Every Little Crook and Nanny

12: Freddie

Mario Azzecca’s messenger was a man named Freddie Corriere. He had been summoned to the Sutton Place apartment at nine-thirty, had received his instructions from the lawyer, and had proceeded immediately and promptly to Benny Napkins’ place on Twenty-fourth Street. Neither Benny nor Jeanette Kay was home, so Freddie went downstairs and made a phone call from the booth on the corner, advising Azzecca of the situation and asking for further instructions. Azzecca told him to keep trying even if it took all night.

By twelve-thirty, Freddie had been back to the apartment a total of four additional times. Benny lived on the fifth floor in a building that didn’t have an elevator. Climbing five flights of stairs, up and down, five times in the course of two and a half hours could cause severe thirst in a person. Fortunately, there was a bar on Twenty-fifth Street, so that Freddie could rest in a nice sociable atmosphere between his visits to Benny’s building. By twelve-thirty, he had consumed six scotches plus one bottle of beer. He had ordered another beer, and had promised himself that he would go back to the apartment again at one A.M., as soon as he finished the second beer.

That was when Sarah came into the bar.

Freddie knew Sarah from when she used to work for Bobby Mezzano up on Forty-ninth Street. She was a big tall black girl with a bushy head of hair and bright white teeth, and also very nice breasts. She was wearing a tight-fitting silk jersey dress and, because it was summertime, and also because of the nature of her profession, she didn’t have anything on under the dress. Freddie noticed this at once.

“Hello there, Sarah,” he said, “what brings you here to this part of town?”

“Who’s that?” Sarah asked, and peered into the darkness toward the end of the bar where Freddie sat nursing his beer.

“Me,” he said, “Freddie Corriere.”

“Freddie, hey there,” she said, and walked over. “Buy a girl a drink?”

“Sure,” Freddie said, and snapped his fingers at the bartender. “What’s your pleasure?”

“That’s what I’m supposed to ask,” Sarah said, and laughed.

“Oh,” Freddie said. “Yeah.” He laughed with her. He hadn’t quite caught her little joke, but what the hell. “Anyway,” he said, “what would you like to drink?”

“A vermouth cassis,” Sarah said.

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“What are you having?” the bartender said, walking over.

“A vermouth cassis,” Sarah repeated.

The bartender looked at her malevolently for a moment, shook his head, and walked away to mix the drink.

“I never had one of those, those vermouth cassises,” Freddie said.

“They’re very nice. You should try one,” Sarah said. “I’ll give you a little sip of mine when it comes. Would you like a little sip of mine?”

“Yeah,” Freddie said, and looked up at the wall clock. It was twenty minutes to one. “Anyway,” he said, “what are you doing down around here? I thought you worked uptown.”

“Where there’s occupation, I occupy myself,” Sarah said.

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“Yeah,” Sarah said.

“One vermouth cassis,” the bartender said. “Only we ain’t got no cassis, so it’s only vermouth.”

“What’s that, that cassis?” Freddie asked.

“It’s a liqueur,” Sarah said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” the bartender said, “only we ain’t got none.” He looked at Sarah malevolently again, and then went to the other end of the bar to watch television.

“Guess nothing’s gonna go right tonight,” Sarah said, and lifted her glass. “Cheers,” she said.

“Salute,” Freddie said. It was one of the two Italian words he knew. The other one was “Vanapoli,” which was three words in itself, but Freddie didn’t realize that. “Anyway, what else went wrong tonight?” he asked.

“Everything,” Sarah said, and swallowed a gulp of vermouth, and then put down the glass and lighted a cigarette. “I was supposed to meet a guy down here at midnight. He never showed.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said,

“Yeah. Got the room and everything.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“Yeah,” Sarah said.

“I don’t see why nobody would stand you up, Sarah,” he said. “Good-looking girl like you.”

“Well, honey, somebody just did,” Sarah said, and blew out a stream of smoke, and lifted her glass. “It’s a shame, too, because I already paid for the room and all.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said, and looked up at the wall clock again. It was ten minutes to one.

“Yeah,” Sarah said. “Oh well,” she said, and swallowed another gulp of vermouth. “What gets me is the room going to waste all night, that’s what gets me.”

“Where is that room?” Freddie asked.

“On Twenty-first.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“Yeah.”

“That ain’t too far from here.”

“It’s practically around the corner,” Sarah said, and crossed her legs.

“I have to make a delivery on Twenty-fourth and Third,” Freddie said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. But after that, I’m free the rest of the night,” Freddie said. “If I wanted to lay you,” he said subtly, “how much would it cost?”

“Well, I already paid for the room, you know.”

“Yeah, how much is that?”

“Twelve dollars.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And how much are you?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sarah said.

“So that comes to an even thirty-eight dollars.”

“Thirty-seven dollars,” Sarah said.

“Twelve and twenty-five,” Freddie said, and added silently in his head. “Right, thirty-seven. That’s not so bad.”

“No, that’s not so bad. Some of the girls are getting a lot more.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“Yeah.”

“Well, listen, would you like to walk me over to Twenty-fourth while I make this delivery, and then we can go over to that room, okay?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sarah said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said.

Freddie paid for the drinks, and they walked to Twenty-fourth Street, where Sarah waited downstairs for him, and where he again climbed the five flights to Benny Napkins’ apartment. Nobody was home. He went downstairs again, puffing hard. Sarah was leaning against the building, smoking.

“Everything taken care of?” she asked.

“No, nobody’s still there,” he said.

“Well, you can take care of it later, huh?”

“Yeah,” Freddie said. “I tried, didn’t I?”

“Sure, you did. Right now you’re gonna take care of me, huh?”

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

They walked away from the building arm-in-arm. Ten minutes later, Benny Napkins pulled up in a cab with Jeanette Kay, whom he had picked up outside the Trans-Lux 85th Street. Jeanette Kay was anxious to get upstairs because Crime of Passion, with Barbara Stanwyck and Sterling Hayden, was showing on Channel 5.

The Jackass refused to take off his stocking.

“That is a mask,” Bozzaris told him, “and there are laws against people wearing masks.”

“It’s not a mask, it’s a garment.”

“Be that as it may, it is still a mask,” Bozzaris said.

“It’s a stocking,” The Jackass said.

“If you wear it over your face, it’s a mask.”

“If you wear a mask on your foot, does that make it a stocking?” The Jackass asked.

“Don’t be a wise guy,” Bozzaris said.

“I know my rights,” The Jackass said, because whereas he was not too terribly bright, his empirical knowledge of criminal law was formidable and impressive.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, and decided then and there to advise him of his rights, it being the habit of bums all over these days to complain that this or that thing was not done according to the book. “In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda versus Arizona,” he said, “we’re required to advise you of your rights, and that’s what I’m doing now.”

“Correct,” The Jackass said approvingly.

“First, you have the right to remain silent, if you choose, do you understand that?”

“Correct, and I do.”

“Do you also understand that you need not answer any police questions?”

“Correct, and I do.”

“And do you also understand that if you do answer questions...”

“... my answers may be used as evidence against me, correct. I understand.”

“I must also inform you that you have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning, do you understand that?”

“Yes,” The Jackass said, “and I also understand that if I decide to exercise that right but do not have the funds with which to hire counsel, I am entitled to have a lawyer appointed without cost, to consult with him before or during questioning.”

“Correct,” Bozzaris said.

“Do you understand all of your rights?” The Jackass asked.

“I do,” Bozzaris said.

“Do you want a lawyer?” The Jackass asked.

“What?” Bozzaris said, and blinked, and then narrowed his eyes. “Listen,” he said, “don’t be a wise guy. The last wise guy we had in here is right this minute languishing in the Tombs.”

“I want a lawyer,” The Jackass said.

“Do you have any special lawyer in mind?”

“I do.”

“Who?”

“Mario Azzecca,” The Jackass said, and Bozzaris suddenly sniffed the sweet scent of money wafting on the stale squadroom air.

Azzecca was in bed with his wife Sybil when the telephone rang at two o’clock in the morning. He immediately knew it was trouble. His son up at Harvard had undoubtedly been busted on a Possession of Marijuana charge, little bastard.

“Hello?” he said.

“Lieutenant Bozzaris here,” the voice on the other end said. “There is something important we have to discuss.”

“At two o’clock in the morning?” Azzecca said.

“Who is it?” his wife asked.

“Go to sleep,” Azzecca said. “Hold on a minute,” he said to Bozzaris, “I want to take this in my study.” He got out of bed in his pajamas, put on a dressing gown, and went out of the bedroom and down the corridor to where Sybil — out of the goodness of her miserly heart — had provided him with an eight-by-ten work space in a twelve-room apartment. He picked up the extension phone and said, “What’s so important, Lieutenant?”

“Money,” Bozzaris said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about somewhere in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars that is now in our possession,” Bozzaris said.

The telephone began shaking in Azzecca’s hand. “What about it?” he said calmly.

“Our information leads us to believe that maybe this money is earmarked for one Carmine Ganucci in Naples,” Bozzaris said, and Azzecca immediately realized that Freddie Corriere, that dumb bastard, had somehow got himself picked up on the way to Benny Napkins’ place.

“Your information is wrong,” Azzecca answered, because why had Bozzaris said “in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars?” What vicinity? Corriere had been carrying exactly fifty thousand dollars in an envelope with a rubber band around it, not to mention the airline ticket to Naples.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “I have no desire to interfere in the various activities or industries you fellows are engaged or involved in, so long as they are not criminal in nature, or evil in intent. You may recall that not too long ago, some of my fellows picked up a worthless batch of figures which were meaningless to us and certainly not indicative of any crime being committed, so we returned them to their rightful owner, namely one Joseph Dirigere who, in gratitude, contributed seven thousand four hundred dollars to the squad’s pension and retirement fund.”

“I remember,” Azzecca said.

“I thought you might,” Bozzaris said. “Now, similarly and likewise, I have no way of knowing whether this currency is what is sometimes referred to as tainted money, or bad money, or dirty money, I have no way of knowing that. In looking it over, it seems to me like just any normal kind of money, which is neither clean nor dirty, but just plain cold hard cash.” Bozzaris paused. “On the barrelhead.”

“How much?” Azzecca said.

“Same as last time,” Bozzaris answered at once.

“Too much,” Azzecca said.

“All right, all right, who wants to haggle where hardworking policemen are involved? Make it an even five thousand.”

“Ridiculous,” Azzecca said.

“I’m willing to compromise,” Bozzaris said. “Thirty-five hundred.”

“Two thousand.”

“Twenty-five hundred?”

“Two thousand,” Azzecca said, “and not a penny more.”

“It’s a deal,” Bozzaris said. “Where shall I send your man with the remainder of the cash?”

“Freddie?”

“Is that his name? He ain’t told us a thing. And, also, he’s got a goddamn stocking pulled over his head.”

“I always knew he was a little queer,” Azzecca said.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “shall I send him over to your place after we make the agreed-upon deduction at this end?”

“Yes. But tell him to leave the package with the doorman.”

“The doorman? Don’t you want him to come upstairs?”

“If he comes upstairs, I’m liable to strangle him with my bare hands, right here in my own living room,” Azzecca said.

“I’ll make believe I didn’t hear that,” Bozzaris said, and chuckled. “Nice talking to you.”

“Send the ticket back, too,” Azzecca said.

But Bozzaris had already hung up.

At twenty minutes to three, the buzzer in Azzecca’s kitchen sounded while he was sitting at the table drinking a glass of milk. He went swiftly to the wall and pressed the TALK toggle.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Azzecca, this is Hymie on the door. I got a package for you.”

“Send it right up,” Azzecca said.

“Fellow who delivered it said it was important, so I didn’t know whether I should wait till morning...”

“Yes, yes, send it right up,” Azzecca said.

“... or buzz you now in the middle of the night. Should I send it up?”

“Please,” Azzecca said.

The elevator operator knocked on the door five minutes later and handed Azzecca an A & P shopping bag. Azzecca thanked him, closed and locked the door, and then went into the living room, wondering how come the money had been transferred to a shopping bag from a plain white envelope with a rubber band around it. He turned the bag over, dumped its contents onto the coffee table, and wondered how come the fifty thousand dollars had been in hundred-dollar denominations when it left this apartment, whereas it now seemed to be in various denominations — tens, twenties, singles, and century notes.

He began counting the money.

And then he began wondering why Lieutenant Bozzaris, after his long song and dance on the telephone, had not bothered after all to deduct the two-thousand-dollar contribution to his squad’s pension and retirement fund.

The bills on Azzecca’s living room coffee table added up to exactly fifty thousand dollars, the identical amount that Freddie Corriere had carried out of here at 9:45 P.M. Bozzaris had deducted the ticket to Naples, but that was all. Maybe he was planning on taking a little trip.

Azzecca shrugged.

Tomorrow, he would have to send another messenger to Benny Napkins. By then, he figured he would have heard from the good lieutenant again, correcting his oversight. Azzecca belched, finished his glass of milk, and went to bed with his ulcer growling nonetheless.