“See, Joe, there you go,” Priscilla said. “You run hot and cold with this. You talk about your girls like equals, you raise ’em to be what they wanna be, then you say something like you just said. And freak out about Carol wanting to come on the job. You don’t make sense, Partner. Is it real or is it bullshit? Make up your freakin’ mind.”
“Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t get nuts. I’m just sayin’-”
She held up her hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re sayin’. What I’m wonderin’ is do you know what the fuck you’re sayin’?”
“Well, between my three girls, my wife, and now you, I guess I’ll get straightened out eventually.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Now let’s go see Zee-Boy. I gotta admit, I’m a little curious, Joe. A little curious.”
The Rebels’ headquarters was located on a mixed commercial-residential block of Seventeenth Avenue. For de cades the storefront had housed a family-operated tailor shop that had closed following the death of its elderly proprietors, Salvatore and Letizia Tommasino.
“I used to bring my family’s clothes here when I was a kid,” Rizzo told Priscilla as they pulled up in the Impala. “My grandparents’ house was four blocks from here,” he added with a small shake of his head. “Old man Tommasino musta flipped over in his grave when these jerk-offs rented the place for their hangout.”
“Well,” Priscilla said, “time marches on. Things change.”
Rizzo grunted and unsnapped his shoulder harness. “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “But just once, one fuckin’ time, I’d like ta see some-thin’ change for the better. One fuckin’ time.”
Priscilla swung her door open. “Open your eyes a little more, Partner,” she said over her shoulder. “Plenty of good stuff happens. You just gotta look for it.”
“Yeah, Cil, sure. Wait’ll you meet these fuckin’ characters, see how la-di-da you’re feelin’ then.”
They strode to the front door, solid metal with a small frosted window at eye level. Rizzo rapped hard on the door, then twisted the knob and walked in, Priscilla following.
The front room, which had once housed the store’s counter and cash register, now contained a small television, scattered chairs, and a wooden rack holding a radio and various pieces of sporting equipment. There was no one in the room, and Rizzo turned his eyes to the right. A doorway covered with a heavy dark red curtain led to the larger rear room where dry cleaning and tailoring had once been done. From past visits, Rizzo knew the back room was now divided into three smaller rooms used for various purposes by The Rebels.
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?”