The Punishing Game (18 page)

Alphonso Biaggi, Nino’s older brother, lived in a three-story brownstone with a basement garage in Park Slope. Because there was a car parked in the driveway, Boff had to drive around for ten minutes before he found a space three blocks from Biaggi’s house.

Biaggi opened the door as soon as Boff knocked, shook Boff’s and Cullen’s hands, and stood aside so they could enter. “I hope you have some good news about finding my brother’s killer,” he said.

“We’re working on it,” Boff said.

Biaggi led them through the living room to a large, ultra-modern kitchen. From the looks of it, Boff figured it must have been renovated recently. Everything appeared to be new, including a large butcher block table in the center of the room that didn’t have a scratch or a stain on it. Overhead was a steel-framed pot rack hung with shiny pots, pans, and utensils.

“Sit and I’ll get you some coffee,” Biaggi said. “How do you like it?”

“Cream no sugar,” Boff said.

“Just a diet soda for me, if you have it,” Cullen said.

Boff had trouble fitting his long legs under the table so he sat sidesaddle. “Nice kitchen,” he said. “It looks pretty new.”

“It is.” Biaggi brought over a tray with two mugs of coffee, a creamer, and can of Diet Pepsi. “I enjoy cooking so much, I decided to treat myself and have it renovated.”

“That must’ve cost you a pretty penny,” Boff said as he picked up his mug.

“Yes, but it was worth it. When Nino and I were kids, all we ever had was the bare necessities. It’s a source of pleasure for me now to be able to buy nice things.” Biaggi sipped his coffee. “Until my brother’s death, I was a very happy man. Now…well, my life feels incomplete. If there’s any way I can help, please ask.”

“I just have a few questions,” Boff said. “This won’t take long.”

“Take as long as you need.”

“From what I understand,” Boff began, “Nino had hoped to build a new gym in a Red Hook warehouse.”

“Yes. I had one picked out for him at a relatively good price.”

“Janine said Nino asked Sonny Ricci for a loan to put a down payment on it. She said Ricci wouldn’t give it to him.”

Biaggi set his mug down. “Let me tell you something about Sonny. He’s a loyal friend when it suits him. When it doesn’t….” Biaggi shrugged. “Sonny cried poverty.”

“Janine told me that,” Boff said. “So after Ricci turned him down, Nino basically gave up the gym idea?”

Biaggi shook his head. “No, Nino never quit on his dream. When Sonny said no, I stepped in to try and help.”

“How so?”

“After eight years as Borough President, I have many friends in the business community. I had lined up some potential investors. Two were very close to putting up the funding just before Nino was killed.”

“Janine also told me that Nino later proposed some kind of new deal to Ricci. This time Ricci apparently got on board. But whatever the deal was, it seems to have fallen apart shortly before he was killed. Nino apparently blamed Ricci for that. But he never told Janine what had happened between him and Ricci. Do you know anything about that?”

Biaggi shook his head again. “I wish I did. As fate would have it, I was very busy at the time working out details with Community Board Six over construction of a high-rise apartment complex in Atlantic Yards. I didn’t see Nino most of that time. I have no idea if he had a deal going with Sonny, or why he was angry at him.”

Boff took out a pad and pen. “Could you give me the address of the warehouse?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Just curious to see it.”

“One twenty-six Richards Street.”

Boff scribbled the address on his pad. “Do you know which realtor handles the listing?”

“Sisco & Palermo. Talk to Annie Palermo. She and I grew up together.”

Boff drained his coffee, Cullen set his can of
Diet Pepsi down, and then they slid off their stools.

“Thanks for seeing us,” Boff said.

“Anytime I can be of help, call me.”

As Biaggi walked with them to the front door, he turned to Cullen. “Danny, I understand you had some trouble at the gym and Mikey Bellucci got hurt. I’m going to make sure there’s a police presence outside the gym during the hours it’s open. Can I borrow your pen, Mr. Boff?”

Boff handed it to him, and Biaggi took a business card out of his wallet, wrote on the back, and gave card and pen to Boff.

“Next time you don’t need to go through my secretary. Just call me direct. That’s my home phone and cell.”

“Thanks again.”

On the walk back to the car, Boff said, “Did anything Alphonso said bother you?”

Cullen gave it some thought. “Well, from what we know, after Ricci turned Nino down, he later signed on board. So we’re assuming Ricci somehow had raised the money. But Alphonso says he was the one raising the money. And I got the distinct impression that he wouldn’t have included Ricci on any deal he made.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“So maybe Nino’s business with Ricci was something different than what Alphonso was working on?”

“Perhaps.”

“What are you thinking?” Cullen said.

“What do I always tell you about the Dark Side?”

“Things aren’t always what they appear to be.”

“I think that might be the case here.”

Waiting for Cullen to finish his morning workout, Boff leaned against a wall of the gym and looked around. New windows had replaced the plywood, allowing sunlight to flood in again. The gym was hot as hell. He was hoping McAlary would give Cullen a break when he finished doing nine hard rounds of sparring.

But the trainer, who had watched the sparring from inside the ring, had something else in mind. At his signal, Alonzo and Sierra hauled over a huge truck tire, pushed it through the ropes, climbed up into the ring, and slid it to the center in front of Cullen, who looked at it and frowned.

“What’s the tire for?”

Ignoring the question, McAlary reached through the ropes, took the sledgehammer handed him, and handed it to Cullen.

“Make like you’re the legendary John Henry,” he said. “Pounding spikes on the railroad. By the way, that’s a twenty-pound hammer. Same size Mr. Henry used.”

Cullen felt like using the sledgehammer on his trainer. “Exactly
what
am I supposed to do with this stupid thing?”

McAlary pointed to the tire, raised an imaginary sledgehammer over his head, and brought it down on the tire. Cullen got it. With a frown, he began using the real sledgehammer. After about ten whacks he stopped.

“How long do I have to do this?”

“Till I tell you to stop. Then you’ll go five extra minutes for grumbling about it.”

By the time McAlary let Cullen stop pounding the tire, the boxer’s arms felt like they were made of lead. Dropping the hammer, Cullen climbed out of the ring and walked over to Boff.

“Nice work with the hammer,” Boff said. “If you crap out as a boxer, you can get a job pounding steel for Conrail.”

The Sisco & Palermo Real Estate Agency was on
Van Brunt Street, Red Hook’s main drag in a working class neighborhood showing signs of gentrification. There were a few upscale restaurants and bistros with tables outside, a wine specialty shop, and a boutique bakery. But Boff also noticed signs of a growth slowdown: a French restaurant was closed and had a
For Rent
sign in the window, as did a sushi place. And of the four bars they passed, only two had their neon signs on.

He pulled his rental into a metered space near the agency, then took a quarter out of his pocket. Walking over to the meter, he stuck it halfway in and left it there, half in, half out.

“What the hell are you doing?” Cullen said. “Put the damn quarter in and let’s go.”

Ignoring him, Boff began whistling. He stood there like that for about a minute, idly watching traffic go by until the meter screen suddenly went haywire. The EXPIRED sign changed to OUT OF ORDER. Boff smiled and pocketed his quarter.

“Partially inserting a quarter,” he said, “is like foreplay without ejaculating for the meter. It gets a bad case of blue balls.” He slapped his pocket. “Let’s go in.”

“What if they give you a parking ticket? That’s a lot more than a quarter.”

“They can’t. According to the city’s official website, you can park for up to one hour if a meter is broken.”

Cullen laughed despite himself. “Only you would bother to look up something like that just to save a quarter.”

As they entered the agency, they saw a man and a woman sitting at desks, both on the phone. The man was so obese he looked like he had swallowed the tire Cullen had been pounding earlier that morning, but the woman was an attractive blond in her fifties with a Hillary Clinton straight hairdo.

Boff and Cullen stood just inside the front door until the woman was off the phone. Then she smiled as she waved them over.

“Hi. I’m Annie Palermo.”

“Frank M. Boff and Danny Cullen.”

Palermo nodded. “Alphonso called and said you might be coming by. Pull up a chair, both of you.”

“Alphonso told us you grew up together,” Boff said.

“Yes. He’s a wonderful man. He’s done so much for Brooklyn. He had high hopes for Red Hook, but, well….”

“Looks like the gentrification didn’t completely take,” Boff ventured.

She forced a laugh. “Just a temporary set-back. The recession hit everybody hard. A lot of potential buyers were also put off because the nearest subway station is a fifteen-minute walk and bus service to the trains is limited. Still, Red Hook is one of the last areas in Brooklyn—maybe all of New York—that hasn’t been fully gentrified. They’ll come back. You’ll see. Say, did you guys ever see the Kevin Costner movie,
Field of Dreams
?” When Cullen nodded, she said, “Well, I like to think that in Red Hook, if you build a condo, they’ll come.”

The fat agent, Don Sisco, finished his call, stood up, and turned to his partner.  “I’m going to the bakery. You want anything?”

“I’m fine, Donnie. How about you guys?”

“A chocolate éclair would be great,” Boff said.

“Do they make sandwiches?” Cullen asked. “I’m starving.”

“What kind do you want?”

“Double thick roast beef with loads of ketchup.”

Sisco shook his head. “Sorry, buddy,” he said. “This is the
new
Red Hook. The bakery only makes vegetarian sandwiches now. How about a yummy BLT—minus the bacon—with alfalfa sprouts, toasted tofu, and organic tomato on whole grain bread?”

Cullen shrugged. “Whatever. Thanks, Donnie.”

The agent spread his hands around his enormous belly. “Me, I don’t eat nuts and twigs kinda food. I go there strictly for the pastry. I’m a pastry fanatic.”

Boff smiled. “I never would have guessed.”

Sisco laughed. “Look, kid, I pass a Blimpie on the way, I’ll get you a real sandwich, okay?”

“That’d be great.”

The fat agent waddled out of the store.

“Coffee?” Annie Palermo asked.

“Cream, no sugar,” Boff replied. “Diet soda for my friend. He’s in training, so he watches his calories.”

She walked to an alcove behind the desks with a small refrigerator and coffeemaker. “Training for what?”

“I’m a boxer.”

“That how you knew Nino?”

“Ryan McAlary is my trainer.”

“Ryan was a terrific fighter,” she said. “I have DVDs of Nino’s three fights with him.”

As she returned with the coffee and a Diet Sprite, her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, let it go to voice mail, and sat back down. “Alphonso wanted so much to get that new gym for his brother,” she said. “He was close to raising the money right before poor Nino was killed.” She shook her head and sighed. “What a senseless tragedy.”

“Tell me about the warehouse,” Boff said.

She got up again, went to a cabinet, and searched in it until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a file and carried it back to her desk, then pulled out a photo, which she handed to Boff.

“That’s the property Nino was interested in,” she said. “It has five thousand square feet, twenty-foot ceilings, and a motorized roll-up gate. There’s a small office in the back, a restroom, and a fueling tank underground. It also has a dirt parking lot that Nino was hoping to build an addition to the building on.”

“How much are they asking?” Boff said.

“A million-five. Fifteen years ago, you coulda gotten the whole block for that kind of money. Gentrification is good for people like me, Mr. Boff, but not necessarily for the city. It’s losing its diversity.”

“What are the chances of us seeing the property?”

She worked on her computer a minute. “I’ve got an hour before I have to show an apartment. I’ll call Donnie and have him bring the food to the warehouse.”