Outrage (27 page)

Vinnie laughed. “Okay, okay, you get me just fine. The right thing is what’s right for me and Lydia; ain’t nobody going to look out for us. Ain’t that right, sugar lips?”

“Damn straight, beautiful boy,” Lydia said in agreement. “Got to look out for number one. Now, let me get my care package and we can be off.”

T
HE “SPIRIT” LUNCHEON FOR THE BASEBALL TEAM WAS
supposed to be a team-building event prior to the start of the playoffs that weekend. However, the players were buzzing with the rumor that the school’s athletic director had taken Coach Newell to task for the injury to Esteban Gonzalez’s leg. Apparently, Esteban’s parents had complained about the treatment of their son and the AD was worried about a lawsuit.

“Coach called my dad last night,” Max Weller told his cronies as they sat at their table while one of the assistant coaches spoke at the lectern about being “team players” and giving “110 percent” every game. “Newell said he’s going to have to play that fucking beaner at least some innings.” Weller made no attempt to lower his voice, nor did his pals disguise their curses and racial slurs.

Sitting at the table next to the complainers with two of the team’s black players and other members of the varsity squad,
Giancarlo and Zak could overhear the angry conversation and see the hard stares directed at Esteban, who was sitting at a table otherwise occupied by the team’s two student managers, an assistant coach, and two younger players brought up from the junior varsity team to get some playoff experience. He ate quietly with his head down and spoke to no one, nor was he spoken to.

As his assistant coach droned on, Coach Newell walked over to Weller’s table, where he stood behind his senior shortstop. “How’s my main man?” he asked.

“Okay,” Weller replied sullenly.

“It’s going to work out fine, son,” the coach replied, leaning over and lowering his voice. “A lot can happen between now and the game.” He stood up and tousled Weller’s hair. “Chin up, champ.”

The coach turned and saw the boys at the next table watching him. He frowned at Giancarlo but smiled at the other players and patted Zak on the shoulder as he walked past. “Get that arm ready for game two, Karp.”

“I will, Coach,” Zak responded with a smile.

“This is bullshit,” Giancarlo said when the coach moved on.

“It’s just talk,” Zak replied. “Max is pissed that he’s going to have to sit out some of the games, but I bet he’s still going to start and this will blow over. Like I told you, Esteban’s parents handled it. We don’t have to get involved.”

Giancarlo scowled at his brother. “Did you hear anything Moishe said about waiting for someone else to speak up when other people are being bullied and attacked?”

Zak scoffed. “Max and Chase and Chris aren’t Nazis,” he
said. “They’re just assholes who will be gone next year. It doesn’t matter what they say.”

“It doesn’t?” Giancarlo asked. He pushed away from the table, stood, and picked up his plate.

“Where are you going?” Zak asked.

“I’m going to sit with Esteban,” Giancarlo said. He hesitated a moment. “You coming?”

Zak bit his lip but then shook his head. “If you want to make a scene, go ahead,” he said. “I think you’re just looking for trouble.”

Giancarlo didn’t answer and turned to walk over to Esteban’s table. Esteban looked up, surprised, and smiled tentatively, but soon the two boys were laughing and talking animatedly. Zak, however, was conscious that when Giancarlo left, the boys at the table next to his had watched and reacted angrily.

“Hey, Zak, I guess your brother would rather sit with his boyfriend than his own kind,” Chase said, taunting him.

Zak didn’t respond but acted as if he found his own lunch fascinating and tried to carry on a conversation with the other players at his table. He cringed, however, when Esteban rose and headed in the direction of the hallway and the boys at the other table suddenly scooted their chairs back and got up. They headed in the same direction Esteban had gone.

When Zak glanced back at his brother, he saw that Giancarlo was looking at him. With a shake of the head, Giancarlo stood and followed the others out of the door. Zak looked over at where Newell was standing, hoping the coach was going to intervene, but while his eyes followed his senior players as they left, he remained where he was with a slight smile on his face.

Zak put his head down. Then he sighed and got up from the table.

“Where you going?” one of the black players asked.

“To save my brother from getting his ass kicked,” Zak replied, and left to find Giancarlo.

In the hallway, Giancarlo saw the senior players head into the restroom and guessed that they were following Esteban. He walked down to the restroom and, taking a deep breath, he pushed on the door, only to find that it was partly blocked. He pushed harder and was able to get past Chris, who was standing guard but more interested in what was going on.

Giancarlo saw Esteban struggling in the grip of the much larger Chase and bleeding from his nose. Max stood in front of his victim with his hand balled into a fist as he snarled, “Now are you going to quit?”

“Let him go,” Giancarlo yelled.

Max whirled around but then grinned when he saw who was speaking. “Well, if it isn’t the spic lover. You looking for your sweetheart, Karp?” he said as the other boys laughed.

Giancarlo tried to push through to Esteban but Chris grabbed him from behind as Max stepped in front. “You want some of what he’s getting?” Hatred radiated from his eyes.

At that moment, the bathroom door opened again and Zak walked in. “What the hell is going on?” he asked. He pushed Chris away from his brother and got between him and Max.

“Stay out of this, Zak,” the older boy said, warning him.

“Not while my brother’s here,” Zak retorted.

“Take his punk ass and get out of here then,” Max said, pushing Zak’s chest.

“Don’t ever touch me again,” Zak replied. “Come on, Giancarlo, let’s go.”

Instead of leaving, Giancarlo shook his head. “Not without Esteban.”

Zak stared hard at his brother. Then he smiled and shrugged before turning back to Max. “Okay, guys, you have a choice,” he said. “You can let Esteban go and apologize to him and my brother, or I’m going to kick your asses.”

“What? Are you nuts?” Max said, turning his head to smile at Chase, but doubt showed in his eyes when he turned back to Zak.

“Maybe,” Zak said. “Oh, and you can quit the team and tell Coach Newell why.”

“You’re crazy,” Chase growled, pushing Esteban to the ground and standing next to Max.

“Yeah, so how about it, Max? Would you like a shot at the heavyweight title?” Zak replied.

A
HMED
K
ADYROV WATCHED THE THREE WOMEN LEAVE
the apartment from across Watson Avenue, where he waited for five minutes more to make sure they weren’t coming back before entering the building. At first he’d been disappointed that Lydia Cassino wasn’t going to be home with her husband. But the more he thought about it as he climbed the stairs to the third floor, the more he realized it would be easier to take care of them one at a time. He had no doubt that the woman was as potentially violent as her husband, and they were even more dangerous when together.

Kadyrov knew he was taking a big risk. Cassino had ratted him out to that detective he’d stabbed last night, and if the drug dealer had heard about the murder, he might be more on guard. But the other detective, Graziani, had told him that Cassino had evidence that could get him sent to prison for life, maybe even executed. He had to do something.

That damn blue shirt I gave him
, Kadyrov thought with disgust.

He’d decided Graziani’s plan was worth the risk. Just show up like he didn’t know about Cassino’s betrayal. He thought Cassino would see it as an opportunity to get more information out of him and make an even better deal with the authorities.

Which is exactly what Cassino decided when he answered the knock at his door, looked out the peephole, and saw Kadyrov standing in the hallway. The drug dealer felt a momentary surge of apprehension, but the weight of the big .357 in his hand made him feel better, and he smiled. If he could get Kadyrov to admit that he killed that detective, the Cassinos would have a free pass for life. The police would look the other way when it came to a guy who caught a cop killer.

Cassino stepped back and unlocked the door. “Ahmed, long time no see, brother,” he said. “Come on in.”

The unusually congenial greeting told Kadyrov everything he needed to know: the drug dealer was looking for more leverage for his legal problems. He smiled back. “Yeah, man, long time,” he said. He held up a small red backpack. “I scored a bunch of good shit and need someone to help me move it.”

Cassino’s small-businessman’s radar suddenly perked up. Here was a fine opportunity; he’d agree to help Kadyrov and then steal it when he turned the fool over to the cops. “I’m your man,” he said. “How much?”

“Two ounces,” Kadyrov said, patting the small green backpack he carried in his hand.

Surprised, Cassino asked, “Where’d you get it?”

Kadyrov grinned. Cassino’s greed was leading him into the
trap. “I ‘borrowed’ it from some punk in Brooklyn who wasn’t too careful about locking his doors,” he said.

Cassino chuckled. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, turning to lead the way into the apartment. “A lot of criminals out there.” He laid the revolver on the kitchen counter and shuffled toward his easy chair and the shotgun lying against its arm.

Kadyrov waited a moment and then reached into the backpack for his switchblade. He moved swiftly behind his victim and without hesitation stuck the blade into Cassino’s back at kidney level.

The pain was so intense that Cassino couldn’t even call out at first but clawed at the air in front of him. He gasped as his attacker withdrew the blade and plunged it in again and again. With every ounce of determination he had left, he turned and, stretching out his long arms, wrapped his fingers around Kadyrov’s throat. “I’ll kill you,” he snarled, his eyes full of rage and agony.

Kadyrov was surprised by the man’s strength and fought the urge to panic as he was being choked. In fear, he drove the knife deep into the left side of Cassino’s potbelly and slashed sideways, the razor-sharp blade opening the man’s gut. The grip on his neck loosened, and Cassino looked down as though surprised to see the blood soaking his overalls and then sank to his knees.

“Thought you could rat me out and get away with it, you son of a bitch,” Kadyrov said as he backed away triumphantly.

“I ain’t no rat,” Cassino snarled weakly. “Where’d you hear that shit?”

Kadyrov grinned. “A little birdie told me. A birdie with a gold
shield.” He leaned closer and said, “I can do anything I want. And when your old lady gets back, I’m going to rape the shit out of her, if I can stomach touching that ugly bitch. Then I’m going to cut her up real slow.”

Cassino cried out as he lunged forward, but Kadyrov easily sidestepped the attack and laughed as the drug dealer fell to the ground and lay on his side groaning. “Here’s the deal, old man,” the killer said. “Tell me where the blue shirt is and I’ll make it quick for your bitch.”

“Don’t know … any damn blue shirt,” Cassino gasped.

Kadyrov kicked Cassino, who could only grunt at the pain. “Sure you do,” he said, “the shirt I took from the apartment where I killed them two bitches in Manhattan, same way I’m gonna do to that
sooka
wife of yours.”

“Oh yeah, that shirt,” Cassino spat, “fuck you, it ain’t here. Gave it to a junkie.”

Kadyrov kicked Cassino again. “I know you told that cop Brock about it,” he hissed as the older man groaned and rolled over onto his stomach. “Now, where the fuck is it? Tell me or I’ll take it out on your wife.” But Vinnie Cassino didn’t answer. He was dead.

In a rage, Kadyrov searched the apartment looking for the blue shirt. When he couldn’t find it, he grabbed the .357 from the counter and stationed himself next to the window, waiting for Lydia Cassino to return.

As promised, Lydia Cassino did not spend a great deal of time visiting her “elderly mom” in Yonkers. In fact, she was only
in the dilapidated wood-frame house for five minutes before she emerged and climbed back in Marlene’s truck. “Let’s go, honey,” she announced. “Got to get back to my man.”

On the way to Yonkers, Marlene had tried to appeal to Lydia as a woman, describing the outrages perpetrated on Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins. “I can’t promise what kind of deal can be worked out for your testimony and the shirt,” she said.

But before she could go on, Lydia interrupted. “Save your breath, sweetie,” she said. “I feel bad for what happened to them gals, I really do. I know who killed them and he’s a real scumbag; I’d like to shoot him in the balls myself and watch him bleed out. But I need my man with me, not rotting away in prison. And to be honest, I want that reward money so we can get out of that rat hole on Watson Avenue; it’s getting so a decent woman can’t go out on the sidewalks by herself anymore.”

The two women didn’t discuss the case anymore on the drive back into Manhattan. When Marlene let Lydia off in front of the building, the older woman leaned back in the window. “Get us that deal, sweetie,” she said. “Then we’ll all have what we want.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Marlene replied. She watched the woman go into the building. She then called her husband and told him about the Cassinos.

“Do you think they’d be willing to come downtown to talk to me about it?” Butch asked.

“I can ask,” she said. “I’m still here, so I can drive them and you can get them a cab back.”

Hanging up, Marlene got out of the truck and made her way through the sidewalk lurkers and was about to enter the
building when she heard a scream from above. The screaming stopped immediately but she recognized Lydia’s voice and rushed in and up the stairs.

Reaching the Cassinos’ apartment door, Marlene banged on it and shouted,
“Police! Open up!”
She stepped aside just in time to avoid the bullet that passed through the door, blasting a hole the size of a half-dollar in the wood.