The Punishing Game (25 page)

This time when Boff met DEA agent Marty Schlossberg on the same bench in front of the New York Public Library, Schlossberg was eating a greasy sausage and peppers on an Italian roll. When the agent didn’t hand him a sausage as he sat down, Boff gave him a hard stare.

“Where’s mine?”

“You can buy one at the pushcart. Why are you ruining my lunch again?”

“Marty, my friend, is that any way to greet a man who comes bearing gifts?”

As Schlossberg continued eating without saying anything, Boff said, “Your arteries must look like a clogged-up sewer.”

“Don’t lecture me. You eat the same shit I do.”

“True. But I’m such a low key guy that my stress level is probably one eighth of yours.”

“That’s because I have a conscience. So what’s the gift?”

Cullen was three weeks out from his big fight and in the best shape of his life. Before he went to his afternoon workout, he stopped at a church to talk to his father, dead ten years now.

On the walk from the church to the gym, Cullen thought about what he was doing with Boff. He
had been telling himself he was only working with the investigator again as a way of repaying McAlary for all he’d done for him. True, to an extent. But there was, he had to admit, more to it than that. At some point Cullen had realized he sort of liked investigating crime. With Boff, he got the chance to see a side of life outside of his boxing world, even if most of the people he met were Dark Side dwellers.

Cullen’s entire life so far had revolved entirely around boxing, but lately he had been wondering what he would do once boxing was over. Maybe somewhere down the line he’d get his investigator’s license and work with Boff. He laughed out loud about that. Boff would laugh even louder. Boff thought he was too naïve, too ignorant of the way the so-called real world worked. And perhaps he was right. But he also felt that Boff benefited from having him around. Maybe he reminded Boff of the idealistic young man who had joined the DEA to rid the world of bad guys. But, then again, maybe Boff just liked having him around as an audience to show off to.

Arriving at the gym, Cullen flushed Boff out of his mind.

***

As a precaution, two days before the date Devon had given them for the arrival of the drug shipment, Damiano initiated a 24/7 surveillance on both Yusef and Solis.

The first day nothing of note happened. The next day, Boff told Damiano he wanted to join her in staking out Solis’ bookmaking operation.

“Why are you watching Solis instead of Yusef?” Damiano asked after Boff had parked the rental Honda a half block from Solis’ brownstone.

“Just a hunch. Solis will be moving soon,” Boff told her.

“Care to share?”

“Watch and you’ll see.”

Sure enough, after two hours of sitting in the car eating donuts and drinking coffee, they saw Solis’ maroon Mercedes pull up to the curb. The drug dealer came out of his brownstone carrying a large suitcase and an overnight bag. He dumped them into the trunk, slammed it shut, and climbed into the back seat.

As the Mercedes took off, Damiano put her cell phone on speaker so Boff could hear and called the team she had watching Yusef. “Solis is moving,” she said. “Where’s Yusef?”

Having lunch at Gallagher’s Steak House. West Fifty-Second Street.

“Send Araton inside to the bar,” she said. “If Yusef leaves his seat for any reason, even to take a piss, have Araton follow him. We don’t want to take a chance that Solis might slip out a backdoor.”

Roger that.

Boff gave the Mercedes a block’s head start before following. The Benz headed across
East 124
th
Street to the Triborough Bridge, then took the Grand Central Parkway to the Long Island Expressway.

“This is the way to Lufker!” Damiano exclaimed. “Okay, I’m sending all units there.”

She pulled out her iPhone, but before she could make a call, Boff reached over and put his hand over the screen. “I’d wait if I were you,” he said.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because you don’t know for sure that the shipment is coming in. And if Solis spots trouble, your surveillance goes down the toilet.”

“Fuck that
! What the hell do you think he’s going to the airport for? To take a trip to Disney World?”

“As a matter of fact, I think he
will
be heading in that general direction. And in Yusef’s jet.”

She turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Solis is going to fly to Florida to inspect the shipment and pay for it when it comes in tomorrow. I’m also sure he wants to be there to supervise the loading of Yusef’s plane to make sure everything he paid for is brought on board.”

Damiano called her men and put it on speaker again. “Where’s Yusef now?” she asked.

Still here. Eating dessert.

“You put
Araton inside, right?”

Yes.

Damiano hung up. “I still think we should move in on the airport,” she said. “Just in case you’re wrong and the shipment’s arriving today.”

“I’m rarely wrong. And if the shipment was coming in, as I said before, then Yusef would be heading there. Instead of stuffing his face at Gallagher’s.”

“Okay, we’ll play it your way. For now.”

Boff followed Solis east on the Long Island Expressway to the
Montauk Highway. The Mercedes took the Montauk straight to Lufker and entered through the main gate. Boff pulled over fifty yards from the gate. Then he reached over Damiano’s legs, opened his glove compartment, took out a pair of binoculars, and handed them to her.

“Tell me where the Mercedes is going now.”

Damiano raised the glasses and focused them. “He just drove into a hangar,” she said. “Damn you, Boff. I should’ve brought more people. The only reason I didn’t was because you were so cock-sure the package wasn’t arriving today.”

“Relax,” Boff said. “In about fifteen minutes you can watch Solis fly away in Yusef’s jet.”

“And you know that because?”

“Just be patient. Keep watching.”

Twenty minutes later Yusef’s LearJet 60 with the boxing gloves painted on its nose pulled out of the hangar.

Damiano lowered the binoculars. Boff was smiling at her. “Really, Damiano, you must learn to trust the Big Boffer.”

She made a sour face. “Why in hell are you always right?”

“A gift from God.”

“God hates you.”

As she watched Yusef’s jet taxi toward the runway, she said,
“How big is that plane’s baggage compartment?”

“Having searched similar Lear Jets while I was in the DEA,” he said, “I estimate it can hold about eight to ten suitcases of heroin.”

“I’m not a narc,” she said. “How much would that be worth?”

He did some quick calculations in his head. “One suitcase could hold three kilograms. If the product was, say, eighty-five-percent pure, it would cost Solis roughly eighty thousand. The street value would be around three-point six million. Do the math. I’m guessing Solis ha
d six hundred thousand in cash in the suitcase in the trunk of the Benz. When he gets back, he can move the H for twenty-eight million or so. Enough to buy the warehouses, factories, a
nd
have plenty left to start construction.”

She digested that, then asked, “So what do we do now?”

“We go back to Brooklyn and wait for tomorrow.”

Boff pulled forward and made a U-turn.

“Why wouldn’t Solis come back tonight?” Damiano asked.

“For one thing, the drug smugglers aren’t coming to Florida
until tomorrow, the date Devon gave us.”

“Then why wouldn’t Solis go down tomorrow?”

“Very good question, detective.”

“Don’t patronize me. Answer the damn question.”

He smiled again. “Solis undoubtedly wants to get there a day early to check out the airport or air strip where the plane from South America will be coming in. He’ll want to see what security they have and pick the best place to off-load. He’ll also need time to put a backup security team in place.” He shrugged. “Then, again, he may just have a sweetie in Florida and is getting laid tonight. Bottom line? Even in the highly unlikely case that Solis returns tonight, as long as you keep an eye on Yusef, we won’t miss the package.”

“I’m going to bring in a SWAT team and place it a couple miles from the airport.”

“Then you’ve got it covered.”

Damiano stared at him. “Why do I think you were being sarcastic when you said that?”

“But I wasn’t,” he said.

“There was doubt in your voice. What’s bothering you now?”

“As I told you before, it’s entirely possible Yusef’s jet may land somewhere else.”

“So what if it does? No matter where it lands, Yusef’ll go there, right?”

Boff nodded. “Most likely. But, you know, it just feels too neat. Like a fastball straight down the middle. What if he throws us a curve?”

“What kind of curve?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Confident that nothing would go down until the next day, Boff took Cullen and Bellucci to Cheffy’s for dinner that night. Just in case the plane did come in, of course, he took the precaution before leaving his hotel room of using MapQuest to find the fastest route from Crown Heights to the Long Island Expressway.

After they were seated, had ordered, and were served, Boff pointed at Bellucci’s bandaged wrist with his fork. “How’s the wrist,” he asked.

“Mikey’s ready to go full-out again,” the young boxer said, “but the friggin’ doc won’t let me use it for another week.”

Boff wolfed down some codfish fritters, then turned to Bellucci again. “Mikey,” he said, “I want you to know that Danny and I might have to leave you tonight on a moment’s notice. But I’m pretty sure it won’t happen.”

Bellucci frowned. “What won’t happen?”

“I’ve got a lead on something involving Yusef and Solis.”

Bellucci put his fork down. “Why’re you cutting me out?”

“Your presence wouldn’t be appreciated by the cops.”

“So why’s it okay for Danny?”

“I had to push hard just to get him cleared,” Boff said. “No way would they have let me bring two civilians along. Especially Damiano. You know how she feels about you.”

Before Bellucci could protest further, Cheffy walked out of the kitchen.

“Everything good?” the cook asked them.

Boff raised his fork in a salute. “Great as always.”

Cheffy turned to Bellucci. “Mikey, you gotta bring more customers like Mr. Boff
around. He eats enough for three people.”

When Bellucci didn’t respond, Cheffy looked from the young boxer to his new favorite customer and back again. Then he looked down at Bellucci’s plate. It was still nearly full. “What’s the matter, Mikey?” he asked. “If you don’t like your jerk chicken, I can bring you something else. The curried goat is—”

Bellucci cut him off mid-sentence. “Cheffy, did you ever have friends you thought you could trust, and they could trust you, and then suddenly they cut you out?”

The cook nodded. “Yes. And Cheffy punished them.”

“How?”

“It’s an ugly thing I did. I’d rather not say.” Cheffy switched the topic. “I’m going to bring you a big piece of carrot cake for dessert. That’ll cheer you up.”

After the cook went back to the kitchen, nobody said anything for a few minutes. Boff’s cell broke the silence. He pulled out the phone, checked the caller ID, and put it back in his pocket.

Cullen felt he had to say something to Bellucci. “Mikey, the reason Boff is taking me is because I’m his client.
And…and he’s also grooming me to be his partner when I’m finished with boxing.”

Boff looked up from his food. “I am? That’s news to me. Why would I want a partner who can barely cross the street without getting run over?”

“Because I’ve got potential, and you know it. That’s why you take me everywhere and explain technique to me.” He caught Bellucci staring at him.

“You want to be like Boff?”

“Hell, no! I don’t want to be
like
him. But not all private investigators are like him. Some actually do some good in the world.”

“Name one,” Boff said.

“Bruce Willis in
Die Hard
.”

Boff smirked.
“Willis played a
cop
, genius. And how many times do I have to tell you that in real life virtually all investigators are in it for the money. And they’re not picky about where the money comes from. Morality and nobility have nothing to do with the work an investigator does.”

“Is that so?” Cullen said. “Tell me again how much you’re getting paid for this job.”

Boff put his fork down on the table. “You know my back story here. Believe me, if I didn’t love my wife so much, I wouldn’t be here. There’s nothing noble about what I’m doing.”

“Yes, there is,” Cullen said, “but you just don’t see it. Your moral compass is so screwed up you need someone like me to keep you pointed in the right direction.”

“When the day comes that I need you, I’ll retire.”

Boff’s cell phone rang again. This time when he saw the caller ID, he frowned and answered the call. He listened for a minute without saying anything, then said, “Okay, we’re on our way.”

Putting away the phone, he dropped a couple twenties on the table and stood up.

Cullen followed his lead. “Sorry, Mikey.”

Bellucci didn’t even look at them as they walked out of the restaurant.

Boff’s rental was parked half a block away. They were walking fast.

“Can you run?” Cullen asked.

“Of course I can run. But unless I’m being chased by a rabid dog, I don’t. It hurts my bum knee.”

Cullen noticed that Boff was struggling for breath. “Why are you breathing so heavy? You okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay. I just don’t usually walk this fast. I get paid by the hour, remember?”

Just as they reached his car, Boff’s knee gave out. He fell hard to the sidewalk.

“Oh, crap! Help me up.”

Cullen reached out a hand. Boff grabbed it, gingerly got to his feet, then pulled up his pant leg to look at his knee. It was red and starting to swell. “Shit.” After flexing it a few times, however, he said, “It’s just bruised.” He flipped the car keys to Cullen. “You’re driving. Don’t get me killed.”

Boff winced as he squeezed into the passenger’s seat and pushed it back as far as it would go. Cullen had to pull the driver’s seat up to reach the pedals. As he started to move out of the parking space, Boff grabbed his arm. “Wait!” he said. “Did you check your side mirror?”

“Yeah.” He shook off Boff’s hand and pulled out into traffic.

“Go straight until I tell you to turn—and don’t get so damn close to the car in front of you. I want to get there in one piece.”

“Boff, I know how to drive. Just sit there and shut up.”

Half a minute later, Boff glanced at the speedometer. “You’re almost ten miles over the speed limit,” he said. “Slow down. I don’t want to get stopped by the cops at a time like this.”

Cullen hit the brakes and yanked the car to the curb. “You wanna drive? I’ll fucking change seats.”

“I can’t. My knee’s too sore. Just go. I’ll do my best to ignore your poor driving skills.”

Cullen got back into traffic. “What exactly did Damiano say?” he asked.

“That Yusef just left his office, and he isn’t heading home.”

“So maybe he’s going to his club or out for dinner?”

“He very well might be. But we still have to stick close to him in case the shipment is coming in tonight. I would’ve bet the farm it was arriving tomorrow. Hopefully this is a false alarm. I hate being wrong.”

Boff phoned Damiano and put her on speaker so Cullen could hear. “Where’s Yusef headed?” he asked.

He’s getting on the FDR Drive south at 30
th
Street.

“If he’s going to
Long Island, he’ll take the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn and connect to the BQE. That’s the fastest way from the FDR below 30
th
Street. I’m going to leave this line open.”

Laying the phone on the dashboard, he pointed ahead. “Turn right here.”

Yusef is getting close to the exit for the Williamsburg
.

“Make another right at the light.”

Aren’t you driving, Boff?

“I’m breaking in a chauffeur.”

Damn
.
Yusef went right past the ramp. Where the hell is he going?

“He could be taking the
Manhattan Bridge,” Boff told her, “but that’s less direct.” He turned to Cullen. “Pull over.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Cullen cut to the curb by a hydrant.

He’s approaching the exit for the Manhattan Bridge.

“Why are we stopping?” Cullen asked.

Boff said nothing.

He went right past this exit, too
, Damiano said
. Maybe he’s going for the Brooklyn Bridge? Okay, now he’s getting off the FDR at the South Street exit…going past the South Street Seaport…turning right on Old Slip. Another right on Water Street. Now he’s heading back north—what the fuck is he doing?

Boff pointed across the street. “See that bodega, Danny? Go get me a bag of ice and some Ziploc bags.”

Cullen put one hand on the door, then turned back. “What if Yusef turns around and gets on a bridge?”

“He won’t. Go now. My knee’s swelling up.”

Cullen got out and headed for the bodega.

Boff,
Damiano said a few seconds later,
he just turned onto East Broadway. He could double back and take that to the Williamsburg.

“He won’t.”

How do you know?

“The shipment’s not coming in tonight, detective. Like I told you.”

Maybe he’s trying to lose us.

“If my intuition is right, he’s heading for his midtown penthouse.”

Damn! He went past the turn off.

“And soon he’ll be making a left on Grand Street heading west for
8
th
Avenue.”

A uniformed cop approached Boff’s car and tapped on the window. Boff rolled it down.

“Move the car, buddy,” the cop said.

“My friend went to that bodega to get ice for my knee. I fell.” He rolled up his pant leg and showed the officer his swollen knee.

Coming out of the bodega, Cullen saw the cop and jogged back to the car with the bag of ice and the Ziploc bags. As he got in, the cop nodded and walked back to his black and white.

Boff
, how did you know he’d go left on Grand?

Saying nothing, Boff ripped the bag of ice open.

Now he’s on 8
th
Avenue.
She sounded deflated.

“He’s taking the best route to his penthouse,” Boff finally said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

He turned off his phone and began filling a Ziploc bag with ice, then held it against his swollen knee.

“What was Yusef doing?” Cullen asked.

“I’m not sure. But I’m going to find out. Do they have a computer I could use at Biaggi’s?”

There was indeed a desktop computer in Biaggi’s basement office. Soon Cullen and McAlary were sitting next to Boff as he fired it up. Michelle had left them a pot of coffee with mugs and a platter of peanut butter cookies. On the desk were framed photos of Biaggi fighting, plus a shot of him with his first wife, and several with Michelle. Boff had another Ziploc bag of ice on his knee. The other bags lay on the old mahogany desk with its leather top.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Cullen asked.

“The route Yusef took before he turned around.” Boff typed “mapquest nyc” into the Yahoo search engine, then clicked on “Map of New York, NY.” When he got what he wanted, he zoomed in and then scrolled down the FDR Drive to the 30
th
Street entrance.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s where he got on the FDR.”

As he studied the map, he drummed his fingers on the desk. After a few minutes, he said, “I think Yusef was timing how long it would take to get from his office in midtown Manhattan to someplace near where he turned around and headed back to his penthouse.”

“But if he was timing the route,” Cullen said, “wouldn’t it be different at, say, rush hour as opposed to early evening?”

Boff smiled. “Very good. Now tell me why this is important for us to know?”

“It means he’ll leave for the airport tomorrow at the same time we left Cheffy’s. I think it was around
seven o’clock.”

“Seven-fifteen, to be exact.”

Cullen looked puzzled. “But he passed by all three bridges before turning around.”

“Another good observation,” Boff said. “But how do you know he isn’t planning on taking the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

“First,” Cullen said, “it’s out of his way. Second, if he was timing the route, he would’ve gone close to the tunnel.” He pointed at the screen. “But this is where he turned to go back.” Then he pointed to another spot lower on the screen. “And this is the tunnel.”

“Okay. Now the tough question. If the airport is in Long Island, and he needs to go through Brooklyn to get to it from his office on East
44
th
Street, how does he do it?”

Cullen thought about that. Nothing clicked for him. “I dunno,” he said. “You tell me.”

Before replying, Boff scrolled the map uptown on the East Side, then touched the screen. “The Queens Midtown Tunnel,” he said. “There’s an entrance on East 37
th
Street, which is not far from his office. The tunnel connects directly with I-495 and the Long Island Expressway. If I were driving from his office to that airport, that’d be the way I’d go. It’s the best route.”