CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (11 page)

CHAPTER 14 – DONUTS AND COLD CUTS

Cormac grunted a greeting. He was a big man, made bigger by his proclivity for pastries in any shape, size and form. He had a full head of reddish gray hair, with long sideburns and a thick moustache that served mainly as a crumb catcher. He was wearing dark brown slacks in which was tucked some sort of generic tropical shirt of the kind men wear outside their pants in Florida. It was pale green and palm trees and flamingoes predominated. His chest hair sprouted out from under his collar. I half expected a gecko to peek out. Mac and his wife spent all his vacations in Boca Raton. I figured he was between laundry loads and the precinct commander would have a conniption. I, on the other hand, was wearing my blue Brooks Brothers blazer, white button down shirt and khaki pants. No tie, but I looked spiffy. Of course, next to Cormac I could have been wearing sackcloth and ashes and looked like Beau Brummel.

Mac’s father was Jewish and had been a beat cop in the Bronx. His mother was from Breezy Point, the Irish Riviera that sits on the western point of Rockaway in Queens. I’d known a fair number of
Abie’s Irish Rose
progeny, but none named Cormac Levine. I would bet real money he was the only one on planet Earth.

He’d been a mainstay on the DA’s squad through several administrations, both Republican and Democratic. But the recently elected DA cleared house to put his own guys in. It was a case of throwing the baby out with the bath water. Cormac Levine was completely apolitical and one of the best detectives in the city. Now he was assigned to Community Affairs waiting to put in his papers. Every real cop in the borough knew he got the shaft and he was still plugged in, with contacts on every squad. What the Internet couldn’t provide, Cormac might. Our relationship was grounded in a lie. The one I told to the Grand Jury when a serial child molester who had graduated to baby killer fell from an eighth-floor terrace one dark and stormy night. I was the second one in the apartment after it happened, and heard the perv scream on the way down. Cormac had been the first one in. My “eyewitness” testimony probably saved Mac’s career and pension. No matter how many times I told him he didn’t owe me a thing, he never let me down when I needed help. I think he also thought he was the reason I quit the cops. Which he wasn’t.  

The only things on Mac’s desk were a phone, an empty inbox and photos of his kids, who, unfortunately, took after him. But at least they were boys.

“I see they’re keeping you busy, Mac.”

“I talk to school kids, and I’m a regular on the Rotary and Kiwanis circuit,” he said. “Food sucks, but the OT pads the pension. And, wiseass, I occasionally moonlight undercover with the robbery guys when they’re short. Keep my hand in. I’m running a deli in Westerleigh this afternoon. Been a bunch of grab and goes on the North Shore.”

That explained the outfit. I think.

“Absolutely no one will make you for a cop in that getup, Mac. I’m not sure human even comes into the picture. Try not to eat all the liverwurst.” 

I handed over his coffee and opened the box of donuts. Mac hit them like a bass hits a minnow. After drinking some coffee, inhaling some cream-filled donuts and offering a few more de rigueur insults, Mac asked me what I needed.

“First off, can you run this plate for me?”

I handed him a slip of paper and took another donut.

“Why?”

We were friends, and he’d do it anyway, but he was a cop. You ask a cop what time it is, he’ll ask why.

“Belongs to a Volvo that’s been tailing me.”

“You lose him?”

“In a manner of speaking. I got behind him and he left me in the dust.”

“How the hell did you get behind him?”

“An Immelmann turn.”

He looked at me. I sighed.

“It’s tough taking with someone who’s not up on World War I German fighter tactics. Max Immelmann was a famous ace who looped back over his pursuers before they could react. One minute they were on his tail, the next he had them in his sights.”

“And I, a member of the chosen race, should give a fuck about a Kraut pilot, why?”

“No reason you should. Actually, I let the guy chase me down Snake Hill, backed up, and was behind him on Van Duzer when he came out. But I lost him on the Expressway.”

A smile of remembered pleasure crossed his face.

“Fucking Snake Hill! Back when I was on patrol we answered a call there. Guy came home early from a business trip and surprised his wife. Her boyfriend tried to escape out a rear window, forgot where he was. It was pitch black. Three-story fall nearly killed the poor bastard. A hedge saved him.” He shook with laughter. “Any chance the guy tailing you was a jealous husband?”

“Unfortunately, that would be a stretch.”

“What are you working on?”

“Just a missing person case that’s so cold I feel like I’m stealing the money. Guy doesn’t even live here. Only got it Friday.”

Levine picked up his phone and hit a speed dial.. He spoke to someone and gave them the plate.

“They’ll call me right back. You said ‘first,’ which implies you want something else.”

“Yeah. You ever hear of a guy named William Capriati? Billy Capriati? Billy Cap? Went to Wagner 20 years ago, wrestler, maybe lived in Port Richmond or Mariners Harbor?”

“No, but I never heard of Immelman either. Who’s Capriati? A Dago fighter pilot?”

“The missing person.”

I told him the story.

“A bitch about the kid.” He wrote something down. “I’ll pull the files, see if he’s got a record up here. You might check the Feds. Bank robbery, or embezzlement, or whatever it was, is probably theirs. It’s old, though.”

“Yeah. I don’t hold out much hope. I’m going to try to pull strings from this end. She’s got other people looking at it from the other.”

“Good looking broad, you say?”

“An eleven.”

His phone buzzed. He picked it up.

“Yeah. Whatcha got? You sure?” He listened while someone yelled at him. “No, no, of course not. I didn’t mean anything by it. I know you know your job. Just surprised, that’s all. Yeah. Sure. Yeah. Got an address?”

Cormac wrote it down. I got his attention and mouthed the word “photo.”

“One more thing,” he said, rolling his eyes, “can you pull the guy’s license for me and FAX it over. And his sheet, too. What? Shit, I didn’t know that.” Cormac reeled off his office email address. “OK!” He listened some more. “Well, I don’t need a fucking lecture about it.”

He slammed the phone down.

“Bitch. Jesus, they can get testy. I didn’t know I could get the damn stuff emailed to me. Anyway, the car is registered to Porgie Carmichael.”

“Look, forget the Immelman thing,” I said. “What’s his real name.”

“I kid you not. I know Porgie. His real name is Paulie. He likes to fish the head boats out of Great Kills, hence the nickname. You ever eat porgies? Delicious, but you got to watch the bones. He hires on as a mate. Small-time hood, freelances for the Carluccis.”

Them again.

“Hard core?”

“Nah. He’s small potatoes. Wheel-man, B&E’s, car theft, numbers, nothing violent. Been inside a couple of times, but no long stretches.” He was opening up his email. “Hey, whadya know, here it is.”

I walked around his desk to look at his screen, on which was Paul M. Carmichael’s driver’s license photo. Nobody looks good on a license and Porgie was no exception. Map-of-Ireland face, reddish hair, minor overbite. Mac scrolled down and their was a police report and some other photos. They weren’t an improvement.

“Can you print them out? Or is that beyond your technological expertise?”

Mac gave me the finger and then used it to hit another key. A printer in the corner started whirring. I went over and pulled out the copies.

“I guess I’ll have to talk to him,” I said. “I seem to be on the Carlucci radar screen.”

I told Mac about the men who accosted me outside the Red Lantern

“How do you know they were Carluccis?”

“Arman Rahm told me. He buddied up to me at Roscoe’s. It seems he’s been asking about me for a few weeks. The Carluccis wanted to know what we talked about.”

“What the fuck is it with you? You’re just back in business and you’re knee deep in Russians, Micks and Dagos. You piss off the U.N. or somethin’. Forget the missing person thing and the broad. Re-enlist and go back to where it’s safer.”

“The Rahm thing could be nothing. I’ve known him a long time. Maybe he saw my name in the paper. And it’s obvious the Carluccis are keeping tabs on him. I was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time. Funny, I’ve never been an innocent bystander before. Don’t much like it. I’ll straighten it out.”

Mac reached for his third donut. I slapped his hand.

“I promised Betty I’d save some for her,” I said.

“She don’t need it. She’s spreading out a little, you notice?”

He’d lowered his voice to a whisper when he said it.

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

“You don’t have the balls.” He pushed a couple of crullers to the side. “Happy now? She likes those. I don’t.” He patted his chest. “Bullet proof vests makes you look fat.”

“Why are you wearing two of them?”

Mac laughed, then turned serious.

“Something may be cooking with the Rahms. The Carluccis have been getting a little feisty, trying to nibble their way back to the top, what with Stefan gone.”

“They kill him?”

“My guess. But he had a lot of enemies. If the old man was sure, that pit bull who does most of the family work would have started an Italian pogrom.”

“Kalugin?”

“Yeah. Word is he’s itching to even up things, with someone. Probably feels guilty he wasn’t there when the older kid got hit.”

“He’s got Arman’s back, now. Bodyguard.”

“Smart move. Maks stays pretty close to home nowadays. Took Stefan’s death hard.”

Mac’s phone rang. He picked it up.

“Sure. A pound? The German kind? What about cold cuts. They have Boar’s Head. Yeah, a half pound of each? Yeah. I know, sliced so thin you could read the newspapers through it. You think I don’t know that by now. OK. Bye. Love you, too.”

He hung up and shrugged.

“I hope that was Irene,” I said.

“Yeah. She knows I’m working the deli stakeout. Wants me to get a few things while I’m there. Unless I get shot, of course.”

“Can the Carluccis take on the Rahms?”

“It’s a toss up. Maybe if the old man, Thomas Carlucci, was still alive. But Nando is a nutcase, and a doper to boot. He’s no Michael Corleone. As for Arman, he’s a cool customer, but I don’t know if he has the right stuff.”

“Anyone else around who can pick up the respective mantels?”

“Nando is Tom’s only son. Couple of daughters are married. Never in the family business. Most of the rest of the crew are missing a few slices in their pizza and don’t always think straight. The Mafia is a joke. Even some of the bosses are turning state’s evidence, and their wives are going on reality TV. You see that fucking show? If I was Italian I’d sue. And that Jersey Shore crap? Jesus. As for Maks, there’s nobody else but Arman with Stefan gone. There’s a daughter but she’s in Europe.”

“I never knew Arman had a sister.”

“Apparently she’s been estranged from her father forever. Didn’t approve of her lifestyle. She’s a dancer and an actress in France. Funny how mob bosses can be so judgmental, ain’t it? Only reason the organized crime guys even know about her is she came back for Stefan’s funeral. And then took off again.”

Mac’s phone rang.

“OK. On my way.”

He opened a drawer and took out a small pearl-handed 25-caliber automatic in an ankle holster and strapped it on.

“That’s all you’re carrying? Who’s robbing these delis, Tinker Bell?”

“It’s comfortable and just a last resort. Anything goes down and my backup comes out of the storeroom with fuckin’ bazookas. I’m more worried about them than I am of any robbers.” He stood up and put on his jacket. “I’ve got to get going. Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

We passed an office where a couple of detectives were doing paperwork at their desks. One of them, a tough-looking Chinese guy, looked up.

“Hey, Lev, try not to slice an artery when you cut the cold cuts.”

“If I want any lip from you, Fu Manchu, I’ll scrape it off my zipper.”

The other cops laughed and Mac turned to me.

“It was just a small cut on my finger. Bled like a bastard though.”

We paused in the lobby. Mac was being picked up out front.   

“Listen, Alton. Why did you set up shop again on the Island? You’re smart enough to go to Manhattan. Got the resume, too. A lot more dough in the city. Plus you got enemies here, and I don’t mean just mobsters. They are the least of your worries after all the crap you’ve pulled with Borough Hall.”

“Takes a lot of money to work in Manhattan. Even if I could swing it I’m not sure I want to make the move. Competition is fierce. The big outfits hog the business. Mostly corporate stuff. Or matrimonial. Staking out the Essex so some wife in Greenwich can catch her hedge fund hubby in the sack.”