The Punishing Game (15 page)

Boff and Damiano were leaning against his rental the next morning when Cullen and Bellucci came out of the gym after their workout. They walked down the steps and crossed the sidewalk.

“What’s up?” Cullen asked.

“We’re going to the Speckford Juvenile Center,” Boff said.

“Where’s that?”

“Albany.”

Cullen had heard of
Albany, but didn’t know where it was in the state. “Uhh, how far is that?” he asked.

“About a hundred and forty miles,” Damiano replied.

“Well, have a nice trip.” He waved bye-bye to Boff and turned to walk down the street with Bellucci.

“Danny, if you don’t come,” Boff said, as he walked around his car to the driver’s side and opened the door, “I won’t tell you what we dig up.”

Cullen just laughed that off. “Sure you will. You like to show me how brilliant you think you are.”

Boff shook his head. “Not this time. I mean it.”

Cullen frowned. Boff was, he knew, vindictive enough to really keep him in the dark. “Well,” he said, “at least give me one reason why this trip is necessary.”

Boff closed the car door without getting in. “Didn’t you take history in high school?” he said.

“Oh, man,” said Cullen, “is this going to be another one of your verbal detours?”

“I’m just trying to educate you because you never went to college.”

“Speaking of college,” Cullen said, “I looked up that diddly-squat school you went to. What did you major in there? Basket weaving?”

“Close. Basketball. With a minor in goofing off. Now…as I was about to say, things that happen in the present are often dictated by events in the past.”

“And that applies here how?” Cullen said.

Boff looked at Damiano. “Tell him.”

“If we know more about the kind of things these guys did when they were young,” Damiano began, “we might get a better handle on what they’re capable of doing today. Also, it will especially help to know how close, if at all, Biaggi was with Yusef.”

Cullen thought this over a moment. It made sense, but he wasn’t ready to give in. “It still seems like a long way to go for what could prove to be nothing.”

“Look at it this way,” Boff said. “We’ve got three guys who all served time together as kids. One of them is dead. The other two are suspects. Janine told us Nino had some kind of business deal going with Ricci before he was killed. Connect the dots! You’ll see this
is
a necessary trip.”

Cullen looked at Bellucci. “Maybe I should go. You wanna tag along—” 

“No,” said Damiano, “he doesn’t want to tag along.”

Bellucci put his hands on his hips and glared at Damiano. “What’s your problem, lady? Why are you always ragging on Mikey?”

Damiano merely turned her back and opened the passenger door. “This is my case,” she said over her shoulder. “I don’t want a juvenile delinquent interfering with it.”

Bellucci stepped forward. “That’s exactly why you
should
take Mikey along,” he said. “I spent time in juvenile centers. I know more about the way the system works on the inside than you do.”

Damiano looked at Boff. “Tell him no.”

When Boff said nothing, Damiano let out a sigh of frustration and got into the car, slamming the door behind her.

Bellucci high-fived Cullen. “Score a victory for Mikey! Let’s go.”

As Boff opened his door, got in, and turned on the ignition, Cullen and Bellucci climbed into the back seat.

Bellucci leaned forward. “Tough break, detective,” he chirped in Damiano’s ear.

As they started north on the New York State Thruway, Boff set his cruise control at exactly the posted speed limit of sixty-five. Before long, nearly every car was passing them.

“You know, if you drive faster,” Cullen said, “we might actually get there before tomorrow.”

“As you well know, Danny, I never break the law. Especially in a motor vehicle. I wouldn’t want to get a speeding ticket and have to give my hard-earned money to the state.” Boff turned to Damiano. “From what I understand, Speckford was a real hell hole when these guys were there.”

She nodded. “Yes, well at least until New York’s Department of Juvenile Justice was created in nineteen seventy-nine. Before DJJ took over, Speckford was notorious for drug-dealing on premises, sex offenses, and assaults on children and staff members.”

“Did you find out for me what Biaggi did to earn a vacation at Speckford?”

She nodded again. “A patrolman broke up a stickball game that Biaggi was playing in the street with a bunch of friends. One of Biaggi’s buddies got pissed about it and shoved the cop in the back. When the cop threw the kid to the ground and started poking him in the stomach with his baton, Biaggi grabbed the broom handle they’d been using as a bat and whacked the cop across the shoulders. Biaggi was charged with assault and battery.”

“First offense?”

“Yeah. But that didn’t matter. Assaulting a cop brings out the worst in judges. In his infinite wisdom, the judge sent a kid who’d never caused any trouble before to Speckford.”

At this point, Boff noticed that the car in front of him was going slower than he was. After checking his rear view mirror and blind spot, he put on his turn signal, pulled into the left lane, and began to slowly pass the other vehicle. Still going only sixty-five, he made the faster-moving cars on the two-lane highway stack up behind him. The driver in the car directly behind him beeped his horn and flashed high beams. Boff paid no attention and motored on. After what seemed like forever to his back seat passengers, he succeeded in getting nearly the length of a football field clear of the slower car before he felt it was safe to move back into the right lane. Drivers passing Boff now lowered their passenger windows and cursed at him. A couple of them gesticulated unkindly.

“Anyway,” Damiano said, “getting back to Speckford, DJJ gradually weeded out most of the bad apples among the correction officers. A few good guards were allowed to stay on. As you know, we won’t be allowed access to any juvenile detention records without a court order. But hopefully one of the guards who were there back then can help us.”

Cullen tapped Boff’s shoulder. “What do you think the business deal Nino proposed to Ricci was about?” he asked.

“No idea yet,” Boff said. “Although my gut feeling is that it had something to do with him getting killed.”

Cullen checked his watch. “How much further is it to
Albany?”

“Another forty minutes,” Boff replied.

Cullen groaned. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.”

At Speckford, the supervisor told them that the last of the guards who had worked there when Yusef, Ricci, and Biaggi were residents, had retired six years ago. But, he said, the former guard owned a bar in Rensselaer, which was just across the Hudson River from Albany.

Chris Vivion’s pub was on
a corner facing a police station on one side and a firehouse on the other. After Boff parked, they walked into the pub, which had exposed brick walls, a dozen or so tables, a dark wood bar, and six or seven customers, one sitting at the end of the bar.

As they sat on stools at the bar, a
portly bartender in his sixties wearing a white button down shirt with Kelly green suspenders walked over. “Hi there!” he said. “What can I get you folks?”

“We’re looking for Chris Vivion,” Damiano said.

The man used his thumb to snap one of his suspenders. “That’d be me. This here’s my pub.” He pointed to the beer taps. “We’ve got ten beers and ales and a couple microbrews. Our kitchen is basic American food, but it’s pretty darn good.”

Damiano showed her badge. “Vic Damiano,” she said.

Vivion studied the badge a moment, then nodded without expression. Boff reached across the bar to shake hands. “Frank M. Boff. I’m a private investigator.” He pointed at Bellucci. “This young man with the two-tone hair is Mikey Bellucci. And to my left is Danny Cullen.”

Vivion looked at Cullen. “Good Irish name,” he said. “Any relation to the late boxer, Dan Cullen?”

“He was my dad.”

Vivion’s eyes lit up. “Well, if that don’t beat all. Danny, I saw your pop fight in the Garden a couple times and of course on TV. A real crowd pleaser, he was.” He waved at one of the tables where two men were eating burgers and fries. “Hey Matt, Jimmy, this here’s Dan Cullen’s son.”

One of them looked up. “No kidding!”

As they stood up, walked over, and shook Cullen’s hand, Vivion pointed to the taller of the two men. “Danny, this is Detective Sergeant Matt Duddy. The guy next to him, who needs to shave off that ugly mustache, is Jimmy Belshaw, our fire captain.”

“Before I moved here,” the detective sergeant said, “I was with the Seventy-Seventh in Crown Heights. A bunch of us would go see your father fight whenever he was at the Garden.”

“Well,” said Damiano, “now it’s my turn to be surprised. I’m detective Vic Damiano. Seventy-Seventh Precinct.”

“No way,” Duddy said. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is you’re related to Captain George Damiano.”

“My old man.”

“Damn!” Duddy said. “We’ve got celebrities in the house. Chris, get them beers or sodas. Whatever they’re drinking. On me. Vic, your father was the finest police officer I’ve ever known. What’s he doing now?”

“Retired, living in
Boca Raton with my mom, and fishing off his own boat every chance he gets.”

“Good for him.”

The fire captain finally saw a chance to speak. “So what brings you guys up here?”

“A case involving three former residents of Speckford,” Damiano replied.

“Then you came to the right place. I guess you want to be alone with Chris. Good meeting you, folks.”

As the two men walked away, Vivion snapped his suspender again. “Four cokes?”

“Diet for me,” Cullen said.

Vivion poured the sodas, then pulled over a stool behind the bar and sat on it facing them. “We get some of the Speckford correction officers in here from time to time,” he said in a less public voice. “Different breed from when I was there, or I’d throw them out. My cook and weekend bartender are both former Speckford residents. Good men, I’m proud to say.”

Boff leaned forward. “I’m guessing you’re not as proud of James Simms and Sonny Ricci,” he said.

Vivion frowned and snapped his suspender twice. “The Little Mafia,” he spat out. “That’s what we called them back then. As I recall, there were four guys in the Little Mafia. Simms was the so-called Godfather. He was a mean, hard as nails kid. Ricci, well, he was always starting fights he couldn’t finish, so Simms had to come to his rescue. The boxer, Nino Biaggi, was in the gang, too, but he was basically a good kid. Never had no trouble with him.”

“If he was such a good kid,” Damiano said, “why’d he join the gang?”

Bellucci butted in. “Because it was the best way to survive his term, right, Chris?”

Vivion nodded. “Sounds like you have some experience in that area,” he said.

“Yup. I did a couple stretches in a
Bronx detention center. Joined a gang for the same reason Nino did. Other than a few fist fights, I didn’t get into any serious trouble. I’m betting Nino was the same way.”

“That’s correct,” Vivion said. “And of course he went on to become a boxing star.” He pointed to the wall perpendicular to the bar, where there was a framed autographed photo of Biaggi in a boxing pose. “Nino had this fight in
Albany. I caught up with him after, and he signed that picture. I was real sad when I read he got killed.”

He got up and poured himself a short beer, then came back and sat down again. “I understand Ricci’s a big-time promoter,” he said. He shook his head. “I never would’ve figured that piece of garbage for having a respectable job. I thought for sure he’d wind up in prison. What happened to Simms?”

“He got rich in the hip-hop industry,” Boff said, “and changed his name to Yusef Force.”

“Hip-hop? That’s rap, right?”

“Yes.”

“From what I’ve read about rappers, Simms would fit in with that crowd real nicely.” The bartender took a long hit on his beer, then set it down and narrowed his eyes. “Ricci and Simms must be in trouble. Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“We think they might be,” Boff said. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Simms is the one that puzzles me. He owns a record label and doesn’t sign gangsta rappers. He fashions himself as a poster boy for non-violence.”

Vivion laughed derisively, but he looked decidedly less amused as he leaned toward Boff. “A leopard can’t change his spots, Mr. Boff.”

“Maybe so,” Boff replied. “But Simms is in his forties now. In my line of work I’ve dealt with all kinds of criminals, and every once in a while you find one who turns his life around.”

Vivion shook his head. “Lemme tell you something, Mr. Boff. We had a lot of bad kids in that institution over the years. None worse than Simms.”

“How so?” Damiano asked.

“Drug dealing, gang rape, stealing—you name it, he did it. More than a few times, he knifed kids or took a pipe to them. We never could get the kids to squeal on Simms, though. They were too afraid of him. Especially after what Simms did to this one boy, Ricardo Vargas.” He picked up his beer again.