Cop Job (17 page)

S
O THE
next morning I was waiting at the front door of Sonny’s with a giant cup of French Vanilla in my hand and cobwebs woven inside my brain. I don’t really have a problem with mornings, it’s more about what happens the night before. And before you start making assumptions, too much sleep is usually the bigger problem. Give me six hours and a pot of coffee and I’m right as rain.

Bennie Gardella, on the other hand, looked like it was the middle of the day when he climbed out of a new Chevy Malibu wearing jeans, black T-shirt, and a lightweight nylon jacket you often saw on cops and punks from one of the families. His face might have been handsome to women who liked gaunt, angular features. He had all his hair, combed back Bobby Darin style, though it was mostly grey. He didn’t have to open his mouth for me to know what he sounded like, or what he thought about a variety of subjects. I knew the type completely, having hung around with them when I visited my father in the Bronx. He was me and I was him. At least on the outside.

He saw where I was standing and walked right up to me.

“Took you long enough,” he said.

“To do what?”

“You were here yesterday, talkin’ to Ronny. I figured you’d be here today.”

“You know a lot,” I said.

“I know you’re Sam Acquillo. Ross told me you’d be nosin’ around. I expected it sooner.”

“I got distracted. Somebody beat up my daughter in the city. She’s just coming out of it.”

“You know who did it? Oh, wait a minute. If you did, you’d already be in Rikers on a manslaughter charge. At best.”

He stood just outside of my reach with his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, his feet set apart in a ready stance. I stepped back far enough to lean against the outside wall of the gym, my hands in my jeans, awkward and vulnerable. His shoulders relaxed a little, but his eyes, light blue in a dark face, kept their stare.

“I’m too old for that stuff,” I said. “And not that stupid.”

“Those things go together.”

“Why were you leaning on Joey Wentworth?” I asked.

He worked his face into something like a smirk, or maybe a snarl, or maybe something in between.

“First off, I’m a police officer who doesn’t respond to questions from civilians. Secondly, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. And third, I am the last person on earth you want to fuck with. I read your file. I know your shit. It doesn’t impress me. I knew we were going to have a conversation. Consider this the one and only time.”

“So you’re not really here to work on Southampton’s record keeping. Too bad. Probably could’ve used some sprucing up.”

He shoved by me and tried the door handle. It was locked. He looked around as if expecting Ronny to leap out from some hiding place.

“Ross brought you in because something’s going down in his operation that he doesn’t trust anyone on the inside to deal with. You’re the go-to. The star player from the glory days.”

Gardella just looked at me, enjoying his own silence, his own cocky defiance. I kept on anyway.

“That’s good,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be some help. Just don’t get in the way. It’s hard enough without some flatfoot cop gumming up the works.”

He gave his head a little shake, as if trying to clear his ears. As if he wasn’t sure he just heard what he heard.

“Don’t push it, Acquillo.”

“Push what? Alfie Aldergreen was probably killed for being a snitch. Like Joey Wentworth. They knew each other. Buddies, even. Did you know that?”

“Not my jurisdiction. I’m in record keeping.”

Ronny pulled up, in a Japanese roadster that rocked a little when he got out, keys in hand. He opened the door to the gym and I watched Gardella go in, but I didn’t bother to go in myself. I had what I wanted. For now.

L
IONEL
V
ECKSTROM
stood between the big white columns on the steps of Southampton Town Hall when he formally announced his candidacy for district attorney of Suffolk County. He made the case that only an experienced police detective really knew the dark inner workings of the DA’s office, yet only an outsider, politically, would be able to effect the drastic reforms he believed were required. He also managed to cite his law degree and five years working for the DA in Manhattan, something I hadn’t known, as further credentials in support of his candidacy.

His wife, Lacey, stood at his side, reinforcing another credential, his ability to outspend the other candidate. She seemed ready and eager to jump millions into the fray.

In a statement released to the media, Edith Madison responded by calling Veckstrom a distinguished police officer, an honorable servant of the people of Suffolk County, and a worthy opponent. Somewhere in the fine print she also proffered the hope that more people vote for her than her opponent so she could continue in the office she had effectively managed through a half-dozen terms.

You wouldn’t exactly call it a barn-burner defense of her candidacy.

I got to watch it all on TV at Burton’s house, where I met up with Jackie and her boyfriend, Harry Goodlander, for the occasion. Neither Amanda nor I had a TV, so it was a novel experience. What Burton had was more like a small movie screen in what’s known as a home theater, though his was barely distinguishable from the real thing. He’d built the room and installed all the equipment himself, so the motivation was more about projects than pretense, since Burton was the least pretentious super rich guy I knew.

A bit younger than me, with a weathered but handsome Waspy face and the type of brown hair that inflicted the term boyish, Burton Lewis was a big disappointment to women everywhere and an aspiration to every gay man. Wary as he was of gold diggers of all persuasions, he’d still had a few satisfying relationships, though at that moment he was on his own.

Amanda was still in the city, alternating visits to Allison with Abby. She’d told me that Allison mumbled something, so she decided to hang in there for another few days in the hope she’d hear some coherent words. I expressed the hope they’d be the name of the bastard who did this to her, and Amanda said I’d be the first to know.

After the political TV was over, Burton and his guests all went up to a big room with removable glass walls, tile floor, and two paddle fans languorously turning in the ceiling. Burton’s housekeeper, Isabella, had rolled out an industrial-sized chrome cart stocked with enough food to sustain us for the rest of the summer.

“Do you think he has a chance?” Jackie asked Burton, when everyone but Harry was settled on the heavily cushioned wrought iron furniture. Harry was still piling assorted meats on a plate, forgivable given his colossal size.

“Better than others in the race,” he said.

“Better than Edith?”

“Possibly. She’s never had to actually campaign before. Finds the whole thing tremendously distasteful. I can’t blame her, but it is an elected office. Campaigning comes with the territory.”

“Veckstrom seems to think she hasn’t run a very tight ship,” said Harry, joining us in the seating circle.

“Who knows what he really thinks,” said Jackie. “He’ll say what he needs to win. I’m no fan of Edith Madison, who considers defense attorneys a notch or two below rabid vermin, but I can’t say she’s been a lousy DA.”

“How long do you think she can keep it a secret that all three people just murdered in Southampton were confidential informants?” I asked Jackie.

“I can’t see how that would be much help for Veckstrom, either,” she said.

“Unless he solves the case, or cases,” said Burton. “Given the timing of the election, and the usual period for a big case to go to trial, he might get to prosecute as well.”

“If he figures out who killed Alfie, I’ll vote for him,” I said.

“So no progress there,” said Burton.

“Not sure, Burt,” I said. “Alfie himself thought the cops were after him. Joey Wentworth was worried about Greeks, and it turns out an undercover from Ross’s days in the South Bronx is embedded in the Town police force. They call him ‘The Greek.’ Sullivan was with me when I found out.”

Burton didn’t like the sound of that.

“Joe needs to be discreet,” he said.

“I’ve got him busy with a cop in the city. Keep him out of trouble for the time being.”

“He’s not in a good way,” said Jackie. “It’s worrisome.”

“Loss of a spouse, however shrewish, can be unsettling,” said Burton. “Compounded by a loss of faith in his own police force, his only stabilizing influence.”

“Except for Sam,” said Harry. Everyone looked over at him. “Sam can be a good influence,” he added, somewhat defensively.

Burton took that moment to ask if everyone had adequate refreshment.

“But you’re happy with Detective Fenton,” said Jackie, moving things along.

“I am,” I said. “He’s the kind of cop who likes to chew on a bone.”

“Allison may simply identify the perpetrator when she comes to,” said Burton.

“She might,” I said. “Amanda will be there for that. I asked her to tell me, then Fenton, with the hope that he gets to the guy before I do.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” said Jackie.

“Nobody’s joking,” I said.

Burton cleared his throat, ever the conciliator.

“Has anyone interviewed people connected to Lilly Fremouth, the third CI?” he asked.

“I’m having trouble there,” said Jackie. “With Sullivan out and Veckstrom in the lead role, I’ve got to be a little careful. I know it’s not like me, but I’m worried about Prick Cop with this campaign thing. If he wants to get political, I’m a sitting duck.”

“Maybe I should pay a call,” said Burton.

“That’s good of you, Burt,” I said, “but let me. I can’t get any worse with Veckstrom.”

“Very well,” he said. “But don’t forget, I’m always available for assignment.”

“We won’t,” said Jackie, who would rather sever one of her limbs than put Burton in a dangerous situation. “I’ll go with Sam. Between the two of us, we may manage not to fuck it up.”

“There’s that can-do attitude,” said Burton.

With little settled, but comfortably sedated by food and drink, I went home to the cottage on the Little Peconic and the dog, who held no rancor toward me for leaving him when I went into the city. In fact when I came home, he seemed glad to have me back. I’d say the easy forgiveness of dogs is one of their finer qualities if Eddie didn’t occasionally resent my decision to rot in an Adirondack chair and stare at the water instead of hitting golf balls on the beach for him to chase and triumphantly return.

That night he likely sensed that rotting in the Adirondacks was the only option, so he joined me, lying shoved up against my feet and acting like this was a source of great contentment.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

I
had to go into the Village the next day to buy some weird little fasteners you can only buy from the hardware store on Main Street. After several years in the construction trade in Southampton, I’d begun to think the place stocked at least one of everything that has ever been made.

First, though, I stopped at the coffee place on the corner to resupply my giant travel mug drained on the ten-minute trip from the cottage. The shop was packed with the usual summer crowd, but I practiced patience and forbearance and got out of there after only growling at one young jerk in an exercise outfit who was too occupied with his smartphone to avoid bumping into me.

At the hardware store, I caught up with the various Latinos, Poles, and craggy old Anglos who worked the place, suggesting that my five-dollar sale likely assured the owner’s mortgage that month.

From there I walked across the street toward the bank and got hit by a big white van.

I was at the crosswalk, where an urgent sign in the middle of the road should have provided enough warning to the driver, and in fact, I saw him slow down as he approached. But then a woman behind me on the sidewalk started losing control of the little dog she was holding. Her insistent commands and the dog’s yelping pulled my attention away and by the time I looked forward again the van was right on top of me. I jumped back, literally, but too late to avoid getting clipped by the big truck’s left fender.

Even at low speed, the ballistic energy of a multiton vehicle is a lot more than the average human body is built to withstand. Even if you spend as much time in the gym as I do.

I spun like a skating routine gone terribly wrong and landed hard enough to hear the crack of my jaw as it hit the pavement. I’d been punched there a few times during my boxing career, but it didn’t prepare me for the shock to the brain and special effects that lit up before my eyes. My elbows and knees were also involved, though I was more interested at that point in staying out from under the wheels of the truck. I heard screams from the sidewalk and the screech of tires. And somebody yelling “son of a bitch,” though I think that was me.

When I stopped rolling I was hard against the curb. I looked up and saw a bunch of people staring down at me saying things like, “Is he dead?” One of the faces got a lot closer, and I recognized him as the driver. Jaybo Flynn, Jimmy Watruss’s young buddy driving Mad Martha’s refrigerated fish van.

“Holy shit, Sam, I’m so fucking sorry,” he was screaming. “Are you okay? Oh man, somebody call an ambulance. My fucking foot slipped. Jesus Christ, are you dead?”

“I’m not dead, Jaybo,” I said, pulling myself up. “I’m not even all that hurt, unless this blood means something.”

I looked at the red smear on my hand that came from feeling around my chin.

“Jimmy’s gonna fucking kill me,” said Jaybo. “I’m not even drunk.”

“He’s not going to kill you,” I said, trying with some help from Jaybo and the other gawkers to get up on my feet. “Though I might.”

“I don’t know what happened. I thought I was hitting the brake and I hit the accelerator instead. It’s not my truck.”

Jaybo had another guy in the truck with him who looked even more shook up than Jaybo.

“That’s totally what happened, man,” the guy said.

“Forget about it,” I said. “I should’ve been more careful.”

The crowd tried to help me to one of the park benches that line Main Street, but I shook them off and got there on my own power. I was suddenly aware that my ribs where the van hit were burning, and I knew I’d be pretty sore in a few hours, but thought everything else was still in working order. No breaks or strains among the moveable parts.