Every Little Crook and Nanny

8: Bozzaris

Alexander Bozzaris was not a crook. He was a cop. In his mind, there was a big difference. Only once in his lifetime had he suffered through an identity crisis, and that was when he tried to rape his wife. He had just for the fun of it dressed up as a bum one night, sneaked into his own house (he had to smile just thinking of it), and tried to violate his own wife. He was arrested for this, and held for three hours in a Bronx precinct even though he had shown all the detectives his badge and warned that he would bring them up on charges unless they released him immediately. His wife, however, insisted to the detectives that she had never before seen him in her life, and that he had broken into her bedroom shouting “Rape!” and so it was the word of a nice Jewish lady against that of an obvious Greek pervert. Bozzaris was not released until Captain O’Rourke, who ran the precinct, came up himself and verified that Bozzaris was a cop.

He was reaching for a ringing telephone on his desk when Snitch walked into his office that afternoon. “Hello, Snitch,” he said, and motioned him to a straight-backed chair across the room, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

“Bozzaris here,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Just a second, let me get a piece of paper.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a blank sheet of Police Department stationery, pinned it to the desk with his elbow, picked up a pencil, and said, “Shoot!” into the mouthpiece. Across the room, Snitch crossed his legs, and then uncrossed them again. He had had to go to the bathroom ever since he’d stumbled across his priceless information. He resented the telephone intrusion now because he was very anxious to begin bargaining with Bozzaris. Impatiently, he listened as Bozzaris spoke into the phone.

“Right,” Bozzaris said. “Where? Oh, I see, our man downtown at Western Union. What? Well, be that as it may, what does the cable read? Just a minute, let me write this down. Addressed to who? Right, right, I’ve got it. Go ahead.”

Snitch uncrossed his legs again.

“Right,” Bozzaris said. “From Capri, right. What’s the message?”

Snitch crossed his legs.

“Essential and urgent,” Bozzaris said, “raise fifty delivery Saturday August 21. Advise.”

Snitch opened his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward in his chair.

“What’s the signature?” Bozzaris asked.

“Carmine Ganucci,” Snitch said glumly.

“What?” Bozzaris said.

“Nothing,” Snitch said, and started out of the office.

“Just a minute there!” Bozzaris yelled. Into the mouthpiece, he said, “I’ll call you back later.” He hung up, rose from his desk, and intercepted Snitch in the squadroom outside, where Bozzaris’ various fellows were busy at work typing up Detective Division reports. The squadroom had about it the air of a soggy, used, cardboard coffee container. It had been painted Institutional Apple Green circa 1919, and had since been repainted some two dozen times, always the same apple green, a color peculiarly vulnerable to grime. It was reasonable to estimate that there were more fingerprints on those dingy squadroom walls than there were in the filing cabinets lining them. Some of the cabinets were made of wood; the remainder were metal, painted a dark green for decorative contrast. Similarly, the detectives’ desks were a chic combination of scarred wood and battered metal. A matching metal detention cage for obstreperous prisoners dominated one corner of the room. A bulletin board with various departmental flyers (including an announcement for the Annual Departmental Golf Meet) was on the wall adjacent to the lieutenant’s office. It was alongside this bulletin board that Bozzaris grabbed Snitch by the elbow and said, “What’s your hurry, Snitch?”

“Well,” Snitch said, “I see that you’re busy and all, so there’s no sense hanging around.”

“Never too busy for you, Snitch,” Bozzaris said, and grinned. “What was it you wished to see me about?”

His expansive welcome was not at all feigned. Detective Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris considered Snitch a very good adviser, one of the best the department had. His admiration was based on the fact that Snitch had delivered an excellent tip to the Chicago police back in 1929, on St. Valentine’s Day to be exact. Snitch had told the minions of the law that a little get-together was being planned for a garage on North Wells Street. The only thing that had been wrong about Snitch’s information was the address; the blowout was being held on North Clark. But everyone makes mistakes from time to time. The fellows in Chicago, willing to forgive Snitch for both his errors, quickly promoted a quiet beer party, the proceeds of which went to pay Snitch’s hospital expenses and to buy him a fine set of crutches besides. Shortly thereafter, Snitch decided to move to New York.

The fellows in New York had heard of Snitch’s near coup, and decided there was no sense repeating anything to him because then there would be all the trouble afterwards of transporting him out to some Godforsaken potato patch on Long Island. At first, the fellows talked to him about nothing but the weather. Later, they rarely said anything at all to him. Eventually, as folklore became myth, Snitch came to be considered a very dull conversationalist, all the more reason to avoid discussion with him. These days, the only people who talked to Snitch were the police, who were still filled with admiration for his Chicago derring-do, who still offered him money for information, and who sometimes squared raps for him — which raps were generally bum raps invented by the police themselves to keep Snitch forever in their debt so that he would continue to pass on valuable underworld secrets nobody in his right mind ever told him.

“What have you heard?” Bozzaris asked.

“Plenty,” Snitch said, figuring all was not lost, despite the fact that Bozzaris was already privy to information about Ganooch’s cable.

“Come into my office and we’ll have some coffee,” Bozzaris said. “Sam!” he yelled to one of his fellows. “Two cups of coffee on the double!”

“We are out of coffee, Skipper!” Sam yelled back.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris answered, and led Snitch into his office. “Please sit down,” he said, and beckoned to an easy chair usually reserved for the Police Commissioner, the District Attorney, and various other municipal dignitaries who never visited Bozzaris’ office. Snitch accepted the seat with all the dignity of President Richard Milhous Nixon accepting a hard hat from construction workers.

“How did you know who signed that cable?” Bozzaris asked, getting directly to the point.

“I have ways and means,” Snitch answered.

“For what purpose does Carmine Ganucci need this money?” Bozzaris asked.

“There was a major felony committed on Tuesday night,” Snitch answered.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “I don’t see the connection.”

“Are you familiar with the lady who lives at Many Maples?” Snitch asked.

“Are you referring to Stella Ganucci?”

“No,” Snitch said.

“Stella Ganucci has a very spectacular set of jugs,” Bozzaris said wistfully.

“True, but I mean the lady who lives there and takes care of the Ganucci boy.”

“I remember seeing Stella Ganucci perform in Union City when I was a mere boy myself,” Bozzaris said, “and when her name at the time was Stella Stardust. She had a little light on the end of each tit, and it shone in the dark, both of them.”

“Yes, but I mean the lady known as Nanny.”

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Nanny came to me this morning to ask about a major felony committed on Tuesday night.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Nothing. But I’ll bet you all the money in China that Ganooch’s request for fifty grand is linked to that felony.”

“Which felony would that be?” Bozzaris asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Snitch replied. “But it’s something big, I’m sure of that.”

“Mmm,” Bozzaris said, and laced his fingers across his chest. He thought for a moment, cleared his throat, leaned forward in the swivel chair, put both elbows on the desk, fingers still laced, and said, “As I’m sure you know, Snitch, I’m considered a fighter in the department, witness my name. I was a fighter even back when I was a patrolman walking a beat on Staten Island, and I’ve continued to be a fighter over all the years that have brought me to my present fame and position. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s evil. Evil to me is the opposite of good. It’s the death force, as contrary to the life force. Have you ever noticed, Snitch, that ‘evil’ spelled backwards is ‘live’?”

“No, I never noticed that,” Snitch said.

“Try it,” Bozzaris said.

“How do you spell ‘evil’?” Snitch asked.

“E-v-i-l, which is l-i-v-e spelled backwards.”

“Yes, that’s right, now that you mention it,” Snitch said.

“And if there’s one thing I hate worse than evil, it’s organized evil. Carmine Ganucci and his fellows represent organized evil to me. Snitch, I’m going to tell you something in all honesty. I’ve always been a rebel, witness my name. I do not consider it fair that Carmine Ganucci and his fellows, through their organized evil, are reaping huge profits while my salary as a detective lieutenant in charge of a crack squad is a mere $19,781.80 a year. Do you think that’s fair, Snitch?”

“I don’t think it’s fair, Lieutenant,” Snitch said. “On the other hand, there is much on this road of life that is unfair, but we must all carry our share of the goddamn burden.”

“Snitch?” Bozzaris said.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Snitch, I do not like profanity.”

“Forgive me,” Snitch said.

“Profanity and evil go hand in hand.”

“I, myself, rarely swear,” Snitch said.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“I don’t think so,” Snitch said.

“Why do you think that fellow at Western Union called me?” Bozzaris said.

“To tell you about the cable Ganooch sent.”

“Yes, but why me? He’s a trusted adviser, Snitch, same as you, though hardly as well known or respected. Now why do you think he called me instead of someone on the D.A.’s Special Squad?”

“Why?” Snitch said.

“Because he knows I have vowed unending warfare against the forces of evil,” Bozzaris said.

“Oh,” Snitch said.

“Carmine Ganucci is evil. So when this fellow at Western Union gets hold of a message from Ganucci to his lawyers, he calls me, knowing full well I’ll do something about it, whereas those fellows on the D.A.’s squad would sit around on their asses all week without making a move, though I dislike profanity.”

“I see,” Snitch said.

“Also, he knew I would pay him twenty-five dollars for the information,” Bozzaris said. “The same way I always pay you twenty-five dollars for any information you come up with.”

“Well, could I have the twenty-five now?” Snitch asked. “I’m a little short of cash these days.”

“I’d be happy to give you twenty-five dollars this very minute,” Bozzaris said. “The trouble is you haven’t come up with any information I didn’t already possess.”

“I have so,” Snitch said.

“As for example?”

“Well, you didn’t know about the big felony committed on Tuesday night, for example, did you?” Snitch said.

“I know about four hundred and ten felonies committed in this very precinct alone,” Bozzaris said.

“But you didn’t know this particular felony might be connected to...”

“Which felony?” Bozzaris said, and smiled. “Do you see what I mean, Snitch? So far, no new information.”

“Well, what is it you’d like to know?” Snitch asked. “Which felony it was?”

“I’m not interested in felonies,” Bozzaris said. “Felonies are a dime a dozen around here. I think I can say with some measure of pride that there are more felonies committed in this precinct than in any other precinct in the entire city. So don’t tell me about felonies. I’m not interested in felonies.”

“Well,” Snitch said, “what are you interested in?”

“The fruits of organized evil,” Bozzaris said. “Money. I am primarily interested in intercepting that fifty thousand dollars before it gets to Naples.”

“If I may say so, Lieutenant,” Snitch said, “I don’t know very much about organized evil, of course, but I’m willing to bet those fellows send a check to Naples.”

“I beg to differ with you,” Bozzaris said, “and I’ll make allowances for your ignorance since I’ve made a lifelong study of organized evil, whereas you have not. But it’s been my experience that these fellows never write checks. Never. You can mark that down as a cardinal rule.”

“Well, maybe so,” Snitch said, “in which case it would be a simple matter to arrange a transfer of funds from a New York bank to a Naples bank. If there’s one thing I know about organized evil, and I admit I don’t know very much, it’s that these fellows are very well organized.”

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “not too many of them are willing to risk keeping records that show large amounts of money being transferred from one country to another, nor even from one city block to another. That’s one sure way of getting the Internal Revenue Service down on their asses, Snitch, witness what happened to Al Capone, and pardon the French.”

Snitch lowered his head in respect.

“Cash,” Bozzaris said. “That’s the secret of organized evil. Cash on the barrelhead. Do you want to know what I think?”

“What?” Snitch said.

“I think somebody’s going to raise fifty thousand bucks in cold hard cash, after which a trusted messenger will get on an airplane, fly to Naples, and put it right in Carmine Ganucci’s hands. That’s what I think.”

“Well, maybe,” Snitch said.

“If you can find out when and where that money will be raised and/or delivered to the man who will carry it to Italy, that might be worth twenty-five dollars to the hardworking fellows of this squad, who as you may know pay for information out of their own pockets.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s a little-known fact,” Bozzaris said, “but true. And if you can deliver this information, we might also forget the other little charge against you that’s still on the books.”

“What charge?” Snitch asked, going pale.

It was eight P.M. in Italy when Carmine Ganucci was called to the telephone at Faraglioni, where he was having dinner with Stella and a retired rhinoplastician from Jersey City. He was annoyed at being called to the phone just when the gamberoni were being served, and even more annoyed after he identified himself and heard Vito Garbugli’s voice on the other end of the line.

“What is it, Vito?” he asked.

“Did you send a cable?” Garbugli said.

“Yes.”

“To us?”

“Of course to you.”

“Is it true what you said in the cable?”

“Every word.”

“How do you wish delivery made?”

“By trusted messenger,” Ganucci said.

“When?”

“Put him on a plane to Rome tomorrow night.”

“I thought you wanted this in Naples.”

“There’s no flights from New York to Naples,” Ganucci said. “He has to transfer in Rome. Make sure you tell him to transfer in Rome.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“You always have to tell these dopes, or they forget to transfer.”

“I’ll tell him, don’t worry,” Garbugli said.

“And let me know what time he’ll arrive. I’ll arrange for someone to meet him Saturday.”

“Right, I’ll call you back later and let you know exactly...”

“Send a night letter,” Ganucci said.

“Right, a night letter.”

“How’s little Lewis?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to call the house and find out?”

“No, it’s twenty-five cents to Larchmont. Has Nanny been getting my postcards?”

“I don’t know. If you want me to call...”

“I been writing almost every day,” Ganucci said. “Airmail. It cost a hundred fifteen lira to send a postcard airmail. What else do you have to say to me?”

“Nothing.”

“Then hang up, this is costing a fortune,” Ganucci said, and hung up.

At the Twenty-third Street and Lexington Avenue branch of the First National City Bank, at 2:37 P.M., New York time, Benny Napkins was withdrawing from his savings account all but $216.00, which he thought he had better keep for a rainy day in case The Jackass goofed tonight. He did not see how The Jackass could possibly muff the play, but Benny was well aware that people sometimes make mistakes, and he figured he might just as well have enough to cover the plane fare to Honolulu in case something went wrong. The best laid schemes o’ mice an men gang aft a-gley, he quoted silently, and then said to the cashier, “I want four thousand in hundred-dollar bills, and two thousand in singles.”

“Two thousand in singles?” the cashier said.

“That’s correct,” Benny said.

The cashier began counting.

Benny knew that his plan was slightly dishonest, but on the other hand he had not asked some crazy maniac to steal Ganooch’s son, nor had he asked Nanny to call him for assistance. He was handling the entire matter professionally and coolly, he thought. At ten o’clock tonight, if all went according to plan, and if The Jackass did not goof, Benny would be in possession of the ransom money and perhaps a little bit more for his troubles. Provided Celia Mescolata had arranged for the game; he would not know about that until five-thirty. In the meantime, he picked up the stack of bills — two thousand singles and forty hundreds — asked the cashier for a rubber band, rolled the bills into an enormous wad, century notes showing, snapped the rubber band around the roll, thanked the cashier, and left the bank.

He wondered if he should call The Jackass again, just to make sure he understood the plan. The Jackass was not too bright. The Jackass sometimes had trouble remembering his own telephone number. Still, it was best not to pressure a man once he had agreed to an action. There was no sense overtraining a good horse or a good fighter. The Jackass understood very few things in life, but one thing he understood fine was larceny.

Benny walked up Lexington Avenue to his apartment. He was very nervous, so he decided to ask Jeanette Kay if she was in the mood. Jeanette Kay said she might be, so long as they were finished by four o’clock, at which time Dark Shadows came on.

Nanny looked at the picture on the front of the card and thought it highly attractive. She turned the card over and read it:

Nanny read the card again, and then another time. He had mentioned nothing about coming home, and that was good. According to the itinerary he had left on the desk in his study, he and Stella would not be leaving Italy until Sunday, August 29. Apparently nothing had yet happened to change those plans — although Nanny was quite aware of the fact that it took five or six days for his postcards to get here, and that he might just pop in the front door without any forewarning. Should something like that happen, should the Ganuccis suddenly decide to leave Italy, or (oh my God!) already be in transit from Italy, and unexpectedly walk into the house trailing baggage and asking for little Lewis...

The thought was terrifying.

Nanny decided to call Benny Napkins again. She went into the study, slid the doors shut behind her even though the house was quite empty and still, went to the desk near the leaded casement windows now spilling afternoon sunshine into the room, and dialed Benny’s number in Manhattan. He took an inordinately long time to answer the phone, and then he said, rather gruffly, she thought, “Who the hell is this?”

“This is Nanny.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, hello, Nanny. Listen, Nanny, can you call back in a little while? Like in about ten minutes? What?” he said, and Nanny got the distinct impression he had turned away from the phone for a moment. His voice came back again, a trifle louder. “Make that fifteen minutes, okay?” he said.

“I’m very worried,” Nanny said.

“Yes, I can understand, but everything’s under control,” Benny said, “and there’s nothing to worry about. Nanny, could you maybe call back in about ten, fifteen minutes, and we’ll go over the whole thing then, okay?”

“I want to discuss it now,” Nanny said.

There was a long silence on the line. Then Benny said, wearily, she thought, “What is it, Nanny?”

“What progress have you made?” Nanny asked.

“I have arranged a poker game for this evening. Or at least, I have spoken to a friend of mine about arranging one. She’ll be calling me later to let me know whether or not the game is on. Nanny, I’ve got a good idea. Why don’t you call me back at say five-thirty, six o’clock? By then I should know whether we got a game or not, and I can...”

“A poker game, did you say?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“How can you think of playing cards at a time like this?” Nanny asked.

“I hope to take fifty thousand dollars out of that game, if all goes well,” Benny said. “Nanny, this is not something we can discuss over the telephone, as you never know who’s listening these days.”

“Will you let me know later about the game?”

“Very definitely. Have you heard from those crazy maniacs yet?”

“Not yet. They said five o’clock.”

“All right then, I’ll call you back around six or so, and we can exchange information at that time. Does that sound all right to you, Nanny?”

“Yes, that sounds fine,” Nanny said.

“Good,” he said, abruptly she thought, and hung up.