisted me to give his son something to think about.
I stopped the boy outside the high school.
“Raul.”
The boy recognized me. He had seen me in the restaurant a number of times, but didn’t know who I was or what I did.
I left it to his imagination.
“Yes.”
“I’m investigating a series of auto break-ins and your name came up.”
“My name.”
“I’m going to give you a friendly warning. I want you to listen carefully. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“We are going to catch the thieves. We are talking grand larceny. If you are not in it, stay out of it. It’s a road that leads somewhere you don’t want to be. Am I clear?”
“Yes.”
“Find some new friends,” I said, and I left him to think it over.
I hadn’t been to the restaurant for nearly a month. Hector was behind the counter with his daughter Marielle who served tables when she wasn’t taking classes at Long Island University Brooklyn Campus. Hector was pleased to see me.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“In private?”
“Come, there is no one in the back dining room. Marielle, por favor, ask your mother to please dish up some chicken and rice.”
“How is Raul doing?” I asked when we were seated.
“Good. You gave him a scare. He immediately ditched those guys he had been hanging with. And just in time. They were picked up by the police two days later. Thank you, my friend.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
Marielle brought plates of food and glasses of iced tea to the table. Her father thanked her and waited for her to leave the room.
“So, Nick, what is on your mind?”
“I’m trying to get some information without attracting a lot of attention and you may be able to help.”
“I understand. Please tell me what you are looking for.”
“There was an automobile accident at Forty-Third Street a few weeks back. Do you know anything about it?”
“Only what I have heard in bits and pieces on the street. There was talk of a second vehicle involved, which may have been pursuing the first. After the crash, the second car raced away.”
“There was no mention of a car chase in the police report.”
“The police were never alerted that night. From what I understand, the car was spotted the next morning by a bus driver who called it in. The police did some canvassing in the area but found no witnesses. The people in this neighborhood are very tightlipped when it comes to the police.”
“Have you heard anything about the driver?”
“The driver?”
“No one was found in or close to the vehicle. I saw photos of the car, it was bad. It’s difficult to imagine someone walking away from such a violent collision.”
“Perhaps the driver managed to leave the vehicle but didn’t make it too far. But I am only thinking aloud, I have heard nothing about a driver. I could try to learn more, but it will be hard to do without attracting the attention you want to avoid.”
“It would be better if you don’t. Forget it.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you more.”
“You may have told me enough, I appreciate your time, and please thank Rosa for the terrific food,” I said, rising from the table.
“Won’t you stay for coffee?”
“I hate to eat and run but I have other business. Thanks again.”
“Anytime,” Hector said.
There were a number of medical facilities in the general vicinity of the accident. Calvary Hospital at 55th and 2nd was closest so I drove over.
I waited on line for twenty minutes to speak with an admissions clerk.
“Could you tell me if anyone was admitted a few weeks ago, possibly a victim of a serious automobile accident?”
“Could you be more specific about when?”
I took a look at the police report and gave her the date. She punched it into her computer.
“A body was found lying on the ground a few blocks from here around half past eleven that night and brought in by ambulance. John Doe. DOA.”
“Cause of death?”
“That’s all I can tell you, and I have people waiting behind you. Try the Sixty-Eighth Precinct.”
I thanked her and went out to my car.
I was debating whether or not making noise at the 68th was a good idea when my cell rang.
It was John Sullivan.
“Nick, I’m at Coney Island Hospital. It’s your uncle. It’s not good.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll fill you in when you get here. I’ll be up at I.C.U.”
When I came off the elevator I spotted Sullivan sitting in a chair near the nurses’ station.
He rose to meet me.
“Can I see him?”
“Not yet. There’s nothing we can do here right now. Let’s go down to the cafeteria, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and tell you what I know.”
By the time John got back to the table with coffee I was jumping out of my skin.
“Di Fara’s sent a kid over with a pizza around two. Apparently they gained entrance behind the kid when your uncle buzzed him in. When the kid didn’t come back, old man Di Fara sent one of his dishwashers to check it out. He couldn’t get through the security door, so it was called in. Two uniforms arrived and the store manager got them inside. They found the delivery kid gagged and tied at the end of the hall and discovered your uncle.”
“And?”
“They did a job on his face. Broke his jaw and the ER doctors had to work on his left eye. A few busted ribs. He lost a lot of blood.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“I’ve been able to get two words out of them. Touch and go.”
“I’ll kill the motherfuckers.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First we need to find them. And then we need to talk to them about Vincent Salerno.”
“Get anything from the kid?”
“Not much. He was so petrified he could hardly speak. They grabbed him from behind at the third floor landing, warned him to be silent and escorted him at gunpoint to the far end of the hall. Two men. Wearing ski masks. One held the weapon while the other wrapped him in duct tape.”
“Then they knock on the door and my uncle lets them right in. They came for the name of the witness and when Sal couldn’t tell them, because there is no fucking witness, they tried to beat it out of him. And he held out.”
“You don’t think they broke him?”
“If he had to come clean about anything, to get them to stop short of killing him, he told them there was no witness, and that the scheme was his alone. I know my uncle. Sal would never mention our names even if his life depended on it.”
“I’m really sorry, Nicky.”
“It was me who enlisted Sal, and he knew what he was doing. And he’s a tough bastard, he’ll pull through. But these scumbags have shown they mean business—and as long as they are out there on the street, you and your family are not safe.”
“I’ll send Maggie and the kids to her mother until after my day in court.”
“The message Salerno sent through Annie was a warning to change your testimony or else. Maggie and the kids are safe for the moment. The danger to your family doesn’t begin until Salerno sees you didn’t take the threat to heart. If we can’t find these guys before Wednesday you are going to have to make a difficult if not impossible choice.”
“We have uniforms canvassing Avenue J from Coney Island Avenue to the subway station. Maybe someone saw two men who looked out of place, in or around a dark blue sedan, can give a description. Something. We might get lucky, though honestly I’m not very optimistic. I hate to ask, but is there anything from Carmine Pugno?”
“Carmine said he had ideas but wanted to wait until he could offer a more manageable list of possibilities. I think it’s time to call him and take what he has, as much as I would prefer not to. You can do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you know anyone at the Sixty-Eighth who would answer a few questions without a what for?”
“Possibly. If I was doing the asking.”
“A dead man was picked up off the street in Sunset Park two weeks ago, on a Thursday night between eleven and midnight. The body was delivered to Calvary Hospital. Hospital records have him listed as a John Doe. I’d like to know who he was.”
“What killed him?’
“I’d like to know that also.”
“I’m guessing you don’t want to hear a what for from me either.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I need to go back up and find out when I can see my uncle.”
It was two hours before they would let me into the room. It broke my heart to see him that way. He was awake but couldn’t speak. His face was almost totally hidden by bandages. Only his right eye was uncovered and I was convinced I saw recognition in that eye when I reached the bed. He had no way to communicate but something in his eye said he was glad to see me, and glad to be able to see me. I vowed the men who beat him so brutally would pay.
I sat at his bedside, my hand resting over his. He fell asleep. My father had died alone. I pledged Sal would not. I was prepared to sit there until I was convinced he was out of the woods. When a doctor woke me it was three hours later. He coaxed me out of the room.
“It will take time, but his ribs and his jaw will heal. We saved the eye. There may be some loss of sight. He will need hospital care for three to four weeks. Did your uncle serve in the military?”
“Army. Vietnam.”
“Then I recommend transfer to Veterans Hospital. It would be far less costly. We should be able to safely move him in a few days. Detective Sullivan and a pair of brothers who rolled up to the hospital entrance in a garbage truck all gave blood. Your uncle will probably be asleep for quite a while, and it’s late. I suggest you call it a night. He has endured the worst of it. I can assure you he is not leaving us anytime soon.”
It was what I needed to hear, and I trusted he was not simply telling me what he knew I needed to hear.
I thanked him and I headed home.
The next morning, after what is commonly referred to as a fitful sleep, I was at the hospital by seven to look in on Sal.
He was awake. He looked more alert, but not much prettier. He would need to be fed intravenously until they could get his mouth working again.
I sat with him for a few hours. Listing all of the people who had dropped in to see him or had sent best wishes. Recapping all of the events leading to and immediately following his ordeal. Telling him where we sat on the Salerno thing. Expressing optimism I didn’t truly feel, but his good eye told me he was pleased to hear it. I eventually began reading to him from the Daily Racing Form. Like a dutiful parent reading from Winnie the Pooh. I paused after I was done running down the third race at Aquaduct.
“I’m really sorry, Uncle Sal,” I said.
He shook his head to tell me there was no apology necessary.
I continued reading to him until he was asleep. Then I quietly left the room and headed to my office.
After I settled into my desk chair and before I could check for phone messages, John Sullivan called.
“We caught a break.”
“Go,” I said. I was ready for some good news.
“A janitor sweeping in front of the Associated Supermarket saw the two men come out of the building, cross Avenue J, climb into a dark blue Chrysler sedan and drive off.”
“Get a plate number?”
“No. But he said one of the men had hair the color of a ripe pumpkin, so we have a partial description and the make of the vehicle. I put out an APB with instructions to report but not engage. I’m the primary on your uncle’s assault, if one of our units spots them I’ll hear about it first. It’s something.”
“It’s something,” I repeated. “Let me know if it pans out.”
I listened to the voice mail. There was a message from Carmine Pugno asking me to call back.
“I was sorry to hear about your uncle,” he said when I had him on the line. “Will he be all right?”
The man was definitely plugged into Brooklyn current events.
“I think so,” I said.
Pugno left it at that and got down to business.
“I have something for you.”
“Go on,” I said. I was ready for some better news.
“I believe you are looking for the Rose brothers.”
“Who are the Rose brothers?”
“Mike and Pat Rose. A pair of animals out of Jersey.”
“Okay.”
“Strictly muscle for hire, no affiliations, who won’t stop short of going all the way if the price is right.”
“Okay,” I said again, wondering how many teeth he would have left by the time he finally stopped me having to pull them.
“I had two of my guys staking out Salerno’s warehouse since he got there yesterday morning. At three in the afternoon the Rose brothers showed up.”
“Does one of them sport orange hair?”
“Yes.”
“A dark blue Chrysler?”
“Am I telling you things you already know?”
“You’re filling in the critical blanks.”
“Can you use a license plate number?”
“Sure.”
I jotted it down on a Totonno’s Pizzeria menu.
New Jersey registration.
“My guys tailed Michael and Patrick to the St. George Hotel in Brooklyn Heights. If these are the men you were looking for, there’s not much more we can do for you.”
“You’ve done enough. I’ll take it from here.”
“Do you need some time?”
“I could use a little time. Can your men stay on them for a while and keep track of them if they move?”
“Yes. But only for a while.”
“Thank you. And please thank your father.”
“You can thank my father by never reaching out to him again.”
Done and done.
I called Sullivan at the 70th.
“Pugno made our guys. They’re holed up at the St. George but I can’t say for how long.”
“I’m stuck here until my partner gets back from a doctor’s appointment. Can you keep track of them for two or three hours?”
“Carmine has it covered. He’ll let me know if they move. Meanwhile, here are their names and the plate number of the Chrysler. See what you can find out about these bastards.”
I gave him the information.
“I’ll call you as soon as I can break loose and we’ll work out the safest way to get to them. I don’t want you going in alone.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” I said.
“By the way.”
“Yes?”
“I spoke with a friend at the Sixty-Eighth, asked him to keep a lid on my inquiry. The DOA that landed at Calvary was a drug pusher, peddled on the street. He had been charged a few times but it didn’t stick. He had lacerations on his face and chest consistent with a fall.”
I might have mentioned that burns on the face and chest were also consistent with air bag injuries but I didn’t.
“A fall killed the guy?”
“Loss of blood from two gunshot wounds, neck and chest, killed the guy.”
“Call me as soon as Sam gets back from the doctor,” was all I said.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten anything substantial so I called down to Totonno’s and had Carmella send up a potato and egg hero on seeded Italian bread.
I had just polished off the sandwich when I received a call from Hector Ramirez.
“Can you come to the restaurant, Nick?”
“Now?”
“If at all possible. There is a gentleman here who would like to speak with you.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” I said.
When I arrived at the restaurant, Hector sent me to the back room. I was greeted by a well-dressed man in his mid-sixties. He invited me to join him at a table.
“Mr. Ventura. My name is Alfredo Garcia. Hector tells me you are a man who possesses nobility. He says you are a righteous man.”
“That’s very flattering,” was all I could think to say.
“I am the president of Seguridad, our neighborhood association. Besides sponsoring community educational, sporting and social events, we also work diligently to keep the neighborhood safe—particularly for our children. In the past six months we have lost three of our young ones to drugs, one was my fourteen-year-old grandson. We identified the devil who was responsible and we notified the police. They let him go twice for lack of evidence. I called a community meeting and we discussed the situation.”
Garcia paused for a moment to allow me to speak. I had nothing to say so he went on.
“We confronted the man and gave him a clear message, fair warning. If he was seen again anywhere in the neighborhood, there would be serious consequences. A few weeks ago he was spotted here on Third Avenue.”
Brooklyn Justice.
“I understand,” I said.
“All of the good families here hope that you do.” Then, to let me know he was finished with the subject, he added, “Would you care for coffee?”
“I need to go,” I said as I rose to leave.
“Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Ventura.”
“Does Seguridad accept donations, Mr. Garcia? To assist funding your programs.”
“We can always make good use of such support.”
I bid farewell to Hector on my way out. He thanked me for coming down. I thanked him for the opportunity. I climbed into the Monte Carlo planning to spend some more time with my uncle while I waited to hear from Sullivan. As I was pulling away, Pugno rang my cell. I wasn’t very surprised he had found the number. Carmine could probably dig up the Pope’s cell phone number and text His Holiness a Happy Easter greeting.
“They left the hotel,” he said. “My guys tailed them across the Verrazano and through Staten Island as far as the Goethals Bridge. I advised them not to follow the Roses into New Jersey.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
“Be careful. These boys can be extremely dangerous, especially on their own turf.”
With that he ended the call.
I was tired of having a phone attached to my left ear so I decided to drive out to the 70th Precinct where I could give John Sullivan the news face to face and debate our next move even if we had to sneak into an interrogation room for privacy.
The cubbyhole Sullivan and his partner Sam shared as an office was unoccupied so we settled there. He poured coffee, I replayed Pugno’s report.
“Looks like we’re going to New Jersey,” John said.
“When?”
“I can get out of here as soon as Sam returns. I’ll need to go home first and let Maggie know what’s going on. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can pick me up at the house.”
“Good. If anything changes I’ll be at the hospital.”
“Nick.”
“Yes?”
“Bring your gun.”
I rolled up in front of the Sullivan residence just after six.
John was waiting out on the sidewalk.
He looked back to the house, where his wife Maggie stood inside at the window, before climbing in beside me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Six Hundred North Maine Avenue.”
“Atlantic City,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
“Guess you know the place pretty well.”
“Very well.”
I’d had a lot of bad luck in Atlantic City.
We made it down in less than three hours. Just before nine I parked in a lot off North Rhode Island Avenue that served the Atlantic City Aquarium and we walked from there.
North Maine Avenue had not earned a square on the Monopoly Board but it sat in a prime location and I imagined it wouldn’t be long before the four homes between Caspian and Liberty Avenues would be traded for a hotel. The Rose brothers occupied the corner house at Caspian. There was a large green park across Caspian to the north and a narrow beach across North Maine on the Absecon Inlet to the east. From the second story deck of the house there would be a view of the ocean. There was an alley running behind the house and a good-sized yard in front. A prominent sign on a well-groomed front lawn read Beware of Dog. There were rooms lit inside the house on both floors and the Chrysler sat in the driveway.
The neighboring house was dark.
We decided John would take the back and I would watch the front. We decided we would wait for the dog to drag at least one of the brothers out to the park and agreed to give it ninety minutes before deciding something else.
Not long after ten, I was out of sight at the north corner of the house when the redheaded Rose walked out of the front door leading a German shepherd the size of a pony on a leash that could have towed a truck. He had to come in my direction to cross Caspian Avenue to the park. The animal was certainly large enough to warrant the notice on the lawn, but if I was easily discouraged by warnings I would be selling vacuum cleaners in Des Moines instead of hiding behind a Magnolia bush at the Jersey Shore.
If the German shepherd was a watch dog, he hadn’t been watching. When pumpkin head passed my position I hit him fast and hard from behind. A crack on the back of the head with the butt end of my .357 brought him to the ground like a test of the theory of gravity. He was out cold. The dog took off across Caspian Avenue with his tail between his legs dragging twenty feet of half-inch derby rope behind him and disappeared into the park without a peep.
So much for appearances.
I wrapped red’s legs, arms and mouth with duct tape until he looked like a pizza delivery kid. I shoved him under the magnolias and went to fetch John.
“Where’s the pooch?”
“Wasn’t exactly a guard dog. Probably halfway to Ocean City by now.”
We dragged the body to the back of the house and handcuffed him to a fence post for extra measure.
We agreed that trying to grab each of them outside the house was still a good idea and we were really in no big hurry so we waited again. We were guessing when Mike or Pat didn’t come back Pat or Mike would step out to investigate. I was hoping that before too long we would know who was who.
I stationed myself across North Maine and Sullivan stood sentry on the blind side of the front door. Twenty minutes later the second Rose stepped out onto the porch and looked toward the park. I called to him, something like Can you tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall and, before he could recommend practice, John had a .44 pressed against his head.
I skipped across the street and followed them into the house.
Ten minutes later we had the two positioned like matching bookends on a long black leather sofa. If either of them had anything to say it would have to wait until we removed the gags. John and I sat on armchairs separated by a high table sipping from tumblers of twenty-four-year-old Glenfiddich borrowed from the Rose’s well-stocked bar and going through their wallets.
Turned out Michael was the carrot top.
“So,” John said, crossing to the sofa, “you enjoy beating old men and scaring little girls.”
He yanked the tape from Michael’s face. The skin around his mouth was as red as his mop.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
Not very imaginative so I decided I would save eloquence for my next trip to the opera.
“We know exactly who we’re fucking with” I said.
I walked over to the front door and picked up the metal softball bat leaning in a corner. I took it over to the sofa and cracked Pat on the left knee swinging for the fences. His muffled complaint was not wasted on his brother.
“You could have broken his fucking knee.”
“And if I didn’t I could try again.”
“What the fuck do you want?”
“We want you and your brother to read this statement,” John said, pulling the document from his inside jacket pocket, “and then you will both sign it. My friend here brought his notary seal.”
It was true. It earned me a couple of extra bucks a month. Conveniently I was licensed in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.
The wording was short and to the point. The undersigned were employed by Vincent Salerno to forcibly influence testimony in a felony trial, and to that end had kidnapped a minor and assaulted a senior.
“This is a coerced confession. It would never hold up against us in court.”
“Thanks for opinion, Darrow,” I said. “But it will be a big headache for Salerno. And we’re not all that interested in getting you into court.”
For the sake of variety I hit Michael in his right knee with the bat.
I was guessing his protest could be heard in Trenton.
Another ten minutes later the affidavit was signed and sealed and we had their writing arms rewrapped and Michael’s mouth taped again.
Then Sullivan took his turn with the bat, crushing Michael’s left knee and Patrick’s right. While he was at it I went to the kitchen, filled two bowls the size of wash basins with food and water, and opened the back door in case the pooch came back. When I returned John was saying goodbye to the boys.
“If you ever crawl back into Brooklyn again, we will kill you,” he said. “As in kill you.”
The dog was sitting outside the front door. He licked my hand and I let him in. He jumped up onto the sofa between the brothers and assumed a sleep position. I closed the door.
“Think anyone will miss them enough to swing by and recycle the duct tape?” I asked as we walked back to the aquarium parking lot.
“Who cares.”
We drove back to our little town.
I woke up late the next morning. Sunday. The law takes no days of rest.
John Sullivan got the Rose’s statement to the DA who in turn got it to Salerno’s attorney who convinced his client to plead guilty to second degree voluntary manslaughter. Class C felony. Maximum penalty five to fifteen. The jury trial was vacated and John missed his opportunity to testify. He didn’t really mind. Salerno was sentenced by a judge to twelve years imprisonment without parole. It seemed mild punishment for taking a life, but the justice system is just that. A system. And personally, I didn’t believe I could handle more than a week in the joint.
I drove out to the hospital to visit Sal and found Roseanna Napoli sitting at his bedside. She somehow had him smiling behind the wires holding his jaw together.
“Are you talking dirty to an old man?” I asked.
“I was telling your uncle about the time you slipped on the deck of the houseboat and demolished a hundred and fifty dollar bottle of sixteen-year-old Black Maple Hill Kentucky straight bourbon.”
Nice.
There were a dozen red roses in a vase on the side table.
“Did you bring the flowers?”
“I brought the Daily Racing Form,” she said. “Your friend John Sullivan sent the roses.”
We sat with Sal until he slipped into sleep and then drove over to 17th Avenue for Cuban sandwiches at the Quetzel Restaurant in Bensonhurst.
I told Roseanna about our adventure in Atlantic City.
“My hero.”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I have no choice. What do you think about spending the rest of the day on your houseboat keeping track of the tides?”
“I have some business to take care of and a bottle of Booker’s I would prefer intact, what about your place at six?”
“Just because you popped for a sandwich and a cup of chicken soup don’t expect me to slave at a hot stove over a pot of tomato sauce with sausage and meatballs for your Sunday dinner.”
“I expect no such thing,” I said.
“Good, then it will be a surprise.”
I dropped her at her neighborhood Italian grocery.
“Bring wine, and don’t forget the bourbon,” she said and hopped out of the car.
I watched her float into the market and then I called Ben Foster.
I asked Ben if he could meet me where we had met three days earlier and he said he would be there. I recommended we meet inside the place instead of in his pickup. I found him at a booth near the front window, pulled up a bench and waived at a waitress for two cups of coffee.
“I’ll bet the farm no one is going to show up looking for the cash. I would rather skip the details.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s what you can do.”
“Shoot.”
“You send an anonymous donation of ten grand to an organization called Seguridad in Sunset Park and you can keep what’s left. Lose the briefcase.”
“And you’re good with that?”
“Yes.”
“What about your fee?”
“Three days on the clock, some gasoline, let’s call it five hundred dollars. Send me a check at your convenience,” I said, handing him a business card.
“Thank you.”
“Call Sol Goldman at Fillmore Real Estate and mention my name. I think he can get you into a larger apartment.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good luck,” I said as I rose to leave.
And that was the end of it.
I arrived at Roseanna’s place at six with a good bottle of Chianti and a bottle of bourbon in perfect condition. She was wearing a full apron I was certain her mother once wore.
“Are you hungry?”
“Sure.”
“I need a shower. Open the package of pasta, start a fire under the pot of water, throw the bread into the oven, stir the sauce, open the wine and have two glasses poured before I get back.”
“Make it quick,” I said.