“No argument here, Partner,” Priscilla said. “We’ll just leave Frankie in his happy place.”
“With the half-assed descriptions we got from all the vics, we couldn’t even do a valid photo array. And if we tried a mug scan with no description on record, the defense would scream fishing expedition, demand a pretrial Wade hearing, and maybe get any I.D. precluded. Then we’d have nothin’. But now, with Frankie’s info, now maybe we can figure a way to go. We’ll see. Let’s get back to the precinct.”
The “bad kids” that Frankie had referred to were members of a local street gang known as The Rebels. They were one of two such gangs housed in the Six-Two, the other being The Bath Beach Boys. The Rebels were the younger of the two gangs, serving as a training ground for eventual admission into the older and more professionally criminal Bath Beach Boys. The Bath Beach Boys, in turn, then served as an apprenticeship for further criminal progression to the Brooklyn organized crime mob currently headed by Louie “The Chink” Quattropa.
The Rebels were generally aged fourteen or so to eighteen or nineteen. If by age twenty or twenty-one a member had failed to move up to The Bath Beach Boys, his organized-gang days were considered over, and most such failures moved on to relatively mundane lives of semirespectability or descended into drug addition. Some entered loner lives of crime, usually resulting in their premature death or long, repeated periods of incarceration.
During his many years in the precinct, Rizzo had dealt with both groups, as well as several neighboring street gangs from the Sixty-eighth, Sixty-sixth, Sixty-first, and Sixtieth Precincts.
Rizzo parked the Impala on Benson Avenue, and he and Priscilla walked a short block to the precinct. They went to the rear of the first floor and entered a small office marked “Community Policing.”
Rizzo made the introductions.
“Priscilla Jackson, meet Sergeant Janice Calder, our community policing officer. We’ve apparently caught her on a very rare night tour. What’s up with that, Jan? Have a fight with the old man?”
The uniformed sergeant, a twenty-year veteran and an acquaintance of Rizzo’s, smiled. “No,” she said. “My daughter is home from college for a few days, so I switched to four-to-midnights this week to spend some time with her. Her friends keep her busy at night.”
Rizzo nodded, turning again to Priscilla. “Janice here makes sure the good people of the Six-Two are informed, educated, and aware. That way, they can all get to die in bed, unmugged, unraped, unshot, and unmolested. She also helps the precinct cops do a better job servin’ the needs of the citizens, not to mention fixing an occasional parking ticket that might inconvenience some community board member or well-connected brother-in-law.”
Calder laughed, reaching to shake Priscilla’s hand. “Now, Joe here knows damn well I’d never do such a thing,” she said. “Welcome to the precinct, Priscilla.”
The two women made small talk, searching for friends in the department they might have had in common.
Then Rizzo got to the point.
“Is Tony in, Jan?” he asked, referring to her office mate and the precinct youth officer, Tony Olivero.
She shook her head. “No, he’s off till Saturday. Does a day tour when he comes back in.”
Rizzo nodded. “I need to go through his stuff. The Rebel photo book, specifically.”
“No problem,” Calder said with a shrug. “Help yourself.”
Rizzo moved to Olivero’s desk.
“What’d the little darlins do this time?” Calder asked, returning to her own desk and sitting down.
“We figure one of ’em for three street robberies,” he answered.
Calder’s eyes widened. “No shit? Those three the last month or so?”
Rizzo nodded, slipping a five-by-eight-inch photo album from the lower drawer of Olivero’s desk. “Those are the ones.”
She frowned. “Sounds wrong to me, Joe. The Rebels might be dumb, but they ain’t stupid. The Chink finds out they’re robbin’ the locals, he may whack a Rebel ass or two.”
“Yeah, it struck me as odd, too,” Rizzo said. “But maybe one of the Indians is off the reservation. If Louie Quattropa don’t scare this kid, we may have a newbie psycho on our hands.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” Calder said. “If he’s pissin’ off Quattropa, he’s gettin’ the short-stay rate.”
“Yeah, probably,” Rizzo agreed, standing up. “I’m gonna borrow Tony’s picture file. Tell him for me if I don’t get it back to his drawer by Saturday.” He turned to leave.
“No problem, Joe, take care.” She turned to Priscilla. “Good to meetcha. Don’t bend over in front of this guy, Priscilla,” she said, nodding her head toward Rizzo. “I never did trust him much.”
Priscilla laughed. “Guess you haven’t heard yet. I don’t bend over for any man.”
“Well, good for you, honey,” Calder said. “I gotta admit, I have a few times and it usually wasn’t worth the effort.”
Rizzo shook his head. “Let me the fuck outta here,” he said, heading for the door, the women’s laughter ringing in his ears.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ON THURSDAY MORNING, Rizzo and Jackson made their visits to Bik and Feng Hom and the other two elderly victims of the recent street robberies. Each victim carefully leafed through the photo album Rizzo had borrowed from Olivero’s desk. It contained full-color photographs of the eighteen members of The Rebels who held criminal records. None of the photos was identified as the assailant in the cases at hand.
Later, Rizzo sat behind the wheel of the Impala parked in front of the last house they had visited and sighed.
“Well,” he said, “maybe Frankie was wrong.”
Priscilla frowned. “Or maybe the perp is a newbie like we figured and not in the book yet. That would explain why he didn’t know Frankie was probably sitting there in the dark, looking out over the corner. Or maybe he’s clean, no record yet, so no picture. Or maybe these old vics just can’t make the guy. They sure as hell couldn’t describe him very well.”
“They probably couldn’t describe a teenage Frank Sinatra too well, either,” Rizzo said. “But they’d still be able to pick his picture out of a mug book.”
“Joe,” she said, shaking her head gently, “why is it that every time you refer to anyone I’ve heard of, they’re dead?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Guess I ain’t that impressed with anybody you ever heard of who’s still alive.”
Rizzo started the engine, adjusting himself in the seat. “Let’s go to work on our other cases, give this one a rest. To night, after dinner, I’ll run down to the high steps on my own time, show Frankie this book of assholes, see if he can make one. If not, we can still go to plan B, even without a positive I.D.”
“And what is plan B?” Priscilla asked.
Rizzo smiled, pulling the Impala out into the street.
“Tell you when I tell you,” he said. “Let’s see what Frankie’s got to say first.”
She shrugged. “Okay, boss,” she said. “What ever.”
They spent the balance of the tour crisscrossing the precinct and its surrounding neighborhoods, methodically working some of the dozen open cases they carried. Later, at the precinct, they wrapped up with a paper trail of the day’s activity.
At three-fifty p.m., her relief detective present in the squad room, Priscilla waved good-bye to Rizzo.
“See you Sunday morning, Joe,” she said, referring to their next scheduled tour. “Enjoy the swing days.”
“You too, kiddo. If I get lucky with Frankie later to night, you want me to call you? Or should I save it for Sunday?”
“Call,” she said. “We’ll be home to night. No plans.”