But I still had work to do. I had my mission impossible to try to accomplish.
Armed with an address and some ugly mug shot photos courtesy of Hoodie Brown, I headed out to the South Bronx in search of Sam Tagaletto. Ironically, he lived less than six blocks from Yankee Stadium. Was that how he’d first met Dwayne?
Tagaletto’s home was on the second floor of a decrepit corner brownstone, the bricks of which looked to be literally crumbling when not outright missing. This guy apparently didn’t care much about curb appeal.
Or, for that matter, who wandered into his building off the street.
Not only was there no buzzer system, the front door was actually propped open with – what else? – one of the bricks from the building’s façade.
My plan once inside was fairly simple. So simple, in fact, any eight-year-old could have done it and probably had. Ring and run!
After climbing the stairs, I rapped my knuckles hard against the door of apartment 2 – B before dashing up to the third floor. I needed a glimpse of Tagaletto to make sure it was really him – assuming he was home.
He was.
After the sharp snap! of a turning dead bolt, the door to his apartment opened as wide as its chain lock would let it. That’s when I saw him – tall, skinny, and with a narrow, mottled face not even a mother could love. Hell, this guy looked worse in real life than in his terrible mug shots.
I stole another peek down through the third-floor railing as Tagaletto glanced left and right with his dark, deep-set eyes. Then, like a turtle, he retreated back into his apartment.
I settled in for the wait.
Hopefully, the guy would soon have places to go and people to see, any one of which could be the break I was looking for. I needed to get lucky. Then again, with my luck the guy would turn out to be a hermit. Sam Tagaletto, the agoraphobic bookie of the South Bronx…
Great, just great.
Less than half an hour later, though, I heard it once again – the sound of a turning dead bolt.
Yes! Sam Tagaletto was leaving his apartment. Now, where was he going? And could I follow him without being spotted and getting the shit kicked out of me?
I COULD COUNT on one hand how many times in my life I’d ever “tailed” someone. And I’d still have five fingers left over.
This was a new feeling, all right, including the relentless pounding of my heart as I fell in line behind Tagaletto out on the street. How close is too close?
Best not to find out, I decided. I kept a safe distance for the first few blocks, nearly losing him once when he turned a corner at a busy intersection. In fact, were it not for Tagaletto’s nicotine habit I would’ve lost him for sure along the crowded sidewalk. All I had to do was keep my eye on the gray cloud hovering over his head. The guy smoked more than a chimney in the wintertime.
Lean and scraggly, Tagaletto wasn’t exactly the physically imposing type. But somehow, some way, he still managed to look menacing. Maybe it was the “don’t fuck with me” walk. He definitely had that down pat.
For another few blocks I kept right in line behind him. Until, finally, he made another turn, disappearing from view in a maze of storefronts.
Immediately I began to sprint. Tagaletto had gone down a narrow alley next to a pizza parlor, its red neon sign glowing in the window: SLICE OF HEAVEN.
“Shit, where is he?” I mumbled, reaching the alley and peering around the corner. Out of breath, all I could see were piles of garbage lining both sides and no one in between. Slowly, I started to walk. Where the hell did he go?
I saw the most probable answer halfway down. It was a metallic door, the only one. If I had to bet, it led into the kitchen of Slice of Heaven, but that’s as close as I wanted to get. My nose was telling me this was a bad place to be, and it had nothing to do with the smell of pepperoni and onions in the air.
I was about to turn around and get the hell out of there, when I heard the door in the alley begin to open, the sound of rusted hinges ricocheting off the walls. I quickly moved behind a Dumpster that reeked so badly I put my sleeve over my nose.
There were maybe two inches of daylight between the piled garbage and the wall, just enough to catch a glimpse of Tagaletto stepping back outside.
He was lighting a cigarette. And he wasn’t alone.
Holy shit.
I recognized the other guy right away. How could I not? He was Carmine Zambratta, a.k.a. the Zamboni.
There was never a more fitting nickname for a mob guy. Zambratta not only looked like a Zamboni – the machine that smooths the ice at hockey rinks – he acted like one. From what I knew, he was a fixer, the kind of guy used when there was a “rough patch” that needed smoothing over. All of New York knew his face. Countless times his mug had graced the covers of the city’s tabloids – and each time the headline was a variation on the same theme. Not guilty!
Zambratta’s ability to escape conviction was rivaled by only one other mob figure. That would be Eddie “The Prince” Pinero.
So why was I so surprised to see Zambratta?
Possibly because he didn’t report to Eddie Pinero. Just the opposite. The Zamboni worked for a rival boss by the name of Joseph D’zorio.
It took me a few seconds to do anything besides stare at the two mob guys. Then I reached for my pocket. Looking down, I searched for the camera application on my iPhone. Raising the phone, I eyed the screen to center Tagaletto and Zambratta in the picture I was about to take.
Shit. Now what had happened?
Zambratta was gone. Where the hell had he disappeared to?
“I’m right here, cocksucker,” I suddenly heard as the nose of a gun hit my cheek.
Chapter 60
“DO I KNOW YOU?” Zambratta asked, his tone already anticipating my expected answer.
“No,” I said, trying not to shake. God only knows what my tone sounded like. Scared shitless, probably. Out of my league, out of my element, out of my mind?
“You’re right, I don’t know you,” he said. “So how do you know me?”
“I don’t.”
Zambratta cocked his gun, the click! echoing in my ear. “Don’t bullshit me,” he said. “Everybody knows me. I’m a legend.”
I tried to breathe normally but it was becoming next to impossible. “I know who you are,” I corrected myself. “What I meant was, I didn’t know you’d be here.” What the hell was that supposed to mean?
I turned slightly, my eyes meeting his for a split second.
He was very intense and focused, and I saw enough to know that he was trying to decide what to do with me.
“Sam!” he called out.
Tagaletto walked over to the Dumpster, his latest cigarette dangling from his thin lips. “What a stink,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Who is he?”
“You tell me,” said Zambratta. “You’re the one brought him here.”
“I’ve never seen him before. No idea who this idiot is.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“What’s your name?” Zambratta asked me.
My first thought was to make one up. Thankfully, my second, somewhat more rational thought prevailed. “Nick Daniels,” I answered.
“Turn and face the wall, Nick,” said Zambratta, backing up a few steps. I’d barely heard the words before Tagaletto stepped in and gave me some help – courtesy of a hard shove. As soon as my palms slammed against the bricks, he frisked me.
Out came my wallet.
“Hey,” I said instinctively, but then I shut myself up.
“Turn back around,” ordered Zambratta. “But keep your hands nice and high.”
When I did, I saw Tagaletto checking my driver’s license. He gave Zambratta a nod. I was telling the truth. Did that count for something with mob guys? Probably not.
“So who the hell are you, Nick Daniels?”
“I’m a journalist.”