Addison stepped hard and slapped Dalrymple across the face. Panting, he stared as his partner crashed into the sliding-glass window and tumbled back into the apartment, pulling a curtain off its rods.
“That story about Hill and Little Flaps at the track back in ‘78 is in the morning’s Times,” Addison said. “So you have a choice. You call IAD now and make good. Or you take a few steps back and get a running start on a dive off this balcony.”
Dalrymple stared up at Addison, who glowered, spittle flying with each word, chest heaving.
As Dalrymple crawled backward toward his bed, Addison said, “Pick up the phone, Joe. Pick it up before I think better of it and toss you off the balcony myself.”
Steele and August couldn’t decide, so they both went, and they found Fat Philly solo in a booth in a diner on Cross Bay Boulevard.
Little Flaps Ciccanti’s funeral mass at Saint Helen’s was due to begin in two hours.
“What?”
Steele and August knew how to walk it so no badge was required. They eased in across from Fat Philly, his three eggs over easy and home fries in marinara sauce.
Luther told them Flaps was carrying an Instamatic, so they knew the kid went in for more than he could carry in a duffel bag.
“The Gambinos can’t decide whether to pull off your head first or just stick it up your butt while it’s still on your shoulders,” August said.
“As for the Genovese family…” Steele had learned it was often better to let a worm’s imagination complete his sentences.
“Andy Hill is talking,” August said. It wasn’t true-W.E.’s kid said it was Dalrymple who rolled over-but a plausible lie well told was at least as good as fact. “You want the Genoveses to back your move on the Gambinos’ turf, and they’re supposed to do it for a couple hundred Gs’ worth of mink stoles?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fat Philly scoffed as he pushed a butter-laden piece of toast into a yolk. “Flaps was on his own, looking for baseball cards or something. Who don’t know that?”
“Flaps cases the plant and he can keep anything he can carry,” Steele said. “You and the crew go back a couple days later when everyone relaxes. At least that’s what you told the Genoveses: UPS is moving stoles-sable, lynx, and upper-end mink from Russia and Finland.”
“You got nothing,” Fat Philly said unconvincingly. “Mink stoles, Russia…”
“You believe they won’t hit you in church,” Steele asked.
“Who?” Fat Philly said.
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Steele.
“No, I mean who is-”
August said, “Both. They’ll kill you twice.”
“Or three times,” Steele added. “Once the Ciccantis find out you tipped Hill that Little Flaps was alone.”
“Whoa. You’re saying I set up Flaps-”
August said, “You set up Flaps. Yeah.”
Fat Philly slammed his palm on the table, sending coffee over the cup’s side. “I knew it. I knew it,” he said. “This is our thing, not your thing. Our th-”
Without breaking eye contact, August drove a fork an inch into the back of Fat Philly’s hand.
Handcuffed and perp-walked, Andy Hill’s photo was on the front page of the News. The Post had turned its attention to a meeting between Reagan and the pope.
Addison drove out to Cambria Heights, retrieved his stepfather, and brought him all but roundtrip. He had considered taking him late to a jazz club, the Vanguard, maybe, or Sweet Basil’s, but they were both tired of being the only black men in the room minus the musicians on the bandstand. He wanted their time together to be nothing but contentment. So back to Smokey’s.
Over fall-off-the-bone ribs, W.E. Addison said, “Luther, it’s time for me to say good-bye to my grandson.”
Addison tapped his stepfather’s hand. “I know, Pop. Next stop.” Once again, he tried to make it light. “First we’ve got to wipe that barbecue sauce off your face.”
The old man looked at his stepson, who he couldn’t have loved more had he been his own blood. His tired old heart still swelled from the pride of knowing he could do right by him one last time.
They sat quiet, surrounded by the chatter of students and suits on hand for an early lunch. W.E. sipped tart lemonade from tall Styrofoam.
“Got what you need, Pop?” He hadn’t told him about Hill’s murderous plan. Steele might’ve figured it, since he told him to stand down, but there was no reason for W.E. to know there were cops who wanted his stepson dead.
But W.E. knew, of course he did. Same as it ever was.
“It’s a good thing, son. The Guardians. If a man like you is at the top.”
Luther tilted his head. He’d begun to think otherwise-Dalrymple told him his advocacy put a wall between the two of them when they should’ve worked to be as close as any two partners; and Sarah Tolchinsky, white and a devout Jew, chaperoned his cause through the D.A.’s office. Sharon Knight said Tolchinsky was the one who made the call to the mayor’s office to set him straight.
Hell, even Steele’s snitch was white.
“Pop,” Addison sighed, “I’m thinking I’ve got to look deep before I decide.”
“You get yourself good people like Hammer and Cookie and you’ll be all right.”
As Luther Addison nodded, W.E. ran a paper napkin across his lips, hiding from his stepson a smile of everlasting satisfaction.
Jim Fusilli
Jim Fusilli is the author of five novels including HARD, HARD CITY, which was named Best Novel of 2004 by Mystery Ink magazine. In 2008, his first novel for young adults, MARLEY Z AND THE BLOODSTAINED VIOLIN, was published by Dutton.
He was editor of, and contributed a chapter to, THE CHOPIN MANUSCRIPT, Audible’s best-selling “serial thriller,” which was named Audiobook of the Year by the Audio Publishers Association. He edited and contributed a chapter to its sequel, THE COPPER BRACELET.
His short story, CHELLINI'S SOLUTION, appeared in the 2007 edition of THE BEST AMERICAN MYSTERY STORIES, and his story THE GUARDIAN was selected for A PRISONER OF MEMORY, a 2008 anthology of the year’s finest mystery short fiction. In 2009, his short fiction appeared in the anthology BOSTON NOIR and Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.
Jim also is the rock and pop critic of The Wall Street Journal. PET SOUNDS, his book on Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys' album “Pet Sounds,” was published in 2006 by Continuum and in 2009 by Audible.
In 2005, he served as Visiting Professor, Creative Writing, at the State University of New York, Binghamton.
He and his wife Diane live in Tribeca in New York City.
