The refusal camp, p.15
The Refusal Camp, page 15
“Sure, but what good will that do?”
“No idea,” Daniel said, rubbing his jaw as he worked the problem. “But I do wonder why Louie is doing Fat Nick’s bidding. Maybe Jimmy was forced out of the bookmaking and luncheonette business. Think I’ll have the property records checked. You never know.”
“All this in hopes of bein’ a mild irritant to Fat Nick? He’ll flick you away like a flea, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe so. We should get Joey’s apartment dusted for prints and see who visited him recently. Let’s meet up back at headquarters at four o’clock,” Daniel said, checking his watch. “Meanwhile—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll wait for the meat wagon. I’ve got it down to a science, laddie.”
THE BOYLE BROTHERS briefed robbery and homicide detectives on the latest developments. Terrance passed out descriptions of the two Nazi spies and instructed everyone to keep their eyes peeled and their mouths shut, not wanting word of the search to spread and spook the pair into going on the lam.
Sergeant Brennan came in late, a wide grin on his face. “We found something,” he said.
“Spit it out, man,” Terrance said.
“Four hundred dollars in bills with sequential serial numbers,” Brennan said. “Serial numbers matching the cash that was taken in the bank truck heist. Sewn into the lining of Joey Fisher’s coat.”
“Good work,” Daniel said. “Now we know Joey was involved. I’d bet Gentleman Jimmy gave him the dough to get out of town.”
“Foolish of Jimmy,” Terrance said. “I wonder if that’s why Fat Nick had him whacked.”
“But do we have anything to directly link Fat Nick with these killings?” asked one of the detectives. “It could be a beef between some lowlifes over their cut. Maybe it was Jimmy who organized it.”
“If it were brass knuckles and a couple of broken jaws, I’d think so myself,” Daniel said. A clerk popped his head into the room, waving a sheet of paper. Daniel took it, read, and then let loose with a grin. “Sonny’s Luncheonette, or rather the building which houses it, was transferred to the ownership of Capizzi Imports five days ago.”
“That’s Fat Nick Bruccola’s front,” Terrance said.
“And the purchase price was five times what it was worth,” Daniel added, scanning the document.
“I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts the agreement was to spread payments out over months, maybe years,” Brennan said. “Fat Nick has Jimmy Walsh drilled and gets his property for peanuts. Plus, he eliminates a possible stool pigeon.”
“This makes sense. More sense than thinking Walsh pulled off this job using his own brainpower. He wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t that smart,” Terrance said, catching Daniel’s eye. “If Gentleman Jimmy has any heirs, they’d be smart enough not to stake their claims.”
“Aye. Let’s pay Fat Nick a visit. Tomorrow,” Daniel said. “This day’s been long enough and he ain’t going anywhere, not sitting on seventy large.”
DANIEL AND TERRANCE slid into their usual booth at Kirby’s Tavern in Southie, and within minutes, two glasses of Guinness were set down in front of them.
“Here’s to you, brother of mine,” Terrance said, raising his glass. “Glad you’re in one piece.”
“Aye, and here’s to Joey, poor lad,” Daniel said, their glasses touching. “He deserved something, but not that.”
“A bad end, aye. And unfortunate that we didn’t have a chance to get him to talk. Sounds like you had him primed and ready,” Terrance said.
“Yeah, he knew there was no alternative,” Daniel said. “He hadn’t admitted to anything, not out loud anyway, but he would have spilled, I’m sure.”
“More’s the pity,” Terrance said, taking a healthy swig. Daniel raised his glass to his lips, then set it down.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “That’s damned odd now that I think of it.”
“What?” Terrance asked.
“Joey didn’t admit to a thing, which is par for the course. But he did deny one thing.”
“Also par for the course,” Terrance said. “What are you getting at?”
“He kept mum on everything to do with the robbery,” Daniel said, rapping a finger on the wooden table. “But he denied stealing the car that was used. And he was quick off the mark with it. No hesitation.”
“So, he was telling the truth?”
“I’d say so. Why else put that much energy into denying one small part, and just that one thing?” Daniel said.
“Da always said you were the smart one, Daniel. Sounds like we need to have a chat with Irish Tommy.”
“Right after we visit Fat Nick,” Daniel said. “It’ll make for an interesting morning.”
Irish Tommy was a criminal, no doubt about it. But he didn’t get involved in heists, at least not directly. And he was known for staying away from murder, at least killings that were planned in advance.
“He still the only show in town?” Daniel asked.
“That he is. After Polish Tommy had his heart attack, no one stepped up to take his place.”There had been two guys providing the same service, both named Tommy, so they were nicknamed by the old country each had come from. That’s how every cop and criminal knew them. Polish Tommy and Irish Tommy, purveyors of automobiles, hideouts, whatever was needed for a job. Outfitters.
But not guns. There were plenty of guns around. The Tommies kept away from firearms to protect themselves from a possible date with the death penalty.
Everything else was available, for a fee. Phony identification, cars registered to nonexistent people, house or apartment rentals fully stocked with food and drink, police uniforms, witnesses who would swear to laying eyeballs on so-and-so at a restaurant or the ballpark at a designated time. Irish Tommy was good at distractions too. Calling in a fire, robbery in progress, auto accident, bomb threats, and more. No cop had ever been able to lay a finger on him. By the time the crime was committed, Irish Tommy was somewhere else.
That was a problem, but it was tomorrow morning’s problem. Terrance finished his Guinness and went home for dinner. Daniel stayed, had another, and thought things through.
THE NEXT MORNING, the Boyles were driven by Sergeant Brennan and another uniformed officer to Fat Nick Bruccola’s place out in Orient Heights. They were in a patrol car, accompanied by two motorcycle cops who revved their engines as they turned down Bennington Street, about as far east as you could go and still be in Boston. A nice neighborhood with churches and stores where Italian was spoken without a second thought.
Fat Nick had his import business in North Boston, but Daniel had decided to make a house call. A very visible and loud house call.
“What the hell is this?” Fat Nick demanded, standing on the wide porch of his Victorian house and staring down at the cops. Sergeant Brennan leaned against the patrol car and stared back as Terrance and Daniel walked up the short sidewalk. The two motorcycle cops sat on their machines, engines rumbling. Neighbors were already peeking out their windows, taking in the scene. “You bums know where I work.”
“We’re not here to talk about imported olive oil, Mr. Bruccola,” Terrance said, halting right before the steps and looking up at Fat Nick. The gangster frowned, his meaty jowls weighing down his lower lip, leaving his mouth hanging open like a fish gasping for air. He wore a finely tailored blue-striped three-piece suit that failed to disguise the rolls of flesh that cascaded down the length of his six-foot body.
“Then what?” Fat Nick asked, his eyes flickering between the cops in the street and his curious neighbors.
“Can we come inside for a chat?” Daniel asked, rubbing his hands together. “It’s a bit nippy out here.”
“Come up on the porch,” Fat Nick said. “And tell your boys to cut the racket, or I’ll call the cops.” He chuckled at his own joke and took a few thick-thighed steps to a wicker chair that creaked under his heft. He gestured vaguely toward two other chairs.
“You hear about Jimmy Walsh?” Daniel said as he took a seat.
“Word gets around,” Fat Nick said. “That why you’re here?”
“You don’t seem too distraught,” Terrance said. “Wasn’t he a friend of yours?”
“We had some business dealings,” Fat Nick said. Then, as an afterthought, “He’ll be missed.”
“We know all about your business,” Daniel said, leaning forward in his chair. “We know about the bank truck job, and how Andino Maffini got paid off.”
“Joey Fisher, too, the poor bastard,”Terrance said. “He almost made it out.”
“I don’t know what you two are blathering on about, and I don’t care,” Fat Nick said. “Unless you got something important to say, how ’bout gettin’ the hell off my porch?”
“I got something important to tell you, then we’ll go,” Daniel said as he stood. “B00230911D. I wrote it down in case you don’t remember.”
Daniel gave Fat Nick a notecard with the serial number sequence taken from one of the bills from Joey’s wallet. Terrance held up the hundred-dollar bill with the matching serial number for Fat Nick to see. Of course, they’d know the serial numbers from the bank records. But to have evidence that a person linked to Fat Nick in any way had been in possession of some of that cash meant big trouble headed the fat man’s way.
“We’ll be back,” Terrance said.
“Bring a warrant next time,” Fat Nick said, puffing out his cheeks.
“You shoulda seen the look he gave you two,” Brennan said as they drove off. “Daggers, it was. You struck home, lads.”
“It’ll worry him,” Daniel said. “It would me. But when we don’t come back with a warrant, he’ll know we were bluffing.”
“Even the friendliest judge, half-drunk, wouldn’t give us a warrant based on guesswork,” Terrance said. “But all we need is an hour or two of Fat Nick getting all worked up.”
“Aw hell, it’s a half-hour drive to Roxbury,” Brennan said. “By the time we get there, Irish Tommy’ll be quaking in his boots.”
“As long as we’re right about Irish Tommy,” Daniel said.
“No, as long as you’re right about Irish Tommy,” Terrance said, elbowing Daniel as if they were teenagers. “We should know right away. If he’s calm and collected, we’ll have wasted our time.”
Irish Tommy worked his outfitter racket from a used furniture store called Gallagher’s. No one remembered who Gallagher was, but it was a useful front for when safe houses needed to be furnished or people moved around in unmarked trucks.
“You sure you can pressure him to rat out Fat Nick?” Brennan asked as their patrol car crossed the Longfellow Bridge.
“There’s three dead men who will be a big help,” Daniel said. “And we can promise not to prosecute. The DA will go along with that in a heartbeat if it helps to bring down Fat Nick.”
“It’ll be the end of Irish Tommy’s outfitting racket,” Terrance said. “We just have to make him believe it’s all over anyway.”
“Showtime,” Brennan said as they parked in front of Gallagher’s, right behind one of the unmarked black trucks. The storefront boasted two plate glass windows flanking the entrance. Couches, chairs, and tables were on display, just like in a regular furniture store. Roxbury was a good location for both ends of the business. The neighborhood was home to German and Jewish immigrants along with Negroes who’d come north to work in the war industries. They didn’t always get along, but this wasn’t anyone’s turf. Irish Tommy could ply his trade to the criminal class without being in anyone’s backyard.
“Take a look around back,” Terrance told Sergeant Brennan. The driver stayed with the car while Brennan did his snooping, and the two men went inside. Threading their way through new and used furnishings, they spotted Irish Tommy at a desk behind a wide counter. He was on the telephone, and he didn’t look happy.
“Look, he’s still alive,” Daniel said in a booming voice. “I told you they wouldn’t get him.”
“Not yet,” Terrance said, giving Irish Tommy a cheery wave as he slammed down the receiver.
“If it ain’t the Boyle brothers!” Irish Tommy said. “A pleasure to see you both.” He was smiling, but the sheen of perspiration on his forehead hinted at what was going on in his scheming brain.
“We need to talk, Tommy,” Daniel said, resting his elbows on the counter.
“I got nothing to say.”
“About what?” Terrance asked.
“Anything.”
“How about the Red Sox’s chances next year?” Terrance asked.
“How about your chances, Tommy boy?” Daniel said. “Fat Nick is cleaning house. Any local muscle that was involved with the bank truck job is ending up six feet under.”
“I heard about that,” Tommy said, rising from his desk. He was tall, with thick shoulders and dark hair slicked back. Pushing forty or so, but in good shape, probably from moving tables and chairs all over the city. “But what’s that got to do with me?”
“You know, Tommy,” Terrance said. “We’ve just come from a chat with Fat Nick. We have cash that was in Joey Fisher’s possession when he took those slugs to the chest. A messy end, as me brother can attest.”
“He was just a touch slow off the mark,” Daniel said. “He could’ve made it out of town, but where could he go? His plan was to hide out with his cousin in Warwick. Hell, Fat Nick’s men would’ve found that hidey-hole in half a day. Where you going, Tommy?”
“Why would I go anywhere? Like I said, I heard about all this, but I’m not involved,” Irish Tommy said, his voice betraying the slightest quiver. “Why are you here?”
“To give you a chance,” Terrance said. “This started out as grand theft, but now we’ve got three deaths. Homicide. That means the chair, Tommy, even for an accessory.”
“Fat Nick knows we’re here,” Daniel said. “He can’t afford to let you sing.”
“Why would I sing?” Irish Tommy asked. “I mean, if I knew the song.”
“Listen, we should continue this downtown,” Terrance said. “A regular interrogation is in order, don’t you think, Lieutenant Boyle?”
“Yes, I do, Lieutenant Boyle,” Daniel said. “We’ll give Tommy a chance to come clean. Name names. Sign a confession. The district attorney will decline to press charges in the face of such cooperation, of course.”
“Of course,” Terrance said, watching as Irish Tommy’s eyes widened, following where this was leading. “But if he should decline to help, what do we do then?”
“That’s easy,” Daniel said. “We thank him for his help. Very publicly. Then we give him a ride back here. Simple.”
“Right. Then we bring in Fat Nick for questioning. I’m sure he and his men won’t draw any conclusions,” Terrance said.
“You can’t set me up,” Irish Tommy said. “I’m an honest businessman—I don’t know about any heist or murders.”
“Now here’s the funny thing about that,” Sergeant Brennan said, coming through the rear of the store. “You won’t believe what I found lying on the ground out back next to the garbage cans.”
“Hey, you got a warrant?” Irish Tommy demanded.
“I don’t need a warrant to pick up litter,” Brennan said, seeing no need to mention he’d knocked over the trash cans to see what spilled out. “As a matter of fact, you’re probably in violation of some ordinance the way you got junk piled up in back. Look at this, boys.”
Daniel took the crumpled paper from him and read down the list. It was three addresses, each with a single name. It was dated two days after the heist and headed with the notation pick up furniture.
“Now what are the chances?” Daniel said, smoothing the paper out on the counter and tapping his finger against it. “If I were a betting man, and if either Andino Maffini or Joey Fisher were alive to take the bet, I’d give odds that these were the safe houses you arranged for Fat Nick’s heist. And the phony names they were rented under. Am I right, Tommy?”
Irish Tommy didn’t answer. His face had gone white, which was answer enough.
“And you saw no reason for good furniture to be left behind,” Terrance said. “So you sent your men to pick it up. Which means two things. One, they were too stupid to rip this into a thousand pieces when they were done.”
“What’s the other thing?” Irish Tommy managed to mutter.
“Oh, that’s the beautiful one, me boy,” Daniel said. “It means that somewhere in this store there’s furniture with the fingerprints of the out-of-town talent. Because I don’t think you bothered to wipe it down, did you?”
Irish Tommy collapsed into his chair. Answer enough.
“I want guarantees,” Irish Tommy said. “In writing.”
AS SOON AS they sat down in the interrogation room, Irish Tommy put on his best face. He knew he had something the cops wanted, and he was determined to work it to his best advantage.
“You’ll have it all, Tommy,” Terrance said. “You know us. We keep our word.”
“It ain’t you two I’m worried about. I ain’t spilling to you until the DA agrees I got immunity from prosecution,” Tommy said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest.
“Here’s how it works,” Daniel said. “We need to know what you have immunity from. We need you to confirm your role in the bank truck job. What you did for Fat Nick. What contact you had with him. Then we get your immunity. Which will extend to the three murders as well. You don’t want to get caught up in those charges, believe me.”
“No recordings, no signed statements. I tell you what I know, then you get the DA to write up the immunity,” Irish Tommy said. “If you’re satisfied with it. Deal?”
The Boyle brothers whispered to each other. It sounded like he had solid information.
“Deal,” Daniel said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I want to be relocated. A new identity. Cash to start over,” Irish Tommy said.
“Hold on,” Terrance said. “Only the feds can do that, and it’s damned rare. We can’t deliver on that.”
“You better find a way. Ask the district attorney,” Irish Tommy said.
