A Bullet for Carlos (21 page)

“Beautiful morning, huh, Manny?”

“Every day is beautiful somewhere.” Manny held the door for Mazzetti. “Lou, how you doin’ today?”

“About as good as any other day.” Lou walked in, taking his hat off as he entered the house. No good Italian kid ever kept their hat on in the house, at least that’s what his mother taught him. “You still killing people or you give that up now that you’re the boss?”

Manny laughed as he led them into the house. “You’re all right, Lou. Have someone remind me not to piss on your grave.”

Frankie followed Manny across the living room, dodging a recliner and a table cluttered with religious figurines. The shelves behind the sofa held more of the same, some used as bookends for a bible and books on the church. Crammed into the corners were some paperbacks on crime and police procedure. “You studying to be a priest or a cop?”

A hefty laugh answered him. “Who wants coffee or espresso?”

“Nothing for me,” Lou said.

“Espresso for me.”

“Good, I’ll join you, Frankie.” Manny turned on the stove and prepared the pot. “So what brings my two favorite detectives to my house. Must be a special occasion. Somebody sick? You need money?” He laughed heartily then held up his hand. “Only kidding, fellas.”

Frankie took a seat at the table next to Lou, but he sat sideways, allowing easy access to his gun. He was sure there would be no trouble, but…

“We heard some things on the street about that drug deal a while back, the one where one cop got shot and two undercovers got killed.” Mazzetti looked directly at Manny, his eyes never drifting. “Heard that you know something about it.”

“You know I don’t go in for anything like that, especially if it involves cops.”

“So who would know?” Frankie asked.

Manny brought the espresso to the table, handed one to Frankie. “Sugar?”

A shake of the head answered him so he sat down. “Who would know?” Manny took time thinking. “What’s in it for me?”

“Nothing,” Frankie said, “but if you give us a lead then we wouldn’t have to keep coming back here, maybe every day, to check on things.”

Manny squinted and gave a couple of slight nods. “So if you got a lead, how many times you think you’d have to come back?”

“Probably never,” Lou said.

Manny smiled. “You know, I just thought of someone. Guy named Treetop over by Flatbush Avenue, somewhere near the park. Don’t know the address, but if you ask around you’ll find him. Tall guy, maybe six foot six or seven and he wears a Yankees cap. Never without it.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Frankie said. He sipped the espresso, tipped it up toward Manny. “Good espresso.”

“Thanks. I think so, too.”

The doorbell rang and Manny got up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He reached to an intercom on the wall. “Yeah?”

“Hey, boss, it’s Georgie.”

“Come in, Georgie, but I have company.”

Georgie came through the living room, talking before he hit the kitchen. “Some asshole parked on the fuckin’ sidewalk out front.”

As he stepped into the kitchen, Manny laughed. “Those assholes would be Detectives Lou Mazzetti and Frankie Donovan.”

Georgie blushed. “Sorry for calling you assholes, but hey, you shouldn’t park on the goddamn sidewalk.”

Frankie stood. “That’s all right, Georgie, sometimes we
are
assholes.” He reached out his hand to Manny. “Hope we don’t have to see you again.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Manny said, and shook both of their hands. “Let me know if you can’t find Treetop.”

Frankie said, “Don’t think I’m giving out a free ride. I get anything to use on you, I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, heard it before. Go find Treetop; he’ll be able to help you more than me.”

After Frankie and Lou
left, Georgie closed the door then turned to Manny. “So what did you want me for, boss?”

“You remember that night Connie was shot?”

“What about it?”

“A couple of days ago I got a call from Dominic Mangini.” Manny pulled Georgie close. “Anybody take those drugs?”

Georgie backed up. “No way, boss. No fuckin’ way.”

Manny stared. “All right, but if I hear different…”

“You won’t hear no different. Count on it.”

Manny went to the table to sit.

“Hey, boss, you gonna offer me coffee or what?”

“You know where it is.”

As Georgie made the coffee, Manny finished his. “I want you to ask around about these drugs. It would be nice to find out who’s causing Dominic’s little girl such trouble.”

“She’s a goddamn cop.”

Manny spun quickly in his chair, his huge face taut. “She’s
Dominic Mangini’s
little girl.”

Georgie gulped. “You got it, boss. We’ll find out.”

Frankie and Lou Mazzetti
drove through the streets of Little Jamaica slowly, checking both sides. It didn’t take long to find Treetop. They could have cruised the streets until they saw the tallest thing moving, but they stopped at a favorite hangout for young gang members and got the lead right away. Treetop was walking down the street, and his stride was so long it made him look like he was running. Frankie pulled next to a parked car, half a block ahead of Treetop, then he and Lou got out.

Treetop spotted them coming. He slowed, then headed in the other direction.

“Yo, Treetop. Don’t try it,” Frankie yelled. “I just want to talk. You’re in no trouble.”

The tall man took a few more steps, then stopped and turned around. “What you want, man?” he asked, then he laughed. A deep-belly laugh, the kind you seldom hear from grown men.

The accent was Jamaican, but Donovan didn’t need to hear it to know; the richness of his dark skin and the
way
he laughed confirmed his ancestry. Jamaicans seemed to have a patent on that certain type of laughter. “We need some information, Treetop. Manny Rosso tells us you know something about a guy we’re after. A Mexican who might be involved with the murder of two undercover cops.”

Treetop lifted an unusually long, thin hand and rubbed his chin. “This the one where White Connie got shot?”

Frankie felt as if he had to tilt his head back to look up at Treetop. He had big white teeth and smoky eyes. He either injected them with smoke or he was permanently high; Frankie suspected the latter. “White Connie?”

“Man, you know White Connie. Lives right here in our neighborhood. Sweeeeet thing.”

“That’s her,” Frankie said. “They would’ve killed her, too, but Manny came to the rescue.”

Treetop laughed his deep laugh again. “Treetop don’t think you know shit about Manny Rosso, or he be in jail.” His face grew serious. “But if this be about White Connie then I got information for you.”

Treetop told them what he knew about a Mexican named Carlos, including information on where to find him in Houston.

“How do you know this?” Frankie asked.

“My sister, man. She be banging one of Carlos’ men. After all this shit went down, she left town and went to Houston. Told me I could get hold of her at this club.” He pulled a piece of paper from his wallet. “El Paradiso, in Houston.”

“That it?”

“All I got,” Treetop said.

Before Treetop left, Frankie said, “One more thing. You said she left after all the shit went down. You mean the cops getting shot?”

The way Treetop’s head shook from so high up it looked as if it might roll off. “No way, man. I mean after Carlos’ men started ending up dead, eyes cut out of their heads. Not just killing, but nasty crazy stuff.”

“Thanks, Treetop. I owe you.” Frankie handed him a card. “You get in a jam, call me. I can’t help with anything hardcore, but a regular jam…I’ll see what I can do.”

A big, white-toothed smile appeared on Treetop’s face. “Man, you be all right. Just like White Connie. You see her, tell her the Tree said hi.”

“I will. See ya’.”

Frankie and Lou got back in the car and headed toward the station. “What do you make of that?” Lou asked.

“I think he was being straight. Seemed like it.”

“I mean about the Mexicans being tortured.”

“Haven’t taken time to think on that yet, Lou. But it needs thinking. Looks like we got us a drug war going on.”

“Or worse,” Lou said. “Torture doesn’t sound like a drug war.”

“Yeah. Or worse. And that doesn’t sound like Manny, if you know what I mean.”

“I heard lots of stories about Mangini when he was coming up. Scary stories.” Lou lit a cigarette, despite Frankie’s protestations about smoking in the car. “People were so afraid of Mangini they’d leave the state if anyone even hinted he was after them.”

Frankie turned left on Flatbush and got into the right lane. “We’ve got to get to the bottom of this before we have more bodies.”

“Your call, Donovan. I’m just hanging out till retirement.”

“How long you been using that line?”

“Too long, but one of these days it’ll be true.”

“Yeah, me too.”

As they drove back to the station, Frankie reached over and turned the radio off. “Lou, I’ve been thinking about those phone records. We know Connie is the one who called Mangini.”

“Go on.”

“If she’s dirty, why’d she tell us about the call?” Frankie let Lou think on it, then, “And if she’s clean, why wipe the phone?”

Lou inhaled a mouthful of smoke and took his time blowing it out. “I don’t guess Gianelli would have taken the time to clear it while she shot all those drug dealers?”

“I’ll go out on a limb and say no.”

Lou scrunched up one eyebrow and looked at Frankie. “In other words, there was no reason for her to wipe the phone.”

“Exactly,” Frankie said, “but
somebody
wanted it done, and I got a feeling it had nothing to do with Mangini. Whoever did it wanted it to seem that way, but they weren’t counting on Gianelli telling us the truth.”

“But there was nothing incriminating on the phone log
except
the call to Mangini.”

Frankie smiled. “
Yeah
.”

Lou tossed his smoke out the window. “So what do
you
think was on there? What’s worse than a call to Dominic Mangini?”

Frankie pulled into the parking lot at the station. “That’s what we gotta find out.”

Lou nodded. “Guess it’s time we checked some phone records.”

“And let’s keep this between us.”

Frankie waited until nine
o’clock, purposefully staying off the wine until he talked to Connie so that he had a clear head. From what Treetop had told him, she needed this information. He lit a cigarette, grabbed his cell and plopped on the couch, his notebook in hand. She answered on the second ring.

“Gianelli.”

“It’s Frankie Donovan.”

A slight pause followed. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“Yeah, well, I got some things you should know.” Frankie sucked hard on the smoke, blew a few smoke rings. “You turn up anything on your case?”

“I’m here on a murder case. I get caught working my case and I’m done.”

“Yeah, I know. So tell me what you’ve got so far because I’m hitting a dead end, and no one seems interested in having me solve this.”

Silence, then, “Dirty pricks.”

“Exactly what I’m thinking, Gianelli. I got people using sticks
and
carrots on me. Sticks to tell me to quit what I’m doing and carrots to let me know I made the right choice.” Frankie paused. “Someone is putting a lot of pressure on us
not
to solve this. Even the lieutenant is pushing me to wrap this up.”

Connie’s voice seemed meek and frightened. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find out who did this. I
hate
to be pushed.”

“What do you need from me?”

“I spoke to some mutual friends. They led me to a guy named Treetop.”

“Treetop? What’s he got to do it?”

“His sister is hooked up with one of the drug dealers. And guess what, the trail leads to Houston.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Check out a club called “El Paradiso,” supposed to be one of his main operations. Guy who owns it is Carlos Cortes, goes by El Jabato. Treetop said he’s one nasty son-of-a-bitch.”

“I’ll check it out. Thanks.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. You got somebody you can trust?”

Frankie could almost hear her smile through the phone. “Yeah. I got a pretty good guy. Couple of them.”

“All right. Keep it quiet and stay safe. I’ll call if I get anything else. And Chambers said to say hi. He also said IA is checking the streets. That’s never good.”

“Goddamn.” It sounded like she slapped the wall next to her. “Sorry about that. They piss me off. But thanks again, I appreciate what you’re doing. I got a question though—why are you helping me?”

“Remember that line you accused me of moving too much? When you got shot, and cops got killed, somebody crossed it
way
too far. I intend to find out who.” Frankie paused. “And if you think it has anything to do with Dominic Mangini or Manny Rosso, you’re wrong. If I get something on them I’ll put them away like any other scum. You can tell them that if you want.”

“No, don’t think I will.”

“Thought so,” he said. “And, Gianelli. No matter what the deed on that club says, remember that Carlos owns it. He’s the one to go after. He’s the one who gave the orders that night in Brooklyn.” Frankie sucked the rest of the life from his cigarette, then crushed it out in the ashtray. “I did some more checking. He already has distribution moving into several major cities and he doesn’t hesitate to go after people. They say when he does, it’s brutal. No respect for anyone.”

“Tell me about it. I witnessed that first hand.”

“Speaking of brutal,” Frankie said. “You hear about what’s going on up here?”

“Like what?”

“Three Mexican dealers found dead, tortured, eyes gouged out.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, and rumors point to Mangini as the one behind it,” Frankie said. “You know anything about that?”

“I already told you. I don’t—“

“I know. You don’t know anything. But in case you do…be careful.”

“You’re the best, Frankie. I’ll call when I get something. Talk to you later.”

“Don’t take too long. Somebody up here wants your badge.”

“I’m working on it as fast as I can.”