Rizzo’s Fire (18 page)

After a moment, the curtain stirred. A slight, pale teenager peered out from behind it, a frown on his lips.

“Who’re you?” he asked.

Rizzo slipped the shield from his pants pocket, flashing it briefly.

“Zee-Boy around?” he asked.

The boy shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, his eyes falling from Rizzo’s.

“Go find him, kid. Tell him Rizzo’s here.”

After a moment’s pause, the teen shrugged once again. “Okay,” he said, releasing the curtain and disappearing behind it.

Rizzo turned to Priscilla. “Let’s make ourselves at home,” he said, crossing to a worn, upholstered chair near the television and dropping himself into it. She followed, but remained standing, her back to the painted storefront window behind her.

After a moment, Costanzo Intrafiore, Zee-Boy to the locals, strode into the room. He stood five feet seven, stocky, his dark hair buzz-cut short, his black eyes small and hard. He smiled a cold greeting at Rizzo, glancing only briefly at Jackson.

“Hey, Joe,” he said, a sneer on his lips. “Come to kill another Rebel?”

“Not today, kid,” Rizzo said. “Some other time maybe.”

“Whaddya want then?” Intrafiore said.

“Business, Zee-Boy. I wanna talk business.” Now Rizzo glanced to Priscilla, then back to Zee-Boy. “
We
wanna talk business.”

The youth looked to Priscilla, his eyes flat, then back to Rizzo.

“I didn’t order no fuckin’ pancakes, Joe, and watermelon ain’t in season, so who the fuck is she?”

“I’m gonna do you a big favor, Zee-Boy,” Rizzo said conversationally. “Later I’m gonna explain to my new partner here how your mother didn’t raise you right, and maybe Detective Jackson will forgive you for that little remark.” Rizzo leaned slightly forward in his seat. “Then again, maybe she won’t.”

Zee-Boy looked again to Priscilla, meeting her cool gaze with indifference. He turned back to Rizzo.

“What ever you want here, Joe, we can do it without mothers,” he said.

Rizzo cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s start over. Zee-Boy, I’d like you to meet Detective Priscilla Jackson. Detective Jackson, Zee-Boy Intrafiore. He’s the boss here.”

Their eyes met, Priscilla crossing her arms against her chest. She nodded to Zee-Boy. He nodded back, then turned his eyes again to Rizzo.

“Whaddya want?” he asked again.

Rizzo shrugged. “Some of your time, that’s all. Just a little of your time.”

The youth seemed to consider it. Rizzo noted a slight nervous tic at the nineteen-year-old’s right eye. After a moment, Zee-Boy responded.

“Okay. In the back.”

They followed him through the red curtain and into the largest of the three rear rooms. Five Rebels sat sprawled on couches, easy chairs, and a battered aluminum beach lounger, watching the New York Giants pregame show on a large, flat-screen plasma TV. They looked up with hooded eyes as Intrafiore and the two detectives entered.

Zee-Boy glanced at the TV, then jerked a thumb over his right shoulder. “Out front, guys,” he said. One of the youths, a pimply faced, lanky kid with long brown hair and a blue and red crucifix tattooed on his forearm, protested.

“TV out there sucks, Zee. Game’s gonna start in five minutes.”

Intrafiore seemed not to hear. “Come on,” he said to Rizzo and Jackson. “In my room.”

As they crossed deeper into the main room, heading for the door at the side, Intrafiore looked to the five Rebels.

“I said out front,” he said softly. A moment passed, and with exaggerated body language indicating inconvenience and wounded pride, the five stood slowly and filed through the curtain. Intrafiore paused, allowing them to leave, then picked up the remote control, raising the volume of the television.

“Come on,” he said, entering the small private room he had referred to as his.

The room contained a narrow single bed, unmade, against one wall, yet another television sitting on a battered wooden table, an audio center, and a small Formica table. Around the table, four folding chairs were randomly scattered. A large, silent air conditioner was poised in one half of the double window on the rear wall. The blinds were tightly drawn.

After arranging themselves around the table, Intrafiore sat back, tilting his chair onto its rear legs, hooking his thumbs into the thick, black leather belt at his waist. He looked across at them, his eyes mere slits, and Priscilla felt her stomach hollow under the gaze.

“What?” he asked.

Rizzo leaned across the table, his hands folded before him.

“Three street robberies,” he said. “And countin’.”

Intrafiore shrugged.

“So?” “So this,” Rizzo said pointedly. “I got a citizen makes the perp as a Rebel. And I need to lock him up.”

“So lock ’im up, then,” Intrafiore said. “You don’t have to waste my time. Lock ’im up.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Not so simple. See, this citizen I got is scared. Doesn’t wanna piss you and the other Dead End Kids off. So, you can see my dilemma.”

“Yeah, I can see it,” Zee-Boy said. “You got shit. So why don’t you come back when you’re holdin’ some cards.”

Rizzo glanced at Priscilla before turning back to Intrafiore.

“Oh, I got the cards, Zee-Boy.” He pressed forward harder against the table. “I got the ace a fuckin’ spades.”

Intrafiore looked from one detective to the other, then settled his gaze on Rizzo. “What’s that?” he asked softly. “You gonna sew some balls on your witness, get ’im to citizen up for the good of the community?”

Rizzo sat back, reaching for his near empty cigarette pack. He offered one to Intrafiore, was declined, and lit his own. Then, blowing smoke at the tabletop, he raised his eyes back to meet the hostile stare.

“No,” he said. “No. What I was figurin’ was, why bust my ass with this? I got other things to do. More important things. See, I figure I can get a little help on this one.”

Intrafiore smiled brazenly. “Yeah, from who? The African queen over here?”

“No, Zee-Boy. Not this time.” Rizzo dragged again on the cigarette, then casually tapped ashes onto the old, worn linoleum floor, noting the slight flicker of anger in Intrafiore’s eyes.

“The Chink, kid. We all know how the old man feels about the neighborhood. If it ain’t him doin’ the stealin’, he’s a very righteous guy. So I’m thinking I go direct to him with the situation. I tell him, ‘Hey, Louie, you know those two old Italians got robbed? And the old Chinese couple? Guess who did that shit, Louie, right under your nose. It was Zee-Boy Intrafiore and his band a retards.’ ” Rizzo nodded slowly. “Yeah, then I say somethin’ like, ‘Imagine that, Louie? A wise-ass kid like Zee-Boy havin’ no respect for the neighborhood. Havin’ no respect for
you
. And me without enough evidence to make an arrest stick.’ ” Rizzo locked eyes with Intrafiore.

“Best you can hope for is a busted head, Zee-Boy. And no graduation day. Not one of The Chink’s captains’ll ever put you to work knowin’ the old man has a hard-on for you. You’ll be boostin’ car radios and runnin’ numbers for The Bath Beach Boys till your Social Security kicks in.”

Rizzo sat back, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “Unless, of course, somehow Louie was to get the impression it was
you
personally robbed them old bastards. Then I don’t figure you for any Social Security payments.” He turned to Priscilla. “How many quarters you need before you can collect Social Security, Cil?” he asked.

Priscilla smiled sweetly, her eyes on Intrafiore. “Forty,” she said. “Ten years.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, like I thought.” He turned back to Intrafiore. “Whaddya think, Zee?” he asked. “You figure you can dodge The Chink for forty quarters?”

Intrafiore hesitated for a moment, his face impassive, before spitting out, “You got shit, Rizzo. You’re bluffin’. Whaddya tryin’ to impress Oprah here, show her what a tough guy you are, maybe grab some black ass on a night shift sometime?”

“Now Zee-Boy,” Rizzo said calmly, “you know me better than that.” He paused, dropping his cigarette to the floor and crushing it out slowly under his shoe. Then he raised his eyes back to the Rebel leader. “You wanna try me out, asshole? Go ahead. Try me out.”

Intrafiore tapped a finger on the tabletop, looking from one cop to the other before responding.

“Why would I let one of my guys pull local robberies? You think I’m that stupid? You think Chink’ll figure me for that stupid?”

“I don’t know,” Rizzo said with a shrug, “and I don’t give a fuck, either. I do know the perp is a Rebel, and I know
you
know he’s a Rebel. So, real soon Quattropa’s gonna know, too. Then my problem goes away.” He paused. “End of fuckin’ story. It’s hardball time, kid. If I wanted to, I could pick up a little coke somewheres, H maybe, grab you on the street some night, lock you up for possession. That violates your probation, and you go upstate. Your Youthful Offender days are over. Welcome to the big leagues. I can fuck you ten different ways and not break a sweat. But I’m givin’ you a chance here. I’m tryin’ to be nice. Tryin’ to do the right thing and give you a chance to help out with this. But you’re wearin’ my patience a little here.”

Intrafiore snorted. “Fuck you,” he said.

Now Priscilla stood slowly, placing her hands down on the table-top, leaning in toward Zee-Boy’s face. “You be nice to Sergeant Rizzo now, or I just might have to put my big black foot up your little white ass.”

“See, Zee-Boy,” Rizzo said. “You just piss people off. You better learn it ain’t done like that in the big leagues.”

Priscilla smiled at Intrafiore, an evil glint in her dark eyes. Slowly, she sat back down. Intrafiore swung indifferent eyes from her and back to Rizzo. After a slight pause, he spoke in a soft, almost pensive tone.

“So, how’s it done, Joe?” he asked simply.

Rizzo nodded. “Now that’s more like it. You give me a name. I get the vics to eyeball the guy. If they make him, end of story. If they can’t, you squeeze the guy’s balls till he cops. I already showed the Rebel face book around. The perp ain’t one of your made guys. This kid has no record, he’s new. He can stand a fall. I got a pretty strong feelin’ you know exactly who he is, some new psycho even you’re having trouble controllin’. Now’s your chance to smack him down before he starts recruitin’ against you, and save your own neck with Chink at the same time. You gotta figure Louie’s already looking at these street robberies, already gettin’ his Sicilian balls twisted. You give up the kid, I arrange it so Louie Quattropa will never know the perp is one of your guys. Then we all live happily ever after here in Never-Never Land.”

He smiled at Intrafiore. “That’s how it’s done.”

The young man pushed a hand across his buzz cut, looking again from one detective to the other.

“So you want me to hand you one of my guys? Like some pussy lawyer cuttin’ a deal? That’s what you want?”

“ ‘Want’ has nothin’ to do with this,” Rizzo said with a shrug. “ ‘Want’ is for kids. This ain’t kid stuff, Zee-Boy. You make this deal or you got Quattropa or me or maybe both of us on your ass. However it plays, this kid you got off the reservation, he’s goin’ down. Either to me or Chink. Difference is, if it’s Quattropa, you’re goin’ down with him. I’ll make sure that’s how it plays.”

Both detectives stood.

“Think about it,” Rizzo said, fishing a card from his pocket and dropping it onto the table. “Call me with the kid’s name. My arrest report will never mention the Rebels. I guarantee it. Consider it a favor I’m doin’ you.”

As he turned to leave, Rizzo faced Intrafiore one last time.

“You got till Tuesday,” he said, his eyes hard, his tone flat.

The two detectives showed themselves out. Intrafiore sat in silence for a moment, then sighed, picking up Rizzo’s card.

He leaned back in his seat, slipping the card into the front pocket of his tight black jeans.

“Shit,” he said softly.

“
SO
,”
PRISCILLA
said as she drove the Impala slowly back toward the precinct house. “You think he’ll go for it?”

Rizzo shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m not feelin’ real optimistic. I think maybe my history with the kid could work against us. Maybe I shoulda let the precinct youth officer, Olivero, handle this, or maybe Ginsberg and his partner.”

“Who?” Priscilla asked.

“Mark Ginsberg and his partner, George Parker, the detectives who caught the first two robberies.”

“Well, it makes sense for the kid to go for it,” Priscilla said. “After all, if he’s looking to move up to the mob, he can’t be pissin’ off the goombahs. Especially Quattropa. It makes definite sense for Zee-Boy to give up the perp.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, I know. But Zee-Boy is still just a kid. Kids do stupid shit. And he’s more than a little crazy, maybe crazy enough to
want
to thumb his nose at The Chink.”

Priscilla frowned and shook her head. “Crazy is one thing, stupid is somethin’ else. Why would he take a chance like that?”

“Couple a reasons,” Rizzo speculated. “One is, maybe he really
isn’t
afraid of Quattropa. He sure as hell should be, but that don’t mean he is. Also, from word I hear, one of Louie’s captains, guy named Mike Spano, is maybe plannin’ a move.”

“Against Quattropa?” Priscilla asked.

“Yeah. I heard about it from a friend a mine works over at OCCB. He figured I might be able to use the info, since Spano operates outta Brooklyn. They call the guy ‘Mikey the Hammer.’ Made his rep as a button man.”

“Has word reached the street yet?” Priscilla asked.

Rizzo shook his head. “Not that I know of. If it had, Spano would be dead by now. No, I don’t think it’s common knowledge yet, but if it’s true,
somebody
besides OCCB has to know about it. And if somebody knows about it, Zee-Boy may know about it. He’s got a relative or two in with the mob boys. So maybe he figures he disses The Chink and then, when the dust settles, he already looks good to Spano, and now Spano’s the new boss.”

Priscilla shook her head slowly. “That would be pretty ballsy for a nineteen-year-old.”

“All the great ones were just ballsy kids once. From Capone to Galante to Castellano and Gotti and Quattropa. You can never be sure which one’ll break out young.”