Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

Rizzo's Monkey Store by Lou Manfredo

Brooklyn cop Joe Rizzo has starred in three highly acclaimed novels, Rizzo’s Fire, Rizzo's War, and Rizzo's Daughter. In its review of the latter, Publisher’s Weekly said: “Manfredo, a twenty-five-year veteran of the Brooklyn criminal justice system, crafts gritty dialogue as authentic-sounding as a wiretap transcript.” Here is Rizzo in his latest case. We have another coming soon.

Sergeant Joe Rizzo climbed slowly from the unmarked police car, his eyes immediately drawn to the upscale coffee shop located diagonally across Brooklyn’s Sixty-fifth Street. After a moment, his partner, Detective First Grade Mark Ginsberg, appeared at his side.

“See that coffee joint, Mark?”

Ginsberg followed Rizzo’s gesture. “Yeah. I see it.”

“That used to be a kid-friendly luncheonette. I’d take my oldest daughter, Marie, there when she was like four, five, like that.”

“And?” Ginsberg asked, pulling on latex gloves as he spoke.

“It was The Boardwalk Cafe then, but Marie called it the monkey store. See, they had this ride inside. You’d put in a token, and it moved up and down and back and forth. It looked like a Jeep and had a big smiling plastic monkey in the passenger seat. Marie would sit at the wheel, steering, tooting the horn, and the monkey would made happy noises. She liked that more than the grilled cheese and malted she had afterwards for lunch.” Rizzo turned his eyes back to the coffee shop, and all he could envision was the festive, neon-splashed facade of that long-gone luncheonette.

“Marie’s starting her sophomore year at college in September. That monkey store, that was a long time ago.”

Ginsberg made final adjustments to his gloves, studying Rizzo’s profile with a detached gaze.

“Yeah, Joe,” he said. “Long time. But — who’m I gonna be working this homicide with, Sergeant Rizzo or Captain Kangaroo? Forget the monkey store — we got a fresh body in that alley behind the hardware store. How ’bout we go take a look?”

The alley was long and narrow, a bleak strip of cracked and dirty concrete wedged between a small hardware store and a laundromat. Heavy wooden doors with steel security curtains stood mid alley on each side directly opposite each other, one accessing the hardware store, the other the laundromat. The alley dead-ended into the doorless and windowless brick wall of a warehouse.

Four uniformed police officers stood scattered at the rear wall, gazing downward. A body lay sprawled half against the wall, legs splayed outward, dead eyes staring back at the cops. As the two detectives approached, Rizzo noticed the older patrol officer, Bob Harris, glancing at his wrist watch.

“You can always tell the experienced uniforms,” he said to Ginsberg. “Harris is noting the time we showed up. For his report. ‘Relieved at the scene by Sixty-second Squad detectives, oh-eight-ten hours.’ ”

“Yeah,” Ginsberg replied. “That guy usually carries a donut in each pocket.”

The older cop smiled at the two detectives. “Hello, Sarge, Mark,” he said. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

“There’s good news?” Ginsberg asked.

“Yeah, our dearly departed is Viktor Antipov. I recognized him right off. You will too. So — one less mobster runnin’ around Brooklyn. You guys can just fill out some DD-5s, file them under ‘oops’ and forget about it.”

Rizzo, pulling on his own latex gloves, moved to the body and squatted. The pale, frozen-in-shock face of the corpse was, in fact, clearly recognizable: Antipov was a seasoned soldier in the notorious Brighton Beach gang led by Russian crime czar Oleg Boklov. It was widely known throughout the mirror-image world of criminals and cops that Antipov, now sprawled dead against the stone-cold brick wall, was not only an assassin and brutalizer of the first order but also a trusted aide to Boklov. As he gazed upon the corpse, Rizzo experienced a familiar feeling.

At one time, violence had angered and puzzled him. Now — increasingly — it merely saddened him. The streets were taking away his anger, and, as he studied the milky dead eyes before him, it occurred to him that death, unlike monkey stores and five-year-olds, was permanent.

Rizzo stood slowly and turned to Harris. “You said good news and bad news. So what’s the bad news?”

“Well, think about it, Sarge. If it was Oleg Boklov who whacked this dirt-bag, no penalty, no foul. But if it was the Italians or some loose cannons, then we got a war on our hands. We’ll run out of chalk before we finish outlining all the stiffs that’ll be littering the streets.”

Rizzo nodded. “Okay. The M.E. is on the way, so is Crime Scene. Call into the precinct, tell them to send two or three more detectives if they can spare them. Then — seal off the alley with tape and do a street search for a gun.”

“Gun? We ain’t gonna find a gun, Sarge. If the shooter’s a pro, he’da dropped it right here or held onto it. Pros don’t toss guns in garbage cans like junkies do.”

Rizzo felt his face begin to tighten. “Yeah. I saw that movie, Harris. Go look for a gun. Maybe if you learned to listen, you’d be out of that uniform by now or wearin’ stripes. Go do what I said.”

The man shrugged, truly indifferent. “Okay, boss,” he said mildly and motioned to the other uniformed officers. They walked single file from the alley.

Rizzo turned back to the body. Ginsberg was squatted beside it, his forearms resting atop his thighs.

“Guy bled out right here, Joe,” he said, indicating the wide, deep pool of blood which had found a depression in the rough, gritty concrete. “He was shot right here.”

Rizzo dropped a handkerchief to the ground and knelt one knee upon it while scanning the corpse.

“Single gunshot to the chest.” He leaned closer. “I don’t see any muzzle burn on the shirt. No residue splatter either.”

“So the shooter was off a ways, at least five, six feet.”

“Yeah.”

Ginsberg frowned. “Is it just me, or is this getting complicated?”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “It is. Mob hits are multiple-shot guarantees, usually with at least one head shot. And close up and personal, plenty of muzzle burn and powder residue.”

“And this alleyway...” Ginsberg added, “good place to dump a stiff, but not so good for a hit. The shooter’s trapped in here, only one way out, too risky. Ralph the Citizen is walking his dog and somebody runs outta here after a gunshot — bingo — you got a witness.”

Rizzo swiveled his head to the alley’s two doors midway behind them.

“Unless the shooter went through one of those doors.”

“They’d have to be unlocked, the steel curtains raised,” Ginsberg noted. “Maybe somebody connected to the hardware store? The laundromat?”

“So — already we’re totally off the gang-hit theory?”

“No. Not totally, I’m just talking, Joe. I like the idea it was Oleg Boklov cleaning house. We’ll never be able to prove that, and nobody will expect us to. Instead of working, we can go to that fancy coffee joint, get a Mocha-Boca-Joker and a lump of French soy dough. You know, reminisce about monkey rides and stuff.”

At the sound of someone approaching, Rizzo and Ginsberg turned. It was a tall, thin, disheveled man in his mid sixties. They recognized him as Dr. Joshua Wilton, Deputy Medical Examiner, alcoholic, and general malcontent.

“Great,” Ginsberg said softly to Rizzo. “Doctor Ghoul.”

Without greeting beyond a slight nod, Wilton approached the body. He reached a bare hand and rested two fingers on its forehead, then the jugular. Straightening, he reported.

“Male, white, mid thirties to early forties. Dead. Most probable: single gunshot to left chest. From the volume of blood, I’d say it caught the aorta. Died quickly and within the last twelve hours. No signs of defensive wounds. Give me your card, I’ll need it for your copy of the autopsy report. You may now examine the body and arrange for transport.”

He turned and began walking away.

“When will we see that report?” Rizzo said to the man’s retreating back.

“Soon.”

Ginsberg laughed. “Hey, Doc,” he said loudly. “Nice chatting with you, our best to Morticia and Cousin Itt.”

Hours later at the 62nd Precinct Detective Squad Room, Rizzo and Ginsberg sipped coffee in a small, battered, two-tone green interview room. They sat at opposite sides of the heavy, scarred wooden table.

“So how do you get a guy like Antipov to march meekly down an alley and allow you to shoot him?” Ginsberg asked.

Rizzo shrugged. “Show him some thigh? Bat your baby blues? I don’t know.”

After a few moments, Rizzo went on. “So, what’ve we got?”

“A known Russian mobster found dead in Bensonhurst, ground zero for the Italian mob, a group that’s got a strong affinity for the death penalty for trespassing,” Ginsberg said. “But — and this certainly has bunched up our panties — this hit is totally lacking in professionalism, from choice of location to mechanics of shooting. No self-respecting Mafia hit man could be that stupid.”

Rizzo sipped at his coffee, then spoke. “You know, Mark, stupidity can be an asset. It’s much easier to be carefree when you’re stupid. Why worry about the Middle East going ka-boom when you can buy a scandal sheet and check out Brigitte Bardot’s butt?”

“Bardot’s like an old lady now, Joe. Or possibly dead. You really need to update your files.”

“Well, whoever, then. Give me stupid anytime. Let’s stretch our imaginations and consider this a pro hit. The shooter is stupid. He picks the wrong place and uses the wrong method, and what happens? We begin to figure it for — whatever we’re figuring it for. And the pro is maybe off the hook.”

“Antipov’s wallet was in his pocket with six bills in it, a ten-grand watch on his wrist, and a diamond ring on his finger. So, most likely it was no robbery.”

“According to what we found out from the owners of the laundromat and hardware store,” Rizzo said, “those alley doors haven’t been opened in years. Both places were broken into a few times so they installed those metal curtains and bolted the doors. Whoever did the shooting either exited that alley directly to the street, or one or both owners are either mistaken or lying.”

“If Doctor Ghoul gives us a solid time of death, maybe we can turn up a witness.”

Rizzo considered it. “Twelve hours is the best he’s gonna do, Mark. And the squad already canvassed for that time frame and came up empty. The body was discovered at seven-thirty A.M. It’s midweek, streets are pretty deserted by ten, eleven at night on workdays. This ain’t Times Square. Antipov probably got hit after eleven P.M. last night.”

“So — where do we start, Joe?”

“I’m thinking Louie Quatroppa. If one of the Italian crews did whack this guy, they would need Louie’s okay. He and Oleg Boklov tolerate each other, but they both want the big chair all for themselves. Any excuse to go at each other, they’ll take. If Louie did this, Boklov is coming at him. And Louie’s probably getting ready for it, whether he’s responsible or not. We can get word from the street easy enough if the paisans are oiling up their pistolas. Same for the Russkies. We need to make this as mob related, or rule it out.”

“And what about Boklov? We gonna talk to him?”

“Sure. In fact, maybe we see him first. It’ll show him respect. After all, this guy Antipov was his paisan. Or whatever they call each other.”

Ginsberg pondered it. “I think Louie Quatroppa first. If we get a feel he’s telling us the truth and says he didn’t whack Antipov, maybe we can read Boklov a little better, figure if he killed his own guy. I always have trouble reading Boklov.”

Rizzo stood. “Yeah. Me too. Boklov and Dostoyevsky. Can’t read either of them. Lets us go talk to Louie.”

Louie Quatroppa had almond-tinged skin and downward slanting black eyes, giving him somewhat of an Asian appearance. He’d been the reigning boss of Brooklyn’s powerful Mafia family for six years and was the most pragmatic man Rizzo had ever met. The mobster seemingly harbored no animosity toward law-enforcement officers; rather, he merely considered them as having made poor career choices.

While watching his own immigrant father morph into a hunched, broken man, hands and feet riddled with arthritis, spinal cord ravaged from decades of manhandling wheelbarrows laden with construction debris, Quatroppa had decided quite young that work, in any of its conventional configurations, was not for him.

Nor did the mobster appear to harbor any passionate ill will for rivals in his own industry, merely considering them natural obstacles, much as rivers or mountains, things that needed to be overcome. Conquered.

Or simply eradicated. For this latter option, Quatroppa had demonstrated an impressive talent.

Rizzo and Ginsberg now sat opposite the man at a small table at the rear of the dimly lit Starlight Lounge, Quatroppa’s de facto headquarters.

“I hope I can speak frankly, Joe,” Quatroppa said. “Off the record.”

“Actually, Louie, me and Mark are here off the record. So it’s okay with you?”

“Of course.”

Rizzo nodded. “So — tell me.”

“You gotta see my point here, Joe. We had nothing to do with whackin’ that commie psycho. Yeah, it’s good he’s dead. But I didn’t okay it, and none of my guys are stupid enough to go behind my back for a move that big. Would never happen.”

“Okay, Louie. I believe you.”

“Yeah, well, good for me. But here’s my problem: I need that disonore Boklov to understand I’m clean here. Hell, he probably killed the guy himself, so maybe it’s a non-issue. But — if he didn’t — and he’s figurin’ I did, he’s gonna make a statement, he’s gonna come after us. So I gotta gear up just in case, and he sees me gearin’ up, he takes it as proof I hit his guy. You see my situation? Now I got you guys comin’ around. No matter what, I look bad.”

Rizzo considered it. “If Boklov is behind this, which I have reason to doubt, it’s all done with. Those Russkies are pros, and this looks like an extremely amateur job. But if it was some internal beef got Antipov killed, Boklov will run it down and dole out his own justice. If we find a dead Russian or some Albanian with his head blown off, we can close the case. But right now, far as I’m concerned, it was amateur night in that alley.”

Quatroppa shrugged. “If it was one of his crew actin’ on his own, Boklov will most likely figure it out or think the shooting was some kinda freak thing. But — if he makes a move on me — hurts my people — we all got ourselves a problem. Nobody’s rolling over for this guy. Let him go back to Moscow he wants to be a czar.”

Rizzo stood, Ginsberg following his lead. “Okay, Louie,” Rizzo said. “Thanks for the info and the sambuca. I’ll get a message to Boklov: It wasn’t you or anybody else on your side of the street.”

Quatroppa stood and circled the table. He hugged Rizzo, kissing both his cheeks. “Good,” he said. “You’re okay, Joe.” His smile was cold. “For a cop.”

Quatroppa merely nodded farewell to Ginsberg, and the two detectives went out to the street. As they reached their car, Ginsberg spoke.

“You know, Joe, the times I feel the most Jewish are when I’m in temple or at the seder; and when I watch you talking to guys like Louie.”

Rizzo smiled. “Yeah. I get it. So... why don’t we call it a day? We’ll see the Russian tomorrow.”

Oleg Boklov was in his early thirties. He had a stubby, compact body with an aura of great physical strength. Sitting behind his desk in the small, cramped office he maintained behind a barroom in Brooklyn’s Brighton Beach neighborhood, he frowned at Rizzo and Ginsberg.

“Is the Italian so favored he can send two police to me as messenger boys? Is this what I am faced with?”

Rizzo shook his head slowly. “Take it easy, Oleg. Nobody is running messages here. Viktor Antipov is dead. We all know the score, so let’s speak frankly. It’s reasonable for you to believe Quatroppa hit your boy, but we checked that out. We decided Louie is clear. Among other possibilities, that leaves you. Maybe you did it. If you didn’t, what I’m trying to do here and now is avoid a war. And maybe save us all a lot of trouble.”

Boklov’s frown deepened. “Viktor was like a brother to me. And — for the record — I am not a common murderer. But — if I were — Viktor would not have had reason to fear me. So forgive me, gentlemen, but I fail to see the purpose of this visit. Do you expect a confession? What is it you are trying to accomplish?”

Now it was Ginsberg speaking. “Look, Boklov, let’s finish this, okay? Me and Rizzo here, we’re actually just trying to avoid a ton of paperwork. Quatroppa is clean on this. Believe that or not, your choice. But if you start leaning on him, he’s gonna lean back. And when he does, he’ll plant more Russians in Brooklyn than Stalin planted in Siberia. You know that. Nobody can predict the future but, here in the present, you and your crew are minor league. Quatroppa reigns. He has twenty soldiers to your one, and they don’t like you. Do the math.”

“I gotta say, Oleg,” Rizzo added casually. “My partner has a point. You fight Quatroppa, you lose. He wins.”

Boklov sat back in his chair, considering it.

“Allow me to instruct for just a moment, Detectives. Life is merely a relay race. You accept the baton from your father, and then he dies. You run with it for a while, and then you hand it to your child. But — you do not go to the sideline to watch who wins. No... you go into the dirt. There is no finish line, no gold medal, no winner. The race just continues speeding along to nowhere. So... when you speak to me of winning, as I said, no one wins. Not I. Not Quatroppa. And certainly not you. So do not try to intimidate me with who will win and who will lose. If I find Viktor was murdered by Quatroppa or by God himself, I will avenge it.”

He leaned inward on his desk, his cold dark eyes going from Rizzo to Ginsberg and back again.

“I did not kill Viktor. Nor did I authorize it. If I learn who is responsible, they will pay. For my part, I will look to Quatroppa, and if you are at all interested, you may wish to do the same.”

Ginsberg drove slowly, Rizzo seated beside him. “Both these guys are trying to use Antipov as an excuse to start a war. One of them is lying, Joe. Quatroppa or Boklov.”

“I don’t think so. You’ve seen the bodies Boklov leaves on the streets — multiple head shots, complete overkill, not just a single round to the chest. And with Quatroppa, there’s usually no corpse to be found. They wind up in dog-food cans. And when there is a body, it’s because he’s sending a message. We’ve been in this business a long time, Mark. We know a mob hit when we see one. This Antipov case — it’s a murder, not a hit. A civilian murder. We identify the killer, we avoid a war.”

“So you’re thinking motive unrelated to him being a mobster?”

“Yeah, probably. Even if Antipov had a personal beef with another crew member, they’d never dare kill him. He was too valuable and too close to Boklov.”

Ginsberg considered it. “I don’t know. It’s like finding a guy squashed on the pavement with an unopened parachute strapped to his back and figuring maybe he fell off a ladder.”

Rizzo smiled. “Yeah. A little like that. But — strange things do happen.”

“Still, Joe, I’d rather spend our time running down that guy who’s mugging old ladies on Social Security check day. I really don’t care who killed this guy. The precinct has — what? — forty open dead hoods dating back to the flood? So now we’ve got forty-one.”

“Normally I’d agree, but we usually figure it out, Mark. Maybe we can’t always prove it, but we figure it out. My gut tells me to push this. And we’ll get around to that mugger soon enough. Just a couple more days on this Antipov thing. That’s all I’m asking.”

Ginsberg shrugged and pressed harder on the accelerator. “Okay, you’re the boss. But I hope you’ve got a plan.”

“I do. Let’s assume this is a murder, not a hit. We know a murder has motive. This guy Antipov surely had a million enemies, but they were mostly work related. If we buy into Oleg and Louie’s denials, which I’m inclined to do, that rules out business associates, regardless of motive. No mobster would kill the guy without permission from the top; it would be suicide.”

“So,” Ginsberg said, “we look at his personal life?”

“Right. And you know what that means.”

Ginsberg let out a chuckle. “Oh yeah, Joe, I know what it means. We start with the wife.”

Rizzo’s eyes fell to a corner phone booth. “Pull over. I need to make a call.”

Minutes later, Rizzo returned to the car. “Okay, here’s the scoop from the M.E. and CSU. Cause of death, gunshot piercing ascending aorta, thirty-eight caliber, semiwadcutter round, recovered sufficiently intact for ballistic match if we turn up a gun. Time of death between seven-thirty P.M. Tuesday and seven-thirty A.M. Wednesday, when the body was discovered. CSU says no promising forensics at scene. Roger and out.”

“Not much help.”

“No.”

“Should we go visit the grieving widow now?”

Rizzo sighed. “Yeah. Start getting tactful.”

Mrs. Yulia Antipov was twenty-nine years old. She had two young children ages three and five. She sat solemnly on her sofa. Condolences and preliminaries complete, Rizzo began a gently toned questioning.

“When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Antipov?”

“At about three in the afternoon, the day he was... the day before they found him.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Here.”

“Was he planning on going out somewhere?”

“Yes. To work.” Her eyes fell away. “He drives limousine car. For rich people.”

“Yes. We know all about his career. Did you hear from him at all later that day or night?”

“No.”

“Was that unusual? Not to hear from him, I mean.”

“No. Not unusual. Very busy when driving limousine.”

“Where were you from three o’clock on Tuesday until the police notified you on Wednesday about... what had happened?”

“Home. My children... I am busy with my children.”

“Were you alone that entire time?”

“No. My brother here.”

“Your brother? Who’s your brother?”

“Lev. Lev Krupin. My brother.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty.”

“What hours or time frame was he here?”

She straightened her back and fixed her eyes upon the opposing wall.

“He arrived at six-thirty. We had dinner. Chicken with creamed corn. Then we watch TV, Frasier, very funny. Then we watch news. Lev fall asleep on couch. I put blanket over him, go to bed at eleven. I think Viktor will wake him when he come home, then Lev go to own home. But... Viktor not come home.”

Rizzo passed a quick glance to Ginsberg, who gave a brief lift to his brows. Rizzo continued.

“So when, if you know, did your brother leave?”

“Next morning, seven o’clock. Lev open his shop every day, seven-thirty, seven days a week.”

“Did you have occasion to see him at any time between eleven P.M. and seven A.M.?”

“Yes. I wake up around midnight, come downstairs to look for Viktor. Viktor not here. Lev still asleep on couch.”

Rizzo jotted notes into his pad, asked for Lev Krupin’s home and business information. After recording them, he raised his eyes to Yulia’s.

“Kind of warm in here, Mrs. Antipov, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Very warm. Viktor always like house warm... so... it still warm.”

“I notice you’re wearing a long-sleeve blouse, though.” Rizzo smiled. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable with a short sleeve.”

Her eyes fell from Rizzo. Suddenly a loose thread on her pants captured her attention.

Ginsberg said, “You know, I have a son. He’s ten. plays soccer. A few weeks ago, he took a kicked ball right to his face. It was a couple of weeks before the bruising cleared up. The last few days it looked a lot like your face — that discoloration on your left cheekbone. You don’t play soccer, do you, Mrs. Antipov?”

She worked the thread more diligently. “No. No soccer... I...”

“Have some sorta accident, did you, ma’am?” Rizzo asked.

“No.” She raised her head defiantly. “No accident. Are we finished now? I must go check on children.”

“Well, coupla more questions, if—” Ginsberg began.

“No, no, that’s okay,” Rizzo said. “We can come back another time. Go check on your children, ma’am. We’ll see ourselves out.”

Once back in the 62nd Precinct, Rizzo sat at his desk and dialed the neighboring 61st Precinct detective squad.

“Six-one Squad, Moore,” he heard.

“Hello, Moore, Sergeant Rizzo, Six-two squad.”

“What’s up, Sarge?”

“Need some info on the late Viktor Antipov, he lived in your precinct. I’d like you to check for any DV radio runs to that address.”

“I don’t have to check, unless you need exact dates and times. But— Antipov was a local celebrity, you know. Riser in the Russian mob, so we’re all pretty familiar with him. There weren’t any domestic violence calls — from the house, that is. But there were at least three or four made from Coney Island Hospital. An ER supervisor would make the calls. We tried to nail Antipov a couple of times for beating his wife, but we didn’t get anywhere. She never personally made a complaint, always said she fell, walked into something, whatever. Just one more reason me and the guys toasted a fond farewell to that son-of-a-bitch when we heard he was cold. Who whacked him, by the way? Louie or Oleg?”

Rizzo smiled into the mouthpiece. “I’ll get back to you on that, Moore. Thanks for the help, and good luck to you and the guys dealing with your grief.”

He turned to Ginsberg. “Bingo.”

Ginsberg nodded. “Did you see the scars? One over her right eye, the other on her chin? And those long sleeves. Probably covering black-and-blues. And here I was thinking I couldn’t be any happier Antipov got whacked.”

“Well, now you know, there’s always room for more happiness.” Rizzo pondered it. “How’d you like that Manchurian Candidate recital about her and her brother on the night Antipov got shot? Was that rehearsed to death or what?”

Ginsberg sat stiffly erect, a blank stare on his face, speaking with a rough Russian accent.

“Ф‘Ve vatch the Frasier, very funny.’ Yeah, I bet we ask her brother, he recites it back to us verbatim.” Detective Angela Paulson approached. “Hey, Joe, I got that info you asked for: Krupin, Lev, age thirty, issued a premise pistol permit two years running. Reason: cash business owner, high-risk area.”

Rizzo reached out and took the paper Paulson offered. “Thank you, Angie. What’s the piece?”

“Let me guess,” Ginsberg interjected. “Thirty-eight revolver?”

Rizzo scanned the paper. “Yep. Smith and Wesson, model thirty-six.”

Angela Paulson snorted. “Five-shot three-inch. Girl’s gun.”

Rizzo smiled. “It’ll do, Angie. It’ll do.”

Lev Krupin sat in a harsh wooden chair pushed close against the interview room table, Rizzo and Ginsberg looming over him. Ginsberg, on Krupin’s right, bent to his ear.

“So... you’re telling us somebody stole your gun. Right out of your shop. No burglary, no strong-arm. A guy just wandered in, looked around, opened a few drawers, saw the gun, and glommed it. That’s your story, Lev?”

“Yes. Yes... I... it was stolen.”

“But you didn’t report it?”

“I did not... I did not want trouble. With police. In Moscow, the poli—”

Rizzo interjected. “This is Brooklyn, Lev. Brooklyn. I don’t know about Moscow, but in Brooklyn, cops know a lie when they hear one.”

“Where were you the night your late brother-in-law proved he had a heart by getting part of it blown off?” Ginsberg asked harshly.

“I... I was at my sister’s house... I arrived six-thirty. We had dinner. We... we watched the TV. We watched the news, I fell asleep. Next day I wake... leave house... leave house seven o’clock, to open shop, seven-thirty.”

Ginsberg pulled a chair to himself, turned it, sat down, his arms atop the chair back, his face thrust toward Krupin.

“You forgot the chicken and creamed corn dinner and the ‘We watch Frasier, very funny’ part, Lev. Come on, get with it. You’re screwing up the script.”

The man began to perspire. Rizzo noticed the slight trembling of the fingers, the throb in the vein of the neck. He leaned his haunches against the table and crossed his arms.

Without turning his head toward Lev Krupin, Rizzo quickly ran a few carefully crafted thoeries through his mind. Simply speaking straight ahead in conversational tones, he took his shot.

“Here’s what we know happened, Lev. You got sick of watching your sister get smacked around. You confronted Antipov. He told you to drop dead, maybe smacked you around. You went and got your gun, found him, and shot him.”

“No!” Krupin croaked, his voice breaking. “I’m good man, honest, not criminal. I’m citizen! Five years, citizen!”

“Yeah, well, that’s nice. But — listen carefully here, citizen. I just told you what we know. Now I’m gonna tell you what we can prove. They’re two different things. We can prove your sister got sick of being a punching bag. She called you. You brought her the gun, and you babysat her two kids. Then she killed Antipov. Shot him right in the heart. So even though we know you did it, she takes the fall because she’s the one we can get a conviction on. The conviction you own.” Rizzo now turned to Ginsberg. “Does that sound like the actions of a ‘good man,’ Mark? An ‘honest, not criminal,’ man? A citizen?”

Ginsberg grimaced. “No. Sounds exactly like something Viktor Antipov would do, Joe.” Ginsberg stood, moved even closer to Krupin, and bent to his ear once again. “You or your sister, Lev. Who’s it gonna be?” He smiled coldly. “Makes no difference to us.”

Time: 13:10 hours

Place: Interview Room Two, 62 Pct. Det. Squad Room, 2nd floor

Present: Rizzo, Joseph, Sergeant, Shield #1864, 62 Squad

Ginsberg, Mark, Det. 1st, Shield #2065, 62 Squad

Brusca, Judith, Official Stenographer, OCR I.D. #10502

Bronson, James, P.O., Shield #17860, Video Unit, Bklyn South

Smalls, Juanita, A.D.A., Kings County (catching)

Krupkin, Lev

Interviewer: Rizzo, Joseph

Subject: Krupkin, Lev

Q: Why were you carrying a gun that night?

A: I have permit for in store. But... but I take gun home every night. For protection. I take cash to night drop... I feel safer with gun.

Q: Where is that gun now?

A: Jamaica Bay. I throw off Canarsie Pier Wednesday night.

Q: How and when did you meet up with Antipov on the night he was shot?

A: I go for coffee after I leave my sister’s house.

Q: Alone or with someone?

A: Alone.

Q: What time?

A: Leave sister at eleven at night.

Q: So you didn’t sleep on her couch as you stated to myself and Detective Ginsberg earlier today.

A: No. I go for coffee. That place on Sixty-fifth Street. When I come out, I run into Viktor. He see me with coffee container in hand, laugh at me. He always laugh at me. I tell him, ‘What funny?’ He says I am funny. He says I am joke. I tell him, you are joke. You are criminal. You are wife beater. That get him very mad. He say to me, ‘You are coward. If any man beat my sister, I would cut his throat and drink his blood like wine. But you... you are coward.’

Q: Then what happened?

A: He say come with him, prove I’m not coward. Come with him to alley across street. “If you are a man, we will fight. Or you can walk away — walk away like cowardly shopkeeper you are. And I will beat my wife when she needs beating, and you will stand mute, shopkeeper, and respect me.”

Q: Then what?

A: He walk across street, go into alley. I stand there, shaking. I am not coward. But Viktor... Viktor killer. Very strong man, very tough, no mercy in his soul. I was frightened. Then... I felt the gun. The weight... in my pocket. I went to alley, took out gun, pointed at Viktor. He just laughed. He spit at me. ‘That is for you, shopkeeper. My spit. And now I will take that gun from you. And I will beat you with it. Beat you like a dog.’

Q: And then?

A: (long pause, approx. 15 seconds) I shoot him. And then I run away.

Rizzo hung up his phone and stood. It was ten days since Viktor Antipov had been slain.

He crossed the squad room and dropped heavily into the chair beside Ginsberg’s desk.

“Just heard from the boss of the harbor unit,” Rizzo said. “His divers recovered a Smith and Wesson model thirty-six, right where Krupkin told them they would, twenty yards off the southeast corner of the Canarsie Pier, in about fifteen feet of water.”

“And they’ve matched the serial numbers?”

“Yeah. It’s definitely the gun registered to Krupkin. One spent cartridge in the cylinder.”

Ginsberg gave a slight shrug. “We get a ballistic match, throw it on top of his confession, it’s a slam-dunk for murder-two.”

“Yeah. But maybe... with a good lawyer and a sympathetic prosecutor, along with some input from us, Krupkin could catch a break and a plea offer to manslaughter-one. After all, he had been threatened by Antipov, a known killer.”

“So then maybe he draws eight-and-a-third, does maybe five years and paroles out.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said, a bitterness slipping into his tone. “And when he walks out of the state pen he takes a bullet to the back of his head, courtesy of Oleg Boklov.” Rizzo paused, absently running his fingers through his brown hair. “Some of that blood, Mark... it lands on our hands.”

After a brief moment, Ginsberg nodded. “A little bit, Joe, yeah. A little bit.”

They sat silently for a few long moments, each with his own thoughts. Then Rizzo turned in his seat and glanced to the squad room clock. Just over an hour left in the tour.

“Hey, partner. Feel like taking a ride?”

“Where to, Joe?”

“Park Slope. Over by Methodist Hospital. I hear some new kid-friendly luncheonette just opened up. I’m curious to see if they have one of those monkey-in-the-Jeep rides.”

Ginsberg wrinkled his brow. “Why?”

“Well, like I told you, Marie is going back to college for her sophomore year in September. So I’m thinking, maybe before she leaves, I can take her to this new joint for lunch. You know — for grilled cheese and a malted. Like when she was a kid.” Ginsberg considered it, his face growing somber. He sighed and stood slowly.

“Sure, Joe. Let’s take a ride. At least if we find a new monkey store, we’ll have actually accomplished something worthwhile. Let’s see what that feels like.”

© 2017 by Lou Manfredo