The Payback Game (9 page)

The next day Boff was getting ready to head over to the gym when his information broker called.

Frank, here’s what I have on Maloney. The guy lived a little above his means, but not enough to raise a red flag. The only spikes in his spending came when he went on vacation.

“Where’d he go?”

This past year? To Puerto Rico and South Beach. The island is not that expensive, and in Miami he took a moderately-priced room that wasn’t close to the action.

“I assume he didn’t buy a new car or an expensive TV this year.”

That’s correct.

“What about his phone?”

His calls were all fairly routine. Except for several he made to various phone booths in Red Hook. I found that curious.

“Me, too. Good work.”

When Wallachi showed up with his crack op, Boff, Hannah, and Cullen were already waiting for them on the sidewalk outside the gym. Wallachi’s choice of wheels was a late model Crown
Victoria with black walls, a former cop car. Boff got in the front, the others piled in back.

“Pete,” he asked, tapping the dashboard, “how long have you had this old buggy?”

“Six, seven years. A Crown Vic’s like a tank. It guzzles gas about as fast as you eat junk food, but the upside is that it’s rock solid, rides very well,
and…
”
he glanced at the back seat, “is big enough to accommodate five people on surveillance.”

“Two of whom,” Cullen muttered as he looked at Manny and Hannah, “do nothing but gripe all the time.”

The first day’s stakeout was uneventful. After Galvani knocked off work, he came out of the precinct with a well-built Hispanic guy around his age. He and the Hispanic got in separate cars, headed off in the same direction, parked near a bar on Kingston Avenue that wasn’t far from the precinct, and walked inside. The surveillance team followed.

“That guy’s probably Galvani’s new partner,” Boff said.

Wallachi gave Manny two instructions. One, walk past the front window of the bar to see if Galvani and the other cop are meeting with someone. Two, attach a GPS tracking device under the rear of Galvani’s car, an old model red Mustang.

When Manny returned to the Crown Vic, he said, “They’re alone at the bar drinking beer and eating pretzels.”

“Use your BlackBerry, Manny,” Boff said. “Go online to a GPS tracking site called AccuTracking.” He spelled it for the crack op, then handed him a credit card to pay for the one-time activation fee of $59.95. He also instructed Manny to sign up for the fifteen-second update plan, which cost an additional $49.95 a month. It was pricey, but he planned to cancel the plan as soon as this case was over.

An hour later, Galvani and the Hispanic guy left the bar, shook hands, and went their separate ways. Wallachi was starting to pull out into traffic to track the cop, when Boff restrained one hand.

“Pete, let Galvani get at least a block head start. Even if we lose sight of him, it won’t matter. The tracking service will display a map on Manny’s BlackBerry that gives fifteen-second updates on the Mustang’s location, including the street and time he was there.”

After Galvani went for a haircut, he stopped at a small video store, came out carrying a bag, hit a Pathmark, then drove straight home to his apartment in a three-story limestone row house on a nice stretch of Brooklyn Avenue in Crown Heights.

Wallachi parked down the street from the building. “Frank, it looks like he’s going to eat, watch a movie, and call it a night.”

Boff nodded. “I agree. But let’s wait until nine before we split.”

Galvani didn’t come out again.

The next day, when they parked near the precinct, Wallachi sent Manny on a food run in case the surveillance ran long. An hour later, Galvani left the precinct by himself, hit a bar, ran some errands, and went home. Unlike the night before, he left his apartment at eight and walked a couple blocks to a neighborhood pub. Wallachi sent Manny inside.

The crack op returned ten minutes later. “He’s with some babe,” he reported. “They smooched a few times, and he held her hand while they waited for their food.”

Hannah leaned toward Boff. “Is surveillance always this boring?”

“Most of the time, yeah. Pete and I are used to this. I can’t speak for Manny or Cullen, though.”

“It sucks,” the crack op said.

Cullen nodded. “It sure does.”

“So far,” the redhead said, “the only thing we’ve learned about this cop is he seems to lead a fairly normal life off duty. How many more days do we have to follow him?”

“Oh, maybe five or six,” Boff replied. “Then, if it turns out he’s your average cop, we can stand down. For now, try to be patient. When surveillance yields something important, you’ll find it’s worth the wait.”

She took out her iPhone and made a call. “Hi, Uncle Mike … I’m with Boff, another investigator, and two horny young studs doing boring surveillance on Galvani. What’re you doing? … How was lunch?
… Sounds better than what I ate. I had a crummy sandwich of Velveeta cheese and tomato on white bread. I told the guy who went out for sandwiches I wanted cheddar on whole wheat, but apparently he’s a bit mentally challenged.”

Manny poked her in the side. “Hey, that’s not nice! Next time
you
make the friggin’ sandwich run.”

She ignored him and talked a couple more minutes to Cassidy, then handed the phone over the front seat to Boff. “He wants to talk to you.”

Frank, what do you got so far on Galvani?

“Not much. The first night he had a few beers, rented movies, picked up some food, and stayed home. Tonight, it appears he has a date.”

Doesn’t surprise me. Most cops lead fairly normal lives when they’re off duty. They don’t seem to mind, because there’s a lot of tension and stress on the job.

“Meanwhile, Mike, I talked to a former cop who used to work with Galvani and Maloney at the 71
st
. Although he seemed reluctant to talk, and may have been holding back, he said that for all practical purposes they were good cops. And if either of them was doing something questionable, he never noticed it.”

Yeah
, well, we know at least one of them was up to something unkosher. Maloney was murdered for a reason. Hang in there.

As Boff handed the phone back to Hannah, Manny turned to her again. “You know,” he said, “you have a real chip on your shoulder.”

“Get used to it. I don’t suffer fools lightly. In that regard, I’m just like my Uncle Mike.”

“Fools?” Manny snapped back. “Who the hell are you to call me a fool?”

Hannah smiled. “That’s just my first impression.”

Cullen tapped her arm. “What was your first impression of
me
?” he asked.

“Strong, silent type. Which is either a good quality or an indication you have nothing worthwhile to say.”

Unlike Manny, Cullen let her remark roll off his back. Compared to Boff, she was a rank amateur at ball-busting.

But the crack op wasn’t finished. “Pete, do I have to take this crap from some young girl?”

“
Woman
,” Hannah corrected him.

Wallachi let out a weary sigh. “Just ignore her,” he said. Then he turned back to the redhead. “And you, young lady, you might think about lightening up on him. We’re a team. Whether you or I like it or not. Time passes faster without all the bickering.”

***

On the third day of surveillance, Galvani threw a wrinkle into his routine. Leaving the precinct, he drove straight to a run-down bar in Bushwick, where he parked his car next to a big Harley and walked in.

Boff turned to Cullen. “Danny, go in, order a soda. See if he’s with anybody.”

Only too happy to leave the cramped back seat, Cullen got out, went into the bar, and returned about ten minutes later.

“He’s sitting at the bar with some Hells Angel.”

That perked up Boff’s interest. “Are you sure he’s an Angel?”

“Yes. Unless he’s some wannabe stupid enough to wear a ‘Hells Angels New York’ vest in public. And the guy’s got like a zillion tattoos on his arms. Plus, his long hair is messier than Hannah’s.”

“Hey!” the redhead said. “My hair isn’t messy, buster. This is a look.”

Cullen guffawed. “Try introducing your hair to a brush, then it might have a
look
.”

“Children,” Wallachi said, “play nice.”

Boff pointed to the big bike outside the bar. “That’s undoubtedly the Angel’s Harley,” he said. “I’ll call Damiano and have her run the plate.”

A few minutes after he made the call, she said the Harley belonged to a guy named Ted Green who lived in Bushwick.

“Would you check to see if he has a rap sheet? I’ll hold.”

After a few more minutes, she said,
He did a short stretch for assault and battery. He was also a suspect in a murder, but nothing stuck. There were a couple other minor offenses. Why the interest?

“I’ll tell you later. Thanks for the info.”

Boff turned to Wallachi. “I’ll have Wright check the biker out tomorrow. This may be a break.”

But Manny wasn’t so sure. “I don’t see the big deal here,” he said. “So what if Galvani has a friend who’s a Hells Angel?”

Boff turned to face the crack op. “Do you know what the Hells Angels in New York do?”

“Sure. Ride noisy bikes. Hang out together in bars. Shit like that.”

Boff let out weary sigh. “The Hells Angels, my friend, have been linked to many crimes. Including drug trafficking and murder. Not many bikers have been arrested, though, because they operate behind a wall of secrecy. Most people who
do
have info on them are too afraid of the gang to squeal on them.”

Manny still looked confused. “Well, like, uh, what does that have to do with Galvani?”

Hannah answered for Boff. “It means, genius, that there may be more to this cop’s clean-cut image than meets the eye. And while it doesn’t necessarily tell us Galvani has anything to do with the gang, it’s possible. It’s also possible Green’s simply an old friend. The important thing we learned is Galvani does have some kind of connection to the bikers. And as Boff just told you, these guys aren’t into playing checkers and softball in the park.”

The crack op put on a sour face. “Don’t talk down to me! I—” Seeing his boss glaring at him in the mirror, he shut his mouth.

Forty-five minutes later, Galvani and the biker left the bar. The biker hopped on his Harley and took off as the cop drove away in the opposite direction. Wallachi gave Galvani’s Mustang a good head start before tailing him to his apartment building. At seven-thirty, Galvani left the building, walked to a local Italian restaurant, and sat alone at a table. An hour later, he returned home and didn’t come out again.

The fourth day proved to be even more rewarding. After Galvani left the precinct, he drove into Manhattan, took East Houston Street to 2
nd
Avenue, made a right turn, and then another right at East 3
rd
. He drove three quarters of the way down the block before stopping and parking, after which he leaned against his car and lit up a smoke.

In order to avoid being spotted by Galvani, Wallachi had parked in front of a pizzeria on East 3
rd
, as close to 2
nd
Avenue as he could get.

“What’s he doing here, Boff?” Hannah asked.

“Smoking a cigarette.”

“Thanks for that,” she said.

“Just be patient and we’ll find out why he’s here, although I have a strong hunch I already know.”

“And that is…?” she said.

Boff didn’t reply.

After a last puff on his cigarette, Galvani flicked the butt away, walked past four big bikes parked in front of a red-brick building without windows, and knocked on a door. A moment later, the door opened and he walked inside.

Manny leaned forward. “Pete,” he said, “do you want me to check out what kind of place Galvani just went into?”

“Don’t bother,” Boff said. “If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, it’s the Hells Angels headquarters. As I suspected.”

Hannah nodded. “Yes it is,” she said. “I pass by the club on my way to eat at a great hookah bar a few doors down. Café Khufu.

Wallachi turned around to his crack op. “What does this tell us, Manny?”

“That if you like hookah bars, Café Khufu is the place to go.” Manny laughed. His boss didn’t.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Wallachi said.

“It means, uh…the cop definitely has a connection with the Hells Angels.”

“Does it, Danny?” Boff asked.

“Not necessarily,” the boxer replied. “He might be there to see his biker friend Ted Green.”

“No, he isn’t,” Hannah said.

“How do you know?” Manny asked.

“How? Of the four bikes parked out front, none look like the big Harley we saw outside the bar Galvani went into in Bushwick. That’s how, genius.”

Before Manny could snap back at her, Wallachi said, “So what exactly
do
we know for sure?”

“Basically nothing,” Hannah replied. “We’ve established some sort of connection to the Hells Angels. Beyond that? We have no idea.”

“Not entirely true,” Boff corrected her. “Hells Angels don’t like or trust cops because they’re constantly being harassed by them. So it’s highly unlikely the bikers would let a cop waltz right into their clubhouse. Unless he has some kind of business going on with them.” Boff spread his hands. “What that business might be is something we’ll need to find out. We might get a clue if we wait and see where he goes when he leaves the club.” 

“Isn’t it possible,” Manny said, “that he just went inside to question a suspect?”

“No it isn’t,” Wallachi said. “The only way a cop gets in there to question a subject is with a search warrant.”

“So maybe he had one,” the crack op replied.

Hannah turned to Manny. “He didn’t,” she said. “And how do I know, genius? First of all, he approached the door without a paper in his hand and didn’t show one before he was allowed in. Second, if he
did
have a warrant, he would’ve had to have gotten one from a judge. We’ve been following him for four days and he never went near a courthouse.” She shook her head. “Are you
really
a licensed operative?”

“Christ,” the crack op snapped back, “you’re a bigger pain in the ass than Boff. And I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Settle down, kiddies,” Wallachi said. “Danny, do you want to make a coffee run at the pizza joint? I’d ask Manny, but he seems to be on the rag more than usual today.”

“Sure,” Cullen said. “My legs need stretching.”

“Get four slices of pizza, too,” Boff said. “Unless Hannah or Manny don’t want a piece.”

“As long as it’s a plain with no meat,” Hannah said, “I’ll have one. You can remember that, right, Danny? No meat.”

“I think I can manage.”

“Well, that gives you a leg up on Manny.”

Ignoring her, Manny said, “I’ll take a pepperoni and mushroom slice. Make sure you get a paper plate. I don’t want sauce on my pants.”

Boff said, “Sausage and peppers for me and Pete.” He glanced at Wallachi, who nodded his approval.

At this, Cullen threw his hands up. “Aw for chrissake, I’m not a friggin’ waiter!”

“If Danny doesn’t want to go,” the redhead said, “I’ll do it.”

“Be my guest.”

After Boff handed Hannah a twenty, she got out of the car and disappeared into the pizzeria.

“That girl really has an attitude,” Manny said. “What’s her problem, Pete?”

Wallachi chuckled. “Like she said, she doesn’t suffer fools lightly.”

“Yeah, well, I bet I’m just as smart as she is.”

His patience with Manny gone, Boff turned around to the crack op. “Here’s the skinny on her. After I tell you, I want the fighting to stop because you’re giving me a headache. All you have to know about Hannah is she’s a protégé of Mike Cassidy. Who I’m sure you’ve never heard of.”

“Wrong,” Manny said. “I’ve been reading the
Daily News
for years.”

“That’s wonderful. Now continuing with what I was saying, Hannah’s trying to be just like Cassidy. And in more ways than just trying to be an investigative reporter. She’s copied his personality, including his straight-from-the-hip way of talking. But the reality is she’ll never be like him no matter
how hard she tries. Cassidy’s a man of the street who never went to college. She’s got degrees from NYU and the Columbia School of Journalism. Whatever she knows about the streets, she learned it from him. Not from walking them. She’s a yuppie. So take her with a grain of salt, okay?”

Manny looked placated. “Okay. I understand. I’ll try not to let her get to me.”

Galvani was still in the club when Hannah returned with a pizza box and a brown bag with coffees. After they finished eating, Hannah put the empty bag, the plates, and the cups inside the box, got out of the car, and dumped everything into a nearby wire trash can.

Twenty minutes later, the cop left the club carrying a large black duffle bag, which he dumped in his trunk.

Wallachi looked at Boff. “What do you think is in the bag, Frank?”

“Not a clue. But he didn’t have the bag when he went in. Obviously, he got it from the bikers.”

Wallachi waited by the pizzeria until Galvani had turned right onto
1
st
Avenue before he started tailing him again. Then he followed him across the Williamsburg Bridge and back into Brooklyn, where he got onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, drove south into Red Hook, and headed in the direction of the docks. When Galvani reached Conover Street, he turned onto it, drove halfway down the cobblestoned block, and parked his car by a bar. Before going into the bar, he opened his trunk and took out the duffle the bikers had given him.

Wallachi pulled over without turning onto Conover.

“There aren’t many vehicles on that street,” he said. “I’m going to hang back here. I don’t want to risk him spotting us. Frank, why do you think he didn’t leave that bag in the trunk?”

“The most obvious answer is it contains something of value, and he didn’t want to take a chance that somebody might break into his trunk. Either that, or he’s delivering the bag to somebody.”

Wallachi turned to Cullen. “Danny, you’re up. Go check out the bar.”

Cullen left the car and walked at a steady clip toward the bar. There was a dilapidated pickup truck with four flat tires parked in front of it. The truck looked like it had been abandoned fifty years ago. Weeds were sticking out here and there between the cobblestones. Printed on the bar’s blue-striped awning was SUNNY’S BAR. Cullen stopped a couple doors away and called Boff, who put him on speaker.

The bar’s name is Sunny’s, spelled S-u, not S-o.

“Go in and order something.”

Boff turned to Manny. “Use your BlackBerry to look up a Red Hook bar named Sunny’s. I want to see what kind of joint it is.”

Cullen walked into the bar. Galvani was sitting near the end of the bar talking to a broad-shouldered man wearing dungarees and a white T-shirt. The duffle was on the floor by the cop’s feet.

As he took a seat at the bar, Cullen noted that Sunny’s walls were covered with string lights, old photos, nautical-themed items, and assorted bric-a-brac.

The boxer sat as far from the cop as he could and ordered a Bud Light.

Manny retrieved a description of the bar from a
New York Magazine
review and read it out loud: “‘Sunny’s is an unassuming little place by the river near some railroad tracks that go nowhere. The beatific, Beatnik-looking owner, Sunny, greets you warmly from beneath a mop of gray hair and a portrait of his great-great-grandfather, who opened the bar in 1890. Since then, the place has gone through various incarnations, as a restaurant and a longshoremen's hangout, but now it's just a meeting place for painters, longshoremen, writers, musicians, and plumbers. Sunny’s is the longest continuously operating bar in Red Hook.’”

“Frank,” Wallachi said, “what do you think he’s doing here?”

“Well, the bar’s certainly out of his way. He’s probably meeting somebody. If he just wanted to get a buzz on, there’re plenty of bars near where he lives. Let’s wait for Danny to report.”

Cullen was halfway through the beer when another rugged-looking man in jeans and a black T-shirt sat down on the other side of Galvani and shook the cop’s hand. Cullen took out his cell phone. Boff answered on the first ring and put it on speaker again.

Galvani’s sitting at the bar with a couple of muscular guys who look like laborers.

“Did he give either of those guys the duffle?”

Not yet.
It’s on the floor next to his stool.

“Stay in the bar until Galvani gets up to leave. If one or both of the guys go with him, call me as they head for the door. I want to get pictures of them.”

Hanging up, Boff turned back to the crack op. “How far can your zoom lens pick up objects with clarity?”

“Easily three hundred feet. If I wanted to, I could push it over that.”

“Take out your camera and tell me if you can focus clearly on the bar from here.”

After pulling a thirty-five millimeter Nikon out of his camera bag, Manny attached the big lens and zoomed in on the bar.

“I can see really well,” he said.

“What about the angle?” Boff asked. “Will you be able to catch their faces when they leave?”

“From where we’re parked?” He shrugged. “It would only show them in profile. It’d be better if we drove closer to the bar.”

Wallachi shook his head. “No can do. That’s too risky.”

“Okay, here’s what I want you to do, Manny,” Boff instructed. “Get out of the car and start taking pictures of the street. Act like you’re a tourist from Nebraska—”

“Why Nebraska?”

Boff ignored the stupid question and continued. “Make sure you stay on the opposite side of the street from the bar. When Cullen calls and tells us Galvani is starting to leave, Pete will honk his horn once. That’s the signal for you to move closer to the bar. If the cop comes out with one or both of the guys, take a few quick shots, then swing your camera away and shoot other buildings so you won’t look suspicious.”

“No problem.”

The crack op left the car and headed down the sidewalk.

Twenty minutes later, Galvani got up from his stool with the other two guys. The cop grabbed the duffle and started for the door with the two men.

Cullen called Boff.
Now!

“Beep the horn, Pete.”

As Wallachi tapped it once, Manny started moving closer to the bar. The front door opened and the cop walked out with the other two guys. Manny snapped off a few shots, then swung the lens off them and took pictures of adjacent buildings.

Before getting into his car, Galvani opened the trunk and put the duffle back in. Then all three men climbed into the Mustang, and Galvani drove off in the opposite direction from where Wallachi was parked.

“Don’t bother following him,” Boff said. “I have something more important to do in the bar. We can always pick him up on the GPS after I come out. Besides, I have a feeling these guys are longshoremen, and he’s just driving them back to work.”

Cullen left Sunny’s and crossed the street to Manny.

“You get a good shot?” he asked.

“Of course.”

As the Mustang disappeared in the distance, Wallachi turned onto the street and picked up Cullen and his crack op.

“How’d it go, Manny?” Boff asked.

“Good. I did exactly as you asked.”