Rough Justice

Rough Justice

Andrew Klavan
writing as Keith Peterson

A
MysteriousPress.com
Open Road Integrated Media ebook

THIS BOOK IS FOR FAITH

Prologue

In Little Italy, on the corner of Mulberry Street and Hester, there's a public school. It's a brick building, three stories high. In the top two stories there are classrooms. Lots of little kids with wide eyes. A is for Apple. Two plus two. Under that, on the bottom floor, there are offices, a small auditorium, and a gym. At various times during the day, the kids come downstairs and play in the gym. Kickball, Dodgeball, Red Rover, Red Rover. On warm days, the kids can play in the courtyard just outside. It's a small yard, maybe fifteen by twenty. There are monkey bars and a swing set in it. Under the monkey bars and the swing set, there's a layer of rubber padding. Under the rubber padding, there's a layer of cement. Under the cement, there is E.J. McMahon.

A couple of decades ago—in what you might call his airier days—E.J. was a restaurateur. Easy E.J., they called him then. He had a little steak house in Brooklyn. A family place. The Conti family was especially fond of it. Members of the Conti family liked to sit around E.J.'s of an evening, swallowing prime cuts and chewing over the family business. The family business included extortion, loan sharking, hijacking, and car theft. Stuff like that.

One of the family's more impressive members was an up-and-coming crew chief named Dellacroce. Later on, Dellacroce would become what tabloid reporters like me call a “reputed crime czar.” But back then—back when E.J. was still on top of the cement—Dellacroce worked for Conti. Ripping off airport cargo, collecting loans, killing people. Stuff like that.

Now, Easy E.J. McMahon enjoyed playing the ponies. He would place his bets by phone with one of the bookies in Dellacroce's crew. He would place his first bet on Wednesday each week, and his last bet each week on Monday. On Tuesday, he would settle up, win or lose. Unfortunately, for E.J. there finally came a Tuesday when settling up was not so easy. It had something to do with a big bet on a filly named Jiffy McGee. The bet was supposed to pull him even for the month. But while Jiffy may have been a McGee, she wasn't all that Jiffy. E.J. dropped a dime on her, which left him out a total of some twenty K.

E.J. did not have twenty K. In fact, if the J hadn't stood for Jack, he wouldn't have had a K to his name. So he had to borrow the money from one of Dellacroce's sharks. Twenty K with vigorish—interest. Interest of about 200 percent. To make a long story short, this is how Dellacroce came to be the principal owner of E.J. McMahon's Steak House.

Today, Dellacroce's morals are matched only by his charm. He was no different then. He was quick to make sure that E.J. understood his new position in the business. He snapped his fingers at him whenever he wanted something. He barked at him across the room. He even slapped him in the face once when E.J. brought him the wrong kind of potatoes.

Poor E.J. He had never aspired to being much more than a mob toady, but he had his pride. He began to harbor a certain resentment toward Dellacroce. So right off, you might say, he had one foot in the cement.

E.J. nursed his resentment for several years. There then came what he saw as his opportunity for revenge.

At that time, Conti's star had gone into the decline. He was in poor health, and the feds were badgering him with one indictment after another. Dellacroce, on the other hand, had begun to gather numerous admirers and adherents. Seizing the opportunity, Dellacroce went to the city's four other bosses and politely asked permission to have Conti's brains blown out. Permission was granted.

But it was not going to be an easy hit. Conti knew something was up and so his security was tight. He rarely left his Long Island house, and the place was like a fortress. Guards, fences, dogs, the whole thing. Sometime within the next week or so, Dellacroce dined on steak in the back room of E.J.'s Steak House. While he dined, he discussed these matters with a compatriot.

E.J. was hurrying to bring his employer more wine when he overheard the discussion.

Now, E.J. did not much care what happened to Sam Conti. But he did think it would be amusing if Dellacroce were riddled with bullets, dumped in a barrel of lime, and tossed into the Hudson River. So off the former restaurateur rushed to Conti's fortresslike home. There, he pleaded urgently with various underlings until he managed to get a hearing from the boss himself.

I must speak to you alone, Don Conti
, E.J. said—or words to that effect.

What is it, my friend?
said the Don, who loved what E.J. could do with ground round.

For your own safety, I must insist that we are alone, Don Conti
, said E.J.

And I, for my own safety, must insist on a bodyguard
, said Don Conti.
For I fear there is foul play afoot
. Or words to that effect.

Anyway, the Don dismissed his consigliere and his underboss. But his personal bodyguard continued to stand massively just within the doorway.

Now
, said the Don,
what is it, my son?

Godfather
, said E.J. (Well, I wasn't there: he could have said it.)
Godfather, I fear the notorious Dellacroce has won sanction to murder you
.

What?
Conti said.
Not Dellacroce, whom I have nursed in my bosom like a son
.

The very same
, said E.J., his voice solemn, his grin inward.

Pale, Conti shook his head. He waved his hand in dismissal.
Thank you, my friend, I must be alone now
, he said.

And E.J. bowed, backed out of the room, and drove back to Brooklyn, a happy man.

So anyway, it came to pass that, when Dellacroce's hit men arrived at Conti's house that night, Conti's bodyguard was expecting them.

Oh, hello
, said the bodyguard,
I've been expecting you. Mr. Conti is in the study. Go right in
. Or words to that effect.

Conti's body was discovered the next morning, his face on his desk, his brains on the wall behind him.

The slaughter of a mob boss in his own home was a spectacular feat. It required incredible planning, almost impossible control. Most of all, it required the corruption of Conti's closest friends and his personal bodyguard. If Dellacroce's star had been on the rise before, it was now burning like the sun.

E.J. McMahon's star, however, had fallen from the heavens like Lucifer. Thus, when E.J. heard of Mr. Conti's demise, he decided to remove himself from the vicinity. Unfortunately, like the horse he'd bet on, he was not quite jiffy enough.

E.J. planned his escape well. He figured if he could keep to main thoroughfares and crowded places, he would be all right. Dellacroce was unlikely to risk a public shoot-out just to bump off a loudmouth waiter. That's what he figured, anyway.

And, at first, it worked. He got to the bank. That was good. He had a small savings account there, and he cleared it out. No trouble. He even made it to Kennedy Airport. And it was busy. And he was glad.

He bought a one-way ticket to Cheyenne, Wyoming. He thought he might like it there. He started walking from the ticket counter toward the gate.

Two large men in two dark suits stepped out of the crowd. They stood in front of him.

E.J. McMahon?
said one of the men.
You are under arrest
.

E.J. was no fool.
You're not cops
, he said.

Yes we are
, said the men.
And you are under arrest. Please come with us
.

You're not cops
, said E.J.
If you are cops, let's see your badges
.

Both large men reached into their dark suits. Both pulled out police tins. They showed them to E.J.

What?
said E.J.

The two men took hold of his arms.

E.J. started to scream.
These guys are not cops. Help. Police
. Or words to that effect.

Right away, airport police came running from all directions. They surrounded the men who were holding E.J. They demanded to see their identification. Once again, the two men reached into their suits and produced their badges.

The airport cops studied the badges carefully. Then they handed the badges back to the two men. Then they nodded their approval. Then the two men took E.J. away.

But they're not cops
, E.J. kept screaming.

The two men took him outside. There was a car waiting at the curb. They hustled E.J. into the back seat.

They're not cops
, E.J. screamed up at the evening sky.

One man climbed into the back seat with E.J. The other man got in front behind the wheel. The doors of the car closed. The car drove away.

E.J. was never seen again. Not by the public anyway. Not by the cocktail waitress he lived with either. Or by her kid. Or by anyone who ever let on. Officially, the last thing anyone saw of him, he was being hustled into that car. The last thing anyone heard him say was:
They're not cops. They're not cops
.

So it is obvious that E.J. was not a very bright fellow. He did a lot of things wrong. He was wrong to lose twenty thousand dollars. He was wrong to bet on Jiffy McGee. He was wrong to hold a grudge against a tough guy like Dellacroce. And he was wrong to try a double cross at the upper levels of the mob.

As it turns out, he was also wrong about those two guys who took him out of the airport. He was wrong about their not being cops. That's exactly what they were.

I found that out some fifteen years later.

1

It was on a Tuesday in May, to be exact. I got home from the paper early. I'd just finished up a series on Cable TV graft. We had a new managing editor starting tomorrow. Everything was in waiting, nothing was cooking. The Mets were on free TV. I took the night off.

I got back to my place on Eighty-sixth Street around 8:00. I picked up my mail and went upstairs. The apartment was dark, but I could make out the cracks on the wall. The harsh light from the shops on the street came in through the window. So did a red glow from the Triplex marquee. And the traffic noise. And a spring breeze.

I went to the refrigerator first, got a beer. I went into the bedroom second, switched on the TV. I dropped into my easy chair, loosened my tie, lit a cigarette. I went through the mail, half-listening to the pre-game chatter.

I tore open an envelope, watching the lineups on the set. It was New York against L.A.

Life is good
, I thought.

The phone rang.

Shit
, I thought.

I tossed my mail on the bed, picked up the phone. I was still watching the tube.

A hoarse whisper came over the line. “Wells? John Wells?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Sergeant Frank D'Angelo.”

“Yeah?”

“You know me.”

I considered it. “No, I don't.”

“I'm dying,” he said.

“I still don't know you, pal.”

“Yeah, you do. Sure you do.”

“Do I? Maybe I do.”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “The desk sergeant at the 112th.”

“Oh yeah. Oh yeah, sure. Sure I know you.” I heard him cough again. “So you're dying, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“That's too bad. That's rough.”

“Lung cancer.”

“That's really too bad, Frank.” I put out my cigarette.

“Wells,” he gasped. “I need to see you.”

“Uh, now?” Orel Hershiser was pitching for L.A.

“Yeah,” said Sergeant D' Angelo. “I'm down at St. Vincent's. Could you come down?”

“St. Vincent's, huh?” Against Doc Gooden for the Mets.

“Yeah. Yeah, I gotta talk to you, Wells. I ain't got much time.”

Doc Gooden, Frank
, I thought.
Don't they rent out TV's at St. Vincent's?
“Sure,” I said. “Sure, Frank, I'll come right down.”

“Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”