Bomber's Law (28 page)

“Now I myself, I don't exactly buy that, that way of thinkin' at all. That they should be able to do that, even though I know they can. What I think is that when they say that Danny, well, that he's ‘mildly,' the doctors and the nurses and the asshole social workers, they don't know what the fuck they're talkin' about. And when they say he's ‘moderately,' well, they don't know what the fuck they're talking about then, either. But I'm not gonna argue with them there, because either way it don't much matter: Danny needs a little
push
, little
nudge
, there, to get him started inna morning. Like you got to turn on the TV set and set it to the channel that you wanna watch
before it'll show you the program that you wanna see. Then he's usually all right. And as long as he's all right, and I'm lookin' out for him, well, they can't put him away.”

“What's he do?” Dell'Appa said.

“ ‘What's he
do?
' ” Mossi said. “That what you said, ‘what's he
do
'? Whadda you care what he does? Whadda you care where he goes? You gonna start followin' Danny or somethin' now? That what you got on your mind here? Get him all fucked up like you've been wanting me, only with him, might be easier, somethin'? Because you don't like his big brother, don't like what you think I've been doin'?”

“Hey,”
Dell'Appa said, “take it easy, all right? You're the one, wants to get things straight here? Let
me
see if I can help
you
, pal. You're right. I followed you here today, just like Bob's done a lot, the past year, and unless something happens that I don't expect to see, I'll be following you tomorrow, too. On days, if there's a day, days, when you turn around and you don't see me sitting on your tail, well, you can safely assume those days I had some other bright idea, something else I thought of doing that might get me closer to you faster, 'n following you that day would've, and so I'm off doing that. Doing the very best I can to collect enough information about you so that some day, some day very soon, I'll have the pleasure of walking out of a grand jury room knowing in a day or so, by the end of the week, there's finally gonna be a warrant out on you, and the end of your illustrious career is on the way. In case you had any doubt in your mind, that is what I am doing. And I'm very good at what I do. You can ask any number of guys. You can find them all clustered in two or three places, run by the Department of Corrections.

“Now,” Dell'Appa said, “my guess would be that you're pretty much aware of this, that you knew what Brennan had in mind to do to you, and now that I'm behind you, in his place, what I've got in mind. I bet you don't like it, this little task we've set ourselves, or our bosses've set for us. I can even go so far as to sympathize a little bit with you: I don't mean weeping salt tears, or anything like that; just that I know I wouldn't like it either, I'd be annoyed too, if I had the law on my tail all the time. I wouldn't like it at all.

“But just the same, my friend, you know
why
I'm here, and it's not because I've got, or anybody else's got, a hard-on for your brother. You know who's to blame for all this unwelcome attention
you get. The guy that you shave every day and drive to this track twice a week. It's that Joe Mossi guy, Mister Mossi, sir; he is the one who's to blame. All the bad things he's done've reflected on you, and now you're paying the price for his deeds. You knew why Bob was on you before me, and you know why I'm on you now that Bob isn't. And that if you outlive or outlast me, someone else will show up in my place. Not because your brother got a bad break in this life. No, because of what you've done.

“And knowing that,” Dell'Appa said, “knowing that we're on you, every day, you still choose the places you visit. Which happens to be, in this instance at least, just in case you haven't noticed,
public
, you understand that? This here's a public place, and we've not only got as much right to be here as you, we've got a better one in fact, these here being state-licensed premises. So if you insist on privacy when you consort with known felons, and others not-as-yet-known, you picked the wrong venue to meet them. If you're serious about it, wanting us folks off your ass, you're gonna either have to join a snooty club, or else pick some business associates who don't mind if you're seen going into their offices. And also won't mind if we then decide to get warrants, to find out what you talk about there.”

Mossi did not say anything for what seemed like a very long time. Then he put his hands on the counter and stood up, very slowly. “You asked me about dogs,” he said.

“Well, you're here a lot,” Dell'Appa said. “You should know.”

“Error Kennel,” Mossi said, standing. “Any dog that's Error Kennel. Not always the class of the field, but always reliable dogs.”

“Era Kennel,” Dell'Appa said, “I would look for those dogs.”

“Willya lissen, for Christ sake, for just once in your life?” Mossi said, leaning. “Not ‘Era,' like in ‘E-R-A.' ‘Error,' awright? Like in baseball. Very good dogs, Error dogs. Good bloodlines and schooled right, the whole bit.”

“Okay, ‘Error,' ” Dell'Appa said. “Error Kennel, I mean.”

Mossi slapped both palms down on the counter. He heaved a great breath. “Yeah,” he said. “You got any more questions, here, kid?”

“Certainly,” Dell'Appa said, “sure. Are you blowin' smoke up my ass here?”

Mossi straightened up. He flapped his upper lip over his lower.
He let his hands hang at his sides. “Do me a favor, all right, kid? Just do me one simple favor. Talk to Bomber, okay? Ask him that question. The one that you just ask me there.”

“I don't know if I can do that,” Dell'Appa said.

Mossi played to an audience unseen. He shook his head. He rolled his eyes. He whooshed air out of his lungs. He leaned forward and put his hands down on the countertop again. “You're pissing me off here, all right?” he said. “You understand that one simple thing? You really are pissing me off. I don't want to do nothin', nothin' that hurts nobody, all right? I never did. You can ask Bomber. You got to learn here, how to do this, how to do things inna right way. Everyone else, except maybe you, we're all gettin' older here, fast.”

“You finished?” Dell'Appa said.

“Am I finished?” Mossi said. “
Yeah
, yeah, I'm finished, you asshole, all right?” He jabbed his right forefinger at Dell'Appa. “It's you,” he said, “
you're
the one here, that should worry about bein' finished. Whether he's finished or not yet, and should maybe get offa the pot. Go back and see Bomber again. Ask him what he thinks. Get yourself squared away here, you finally learn, how a man treats a man with
respect.
”

“What I'm saying,” Dell'Appa said softly, “all I'm trying to tell you here, is that I'd really like to do exactly what you say. As far as talking to Bomber, I mean, as far as that's concerned, yeah. But in the first place, I wouldn't be doing it
again
, like you suggest, because I've never done it
before.
And in the second …”

Mossi interrupted with another snort, rolling his eyes again and raising his hands. “Ahh,” he said, “no wonder then. Of course you're an asshole, an asshole for good. You're all of you assholes for good. And assholes're all that you'll ever be. Never talked to the Bomber at all.”

“Bomber retired before I came up,” Dell'Appa said. “I never worked under him, all right?”

“Well Jesus, for Christ sake,” Mossi said, “what difference does that make, I mean? He forgot how to talk once he retired? He move to the North Pole or somethin' and didn't get a phone line put in? He isn't dead, is he? No, he's not dead—I woulda heard if he was. One of the guys would've told me. Would've been a big party or something. Fireworks and drinks and a band. ‘Hey, Bomber Lawrence's
dead. I'm buyin' drinks for the house.' That's what alla the guys'd be sayin'.” He chuckled. “But no, no, there wasn't, wasn't no party like that. So then he's still alive, gotta be. And you can't go and see him, or somethin'?”

“No,” Dell'Appa said, “nothing like that. He's still right where he always was, summers at least, only now year around: with his wife down there on the Cape.”

“Well for Christ sake then, asshole,” Mossi said, “ask somebody who did work with him, give him a call, introduce you. Tell Bomber that you're this new asshole kid and Short Joey said you should see him. Bomber'll know who that is. He'll recognize my name right off.” Mossi nodded, agreeing physically with himself. “We go back a long way, Bomber and me. Bomber's one of my fans 'way back when. I was still gettin' fights around here. He maybe don't wanna see no more new cops now, now that he got retired—already seen all the assholes he ever wanted to meet, back when he hadda meet assholes. But he'll see
you
, if you tell him that. Use my name, just like I said. Tell him I said to give you some pointers.”

Dell'Appa sighed. “Look,” he said, “just shut up for a minute and listen to me here now, okay? It isn't because I didn't want to meet Bomber when I came in, or that I really wouldn't've liked to've talked to him since he retired. Just for the reasons you say. The guy's a national legend, all right? From Boston to Honolulu, every cop in the whole great big street-clothes world knows who you mean, you say: ‘Bomber said once,' they all listen. Maybe even bigger'n that, you think about it—the RCMPs and the Scotland Yard guys, the French Sureté know him too.

“So,” Dell'Appa said, “it's not as though I've avoided the guy, or don't think he could've taught me a lot. The point is, he can't now, on most days at least. Can't teach anyone now. The Bomber most days can't talk anymore. He can't remember, most of the time, either. The way I understand it, it's gotten to the point now, it's advanced so far, that most days he doesn't even
know
he doesn't know, anymore. Which I hope is true, because from everything I heard about the guy, it'd be absolute torture for him if he understood now what's happened.”

Mossi stared at him. “You're shittin' me, aren't you,” he said. “You've got to be shittin' me here, tellin' me that kind of shit.”

“No,” Dell'Appa said, “no, I'm not.”

“The Bomber's gone goofy,” Mossi said, “right? That
is
what you're tellin me, right? He lost all his marbles and stuff, got simple in his old age. He don't know his ass from third base anymore. You expect I'll believe shit like that?”

Dell'Appa shrugged again. “Doesn't matter to me, pal,” he said, “what matters is whether his wife does. His wife and his family there. And they
do
believe it, I know. They won't let anyone see him.”

Mossi nodded. “Okay then,” he said. “Yeah, that's okay. That'd explain a whole bunch of stuff.” He laughed like a big dog barking once. “He oughta come outta retirement,” he said, “like Sinatra there's always doin'. What is it they say? Oh, yeah, I remember: ‘That's him all right, forgotten but not gone.' That's what the Bomber should do now. He'd fit right in with you young assholes here, if he really don't know which end's up.

“Still, inna way,” Mossi said, “inna way it's kinda too bad, he doesn't know what's going on. Because if he did, it'd be good for him, because now at least, he would know. He'd know what it's like, to be someone like that, if he knew anything now, and knew that's what he is himself. And needs someone to look out for him.”

“It's an interesting approach,” Dennison said in his office the next morning. “We can do a paper on it for the next ‘Frontline' show on the Mafia, huh? ‘Confrontational Aversion: Strategic Surveillance Techniques,' something along that line.” He removed his Greek fisherman's black wool cap and gray stormcoat and hung them on the hook behind the door. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly as he went to his desk and sat down. “ ‘Our theory is that the best initiative for surveillance of the standard-issue stone killer is to get him all riled up as fast as we can. Coddling these chaps just doesn't work.' I can't say I ever heard of it before, and I'm not entirely sure I would've suggested it myself, approved it in advance if I'd been asked. But since I wasn't …”

“Well, but I didn't have that luxury,” Dell'Appa said. He sprawled in the chair facing Dennison's desk. “Of consultation, I mean. Bob didn't give me any inkling, any reason to expect, either when I talked to him or from reading his reports, that I was going to have the guy all of a sudden right there in my face, the first day I took the handoff. So it wasn't like I could've seen it coming and asked you what you thought I should do when he did it. I hadda improvise, make it up as I went along.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Dennison said, leafing through his messages, grimacing as he discarded them and picked up the handset of his telephone console. He punched in a two-digit number. He listened for about a minute before he replaced the phone in its cradle. He shook his head, his face showing sadness. “You know,” he said, “in my next life I am definitely going to have to give more thought to the decision of what to be when I grow up. I called the Great Bloviator yesterday afternoon, we finally started getting tapes that look like at long last we can grab Buddy Royal. Which if we can'll reduce the
E. coli
count of the human sea around us by at least, oh, say, six percent.”

“The guy that runs the chop-shop by the train station there?” Dell'Appa said. “Brennan says he's just a little piece of shit. Gave me a whole big song-and-dance about him yesterday morning, how he beat up his first wife and his second's the town's community-snatch; his friends're all laughin' at him, shootin' him birds all the time; and now, just to cap it off, sort of, his business's gone in the dumper. Guy's so hopeless he can't even get himself indicted for something respectable.”