Rizzo’s Fire

CHAPTER EIGHT

On Thursday morning, Rizzo and Jackson made their visits to Bik and Feng Hom and the other two elderly victims of the recent street robberies. Each victim carefully leafed through the photo album Rizzo had borrowed from Olivero’s desk. It contained full-color photographs of the eighteen members of The Rebels who held criminal records. None of the photos was identified as the assailant in the cases at hand.

Later, Rizzo sat behind the wheel of the Impala parked in front of the last house they had visited and sighed.

“Well,” he said, “maybe Frankie was wrong.”

Priscilla frowned. “Or maybe the perp is a newbie like we figured and not in the book yet. That would explain why he didn’t know Frankie was probably sitting there in the dark, looking out over the corner. Or maybe he’s clean, no record yet, so no picture. Or maybe these old vics just can’t make the guy. They sure as hell couldn’t describe him very well.”

“They probably couldn’t describe a teenage Frank Sinatra too well, either,” Rizzo said. “But they’d still be able to pick his picture out of a mug book.”

“Joe,” she said, shaking her head gently, “why is it that every time you refer to anyone I’ve heard of, they’re dead?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Guess I ain’t that impressed with anybody you ever heard of who’s still alive.”

Rizzo started the engine, adjusting himself in the seat. “Let’s go to work on our other cases, give this one a rest. To night, after dinner, I’ll run down to the high steps on my own time, show Frankie this book of assholes, see if he can make one. If not, we can still go to plan B, even without a positive I.D.”

“And what is plan B?” Priscilla asked.

Rizzo smiled, pulling the Impala out into the street.

“Tell you when I tell you,” he said. “Let’s see what Frankie’s got to say first.”

She shrugged. “Okay, boss,” she said. “What ever.”

They spent the balance of the tour crisscrossing the precinct and its surrounding neighborhoods, methodically working some of the dozen open cases they carried. Later, at the precinct, they wrapped up with a paper trail of the day’s activity.

At three-fifty p.m., her relief detective present in the squad room, Priscilla waved good-bye to Rizzo.

“See you Sunday morning, Joe,” she said, referring to their next scheduled tour. “Enjoy the swing days.”

“You too, kiddo. If I get lucky with Frankie later to night, you want me to call you? Or should I save it for Sunday?”

“Call,” she said. “We’ll be home to night. No plans.”

Later, a little after nine o’clock, Rizzo left the schoolyard, photo album in hand, and returned to his Camry. Frankie, like the victims, had not been able to I.D. a suspect.

Rizzo glanced at the face of his Timex. He sighed. No use putting it off any longer, he was already out, it wasn’t that late, it was as good a time as any. He started the car and headed for his last stop of the night.

In the sparse weeknight traffic, it didn’t take long to reach the battered, litter-strewn block in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. Rizzo parked under a streetlight, tossing the NYPD vehicle identification card onto the dash, hoping it’d be garlic to any vampires roaming the darkened, cold streets, searching for a car to boost.

He crossed diagonally to a dimly illuminated storefront, its painted windows opaque. From above the door, a bloodied and pained Christ gazed down at him from a two-foot-long wooden crucifix. The words “Non-Combat Zone,” in military-style stenciling, were emblazoned with dark red lettering on the plain gray metal door. Rizzo reached out a hand and pressed the doorbell.

Father Attilio Jovino, although considerably older than Joe Rizzo, still cut an impressive figure. He had come into the priesthood only after a bloody and violent tour of duty in the jungles of Vietnam, and he still carried the hard-edged, flinty-eyed look of a U.S. Army Ranger.

Now, sitting at the desk in his office in the rear of the youth sanctuary he had founded more than fifteen years earlier, Jovino smiled across to his visitor.

“So, Joe,” he said, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward across the desk. “I always look forward to your visits. And even more so since I usually get to share a cigarette with you.”

Rizzo reached into his coat pocket, extracting a crumpled pack. “Yeah, well, there’s a story there, Tillio, but that’s for another visit.”

Jovino shrugged as he dug out an ashtray from his desk drawer. “As you wish, my son.”

They smoked in silence for a few moments, Rizzo’s eyes occasionally rising to the huge crucifix hanging on the wall behind Jovino’s desk.

“Is it Jesus making you uncomfortable,” the priest asked, “or is there something on your mind?”

“Yeah, well, a little a both, I guess,” Rizzo conceded. “I stopped by ’cause I needed to talk to you.”

Jovino nodded and sat back in his seat. “I’m listening,” he said, letting smoke trickle from his lips. “And we’re alone here.”

“Yeah, well, relax, Til,” Rizzo said. “I ain’t confessin’ nothin’ here.”

Jovino smiled. “All right,” he said. A moment passed, Jovino drawing on his cigarette. Then, again leaning forward, he asked in a soft voice, “But, if you were, would it perhaps have something to do with that twelve-thousand-dollar cash donation you recently bestowed upon my sanctuary? You know, you never did satisfy my curiosity about that.”

“Well, that’s okay, Father,” Rizzo said with a shrug. “All you need to know is the money was clean. Clean as any money can be, anyhow. I hope it’s being put to good use.”

Jovino nodded. “Twelve grand saves more than one life around here. Considerably more. These runaway kids don’t need all that much. Food, a little doctoring, kindness. Concern. And a good deal of faith and hope.” He paused here and smiled warmly at Rizzo. “Wherever that money originated, it was delivered to these kids by Christ. That’s good enough for me.”

Rizzo took in a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, expelling slowly. “Christ.”

Again Jovino nodded. “Christ appears in many forms. Sometimes even in the guise of a Brooklyn cop. A cop, I should add, who looks tired, seems uncharacteristically unsure of himself. What’s the problem, Joe? You can tell me.”

Rizzo tried to lighten his tone. “Not exactly a problem. Just a. .. a situation, that’s all.”

Jovino sat back in his seat. “Ah, yes,” he said, “a situation. Of course. I experienced a few situations myself before I came to the priesthood. One involved the lovely young sister of my best friend. Another a small incident of mayhem in the highlands outside of Hue. I can assure you, my friend, I know something of ‘situations.’ ”

Rizzo shook his head, dropping his eyes to the red tip of his burning Chesterfield. “It ain’t quite that dramatic, Father.” He raised his eyes slowly to meet Jovino’s.

The priest spread his arms. “So, tell me, then.”

Rizzo cleared his throat. “Remember back in August, when I stopped in? After me and Mike had found the Daily kid? I told you that I might be comin’ across something, something very detrimental to Councilman William Daily?”

Jovino nodded. “Yes. Of course I remember. I agreed to deliver this hypothetical ‘something’ to the authorities, the federal authorities, as I recall, under the guise of its having appeared here at the shelter, presumably left by one of the runaways. It would have been problematic for you to go to the authorities without jeopardizing yourselves-you and Mike, that is.”

Rizzo nodded. “Correct.”

Jovino continued. “And then, shortly thereafter, you reappeared at my door, twelve thousand dollars in hand. You know, last year the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce donated five thousand to the Non-Combat Zone, Verizon Corporation eight thousand. So you, sir, are now my biggest single supporter.”

Rizzo grinned. “Good for me.”

“Yes,” Jovino said with a nod. “Good for you indeed.” The priest paused, taking a last drag on his cigarette, then very deliberately crushing it out in the ashtray.

“It was at that point that I assumed this material, this incriminating material concerning Councilman Daily, had at last made its way into your possession.” He paused once more. “And yet, no such material has been presented to me to date.”

He reached across the desk, shaking a second cigarette loose from Rizzo’s pack. Lighting it, he raised his eyes through the smoke to Rizzo’s.

“I wondered about that, Joe. I must say, I still wonder about that.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. I figured. Well, you can stop wonderin’. I have the material you’re referrin’ to. In fact, I’ve had it all along.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his own cigarette. “That’s why I’m here now. See, Daily just got himself reelected, and if a certain tape had already gone to the feds, that never woulda happened. I know that’s my responsibility, my fault. And I can live with it. I just need you to know that it ain’t over yet. I just need some more time. For a couple a different reasons. Just a little more time.”

Jovino responded. “Well, originally, you had said something about six months or so. Of course, my understanding at the time was that you didn’t yet have this… ‘material.’ Now I’m learning that isn’t exactly so. I’m learning that I’ve been misled.”

Their gazes locked. Rizzo noted a hardness begin to form in the priest’s eyes.

“Is there anything else I need to know, Joe?” he asked in a low, flat tone. “Because if there is, now would be the time to tell me. Not next week, not next month, not six months from now. Now.”

Jovino let out a sigh, releasing some of the tension that had come to his body.

“Now, Joe,” he repeated softly.

“There’s nothin’ else,” Rizzo said wearily. “I’ve been sitting on some evidence. The twelve grand, that was just something fell into my hands along the way. It has no rightful owner; it’s better off where it is, helpin’ these kids of yours.”

Jovino pursed his lips.

“Is ‘falling into your hands’ similar to something ‘falling off a truck,’ Joe?”

“Not exactly,” Rizzo said. “I swear to you, that cash was orphaned. Totally. Like I said, no rightful owner. It was as much mine as anyone’s.” He shrugged. “And I chose to give it to you. End of story.”

Jovino leaned forward, frowning. “Except for this tape you continue to sit on. You know that I share no warm regard for Councilman Daily, but, personal feelings aside, there is a right and there is a wrong. You need to make a decision, Joe.”

They held each other’s eyes.

“What’s it to be, Joe?” the priest asked softly. “Right… or wrong?”

At seven fifty-five Sunday morning, Rizzo sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He looked up at Detective Alphonse Borrelli, then back down to the slip of paper in his hand.

Raising his eyes back to Borrelli, Rizzo sighed. “When’d the call come in, Al?”

“ ’Bout five-thirty, six this morning,” Borrelli answered. “The guy was a pushy prick. He told me he had your cell number and he’d call you at home. I told him to hold off, you’d be in soon enough. He finally admitted what ever he wanted could keep till eight.”

“Thanks, Al. You might as well take off, I’m here and Jackson’ll be in any minute. Matter a fact, there she is now. Take off. And thanks again.”

The man shrugged, turning to leave. “No problem. Take it easy.”

Priscilla approached Rizzo’s desk, nodding at Borrelli as they passed each other.

“Mornin’,” she said to Rizzo. “I’m gonna sign in, then grab some breakfast. The Roach Coach just pulled up in front. You want anything?”

He shook his head. “No thanks, Cil.”

Rizzo dropped his eyes once again to the yellow notepaper in his hand. Sighing, he reached for his cell and punched in the Manhattan phone number. The call was answered on the second ring.

“This is Joe Rizzo,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I’m returning Papa Man’s call.”

“Yeah, okay, hold on,” a gruff male voice replied.

As he waited, Rizzo visualized Papa Man-large and burly, near sixty years old with black, unkempt grizzled hair and a tough, yet not unpleasant, face. He was the acknowledged leader of the New York City chapter of the Hell’s Angels.

After a moment, another male voice came through the line, with a deeper and more resonant tone.

“Sergeant Rizzo, how good of you to get back to me so promptly.”

Rizzo let air escape through his lips. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?”

The man chuckled. “I hope I’m not interrupting your Sunday breakfast with the wife and kiddies at Friendly’s, Sergeant.”

Rizzo let a moment elapse. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course, Sergeant Rizzo. Enough small talk between old friends. Let’s get down to business. May I speak freely?”

“I’m on my cell,” Rizzo answered. “Last I knew, nobody was listening in.”

“Fair enough. As you may remember, I did you a small ser vice a few months back. And, as I understand it, you parlayed that favor into a successful bit of police work.”

“I remember,” Rizzo said.

“Do you remember all the details, Sergeant? The fine print, if you will?”

“I remember.”

Papa Man sounded pleased. “Good, Joe. Very good. I’ll get to the point. One of my riders spent Saturday night partying in Brooklyn with an ex-wife or girlfriend or what ever. This particular rider isn’t known for his moderation, and there are now allegations of DWI, criminal possession of a controlled substance, and resisting arrest being made against him. More seriously, assault on an officer. He called me earlier from Central Booking and asked for my assistance. I think what he had in mind was an attorney, but I thought, ‘Hey, what about my old Brooklyn friend, Sergeant Rizzo? I bet he can help.’ Was I right, Joe? Can you help?”

Rizzo let the man hear his sigh. “I believe our deal was, if one of your guys got jammed up over here, I’d take a look at it and see what I could do. That your memory, too?”

“Yes. Exactly. So, you’ll take a look?”

Rizzo glanced at the wall clock. “What time they lock the guy up?”

“I think it was about three-thirty, four this morning.”

“Which precinct?”

“The Nine-Four, over in Greenpoint.”

“What’s the guy’s name?”

“We call him Zumba. He was born James Palmer.”

“The arresting is probably doing the paperwork at Central Booking right now. I can get down there in about twenty minutes. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. It’s good to know you’re a man of honor who keeps his word.”

“You know how this shit works, Papa,” Rizzo said. “I owe you. Period. Honor and words got nothin’ to do with any a this.”

Rizzo could visualize the wolflike grin of the man. “Well, what ever, Joe. Just do what you can. Zumba can’t stand a fall on an assaulting-a-cop charge. It’d ruin any chance he may still have for the Citizen of the Year award, you know?”

“Yeah, Papa. I can imagine. But remember, our deal was everybody has to be happy, not just you and this asshole. The arresting has to say okay to it. And if it’s already reached the A.D.A., he has to go for it, too. It could be a tough sell.”

“Well, from my experience with Brooklyn, Central Booking is a busy little place on Sunday morning. I doubt this minor a matter has come to the district attorney’s attention yet. It’s just a cop, just a uniform involved. See what you can do.”

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” Rizzo said, then closed the phone, breaking the connection. He stood slowly, slipping on his overcoat and picking up the Impala keys.

Downstairs he intercepted Priscilla, coffee and egg sandwich in her hands. He filled her in quickly.

“Your old friend called,” he told her. “Papa Man.”

“Damn,” she said. “What does the boss of the Hell’s Angels want with you on a Sunday freakin’ morning?”

Rizzo twisted his lips. “Whaddya think he wants?”

Memory dawned in her eyes. “Oh, he’s cashin’ that ticket from the meeting you, me, and Mike had with him last summer?”

“Bingo,” Rizzo said touching a finger lightly to the tip of her nose. “I gotta run downtown to Central Booking. You stay here, hold the fort. It’s just you and me this tour. If a job does come in, stall it. If you absolutely gotta roll on it, take a uniform along. I’ll meet you at the job if you ain’t in the squad room when I get back.”

“Okay, Joe. How long you figure you’ll be?”

Rizzo shrugged. “Twenty minutes there, twenty back, twenty to sell the cop my story. Figure an hour, hour ten. Like that.”

Priscilla smiled at him coyly. “Sure you don’t want me along? I can shake some ass, bat my eyes, grease the cop a little for you.”

“No, you stay here where we both should be. Hell, maybe I’ll get lucky and it’s a straight female cop and I can shake my own ass.”

“Okay,” she said. “Just try not to throw your back out, Pops.”

Rizzo shook his head and moved past Priscilla to the door.

The Sunday-morning traffic was almost non ex is tent. As Rizzo drove toward the heart of Brooklyn, the downtown area, he considered the job at hand.

Throughout his career, Rizzo had carefully and consistently established a deep well of gratitude and obligation among his fellow officers for favors he had rendered. He had done the same with the various citizens who peopled the shadowy world of day-to-day police business. As a result, he could reach out almost at will to virtually any area within the department and collect his payback in the form of expedited ser vice, specialized assistance, or influential intervention on his behalf-all repaid debts for accommodations he had once provided. Rizzo could reach just as deeply into the dark netherworld to mobsters and street criminals for similar help. It had been essential for his success.

Now, as he sped along the Gowanus Expressway, he reflected on how, more and more, he found himself on the other end of this cynical, yet pragmatic, arrangement, rendering the payback, as was now the case. As retirements, transfers, and other attritions chipped at those in the department who owed him, and changing demographics altered the Six-Two, the pool of those Rizzo was indebted to seemed to grow proportionately.

It was not, he realized, a healthy state of affairs.

Just one more reason to retire, he thought. The more payback he rendered, and the less he received, the better the likelihood that someday it would all blow up in his face. Yet it remained an unavoidable function of the job, a one-hand-washing-the-other way of life for him. It was a minefield becoming more difficult and dangerous to navigate.

Rizzo swung the Impala off the expressway and onto Atlantic Avenue. He made a mental note to discuss this morning’s mission in more detail with Priscilla later in the day. Though he was almost certain she understood the nature of the game, he couldn’t make assumptions. This morning’s job was the perfect example. The last thing Rizzo wanted was to lend assistance of a murky legal nature to a Hell’s Angel. Yet he was bound by the agreement he had entered into with Papa Man some months before. It was not, as Papa had misstated, a matter of honor. Not at all. It was simply a function of police business. Had he reneged, he would never again be able to reach out to the Angels should the need arise.

And if he reneged often enough on his promises, word would eventually permeate the subculture of the streets, and Rizzo would no longer be trusted, no longer be able to gather the scraps of information, cooperation, and accommodations necessary to the successful plying of his trade.

That’s what he needed to impress upon Priscilla. As a detective, she should never enter into an agreement she was not fully prepared to follow through on, regardless of how distasteful or questionable in nature. The time for high-minded scruples was before the deal was struck, not afterward.

As he drove slowly along State Street, searching for a place to park in the area reserved for police and court officers, correction and probation personnel, he mulled it over.

Yes, he would explain it to Priscilla, in case she hadn’t mastered it all during her ten years in uniform. She needed to know, and it was his responsibility to make sure she did.

But what about Carol? Would he someday have to explain it all to her? Would that responsibility fall to him as well, or to some other cop, someone unknown to him. The street education of his youngest child entrusted to a stranger?

Rizzo parked the car and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

No way, he thought. No way would he let that happen.

He turned and crossed State Street, heading for the secured police entrance at the rear of the Brooklyn Criminal Court house. He shook his mind clear of thoughts of Carol and turned once more to the task at hand.

Officer Freddy Clarton was a twenty-four-year veteran, currently assigned to the Ninety-fourth Precinct patrol unit, covering the old blue-collar Brooklyn neighborhood of Greenpoint. In three months’ time, he would retire to the small North Carolina town where his grandparents and their parents had been born. Contained within the inner plastic sleeve of his uniform cap, he carried a small single sheet calendar. As each tour ended, he carefully placed a neat, red X over the date.

“Eighty-one more days,” he said, as he sat sipping coffee with Rizzo on a small bench outside the holding pen area of Central Booking, located in the basement of the court house.

“That’s great, Freddy,” Rizzo said. “I got about a year to go myself.”

Clarton shook his head. “Too goddamned long, Sarge, too god-damned long.”

“It’s the hand I got dealt,” Rizzo answered with a shrug.

Clarton sipped his coffee, his eyes peering over the cup’s edge to Rizzo.

“So, Sarge,” he said. “You wanna get down to business?”

Rizzo had been glad to find that the arresting officer was an old vet and not some nervous rookie afraid of his own shadow. Now his appreciation for the black cop’s seniority turned to an even more comforting respect for Clarton’s street smarts and directness.

“Yeah, Freddy, I do,” he said. “And just call me Joe.”

The cop laughed. “Oh, Lord, this must be a good one, we gettin’ all buddy-buddy here. What you need, Joe?”

Rizzo leaned closer to the man. “I read the arrest report and the rap sheet, Freddy. I know this guy Zumba is an asshole. And he ain’t a friend of mine.”

“Okay,” the cop said with a nod.

“So,” Rizzo continued. “This is the story. I owe a favor to the boss of the Angels. Over in Manhattan. The guy helped me with a runaway kid case, and it worked out good. This is his payback.”

“What is?” Clarton asked, his eyes narrowing.

Rizzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, you got this guy on a DWI, possession, assault-two, and resisting. I need you to shit-can the assault charge. It’s a D-felony. Drop it to obstructing governmental administration, an A-misdemeanor.”

The cop frowned. “This shit is a pain in my ass. Only reason I’m even here is ’cause they got me workin’ with some kid thinks he’s gonna clean up Dodge City. This whole collar was his doin’, then he tells me he can’t book the guy ’cause he’s gotta baptize his sister’s kid this morning. Imagine that? When we first saw Zumba weavin’ his bike and pulled him over, I told the kid to ignore it, let the guy go, but no, the kid is all righteous, can’t let a drunk go with just a warning. See, the skell was only ’bout five blocks from his apartment. Shit, worst coulda happened was he wrecked and broke his own sorry neck. Damn fool out ridin’ a motorcycle on a cold night in November, served him right if he went down. But no, my partner wants us to lock the guy up.”

Rizzo smiled. “Kids,” he said simply.

Clarton nodded. “Yeah. Younger every day, seems like. Anyway, so then the Angel mouths off a little, next thing I know, the kid slaps him and the guy goes ape-shit, so we got to tune his ass up. Then we toss ’im and find the dope. Now you come askin’ me to drop the assault count. That really hangs me out if the guy starts bitchin’ ’bout the lump I put on his head. I need that assault charge to cover my own ass, Joe.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, well, I understand. But I’ll talk to the man in Manhattan. There won’t be any bitchin’ about you smackin’ this shit-head around. The resisting charge still stands, and with an added obstruction, that more than covers your use of force.”

Clarton considered it. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s not like we broke his fuckin’ head or anything.”

“Exactly,” said Rizzo. “What weight did the CPCS come in at?”

Clarton shrugged. “Haven’t heard yet,” he said. “It was just a taste, a little coke. What he had left over from his party-hardy night.”

“Probably his wake up,” Rizzo said.

Clarton ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I hate to get into this kinda shit so late in the game. I don’t wanna be spendin’ my last few months with some I.A.D. or Civilian Review prick breakin’ my balls.”

“No way,” Rizzo said emphatically. “You drop that assault-two, you’ll never hear nothin’ from this guy again. He tries to fuck this deal up, I go to his boss. Zumba gets thrown in the fuckin’ river. Believe me, it won’t be a problem. Let him pay his fines for the dope and DWI and take an A.C.D. or time-served on the two misdemeanors. Everybody’ll be happy.”

Clarton nodded. “What do I get out of this, Joe? Your undyin’ gratitude?”

Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, exactly. Although, I gotta tell ya, my good-lookin’ partner did offer to come along and shake her ass for you, but I told her no.”

“I been awake for twenty-five hours straight,” Clarton said. “I’m too tired for any ass shakin’.” Now he shook his head, his small smile slowly fading. “Damn,” he said. “Me workin’ with a gung ho kid and you with a freakin’ female. They’re tryin’ to kill us, kill off all the old men.”

Rizzo stood, extending his hand. “Well, not much time left for them to finish the job, Freddy. We’re both almost out the door.”

They shook hands, Clarton standing to face him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” Then after a pause, added, “I’ll rewrite the report, shit-can the assault. When the A.D. A sees it and writes up the complaint, it won’t be there.”

Now, still holding on to Rizzo’s hand, he leaned inward, his firm grasp pulling Rizzo slightly forward.

“But if this Zumba character ever comes up complaining about the slappin’ I gave him, he better go in the fuckin’ river.”

He paused, his eyes hardening a little. “Or I got to come looking for you, Joe. Then you got to make it right.”

Rizzo nodded. “I hear you.”