Spy Catcher: The J.J. McCall Novels (Books 1-3) (The FBI Espionage Series) (12 page)

Chapter 19

E
ven though she had no plans whatsoever to pursue a relationship with Tony, part of what held her back was a paralyzing fear of her father’s reaction. To say he wasn’t a fan of non-black people was the understatement of the century.

He became a small successful businessman strictly serving the black community to avoid working with them, talking to them, or dealing with them in any way shape or form. His body was in the now, but the 1950s and 1960s would forever color his perceptions of the world, relationships, and view of a woman’s place in the family. She thought she’d pitch him the idea of a multiracial relationship to gauge how receptive he might be to the idea. If he didn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West in a thunderstorm, then maybe....

J.J. tried to feign some semblance of courage.
He’s sitting here crying about grandbabies. Why does the daddy’s color matter? All sperm swims in the same direction, doesn’t it?
she thought to herself.

“I said . . . he’s white . . .
ish
.”

“Ohhhh,
lawwwwd
!” he cried out, getting a little preacher in the pulpit dramatic. “My child’s been brainwashed by ‘the man’! What the hell is white-
ish
? Either he’s white or not. Ain’t no ‘ish!’ Bad enough you workin' for those racist Gestapos that ki—.”

“What dad? What were you gonna say?” she asked. Sounded as if he was about to say “killed.” Did he know more about her mother’s death than he admitted? J.J. didn’t know but trying to get it out of him, once he became aware of his slip, would be like trying to squeeze water from a rock. She’d broach the subject another day.

He shook his head. “Don’t try to change the subject. You bet’ not bring no white boys up in the house. All these good black men out here—girrrrrrl, you gon’ get my pressure up.”

“He’s Italian.”

“Shoot, Italians ain’t no better. They’d just as soon as call you ‘the magic word’ as some bible thumping rednecks from the Mississippi sticks. Didn’t you see
The Sopranos
...or
The Godfather
?” he asked. She hadn’t realized how skewed his perception of reality had been for so many years. Or perhaps it was her perception that was skewed for the worse. “I’ll never forget that line talkin’ about give the drugs to the black folks and spicks. ‘They’re animals anyway, let them lose their souls,’” he said, imitating the accent. “That’s what Italians think of us! You  remember those words when you’re flirting with Giuseppe!”

“That’s ridiculous. Zaluchi said
the line
because it was
in the script
. What if Tony said he knew what all black people were like from watching
Good Times
and
The Wire
?”

“Well, that Puzo cat wrote
the line
because that’s what they believe.”

They both sat silently for a moment. J.J. thought about what he said, and one thing she realized with her and Tony, their union would be a two-way street as far as family goes. His mother probably wouldn’t be anymore excited to welcome J.J. into the Donato family than her father would be to welcome him. She tried to wash the thought out of her head.

“Don’t get your boxers in a wad. I’m messing with you, Dad. I’m not setting my sights on anyone, white, black, or otherwise. Besides a man can only serve two purposes in my life right now anyway.”

He paused for her answer.

She let him stew in anticipation for a few seconds.

“Take out the trash and keep my truck clean. Now, let’s finish eating before the food gets cold.”

Silence had won again and it was good.

Max fixed a delicious meal. All those years of cooking for his children had improved his skills considerably since Naomi died. J.J. couldn’t jab her fork into her eggs fast enough when her cell phone rang. Normally, she’d ignore it, knowing her father would be displeased if she answered for work purposes while she was sitting at the table. But something inside tingled telling her she probably shouldn’t let this call go to voicemail. She fished her phone from her purse, looked at the caller ID, and answered.

“Well, well, well, abandoning us this morning?”

“Hey, Sis,” Malcolm said. “How’s breakfast? Had your serving of
nag
yet?”

“Yes, a heaping pile of it and no one to share it with,” she said. “You still working?”

“Of course. What else is new?” he said. “Listen, I got stuck at work today because I made an arrest in the middle of the night. When I checked for his identification, I found your business card hidden in his wallet.”

“My business card?”

“Yeah, thought you might want to get down here and talk to this one.”

“Who is it?” she asked, sitting at the edge of her seat. The curiosity nearly killed her.

“Some diplomat from the Russian Embassy,” he said. J.J. could hear paper shuffling in the background. “Anyway, how about those Redskins?”

“Malcolm!”

“I think RG III will make a fine addition to the team.”

She clenched her teeth. “Keep it up and I’m gonna tell your girlfriend you still sleep with a woobie.”

“You always were the ruthless one,” he said. “Okay, it’s Aleksey
Dmitriyev
, a Second Secretary.”

“Dmitriyev?” she said in delight…and then the confusion sunk in. “How in hell did Dmitriyev get my business card? I’ve never met him.” She tipped her head back and turned her face to the sky. All the while trying to temper her emotions.

Malcolm wasn’t aware that J.J. recruited spooks because she’d dipped, dodged, and evaded that bullet for years.

Max looked at J.J. curiously as she hung on her brother’s every word. Her mind spun at the possibilities of getting a counterintelligence officer to cooperate.

“Hmph. That’s interesting indeed.” Her mind churned.

How could he get my card? How could he get my card?

Then she realized it. He took Karat to the airport. He must know about Plotnikov’s cooperation.

“Ohhhh God!” J.J. whispered as grief overcame her. “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

“What’s wrong, Sis?” Malcolm asked. “Who’s dead?”

“N-nothing!” she said, avoiding the urge to curse to the high heavens. She forced the emotion down and pulled herself together. “I, uhhh, Dad’s here. Can’t really get into it. But why’d he get arrested?”

“We caught him soliciting a prostitute. Leona.”

“Leona? You mean the transvestite on 14
th
Street?”

“That would be the one.”

She chuckled and tilted her head to the side. “Wow. I suppose smarter men have been duped by her…his…her beauty, right?”

“Indeed. We caught a city official soliciting her a few weeks ago.”

“No effin’ way. Which one?” she asked. Thirty-two years had passed and she still had never uttered a single curse word in front of her father.

“You know the drill, Sis,” he replied. “I could tell you but I’d have to—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Preaching to the choir. So, has he claimed immunity? Have you called the State Department yet?”

“No. And no. He was too drunk to claim anything except intoxication. He’s sleeping it off.”

“Don’t call them. Don’t do anything with him until I get there, do you understand me? This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

She hung up the cell phone and threw it back into her purse, which she slung over her shoulder, scrambling to get out of her seat.

“Who’s dead?” Max asked.

“Can’t talk about it, Dad. I’ve got to get down to 4-D.”

“So you’re just gonna run out in the middle of breakfast?” her father said, his disapproving gaze burning a hole through her.

“Can’t be helped,” she said, her every move urgent and swift. “I’m gonna slap my breakfast on toast and eat it on the way. Duty calls.”

Dmitriyev had sent Plotnikov to his death. J.J. was certain of it. But the only way to get the information she needed from him was to help him. It wouldn’t be easy to secure his cooperation. Hands down, Russian counterintelligence officers were toughest to recruit. They’d been schooled in the FBI’s dirty tricks. The puppet show held no secrets or surprises; they knew which strings would be pulled. And more than anything else they understood the dire consequences spies suffered for cooperating with agencies like the FBI, especially in the age of Golikov. But he was the last person seen with her source before he got recalled to Moscow. As hopeless as the situation seemed, they had to talk.

She needed Tony’s support on this one—she couldn’t play good cop, bad cop without a bad cop.

Can I do anything to change his mind?

She decided to make Tony an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Chapter 20

Sunday Afternoon…

W
ith his father locked up, Tony made a point to spend as many weekends with his mother Mona as possible. Once a major babe, often compared to Sophia Lauren, she’d aged much less gracefully under the weight of her husband’s criminal transgressions. Seemed he’d gotten stuck in a revolving prison door, and each time he went up, his absence picked away pieces of her soul, burrowed crevices of worry along her eyes and forehead. She’d almost grown numb to the pain and had even begun to allow her leg to drift into Senior’s side of the bed. The lone glimmer of light in her life, Tony, the one child who hadn’t gotten caught up in “the life,” brought as much joy to her heart as his three siblings gave her angst. She cooked for him every chance she got, and Tony never missed a meal.

“Yo Ton’! Is ‘at you?” Uncle Paulie called from the living room after Tony finished greeting his mother. Uncle Paulie was his mother’s brother and owned a pizzeria in Baltimore’s Little Italy. He was a grey-haired, beer-gutted grouser who worshiped the Budweiser gods and thought black socks with brown slippers was a fashion statement. He’d never gotten caught up in the life despite Senior’s offers to help him find employment in one of his racketeering operations back in the day.

“Yeah!” Tony answered, walking to greet him. “Heeeey! Uncle Paulie. Good to see ya!” He kissed him on both cheeks careful not to disturb his beer.

“C’mere have a seat. How’s life? Job treatin’ you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Everything’s good,” Tony said, nodding his head.

Uncle Paulie sat up in his seat and turned down the TV volume. “Your mother keeps naggin’ me to talk to you about settlin’ down. You seein’ anybody yet? I know you had it pretty rough after Olivia.”

Olivia De Luca was to Tony what Six was to J.J. He had suffered from superhero syndrome all of his life. He had a “thing” for projects, and what a project Olivia had been. A single mother (of a cute, precocious kid) with a drug habit she concealed for months. She wanted “the family” life, the clothes, cars, furs, and jewelry, and Tony’s interests were too far on the right side of the law, thus ending their brief, passion-filled relationship.

He shook his head. “Nah. Well . . . there is this one lady. Her name is J.J. McCall.”

“McCall? That ain’t Italian.”

“No...she’s not Italian. She’s black.”

Uncle Paulie whipped his head toward Tony. “She’s a black?”

“No, she’s not
a
black. She’s black.”

“There’s a difference?”

“We’re not dating yet. I just think she’s interestin’. That’s all.”

“Yet? She ain’t one o’ them welfare broads with six kids and seven babies’ daddies, is she?”

Tony snapped his head toward his uncle in stunned disbelief. “Hell no! She’s an agent. A damn good one, too.”

“An agent, huh?” Paulie said. He leaned forward and his hand flailed to the rhythm of his speech. “Listen. It’s all right to get yourself a piece every now and again, but you don’t bring ‘em home. And you don’t marry ‘em eitha!”

“I don’t see what the freakin’ problem is. We’re living in a new day, Unc.”

“Hey, this might be a new day, but Italians are old school. Years ago I hadda thing with a fine mulignan.
Che bella donna!
Satin skin. And the body?” He shook his head and bit his bottom lip. “The things she did for me would bring a grown man to his knees. And she was a good person, kindhearted. But I hadda walk away, couldn’t work. Then I met your aunt Gloria and look at us now.”

Tony cut him a sideways glance. “She chased you outta the house with a butcher knife last week. You slept on Ma’s couch for three days.”

Paulie sneered. Tony hit a sensitive nerve. “That’s beside the point. Don’t think I don’t unda’stand your plight. Take my advice and don’t go down that road. Besides, what’s it gonna do to your mother? Isn’t she going through enough right now with your father and all?”

When Mona finally joined Paulie and Tony after making a pot of spaghetti sauce big enough to feed the Italian armed forces, Tony’s phone rang. She threw her hands in the air, knowing he’d again be called to work before he could eat.

“Did I catch you at a bad time,” J.J. said, excited and breathless.

“Nah, I’m with my Uncle Paulie at my mother’s place. She’s cookin’ dinner for lata,” Tony replied.

“Well. I need you Tony. There’s been a break in the case and I can’t handle this alone,” she said.

“A break? What happened?”

“Dmitriyev was arrested early this morning…and my business card was in his wallet. You know what that means.”

“Wait a minute. Your card was in his wallet. But—oh no.”

“My sentiments exactly. We need to persuade him to cooperate with us so we can find out what happened.”

“We?”

“You’ve got to help me, Tony. I’m asking…no begging you. And I promise, if we discover
one more
piece of information that implicates Jack, I’ll let him eat his just desserts.”

Tony pondered the deal for a moment, blowing his nails and whistling to himself as he lingered in a long, painful pause. He combed his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

“Well?” Sounded as if she was holding her breath in anticipation.

The corners of his mouth lifted. He could never say no for long. “All right, J.J. You’ve got a deal.
One
piece of evidence, I don’t care what it is, and we end this and let Sabinski fry.”

“Agreed,” J.J. said, sounding relieved. She blared her horn causing Tony to pull the phone away from his ear. “Get the hell out of the way! I swear. Freakin’ Sunday drivers.”

“Easy there, Danica Patrick,” he said. “I’ll see you in a few.”

“Great. Meet me at 4-D and hurry. We don’t have much time,” J.J. urged.

Adrenaline pulsed through Tony’s veins. Even better than receiving information on Plotnikov’s whereabouts would be to recruit Dmitriyev. J.J. and Tony knew Aleksey had one weakness—he loved America. At least that’s the information they received from a clean diplomat they’d been running for years. It was a vulnerability they could exploit. He’d served in London for six years, postured himself for a U.S. tour. By all accounts, he was a rising star. They wouldn’t have another opportunity like this one. Then a smile emerged on Tony’s face as he replayed J.J.’s words in his mind.
I need you.

Tony sucked in a breath, intoxicated by the spaghetti’s aroma. He’d miss eating this meal fit for a king, or a prince as it were. But wouldn’t miss Mona’s musings on the ills of bachelorhood.

“I gotta go, Ma. Work calls,” Tony said. He stood into a deep stretch, oblivious to his exhaustion at the week’s events. He’d have time to crash after the case ended. Until then, no rest for the weary. For now, coffee would have to suffice.

“Not again! Every time you visit me, it’s work, work, work. Dolce far niente.”

“What’s ‘at?” Tony asked. He understood little Italian and spoke less. She could tell him in the time it’d have taken for him to translate.

She threw her hand up in frustration and opened the kitchen cabinet door. Plastic food containers tumbled to the floor as she pulled several to pack Tony’s Italian delights.

“I swear if I didn’t push you out for 36 hours I’d wonder if you were really mine. It means you need to stop workin’ so hard, that’s what it means!” Her hands actively flailed, speaking volumes above her voice.

Mona reached into a second cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a shopping bag, the Big Brown one with the sturdy handles. She sat it on the countertop and loaded the buffet inside. Tony’s eyes followed her as she fluttered around the room. Funny, he hadn’t eaten and yet he was full…
of guilt
.

“Hey. I gotta work so I can afford your grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren? Ha! You gotta roll the cannoli every now and again to make a baby! All you do is work! Work, work, work!”

Tony cringed and laughed aloud. The gibes she let pass her lips.

At once, she froze and cut through him with her gaze. “Hmph. But since you brought up the topic of grandchildren, when are you gonna find a good Italian girl and settle down? That Rosa was nice. What happened with her?”

Hesitant to answer, Tony dug his hands into his blue jeans pockets. He rocked back forth toe to heel, searching for the right words to explain to the woman who set them up that Rosa was a whack job.

Mona met Rosa at Saturday evening mass. By Sunday breakfast, she was the first Mrs. Antonio Donato, at least in Mona’s and Rosa’s minds. She lit candles and said two hail Marys. Little did she know Rosa was this side of crazy—controlling, obsessive. His intentions were to obtain a restraining order, not marry her. “Rosa and me, we didn’t work out so good. We go out on one date and already she’s namin’ our kids. I wanna find someone for myself who makes me happy…and who isn’t a few pepperonis short of a pizza pie. Did you hear that, Ma? Me. I.”

She paced toward him, stopped, and hung one hand on her hip as she motioned dramatically with the other. “How many times I gotta tell ya, huh? Marriage has nothing to do with happiness.”

“Look at you and Pop . . . well,
before
he got pinched.” Tony started motioning his hands to mirror his mother’s. It was contagious.

“Exactly! Look around you. Think back to when you were a kid in Jersey. You call that perfection?” She took a seat next to him, grabbed his hand. Her eternally wrinkled brow and weathered skin bore the weight of a worried mother. “You kids, you want everything to be perfect. The body, the hair, the pretty face, love, romance, please! Chi troppo vuole, nulla stringe!”

“What’s ‘at mean?”

“He who wants too much doesn’t catch anything. Stop being so freakin’ picky. Find a warm place to hide your sausage. Make sure she can cook and keep house. Then make it work. Simple! You young people these days, you make life too hard. Life’s not that hard.”

She patted his back and resumed her task. “So what you’re saying is, I should just settle.”

“Yes,” she deadpanned. “Settle shmettle. No woman is perfect.  Neither is love. And here’s another newsflash, my dear Antonio. Neither. Are.
You
!” She pinched his nose.

Tony chuckled and shook his head. His mother had done her worst and he’d survived. Time to go. But not before checking up on the old man. Tony might be dead to Senior, but a father was a father. “Before I go, you uhhh...you heard from Pop?”