Mad Dog Justice (9 page)

“Roddy,” Ivan says, his voice pitching higher, “I hate to sound so bottom line, but I can’t afford this kind of thing. You’re not gonna be around and you can’t tell me how long you’ll be away, and you force me to take on another surgeon now.”

“Just lay it on the line, Ivan.”

“I need some sort of accommodation from you.”

“Whatever you want, partner,” Roddy says, wanting to shut down Ivan’s whining. Roddy feels brittle, as though he could explode with rage for what’s happening to his life. “Feel free to cut
my share. Or if you want, cut me out completely while I’m gone. Talk to David and get the papers signed. Get ahold of that lawyer we used back when we partnered up. Make some temporary arrangement, and I’ll add my signature when I get back.”

“When you get
back
? This is crazy.”

“You have my complete authorization to make any arrangement you feel is best. When I get back, we’ll work it all out.”

“Roddy, what the hell’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you right now, Ivan, but do what you have to do.”

“Roddy …”

“Just do it, Ivan. I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

B
y nine fifteen in the morning, Roddy’s back home. Tracy’s left for the library at Sarah Lawrence and the kids are in school.

He walks around the empty house—through the living room with its stone fireplace, sofas, easy chair, and knickknacks. He enters the den with its microfiber-covered sofa, scattered newspapers and medical journals, chestnut beams, stucco walls, and mullioned casement windows. He plods through the kitchen, dining room, and then upstairs, where he peers into Sandy’s and Tom’s bedrooms.

Entering the master bedroom, he looks at the bed he and Tracy share. It looks so comforting, and it’s filled with Tracy’s warmth each morning as he lies next to her. God, how he loves this place. A pang of sadness assaults him as he realizes he’ll be leaving very soon. Tracy and the kids will have to get to a safe place—maybe stay at her sister’s house in Nutley. He wonders how on earth he’ll convince her to do it without telling her the reason. But first he’ll take care of a few things, which means among others, talking with the hospital administrator—Dr. Eve Barton—about a leave of absence. There, too, he’ll be forced to fabricate some sort of story. Secrets and lies are what his life boils down to—again, after all these years.

Twenty minutes later, he’s made the arrangements with the hospital, saying he’d be away for two weeks due to illness in the
family. But will two weeks be enough time?

Roddy sinks down onto the living room sofa. He can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen, as though he’s a duck in a shooting gallery. He whips out his cell, scrolls through his contacts, and presses a speed dial number.

“Carmel Medical Associates,” says the receptionist.

“Dr. Masconi, please.”

“Who may I ask is calling?”

“Dr. Dolan, Rodney Dolan.”

“Hold on, Doctor.”

He waits, hearing Shakira singing “Hips Don’t Lie.” His foot starts that quick tapping, but it’s not in time to the music. His insides hum. It’s that tuning fork feeling, one he learned long ago is an internal signal of danger.

“Rodney,” says a robust voice.

“Vincenzo …”

They always called each other by their formal names—jokingly—ever since meeting the first day of medical school, over a cadaver in the gross anatomy lab. Since then, they’ve kept loosely in touch. Maybe twice a year they get together with their wives at a restaurant somewhere in Westchester—halfway between Vinzy’s place in the Bronx and Bronxville.

“How ya doin’?” Vinzy asks.

“Good, Vinzy. You?”

“Could always be better.”

“Still taking care of the old Italians holding out on Arthur Avenue?”

“Yeah, but Medicare’s cutting back. The patients are mostly Hispanic now … along with Eastern Europeans.”

Roddy’s reminded of what Morgan said about the Russians.
They’re everywhere now
.

“What’s up that has you calling this early on a workday?”

“I need a favor, Vinzy.”

“Shoot,” he hears Vinzy say and imagines him sitting at his desk with his stethoscope slung around his neck.

“Funny you should put it that way.”

“Meaning?”

“Vinzy, I need a piece.”

“Every doc should have one in the office, Roddy. I’m running a clinic and we’re a prime target—you know, addicts and all that.”

“You still have some connections in the community? Some of the old-timers? Friends of yours?”

Roddy knows Vinzy—with his checkered background and his uncles having been mob guys in the Italian section of the Bronx—won’t ask questions. Prying isn’t his style.

“A few. The old ones are dying off, but I know some people. When do you need it?”

“Today. That possible?”

“Hold on for a second, Roddy.” Vinzy’s voice grows faint as he turns from the phone and says, “Yeah, Marie. Get that blood work done stat.” Then he’s back. “Roddy, you know Arthur Avenue, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Tracy and I shop there once in a while.”

“Okay, on Arthur Avenue, one block north of my clinic, there’s a cheese store. Actually, it’s only a couple of doors down from Teitel Brothers. You know that place?”

“Of course.”

“It’s called Mario’s Laticini. Old man Mario died a few years back, so now it’s owned by a guy named Charlie. When you get there, ask for Charlie. He’s usually in the back making mozzarella, and he can take care of you. I’ll give him a call first and let him know you’re coming. He’s always there, so it won’t be a problem. Probably set you back a bundle, in cash.”

“Thanks, Vinzy. One other thing …”

“Yeah?”

“Can you find something out for me?”

“I can try.”

“There’s a guy named Grange … John M. Grange. A loan shark. A huge guy … must weigh three hundred pounds. Calls himself Ghost, if that’s any help. Can you ask around? Anything you find out could be helpful.”

“Lemme ask around. John Grange …”

There’s a brief pause. “I’ll make some calls and find out what I can. If you don’t hear back from me in the next half hour, you’re good to go with Charlie. But info on this guy Grange might take a while.”

“Thanks, Vinzy. I owe you.”

“I hope you’re not gambling, Roddy.”

“Na. It’s for a friend. Not me.”

“Yeah. I’ll get back to you about this Grange guy if I learn anything.”

R
oddy leaves the municipal parking lot on Arthur Avenue. He scans the street, seeing a row of four-story brick-faced and clapboard buildings, each with a storefront on the ground floor. The street is the last vestige of a once-thriving Italian community in the Bronx. He heads north along the west side of Arthur Avenue, passing a meat market, a nail salon, a storefront dental office, and a row of Italian food specialty shops. He comes to a store with a green awning, Mario’s Laticini.

Entering the store, Roddy is surprised: he’s not assaulted by the pungent odor of aged cheeses. He realizes the place makes and sells fresh cheeses only—mozzarella, smoked mozzarella, ricotta, and ricotta salata, which he recalls eating at Danny’s house. Angela’s a great Italian cook.

A stout, middle-aged woman wearing a white apron smiles from behind the counter.

“Is Charlie here?” he asks.

“He’s in the back, just finishing up,” she says in heavily accented English, nodding her head at a set of doors. “Go straight back through there.”

Roddy walks through swinging doors and finds himself in a good-sized kitchen. A short, rotund man in his midfifties stares at him. He has a closely cropped horseshoe-shaped fringe of hair on his scalp and a nose ending in a bulbous tip. His face is round and fleshy with huge hound-like dewlaps. Puffy, reddish-brown bags hang beneath his eyes. Reminds Roddy of the actor who played Clemenza in
The Godfather
. An apron covers his generous belly, beneath which he wears a white T-shirt that exposes thick arms and hairy forearms. His hands are in plastic gloves for kneading cheese. He rips the gloves off. On a nearby countertop are a few dozen freshly made balls of mozzarella sitting in water. “Can I help you?” he asks with a thick accent.

“I’m Roddy Dolan … and I’m told you’re Charlie.”

“Ah yes,” Charlie says with a nod of his huge head. “Dr. Vincenzo said you’d be here. Just gimme a minute while you stay right here.” Waddling, he carries a tray of smoked mozzarella to the front of the store. He returns a few moments later. “Dr. Vincenzo told me what you want. You come with me.”

Charlie leads him through a door from the kitchen to a small rear office. He locks the door behind them. A solid-looking steel safe sits in one corner. Charlie bends down, turns the dial a few times, and opens the safe’s door. Out comes a cloth-covered tray, which Charlie sets on an old wooden desk.

“You need this for whadda you call it … protection?”

“Exactly.”

“You gotta choice,” Charlie says, lifting the cloth.

Four handguns lie on the tray. Eyeing them, Roddy spots one that looks perfect. “May I?” he asks, pointing to the piece on the end.

“Yes, please. You take a look.”

It’s a snub-nosed revolver—a stainless-steel, matte-finished Taurus with a pebbled, black rubber grip—a .357 magnum that can also fire .38 slugs. Roddy likes the feel of it in his hand; its heft is perfect. The weapon balances in his palm, and there’s plenty of room for his index finger to slip onto the trigger. It’s a model 617SS2, a midweight piece that holds seven rounds—unusual for a revolver. It holds one extra shot—you never know what you’ll need in a firefight, and that single shot can make a world of difference in a tight situation. It can be fired using either double or single action. He flips the cylinder open and sees it’s empty—no bullets. He spins the cylinder; it has precision mobility. Good construction. He tests the cylinder-release lever. Sweet. And then the trigger action—smooth; not too much pressure needed to squeeze off a shot, so the pistol won’t wiggle or move when the trigger is squeezed.

“Looks good. How much?”

“She’s good at nine hundred.”

“And bullets?”

“One box for you. She’s a no cost.”

“It’s a deal.” Roddy reaches into his pocket, takes out his wallet, and extracts nine one-hundred-dollar bills. He hands the wad over to Charlie.

Charlie opens the top desk drawer. “You wanna .38s or the magnums?”

“Magnums.”

“She’s all yours,” he says, handing Roddy a heavy cardboard box. It’s filled with Remington steel-jacketed hollow-point .357 magnum rounds. There are fifty in the container.

Just one slug will stop a man dead in his tracks.

“If you wanna know, she’s clean.”

Roddy nods.

“She’s got no … how you say? She got no record.”

B
ack home, Roddy decides to leave the revolver in the car. Tracy or the kids will never find it there. It’s too risky to hide it anywhere in the house. Sitting on the living room sofa, he goes over what he and Danny discussed: getting Tracy, Angela, and the kids out of Bronxville and Tuckahoe. It’ll be dicey, but there’s no choice. He and Danny will be walking the fine line between tidbits of fact and a hastily fabricated pack of lies.

His cell rings. He checks the readout.

“Yeah, Vinzy.”

“You got that equipment?”

“Got it. And thanks.”

“I have some information for you.”

Roddy’s heart shoots into overdrive.

“Guy’s an old-timer … a made man, if you know what I mean. He’s associated with the Brunetti family on Staten Island. Real name’s Gargano … John Gargano. He’s pulled back on most of the action over the last few years, and he’s not much of an active earner anymore, at least according to my uncle. I was told he has a habit of disappearing for months at a time. That’s why he’s nicknamed Ghost. Among other things, he was always heavy into loan-sharking.”

Not a surprise. It fits with what happened ten months ago at McLaughlin’s
.

“Hasn’t been around for a while, but that’s not unusual for this guy. Rumor is he may’ve gone into WITSEC.”

“The Witness Protection Program?”

“Yeah, but my uncle doubts it. Truth is, with these old-timers, you never know. Some go to Italy to live out their years. Others go to Boca or Vegas, Costa Rica or the Caymans.”

“Any real chance he went to Witness Protection?”

“Not according to my uncle. That’s always a floating rumor when a guy doesn’t show his face for a long time. My uncle said there’re some people who think he might’ve been clipped.”

Roddy feels his pulse ramp to NASCAR speed. If any of the Brunetti associates knew Grange was meeting them at the restaurant the night he disappeared, it could explain why Danny got shot and why they’re gunning for him, too. The mob never lets a made man’s death go unanswered.

“Any word about that?”

“About what?”

“Whether he was clipped.”

“No. My uncle couldn’t say anything more. Just that the guy’s friends are looking into things. They’re … how should I say it? Asking around.”

I
t feels strange driving around Bronxville and Yonkers with a loaded revolver in the Rogue’s storage console. The ride from home to St. Joe’s was nightmarish. He glanced in the rearview mirror every few moments, thinking he saw a dark Lincoln Navigator behind him. His skin prickled and he lifted the lid of the console, just to be safe. When the SUV pulled alongside him at a traffic light, it was a Cadillac Escalade driven by a woman with two kids and a dog in the back.

It’s now four in the afternoon. Roddy walks along the corridor to Dan’s room at St. Joseph’s.

“Hey, Doc,” a familiar voice calls.

He turns and sees Morgan.

“Glad to see you’re here,” Morgan says. “Saves me a trip to Lawrence Hospital.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Roddy stifles the urge to shake his head and sound exasperated. No matter how casual he wants to appear, he can’t stop blinking his eyes. And he feels the blood drain from his face.

“I have news for you, but let’s talk in private,” Morgan says, heading toward a lounge area.

They enter a room furnished with functional-looking chairs. A wall-mounted flat-screen television is muted. A lone patient in pajamas sits next to an IV pole on wheels. “Do you think we can
talk in private?” Morgan asks the guy and flashes his badge.