Keeplock (7 page)

“Calvin’s a snitch?” I was so surprised that I spoke without thinking. The rule of thumb for experienced criminals like myself is never give the cops a statement. The detectives try to make you believe that you can talk your way out of jail, but it never happens like that. What happens is your lawyer reads your statement and advises you to plead guilty.

“‘Confidential informant’ is the way we like to put it.”

He gave me a chance to respond, but I pulled back into myself again. This conversation should have been happening back at the precinct. What did they want from me? There was no good reason to speculate, because they’d tell me when they were ready.

“Jeez, I gotta pee bad.” He shook his head in disgust, setting his jowls in motion. His cheeks were red and lined with small blue veins. “I eat too much, smoke too much, drink too much. My whole fuckin’ body’s fallin’ apart and I’m only forty-three. You believe that?”

He waddled out of the office and Rico, as expected, came back inside. With my hands cuffed behind my back, I had to lean forward in the chair, making my face an easy target. Rico put his skinny ass where his partner’s fat ass had been and shook his head. His face was all angles. Sharp nose and cheekbones, thin slash for a mouth, pointy jaw and glittering black eyes. He looked like a terminal speed freak. Even his ears had little points on top.

“How does it feel, asshole?” he asked. “One day on the outside. One fuckin’ day. You probly didn’t even get laid. Or maybe you didn’t wanna get laid. Maybe you got laid so many times in the joint you don’t even remember what a pussy tastes like.” He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face—a Grade A asshole with a badge and a gun—then reached over and casually slapped me. “I don’t like that look on your face. That look is sayin’, ‘Fuck you.’ I don’t like that.” He slapped me again. “Ya know what else I don’t like? Calvin was settin’ up half the goddamn street dealers in Hell’s Kitchen and now he’s in the fuckin’ hospital. I’m losin’ twenty collars because a piece of shit like you can’t control himself for one fuckin’ day. I oughta throw you out the window.”

Condon rushed back into the room, right on cue. “Hey, hey, hey, hey. I told you to stay outta here.” He grabbed Rico and dragged him away from me, pushing him out the door. “Damn psycho. I musta asked for a new partner twenty times. Might as well have spit in the wind for all the good it did me. But about Calvin …”

“Who’s Calvin?” I asked.

“You sayin’ you don’t know who Calvin is? How come you asked me if he was a snitch if you don’t know who he is?”

“Who’s Calvin?” I repeated.

“Calvin’s the guy you had words with when you first came into the shelter.” Condon was patient, like any other smart detective. Patient and persistent. First he would convince me that I was buried, then hit me with what he really wanted. “I mean we got the story from McDonald. Calvin was working the security desk when you arrived and he disrespected you. Plus, your two roommates told us that Calvin came up to your room last night and had a talk with you. I hope you’re not gonna deny
that
?”

“If you’re talkin’ about the black dude, he never told me his name. He ran me down a list of the shelter rules and left. You don’t believe me, ask the guy who came in with him.”

Condon’s disappointed look told me that Sing-Sing wasn’t cooperating. “You shouldn’t have done what you did to Calvin. It hurt us.”

“What’d I do to Calvin?”

He glanced at the door and Rico came back into the room. It was time for the bad cop again. Rico yanked me out of the chair and drew back his fist.

“You’re wasting your time,” I said, my face and voice as calm as I could make them. “In Cortlandt they beat you with ax handles. There’s nothing you can do with your fists that’ll scare me. And if you wanna pull out your gun and shoot, go ahead. At this point I really don’t give a shit.”

Rico hit me in the chest to show me how tough he was, then dropped me back into the chair. The two cops looked at each other for a moment. Finally Condon shook his head and turned back to me. “Look, Pete, the point is that you’re in a lot of trouble. You found Calvin in the shower and you beat him into the hospital. We got witnesses who say you were soaking wet when you walked back through the shelter. Maybe you were smart enough to get rid of the weapon, and maybe it’s true that Calvin’s got a sheet so long that a jury would give you a medal for putting him in the hospital. But even if you beat the charge, you’re gonna go back up to Cortlandt and finish your time. We already spoke to your P.O. He says he went to a lot of trouble to find you a job and get you into this shelter. He says he’s not gonna protect you under any circumstances. We persuaded him not to violate you for the time being, but if you don’t cooperate with us a little bit …”

“Forget that shit,” Rico snapped. “Whatta you
askin’
this piece of shit to cooperate for?”

“Take it easy, Rico. You’re gonna get your pressure up.”

“Fuck my pressure.” He put his face a few inches from mine. I could taste his breath. “You understand payback, asshole? You took somethin’ from me and if you don’t pay it back, I’m gonna put your ass in the joint for the next five years. Even a criminal asshole like you could figure out what I’m sayin’. You owe me and you gotta fork up the ante, one way or the other.”

“I’ll tell ya what, Rico,” I said, forcing a smile, “you bring Calvin in here and I’ll pray over his broken body.”

Rico flew into a rage, a genuine rage this time. He knocked me out of the chair and began to kick me in the back. I tried to curl into a ball, knowing full well that I’d be pissing blood in the morning, but McDonald’s desk was in the way. I was pinned against it and Rico was taking his time, carefully avoiding my head and face. He didn’t stop until I cried out.

“Cuff his ankles.” It was Condon’s voice. He waited until I was shackled before he spoke again. “You’re a tough guy, Frangello. I admit it, okay? Tough guy. So what I’m gonna do is lay it out and give you some time to think about it. When you were up in Cortlandt, you were part of Eddie Conte’s crew. Don’t bother to deny it. I been on the phone with a deputy warden named Jack Camille all afternoon. Camille don’t like you, Frangello. He says he can’t wait to see you again. He also says you were assigned to Eddie Conte’s court up on the hill. Matter of fact, you were assigned to that court for more than five years. A little birdie told us that Conte’s plannin’ somethin’ big, a little birdie Eddie tried to recruit. The birdie don’t know what Conte’s big score is, but Conte was talkin’ seven figures. Me and Rico, we’re businessmen, we’re willin’ to trade twenty street dealers for one big collar. You don’t wanna trade, you go back to Jack Camille. It’s up to you.”

They left without another word. I struggled to my feet and managed to hobble over to a couch by the wall. I’d done a lot of shitty things in my life, but I’d never been a rat. Rats sit at the very bottom of the prison hierarchy, below the shorteyes and the rapos. That is, the
known
rats are at the bottom. Half the prisoners, if the truth be told, have given up a name or a date at one time or another. But this was different. Rico and Condon wanted me to set up Eddie Conte.

Eddie and I had watched each other’s backs for six years, until he made parole five months before I came out. Eddie loved prison hooch and, by prison standards, I was a master brewer. On Saturdays, when nobody was working, our crew would gather on the courts after the morning count, cook up a spaghetti dinner, then eat, drink, and bullshit until dark. We usually kept away from the hustlers and the dealers in Cortlandt. Like most of the cons, we just wanted to do our time and get out. Eddie loved to talk about the big score he was going to make when the parole board finally cut him loose.

“What I done wrong, cuz,” he’d say, “was takin’ on a lotta small jobs for the wise guys. I wanted to get in with the mob so bad, I would’a cleaned the fuckin’ toilets. Ya keep doin’ jobs, sooner or later you gotta get popped. You hear what I’m sayin’, cuz? That ain’t the way to go. I’m gonna set up one big fuckin’ score, then walk away.”

I had Eddie Conte’s phone number in my pocket. He’d been luckier than most because his old lady had waited for him and he’d had someplace to go. It was a joke, really. If I had a home, I wouldn’t be trussed up on old McDonald’s couch. Meanwhile, my next address was going to be the House of Detention for Men on Rikers Island.

They have a special jail in H.D.M. for parole violators. It’s not a happy place. There are no jobs and no activities. Everyone’s done hard time, and most of them are about to do hard time again. They scream, cry, curse. The air is filled with anger and the cells are filled with roaches. Prisoners only leave their cells for an hour a day, but they still make shanks and stab each other with monotonous regularity. Despite the shakedowns and the strip searches.

Terrentini floated up to me. “Ya problem is that yiz don’t have values.” I heard the whoosh of erupting flame again. Smelled the turpentine. Five more years in hell. I couldn’t do the time, and I couldn’t be a rat, either. Fortunately, I had another option and it was real fucking simple. I could pretend to go along with Condon. Feed him bullshit until the job was done, then let the money take me as far away from New York as I could get.

Condon and Rico came back fifteen minutes later. By that time my resolve had hardened. I’d been entertaining a ridiculous fantasy. I thought I could stay out of jail by avoiding crime.

“You make up your mind, asshole?” Rico asked.

“I got a couple of questions first.”

Condon smiled and nodded to his partner. Rico backed away and took a seat off to one side of the room. They knew they had me. “What kinda questions?”

“Suppose Eddie’s got his crew together. Suppose he already pulled off whatever he’s gonna do. Suppose he moved away and I can’t reach him. Do I have to testify if you bust him? Do you want me to wear a wire? Do—”

“Awright, I get the picture.” Condon lit a cigarette and put it between my lips. “Look, Pete, the situation is real simple. You took somethin’ from us and you gotta give us somethin’ back. That somethin’ is the where and when and how of Conte’s move. If you can’t get to him, you’re goin’ upstate. On the other hand, you
don’t
have to wear a wire and you
don’t
have to testify. There was a cop killed about twelve years ago, cop named Bower. The killer was never caught, but we got reason to think your pal was involved. In the old days, Conte would’ve just disappeared, but now we do it different. Now we’ll settle for puttin’ Conte back in the joint. He’s forty-five and he still owes seven years to the state. If we add on a few felonies and he’s sentenced as a multiple offender, he’ll come out in a box. You know how to get in touch with him?”

“I got his phone number in my wallet.”

“You wanna call him?”

“Yeah.”

“Take the cuffs off, Rico.”

Condon sat back in his chair and watched his partner fumble with the keys. I resisted the urge to rub my wrists and ankles, going to my wallet instead. Rico snatched the list out of my hand and examined it closely. I don’t know what he thought he was looking at, because the names and numbers were coded, but he handed it back to me a few seconds later.

“Rico’s gonna stay here with you,” Condon announced, “and I’m goin’ into the social worker’s office. Listen on the extension. I don’t think I gotta tell you what to say.”

“You don’t.” Two minutes later I was punching out the phone number. Eddie answered on the third ring.

“Yeh?”

“Eddie?”

“Yeh.”

“It’s Pete. Pete Frangello.”

His tone changed immediately. “Cuz, you’re out. Son of a bitch. Where ya stayin’?”

“In a shelter, Eddie. Over in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Not for long, cuz. Not for long. I got big fuckin’ plans, cuz, and you are the last piece of the puzzle. I mean if you ain’t decided to go straight.” He laughed at the utter stupidity of the idea.

“Straight’s not part of my agenda. Never was.”

“Agenda. That’s funny. Ya learned to talk real good in that school. Too bad you’re a fuckin’ criminal.”

“Yeah? Well, whatta ya gonna do?”

“You’re gonna do what you do best. But, look, talkin’ on the phone ain’t the smart thing to do. We gotta have a face-to-face. When could we meet?”

“It has to be soon, Eddie. The board ordered Intense Supervision. I gotta be back here by ten.”

“No problem, cuz. There’s a restaurant on Ninth Avenue and 27th Street. Mario’s. You still like spaghetti?”

“With pepperonis,” I answered. Pepperoni was the only meat we could buy in the Cortlandt commissary.

Eddie laughed appreciatively. “No pepperonis in Mario’s sauce. But the shrimps are fantastic. I’ll see ya in an hour, right?”

“One hour, Eddie.”

Condon waddled back into the room a minute later, obviously pleased with the conversation. “You did good, Pete. Real good. Here, take this.” He offered his card and I accepted it. There were two phone numbers on it. “I want you to call me every night at ten-thirty. Use the second number,
not
the precinct number. You could do it from a pay phone, but you might wanna tell Conte you have to be back here by ten o’clock. Tell him your P.O. won’t cut you any slack. I already squared it with McDonald so you can use his office to make the call. And I’m gonna have a conversation with your parole office, so if you
gotta
snort a little coke, you’re not gonna get busted for dirty urine. Basically, you don’t gotta worry about makin’ your P.O. happy. You’re workin’ for
us
.”

I
T’S NOT MUCH OF
a walk from the Paradise Hotel to Mario’s Restaurant on 27th Street. Unless you’ve just had your ass kicked by a sadistic cop. I wasn’t angry anymore. It was all in the line of duty for both of us, just a piece of the dance known as “cops and robbers.” Most of the bruises wouldn’t hurt until the next day, but I did have this very sharp pain on the right side of my lower ribs. Being as I didn’t want to limp into my appointment with Eddie Conte, I practiced a natural gait as I made my way down Ninth Avenue.

“Dope-n-coke. Dope-n-coke.” The dealer stood back in the shuttered doorway of a freight elevator, offering his wares the way an aggressive panhandler offers his cup. I was tempted for a minute. A little dope to ease the pain; a few lines of coke to make me alert. I couldn’t tell you why it mattered, but I walked on by. Maybe it was the part I was going to have to play with Eddie. I’d already told him I was subject to Intense Supervision, and if I walked into the restaurant stoned, there was always the chance that he’d notice. Or maybe I was still holding on to my fantasies.