Rizzo’s Fire Page 12
“With the half-assed descriptions we got from all the vics, we couldn’t even do a valid photo array. And if we tried a mug scan with no description on record, the defense would scream fishing expedition, demand a pretrial Wade hearing, and maybe get any I.D. precluded. Then we’d have nothin’. But now, with Frankie’s info, now maybe we can figure a way to go. We’ll see. Let’s get back to the precinct.”
The “bad kids” that Frankie had referred to were members of a local street gang known as The Rebels. They were one of two such gangs housed in the Six-Two, the other being The Bath Beach Boys. The Rebels were the younger of the two gangs, serving as a training ground for eventual admission into the older and more professionally criminal Bath Beach Boys. The Bath Beach Boys, in turn, then served as an apprenticeship for further criminal progression to the Brooklyn organized crime mob currently headed by Louie “The Chink” Quattropa.
The Rebels were generally aged fourteen or so to eighteen or nineteen. If by age twenty or twenty-one a member had failed to move up to The Bath Beach Boys, his organized-gang days were considered over, and most such failures moved on to relatively mundane lives of semirespectability or descended into drug addition. Some entered loner lives of crime, usually resulting in their premature death or long, repeated periods of incarceration.
During his many years in the precinct, Rizzo had dealt with both groups, as well as several neighboring street gangs from the Sixty-eighth, Sixty-sixth, Sixty-first, and Sixtieth Precincts.
Rizzo parked the Impala on Benson Avenue, and he and Priscilla walked a short block to the precinct. They went to the rear of the first floor and entered a small office marked “Community Policing.”
Rizzo made the introductions.
“Priscilla Jackson, meet Sergeant Janice Calder, our community policing officer. We’ve apparently caught her on a very rare night tour. What’s up with that, Jan? Have a fight with the old man?”
The uniformed sergeant, a twenty-year veteran and an acquaintance of Rizzo’s, smiled. “No,” she said. “My daughter is home from college for a few days, so I switched to four-to-midnights this week to spend some time with her. Her friends keep her busy at night.”
Rizzo nodded, turning again to Priscilla. “Janice here makes sure the good people of the Six-Two are informed, educated, and aware. That way, they can all get to die in bed, unmugged, unraped, unshot, and unmolested. She also helps the precinct cops do a better job servin’ the needs of the citizens, not to mention fixing an occasional parking ticket that might inconvenience some community board member or well-connected brother-in-law.”
Calder laughed, reaching to shake Priscilla’s hand. “Now, Joe here knows damn well I’d never do such a thing,” she said. “Welcome to the precinct, Priscilla.”
The two women made small talk, searching for friends in the department they might have had in common.
Then Rizzo got to the point.
“Is Tony in, Jan?” he asked, referring to her office mate and the precinct youth officer, Tony Olivero.
She shook her head. “No, he’s off till Saturday. Does a day tour when he comes back in.”
Rizzo nodded. “I need to go through his stuff. The Rebel photo book, specifically.”
“No problem,” Calder said with a shrug. “Help yourself.”
Rizzo moved to Olivero’s desk.
“What’d the little darlins do this time?” Calder asked, returning to her own desk and sitting down.
“We figure one of ’em for three street robberies,” he answered.
Calder’s eyes widened. “No shit? Those three the last month or so?”
Rizzo nodded, slipping a five-by-eight-inch photo album from the lower drawer of Olivero’s desk. “Those are the ones.”
She frowned. “Sounds wrong to me, Joe. The Rebels might be dumb, but they ain’t stupid. The Chink finds out they’re robbin’ the locals, he may whack a Rebel ass or two.”
“Yeah, it struck me as odd, too,” Rizzo said. “But maybe one of the Indians is off the reservation. If Louie Quattropa don’t scare this kid, we may have a newbie psycho on our hands.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Calder said. “If he’s pissin’ off Quattropa, he’s gettin’ the short-stay rate.”
“Yeah, probably,” Rizzo agreed, standing up. “I’m gonna borrow Tony’s picture file. Tell him for me if I don’t get it back to his drawer by Saturday.” He turned to leave.
“No problem, Joe, take care.” She turned to Priscilla. “Good to meetcha. Don’t bend over in front of this guy, Priscilla,” she said, nodding her head toward Rizzo. “I never did trust him much.”
Priscilla laughed. “Guess you haven’t heard yet. I don’t bend over for any man.”
“Well, good for you, honey,” Calder said. “I gotta admit, I have a few times and it usually wasn’t worth the effort.”
Rizzo shook his head. “Let me the fuck outta here,” he said, heading for the door, the women’s laughter ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THURSDAY MORNING, Rizzo and Jackson made their visits to Bik and Feng Hom and the other two elderly victims of the recent street robberies. Each victim carefully leafed through the photo album Rizzo had borrowed from Olivero’s desk. It contained full-color photographs of the eighteen members of The Rebels who held criminal records. None of the photos was identified as the assailant in the cases at hand.
Later, Rizzo sat behind the wheel of the Impala parked in front of the last house they had visited and sighed.
“Well,” he said, “maybe Frankie was wrong.”
Priscilla frowned. “Or maybe the perp is a newbie like we figured and not in the book yet. That would explain why he didn’t know Frankie was probably sitting there in the dark, looking out over the corner. Or maybe he’s clean, no record yet, so no picture. Or maybe these old vics just can’t make the guy. They sure as hell couldn’t describe him very well.”
“They probably couldn’t describe a teenage Frank Sinatra too well, either,” Rizzo said. “But they’d still be able to pick his picture out of a mug book.”
“Joe,” she said, shaking her head gently, “why is it that every time you refer to anyone I’ve heard of, they’re dead?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Guess I ain’t that impressed with anybody you ever heard of who’s still alive.”
Rizzo started the engine, adjusting himself in the seat. “Let’s go to work on our other cases, give this one a rest. To night, after dinner, I’ll run down to the high steps on my own time, show Frankie this book of assholes, see if he can make one. If not, we can still go to plan B, even without a positive I.D.”
“And what is plan B?” Priscilla asked.
Rizzo smiled, pulling the Impala out into the street.
“Tell you when I tell you,” he said. “Let’s see what Frankie’s got to say first.”
She shrugged. “Okay, boss,” she said. “What ever.”
They spent the balance of the tour crisscrossing the precinct and its surrounding neighborhoods, methodically working some of the dozen open cases they carried. Later, at the precinct, they wrapped up with a paper trail of the day’s activity.
At three-fifty p.m., her relief detective present in the squad room, Priscilla waved goodbye to Rizzo.
“See you Sunday morning, Joe,” she said, referring to their next scheduled tour. “Enjoy the swing days.”
“You too, kiddo. If I get lucky with Frankie later to night, you want me to call you? Or should I save it for Sunday?”
“Call,” she said. “We’ll be home to night. No plans.”
Later, a little after nine o’clock, Rizzo left the schoolyard, photo album in hand, and returned to his Camry. Frankie, like the victims, had not been able to I.D. a suspect.
Rizzo glanced at the face of his Timex. He sighed. No use putting it off any longer, he was already out, it wasn’t that late, it was as good a time as any. He started the car and headed for his last stop of the night.
He crossed diagonally to a dimly illuminated storefront, its painted windows opaque. From above the door, a bloodied and pained Christ gazed down at him from a two-foot-long wooden crucifix. The words “Non-Combat Zone,” in military-style stenciling, were emblazoned with dark red lettering on the plain gray metal door. Rizzo reached out a hand and pressed the doorbell.
Father Attilio Jovino, although considerably older than Joe Rizzo, still cut an impressive figure. He had come into the priesthood only after a bloody and violent tour of duty in the jungles of Vietnam, and he still carried the hard-edged, flinty-eyed look of a U.S. Army Ranger.
Now, sitting at the desk in his office in the rear of the youth sanctuary he had founded more than fifteen years earlier, Jovino smiled across to his visitor.
“So, Joe,” he said, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward across the desk. “I always look forward to your visits. And even more so since I usually get to share a cigarette with you.”
Rizzo reached into his coat pocket, extracting a crumpled pack. “Yeah, well, there’s a story there, Tillio, but that’s for another visit.”
Jovino shrugged as he dug out an ashtray from his desk drawer. “As you wish, my son.”
They smoked in silence for a few moments, Rizzo’s eyes occasionally rising to the huge crucifix hanging on the wall behind Jovino’s desk.
“Is it Jesus making you uncomfortable,” the priest asked, “or is there something on your mind?”
“Yeah, well, a little a both, I guess,” Rizzo conceded. “I stopped by ’cause I needed to talk to you.”
Jovino nodded and sat back in his seat. “I’m listening,” he said, letting smoke trickle from his lips. “And we’re alone here.”
“Yeah, well, relax, Til,” Rizzo said. “I ain’t confessin’ nothin’ here.”
Jovino smiled. “All right,” he said. A moment passed, Jovino drawing on his cigarette. Then, again leaning forward, he asked in a soft voice, “But, if you were, would it perhaps have something to do with that twelve-thousand-dollar cash donation you recently bestowed upon my sanctuary? You know, you never did satisfy my curiosity about that.”
“Well, that’s okay, Father,” Rizzo said with a shrug. “All you need to know is the money was clean. Clean as any money can be, anyhow. I hope it’s being put to good use.”
Jovino nodded. “Twelve grand saves more than one life around here. Considerably more. These runaway kids don’t need all that much. Food, a little doctoring, kindness. Concern. And a good deal of faith and hope.” He paused here and smiled warmly at Rizzo. “Wherever that money originated, it was delivered to these kids by Christ. That’s good enough for me.”
Rizzo took in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, expelling slowly. “Christ.”
Again Jovino nodded. “Christ appears in many forms. Sometimes even in the guise of a Brooklyn cop. A cop, I should add, who looks tired, seems uncharacteristically unsure of himself. What’s the problem, Joe? You can tell me.”
Rizzo tried to lighten his tone. “Not exactly a problem. Just a … a situation, that’s all.”
Jovino sat back in his seat. “Ah, yes,” he said, “a situation. Of course. I experienced a few situations myself before I came to the priesthood. One involved the lovely young sister of my best friend. Another a small incident of mayhem in the highlands outside of Hue. I can assure you, my friend, I know something of ‘situations.’ ”
Rizzo shook his head, dropping his eyes to the red tip of his burning Chesterfield. “It ain’t quite that dramatic, Father.” He raised his eyes slowly to meet Jovino’s.
The priest spread his arms. “So, tell me, then.”
Rizzo cleared his throat. “Remember back in August, when I stopped in? After me and Mike had found the Daily kid? I told you that I might be comin’ across something, something very detrimental to Councilman William Daily?”
Jovino nodded. “Yes. Of course I remember. I agreed to deliver this hypothetical ‘something’ to the authorities, the federal authorities, as I recall, under the guise of its having appeared here at the shelter, presumably left by one of the runaways. It would have been problematic for you to go to the authorities without jeopardizing yourselves—you and Mike, that is.”
Rizzo nodded. “Correct.”
Jovino continued. “And then, shortly thereafter, you reappeared at my door, twelve thousand dollars in hand. You know, last year the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce donated five thousand to the Non-Combat Zone, Verizon Corporation eight thousand. So you, sir, are now my biggest single supporter.”
Rizzo grinned. “Good for me.”
“Yes,” Jovino said with a nod. “Good for you indeed.” The priest paused, taking a last drag on his cigarette, then very deliberately crushing it out in the ashtray.
“It was at that point that I assumed this material, this incriminating material concerning Councilman Daily, had at last made its way into your possession.” He paused once more. “And yet, no such material has been presented to me to date.”
He reached across the desk, shaking a second cigarette loose from Rizzo’s pack. Lighting it, he raised his eyes through the smoke to Rizzo’s.
“I wondered about that, Joe. I must say, I still wonder about that.”
Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. I figured. Well, you can stop wonderin’. I have the material you’re referrin’ to. In fact, I’ve had it all along.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his own cigarette. “That’s why I’m here now. See, Daily just got himself reelected, and if a certain tape had already gone to the feds, that never woulda happened. I know that’s my responsibility, my fault. And I can live with it. I just need you to know that it ain’t over yet. I just need some more time. For a couple a different reasons. Just a little more time.”
Jovino responded. “Well, originally, you had said something about six months or so. Of course, my understanding at the time was that you didn’t yet have this … ‘material.’ Now I’m learning that isn’t exactly so. I’m learning that I’ve been misled.”
Their gazes locked. Rizzo noted a hardness begin to form in the priest’s eyes.
“Is there anything else I need to know, Joe?” he asked in a low, flat tone. “Because if there is, now would be the time to tell me. Not next week, not next month, not six months from now. Now.”
Jovino let out a sigh, releasing some of the tension that had come to his body.
“Now, Joe,” he repeated softly.
“There’s nothin’ else,” Rizzo said wearily. “I’ve been sitting on some evidence. The twelve grand, that was just something fell into my hands along the way. It has no rightful owner; it’s better off where it is, helpin’ these kids of yours.”
Jovino pursed his lips.
“Is ‘falling into your hands’ similar to something ‘falling off a truck,’ Joe?”
“Not exactly,” Rizzo said. “I swear to you, that cash was orphaned. Totally. Like I said, no rightful owner. It was as much mine as anyone’s.” He shrugged. “And I chose to give it to you. End of story.”
Jovino leaned forward, frowning. “Except for this tape you continue to sit on. You know that I share no warm regard for Councilman Daily, but, personal feelings aside, there is a right and there is a wrong. You need to make a decision, Joe.”
They held each other’s eyes.
“What’s it to be, Joe?” the priest asked softly. “Right … or wrong?”
AT SEVEN fifty-five Sunday morning, Rizzo sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He looked up at Detective Alphonse Borrelli, then back down to the slip of paper in his hand.
Raising his eyes back to Borrelli, Rizzo sighed. “When’d the call come in, Al?”
“ ’Bo
ut five-thirty, six this morning,” Borrelli answered. “The guy was a pushy prick. He told me he had your cell number and he’d call you at home. I told him to hold off, you’d be in soon enough. He finally admitted what ever he wanted could keep till eight.”
“Thanks, Al. You might as well take off, I’m here and Jackson’ll be in any minute. Matter a fact, there she is now. Take off. And thanks again.”
The man shrugged, turning to leave. “No problem. Take it easy.”
Priscilla approached Rizzo’s desk, nodding at Borrelli as they passed each other.
“Mornin’,” she said to Rizzo. “I’m gonna sign in, then grab some breakfast. The Roach Coach just pulled up in front. You want anything?”
He shook his head. “No thanks, Cil.”
Rizzo dropped his eyes once again to the yellow notepaper in his hand. Sighing, he reached for his cell and punched in the Manhattan phone number. The call was answered on the second ring.
“This is Joe Rizzo,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I’m returning Papa Man’s call.”
“Yeah, okay, hold on,” a gruff male voice replied.
As he waited, Rizzo visualized Papa Man—large and burly, near sixty years old with black, unkempt grizzled hair and a tough, yet not unpleasant, face. He was the acknowledged leader of the New York City chapter of the Hell’s Angels.
After a moment, another male voice came through the line, with a deeper and more resonant tone.
“Sergeant Rizzo, how good of you to get back to me so promptly.”
Rizzo let air escape through his lips. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?”
The man chuckled. “I hope I’m not interrupting your Sunday breakfast with the wife and kiddies at Friendly’s, Sergeant.”
Rizzo let a moment elapse. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?” he repeated.
“Yes, of course, Sergeant Rizzo. Enough small talk between old friends. Let’s get down to business. May I speak freely?”
“I’m on my cell,” Rizzo answered. “Last I knew, nobody was listening in.”
“Fair enough. As you may remember, I did you a small ser vice a few months back. And, as I understand it, you parlayed that favor into a successful bit of police work.”