Johnny Porno

Chapter 36

A restless night had convinced Brice he should confront Levin about the notebook and what was or wasn’t going on with Kelly. As he turned off Twenty-ninth Avenue onto Bell Boulevard, he spotted Levin talking with a blonde-haired man.

He pulled up alongside a fire hydrant and thought he’d be sick after he recognized the guy from an ethics course given at the police academy by detectives with Internal Affairs. Brice waited until the two men turned their backs and walked away before whipping the Mustang into a U-turn and running the light at the corner.

He drove to Massapequa and parked up the block from George Berg’s house before nine-thirty. Brice didn’t know what time Kelly would show up and was still nervous about Levin.

The hours passed slowly as it turned into another hot, humid day sitting in the Mustang. Brice couldn’t relax and spent most of his time making himself crazy wondering what the hell was going on and whether or not it would involve him.

It was close to one o’clock before Kelly finally showed. The lieutenant detective seemed in a good mood as he started a one-way conversation about the Watergate thing in Washington before switching to the Yankees’ five-game losing streak. Kelly didn’t stop talking until Brice had to leave to take a piss.

When he returned to his car, Brice saw that Kelly was sitting behind the wheel again. It annoyed him today more so than it had the day before. He would’ve beefed about it again, except Kelly moved to the passenger seat without being prompted.

A long stretch of nothing but the heat and boredom followed until Kelly went for sandwiches and Brice tried to nap. George Berg hadn’t even stepped outside his house. There was no more denying the investigation was bogus and might have been all along. They had been racking up overtime, most of it doing nothing and all of it authorized by Kelly.

By four-thirty Brice’s shirt had been soaked with sweat. He took it off and Kelly complained about the T-shirt he wore, calling it a guinea wife-beater.

“I’m not a guinea,” Brice had said. “I’m not even Italian.”

“Good for you,” Kelly said. “Those fucking people. Worse’n niggers.”

Brice waited for the rest of Kelly’s ranting and was surprised when there wasn’t any. A relatively peaceful half hour passed and then Kelly finally said, “Looks like nothing’s happening here.”

Brice nearly said what he was thinking: No shit, Sherlock.

“Drop you at your car or what?” he said instead.

“I was thinking we’d go for a beer,” Kelly said. “Maybe shoot the shit some.”

Brice shook his head. “No can do,” he said. “Got a date. Married broad hasn’t had it inna while.”

“You’re fucking married women are you?” said Kelly with a disbelieving smirk.

“She’s separated,” Brice said. “Still waiting on a divorce.”

Kelly chuckled.

“What?” Brice said.

“I was beginning to wonder about you, that’s all. Glad to hear it, you’re dipping your stick somewhere.”

Brice swallowed hard.

“Well, I guess you can drop me off then,” Kelly said.

Brice kept to himself during the drive to the local deli they’d been using as a parking landmark. Concerned Kelly was already aware of his sexuality, Brice wondered if it was common knowledge. Then, after dropping Kelly off and driving more than halfway home, he spotted something on the passenger seat, a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

“Shit,” he said through clenched teeth. “God damn shit.”

John felt light-headed; his son was safe, but his life had spiraled out of control. The Buick was gone and with it the mob’s money and thirteen bootlegged movie reels.

After getting Nancy’s phone call about his son being abducted, John had lost all sense of reality. The adrenaline rush parents feel when one of their own is in danger had consumed him. By the time Nancy told him the truth, that it had been some kind of a bet she had made with her current husband, it was too late.

She had tried to explain it away, telling him he should be happy she’d lost the bet because it meant he wasn’t the worst father in the world.

“What?” he remembered saying to her.

She had explained it again, the next time as if winning her bet was some kind of consolation.

“Where’s my son!” he’d yelled loud enough to draw attention from some of the bazaar crowd.

“Calm down,” Nancy had said. “He’s fine.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at his pool party. He’s fine.”

“And you made me come here for what?”

“Nathan said I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry I did now that you proved me wrong, but I was sick and tired of him always taking your side and you always being late with the child support and nobody cares a fucking thing about me anymore. Not even Little Jack.”

He couldn’t look at her then. “Jesus Christ,” he had said. “How… why? What’s wrong with you?”

Then he had started to leave when she grabbed his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she said, tears starting to form in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have done this to you, but I needed to prove I was right for once. To Nathan, John. He left me.”

“No wonder,” he said, brushing her grip off his arm and proceeding back through the tent and then out to the front where he saw his life was over, just like that, in an instant. The Buick and the money were gone.

Afterwards John was sitting on the front seat of Nancy’s car, half in, half out. The door was open and Nancy was standing there looking up and down the street, apologizing for doing this to him. All he could think of was the money. Five minutes ago he had feared for his son’s life and now he was back to worrying about money.

“Somebody must have stolen it,” said Nancy about the car. “Kids, probably. Out joyriding or something. You have to report it.”

He had been thinking he should call the bar, but knew that if he did they would send half the crew out looking for him, because nobody, especially Eddie Vento, was going to believe even for a second he had been robbed, not on the first weekend his routes had been doubled and he was carrying around all that extra cash.

“John?”

“It’s mob money.”

“What?”

“You heard me. How’m I supposed to report that? Whoever took the car has the money.”

Nancy swallowed hard. “How much?”

John was thinking it had been Nick Santorra and that there was no way he’d recover the money. After breaking his windshield, the wannabe had followed him, and when the opportunity arose, Santorra had grabbed the money.

Now he would have to take off someplace and hide because of some idiotic bet his ex-wife had made. He thought about his son and how Little Jack was probably in danger too now because the mob was going to get that money back come hell or high water. It was something else for him to worry about.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“How much was it?” Nancy asked. “Couldn’t be that much, you were driving around with it.”

John shot her a hard glare.

“What?” she said. “Couldn’t your mother help? I mean, if it’s a big deal and all. Couldn’t you get it from her?”

John didn’t hear her. He was imagining Nick Santorra laughing it up. He couldn’t get beyond what Santorra had accomplished, first giving his car flats, then having him jumped, then breaking his windshield and topping it off by robbing him.

“John?”

He glared at Nancy. He wished she wasn’t there. “What?” he snapped.

“Couldn’t you ask your mother?”

“What?”

“Your mother,” said Nancy, frustrated with his lack of attention. “Couldn’t you ask her for the money?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t involve her.”

“You’re her son, right? She’d do anything for you.”

“What?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

John wasn’t hearing her.

“Maybe we should look for the car instead of sitting here,” Nancy said. “I’ll drive you if you want. You said the windshield was broken, right?”

“He followed me,” he said.

“Who? Who followed you?”

He looked up at his ex-wife and couldn’t remember her name.

“John?” she said.

“A guy,” he said. “A guy had it in for me.”

“Who? If you know, you can go there. Take my car. Just drop me off to pick up Jack, then go. We’ll take a cab home.”

He felt in a daze. “Okay,” he said.

She handed him the keys.