Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (15 page)

I was tired and smudged with newsprint by the time I reached the fourth cabinet. Unlike the others, it was locked. I took
a claw hammer from the top of the cabinet, wrenched it open, and a load of filth poured out. Magazines like the one Shork
had at the wrecking yard, with loose photographs slid inside. But the females in those loose photographs weren’t in their
forties with sagging breasts and fat, ugly asses. They had no breasts at all; they were girls, children. I went through several
stacks, but the contents were the same: awkward, preadolescent girls on lewd display, occasionally shown with boys who looked
only a year or two older. My stomach turned when I saw a little colored girl not much older than Desiree
posed grotesquely on a man’s lap. The man, white, naked, and wearing a black mask, had his hands on her.

I’d seen enough, or so I thought, when I caught a glint of blue metal just behind the last stack of magazines. It was a security
box, and locked, but a couple of whacks with the hammer opened it. No magazines, just more photographs, each in its own brown
paper wrapper. As I pulled one out, a 35mm negative fell out with it. The young woman in the picture looked drugged, but she
wasn’t a child. The back of the photo listed her name and address.

I looked quickly at a few others, placed them back in the box, closed it, and carried it upstairs. I tucked it inside my oversize
winter coat, pretended to say good-bye to my invisible host at the front door, closed it and walked back to my car. As I pulled
away, a dark Plymouth sedan parked halfway up the block did the same. I was hoping it wasn’t Superman and Calamari Breath,
who’d be eager to return the beating Watusi and I’d given them on Sands Street.

Would they have phantom eyes the next time we met, or lips glowing like purple neon? I didn’t want to imagine.

I tried to think of other things on the drive back to Bensonhurst, but I couldn’t help looking in the rearview mirror every
few minutes, feeling a chill climb my spine like an eel up a ladder and praying that the Plymouth would just disappear.

T
he car waiting outside my house had a red light on the top. I parked directly behind it, and the dark Plymouth sedan drove
by. Superman smiled menacingly from the driver’s side, the sedan turned the corner and was gone.

A uniformed cop tapped impatiently on my window. I rolled it down.

“Lombardi?”

“That’s me.”

“Lieutenant DeMassio wants to see you at Bath Avenue.”

“Right now?”

“That’s pretty much the idea.”

“Can I go up and take a piss first?”

“I gotta go with you.”

By the time we came back, I’d dropped my overcoat on the sofa, the metal box safely wrapped inside it, and put on a lighter
coat. I’d dropped off my gun and shoulder holster, too, which relaxed the cop a little.

Nick DeMassio’s office was in the detective’s wing on the second floor. It had the standard police decor: gun-metal desk,
gun-metal chair, gun-metal filing cabinets, gun-metal wastebasket; a folding chair next to the desk; his very own water cooler
by the window.

“Afternoon, Eddie.”

“Come va,
Nick? How’s the wife and kids?” I asked, glancing at the family portrait on his desk.

“They’re fine,” he said in a toneless, unwelcoming voice. I sat in the folding chair and waited. After a pause, he said, “This
is official.”

“I hope so, Nick. I’d hate to think this is how you usually greet your old friends.”

“We’ve been friends a long time, Eddie, that’s true.”

“I’ve never complained.”

“Me either, till now.”

“What’s that mean?”

“How come you didn’t come to see me voluntarily, Eddie? How come I had to send somebody to bring you here?”

“What’s this about, Nick?”

He leaned back in the chair, creating distance. “I only found out about it today. Albemarle Road isn’t my goddamn beat. Maybe
I wouldn’t have found out at all, except for the business about the D.A.’s stolen car, and that Pulaski kid. And
you
, Eddie.”

“I don’t follow you, Nick.”

“What were you doing over there at the D.A.’s house? You and that mick O’Rourke?”

“We were tailing him.”

“How come?”

“You need to know that?”

“And a whole hell of a lot more.”

I told him the story of the briefcase, and the meeting at Fulton Joe’s, but his expression didn’t change when I finished.

“Why didn’t you
tell
me?” he asked again, the sound of disappointment, almost hurt, grinding in his deep voice.

“Because I didn’t have anything, Nick. I still don’t. I don’t know what was in the briefcase, and neither does Arnold.”

“But the other two punks, they know?”

“At least one of them, probably both.”

“And they’re running.”

“That’s right.”

“From Alberto Scarpetti and company.”

“That’s what I think.”

“And you think the indictment figures in this.”

“Has to, Nick, or Scarpetti’s personal bodyguards wouldn’t be combing the borough for them and putting a tail on me. Carlson’s
connected to all this. That’s why I was watching him.”

DeMassio got up from his desk and walked to the water cooler. He stood looking out the window for a while before he turned
and spoke.

“I’m gonna to tell you something that doesn’t go any farther than you and me,” he said. “You understand, Eddie?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then. You know where Jimmy Santini is right now?”

“Miami,” I answered. It wasn’t a difficult question.
Santini always spent the winter months there, communicating with his top lieutenants through coded cables and telephone calls.
The FBI had partially broken the codes and passed the information to the local police. They knew the kinds of messages Santini
was sending, without the specifics.

“Santini sent a hurry-up-and-do-it message a couple of days ago.”

“Hurry up and do what?”

“That’s the puzzle. But what’s more interesting is who he sent it to.”

“And who’s that?”

“Dominick Scarpetti.”

“Santini and Big Dom? That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does,” said DeMassio, returning to his desk. “You ever wonder why Big Dom set up his little kingdom at the edge of
Santini’s territory, and then prospered there?”

It was a thought-provoking question. There wasn’t much love lost between the Scarpetti brothers, but I hadn’t imagined any
kind of alliance between Big Dom and Jimmy Santini. Next to Santini and Alberto, Dom was smaller than small fry. Wedging his
modest stolen-car operation between Santini’s and brother Alberto’s territories made sense as a buffer zone between the two
powerful rivals, but that was about it.

“Well, Eddie?”

“You’re tellin’ me Santini’s taken Dominick under his wing? Why?”

“Because he and Dominick are about to do some business.”

“Business?”

“That’s right. You said you thought the D.A.’s stolen car involved Alberto Scarpetti, and maybe the indictment.”

“Right.”

He leaned forward, bearing in with a hard-edged look. “Can you keep a secret, Eddie? Can you keep your mouth shut real tight?”

“I already said I would, Nick.”

“Maybe there isn’t gonna be an indictment.”

“How do you figure that?”

“It’s gone. All the evidence. Vanished. The D.A.’s office’ll deny it, but the whole staff is runnin’ around like chickens
with stump necks lookin’ for it.”

“And?”

“How much you wanna bet it was in that briefcase?”

“The whole file?”

“The whole file. Which explains why Alberto’s goons are chasin’ all over town for two teenagers.”

“That it does. So how does Santini fit in?”

“Simple,” said DeMassio, easing back. “Santini wants to play the good citizen in this mess. He wants that evidence back in
the D.A.’s safekeeping just as bad as Alberto Scarpetti wants it to disappear. He can’t wait for Alberto and his top boys
to sizzle up in Sing Sing. Neither can Big Dom. And with Alberto out of the way, Santini and Big Dom can do a nice fifty-fifty
split of Alberto’s former turf without so much as liftin’ a trigger finger.”

“More likely seventy-thirty,” I said. “Until Santini decides he wants it all.”

“You got that right.”

“So, the hurry-up-and-do-it message, that was Big Dom’s
cue to pick up the pace, to press the search for the file?”

“Maybe,” said DeMassio, “but I don’t see Big Dom drivin’ the bus in this operation. Santini’ll want his own people in charge.”

I took a short walk to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. “So, what was the evidence doin’ in the D.A.’s briefcase anyway?”

“Who knows?” DeMassio answered with a quick shrug. “But when his staff found out it was gone, the pasta hit the windmill.”

“Carlson didn’t tell ’em himself?”

“Uh uh. Woulda made for some real bad press, not to mention criminal charges. Wasn’t until Carlson was dead that they found
the evidence file empty. And when Alberto’s potted plants found out, they undoubtedly passed the word along. Big Dom’s spies
in Alberto’s camp probably told him the same day, and then Big Dom passed it on to Santini in Miami.”

“Wanna bet Scarpetti already knew?”

“How so?”

“Let’s say Carlson’s on his way to deliver the file to Alberto. Arnold and his pals steal the D.A.’s car, so there’s no delivery.
Alberto gets the word right away, from Carlson himself, probably. So, Alberto goes after the kids and decides at the same
time to shut the D.A.’s mouth, just in case Carlson remembers where he left his scruples.”

“Okay.”

“Question is, what happens next?”

“That one’s easy. Alberto and Jimmy Santini will be tearin’ up all the five boroughs to find that file, for very different
reasons, of course, and anybody who gets in between those two juggernauts is gonna be hamburger.”

“I’m already in the middle of this, Nick.”

“That you are. What I’m tellin’ you is maybe it’s time to get out.”

“That’s gonna be a little hard to do.”

“Come on, what’s the Pulaski kid to you anyway?”

“Not all that much, but those other two kids, Gunderson and Mitchell, they’re out there someplace scared out of their wits.
They’ve got no idea what they’re sittin’ on.”

He grinned suddenly. “There’s a woman in here somewhere, right?”

I bothered him with a scowl. “It’s not what you think.”

“‘Course not. It never is.” The grin widened.

I wanted to explain about Jimmy, and my promise to Caroline, but there was no point to it. DeMassio had figured out an explanation
that satisfied him completely, so I got up to leave.

“Meeting adjourned?” I asked.

“For now. Keep in touch this time, Eddie.”

“Sure, Nick.”

“I mean it. You get something, you call me.”

“I will.”

I was already at the door when he added, “Watch your front
and
your back. They’re a coupla juggernauts.”

“No, they’re not, Nick,” I said, stopping. “Just a coupla ill winds that are about to blow themselves out.” But I didn’t believe
a word of it.

A
light snow was falling when I got home. I was reaching for Shork’s blue metal box inside my big overcoat when the phone rang.
I figured it was Gino, but I was wrong.

“This is Alberto Scarpetti,” said the cold, masculine voice at the other end.

“Hello, Mr. Scarpetti. I…”

“The green Plymouth sedan outside. Get in it. Don’t bring your gun. Don’t call anybody. You’re not in that car in exactly
one minute, they’ll come and get you. They’ll play rough when they do. Understand?”

“What’s this about?”

“Don’t sweat it, Lombardi. Nothin’s gonna happen. Just get in the car.”

“Listen, Mr. Scarpetti, I…”

“You’re down to forty-five seconds,” he said, and hung up.

Calamari Breath was standing outside the Plymouth. He
held the door open, then squeezed in next to me on the back seat. He grinned even wider than his dream counterpart, thinking
the same unpleasant thoughts. Superman didn’t say a word. He just put the car in gear and pulled away. We drove up 16th Avenue,
made a left finally onto 64th Street and headed west toward Bay Ridge.

“Where’s your big nigger friend?” asked Calamari Breath, inching closer.

“He’s around,” I said. “You boys play nice and I promise he won’t hurt you again.” Superman smiled wryly, but Calamari Breath
just ground his teeth.

“Where we going?” I asked. Nobody spoke a word. “Whatta you guys want with me, anyway?” More silence.

Like the dream.

We drove about three blocks before Calamari Breath had anything else to say. “Boss told us we don’t get to kill you yet.”

“That’s swell.”

“Boss don’t even want you hurt yet.”

“Even better.”

He was smiling when his fist hit my stomach. As I doubled over, he grabbed me by the hair, pulled straight up and pummeled
the same spot. “We decided we’d hurt you anyway,” he said pridefully. “It won’t even show.”

“Won’t even show,” echoed Superman.

I waited until my breath returned before I sat up straight again. “Okay,” I said, wheezing. “But whatta you guys want with
me?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Don’t you?”

Alberto Scarpetti owned a respectable mansion on Shore Parkway, overlooking Upper New York Bay. It was in the Tudor style,
with Italianate touches. The lawn inside the surrounding stone wall was as smooth as a putting green and as large as a football
field. A small forest of evergreens and shrubs obscured the house. Snow was falling as we drove up the long gravel drive.

It wasn’t my idea of a typical Mafia enclave. No armed guards at the gate, no snarling mastiffs with spiked collars roaming
the grounds. If Alberto had a security system in place, I couldn’t see it. His neighbors, doctors, lawyers, and city fathers
all, had to know who and what he was, so this little charade of normality seemed like wasted effort.