The Payback Game (24 page)

“No problem.”

Baumgartner extended his hand to shake, but Boff didn’t take it. “I don’t want bed bugs, Carl.”

The attorney laughed at that. “Speaking of bugs….” He pulled back the flaps of his sports jacket to expose his entire shirt front. There was no recording device that Boff could see.

“It hurt me that you thought I’d betray you. So I just pretended to have a recorder.”

“You could have a wire taped to your back or a device in your pocket.”

Carl raised his arms overhead. “You want to frisk me?”

Boff smiled. “Not on your life. Take those bedbugs back to the office. I’ll just have to have faith that your word is still good.”

The assistant D.A. started to leave, then turned back. “Just for the record, Frank, you never mentioned the name Earl Bassett to me or his role in this. Understand? I don’t want to end up being charged with conspiracy to obstruct justice.”

“You got it.”

“Only for you would I break the law and let you have this guy Earl Bassett for yourself.”

Boff shook his head. “No, Carl. You’re not doing it for
me
. You’re doing it for
yourself
because you want to make D.A.”

Shaking his head as he went, Baumgartner walked away.

The next morning Boff received a FedEx package from Davy Akers containing the recording device he had asked for and the software that went with it. After opening the package and lifting the bugging device out, he marveled at how tiny and thin the thing was. He slid it inside one shoe and walked around the living room. It felt fine and didn’t impair his walking.

Then he put the device in his pants pocket and picked up one of the manila envelopes he had taken from Wallachi’s office and fastened a note with a paper clip to the photo
on top.

From his apartment, he drove to a messenger service in
Brooklyn and told them to deliver the envelope to Detective Galvani in the 71
st
Precinct. Finally, he called Baumgartner to set up their meeting with the cop.

***

Galvani was working on his computer at his desk in the squad room when a uniformed cop walked in and handed him a manila envelope.

“Sarge said this came for you by messenger,” the cop said.

Having no clue as to what was in it, the detective waited until the uniform had walked away, then opened the envelope and started to pull out its contents. The photos were halfway out when he saw the shot on top of the pile. It showed him and the longshoremen leaving the drug dealer’s place after their phony raid. Grimacing, he snatched the note attached to the picture, shoved the photos back inside the envelope, then glanced around to see if anybody had been looking his way. Everybody seemed busy with their own work.

As he got up to leave, his partner walked into the squad room. Jorge pointed at the envelope in Galvani’s hand. “Whatcha got, Eddie?”

“Just some garbage somebody is trying to sell me.” Not wanting to answer any more questions, Galvani headed for the door.

“Where’re you going?”

“Routine bullshit.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No. I’ve got this myself. See ya later.”

Outside the precinct, Galvani leaned against his Mustang, looked around to make sure nobody was close enough to see, then pulled out the photos and flipped through them. He immediately felt sick.
The muthafucker blindsided me! Son of a bitch!
Putting the pictures back in the envelope, he quickly ran through his options. And just as quickly knew not one of them was good. Opening his car door and hurling the envelope into the back seat, he headed for Prospect Park, as Boff’s note had instructed him to do.

When Galvani arrived, Boff was sitting facing the park bandshell with Damiano, Baumgartner, and two of his investigators. He walked over and sat a couple chairs away from them. Boff could tell the cop was seriously pissed.

Without looking at Boff, Galvani said, “Let’s hear what you got to say.”

“First,” Boff replied, “let me introduce my friends. This lovely lady is Detective Damiano of the 77
th
. On her right is Carl Baumgartner, an assistant D.A. in Brooklyn. The other two gentlemen are his investigators.”

Galvani glared at Boff but said nothing.

“Based on the evidence we’ve gathered against you,” Boff said, “you have two options
.
First, I can let Damiano read you your rights, cuff you, and then cart you off to jail. The second is for you to sign a deal with the D.A. agreeing to flip and become an informant.”

That’s when Galvani lost it. He shot up out of his seat. “Fuck you, Boff! Fuck all of you!”

He looked ready to bolt, and even took a few steps away, but after a few moments, when nobody responded to his outburst, he sat back down.

“I’m listening,” he said in a tight voice.

Baumgartner stepped in now. “Here’s the deal,” the assistant D.A. began. “In order to get into the Witness Protection Program, you’re going to have to gather some evidence for me and then testify in court against the Hells Angels and the longshoremen about the Quebec Gold smuggling operation.”

“Gather
what
fucking evidence?” Galvani said. “You’ve already got the fucking photos.”

“Yes, we do,” Baumgartner said. “But the only thing the photos show is the Hells Angels accepting bags from you. There’s no proof that drugs were in those bags. So even if you finger the bikers, without better proof, they might walk.”

“So what the fuck do you want me to do?”

Boff answered for Baumgartner. “We want you to record the longshoremen and the Hells Angels talking about the Quebec Gold operation.”

“No fucking way, pal! I ain’t wearing no fucking wire. The bikers search me every time I go into their club. Even though they’re working with me, I’m still a cop, and they still don’t completely trust me.”

Boff nodded. “Did they ever make you take your shoes off during a frisk?”

“Shoes? No. Why do you ask?”

Boff took out the little device and held it up. “This baby is the smallest digital recorder in the world. You’re going to hide it in one of your shoes. It has a simple one-button command. Push to record, push to stop.” He demonstrated.

Galvani snatched the device out of Boff’s hand. After studying it a moment, he said, “I need time to think this over.”

Boff shook his head. “No, you don’t, my friend. If you’re as smart as you probably think you are, then you know this is your only course of action. Short of rotting in jail, of course.”

Galvani said nothing.

“I take your silence to mean you’re signing on,” Boff said.

The bent cop looked off a minute while he considered the deal, then turned to Boff and nodded. Baumgartner took a manila envelope out of his briefcase, pulled a piece of paper from it, and handed it to Galvani.

“This,” he said, “is your confession and your agreement to cooperate with the D.A.’s Office. In exchange, you get immunity from prosecution and entrance into the Witness Protection Program. You sign it, you date it,
then I do the same.”

He handed Galvani a pen. The cop took his time reading the whole document. Then he scribbled on it, handed the paper and pen back to Baumgartner, who also signed and dated it. After putting the confession back in the envelope and returning it to his briefcase, the assistant D.A. asked, “How many Hells Angels are in on the operation?”

“Basically the whole club knows,” Galvani replied. “But only six guys are actively involved.”

“Give my investigator their names.”

One of the investigators took out a pad and wrote down what Galvani told him.

“When you finish making your recording
s,” Baumgartner continued, “Boff will contact you. He has software that can download what you’ve recorded onto a computer and burn a CD. After he assesses the information you’ve recorded, he’ll let me know if you’re cooperating. And now? You’re free to go.”

As Galvani stood up, Boff held up one hand. “Wait,” he said. “I’m not done with you yet. Sit your ass back down.”

The cop clenched his fists and looked like he was going to slug Boff. But he sat down.

“First, I want your cell phone number,” Boff said.

Galvani told him. He wrote it down on his pad.

“Second, you’re going to start recording today. After you get off work, I want you to go and talk with the longshoremen. Not at Sonny’s, because there’ll be too much background noise. Meet them by the pier and get them into your car. Above all, make sure
both
longshoremen talk about the Quebec Gold operation. Then, after you’re done with them, call the Hells Angels and set up a meeting at their headquarters.”

Galvani shook his head. “I never contact the bikers directly. I use a friend who’s in their club.”

“Yes,” Boff said. “Ted Green. So when you meet with Green at the bar in Bushwick, make sure you record your conversation with him, too.”

“What the fuck for? Green’s only got a small role in the operation. He basically just sets up meetings for me with the Angels. There’s no need to bust him.”

“Is that so? A small role? Well, I have pictures that say otherwise. Shots of Green transferring the drugs from one of your raids into his saddle bags. You want to see them?”

When Galvani didn’t reply, Boff plowed on. “Where does Green work?”

“Armageddon Tattoos in Bushwick.” As Boff wrote that down, Galvani asked, “Just what the hell kind of excuse do I give the bikers for calling a meeting?”

“Tell them you just got word there’s a new drug dealer in
Brownsville, and you want to make another raid.”

“That won’t fly,” the cop said. “With the money coming in from the sale of Quebec Gold, the bikers don’t need me to make raids anymore.”

“So just say you and the longshoremen think it’s an easy score, and you want to make some pocket change. Tell them you came to them to make sure they’re okay with you going on the raid.”

“I
f that’s it, I’m gonna split.”

“No. That’s not it. Before I let you go, I want some questions answered.”

“Like what?”

“Like why was your partner killed?”

The bent cop didn’t reply for a full minute, Then he said in a low voice, “Patrick…he…he wasn’t cut out for the work. It was eating him up inside. Also, he wasn’t getting along with a couple of the Hells Angels. It finally just got too much for him. He wanted out. When I told the Angels that, they weren’t too thrilled. They said they were worried he might flip and rat them out.”

“Sort of like you’re doing now,” Boff couldn’t resist saying.

Galvani eyes went dark. Boff turned from the cop to the assistant D.A.

“Before I go on, Carl, I want you to turn off the recorder I asked you to bring.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want what I’m about to say go on record.”

“Frank….”

“Just do it, Carl.”

With a shrug, Baumgartner took a digital recorder out of his coat pocket, hit the stop button, and then slipped it back into his pocket.

Boff returned his attention to Galvani. “Here are some facts I want you to confirm,” he said. “One, Earl Bassett had Maloney killed.”

This caught Galvani off guard. “How the hell did you know
that
?”

Boff just smiled. “Two, Earl Bassett’s been running the operation from the beginning. Correct?”

Galvani said nothing.

“Yes or no?”

The cop just nodded.

“Three, Reggie Bassett is distributing the drugs.”

The cop nodded again.

“Four, Earl Bassett also had Nicky Doyle killed.”

Galvani muttered, “Yes.”

“Why did Earl have Doyle killed?”

“The reporter was a threat to Bassett personally.”

“In what way?” Boff asked, even though he knew why.

“Bassett…he was embezzling money from the nonprofit company Doyle owned. Doyle apparently had suspicions about this and ordered an audit. Once the audit was finished, Bassett knew he’d get indicted and then the whole Quebec Gold operation would go down with him. So…so he made a preemptive strike.”

Boff nodded. “And Earl used a good portion of the embezzled money to fund the drug operation.”

“Yes. Earl’s money,
plus
whatever money the bikers made selling the drugs from our raids.”

“Okay,” Boff said. “I’m satisfied. Now there’s one more thing I want you to understand before I let you go. If you don’t record quality
intel, you’ll be useless to us. Then the assistant D.A. has the right to kill the deal and send you to jail. So use your head. Get the longshoremen and the Hells Angels talking about the Quebec Gold operation. Try to record as many of the bikers as you can. Also, under no circumstances are you to mention Earl Bassett’s name in your conversations. Is that clear?”

Galvani frowned. “What if
they
bring Earl up?”

“If that happens, I’ll use the editing software that came with the device and delete it from the tape. And now, my friend? Class is dismissed. You can go.”

Galvani stood up and was about to head off when Boff added, “I hope you understand,
detective
, that if you try to run, the assistant D.A. will put an APB out on you. When they find you—and you know they eventually will—you’re going inside for life. Besides all the drug charges and the smuggling, you were an accessory to Maloney’s murder. You won’t be eligible for parole, no way, no how. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what happens to a cop in maximum lockdown. So think about that before you entertain any thoughts of putting your running shoes on.”

Out of nowhere, a cold smile suddenly crossed Galvani’s face. “Someday,
Boff, you and I are going to meet again. Just
you
and
me.
And when that day happens, you’ll wish you never knew me.”

Boff spit out a laugh. “I already feel that way. Garbage like you turns my stomach. Get the hell out of my sight.”

The cop trained feral eyes on Boff a minute before storming off.