Rizzo’s Fire (13 page)

“Yeah. I figured. My mother is seventy-eight and she just agreed to get cable TV,” Rizzo said.

Cornelia smiled. “Generational traits transcend cultures, I guess.”

“Seems like it.” Rizzo cleared his throat, turning again to Hom Feng and his wife. “So,” he said, “you were attacked right on the corner, right in front of the schoolyard? The P.S. one-twelve school-yard on the corner?”

“Yes,” said Hom Feng. “Schoolyard.”

Rizzo turned to Priscilla. “You may be my lucky charm, Detective Jackson,” he said with a wink. “Why don’t you ask the rest of the questions? I’ll take some notes.”

He turned back to the Homs. “This might take awhile,” he said.

“Time well spent, I think. Time well spent,” Rizzo added.

LATER, SITTING
in the Impala in front of the Hom residence, Priscilla recorded and expanded her notes while the minute details of the interview were still fresh in her mind.

Rizzo turned to her.

“Like I told them,” he said, “muggings around here are rare. Only time we see one is when some asshole junkie gets so strung out, he forgets to be afraid and grabs some old lady’s purse.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?” she asked, without looking up from her pad.

“Afraid of Louie Quattropa. Remember your first day in the precinct? We drove around and I pointed out the Starlight Lounge? That’s Quattropa’s base of operations. He’s the Brooklyn mob boss, commands the old Columbo gang. Louie takes a hard line with local street crime, especially since it don’t put any money in his pocket. He thinks he’s building goodwill in the neighborhood by enforcing the laws he deems worthy of enforcin’.”

She looked up from her writing. “Enforcing how?” she asked.

“Oh, kinda like Genghis fuckin’ Khan enforced the law. With a heavy hand.” Rizzo dug out a piece of Nicorette. “If you’re gonna work the precinct, you oughta know its history,” he said. “You know, like when you were assigned the Upper East Side and you knew where all the ‘Jackie-O slept here’ signs were located. Like that.”

“Okay, Joe. Educate me.”

“Well, years ago some asshole decided to rob the famous jeweled crown that was on display in the local parish, Regina Pacis. Quattropa wasn’t the boss of all bosses then, just the Bay Ridge–Bensonhurst capo. About a month later, the crown comes back to the church by parcel post. Then the cops in the Seven-Six find a local b and e man with his hands chopped off, two slugs in the back of his skull, and a crucifix nailed to his forehead. Theory is, the guy’s the one who stole the crown, and he had pissed off Quattropa.”

Priscilla turned back to her notes. “Oh,” she said. “So it went like that.”

“Yeah. It went like that. It
always
goes like that when you mix righteous indignation with a murderous, megalomaniacal personality.”

“Megalo-fuckin’-maniacal?” Priscilla said. “You takin’ vocabulary lessons?”

“Maybe it’s
me
should be the friggin’ writer,” he said.

Shaking her head and smiling, she agreed.

He resumed his tale. “Last time we figure Quattropa stepped in was ’bout four, five years ago. When this crazy kid from Sixty-fifth Street wound up frozen solid, a kid all the cops knew, Perry Pino. Took two days to thaw him out.”

Priscilla looked up, her eyes wide. “Now
that
story you gotta tell me, Joe.”

“Yeah,” he said with a chuckle, “all the boys and girls like that one. See, down one of these blocks, I forget which one, there’s a free-standin’ ice pavilion. About twenty-five feet long, ten feet high, with steps leadin’ up to a platform in front of it. You put your money in the slot, and the thing dispenses giant bags of ice. Ten, twenty pounds, what ever you want. Lotsa local businesses use it—restaurants, fish markets, like that. So, one day, this old lady from the neighborhood, she goes to the pavilion to get some ice. She’s throwing a birthday party for her grandson and she’s making home-made ice cream, havin’ a backyard cookout, real Norman Rockwell shit, Brooklyn style. Well, seems like our boy, Perry, was in need of a few bucks. Gas money, maybe, for his shiny hot-rod Camaro. So he decides to mug the old gal. Trouble was, somebody saw him do it, somebody close to Quattropa.”

“Sounds like trouble in River City,” said Priscilla.

Rizzo nodded. “Big time. So, about a week later, the owner of the pavilion comes to restock his ice machine. He goes around back, finds the door broken into. And when he opens the freezer, guess what? There lies Perry, duct-taped hand and foot, gagged, beat up a little. And frozen solid. They fuckin’ put him in there alive.” He shook his head. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t even watch my grandfather cook live crabs. He’d throw the poor bastards into the boilin’ water, then talk to them in Italian and whack them off the rim of the pot with a wooden spoon when they tried to climb out.”

With another head shake, he added, “But Quattropa and the boys, they got no problem tossin’ some dumb-ass teenager into the deep freeze.”

After a moment, Priscilla spoke up. “Now I can see why the Six-Two street crime stays manageable.”

He laughed. “Yeah, and there are other examples. ’Course, none a those incidents could ever be traced back to Louie. But everybody knew. Cops, citizens, skells, everybody.”

Priscilla finished up her notes and started the car.

“Well,” she said cheerfully, “that was fun. What now, boss?”

Rizzo glanced at his watch. “Let’s go back to the house,” he said. “Drop yourself off. Then I’ll take the car and head downtown. I have to be in court this afternoon on one of me and Mike’s old cases.”

Priscilla pulled the Impala out into the street, heading for the precinct. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll catch us up on paperwork and work the phones on some of our cases.”

Rizzo nodded. “Good idea. Talk to Vince, too. Get him to switch us to four-to-midnight tomorrow.”

“Why?” she asked. “We’re scheduled eight-to-four tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, remember inside the Hom house I said you were my lucky charm?”

“Yeah. What’s up with that?”

“Well, we just might be catchin’ a break on this mugging. But we need to do the leg work at night. I’ll explain it all tomorrow. Just get Swede to switch our tours.”

“That’s a problem for me, Joe,” she said.

He looked at her. “Oh? Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. I got my writing class at the Y. Six-thirty to nine. I was expecting a day tour, not a night tour.”

Rizzo raised his brows. “Well, excuse me,” he said. “I forgot about that. Okay, then, Wednesday. Have Swede switch us on Wednesday.”

“Okay, I appreciate it, Joe.”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do,” he said. “After all, who else can I find to write my memoirs?”

He lowered the passenger window and spit his chewed-up Nicorette into the street.

“I sure as hell couldn’t do it myself,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, RIZZO SAT
at his desk in the Six-Two squad room, frowning down at a copy of the
Daily News
.

He sighed and reached for his coffee. It was three forty-five, and Priscilla would be arriving shortly for their rescheduled four-to-midnight.

He looked back to the newspaper. Statewide election coverage from the day before was featured. The local results were much less prominent, but had hit Rizzo’s eye like a laser.

Councilman William Daily of Bay Ridge, running on his usual platform of family values, law and order, and good government, had easily won reelection over the local attorney who had run a barely active and knowingly hopeless campaign against him.

Rizzo sipped slowly at his coffee, the frown tugging at his facial muscles. He carefully studied the photo that accompanied the article.

Daily, standing triumphantly between his wife and oldest daughter, was smiling broadly, his right arm raised above his head, his left outstretched and pointing, presumably at the adoring crowd of unseen supporters before him.

The photo showed no sign of his younger daughter, Rosanne. Rizzo scanned the text of the story a second time, again noting the absence of even a passing mention of the younger girl.

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, rummaging through the papers and notebooks randomly contained within. He took hold of a worn, brown note pad, flipped it open and then, satisfied, lifted it to the desk surface. He thumbed through the pages until he found the entry he sought and reached to the black phone on his desk.

“This is Detective Sergeant Joe Rizzo, NYPD,” he said to the crisp-voiced female who answered. “I’d like a word with Dr. Rogers, please. If he’s available.”

“One moment, sir, I’ll check,” the woman said.

Soon the familiar voice of Dr. Raymond Rogers came through the line.

“Hello, Sergeant Rizzo,” the psychiatrist said. “What can I do for you today?”

“Well, I was just reading the paper, Doc, and I see our friend, Bill Daily, was reelected yesterday. They even ran a family portrait in the local section. So I thought I’d give you a call, see how Rosanne was doing. The article about Daily didn’t mention her.”

Rizzo heard the doctor sigh. “No,” he said, “I imagine it wouldn’t.” But when the psychiatrist continued, a new, satisfied tone had entered his voice. “As for Rosanne, she’s doing well, Sergeant. Very well, in fact, although we’re still early in the game. Her detox seems successful and the psychotropics, particularly the newer ones, have been quite effective. She’s at a facility in Westchester County, one that specializes in teens and young adults. I visit her often, almost weekly. And Father Charles sees her every few days. He’s been marvelous, actually. Extremely helpful.”

Rizzo nodded. “Good,” he said. “That sounds great. I’m glad I called.”

“Well, I am, too, Sergeant,” Rogers said. “After all, if it hadn’t been for you and your partner, Detective McQueen, God only knows where the poor girl would be today.”

“Yeah, Doc,” Rizzo said with some bitterness, “a couple a real heroes.”

“Yes, indeed,” Rogers replied, not noticing or perhaps choosing to ignore the irony in Rizzo’s tone: Rizzo couldn’t decide which.

They made some small talk then bid each other good-bye. Rizzo hung up and sat back in his seat. He noticed Priscilla approaching, and chased Rosanne and her father from his thoughts.

“Hello, Cil,” he said as she took a seat beside his desk. “Ready to do some leg work?”

“Sure thing,” she said. “Always ready.”

“Good.” Reaching across the desk, he removed a manila file from his pile of papers and flipped it open. “I’ve been reading the precinct jacket on those other two robberies. Same pattern as the Hom situation: lone mugger, comes up from behind, grabs the elderly vic around the throat, makes his threats, takes the wallet in the first case, purse in the second, then shoves the vics forward hard enough for them to fall to the ground. By the time they recover, perp is gone, runnin’ away. Best description we got here is from the Homs. It’s the only case with two victims. Guess our perp figured all white boys look alike to old Chinese, so he wasn’t too worried about taking on two vics at once.”

Priscilla took the file from Rizzo’s hand, scanning it. “If the Hom description is the best we have, we ain’t got squat,” she said, raising her eyes to Rizzo’s. “All they say is male white, average height, nothing about build, hair/eye color, possibly a teenager. No help at all.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, I know that, but like I said, you may be my lucky charm.”

“Yeah,” said Priscilla, “you told me that twice already. What’s your point?”

“Well, we caught a real break with that street corner, Seventy-second and Fifteenth. The northeast corner. We may have somethin’ there.”

Priscilla closed the precinct file, flipping it casually onto the messy desktop. “And what would that be?” she asked.

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Frankie Fits,” he said.

“Frankie Fits?” Priscilla asked. “Who the fuck is Frankie Fits?”

Rizzo glanced up at the wall clock, then back to Priscilla. “Neighborhood celebrity, Cil. Like that kid Joey DeMarco I pointed out your first day in the precinct.”

She furrowed her brow. “That cat killer asshole?”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. He’s a celebrity, too. But Frankie, he’s harmless, not like DeMarco. See, he’s mentally challenged, what the kids in the neighborhood call, ‘all fucked up.’ I’m not sure what his exact condition is, but he’s had some neurosurgery in the past. Few years ago, he was walkin’ around with a U-shaped scar on the side of his shaved head. Looked like he was wearin’ a Colts football helmet.”

“And he can help us how?” she questioned.

“Well, old Frankie, on top of his other problems, is epileptic. He has seizures periodically, especially when he gets stressed out. Some a the local kids like to tease him, get him riled up, bring on a seizure. The kids call the seizures ‘fits,’ so he’s ‘Frankie Fits.’ ”

Priscilla shook her head. “Little pricks,” she said.

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “Brooklyn streets aren’t known for their genteel ambiance. Anyway, Frankie must be pushin’ thirty by now. Lives with his mother in a basement apartment near Our Lady of Guadalupe. He helps out around the rectory, cleans up, shit like that.”

“Guadalupe? The church on Fifteenth Avenue?” Priscilla asked.

“Yep, that’s it. On the
southeast
corner of Seventy-second Street. Right across Seventy-second is Public School one-twelve. On that northeast corner is the schoolyard where Frankie Fits spends most nights, sitting alone in the dark on the high steps that lead to the janitor’s office.”

“Are you kiddin’ me, Joe?” Priscilla asked.

“No, really. A few years back, Frankie started hanging around the schoolyard when the kids were on recess. Some of the mothers freaked out, afraid Frankie might hurt one of their little darlings. They complained to the Six-Two cop assigned as school safety officer.”

“What came of it?” Priscilla asked.

“The cop worked it out. He told Frankie if he stayed clear of the school during the day, he could be the night watchman. Like an assistant to the cop, you know, keep an eye on things. And Frankie went for it. Guess he figured he was helping out the little kids, protecting the school, what ever.”