CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (12 page)

“It’s easy money. You’ve done your share here and the hotel lobbies aren’t as nice. And I’m sure you could hook on with one of the big boys.”

He saw the look on my face.

“Yeah. Right. I forgot. Mr. Independent.”

“It’s not only that. Staten Island is exploding. As many people as Cincinnati. Not enough cops. Suburban sex and games. Political corruption that rivals New Jersey. Wide open, like the Wild West. I got a taste before I got called up. I have a feeling that once I get known I’m going to get a lot of clients. Rather be a big fish in a small pond.”

“You think you’re the best, don’t you?”

I smiled modestly.

“Name another PI in the borough who rates a tail before the paint in his office is dry.”

Mac shook his head.

“You always thought you were hot shit. That’s what got you in trouble. Just watch your ass. You might wind up face down in that fucking pond.”

“Let me know if anything pops on the Capriati thing.”

“Sure.”

He started to walk away, then turned.

“Say, what ever happened to Immelmann? The fighter pilot. Anybody ever get him?’

“No. He was too good. But he was killed after his synchronized machine guns malfunctioned and he shot off his own propeller.”

“You making that up? No, you’re not. You know more shit about stuff that doesn’t matter than Google.” He laughed. “Fucking Kraut bastard shot himself down. Nobody else could. That’s rich. I love it.”      

When I got to my car, a young cop was looking into the windshield. Uh Oh.

“Your car,” he said.

“Yes, my son.”

In for a penny…

“They should give you guys better wheels. It’s a shame.”

“It doesn’t hurt to set an example.” I was on a roll. “Especially now, with all the greed on Wall Street.”

“I hear you, Padre. My brother is in the Corps. Cherry Point.”

“Air Wing?”

“Yeah. Chopper mechanic.” Then he pointed to the passenger side of my car. “But you really should get the mirror fixed. You don’t want to get a ticket.”

I walked around. The side mirror was hanging by some wires halfway down the door. Apparently I had not emerged unscathed from Snake Hill. An expletive was called for, and I used it, silently.

“Have a good day, Father,” he said, holding my door for me.

I resisted making a sign of the cross.

CHAPTER 15 – PORT RICHMOND

Having the Carluccis constantly in my one of my working rear view mirrors while I looked for Bill Capriati would be a distraction, but I didn’t know what to do about it in the short term. Perhaps my Le Mans run down Snake Hill would discourage them. If not, then I might have to take affirmative action. Look up Porgie Carmichael and squeeze him; he wasn’t family and might be a weak link. One thing was certain. If I had to deal with the Carluccis to any extent, Ellen James wouldn’t be getting her money’s worth. I’d have to tell her to find someone else. But for now I’d put Porgie and the rest of them on the back burner and do my job.

According to the information provided by the Wagner admissions people, Billy Capriati and his family lived on Harrison Avenue in Port Richmond. I spent the next two hours canvassing the block. The neighborhood had turned over completely. The Irish, Italian and Polish families of two decades earlier had given way to new immigrants, mostly Hispanic, with a sprinkling of Indians and Pakistanis. I experienced some language problems, but it was soon apparent that no one remembered the Capriatis, no matter how they mangled the name. I was getting into my car when a mailman trudged by. Slowly. It was obvious he’d been on the job a long time. Long enough? In this neighborhood?

“Sure I remember them. Nice family. Hard workers. Owned a deli over on Port Richmond Avenue. Terrific lasagna. Can’t get that around here anymore. And they only used Boar’s Head in their sandwiches. Wouldn’t let me pay for anything if I stopped in for lunch. I didn’t abuse it though, cause they also took care of me at Christmas.” He laughed. “I lost weight after they moved to Jersey. I don’t eat that Mexican crap. Got diverticulosis.”

The mailman was talkative, probably because he’d found someone who spoke English. He even told me where they moved to in New Jersey.

“Seaside Park, down the shore. They had a small restaurant on the boardwalk. Mostly pizza, calzone, that sort of thing. And those little dough pastries with the powdered sugar. I forget what they call them.”

“Zeppoles.”

“Yeah, that’s them. Heart attack city but I can’t resist them. Me and the wife took a week every summer in Seaside with the kids. Always stopped in to see Joe and Flo. People kept in touch back then. You can’t email a damn zeppole. Joe loved Seaside. When he wasn’t flipping pies he was fishing. In fact, I heard that’s how he died. Reeling in a big bluefish. Worse ways.”

“What about his wife and son?”

“Flo tried to keep the business going but her heart wasn’t in it. Somebody else owned it when we stopped by, must be eight, nine years ago. That’s how I found out about Joe. Last I heard Flo was in a nursing home down there somewhere. Alzheimers. Too bad.”

“I presume Flo was short for Florence.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know what her maiden name was, or if she had been married before?”

“No. But I know she and Joe were only married to each other. Solid people, you know. I loved going to that place down the shore. And not just for the food. They greeted you like old friends. Damn nice people.”

“What about their son, Billy?”

“Hardly ever saw him, even here. I know he wasn’t helping out at the pizza place, even after Joe died. Somebody said he got in some trouble and had to go away. We always asked for him because that’s what you do. The Capriatis always asked after our kids. Even remembered what they liked to eat.”

“What did they say when you asked about their son.”

“Just that he was fine. Traveled a lot. What were they gonna say?”

Following the mailman’s directions I found the storefront on Port Richmond Avenue that once housed the Capriati deli. It was, as advertised, a Mexican restaurant two doors in from Castleton Avenue. At the corner a truck was unloading a group of men, not one of them taller than five-foot-four. I assumed they were Ecuadorian and undocumented. They were tired, dirty and silent. They had shaped up early that morning, as every morning, to be dropped off at various backbreaking jobs across the borough that were beneath Americans. Given the economy I wondered how long that distinction would last. A tall white man, definitely not from Ecuador, lined them up and said something. Then he got in the truck and drove away. He was either helping them or taking advantage of them. It probably didn’t matter to the workers, who started to trudge away. A few of them went into a bar on the corner. I didn’t blame them.

It made no sense for me to ask about the Capriatis in the Thai and Mexican restaurants, bodegas, payday loan stores and dollar emporiums that now dominated the block but I did anyway. This time there was no loquacious mailman and the language barrier was almost insurmountable. However, I did learn how to say coffee in many languages. It’s “coffee.” I ended up back at the Mexican restaurant. The food actually looked pretty good but I settled for more coffee and a delicious-looking pastry that I pointed at with authority. The java was excellent and strong enough to keep me going through the next Ice Age. The pastry was good enough to point at in the future.

I sat at small table and smiled at some kids who eyed me suspiciously. Everybody on both sides of the block knew I was asking questions and assumed I was a cop. I didn’t expect to be hassled, and wasn’t. I began leafing through the Wagner College yearbook, from which I had been flashing Billy Capriati’s graduation picture to perplexed storeowners and patrons for the past hour. I turned to the page with his photo. It was the last one on the page, in the lower right corner.

Unlike other grads, who had virtual resumes under their names and photos, our Billy had just his name and “Wrestling Team, 1,2,3,4.” His smiling face above his thick wrestler’s neck stared back at me as if to say, “catch me if you can.” Idly, I flipped the page. In the top left corner of the following page was another graduate with a thick neck. Not a bad looking kid, except for his “smile,” which reminded me of a shark. When I saw his name, I knew why.

The years hadn’t been kind to Ferdinand “Nando” Carlucci, heir apparent to the Carlucci crime empire. The last time I saw him he weighed more than 300 pounds and the buttons on his vest threatened to pop into orbit. The list of his college activities under his name was impressive: “Debate Club 1, Golf 2, Tennis 3, Delta Nu Fraternity.” But it was the last one that caught my eye: “Wrestling 4.”

“Son of a bitch!”

Apparently that phrase is as universal as “coffee,” because several people looked over at me. I flipped back through the yearbook to the photo of the wrestling team. Nando Carlucci was in the second row. With his arm around the shoulder of Billy Capriati.

Porgie Carmichael came off the back burner.   

 
CHAPTER 16 – PORGIE FISHING

Porgie Carmichael lived on Whitman Avenue. The Zip Code was probably Great Kills. I wasn’t familiar with the street name so I plugged his address in my GPS. There is no easy way to get from Port Richmond to Great Kills across the middle of Staten Island and I had several differences of opinion with Gladys – that’s what I call my GPS – during the next 20 minutes. I think I even shouted at her once or twice when she insisted on “legal U-turns.” But I let her do her thing once I knew we were close. On the way I called Dom DeRenzi.

“You didn’t tell me Nando Carlucci was on your wrestling team.”

“You didn’t ask about him.”

“In the team photo senior year he has his arm around Capriati.”

“You think they’re gay?”

“Is everything sex with you?”

“Just asking.”

“I don’t think either of them is gay, but they seemed tight. Did they pal around a lot? I got the impression Capriati was a loner, except for women.”

“He was. But wrestlers have to get pretty close to their teammates, for Christ sakes. In practice they’re practically inside each other’s jocks. And they hang out together after meets, you know, in bars and such. Wouldn’t surprise me if Carlucci and Capriati were buddies. But Carlucci was only on the team as a senior I think. Wasn’t very good. I’m not sure if I ever used him in a meet. Probably joined just to pad his activities list.”

That explained the debate club and the other brief extracurricular flings.

“The wrestlers could use him now,” DeRenzi said. “He’s as big as Rhode Island.”

Porgie’s modest Cape Cod on Whitman was close enough to Hylan Boulevard so that it was probably still affordable for someone not named Trump. For a fisherman it was ideal. Great Kills Harbor, with its marinas, boat clubs, restaurants and charter fishing boats, was a few blocks away.

The house looked freshly painted and the yard well-tended. There was a pumpkin on the front stoop. A couple of Nerf footballs and a soccer ball lay on the front lawn. Two little girls bundled up against the chill were riding matching pink tricycles in the driveway near the famous red Volvo, still dented with brown and greenish streaks along its side. The Japanese maple and other foliage had been removed. The little girls had their jacket hoods up but I could tell they were either twins or clones. Their mother had the good sense to dress them in different colors. Nothing could have been done about the pink tricycles. Where toys are concerned sibling rivalry demands uniformity. But I bet if I checked they’d have their names written in magic marker on the respective trikes.

Great Kills Harbor is virtually surrounded by a fishhook of land that is part of the Gateway National Recreation Area. At the tip of Gateway is Crooke’s Point, which was probably visible from Porgie’s second floor. I’m sure the irony of the name is lost on him. Seeing the kids made me alter my plan. I called the phone number on Porgie’s rap sheet. A woman answered. I asked for Paul M. Carmichael. I tried to sound officious.

“This is his wife. My husband is not available. Perhaps I can help you?”

“Mrs. Carmichael, my name is Lewis Harper. I’m a Federal officer. I’m afraid I must speak to him.”

There was a long pause. I heard her sigh.

“I thought we were done with all that.”

Living with Porgie must be a blast.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Mrs. Carmichael. I’m a case officer with the enforcement division of the Department of Environmental Protection, New York Office. This has to do with a recent car accident you or your husband may have had.”

“Car accident? Oh, you mean…”

I cut her off.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said even that. I’m only authorized to speak to Mr. Carmichael. Will you please get him?”

“It’s after five o’clock. I didn’t think you were allowed to call people after work. My husband is a fisherman and was out all night. He’s taking a nap. And I just got in from work myself. I haven’t even started dinner.”

She sounded like a nice woman, able to work, dress her kids nicely and keep a neat house. She could have lied and said he wasn’t home. I suspected that lying was hard for her. Porgie had married up. I felt like an asshole.

“Mrs. Carmichael. I’m not a telemarketer. We have no rules concerning phone calls. They made me work tonight. Believe me, I’d rather be heading home to my family.”

“Yes, of course. Please hold on.”

There was some background noise and a man’s voice, getting closer to the phone with every utterance.

“Jesus Christ. Environmental what? OK. Let me handle it. I said I was sorry didn’t I? Jesus Christ.” Finally, “Who is this?”

“Is this Paul M. Carmichael?”

“Yeah, yeah, now who are you again?”

I went through my phony agency spiel gain, promoting myself to a more intimidating “supervising agent.”

“What’s this about an accident?”

“Are you the owner of a 2004 Volvo, license plate number RWA-667?”

Silence. Porgie was trying to remember his plate number. I wondered if he went to the window to look out into the driveway. I didn’t hold it against him. Sometimes I can’t remember mine either.

“Yeah.”

With his record he knew better than to lie to a “Federal Officer,” especially about information the officer obviously has. Congress made it a crime to do that. I happen to think it’s a dumb law.  

“Your vehicle was involved in an accident Saturday morning on Matterhorn Street?”

“I guess so. I don’t know the name of the street.”

I still didn’t either. I’d just made up the name.

“But you left the scene of the accident, is that correct?”

“Are you shitting me? I took down a fucking bush and scraped a tree. What are you, the Gestapo? There was nobody else involved. I didn’t even call my insurance yet. How did you find out?”

“A man in a nearby house observed the incident and wrote down your plate number. He called the police, but it’s not a local matter. An arboreal hit-and-run is a Federal crime. It was referred to my office.”

“A ar-what? Hit and run! On a fucking tree!”

I didn’t say anything for a moment, to let him know I was insulted.

“You may not know it, Mr. Carmichael, but hillsides of a certain pitch and slope are Federally protected because of their propensity for landslides. We can’t let this sort of thing go unpunished. Too many shrubs and trees get knocked down and pretty soon a hill like that will slide down into the bay. Like Cromwell Center.”

He was momentarily speechless, which was fortunate, because I was rapidly running out of ridiculous things to say.

“Listen, if there is a fine involved…”

“Mr. Carmichael! Obliterating a protected bush is a misdemeanor. Leaving the scene is a felony.” Well, almost run out.

The mention of a felony would scare the hell out of him. For all I knew it would have been his third strike and he thought he was facing life in Marion with Bubba the weightlifter. It was time to set the hook.

“Look,” I said. “You seem like a nice family man. Ignorance of the law is no excuse, but I can’t see you facing a felony when you obviously weren’t aware that you had to stick around. Am I right?”

“Yeah. Of course. I’d never hit-and-run. Anything. Even a tree, had I known. I made my kids watch that Ken Burns thing on the national parks, you know. I’m all for the environment.”

“Well, perhaps we can work this down to a simple misdemeanor and a fine.”

“Sure. Yeah. That would be Great. Thanks.”

“Of course, a misdemeanor fine can run up to $5,000.”

“Jesus!”

“There may be another way. Perhaps we can talk in person.”

“You want me to come in?”

“No, I was thinking maybe we could meet someplace neutral, like a diner or something, just to hash this out.”

In the silence that followed, I could almost hear the light bulb snap on over his head. I was just another chiseler.

“When,” he said. There was relief in his voice.

“How about tonight, say in an hour? You know the Olympus Diner on Amboy Road in Annadale?

“Tonight?”

“I’m working several cases on the Island, in the field, so to speak. I’m in the neighborhood. No use dragging this kind of thing out, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, sure, Mr. Harper. How will I know you?”

“I don’t think it will be crowded. I’ll sit in a booth near the men’s room. I’m wearing a dark blue suit and a green tie with miniature redwoods on it. See you around 10?”

“OK. I’ll be there.”

“That will be
grand
, Mr. Carmichael. “Just
grand.
”

With my emphasis on “grand” I was pretty sure Porgie would show up with a thousand bucks to make his “arboreal” infraction disappear. He was a wiseguy. He’d have a petty cash stash in the basement. If not, he had time to stop at a couple of ATM’s on the way. I could have asked for more. Maybe I could have said “that will just be
too
grand.” But that’s a lot of ATM’s, and I didn’t want Porgie knocking over a convenience store on my account.