Two Jakes (59 page)

“What
do these letters stand for,” he said, pointing at several numbers that began
with YU and GI. “I can guess that the other letters represent townships, like
SA means Saint George and DO means Dongan Hills.”

“Yukon
and Gibraltar,” Chelsea said. “Probably left over from the citywide books. “I
think they’re cool.”

“You
must have gotten a Master’s Degree at telephone school,” he said.

It
took Scarne only a few minutes to go through the 31 books. There were very few
Gadomskis other than the bakery ones, who shared the same address as their
business. Scarne wondered what it must be like to live over a bakery. Can one
ever get tired of the smell of fresh-baked bread? When he was finished, he had
only five names, numbers and addresses on his pad.

“I’d
have thought there would be more,” Chelsea said. “Must be an uncommon name.
You’re lucky it’s not Gallagher or Gallo. Did you see how many of those there
were?”

“Small
favors,” Scarne said. “I’m not familiar with some of these street names. Do you
know what communities they are?”

“No,
but we can check.”

Chelsea
brought Scarne’s list over to the computer and called up a borough map on the
Internet. None of the addresses were anywhere near St. Stan’s in New Brighton.
All appeared to be in parishes many miles away. And none of the names, other
than the old woman he’d already checked and the doctor he was going to visit,
were listed in books past 1965. If they were related to the baking Gadomskis,
they had probably moved or died before the bakery closed in 1970.

“Chelsea,
you’ve been a peach,” Scarne said as they walked back to her reception desk.
“Have you eaten? Can I buy you lunch?”

“Oh,
no. Thank you. I brought a salad. I’m getting married in two months and want to
fit into my dress.”

“Congratulations.
He’s a lucky guy. I bet he’s very cute.”

She
laughed at his teasing.

“He’s
very good-looking.”

After
a lunch that was better than he expected, Scarne headed to Great Kills to see
Dr. Jack Gadomski.

“You
don’t have an appointment,” the receptionist said. She was a formidable-looking
older woman wearing a brown pants suit and a lot of jade jewelry. She looked at
him suspiciously, her eyes traveling to the small souvlaki stain on his shirt.
Was he the drooler? “Did you call earlier?”

“I
don’t know what you are talking about,” Scarne said. “I’d like to see Dr.
Gadomski on a business matter.”

Her
mouth turned down at the corners.

“Just
leave the samples with me, and your card. If the doctor is interested he’ll
call. You must be new to the territory.”

“I’m
not a drug salesman, lady. This is a confidential matter.”

“You
still need an appointment.”

Scarne
could feel the disapproval of the four patients who were sitting in the waiting
room reading out-of-date magazines. Nobody likes a line jumper. He thought
about clutching his chest and falling to the ground, but instead took out his
wallet and extracted a business card.

“Just
give this to the doc and tell him I have a few questions about a murder I’m
investigating. I’ll wait out here and chat with his patients.”

“Just
a minute,” she said and walked quickly away. She was back almost immediately.
“The doctor will see you now.”

As
Scarne walked through the door leading to the examination rooms he heard one of
the waiting room patients say, “I’m going to try that some day.”

The
receptionist offered him a seat in a small office and Dr. Gadomski walked in a
moment later holding the business card.

“Mr.
Scarne? What’s this about a murder?”

Gadomski
was a distinguished-looking man with a full head of white hair and
powerful-looking hands. He radiated confidence and Scarne figured he probably
had a low tolerance for bullshit.

“I’m
looking into a homicide and my only real lead is that the killer’s father may
have owned a Polish bakery on Staten Island 40 odd years ago. The Gadomski name
came up. You are what I would call a long shot, doctor. I don’t suppose you
moonlight as a hit man?”

“If
my malpractice premiums go any higher,” Gadomski said, laughing, “I may have
to. But who was murdered?”

Scarne
told him.

“I
read about that. Did you really think I had something to do with it.”

“No.
The guy I’m looking for is dying and moved from the borough 40 years ago. He’s
also a Vietnam War veteran.”

“What
am I, chopped liver,” Gadomski said, hooking a thumb at a group of framed
certificates on the wall behind him. “I was a goddamn grunt.”

Scarne
got up and looked at them. Most were diplomas and professional awards, but two
of them in the center, in an obvious place of honor, were from the military.
The top one was Corporal John G. Gadomski’s Honorable Discharge. Below it was a
Bronze Star citation.

“How
did that happen?”

“There
was a draft back then, remember? Although I enlisted. Crazy, huh?”

“I
did, too.”

“Army?”

“Marines.”

“Even
crazier. I went in just to keep two of my buddies happy. They’d just gotten
drafted.”

“I
suspect alcohol was involved.”

“You’d
better believe it. We were kind of wild. But we all came home.”

“One
of your pals named Mario?”

“How
the hell did you know that?”

“I
met his mom getting a pedicure in the nail salon where your dad’s bakery use to
be. She said you and her son were a handful but turned out well.”

Gadomski
laughed and picked up a picture from his desk. It showed three young men in
uniform fatigues with their arms around each other.

“That’s
me and Mario and Whitey at Fort Dix. We did our basic together. But we got
split up after that. I went to the 25
^th
Infantry, Mario became an MP
in Saigon, which didn’t hurt when he went on the cops, and Whitey eventually
went to Ranger school. I still see Mario occasionally. Whitey, we lost track
of. He moved away after the service. Girl trouble, I think.”

Gadomski
was easy enough to pick out, despite the intervening years. More out of
curiosity than anything else, and because he felt an affinity with a fellow vet,
Scarne asked, “Which one is Mario?”

“Big
guy on the left,” Gadomski said, tapping the photo. “Whitey’s the short one.
But he was tough, strong as an ox.”

“You
all have dark hair in the photo,” Scarne said. “How did Whitey get his name. I
presume it’s a nickname.”

“Yeah.
Name was Wit. Wit Banaszak. His father used to help out my dad in the bakery,
when he wasn’t shaping up on the docks. He was learning the business. That’s
how I met Whitey. His old man and mine even talked about opening up another bakery
in New Brighton, as partners. It had a big Polish community back then. But Mr.
Banaszak got sick and nothing came of it. What’s the matter? What did I say?”

“Banaszak
lived near St. Stan’s?”

“Sure.
It was their parish. But not any more. Whitey’s dad died, then his mother. I
don’t think he had any kin left on Staten Island. Made it easy for him to move
away. Like I said, we lost touch. I went to college, then med school. Married,
kids, you know the drill. By the time I had time for old friends, no one knew
where the hell he was. I’ve tried to Google him and check some veterans’
websites, but drew a blank. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“How
do you spell his name?”

Gadomski
did, and then looked at Scarne.

“You
don’t think Whitey…?

“I
bet his father made a mean pączek.”

CHAPTER
20 – NAMES, PLEASE

Salvatore
‘Sallie Mae’ Lacuna made much of his early money in a college loan scam that
provided false documents to illegals who then bilked millions in
government-guaranteed education loans. The scheme earned him both his mob
nickname and a stretch in Federal prison. After his release, he concentrated on
more traditional bookmaking and loan sharking, eventually taking over control
of his small “family.”

As
a sideline, mostly to keep up appearances and to warn the ever-encroaching
Russians that the mafia still had some teeth, he arranged muscle when there was
any heavy lifting to be done. He cultivated the fiction that his crew was the
“Blackwater” of the borough; ruthless and talented mercenaries for hire. In
truth, the dregs that were left in his gang, while certainly ruthless, were
good for little more than beating up slow payers or knocking over the
occasional convenience store. Which is why he brought in Lucas Gallo and Whitey
Banaszak from outside to handle the Pearsall job for Nathan Bimm. There was
simply too much at stake to leave it to the clumsy oafs in his local crew. Plus
he suspected that his men would balk at such an assignment. The girl’s rape and
murder had certainly been an ugly business but Lacuna’s initial objections were
overcome by promises of payoffs and jobs for his family down the line. He knew
that most people thought Bimm was his front man. The truth was more the
opposite; he needed Bimm – and his often lucrative assignments – more than the
fat bastard needed him.

The
Pearsall hit had something to do with some big real estate deal Bimm was
working on. Lacuma didn’t know what it was. Bimm had mentioned NASCAR, which
seemed unlikely to Lacuna, but whatever it was, it was worth murdering a girl.
That meant big money. In his gut, he knew there was someone else pulling the
strings. Bimm was an amoral sleazebag, but had never gotten his hands this
dirty. Yeah, a lot of money was involved. And Lacuna didn’t want the Russians
to see any of it.

A
contact in Atlantic City gave him some names. He picked Banaszak because he
knew his way around Staten Island, but no longer had any ties there. Gallo had
never worked anywhere in the New York area. Who would have thought he’d be the
weak link, raping the girl and outraging the community. But Banaszak had
certainly come through. Killing Gallo and spreading him around in five states
was quick thinking. The trail was cold. Even Bimm didn’t know their names.

***

Although
Lacuna derived most of his income on Staten Island, he lived in a huge colonial
on a one-acre parcel on a quiet street in Holmdel, New Jersey. The mobster
didn’t want to raise his children in a borough being turned into a sewer by the
developers like Bimm and their pocket politicians.

Sallie
Mae was a respected and well-liked member of his community. His two boys, now
away at college, had gone to the local high school and were often in the local
papers for their athletic prowess. His wife, Theresa, was part of regular golf
and bridge foursomes at the Bamm Hollow Country Club. It was an open secret
that Lacuna was “connected,” but in that part of New Jersey, where many
residents worked on Wall Street, not much thought was given to how a man made a
living. Indeed, Lacuna had served less time as a guest of the Government than
some of his white-collar neighbors.

Golf
and tireless charity work helped Theresa Lacuna keep her figure. She was a
handsome woman of 55, and Sallie Mae truly loved her. But as befit a man of his
position, he had a ‘goomah’ on Staten Island. Her name was Caitlin Connolly,
and, in addition to being 20 years younger than Theresa, she possessed the soft
white Irish skin, luxuriant red pubic hair, full breasts and rosy nipples that
the capo had lusted after since his first sexually related erection, which
occurred when, as a young boy, he watched an old Maureen O’Hara movie on
television.

Mob
politics had dictated Sallie Mae’s fortunately happy marriage, but a
still-robust libido and macho tradition put him in Caitlin’s bed once a week.

***

Renzo
Bucatelli, Lacuna’s bodyguard and driver, was parked two doors down from the
small brick cape where Caitlin Connolly lived on Davis Avenue in Staten
Island’s Sunset Hill section. The woman would have been happy living in an
apartment, but Sallie Mae knew a good real estate investment when he saw it.
The cape had come on the market in an estate and a family lawyer, anxious to
curry favor with Lucana, who held $20,000 of his gambling I.O.U.’s, made sure
Sallie Mae had the inside track. The house was in her name, and would provide
security for Connolly when her days as a Radio City Music Hall Rockette ended.
In the long run, Lucana told his driver, it was less hassle than constantly
buying jewelry and clothes, and always getting it wrong.

Bucatelli
liked Caitlin, as unpretentious a goomah as he’d come across, and was glad it
had worked out for her. Caitlin was a little long in the tooth for Bucatelli’s
taste, but he certainly understood why his boss didn’t mind driving all across
the Island to see her. Her dancer’s legs, which seemed to go up to her armpits,
were worth the price of the house alone.

The
bodyguard shifted the down pillow under his buttocks and simultaneously pressed
the electronic control that adjusted the lumbar support of the driver’s side
seat in the Cadillac. The nagging ache in his right hip and leg subsided. He
knew it would return, and he’d just have to resettle himself again. A couple of
drinks would help, but he was on duty. He wouldn’t take anything more than some
Advil, since Aleve made him drowsy. Bucatelli knew that in his line of business
he could get any drug he wanted, but he had seen too many addicts in his life.
He could live with the pain, at least until the inevitable arthritis
complicated the damage the bullets had inflicted.

Sometimes
walking helped, and he often strolled up and down the street during the early
part of his watch, always careful to keep the car and Caitlin Connolly’s house
in plain view. Sallie Mae never stayed less than four hours with his mistress
and the walks also helped to keep Bucatelli awake and alert. But there was a
steady rain this afternoon and Sallie Mae took the umbrella when he went into
to the house. There was a thermos of strong black coffee, but Bucatelli merely
sipped it. He had no desire to stand in the rain on a residential street and
take a leak. He wasn’t particularly worried about dozing off. In his previous
occupation he had learned how to stay awake at all hours. In a crunch, he’d
hold off on the Advils and let the ache do its thing.

Renzo
Bucatelli was the cream of Sallie Mae Lucana’s crew. Lucana trusted him
explicitly, and not because he was the nephew of his sister’s husband. The job
of bodyguard was too important to be left to some idiot relative. But Renzo
Bucatelli was sharp and knew the streets, from both sides. He was a former cop
who left the force after being accidentally shot by fellow officers in a
fusillade that also put 64 holes in a frightened Haitian immigrant. The poor
bastard had inadvisably reached for his cell phone in a dark alley. The fact
that Bucatelli’s gun hadn’t cleared its holster before all hell broke loose
went over well with the pension review board.

In
Italian families of a certain generation, there was a thin line that separated
the career paths of cops and robbers. Bucatelli easily crossed back over the
line and was soon earning a nice supplement to his disability pension. In
addition to his aches and pains, the police bullets left Bucatelli with a
permanent limp. But he was still a powerful man, made more imposing by the 30
extra pounds he now carried as a result of the sedentary nature of his job. The
fact that the former police officer was licensed to carry a gun and knew how to
use it – something that couldn’t be taken for granted with the new breed of
so-called ‘button men’ – was a nice bonus for Salvatore Lacuna.

Neither
the new heft nor the limp slowed him down much, and Bucatelli was earning a
well-deserved reputation for selective violence. He hadn’t been in his new job
long enough to earn a mob moniker, but he did rate an index card near his boss
on the bulletin board at the Joint Organized Crime Task Force in Manhattan.
Some of his former friends in the Police Department assigned to the Task Force
referred to him as Renzo ‘No Nickname’ Bucatelli and thought that there was a
chance that might stick. Others liked Renzo ‘Bulls Eye’ Bucatelli, in honor of
the friendly fire incident. There was even some talk in the Task Force about
suggesting one of the names to his mob compatriots, but that was squelched by
humorless higher ups.

Bucatelli’s
iPhone chimed. It was Sallie Mae. That was unusual. He’d only been inside the
house for 30 minutes.

“Yeah,
boss.”

“Renzo!”

It
was Caitlin’s voice, panicked. The line went dead.

Bucatelli
slid out of the car and ran to the house. He took the stairs to the front door
two at a time, oblivious to the pains in his leg and hip. Jesus Christ. I hope
we don’t have a Nelson Rockefeller thing going on here. How would I explain
that to Theresa. Not that she didn’t know about the Irish goomah. They always
did. Still.

The
door was open and Bucatelli was halfway through the Florida room when he
spotted Caitlin lying on the couch in the living room, seemingly asleep. What
the fuck? He heard the door close behind him and then everything went black.

***

Lacuna
was the first to come around. Once his head cleared and his eyes focused, he
knew he was a dead man. No one trusses a family capo naked to a chair and then
hopes to make a deal. The last thing he remembered was walking to the kitchen
calling out Caitlin’s name, hoping she’d put the champagne on ice. Now he was
freezing his ass off in the finished basement. He started limning the
possibilities. Relations with the families in the other boroughs and New Jersey
were the best they’d been in years. Everyone was so shell-shocked by the Feds’
successful anti-mafia crusade that they didn’t have the time or energy for
internecine feuds. It must be the fucking Russians, although he couldn’t fathom
even them being that crazy. And why? We hated each other, but there had been no
disputes worth starting a war over. And if they just decided to take over, it
would have been a bomb or some other traditional assassination. Maybe it was
just some nut job. There were certainly enough of them running around. How
ironic it would be to be killed by some Hannibal Lecter type.

Lucana
heard a screeching sound and watched in horror as a tall man dressed in a black
suit effortlessly dragged a metal chair containing Renzo Bucatelli from the
adjoining laundry room and set it opposite him, tying it fast to a ceiling
support pole with cable wire. More cable wire went around the driver’s throat,
so that his head could only move forward slightly. The unconscious Renzo was,
like his boss, also naked and bound hand and foot by heavy tape. How could he
have been taken so easily? Suddenly he thought of Caitlin. Brutal a man as he
was, Salvatore Lacuna felt a pang of remorse. She certainly didn’t deserve
anything like this. He strained against his binding and tried to shout through
the tape covering his mouth. His exertions should have tipped him over. Then he
realized he was also tethered to another support pole, with cable wire around
his throat as well. The tall man sat down in a chair between the two helpless
men.

“Will
you scream or shout?”

Lacuna
shook his head and the man gently peeled the tape from his lips.

“Where’s
the woman?”

“She’s
upstairs,” Hagen Sobok replied, impressed. “A bit uncomfortable, but in good
health. I do not like to hurt women.”

That
part was true, he thought. He hadn’t even liked knocking her out but that was
unavoidable. Now she was bound and gagged in an upstairs closet. Hopefully she
wouldn’t hear anything. Sobok wasn’t worried about her identifying him. He’s be
long gone into the Manhattan melting pot by the time she was found. Sobok had
thought of using the woman as leverage in the upcoming interrogation, but the
mere threat to harm her might not have been enough. I probably would have had
to torture her in front of her lover. Why put myself through that
unpleasantness, when the bodyguard would serve the purpose equally as well, if
it came to that.

“Who
are you? What do you want? Do you know who I am?”

“Of
course I know who you are? That is why I am here. You are the man who contracted
out the murder of Elizabeth Pearsall. I need the names of the two men who
fulfilled the assignment. I understand that you are the only person that knows
them.” Sobok smiled benignly. “Their current locations would also be helpful.”
He actually took out a reporter’s notebook and pen from his suit jacket. First
he wrote a note to call someone later to have the woman freed. Then, pen
poised, he looked expectantly at Lacuna.

“I
don’t know what the fuck you are talking about,” Lacuna said. His mind raced.
Was someone seeking revenge for the dead girl? But if they knew he was
involved, why not just go to the cops? That’s what her father would do, not
hire someone like this, an obvious professional. It couldn’t be Bimm. If the
fat bastard knew how to get such a man, he wouldn’t have needed Lacuna in the
first place. “If you are smart you will walk out of this house and I’ll forget
this ever happened.”