McCarthy and Torrez sat at a table in front of Ferdinando’s
panelle store. It was a fixture in the neighborhood since 1904 and was known
for serving the best sandwich in Brooklyn. That sandwich was the potato-panelle
special. Three chickpea pancakes are called a panelle. Deep-fried in a vat of
oil that had not been changed since the 1950s. Two potato croquettes on top
with some fresh ricotta served in a crusty toasted roll. They were washing them
down with a couple of Manhattan Special sodas served in an iced mug with the
espresso soda poured straight from the tap. Bliss.
Torrez picked up his sandwich and took a big bite. “We seem to be
spinning our wheels here, Dummy,” he said with his mouth full of sandwich.
“Everyone we look at has an alibi of one sort or another. I am coming to the
conclusion that she didn’t know the doer.” McCarthy sipped his coffee soda. “I
hate to agree with you, but it is starting to look like you’re right. This is a
cluster fuck, man.”
“What are we gonna do? I mean, what’s our move? We can take a run
at her boyfriend again or maybe the guy she went on a date with, but I don’t
think anything will change,” Torrez said as he finished off the last of his
sandwich. When a sandwich was this good, it didn’t last on the plate very long.
“Our only move is to roust all of the neighborhood perverts and peepers to see
if they graduated.” McCarthy agreed with the thought, “Yeah, I think you’re
right. I want to take another run at those retarded flower shop assholes. We
already eliminated the UPS jerkoff. At least we will when we find out whose
wife he was banging. I want you to go through the files to see who else might
pop up. Ask Holland again to help. She can work the computer.” McCarthy was
looking at the door. “In the meantime, I
have to ask the people who know.” Torrez looked at him and said, “What the fuck
does that mean?” “Watch and learn Beaner.”
The door opened, and the old man walked in. He stopped short when he saw the two cops. He nodded at them and then proceeded to the back of the store, followed by Geno. He sat in his favorite spot under the framed, faded news clipping of the election of Mussolini. Old man Aiello sat with his back to the wall as always, with Geno in his customary side seat with a view of the kitchen and the front door. They were predictable in that, if in nothing else.
Torrez looked at the two mobsters and then back at his partner.
McCarthy chewed his sandwich slowly and thoroughly as he thought about what he
would say. When he finished the last of the tasty panelles, he picked up his
mug and drank the last drops of his Manhattan Special. He needed the caffeine
to give himself enough Dutch courage to go confront the Mafiosi who held his
balls in their hands.
“Torrez, go wait for me in the car. They might be more talkative
without an audience,” McCarthy said as he threw some money on the table. He ate
on the arm in a lot of old-school places in the neighborhood, but not in here.
He had been coming here since he was a first grader at Sacred Hearts, and he
respected the family that owned the joint. They had always been good to him,
and he wasn’t going to freeload on hard-working people like that.
Torrez left the store, and McCarthy walked to the back. Geno and
the old man both looked at him as he approached the table. Geno looked pissed,
but the old man looked inscrutable as always. McCarthy stood at their table and
said, “Can I sit down for a minute to talk, Don Aiello?” The old man looked at
him for a full minute and said, “Sure, why not. I always try to help the police
if I can.”
McCarthy pulled over a chair from another table and sat down. “I
want to talk to you about something. Did you hear about the young girl who was
murdered and thrown into the Canal?” Aiello nodded. “Yeah, it was in the Post,
so I know about it. What’s it to me?” McCarthy grimaced. This was gonna be
tough. The old man wouldn’t give a fucking inch. “Nothing per se, but it might
have something to do with what I discussed with Geno. That girl that’s missing.
I don’t know if she had something to do with the same guy who did this girl. It
seems that all of the people you might suspect, like the boyfriend, have rock-solid
alibis. It’s gotta be a stranger murder. Those are bitches to solve as there is
nothing to link the victims to the perp. At least so far.” Aiello nodded at the
cop and said, “That makes sense, but I repeat, why are you telling me this?”
“Well, I want to tell you what I found out so far about the girl Lydia. I like
the UPS guy for it. I have him in the tank marinating, and he will give it up
soon if he did it. But if he didn’t, I have to keep looking. To see if Lydia is
linked to this other girl. I was wondering if you know of anyone else who likes
to get rough with the ladies. I want to look at everyone. I have the cop files,
but youse guys might know about someone who slipped through the cracks. You
know, off the grid. Neighborhood knuckleheads that haven’t come to the cop’s
attention yet. I have to look at every wife-beater and rapist and general
degenerate in the neighborhood. Do you think you can help me out?”
Aiello stared at the rumpled cop for what seemed like an hour but
was actually a minute. Geno had been looking like he was ready to explode, and
he finally burst out, “You want us to rat on neighborhood people? What the fuck
you grew up here, you scumbag. You know that ain’t gonna happen. If it is a
neighborhood douche, we will take care of it.” The old man turned his flinty
gaze to his minion, who immediately shut up. “Geno is a little hasty. You know
we are law-abiding citizens who would never take the law into our own hands. I
want to find out what happened to the girl. I am also sorry about the one that
was killed. That’s never good for business when civilians are involved.” The
old man leaned back and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know about the UPS guy. He
is a loudmouth, but I don’t think he is a killer. Doesn’t have the balls, even
with a broad. I will have Geno come to you with a list of people you might look
at. I can’t let this shit happen here. But I want you to find that girl. She is
one of ours, and we take care of our own. Capisce, Irisher?” McCarthy nodded in
relief. “Sure thing, Don Aiello. Just give me the names and I will be discreet
about it. They might be some of the ones we are already looking at, but I am
sure your sources are better than mine,” he said. It never hurt to butter up
the old man. Not that it ever worked.
“Don’t blow smoke up my ass. I know you. Ever since you were a
dirty little fuck stealing apples from the Rainbow Market with your hoodlum
friends. This is a cop thing. It doesn’t involve us. You got the computer and
the CIS bullshit like on the TV. But if something happened to that girl and you
find out who, then you come to me first. Got it?” McCarthy nodded in agreement.
“Of course. With the fucking DA we got now, he would probably walk. I will
definitely keep you in the loop. Thank you.” McCarthy got up from the table and
put the chair back. He turned and walked out of the shop. He wanted to quit
while he was ahead of the game.
Geno looked at the old man like he couldn’t believe what was going
on. “Are we really gonna help that drunken Irish prick? You know he is fulla
shit.” The old man sighed. “When are you gonna learn, Geno? We need to use him.
This way, we get him to think we are palsy-walsy. They call him Dummy. We give
him the right name. I want to know what he knows. If there is someone who is
hurting women here, we need to know. If
it is as I expect, one of the liberals, we can let the cops handle it. If it is
one of ours, we need to make sure it is handled properly. The people that still
respect us in the neighborhood are gonna expect it. There are fewer and fewer
these days. We can’t lose any of them. So, play ball. Help the copper even if
it sticks in your craw.”
Geno shrugged. “Ok, Boss, if you say so. But you do know if I give
him a list, I have to give him Frankie.” The old man stopped moving as if he
had been shot. “Waddaya mean, Frankie? He’s a pervert?” “Yeah, no, not in a
weird sex way. I mean, he don’t do guys or kids or dogs for that matter. But he
likes to slap a broad around. He has been doing it a long time.” The old man
sipped on his coffee. “Why is this the first I am hearing of this?” Geno
stopped for a moment. Did he fuck up by telling him? “I guess because it has
never been a problem. There was never a broad showing up complaining. He never
did one of the liberals or any of the new people. Strictly neighborhood twats.
Or he kept it out of the neighborhood. I hear he likes the Puerto Rican putas
in Sunset Park. Even a chink or two. He likes the strange. He is always in that
massage parlor under the Highway near the Foxy Den. He’s a regular there. I got
him covered. I know everything he does. He ain’t the one here. I don’t think.”
The old man frowned. He didn’t want Geno thinking for himself. He
wasn’t good at it. “Geno, you fucked up. I need to know about this. This is a
weakness. Just as big a weakness as if he was a drunk or a druggie. He fucks up
with some broad, and the cops get a hold of it, they can use it to squeeze him.
He knows too much.”
“Waddaya want to do, boss?” Geno asked plaintively. The old man
shook his head in disbelief again. Geno would never learn. “Not here, you
babbo. You realize they could put a bug here since we come here all the time.
Did you sweep this joint?” “No, boss.” “Then shut your fuckin’ mouth unless it
is something we want them to hear. Go tell the gimp I want a rice ball special.
Then go wait in the fucking car.” Geno balked. “Boss, I can’t leave you here
alone. Not after what happened last week.” The old man looked at him like he
wanted to whack him right there and then. “Then sit at the front table. Get my
fuckin’ rice ball.”
Geno went to the front and told the gimp in front of the fryer
what the old man wanted. The cross-eyed short-order cook limped over to his
prep table. He took one of the prepared rice balls and put it on a dish. He
covered it with a generous portion of ricotta cheese and popped it into the
microwave. The microwave was the only concession they made to the modern world.
Perfect for melting cheese. Never, ever for cooking.
When the machine dinged, he took a towel and took the burning hot
plate out of the machine. He put it on the counter and dinged the little bell
sitting in front of him. The Mexican waitress came out of the kitchen and took
the plate. She walked to the back of the restaurant and put it in front of the
old man. “Need anything else, señor? A refill on the coffee?” “No, sweetheart,
but maybe you can get me a Pellegrino, please. Grazie.” “Sure, no problem.” She
went to the refrigerator at the front of the store and took an ice-cold bottle
of Pellegrino out. Popped the cap. Brought it and a glass without ice to the
old man. He never took ice.
She poured out a glass and stopped for a minute. The old man
looked up. Obviously, she wanted to tell him something. “I’m sorry, Mr. Aiello,
but I wanted to tell you something.” “Ok, tell me.” She looked scared and happy
at the same time. “I know that you are looking for Lydia. You know the girl
that’s at TD Bank these days? She would come in with her kid on the weekends.
Sweet girl. That Dummy pendejo has been asking around about her.” The old man
grunted. “So why should I care?” “Oh, I spoke to Julio. You know the kid. I
live next door to her in Red Hook. He said you were going to help him. He was
counting on it. Anyway, I wanted to tell you. Julio. Not the kid, but the
vegetable guy who works on Court Street in that new place that the Arabs
bought. You know the ones who used to own the supermarket that they rented to
CVS?” The old man nodded. “I know the A-rabs. Julio, don’t sound like a sand
monkey to me.” “No, no, he is a Dominican. Anyway, Lydia was telling me how he
was always after her. He is always after a lot of girls. Which is crazy because
his girlfriend is the crossing guard down by PS 52. She would cut a bitch.
Lydia said he was annoying but harmless. But I thought you should know.” “Did
you tell the cop?” he asked. “No, I didn’t. I don’t like that jerk. So, I stay
as far away from him as I can.” “Tell the cop. He can look into it. It’s not my
business. And don’t encourage the kid either. I can’t be dealing with this kid.
It’s for the cops, not me. Capisce?” “Yes, I understand. Sorry to bother you.”
She hustled away into the kitchen.
Don Aiello finally got to eat his rice ball in peace. He sat and
thought about what was going on. He wanted to let the cop handle it. But he
couldn’t count on him getting it right. He might have to dip his hand in. He
would give it a couple of days. Good things come to those who wait.
He could be patient.
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