“Take it easy.”
Beads of sweat poured down her forehead. “No. Listen. He works off the Cropsey Avenue Bridge or sometimes in the parking lot of the Nebraska Diner. Show him some money and use my name.”
“Okay, okay, relax.”
She was starting to gulp for air like she had the night before and I could see blood seeping through her dressing.
“Ronnie! Ronnie, get down here!” I screamed.
“One more thing,” she said, “somebody’s got to go check on my grandma. She doesn’t speak much English and she gets frightened when she’s alone for a long time. Please go check-”
“Ronnie! Get the fuck down here!”
The door burst open. “Shit! I told you not to push her. That’s it. She’s going to the hospital.”
“I’ll take her,” I said.
“No, you won’t. I know the people at Kings County. Just give me a few minutes to stabilize her. Go on, get out of here.”
“Wait, call this guy,” I scribbled Fishbein’s number on the back of my card. “He’ll help you out.”
“Who is it, some mob guy?”
“You know, Ronnie, Aaron and me didn’t use to think you had a sense of humor.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Forget it. Just make sure she gets to the hospital and call that number.”
Being in over my head was par for the course, but this wasn’t just about me anymore. Looking back, I’m not sure it ever was. Unfortunately,
Standing on the Coney Island side of the Cropsey Avenue Bridge, Vinny Cee was about as hard to spot as a cotton ball on a sea of black velvet. He was pale, skeletal, fidgety, and squeezed his too-prominent beak between his fingers every few seconds. Christ, if this guy didn’t have LOSER tattooed across his ass, he should have. It was easy to see why he made good snitch material. He probably didn’t deal enough to hurt anyone but himself, so the cops could leave him on the street. And depending upon his level of desperation, he’d probably sell out anyone, from his birth mother to the Holy Ghost.
I folded too much money up in my palm. Money was the second best way I knew to cut through bullshit. Fear was best, but I’d hold that in reserve. As I approached him, Vinny Cee got even more twitchy, his eyelids beating like hummingbird wings. I guess I still had the cop vibe about me. I liked that, I guess. I slapped the folded bills into his hungry hand. He took a peek. That got his attention.
“Only half grams, buddy. I can’t-”
“This isn’t about coke and I ain’t your buddy.”
“Hey, man, no reason to be that way.” I thought he might burst into tears.
“We have a mutual acquaintance. Detective Melendez sent me your way.”
Vinny Cee smiled at that. “She’s fine. You a cop? See, I fuckin’ knew it. I was jus’ thinkin’ to myself, dis guy’s a cop.”
“I’m not a cop anymore, Vinny, and you talk too much.”
I’d hurt his feelings again. “No need to be that way. Whaddaya want?”
“Malik Jabbar.”
“Whadabout him?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe I don’t feel like talkin’ no more. Maybe I-”
“Vinny, don’t try and shake me down for more than what’s already in your palm. ’Cause, you see, I’ll throw your skinny fucking ass off this lame excuse for a bridge if you don’t just answer me.”
He flinched. “Okay, okay, man. Easy, easy.”
“We’re good. Now tell me what you had for Melendez.”
“I been copping from Malik since his name was Melvin and I know the pretty lady was askin’ around about Malik’s new friends. Am I right?”
“You’re the new fucking Kreskin.”
“Who?”
“Forget it.”
“Whatever. Well, one day, a few months back, I went around to Malik’s and I seen him with dis guy I went to Xaverian with and they was doin’ some business, if you know what I mean.”
“This guy have a name?”
“Frankie Motta.”
I twisted my hands around Vinny Cee’s collar and lifted him over by the railing.
“Listen to me you lying piece of shit. Frankie Motta has to be fifty-five, sixty fucking years old. I don’t like having my time and money wasted.”
Vinny Cee flailed his arms and kicked his legs frantically as he tried choking out some words. I relaxed my grip enough to let his lies flow a little more easily.
“Frankie Junior.”
“Frankie Junior what?”
“His son. I went to school with Frankie Motta’s son.”
I let him down, but not free. “How many years ago was that?”
“We got out in ’76, I think.”
“Were you tight, you and Frankie Junior?”
“Nah, Frankie was always braggin’ about how tough his old man was. He thought he was tough too, but he was a punk. Nobody would touch him because a his dad’s rep.”
“I can see that. Second generation’s always got it too easy.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, Vinny,” I said, smoothing out his rumpled clothing. “Nothing you’ve got to worry about.”
“I understand stuff.” Oy, there were those hurt feelings again. “I ain’t stupid, ya know.”
Who was I to argue? Maybe he hadn’t looked in a mirror just recently. Or maybe he had, and all he saw were thin white lines and razor blades.
When I first met Wit, he literally lived out of a suitcase. It’s not like the guy went from one Motel 6 to another. From the Pierre to the Plaza to the Waldorf was more likely. Sometimes I think his rootless-ness was a hedge against the grief over his grandson’s murder. It was as if he hoped having no permanent address would make it harder for the grief to find him. Worked about as well as his drinking.
These days he lived in a tidy, three-bedroom apartment on Fifth Avenue in the Village. For Wit, this was blue collar stuff. Of course, it was really about as blue collar as a private jet. But given the polo pony world out of which he’d fallen, it was a start. The package of documents that Fishbein had faxed to Klaus, and Klaus to Wit, was waiting for me in the lobby. There was also a copy of the Esquire piece Wit had done on Tio Anello.
I was going to leave it at that, but then I remembered about Carmella’s grandmother and the promise I’d made. Earlier, I had intended to ask Ronnie to ask Miriam to do it. But under the circumstances, I figured I’d asked quite enough of them, too much. Wit, on the other hand, always liked to be asked favors. Made him feel needed.
“Wit,” I said when I got upstairs, “how’s your Spanish?”
Rico was a lot more receptive to my presence when I showed back up at his place. It was late. He was less drunk and, as he was quick to mention, Marisa had thrown him a freebie because of my financial largesse.
“A fuckin’ freebie! Man, I almost felt like a cop again,” he cooed.
I felt sick.
That summed up the difference between us. He had seen his being a cop as a means to an end, something to use for his own good. Naively, I suppose, I’d come to see it as a way to do some good. Strange, I had almost laughed at Carmella Melendez for voicing that same sentiment to me. What’s that they say, you criticize in other people what you despise about yourself? I’d outlived my naivete. I hoped Melendez would as well. I suspect that hole in her shoulder would go a long way to that end.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the envelope in my hand.
“The personnel file of a detective who I think tried to kill me.”
“This have anything to do with what happened in Red Hook last night?”
“You know about that?”
“Name me five people in New York that don’t.”
“I get your point. And yeah, it’s got everything to do with Red Hook.”
“You must be getting close.”
“Not that I’m sure exactly what it is I’m close to. All I know is that Larry must’ve been mixed up with the Anello Family.”
“The Anellos. Get the fuck outta here!” Rico was skeptical. “They ain’t even an active family anymore, not since the Russians swallowed up their territory.”
“You kept up on things when you were-”
“-away. Yeah, they have papers and TV in prison. When you do your bid in isolation, you got all the time in the world to keep up and think.”