THE FIST
I parked my 1973 Monte Carlo behind the pizzeria at nine on a Monday morning and decided I would drop in to have coffee with Carmella Fazio before heading up to my office next door. I tapped on the entrance to the back of the shop and Carmella let me into the kitchen. She was always enthusiastic about seeing me, and that morning was no exception. She invited me to take a seat. While she poured two cups of espresso and plated homemade sesame Regina cookies, I picked up the New York Daily News from the table and unfolded it. The prominent photograph on the front page was of a man around my age with movie star good looks. The bold headline above the photo read: MOB BOSS GUNNED DOWN IN BROOKLYN.
“Terrible business,” Carmella said, joining me at the table. “Carmine came in occasionally for pizza or calzone. His father would visit regularly when my dad was alive.”
I had never met Carmine Pugno, although I had spoken with him on the phone several times in the recent past. I had met his father, twice, both times strictly out of necessity. Ferdinand Pugno was not a man I would normally join for a casual afternoon shooting the breeze. I did have a history with his other son, Freddy, and had made it my business to keep it in the past.
I opened the newspaper and found another photograph of Carmine, this one not as flattering. He was lying face down on the sidewalk in front of Torres Italian restaurant on Bay Parkway in Bensonhurst, with one arm dangling off the curb. Even in a black and white newsprint photo, there was no mistaking the extensive blood loss from what was clearly a gunshot to the head.
“This is going to stir up big trouble,” I said, dipping a cookie into my coffee.
“I hope it doesn’t come to Coney Island,” Carmella said.
We spent half an hour changing the subject. Tony and Richie were great, Maria was doing very well in school, the pizza business was excellent, Uncle Sal was slowly recovering, and it was promising to be a very lovely June day. I thanked Carmella for the refreshments and left for my office. When I reached my desk, I found a voice message from Ferdinand Pugno on the machine.
I would soon learn what big trouble really was.
Ferdinand Pugno referred to himself as a “retired businessman”—in much the same way Meyer Lansky had years earlier. Ferdinand’s nickname, “The Fist”, had a double meaning. It described his legendary reputation for heavy-handed persuasion and was the equivalent of the word pugno in English.
Ignoring Pugno’s request for a return call was pretty much out of the question. He answered the call personally, which in itself was not customary.
“I was sorry to hear about your loss.”
Inane, but what was I supposed to say? I wasn’t in a big hurry to ask him why he had called me in the first place.
“Mr. Ventura, I wish to employ you to find out who killed Carmine. I will pay your standard fees plus a handsome bonus for speedy, accurate results.”
That may have been the worst thing anyone ever said to me since Mary Esposito told me to take my hand off her breast when I was in seventh grade.
“Mr. Pugno...”
“Please, be kind enough to hear me out.”
“Of course.”
“My youngest son was shot down like a dog in front of his wife and his children—my grandchildren. The assassin walked away unmolested and no one could or would identify the man.”
“Mr. Pugno, I am sure the police are doing everything possible to identify and locate the perpetrator.”
Pugno went on to explain why he disagreed, why he felt it necessary to outsource the investigation, and why he had chosen me for the assignment.
“Mr. Ventura, please take a while to consider my request—a short while. I am confident you will decide to assist me and do so with the utmost diligence and discretion. You know how to reach me.”
And the line went dead.
And I wished I had stayed in bed for at least a week.
I took Pugno’s request for discretion to heart—but not bringing John Sullivan in on this was not an option. I phoned the 70th Precinct and asked for Detective Sullivan.
“John, we need to talk,” I said, when he came on the line.
“We are talking.”
“We need to talk in person.”
“At the risk of sounding self-important, Nick, I’m a very busy man.”
“Please, Johnny, it’s serious.”
“It always is when you call me Johnny. We can talk over lunch. I can give you an hour, and not a minute more, including travel time.”
“I’ll come out your way.”
“Let’s make it Chu’s Gourmet on Livingston Street at two.”
“Can you make it earlier?”
“I can’t get out of here much sooner, Nicky, and the restaurant is a madhouse between eleven and two.”
“Okay, good. Thanks.”
“One hour, not a minute longer.”
“Got it. Don’t you ever get tired of Chinese food?”
“Not when you’re buying.”
I decided if I had to wait nearly four hours I might as well do a little homework. I walked down to the newsstand on Mermaid Avenue and picked up The New York Times and more coffee. The Times would have fewer gory photos and more detailed information.
Back at my desk I soon discovered there were not many details at all, even in the rag with all the news that’s fit to print.
There were only four witnesses in the vicinity of the scene, not counting Carmine’s wife and two children who were in the family Cadillac Escalade. The accounts were all essentially the same. Carmine had walked his family to the passenger side of the Escalade, put his kids in the back seat and his wife in front, and then walked around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Before Pugno could get the car door opened, a man stepped out from the unlit vestibule of an Optometrist Office adjacent to the restaurant, moved quickly to where Carmine stood and put a large hole into the back of Pugno’s head. The shooter walked briskly to 68th Street and turned left toward 21st Avenue. No one cared to follow. When the police arrived, they found Carmine’s wife had jumped into the back seat and was using the length of her body to shield the children.
The descriptions of the shooter were little more than useless. A white male, five-ten to six feet tall, black slacks and shoes, a black leather blazer and a brimmed riding cap shading his eyes. The weapon was later found in the gutter on 68th Street. Thirty-eight caliber, taped grip and trigger, no serial number, no prints. That, along with quoted statements from detectives at the scene, made it seem as if the investigation would be over before it began.
I could understand why Ferdinand Pugno felt identification of his son’s killer might be challenging for the police, but could not understand why Pugno imagined I could do any better. Pugno must have mistaken me for Sherlock Holmes or Harry Houdini—but there was no good way to tell “The Fist” he was seriously misguided.
I hoped John Sullivan could teach me a few magic tricks.
The lunch crowd had pretty much cleared out by the time I walked into Chu’s Gourmet at two. John was already seated, studying a menu. I joined him at the table.
“Pick your poison,” he said, offering the bill of fare.
“Get what you like. I lost my appetite.”
A waitress materialized almost immediately and John ordered.
“So, what’s it about?”
“It’s about a call I received from Ferdinand Pugno.”
“Oh?”
“He wants to employ me to find out who killed his son, Carmine.”
“Why would he want to do that? Does he lack confidence in the abilities and resources of the NYPD?”
“I would say he’s under the impression the NYPD lacks enthusiasm when it comes to investigating which mobster murdered what mobster.”
“Did he say that?”
“More or less.”
“That’s not entirely true, we take all homicides seriously.”
“I’ve been around cops long enough to know there are more than a few who believe that when these guys knock each other off they’re doing everyone a favor. I recall you saying good riddance once or twice yourself. I’m not agreeing or disagreeing with Pugno’s assessment—but it doesn’t really matter what you or I think. The fact remains he feels the need for an outside inquiry.”
“So why doesn’t he conduct his own investigation?”
“The old man is retired. Carmine took over the reins some time ago. Ferdinand said he is out of touch with the current politics of the “Families.” He said he is not certain who the enemies are anymore. And after the recent business with Frankie Atanasio and Sonny Balducci over who would step up as Carmine’s number two guy, and the way it all played out, Ferdinand doesn’t know who to trust. He can’t rule out the possibility that the assassination may have been orchestrated by someone inside Carmine’s own organization. Do you happen to know who stepped up to the number two spot after Frankie and Sonny dropped out of the picture?”
“From what I’ve heard, Eddie Brigati earned the dubious honor. No offense, Nick, but why did Ferdinand Pugno choose you?”
“No offense taken, I have no fucking idea. It’s delusional.”
“If you were smart, you would stay as far away from this as you possibly can. You would be safer in a cage full of tigers.”
“I know that, John. But saying no to Pugno may not be much smarter. And don’t forget it was Carmine Pugno, at the request of his father, who helped us find the Rose brothers after they put a terrible scare into your daughter and nearly beat my Uncle Sal to death.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t decide the priorities of the department.”
“I understand that.”
“So what are you asking me to do?”
“Let me know about anything helpful you might hear around the shop, and give me some guidance—because honestly, Johnny, I have no fucking idea where to begin.”
“You begin by not beginning until we talk again,” Sullivan said, looking at his wristwatch. “I need to get back to the precinct, but I can take a few hours off early tomorrow. Meanwhile, I will find out who is running the investigation and if there is anything new—anything more than a white guy in hat and a leather jacket. Don’t talk to a soul before we meet again in the morning.”
“What about Ferdinand Pugno? Can I talk to him?”
“Look, Nick, you’re between a rock and a very hard rock. You do what you believe you need to do, and I will try to help. If you can’t say no to Pugno, tell him you are willing to try your best. And while you’re at it, you might ask the old man who figures to be running the show now that he’s retired and out of touch—and his successor is lying in a box at the Cusimano and Russo Funeral Home.”
Not a bad question, if I could phrase it more delicately.
“I really need to run, Nick.”
“You didn’t touch your food.”
“I lost my appetite.”
I couldn’t see any point in going back to my office. I wasn’t about to consider taking any new cases before I figured out how to survive this one.
I drove home to Sheepshead Bay instead.
I had a couple of drinks before calling Ferdinand Pugno. I didn’t think I should make him wait much longer for an answer. As I dialed the number, I felt like I was climbing aboard the Titanic after it hit the iceberg.
“Mr. Ventura. Thank you for calling back so soon.”
What I said rolled off my tongue like a cinder block.
“Mr. Pugno, I will do what I can—do my best—to assist you.”
“I am pleased to hear that. If there is anything I can do to help, short of being seen as actively involved in your investigation, please let me know.”
I had just boarded a capsized ship, and Ferdinand Pugno didn’t want to get his feet wet. Good work, Nick.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” Pugno said.
“With Carmine sadly gone, who will be taking charge of his business?”
“I really can’t say, Mr. Ventura.”
So much for good questions.
“As I mentioned earlier,” Pugno continued, “you will be rewarded with a substantial bonus if you succeed.”
I didn’t ask what the reward would be for failure.
“I will be in touch, Mr. Pugno.”
And I was in up to my neck.
As Carmella had predicted much earlier, it had turned into a beautiful June afternoon—if you were talking about the weather. I carried the bottle of Knob’s Creek out to the deck of the houseboat and picked up where I had left off before calling Ferdinand Pugno.
Sitting in the warm sun sipping bourbon helped me temporarily put out of mind the storm I was about to walk into.
But temporarily never lasts very long.
The next morning John called and asked me to meet him at Café La Morena in Sunset Park. It was a place we both knew, and it was somewhat off the radar. The restaurant owner, Hector Ramirez, was a friend—and there was a rear dining room, not used before lunch hour, where we could talk in private.
On my way out I spotted an envelope tucked under the cabin door. In it were ten one hundred dollar bills.
It was a sure bet Ferdinand Pugno had sent over a down payment to seal our deal.
Hector offered to whip up huevos rancheros for John and me, we thanked him and insisted just coffee would be fine. He sent his daughter back with two cups, a thermos pitcher and a plate of besitos de coco—Caribbean coconut macaroons.
“Did you speak to Pugno?” John asked.
“Yes. I did.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I said I would give it my best shot.”
“Did you ask him about who would take the helm with Carmine gone?”
“He said he couldn’t say.”
“That sounds paradoxical.”
“Over the telephone, it sounded like stonewalling. Did you have any better luck on your end?”
“Not a hell of a lot. Don’t stop me if you’ve heard some of it before.”
“Go.”
“I got this from Danny Reagan at the Sixty-Second. He and his partner, Phil Ames, caught the case. There were seven witnesses to the shooting—four on the street and three in Carmine’s Escalade. When Reagan and Ames got to the scene, they assigned two uniformed officers to escort Carmine’s family to their residence. One drove the Cadillac with the wife and kids aboard, the second followed in their patrol car. They were told to get the family safely inside and then sit in their vehicle in front of the house. The detectives would be there to speak with the victim’s wife as soon as they were done interviewing the other witnesses at the scene.”
“Okay.”
“All four bystanders gave similar worthless descriptions of the shooter. It happened so fast, and they were all pretty shook up. Carmine’s brains were all over the sidewalk. But Reagan felt one of the witnesses was holding something back. He said it was something in the guy’s voice and in his demeanor.”
“A hunch?”
“Intuition, whatever, a good detective counts on it when there is little else to go on. He mentioned it to his commanding officer. His CO told him to write up his report and skip the guesswork.”
“Can you get me that witness’s name?”
“Wait. Reagan and Ames go out to the Pugno residence to talk with his wife. She has nothing useful to add. Then out of the blue one of the kids says he thinks he has seen the shooter before—but can’t remember when or where. His mother cuts him off and sends the kids off to their rooms. Reagan says he would like to talk further with the boy, Carmine’s wife said she won’t have her eight-year-old boy interrogated. She tells the detectives that from where she was seated—on the passenger side of the vehicle—there was no view of the shooter above his chest. The boy was on the passenger side behind her, she jumped over to the back seat immediately following the gunshot to shield the children, and they could not have possibly seen the shooter’s face. She tells them the children are disturbed and confused, she needs time alone with them, and the detectives need to leave her to it.”
“What did Reagan make of that?”
“He didn’t know what to make of it. He brought the kid’s statement to his CO also and was advised to leave the children out of it.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Eight-year-old boys can be very imaginative. I have one at home. Even if he saw the shooter’s face, he said he couldn’t place it. And on top of that, no one is going to get close enough to the kid to ask him the time of day without his mother’s permission.”
“So, we’re back to the demeanor of the fourth bystander and the value of a good detective’s intuition,” I said. “Did you get a name?”
“I feel I need to tell you again you should bow out of this. Do you know the story about Brooklyn Tony and the candy bars?”
“No, but I’m sure I’m about to hear it.”
“Brooklyn Tony is sitting at the end of a park bench, eating candy bars. He unwraps a seventh bar and takes a big bite. A guy at the other end of the bench says: You know, son, that’s not very good for you. All that sugar is bad for your teeth and your heart. Tony says: My grandfather lived to be one hundred and six years old. The guy says: That’s wonderful. But did your grandfather eat seven candy bars in a row? And Brooklyn Tony says: No, but he minded his own fucking business.”
“The key to longevity.”
“Exactly,” John said.
I pulled out the envelope I found on the houseboat and passed it to Sullivan. He counted the bills.
“Pugno sent a retainer,” I said. “So I guess, like it or not, now it is my business.”
Sullivan passed the envelope back to me, reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a slip of paper
“The witness’s name is Jack Valenti. Here’s his address.”
The big news was I knew the guy.
I had known Jack Valenti for a very long time, from our schoolyard days. Back then, Jack was almost as good as I was at getting into trouble, and he had continued developing the talent ever since.
Valenti had been arrested and convicted for purse-snatching a few years back. Second offense. Fortunately for Jack, there wasn’t enough cash in the purse to earn him a grand larceny rap. He was released on parole after serving fourteen months of a two-year sentence.
A few months after his release, Jack came to my office with a problem.
He had been bussing at a high-end restaurant in Bay Ridge and lifted a two hundred dollar cash tip from a table he was clearing. The next morning he was called into the manager’s office. He had been caught in high definition on a security camera. He was fired on the spot and assured he would be reported to his parole officer if the money wasn’t returned before the end of the day. An hour later he was rapping on my door.
“I need two hundred dollars, Nick.”
“What happened to the money you borrowed from the wait staff?”
“I gave it to my bookie last night to meet a serious deadline.”
“I’m a private investigator, Jack, not a Citibank loan officer.”
“Please, Nicky, they’ll put me back in the joint. I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. I have no one else to turn to.”
That in itself was a sad state of affairs.
I gave him the two spot.
Valenti repaid my loan at twenty bucks a week after he finally landed another job as the night dishwasher and janitor at the Torres Restaurant on Bay Parkway.
After leaving Sullivan, I drove out to the address he had given me for Jack Valenti. It was a badly run-down apartment building in East Flatbush. I caught him coming out of the building just as I pulled up in front.
I hoped it meant my luck was changing.
“Jack.”
Once he recognized me, he walked up to my window.
“Nick, what brings you out this way?”
“Have you eaten?”
“I was heading over to KFC.”
“Hop in. I’ll take you over to Island Burger for lunch. I’m buying.”
It was only a five minute drive to the popular eatery on Utica Avenue, talking baseball and the weather on the way. At half past eleven the place was filling up quickly. Jack and I grabbed one of the last empty tables. We took our seats and Valenti went straight for the menu.
“Can I order the baby back ribs?” he asked.
“Whatever you want, Jack.”
I went for a barbeque chicken sandwich and the corn soup.
“I hear you ran into some drama on Bay Parkway,” I said.
“Is that what this is about, Nick?”
“It’s about catching up.”
“I told the police everything I know.”
“One of the detectives thought you were holding something back.”
“Since when do you care what a cop thinks?”
“Help me out here.”
“You know I’m still on parole. I don’t want to say something that could put me back in.”
“If I was interested in seeing you violate your parole, Jack, I could have dropped a dime on you months ago.”
The not very gentle reminder that perhaps Jack might owe me one—a valuable tool of the trade.
“Is this off the record?”
“I’m an old friend who needs some help, not a reporter for The Post—and my office is too small to keep records.”
“I’m on my way in to work last night and I spot the guy in the shadows in front of the eyeglass place next door. I look up at him and he’s staring right back at me. He points a gun at my chest, puts his hand up for me to stop, and then holds a finger to his lips. I froze where I stood and didn’t make a sound. A minute later Pugno comes out of the restaurant with his family, puts them in the car, and before he can get in on the other side this guy steps out and puts one into the back of Pugno’s head. He walks right past me toward Sixty-Eighth Street and he’s gone. I considered myself extremely lucky, and when the cops started asking questions I decided I wanted to stay that way.”
“So, what didn’t you tell them?”
“The guy was white. I mean just this side of—what do you call it?”
“Albino?”
“Right. But he wasn’t, he just had a very pale complexion and hair the color of French’s mustard.”
“The other witnesses said he was wearing a hat.”
“He wasn’t wearing it when he stopped me. He pulled it out of his jacket and put it on when he heard Pugno come out of the restaurant.”
“Anything else?”
“Rimless glasses. And a small scar on the right side of his chin. That’s all I can tell you, and here comes our food,” Valenti said. “I would have taken a snapshot with my cell phone camera but thought better of it.”
Jack was telling me he had no more to say—but the way he had said it gave me an idea.
“Can you do one more favor?” I asked.
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to put you with a sketch artist, see if your description can help her put something on paper that might be the next best thing to a snapshot.”
“Sure,” he said, and dove into the ribs.
I took his phone number.
We cleaned our plates and walked out to the sidewalk.
“Can I drop you somewhere, Jack?”
“I’ll walk home. Try to relax awhile before going back there to work. I’m still stunned. I never saw anyone’s head explode that way except in movies.”
“I appreciate your help.”
“Let’s just call us even.”
“Sure.”
“And, Nick,” he said, as I turned toward my car.
“Yes?”
“Watch your back.”
Warnings were becoming all the rage that day. And it was still early.
When Maria Leone wasn’t working on her Master’s Degree at the John Jay School of Criminal Justice, she was helping her Aunt Carmella manage the pizza business. Occasionally, Maria assisted me on cases for some hands-on cops-and-robbers experience and nearly enough cash to purchase a textbook. I knew Maria was scheduled to work with Carmella that day, so when I climbed into the Monte Carlo I called her at the pizzeria.
“Hey, Nick. Calling about a pizza?”
“I’m calling about your Composite Drawing class. How is it going?”
“It already went. I pulled an A.”
“I have friend who gave me a fairly detailed description of someone I would like to find. I could use a picture.”
“I can do that.”
“Great. If I give you his number can you set it up as soon as possible?”
“Sure.”
I gave her Jack Valenti’s phone number, and asked her to let me know as soon as she had sketched a face Jack could say he recognized.
There was not much more I could do for the moment.
I would have liked to talk to Carmine Pugno’s son, but Sullivan said it would be easier to see the Pope.
I decided to head home rather than back to my office, to think it all out or take a nap or both.
And do something with the thousand in cash I had been carrying around all day.
When I reached the houseboat, I considered calling Ferdinand Pugno—just to let “The Fist” know I was still on the job. Instead, I brought the bottle of Knob’s Creek back out onto the deck along with a large glass of ice and a fresh pack of Camel non-filtered cigarettes and I settled into my twenty buck K-Mart beach chaise lounge.
I must have slept for hours. When I opened my eyes the sun was already beginning to sink into the other ocean. When I saw him sitting on the green plastic chair beside me, I hoped I was still asleep in the middle of a nightmare.
When he said: Good to see you, Nick, I feared all hope was gone.
Freddy Fingers was the last person on earth I wanted to be seen by.
The last time I had seen Freddy, I had left him on his back in his Atlantic City apartment with a broken jaw.
My initial impulse was to whack him in the head with the bourbon bottle and toss him overboard.
Sometimes my self-restraint amazes me.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came up from AC as soon as I heard about my brother.”
“I mean what the fuck are you doing here on my boat?”
“I thought you could use some help finding Carmine’s killer.”
“And what makes you think I’m looking for Carmine’s killer?”
“I put two and two together when my father sent me down here last night with an envelope full of cash.”
If Freddy Fingers could put two and two together, he never showed it at a poker table.
“I’m shocked you didn’t pocket the envelope.”
“I thought about it—but I’m trying to work myself back into my father’s good graces. I’m the only son he has left.”
“I’ll bet he has more confidence in his eight-year-old grandson. And I have no confidence in you at all. Your father insisted on discretion, what if someone followed you here?”
“Why would anyone be following me?”
“Why would anyone want to kill your brother?”
He had no smart answer.
“I don’t need or want your help, and trespassing on private property could get you shot. So stay out of my way.”
“You’re not being very friendly, Nick.”
“Beat it.”
Freddy Fingers rose from the chair, left the boat, walked off the dock and disappeared into Clemente’s parking lot. I took another drink and wished again it was only a bad dream. But I knew it was just bad news.
Not long after Freddy abandoned ship, Maria called.
“Jack Valenti came out to the pizzeria before going to his job. We worked up a composite of your man. Jack said it was a masterpiece. We’re closing up. But if you can get here in thirty minutes I can have it framed for you.”
“I’m on my way.”
I splashed water over my face, swallowed a few extra-strength Excedrin and headed out for Coney Island.
Twenty minutes later I had the drawing in my hand.
It was a masterpiece—in full color. I doubted Jack’s cell phone camera could have done much better.
I thanked Maria, promised her a textbook and dinner at a restaurant of her choice. I left her to her closing duties.
Back in the Monte Carlo I looked at the drawing again. I now had a photograph quality composite of Carmine Pugno’s assassin. The problem now was deciding who I could trust to show it to.
I chose to ignore the question until morning. Instead, I phoned Roseanna Napoli to see if she was home and free.
Roseanna told me to run right over.
I slept very well.
In the morning Roseanna chased me out at seven, needing to get ready for her first class at Kingsborough Community College where she taught American Literature.
“I’m on the air tonight, don’t forget to tune in,” Roseanna said with a peck on the check and a push toward the door. “I’ll play your favorite.”
Since she moonlighted at a Classical radio station I guessed she was referring to Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, not Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.”
My stomach was asking if my throat was cut. All I had eaten since lunch at Island Burger the day before was a slice of cold sausage pizza when I picked up the drawing from Maria. Since breakfast is said to be the most significant meal of the day, I thought I would afford it the importance it deserved.
I headed to the Benchmark Restaurant in Park Slope for steak and eggs. Twenty-five bucks worth. I was feeling flush with a thousand dollars stuffed into my sock drawer.
After satisfying my nutritional requirements, I was ready to attend to my mental needs. I was sitting on a composite drawing which could well identify the man who murdered Carmine Pugno—and had no clue where to go with it. It was like having a key and not knowing where the door was. I had several ideas about how to go forward, but I wasn’t crazy about any of them. There was only one person I could think of who might help me sort it out, while giving me enough room to dance around the specifics. I called John Sullivan. He said we could speak privately in his office at ten.
John’s partner was testifying in court, so we had their small shared office space to ourselves.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“I need advice.”
“Let me guess. Is it about how to handle information you may discover in your investigation?”
Either Sullivan was an exceptional guesser, or he could read me like a children’s book. I was thinking both.
“Exactly. Can we talk off the record?”
“We are sitting in an NYPD precinct. There is no off the record here.”
“Are you saying we need to talk somewhere else?”
“I’m saying you need to speak hypothetically, and you need to be very careful doing it.”
“Got it.”
“Good, so what’s up?”
“What if I had information that could possibly ID the man who killed Carmine Pugno, and I gave it to Reagan and Ames at the six-two?”
“I think you know the legal process well enough but since you ask, and since I love the sound of my own voice, I’ll give you the no frills answer. If there is enough evidence to arrest him, there would be an arrest. If there is enough to charge him with some degree of homicide, it would go to a grand jury. If there is enough to compel a grand jury to indict, it would go to trial. The defendant would have the right to an attorney, and the unpredictability of what we call the justice system will finally be played out in the courtroom. And, if found guilty, the convicted felon would be sentenced to punishment in accordance with the specific charges.”
“What if I didn’t give it to Reagan and Ames?”
“Then you’d be guilty of withholding evidence in a police investigation, as would your informant and as would anyone you may have confided in if they also withheld the information—including officers of the law.”
“What if I gave it to my client?”
“Then there would be no trial and no less than capital punishment.”
“I need to know this hypothetical guy’s reason for killing Carmine before giving him up to Ferdinand Pugno for a death sentence.”
“There you go. You really didn’t need any advice. Trust your own counsel, Nick,” John Sullivan said, “I couldn’t advise you any better.”
I left the precinct and I telephoned the Funeral Home from my car.
Viewing hours for Carmine Pugno’s wake would begin at two in the afternoon.
I decided I would be there to pay my respects.
Cusimano and Russo Funeral Home sat at the corner of Avenue S and West 6th Street in Gravesend. I had been there more times than I cared to remember—from the time my grandfather passed away when I was six, to the time Tom Romano was murdered less than a year before Carmine Pugno was the main attraction. When I walked in the place was packed.
I immediately spotted two men in the back of the viewing room who were definitely cops. I guessed Reagan and Ames, making an appearance to give the impression they were interested in who whacked a criminal they had probably been trying to nail for years.
I walked up to the visitor’s book to sign in. I scanned the names. The guest list could have been published as Who’s Who in Organized Crime. There were many from inside the Pugno family. And many from rival families—there to pretend they were sorry to see Carmine in an oak box.
Any one of them could have been involved in Carmine Pugno’s death.
It didn’t take corn-colored hair and a scar on the chin to be guilty of conspiracy.
Ferdinand Pugno, his wife, and Carmine’s wife sat in the first row of chairs on the left side of the center aisle. I didn’t see Carmine’s children.
Freddy Fingers sat on the opposite side of the aisle, looking like an unpopular in-law.
The photograph on the front page of the Daily News illustrated that Carmine Pugno had been a very handsome man. Obviously the mortician had met an impossible challenge. The casket in front of the room was closed.
I walked down the center aisle and knelt at the casket for a minute. I briefly expressed my regrets to Carmine’s father, mother and wife as I crossed to the aisle along the left wall. I took a seat near the back of the room, waiting to see which Ferdinand would get to me first.
As it turned out, it was Ferdinand Senior. He invited me to follow him out to the lobby and led me into a small sitting room reserved for members of the immediate family. I can’t say it made me feel special.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Ventura.”
I almost said I wouldn’t miss it.
“I felt I should be here,” is what I said.
“Have you made any progress?”
Pugno was not one to beat around the bush.
I, on the other hand, could skip around a bush for hours.
“I didn’t notice Carmine’s children,” I said.
It took him a moment to respond to the blatant non-sequitur.
“They are with their aunt, Susan’s sister. They are both very distressed, as you might imagine. We felt it would be best not to bring them down here quite yet.”
I guessed Susan was Carmine’s widow.
“Are you aware your grandson told detectives he thought he may have seen the man who shot your son somewhere before?”
“I’ve heard that, and I am impressed you learned of it also. It indicates you are taking your investigation seriously. However, I spoke with the boy this morning and I agree with Susan. The boy is very confused and perhaps overly imaginative.”
Sounded familiar.
“Would it be at all possible for me to talk with the boy?”
“Is it important?”
“It might be.”
“I will talk to my daughter-in-law,” he said, and then, to remind me I had dodged his initial question, he added, “Have you made any progress?”
“I have a few leads I’m following. I’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I think it would be better not to bother you with details until I’m more confident I’m barking up the right tree. There’s no sense in either of us jumping to conclusions that may turn out to have no bearing on the business at hand.”
A mouthful of nonsense—but Pugno let me slide for the moment.
“I look forward to hearing more tomorrow,” he said. “I need to get back to my family. Thank you again for coming.”
“Please let me know if I can talk with your grandson.”
“I will.”
With that, Pugno returned to the viewing room and I walked out onto Avenue S to smoke a cigarette.
And that is where Freddy Fingers found me.
“I asked you to stay away from me.”
“I can help you, Nick.”
I disliked him most when he said my name.
“Considering the way you helped me down in Atlantic City last summer,” I said. “No thanks. And if you insist on torturing me, let’s walk away. I’d rather not be seen with you.”
Freddy followed me up the avenue to 5th Street, and up 5th toward Avenue T. Talking all the while.
“My father asked me to take over for my brother for the time being. At least until he’s sure it was not one of Carmine’s own men who killed him or had him killed. My father can’t step in himself and he’s not sure who he can trust.”
“Kind of like an interim coach.”
“Yes.”
“And why would he trust you, Freddy? You’re a total fuckup.”
“I’m his son. He doesn’t want the business to slip away from the family.”
“And he thinks you can hold on to it? Carmine’s death must have really rocked him, he’s not thinking straight. But then, who am I to say? I don’t know any more about running a large criminal organization than you do.”
“I don’t agree with your assessment of my abilities. In any case, it will put me in a position to learn who in Carmine’s camp thinks what about his death—and that could help both of us earn points with my father.”
“Or get both of us killed. I don’t know about you, but the next time I’m here I don’t want to be the one in the box. Don’t try to impress your father by making him have to pay for another funeral. And don’t try to help me. Please. Because I’m warning you, Freddy—if you let the word slip that I’m looking into your brother’s murder, and you put my life in jeopardy again, you are going to mysteriously disappear. Forever.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Absolutely. Don’t fuck with me.”
A few porch lights came alive on 5th Street.
They might have heard me yelling in Brooklyn Heights.
“Okay, calm down. I won’t say anything to anyone. I’ll just keep my ear to the ground and let you know if anything comes up.”
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear from you and I don’t want to see you. Stay away from me, I won’t tell you a third time.”
The look in my eyes finally convinced him. Freddy turned and started walking back toward the funeral parlor.
I walked all the way up to Avenue U and out to McDonald Avenue to blow off steam and landed in the Cave Lounge knocking down scotch after scotch.
I had to take a cab home and I somehow managed to get aboard the houseboat without taking a dive into the Bay. I stumbled to the cabin, fell into the bed and slept like a drunken sailor. I woke up feeling like an old man. I drank a pot of coffee, took four aspirin and stood under the shower until the hot water ran out. And it was still before six in the morning. I called a taxi for a lift to fetch my car.
“Where to?”
“Cusimano and Russo.”
“Let’s see, that’s West Sixth and...”
“Avenue S.”
“A little early for a funeral,” the cabbie said.
“I hope so.”
When I made it back to my place it was just after seven. Someone had tossed the houseboat. Another early riser. All the signs were plainly evident. Open drawers and closet in disarray, scattered papers and books, disturbed area rugs, the classic rifled medicine chest, the repositioned bed mattress.
My Eli Manning doll leaned against the wall standing on its bobble-head.
I didn’t make Freddy Fingers for the break-in. I thought he trusted my warning against trespassing. And when I found the cash-filled envelope sitting in the disordered top dresser drawer, I crossed Fingers off the suspect list entirely and ruled out a random burglary.
Ferdinand Pugno was not a patient man. If I had to bet the farm, he had sent someone over to learn if I’d made any progress I wasn’t telling him about. It gave me an anxious feeling, as if I was working with a deadline and time was running out. Or, to put it less gently, like I was under the gun.
It was clearly time to fish or cut bait.
I walked over to the stove and opened the oven door. Maria’s drawing was sitting there exactly as I had left it.
In spite of my feeling of urgency, I was still not in good shape for a fishing expedition.
I crawled back into bed and slept until the phone woke me at ten.
The caller was Ferdinand the Elder.
“I’m taking my grandchildren for lunch at Nathan’s in Coney Island before going to the funeral home. You said you’d like to speak with the boy.”
“What time?”
“Half past eleven,” Pugno said.
“I’ll see you there.”
I could hardly wait.
I jumped into the shower for the second time that morning and slipped into an appropriate outfit. I removed Maria’s drawing from the oven, folded it neatly and placed it into my inside jacket pocket. As an afterthought, I snatched the Eli Manning doll from the floor and dropped it into a Clemente’s Crab House take-out bag.
I climbed into the Monte Carlo and drove to my office.
From the office, it would be only a ten minute walk to my meeting with Ferdinand Pugno.
Nathan’s Famous on Surf Avenue was established in 1916 and was open for business three hundred sixty-five days a year for ninety-six years before Hurricane Sandy forced the landmark to close its doors for the first time.
The world renowned eatery reopened seven months later on Memorial Day, just in time for another hot dog summer.
I saw Pugno and the grandkids as I was crossing West 15th Street.
Then I spotted the big ape who usually stood sentry at the entrance to Pugno’s restaurant in Douglaston. He was covering “The Fist” like a glove. The thug eyed me up, down and sideways—but didn’t bother asking me what I had in the paper take-out bag.
After exchanging polite greetings, I asked Pugno if I could speak with the boy alone.
“Is it really necessary?”
“Perhaps I can gently help him remember something useful, and I think the boy would be less inhibited out of the presence of you and your associate. Maybe you and his mother were right—the boy is confused and imaginative and there’s nothing here. But, if there is even the slightest possibility he can tell me something that could help identify the man who murdered your son, it’s worth a try.”
I have to say it was an impressive sales pitch.
And the old man bought it.
“Joey, this is my good friend, Nick,” he said to the boy. “Nick would like to speak to you. It will be okay to take a little walk with him.”
Joey looked at me and I put on a goofy smile.
“We can check out the seagulls,” I said.
“Don’t stray too far,” Pugno said, as we started toward the Boardwalk.
“Do you like football?” I asked the kid as we walked.
“Yes.”
“Do you have a favorite team?”
“Giants.”
“Well then, I think you’ll like this,” I said.
I pulled the Eli Manning bobble-head out of the paper bag and offered it to Joey. For a moment I thought he was afraid to accept it, but after a ten count he took it from my hand.
“Wow,” he said.
I took a quick look back toward Surf Avenue. I was not surprised to see Pugno, his man and his granddaughter following a few hundred feet behind us. I hoped they would keep their distance for a while. The boy walked with me to a bench on the Boardwalk. The doll in his grip was nodding with approval.
When we sat side by side on the bench, John Sullivan’s Brooklyn Tony story popped into my head. I chased it away.
I took Maria’s composite drawing from my jacket pocket and carefully unfolded it. I hoped showing it to the boy wouldn’t start him screaming.
Joey was holding the doll in both hands, looking at it and smiling as if it was Christmas morning. It was very sad in a way. The bad guys often tried to excuse their criminal behavior in the name of their children, a means of giving their kids a better life than they had. But if Ferdinand Pugno had taught his son Carmine how to hit a baseball instead of how to use a gun, this boy’s father could be walking with him on the beach—not lying in a box.
“Joey.”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever seen this man?” I asked, holding the drawing in one hand while crossing my fingers on the other.
“Yes.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.”
“Can you remember where you saw him?”
“On TV.”
“You saw this man on television?”
“Yes.”
“What was he doing on TV?”
“Reading a book. Black Beauty. It’s about a horse.”
I refolded the drawing and slipped it into my jacket just as Pugno and the others had come up to the Boardwalk and were approaching the bench.
“Come, Joey,” Pugno said. “We need to go. What do you have there?”
Joey proudly held up his prize.
“That’s very nice,” Pugno said, but he looked at it as if he thought it was a cheap hunk of plastic.
The little girl was a few years younger than her brother. I felt bad I had nothing for her.
“I’ll bring something for you next time, sweetheart,” I said lamely.
She ignored me.
Ferdinand’s man took both children by the hand, one on each side, and walked ahead toward Surf Avenue. Pugno and I followed behind. The picture of the kids holding onto the big guy’s paws was kind of sweet. The children looked like they were trying to hold down a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.
“So?” Pugno said, jogging me from my distractions.
“You and your daughter-in-law were correct. The boy didn’t really see anything that will help.”
“And was that the only hope you had?”
“No. As I said last evening, I have a few leads I’m following but nothing is definite yet. I could run through the unfinished story now, if you have the time. It would take a while.”
“I don’t have the time now. We are already running late. But I expect to know what you have, incomplete or not, by the end of the day.”
That Pugno had no time at the moment was precisely what I wanted to hear. The declaration that he was demanding a full report later in the day was exactly what I feared.
“You will,” I said.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
We parted at Surf Avenue and I headed toward the office.
Before I made it back, Roseanna Napoli rang my cell phone.
“I have a few hours between classes, are you free for lunch?”
“Sure. Come to my office, I’ll pick up a pizza from downstairs.”
“Sausage, mushrooms and black olives—hold the anchovies. I’ll bring the beer.”
“Are you allowed to drink between classes?”
“I’ll be discussing Hemingway this afternoon. It will be appropriate. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Minutes after I had dropped the pizza box on my desk, Roseanna walked in with a six-pack of Stella Artois. We sat at opposite sides of the large pie on matching chairs that had once graced my grandparents’ dining room. Roseanna popped the caps off two beers with a bottle opener she kept on her key chain. I was becoming more and more enamored of her qualities every time we met.
Roseanna usually asked me what I’d been up to and how it was going, only because she really cared. But her intuition, or my demeanor, made her skip the subject. Instead we talked about music, Classical and hard rock. And dove into the pizza. Finally she begged me to take it away before she ate it all. I picked it up and moved it to the top of an empty file cabinet. When I came back to my seat, Roseanna was looking at the composite drawing that had been sitting out of sight under the pizza box.
“This is very good,” she said. “Who did it?”
“Carmella’s niece, Maria.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s someone I need to find and talk to.”
“It’s an amazing likeness.”
“Likeness?”
“I know him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I know him. He’s a colleague.”
“A colleague?”
“Someone I work with. His name is James Simon, an adjunct instructor at Kingsborough. James teaches a class in Young Adult Fiction, two evenings a week. He reads books for kids on Public Television every few weeks.”
I was astounded.
“Which evenings is he at the college?”
“Mondays and Thursdays.”
“Is today Thursday?” I asked. I truly couldn’t remember.
“It is.”
“What time today?”
“His class runs from five to six-thirty, but you won’t be able to catch him before. He literally races to the college from his day job teaching English at Fort Hamilton High School. I’m afraid you will have to stay after class. Nick, is this something you would like to tell me about?”
“Not yet.”
Roseanna understood and she dropped it.
We shared one more Stella before she had to run back to the college.
“Thanks for lunch.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
“I’ll find out where Simon’s class is being held and let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe I’ll run into you later,” she said.
And she skipped out of the office.
There it was. Once again. A case solved through pure luck.
Only I didn’t know in this case if it was good luck or bad luck.
Over the course of three days I had been trying to answer a question.
Who killed Carmine Pugno?
Was it a member of a rival “family” wanting to move in on his territory, an unfulfilled or overly ambitious member of his own organization looking to take over, a cop or prosecutor tired of waiting for the legal system to catch up with him? I had envisioned suspects of all types and affiliations who may have had what they considered excellent reasons to put a gun to Carmine Pugno’s head and blow his brains out.
I had come up with countless possible answers to the question.
But a high school English teacher was not one of them.
I saw James Simon as he followed the last student out of the classroom. There was no mistaking him for anyone but the person channeled from Jack Valenti’s memory to Maria Leone’s colored pencils.
I pulled the drawing from my pocket and unfolded it. It was beginning to show signs of wear. I stopped Simon in the hall when there was no one else nearby.
“Mr. Simon.”
“Yes?” he said turning to me.
I held up the drawing.
“I have a witness who is certain this is the man who shot Carmine Pugno Sunday evening.”
Simon did not seem surprised. He looked as if he had been waiting for someone to finally show up.
“It’s a very good likeness. Are you here to arrest me or to kill me?”
“Neither. I’m here to speak to you. I can’t help you in any way unless you agree to talk with me.”
“Why would you want to help me?”
“That’s what I want to find out.”
“We can’t talk here.”
“Do you like boats?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you know Clemente’s on Emmons Avenue?”
“Yes.”
“Follow me to Clemente’s parking lot and we can go from there.”
“Sure.”
“And, James, please don’t stand me up. I’m sticking my neck out, and I like my head where it is.”
“I’ll call my wife to tell her I’ll be late. I’ll be there.”
We headed for our cars. He hadn’t asked my name. I suppose if he had decided to trust me, names didn’t matter.
Simon arrived a few minutes after I did. I led him to the dock and onto the houseboat.
“You live here?”
“Yes, I do.”
“This is different.”
“Yes, it is. Care for a drink?”
“Bourbon?”
“Good guess. Sit. The green plastic chairs are as uncomfortable as they look. But believe me, we don’t want to be competing for air in the cabin. I’ll be right back.”
I carried a pair of iced glasses and a bottle to the matching green plastic table and took a seat.
“Before I say anything else,” I began. “I need to know why you murdered Carmine Pugno.”
“He killed my eight-year-old son in front of my eyes.”
I was nearly speechless, but did manage two words.
“What happened?”
“Jimmy was coming from a neighbor’s house on the opposite side of the street. I was waiting for him on our porch. He was always very careful, looking both ways before crossing. Just as Jimmy stepped into the street, an Escalade came screeching around the corner doing at least fifty miles an hour and hit him. I rushed to my son. The driver stopped for a moment, and then he raced away. It was Carmine Pugno.”
“You’re sure it was Pugno?”
“Positive. I was only a few feet from where he stopped. He looked right at me. And I got his license plate number.”
“So, you didn’t consider it an accident.”
“It was vehicular homicide at an unlawful speed and leaving the scene. That’s a crime.”
“And?”
“And he went unpunished, not even a fine.”
“How did that happen?”
“Pugno claimed the car had been stolen and he wasn’t there. He had witnesses testify he was playing poker when it happened and had discovered the vehicle was missing afterwards. The Escalade was found abandoned in Brownsville the following day. I was the only witness at the scene, and it was the same old defense argument. It was night time, it was dark, how could you be certain? The District Attorney decided there was not enough evidence to get an indictment and it never went to trial. I pleaded with an Assistant District Attorney. He assured me Pugno would eventually get his just rewards. He told me they had been building a case against him for more than a year, hoping to take him down for more serious crimes. Carmine Pugno recklessly took our son from us and ran away like a coward. I guess that wasn’t serious enough.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said.
“A lot of people told me they were sorry, and a lot of people did nothing to make it right.”
“So you decided an eye for an eye.”
“If I was strictly Old Testament, I would have sacrificed his eight-year-old son. I could never do something like that. Children shouldn’t have to pay for the sins of their fathers. But Pugno needed to pay for his own, and no one else seemed willing to call in payment. And there it is, so what now?”
I poured more bourbon into our glasses.
“I’m in a very tough spot, Mr. Simon. I was asked by Ferdinand Pugno if I would help him find out who killed his son. He was very clear about what he expected my answer would be, and about his confidence in my ability to get results. He will be very unhappy if I come up empty, and Pugno is the last person I care to disappoint.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m not sure. What I won’t do is give you up to Ferdinand Pugno. There would be no reprieve, no consideration of special circumstances. Your family would be arranging for another funeral.”
“And what about Pugno’s disappointment?”
“I’ll have to deal with it—my penance for not saying no in the first place.”
“That’s a lot to ask of you.”
“You didn’t ask. I made my own bed. However, as much as I hate to sound like I’m whining, there is the question of the police. I’m withholding information relevant to a criminal investigation, which in itself is a crime.”
“That may be too much to ask.”
“Look, James, I’m not going to throw you to the dogs. Whether or not I agree with your choice of justice—I understand it. I may have done the same.”
Sitting on the deck of the houseboat was a sober reminder that I had done the same when I found Tom Romano’s murderer.
“I’ll deal with Carmine’s old man and I’ll let the cops do their own homework. So,” I said, pulling Maria’s fine artwork from my jacket for the last time, “unless you want this for a souvenir, it’s going into the shredder.”
“And that’s it?”
“Where it goes from here is entirely up to you. Do you have any other children?”
“A girl, just turned six, and a four-year-old boy.”
“Finish your drink, James, and go home to your wife and kids.”
Ferdinand Pugno was expecting to hear from me, but I didn’t feel sufficiently prepared. I decided to keep him waiting until the next day, late the next day—after he buried his son Carmine in the morning. I would tell him I had tried my best with no luck, and let the chips fall where they may.
There was no need to call John Sullivan. If I dropped the subject, John would forget it also—something he could cross off his To-Do List.
The NYPD would not be interviewing Jack Valenti again, and Maria Leone would forget ever meeting him.
Roseanna Napoli, in spite of her miraculous revelation, would say: What drawing?
I’d had the advantage of friends in the right places. “The Fist” could hire another investigator, but no one else could possibly be so lucky.
Ferdinand Pugno would never know who killed his son, Carmine, and he would suspect everyone. From any competing crime boss looking to expedite resolution to disputes over territorial rights—to any one of Carmine’s own men who had lofty aspirations and was sick and tired of being sent out for meatball sandwiches. Throw the total fuck-up Freddy Fingers into the mix, and the once powerful Pugno Crime Empire would be paranoia central for a long time—if it survived at all.
And, honestly, the prospect didn’t break my heart.
It was after nine, and I realized I had missed my evening meal—once again. I would be drinking my dinner that Thursday night.
And later, in spite of the constant movement of my bed as it rocked on the tides of Sheepshead Bay, I was granted a restful and guiltless sleep.