Hot-Wired in Brooklyn (2 page)

“You remember the Pulaskis?” Gino asked, stiff-jawed, as though every word were a land mine.

“Why don’t you ask if I remember Bastogne and the Nazis, or a week of throwin’ up? How the hell could I forget?”

Gino sighed. “The chicken business, that was just a little bad judgment on the boy’s part.”

I watched the coffee percolate and sat down again. The chair made a sound like an empty barrel against the floor. “What is
it with you, anyway? Runnin’ the neighborhood’s not enough? You tryin’ for Father Giacomo’s job, too?” Father Giacomo was
our current parish priest, Father Luigi’s successor.

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

I clasped my hands in prayer, rolled my eyes toward Heaven and droned, “It was just-a little-a bad judgment onna the boy’s-a
part.”

“I’m sure the kid was sorry.”

“Enough to steal twenty sets of hubcaps a month later.”

“Not from our neighborhood.”

“That’s ‘cause he knew I’d kill him if he did.”

“He gave ‘em back.”

“After he tried to sell ‘em all to an off-duty cop.”

“He got six months.”

“Suspended sentence. Judge Hines is too damn easy on these punks.”

I drifted back to the stove and checked the coffee.

Gino extended his arms like a priest offering a benediction. “It’s not good to hate the kid so much, Eddie. Past is past.”

“Not for me.”

His arms collapsed to his sides. “Okay,” he conceded, “but just because you hate
him,
that’s no reason to take it out on his parents.”

I didn’t, even though they’d come to the little bastard’s rescue while I was trying to collar him for stealing the neighborhood’s
chickens. Thanks to them, I’d wound up with a ruined suit, various scrapes and bruises, and a banged-up knee that still isn’t
right.

I took the coffee pot off the stove, poured a cup, and sat down. I drank slowly, tantalizing Gino with the aroma.

“Maybe I’ll have some after all,” he said.

I poured him a cup. Then we locked eyes. “Okay, so what’s this about?” I asked. “And don’t say,
‘You
know,’ because I don’t.”

“We were talkin’ about Mr. Pulaski…”

“So?”

“He’s got a problem.”

“Does it involve Arnold?”

“It’s important, Eddie.”

“Is it about
Arnold?”

“In away.”

“In
what
way?”

“Some trouble.”

“What
trouble?”

“Mr. Pulaski needs help, Eddie. He’s a father in trouble. You don’t know. You’re not a father…”

“Goddamn it, Gino!” I snapped, muscling myself away from the table. “You’re not doin’ this to me again!”

I kept my back to him as he followed me into the living
room. “Mr. Pulaski’s name is John,” he said plaintively. “Did you know that, Eddie?” John was my father’s name. He died delivering
a load of coal when I was a kid. I pretended not to listen.

“Eddie?…”

“So it’s John. So what?” I didn’t turn around, so he didn’t see the sadness that welled for a moment in my eyes.

“He’s worried about his son, Eddie. He’s sorry about what he did to you, but, hey, you know that already.”

It was true. Mr. Pulaski had cried like a baby all through the chicken trial. A week later, he’d even come to the house to
apologize.

“Just talk to him, Eddie,” Gino pleaded. “Just listen to what he’s gotta say, all right?”

I turned around. “Okay, so what’d the little bastard do this time?”

Gino didn’t want to answer that.

“What’d he do, Gino?”

“Well…”

“Well, what?”

“He stole a car.”

“Whose?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Whose?”

“The district attorney’s.” Before I could react, he added, “Talk to Mr. Pulaski, Eddie. Talk to John. For me, okay?”

I gave up. “Okay. I’ll get dressed. Where is he?”

“Downstairs.”

“Where?”

“Downstairs, in your office.”

M
r. Pulaski was crying his Polack eyes out in the big stuffed chair where my clients sit. He looked a little smaller than the
last time I’d seen him, but grief and worry can do that to you. He still had a florid, goofy, agreeable face and the openness
of a simple, if not always law-abiding, man. Under drastically different circumstances, I could’ve liked him on sight.

He bounded from the chair when I walked in, shook my hand like it was a pump handle in a drought, and wouldn’t let go. If
I’d been wearing a ring, he’d have genuflected and kissed it. I finally pulled my hand loose and we faced off across my desk.
Gino stood next to him, a comforting hand on his beefy shoulder.

“Okay, Mr. Pulaski, what’s the problem?” I was nice. I didn’t say, “This time.”

He started bawling again. I wanted to throw my hands up in despair, but I just grimaced. Gino patted him reassuringly and
then became his voice.
“Arnold’s been workin’ over at the Victory Wreckin’ Company.
You
know, dismantlin’ cars…”

“Do me a favor, Gino,” I interrupted. “Don’t say
’you
know’ anymore, like that. Okay?”

Gino offered a perplexed look, then continued. “Arnold’s boss, a guy named Joe Shork, tells him to drive a car—not a wrecked
one, of course—to some address up in Manhattan. Before he even gets there, some cops pull him over and arrest him. The car
belongs to John Carlson, the D.A. It’s been reported stolen. The cops book Arnold at Felony Court and take him to the Raymond
Street Jail.”

“This is all according to Arnold, right?”

Mr. Pulaski stifled his sobs long enough to interject, “Joe Shork, he says my boy Arnold lies about the car. My Arnold would
not lie!”

I patronized him with a smile. If self-deception was bliss, Mr. Pulaski had to be the most blissful Polack son of a bitch
in Brooklyn.

“When did all this happen?” I asked. I was looking at Pulaski, but it was Gino who answered.

“Coupla nights ago.”

I held on Pulaski. “Okay, whatta you want me to do?”

“Why Joe Shork lies,” he answered. “You find out.”

I threw a hard glance at Gino, whose eyes could dredge up sympathy better than a little old lady in a hospital bed.

“All right,” I said, leaning forward. I pulled out a contract from my desk drawer. “My standard fee…”

Gino shot me a fierce, withering look. I shot one back, but I couldn’t match him, so I finished with “… will, of course, be
waived.”
“What’s that mean?” the big Polack asked Gino.

“It means you don’t have to pay him.”

Mr. Pulaski reached across the desk and repeated his pump handle routine, his tears replaced by sudden and unbounded jubilation.
He thanked me until my right hand went numb.

“Think nothin’ of it,” I said, glaring at Gino. “It’s the least I can do.”

Gino was beaming. I almost expected a circle of tiny angels to form around his big, thick, balding head. “There,” he said,
patting Mr. Pulaski’s shoulder again. “You see? Eddie here’ll take care of everything. Right, Eddie?”

“Almost,” I cautioned. “Does the little bas— Does Arnold have a lawyer?”

“No,” said Mr. Pulaski grimly.

I smiled again. Here I could afford to be generous, because I wouldn’t be doing the work. “Okay,” I said. “I know somebody
who can help. He’ll come down and bail Arnold out, and we’ll take it from there. He’s at Raymond Street, you said?”

“What a terrible place. It’s like a dungeon. You get him out soon?”

“Soon as you can raise bail.”

“Raise bail?”

“To get him out of Raymond Street.”

While Mr. Pulaski dried his eyes and pretended not to remember what bail was, I put through a call to Herm Kowalski, my lawyer.
Herm was an unmarried Polack and therefore uncursed with evil spawn like Arnold. He lived in Coogan’s Bluff, not far from
the Polo Grounds in Upper
Manhattan. That’s where his office was, too. It was a different telephone exchange, so I had to wait for an operator. When
I got through, we had our usual brief, businesslike chat. I told him where he had to be, and he told me when he’d be there.
I saved his life once, along with one of his eyes. Gratitude and guilt keep him loyal whenever friendship wears thin.

“It’s all set,” I told Mr. Pulaski. I explained about Herm, endured that crippling handshake one last time, and showed the
way to the front door.

“I could kiss ya, Eddie,” said Gino, offering a bear hug, his face glowing with righteous joy.

“Only if you wanna lose some teeth, big guy.”

I watched them walk away, then lingered on my front porch, breathing the crisp, late January air and enjoying the warmth of
a distant but still generous sun.

The gossip ladies were already out on the sidewalk, dressed in conspiratorial black. Sinewy young men with pompadours waxed
cars that already had shines as deep as the Grand Canyon, and three little girls marked off the sidewalk for a serious game
of hopscotch. I took it all in. Every day in Bensonhurst is beautiful, but the sunny ones are pure magic.

It was still morning, so I went for my regular haircut at Frankie DeFilippo’s barber shop. Frankie’s another
goombah,
a tall, wiry guy with dark olive skin and wavy Frank Sinatra hair. Like all barbers, he’s a listener. Like all Italians,
he’s a talker. We traded neighborhood news, argued sports, and then I told him about my nightmare.

“I bet this is one o’ those premonition things,” Frankie said as he snipped around my ears with the scissors. His eyes
had a Gypsy fortune-teller look, so I knew he was going to start in about luck again.

In the Italian scheme of things, luck is always two-faced. Good luck isn’t so good, because bad luck is always chasing right
behind it. You win at the track, and the next day somebody sideswipes your car. Your wife has a baby, and then your front
porch collapses. Then again, bad luck isn’t so bad, because it means something good must be coming. For an Italian, though,
the best luck is probably none at all.

“Yeah, it’s a premonition thing for sure,” Frankie decided. “So, you been havin’ any?” He buzzed away the stubble behind my
neck while he waited for an answer. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Good luck, for Chrissake. You havin’ any lately?”

“I guess, maybe. Won five from Gino on the Knicks game Sunday. You oughta know. You were there.”

Every Sunday afternoon, my
goombahs
came up to my place. I made a lasagna, we put away a case of Schaefer beer and listened to whatever game was on the radio.
That Sunday, the Knicks had taken the Pistons by three, and I’d taken Gino for five.

“That’s prob’ly it,” Frankie advised.

I shot him a hostile, wounded look. “You think winnin’ a lousy five bucks is enough good luck to bring on a million-dollar
bad dream?”

“I see what ya mean,” said Frankie. “Still, ya better start lookin’ over your shoulder for the bad luck. Sounds like it’s
comin’.”

He powdered me up, dusted me off, and I got out of the chair. “What shoulder should I be lookin’ over?”

“Dunno. Could come from anywhere.” I nodded and put the haircut money, as always, in the March of Dimes box by the door. “See
ya, Frankie.”

“Keep your eyes an’ ears open,” he warned as I walked out. “I will.”

“That ill wind, it ain’t blowin’ no good.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

I could already feel it on my neck.

T
he day was turning ugly fast. Too many phantoms lurked inside my head, too many scavenger thoughts picked at my peace of mind.
Offering to help a punk like Arnold Pulaski went against every instinct I had, not to mention common sense. If you stumble
on a wounded rattlesnake, you don’t offer a helping hand.

You crush it with a big rock.

I had a single saving grace that day. I was going to my godchild’s school in the afternoon to watch her play a swan in a dance
recital. Nine years old and wearing her first bright, white tutu. The tutu would make a nice contrast with her dark chocolate
skin. My godchild’s name was Desiree, and at one time I was in love with her mother, Alma. Nobody in Bensonhurst knew, not
even my
goombahs.
It wasn’t something I could talk about in the neighborhood. That’s the way it was. You stayed with your own kind, if you
knew what was good for you. You didn’t mix, especially with the coloreds. I
knew all that, but I loved my little chocolate godchild almost as much as I’d loved her mother.

Her father, an ebony giant named Watusi, hadn’t acknowledged her as his own until her mother’s death. Desiree always came
first for us, but in that winter of ’48-’49, he was playing the role of father with a vengeance. It wasn’t easy enlisting
him for night surveillance or bodyguard duty on my tougher cases. He was making up for years of lost time on the home front.

I had four or five hours to kill before the recital at a private girls’ school in Harlem, plenty of time to check on Arnold’s
story. Not that I was looking for any discrepancies to rescue him by. I knew the pimply-faced little bastard was lying himself
blue. I just wanted to know what shade.

I telephoned Lieutenant Nick DeMassio, the only friend I had in the police department, and asked to hear the complaint against
Arnold. Police reports are duller than the Baltimore Catechism, so when he started to read it verbatim, I interrupted.

“Skip chapter and verse, okay, Nick?”

“Sure,” the big Sicilian answered.

“So. Any surprises?”

“Naah. Arrested in Greenpoint while still behind the wheel of a car belonging to John G. Carlson, District Attorney for Kings
County, Borough of Brooklyn.”

“Official car?”

“Naah. His own.”

“Time of arrest?”

“Wait a minute,” said DeMassio. I heard pages flipping. “A little before midnight.”

“When did Carlson report it?”

“Elevenish.”

“Any damage to the vehicle?”

“Broken window on the passenger side.”

“Anything else?”