The Heart of an Assassin (6 page)

The gang of boys stared at the Fat Man and
then backed up without saying a word. When they were a safe
distance away, one of the bigger gang members remarked that the Fat
Man had better watch what he was saying. The Fat Man responded in
kind with, “Go home to your father and mother ’fore I go over there
and kick their asses. Stay off this street. You hear, you
asses?”

The gang moved on, looking back every once in
a while to see if the Fat Man was following, saying something about
how he shouldn’t have messed with the Black Aces. A minute later,
Uncle Ted, the Fat Man, and the boys were laughing hysterically. A
few minutes after that, everything was back to normal. The kids
were playing their stickball, Uncle Ted was on his stoop, and the
Fat Man was on his. Everything was back to normal, for the last
time.

After dinner, Tyler went back downstairs. It
was a cloudless day, and there was a cool breeze as the sun began
to set. Most of the boys were there, sitting on the stoop,
chatting, and simply enjoying the night air. Again they saw Mr. Tim
Goldman leave with his camera and an attaché case. He nodded at the
boys and ruffled Tyler’s hair a bit as he passed.

“Wonder where he’s off to,” Charlie
commented.

“Probably going to take more pictures and do
some work saving people money,” Tyler responded.

After a while, Tyler’s mom came downstairs
and joined them on the stoop. It was a beautiful peaceful
night.

As usual, the ice cream truck came around
6:00 p.m. This time it was the Fat Man who offered to buy the ice
cream. The kids were beginning to think there was a competition
between the two men about who the kids liked most.

As they sat on the stoop enjoying their ice
cream, they heard a screeching of tires from the other end of the
block. Everyone stood up so that they could have a better look. A
car was racing down the street toward them. The Fat Man immediately
got off the stoop and walked toward the center of the street. As
the car approached, he could see what appeared to be guns sticking
out of the windows. “Get down!” he screamed as the car raced toward
them.

Someone from inside the car fired at the Fat
Man, hitting him in the chest. Lefty, who was driving, saw Uncle
Ted coming down the block and floored the car in his direction. As
the car hit Uncle Ted, it veered to the other side, hitting two or
three parked cars. In the meantime, everyone had ducked for cover.
Within a few seconds, it was all over.

Tyler lay on the ground; his mother lay on
the sidewalk near him. Slowly they began to get up and look around.
The Fat Man’s wound proved fatal. Uncle Ted sustained a broken
collarbone and leg.

The kids looked around. Tyler looked toward
where his mom still lay. “Mom, it’s okay, they’re gone,” he shouted
to her. “Mom, get up.”

In a second, he was by her side. Turning her
over, he could see that she had been shot. “Mom!” screamed Tyler.
“Mom, get up. Please, please, Mom, get up.” She had been shot in
the chest.

Sylvia looked up at Tyler and smiled. “It
will be all right, baby. Don’t cry. It will be all right,” and she
took her last breath. Tyler held her head on his lap. He cried,
“Nooooo. . .No . . . No . . .Noooooooo!”

July
8, 1964 (7:00 p.m.-7:00 a.m.)

Tyler could not hear the sirens in the
background, nor feel the cool breeze in the air. Tears continued to
pour from Tyler as they took his mother away in the ambulance.

Sitting in the back of a police car, Tyler,
through blurry eyes, could see Nick Costello across the street,
staring at him with cold, hard eyes. It would be a sight that Tyler
would remember years later.

Nick arrived shortly after the police got
there and heard Uncle Ted telling the story of what had happened
earlier in the day, and that he thought it was the kids who
belonged to a gang on the next street, who called themselves the
Black Aces. Nick’s smile was gone His fists were clenched as he
visualized what had happened, pledging to young Tyler that this
deed would not go unpunished.

Nick waited until the police had left and for
most of the people to return to their homes before walking slowly
across the street to his apartment. When he got there, he filled
his duffle bag with his belongings and disappeared into the
night.

Tyler sat alone in an interrogation room at
the local precinct. Though a couple of officers came in to check on
him, asking him if he needed anything, Tyler never responded. He
sat still, looking at the table in front of him, replaying what had
happened to his mother, over and over again. Hoping it was a dream
that could not be true, a nightmare, but knowing that it was not,
Tyler prayed for a miracle. He knew that because of him, she was
dead. Because he wasn’t fast enough, because he was playing with
his friends and not watching over his mother, she was dead. His
heart exploded in his chest. Grief, turning to rage, finally
consumed him with hopelessness. He deserved to lose her. He should
have protected her. He should’ve done something, but he didn’t. The
warmth had gone out of his life.

Someone entered the room. Tyler did not look
up, not even when the officer sat down next to him.

“Hello, Tyler. It’s been a couple of years
since we’ve seen each other. Do you remember?” Tyler looked up at
the officer now and suddenly realized it was his uncle George from
Queens. The tears welled up, and Tyler grabbed for him. They hugged
for a long time, with Tyler letting it all out, sobbing louder as
he told his uncle how his mother died.

“It’s okay, Tyler. There was nothing you
could do. We are going to get those sons of bitches. I promise you.
We are going to get them for what they did to my little sister. I
personally will blow their fuckin’ heads off. I promise. I swear on
her grave that they will not get away with this,” George said with
anger in his voice. “You are going to come home with me and live
with us in Queens. Is that okay with you?” Tyler simply stared and
then nodded, realizing then that he couldn’t go home again. That
Mom wouldn’t be there to cook him his favorite dinner, or play
scrabble with him, or help him with his homework. Tears streamed
down his cheek as he thought about all these things.

July
8, 1964

George Santiago had been a police officer for
fifteen years. He was streetwise and was quite capable of carrying
his own. Other officers respected and loved him as he had proven
himself time and time again. He didn’t take any crap from anyone,
and those on his beat respected him. He never abused or used those
people. He was honor bound to serve and protect. Accompanying him
to the precinct were two fellow officers, Judy Goldstein and Jerry
Mathews. They too were veterans of New York’s finest
.

Congregating in the precinct’s conference
room, the officers, all anxious to help a fellow officer, brought
George up to date on what they knew. They all expressed their
sympathy and promised to bring these punks to justice. As they
waited for the paperwork, they collaborated on what each knew about
the Black Aces. They had already had encounters with the gang, but
fear on the streets provided silence and anonymity. They knew the
gang hung between 110th and 123rd streets and that they were
involved with drugs.

Several hours had passed as the officers
prepared for the sting that would round up all of the members.
Their only witness had been rushed to a nearby hospital and placed
under protective custody.

“We’re heading out to the scene where we
believe the gang has a hang out, and we want you to tag along,”
stated one of the local officers to George. George looked up at
them, his heart pounding with a strong desire to rush out with
them. But he knew this was no good. That he couldn’t lead the
charge with the hate that consumed him.

“No, no, I have to take care of my nephew. He
needs me now,” George responded. “Would you allow my partners to go
in my place?” George asked.

“Sure, sure, of course,” the senior officers
replied.

“Let’s go then. Let’s go and clean up the
garbage.”

Over twenty-two officers exited the precinct
to nine awaiting cars. The sirens could be heard a mile down the
road as they approached St. Nicholas from both ends. Three cars
parked at 110th and St. Nicolas while the other cars came in at
127th street and St. Nicolas. They silenced the sirens and began
combing the neighborhood as they made their way toward 118th street
where it was believed the gang’s headquarters were.

Though it was 5:00 a.m., the sirens brought a
few people onto the streets, hesitantly providing them with
information as to where the gang hung out. The cars silently pulled
up on both sides of the street just outside of the apartment
building.

Quietly moving down the alleyway, the police
made their way into the entryway. All had their guns drawn. Most of
them wishing that just one of the gang bangers open fire so that
they would have an excuse to take them out, once and for all. But
that didn’t happen. As they went from apartment to apartment, they
found nothing. No one was there. They found drugs, an arsenal of
guns hidden in the walls, but no gang members could be located.

The search continued well into the next night
and into the next morning without so much as a hint as to where
they might have gone. Not wanting to return to the precinct, the
small army of cops continued their search, expanding it over two
miles into the surrounding area. Nothing, they had nothing to show
for the long hours. This was not just a punk gang. They were
organized with options, alternatives, and plans. They picked up and
moved to another location with business as usual.

“We underestimated how well organized this
young gang is,” said Judy Goldstein.

Finally, after twenty-seven hours, they
called it quits and started back to the precinct. Tyler and his
uncle George had already left for Queens by the time Judy and the
officers returned to the precinct.

Several officers slumped into their chairs
exhausted and feeling defeated. “It doesn’t make any sense,”
commented Judy. “Where the hell did they go?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now because sooner
or later they’re going to turn up, and we’ll be waiting for them,”
said one of the detectives.

It was 6:00 a.m. when George called to get a
status report. Judy spoke to him for over an hour as he drilled her
for more details on their search for the Black Aces. When it was
over, George walked over to his kitchen and poured himself a cup of
coffee while he pondered all of what Judy told him.

They must have gotten word that the cops were
looking for them and have split. But where could they have gone?
They’re a local gang, with no place to go. Where would they go?
Where? They must have help from family, or they’re just connected.
They may think they’re untouchable, but they just fucked with the
wrong man. They changed my nephew’s life forever.

George thought back to Judy’s last words,
“One more thing. The witness, who was taken to the hospital, is now
a homicide.” George sat in silence as he listened to the details in
disbelief. He knew the police did what they could. He also knew
that they were taken away from another case involving a mob killing
downtown; someone rubbed out Bolnaldo Costellino, head of the
Costellino family. They were simply stretched too thin. Some day
he’d find the truth. Just not today, George thought.

July
9, 1964 (1:00-5:00 a.m.)

Earlier Uncle Ted had been rushed to Mt.
Sinai Hospital where his wounds were attended to. The doctors
placed a cast on his left leg and stabilized his collarbone by
encasing him in an upper body cast. Officers had accompanied the
ambulance and waited outside the operating room and then
accompanied the patient to his recovery room. They stationed
themselves outside of the door. Their orders were simple: guard
this witness until we get a positive identification.

Around 1:00 a.m. another officer arrived to
relieve them. They filled him in on what was going on and advised
him that they would be back in eight hours to resume their post.
“No problem. Make sure you bring me some coffee” said the cop.

Five minutes later, the officer stepped into
Uncle Ted’s recovery room and put a bullet in his head. Half an
hour later, the same officer walked to a nearby police station,
stole a police van, and headed uptown toward St. Nicholas. By 2:00
a.m. he was at the hideout of the Black Aces.

He picked the lock on the door and let
himself in. Several members were awake as he approached. “Listen
up! My name is Malco Lombardi,” he shouted. “I am here to warn you
that the cops are on their way. You left a fuckin’ witness! I work
for the Costellino family, and they ordered me to get you out.”

“What the hell!” Jose, one of the gang
members, shouted.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked, Blackie, the
gang leader.

“Like I said, I am just a messenger,” replied
Malco. “If you want to settle it on your own, then good-bye,” Malco
continued.

“Hold on, hold on. Why should we trust you?”
Blackie inquired.

“You’re a fuckin’ cop,” Jose remarked.

“I am not a cop, just dressed like one, so
that I could steal one of their vans,” the cop impersonator
responded. “Hey, it doesn’t matter to me. I am just following
orders, doing my job. I don’t need this, and I sure don’t want to
be here when the cops arrive. You killed a cop’s sister, and you’re
going down.”

“What you talking about, man, what cop
broad?” asked Blackie.

“Hey, I don’t have time to explain, so either
you come with me or settle it on your own. The family gave me five
thousand for myself and twenty-five thousand for you,” the stranger
continued.