The Good Guys Read online

  Somehow, though, he would find them. There was no doubt in his mind about that. He would find them, no matter how long it took, and then he would kill them.

  He’d made the worst mistake possible: He’d underestimated them. And the price was Pam’s life. He just hadn’t believed that these fuckers would be willing to walk away from a $50,000 truck filled with fuel to make their point. They didn’t even try to negotiate. Whatever business they were doing, it had to be worth a fortune for them to make that decision. A fortune.

  The question that kept bouncing around his mind was, how did they find out so quickly who took the truck? He’d left them a phone number, not a name. And that fucking Russian had called him by his name. And they knew where Pam lived. How? How?

  Suddenly it was obvious. It was so fucking obvious that he hadn’t paid any attention at the time. The Russians in that Firebird had tailed him to Skinny Al’s funeral. At the funeral the Russians had been welcomed by Cosentino. He’d spoken with them. There was only one way to complete that circle—the Russians had learned all about him from Cosentino.

  He let that thought float around in his head for a while, like a ball spinning wildly around a roulette wheel, just waiting to see where it dropped. It dropped right on Tony Cosentino’s head. Fucking Two-Gun Tony Cosentino. There was no other answer. Cosentino gave him up early, that’s why they were checking on him. They knew where he lived. Holy Mother, he thought. And if they tailed him to the funeral, they had to be on him at other times, no question, including those times he came to this apartment. Chances are Cosentino gave them the phone number from the Freemont too, so when they got the message from the parking lot guy, they recognized it. No wonder they knew it was him.

  It all made beautiful sense. But there was one more thing that maybe they hadn’t figured so good. Cosentino knew their names too. He knew where they lived too. And he was going to give them up too.

  He couldn’t just confront Cosentino. There were rules about the way these things had to be done. He was not permitted to speak directly to the boss of another crew. That meeting had to be arranged by another boss, an equal willing to accept responsibility for whatever happened at this meeting—by Franzone.

  Reluctantly Bobby climbed out of the bed. He straightened the quilt and puffed up the pillow. He wanted the room to look perfect. For some reason, that was really important. He stood next to the bed. One more time he leaned over and put his face on her pillow and breathed in deeply. One more time, for just that instant, she was alive. He looked straight ahead as he walked down the hallway, knowing it would be the last time he would ever be in this apartment. He considered taking just one thing of hers with him, one little thing, anything, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. If Ronnie found it, there would be serious consequences.

  He closed the door and locked it. Then he just stood in front of it, reluctant to leave. “Oh, baby,” he whispered, “I’m so fucking sorry.” As he walked down the stairs, he again found himself fighting tears. It was tougher than usual this time, and some of them slipped through his carefully constructed defenses.

  Back at the Freemont, the first thing he did was reach out for Henry the Hammer. He’s around, he was told. Sit tight, he’ll find you. Bobby waited. The Duke kept the cappuccino hot. He leafed through a collection of magazines so old they would make a barbershop’s seem current. The place was pretty empty. Vito was there, trading boasts about women with Mickey. According to the kid, supermodels were lining up outside his bedroom waiting for their chance. “Shit,” he said, “if I was selling it, I’d be a rich man.”

  Mickey laughed. “Lemme tell you something, kid. You knock off a piece of ass here, a piece of ass there, they all add up. Before you know it, you got yourself a big fat ass.”

  Bobby said nothing. This conversation wasn’t for him. Pam didn’t fit into that conversation. It wasn’t like that at all. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, couldn’t stop wondering. In another world they might even have been together, for real. She was that kind of special girl.

  Franzone finally got back to him. When Bobby told him it was important they talked right away, he agreed to a meet. He told Bobby to go to the Chelsea Diner on 23rd and Ninth. The Hammer liked their pies. For a little money, he said, they give you a nice big slice.

  “Was I right or was I right?” Franzone asked as they sat at an inside booth. “I mean, look at the size of this slice. C’mon, fugetaboutit.”

  It was a nice slice, Bobby agreed. He didn’t want to tell Franzone too much, in case the situation with Cosentino got out of hand. The only thing he told him was that he needed to meet with Tony Cosentino as soon as possible. It was real important. “It’s about this thing with the professor. I gotta talk with him.”

  Franzone was noncommittal. Setting up a meet wasn’t as simple as making a phone call. Within the structure of the Mafia the line between a soldier and a boss was as real as a wall. Crossing the line carried with it great responsibility. For a time, for example, I served as a liaison between my father and those people who wanted to see him. It was my job to make certain those people asking to meet with him had a legitimate reason. And then I would clear it with him. If Franzone made the call and the meet didn’t go well, it could become a problem for him.

  At that moment Bobby just didn’t give a fuck. Whatever happened, happened.

  The Hammer finished his pie, then gathered the crumbs from the hard crust onto a spoon and ate them. “The best part,” he said. “Most people don’t know it, but that’s where they put the protein.”

  Bobby did a good job not answering most of Franzone’s questions. With all the competing agendas even within the same crew, at times a mob conversation was about as direct as a billiards ball. It had to bounce off two or three cushions before finally reaching its objective.

  But Franzone asked one question that he could not avoid. Because Bobby belonged to him, Franzone was entitled to participate in all of Bobby’s action. That was his piece of the money pie—and it was well known he liked big pieces. “That gas truck thing the other night,” he asked. “You settle that thing up yet?”

  “No, not yet,” Bobby said. He left it at that. If there were problems when he was done, he would deal with them then. Franzone probably was going to be extremely pissed off. Too fucking bad. Everybody knows that a man has to do what a man has to do. Otherwise he isn’t a man. The only valid argument he would be able to make was that if you let the Russians get away with this bullshit, you were giving them an open invitation to do the same thing, or a lot worse, in the future. But whatever punishment they decided he deserved, he was okay with it. Even if it became a problem for him, it would still be worth it.

  Franzone agreed to speak with Cosentino. But guaranteed nothing. Cosentino would decide if he wanted the meeting to take place. The Hammer would then call Bobby with the answer. All according to protocol. “Thanks,” Bobby said gratefully, and started to get up.

  The Hammer handed him the bill. It was for $3.25. “You should leave a nice tip,” Franzone suggested. “These people, they work hard here. Don’t go insulting me.”

  Bobby did as he was told, and then he had to do one of the most difficult things in his whole life: go home. Go home to Ronnie and pretend his heart wasn’t breaking. Go home and smile like nothing was wrong. Bringing home his work was one thing; Ronnie had accepted that necessity even if she hadn’t embraced it—as long as he kept his guns locked away—but this was something very different. This wasn’t business, this was sex. This was betrayal.

  Driving to Brooklyn, Bobby tried to prepare himself. Pamela, this great woman he really cared about, this really special person, had been tortured and murdered. Because of him. Her body was probably lying in a hole somewhere. And now somehow he had to find it within himself to compliment his wife’s meat loaf. Or her spaghetti or whatever the fuck she was making for him.

  Turkey burgers. Ronnie was actually in a decent mood. During dinner she questioned him at length about the new blinds she inte
nded to order. Mini-slats or traditional? Plastic or wood? A valance, yes or no? What color: cream, rose, or peach? Whatever, he told her, trying to focus, trying to force Pam out of his mind. “I want to order tomorrow,” she said. “They’re on sale.”

  “Blinds are always on sale,” he explained to her. “It’s like a gimmick. You couldn’t buy them for full price if you wanted to. It’s impossible.”

  What did he think, she was stupid? She knew that. But this was a special sale. A closeout, all the blinds in stock cut to order.

  Whatever. Somehow he got through the meal. Ronnie knew something was wrong. “You’re so quiet,” she said. “You sick?”

  “Just tired,” he told her. After dinner he stayed put. The way he was feeling there was no place on earth good to be, so home with Ronnie and Angela was as good as any other place. Around midnight, when he was certain Ronnie was asleep, he got into bed. It was early for him, but he was emotionally exhausted. As soon as he settled down, though, Ronnie rolled over and shoved her body inside his. That was her signal that she was in the mood. These days it happened maybe once a month, sometimes less. That was fine with him. She was wearing her flannel pajamas. This is some great joke, he thought. Not tonight. I can’t. He couldn’t even bear to put his arm around her. He tried, he just couldn’t do it. The thought of touching her while Pam . . . He couldn’t. “I’m real tired, Ron,” he said, turning his back on her.

  He closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Eventually Ronnie squiggled away from him to her side of the bed. There are people who like to believe that most wiseguys eventually come to regret the life they picked. And mostly that’s not true. Mostly the life picked us. It was my heritage, in my bones. I lived it. I went to prison. I left it. But regretting it would have meant turning my back on my father, and there was never a moment when I was capable of doing that.

  Bobby and I were very much alike that way. While he may have regretted certain actions, it never occurred to him to question his allegiance to the traditions of the Black Hand, the Cosa Nostra, the organization, the Mafia. He could no more question his loyalty to the family than a bird could question its song. He was who he was.

  He slept fitfully but dreamed he was still awake. He had no idea what time it was when the phone rang. Ronnie answered it and handed it to him. He glanced at the clock. It was 4:10 in the morning, either late or early depending on your life. “Yeah?”

  “I’m real sorry, Mr. San Filippo, to call you so late. This is Joe Maresca.” It took Bobby a few seconds to place him. Maresca was the owner of the brownstone on Sullivan Street. “You think maybe you could come over here now?”

  Bobby’s heart was pounding. “What’s the problem?”

  “See, I’m not exactly sure about that. The police are here and they want me to let them search your apartment.”

  Control. Control. He was actually happy about the phone call. Anything was better than nothing. “All right, gimme a little time.”

  Ronnie had learned early in their marriage not to bother asking questions he wasn’t going to answer. “Want coffee?” she asked.

  “That’s okay.”

  She watched him dress. It was four o’clock in the morning and he put on a clean white shirt and a silk tie. She rolled over to go back to sleep. He was halfway out the door before he remembered to go back and kiss Ronnie good-bye. The price of peace. In response she flashed a smile.

  Two NYPD detectives were waiting for him in an unmarked Chevy parked in front of Pam’s building. They got out of the car to greet him and stood talking on the sidewalk. “What’s up?” he asked.

  The cops seemed pretty decent. “How well did you know the tenant of this apartment? Pamela Fox.”

  Did you know? Did you know? The last ember of the possible went cold. “A little,” he said as casually as he could manage. “You know, she was a friend of a friend. I was just letting her stay here awhile. Why, what happened?”

  One of the detectives had a thick black mustache and large black glasses. The guy was about a cigar short of Groucho. “I’m real sorry but I got some bad news. They found her body about four hours ago.” He paused. “She was murdered.”

  He waited while Bobby absorbed that information. This was Bobby’s greatest performance. That news might have sent other people reeling. He didn’t even quiver. He swallowed a couple of times, and that was it. That was all the reaction he showed. Even at that moment he kept his cool. How much information could he ask for without sounding too interested? He bowed his head. “Wow.” He took another breath. It was all about control. “You got any idea who did it?”

  The second cop, who Bobby decided looked like a real thin Peter Lawford, explained, “Well, see, we were sort of hoping you might be able to help us out there.”

  Control. Deep breaths. “How do you mean?”

  “You know, whatever you know about her. Her last address, who she was friendly with, that kind of stuff.”

  Groucho added, “It definitely wasn’t a robbery. They left all her stuff with her, money, credit cards, everything. That’s where we got this address from.”

  These two detectives worked together better than the ’73 Knicks. The legal Lawford continued, “We’re gonna tell you something completely off the record. This was personal, no question. She sure got somebody pissed off. Before they finally killed her—”

  Groucho interrupted, “You don’t want to know.”

  Lawford shook his head in disbelief. “Pretty girl like that.”

  “Fucking animals.”

  Bobby pinched at the corners of his eyes, as much to wipe away the sleep as the tears. “There’s not too much I can tell you,” he said, sighing. “She flew for Pan Am. They’ll have all the personal details.”

  “How about this mutual friend who introduced you? You got a phone number?”

  Bobby hesitated. The thing about good cops is that they know how to play the game right. “Well, let me tell you about that. Now that I think about it, maybe that wasn’t exactly how we met.” He sighed deeply and pretty believably. “Listen, you guys know how it is. I was just helping her out. It was no big deal.”

  “Sure,” Groucho agreed.

  “Of course,” Lawford said. “Who wouldn’t? Pretty young girl like that.”

  “Hey, Mr. San Filippo, I was just thinking,” Groucho said. “When I heard your name, I knew I knew it from somewheres. You hang with the Hammer, right? That is you? I’m right, right?”

  Bobby eyed him coldly. Here we go. “One and the same.”

  He smiled. “Say hello for us, okay? Tell him Popeye and Cloudy say hello. He’ll know.”

  His partner continued, “Look, Bobby, me and Jack here, you know, we understand. About all this, I mean.” He indicated the building, the apartment, Pam. The situation. “It’s the kind of thing that the papers are gonna be all over. Maybe we can do something for you, you know, if you want.”

  Bobby understood. They were offering a deal. They would do as much as possible to keep his name out of the newspapers, which would keep Ronnie from finding out about it. Best effort, no promises. In return they wanted to establish a relationship similar to the one they had with Franzone. From time to time they would find him and ask him a few questions. Nothing about his own family, nothing they would ever use in a prosecution as evidence, nothing that would ever bounce back to him. Information that might put them on the right path. What’s the word on the street? Who’s up, who’s down? “I’d appreciate that,” Bobby said, accepting the offer.

  “What about this?” Groucho asked. “Anything that might help?”

  “No, nothing,” Bobby told them. “I just saw her sometimes. It was just a . . . just a thing. She had her own life.” He cleared his throat. “So what’d they do to her?”

  “Oh man,” Lawford sort of spit out. “It was brutal. Twenty-two years on the job and I swear to God, I’ve never seen anything like it. They crushed her. They dropped something heavy on her, but it looks like they did it limb by limb. Her feet, her hands, arms, a
nd legs, then, you know, the rest.”

  “There’s no way of knowing how much of it she lived through,” Groucho added.

  Bobby nodded his understanding. But he couldn’t speak.

  “We need to go on upstairs and take a look around,” Groucho continued.

  Bobby managed to reply weakly, “Yeah, okay. I got the keys in the car.” He returned and gave them to Groucho. “Just give them to the landlord when you’re done.”

  “You don’t want to go with us?”

  “No,” he said. “There’s nothing up there for me.”

  Bobby was growing beyond anger or grief. His focus was riveted on only one thing: retribution. In the end all things came to that. Revenge. The roots of the Mafia had been planted in Sicily hundreds of years earlier, when the poor had gathered together to strike back at the abusive landowners. And in all that time only the enemies had changed.

  He gave no thought to the police investigation. Let them waste their time, nothing was going to come out of it. There really was only one place for him to go to wait to hear from Cosentino. He parked in front of the hydrant.

  When he opened the door of the Freemont Avenue Social Club, every light in the place went on, the security system rigged to alert the Duke when someone came in late at night. Almost immediately the Duke came out of his room in the back, fully dressed and carrying a shotgun. Bobby raised his hands in mock surrender. The Duke smiled and pointed to the cappuccino machine. Bobby shook his head. Bobby then pointed to the Duke’s room, clasped his hands together, and laid his head on them. Sleep. Sure, the Duke signaled.

  Bobby lay down on the Duke’s bed. A few hours’ sleep, he figured, that’s all I need. Mostly from habit, before closing his eyes he took a quick look around the converted closet. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just something that didn’t belong. He subscribed to the gambler’s philosophy: Trust everybody, but cut the cards. He trusted the Duke, but he gave the room a fast sweep anyway.