The Punishing Game (2 page)

The next night,
plainclothes cops Monetti and Colligan were back tailing the limo. It was a lousy assignment, but at least tonight it wasn’t fucking raining. Both cops were eating greasy tacos out of the Taco Bell bag on the dashboard that was full of more tacos, plus burritos and cinnamon twists. Tucked between their thighs were large sodas.
Only thing worse than an assignment like this
, Monetti thought,
would be no stockpile of munchies
.

Following the limo from a distance of about half a block, the cops saw the car pull over and park in front of the same brownstone it had stopped at the night before. Monetti quickly jerked the wheel toward the curb half a block away. The sharp tug on the wheel caused him lose his grip on his taco, which to his chagrin, landed on the floor by his feet. Cursing, he picked it up, used a napkin to brush away some dust clinging to the soggy beef. Then he resumed eating.

Colligan gave him a look filled with disdain. “How the fuck can you eat that after it hit the floor?” he asked. “This car hasn’t been vacuumed in a week. I bet that taco’s just loaded with bacteria now.”

Monetti spoke through his mouthful. “Tastes fine to me.”

“Yeah? Well, it won’t when you start shitting your brains out. Just don’t lose control of your bowels in the car, okay?”

“Okay. I’ve got Kaopectate in the glove compartment.”

Colligan pointed down the street. “Here’s comes the spic again,” he said.

In the moonlight, the Hispanic man looked well-built and about six feet tall, though it was hard to tell from this distance. Colligan pulled a pair of binoculars out of the glove compartment, trained them on the Hispanic, and worked to get them focused. But before he could get the focus right, the guy had already hustled over to the limo and slipped inside.

“Shit!” he said as the limo took off.

“What’s wrong?”

“These Mickey Mouse glasses of yours are hard to focus. The guy was in the limo before I could get a read.”

“They work fine for me,” Monetti said.

“That’s because your brain is out of focus. Assuming, of course, that you actually have one.”

In order to have a buffer between their car and the limo, Monetti waited for another vehicle to pass, then pulled away from the curb. Colligan put the binoculars back in the glove and turned up the volume on the recorder. The same two jokers were talking. This time they were debating the merits of a boxing match coming up at the Garden. So far, they hadn’t talked business.

Monetti followed the limo onto the Harlem River Drive heading downtown. “You like boxing, Andy?” he asked.

Colligan patted his crotch. “The only sport I like is fucking.”

Monetti picked up his soda, sipped through the straw, then set it back down between his legs. “What about the Yanks and the Mets?”

Colligan made a sour face. “Who the hell cares? I ain’t rooting for a bunch of prima donna millionaires who skip town the minute they’re offered a better deal.”

“Me,” said Monetti, “I’m a Mets fan. They’ve got players, all right, but they can’t seem to jell this year.”

“Carlo, don’t fucking bore me with shit I don’t give a crap about. Free agency killed baseball, just like—”

Colligan pointed to the recorder.

I think we should get rid of the kid,
Throaty Voice was saying.

No
way. When this goes down, everything has to move fast. The kid can do that for me.

Maybe so. But he’s
a loose cannon who can tie things back to us.

Stop worrying
,
the Hispanic said.
I’ve got somebody in position close to him. If he becomes a liability, my man will take him out.

The limo took Exit 8 and headed east along
34
th
Street toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Throaty Voice hacked a cough that sounded full of phlegm.

“
You still got that cough?”
the Hispanic said.
“Two weeks now. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

I hate doctors.
Throaty Voice hacked again
. I take mega doses of vitamin C and echinacea
.
That always knocks it out for me. Getting back on point, I still think we’re taking a big chance if we don’t dispose of the kid
.
This thing is way too big to risk on someone who can’t keep his nose clean. What if he gets into trouble, the cops nail him, and he cuts a deal? The little prick might spill his guts about what we’re doing.

Relax
, the Hispanic said
. I already warned him to be on his best behavior or I’ll whack him myself.

Well, I can’t say I like this
,
Throaty Voice said.
But I guess I can live with it for now. The bigger concern could be our Brooklyn friend.

The Hispanic sounded surprised.
Why? You said he likes the color of your money.

Yes, but he’s new to this.
I’m not sure he’s got the stomach for this kind of operation.

Doesn’t matter
,
the Hispanic said
. There’s no way he can back out now. Not after what he’s done
.

Throaty Voice hacked three more times before he was able to speak.
Maybe so, but his end is finished. Why not just lose him?

The Hispanic laughed.
Maybe when the time comes, you’ll wanna lose me, too, huh?

How c
an you say that? After all we been through together.

In this business I trust no one
,
the Hispanic said
. I’ll be watching my back.

Maybe I should watch m
ine, too
.

Maybe
you should.

Both men b
urst out laughing.

Listen to us
,
Throaty Voice said
. Talking like a couple two-bit hitmen. Gimme a hug, brother.

Colligan shook his head. “Man, if these two yo-yos start swapping spit, I’m turning off the machine.”

Once in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, the limo made a right turn onto McGuiness Boulevard. No other car got off at the exit, so Monetti was forced to tail without a buffer between him and the limo.

We’re being followed,
boss,
said
a third voice, presumably the driver.
A Crown Vic has been tailing me since we left the Bronx.

Monetti winced. “Aw, shit,” he said. “They fucking made us.”

“Because, momo, you shoulda stayed further back.”

“I can’t. The friggin’ bug won’t transmit beyond a hundred feet.”

You’re sure about the tail?
Throaty Voice was saying.

Yes. What should I do?

The limo had just turned onto an old cobblestone street in a warehouse district.

Take us around to the back entrance
,
Throaty Voice said
. Then drive off. We’ll hitch another ride.

The limo turned into an alley adjacent to an old stone and mortar building. Lights that had been visible in the building’s windows suddenly went off. Monetti stopped his car half a block away and turned off his headlights.

“Now what?” Colligan said.

“We wait, that’s fucking what. I hate this shit. Four more years, then I’m out.”

“Lucky you,” Colligan said. “I’m eight years short. What’re you going to do with your time when you retire?”

“Buy a boat and sail around the world.”

“Really?”

Monetti sneered at his partner. “No, dipshit, I’m not. I got two kids in college. I’m gonna have to get another job so I don’t drown in debt.”

Colligan suddenly coughed. He grabbed a napkin and spit some phlegm into it. “Shit, I think I caught that mutt’s cold over the transmitter.”

Monetti laughed. “That’d be a department first. You calling in sick and telling the sergeant you caught a cold from a transmitter.”

Five minutes later the limo backed out of the alley and continued up the street.

“No point in following, right?” Colligan asked.

Monetti took a sip from his soda. “We stay.”

Colligan turned the receiver off. “For how long?”

“Until our shift is over.”

“Aw, come on, man. That’s another friggin’ hour.”

“You don’t like it? Go back to working as a bounty hunter for that shyster bail bondsman in Queens.”

“Believe me,” Colligan said, “I would in a heartbeat. But somebody capped the Jew boy.”

“No loss there.”

A few minutes later, a Lincoln Town Car backed out of the alley. It appeared to have two passengers in the back, though it was hard to tell from half a block away on the dimly lit street. Still keeping his lights off, Monetti waited until the
Lincoln was a full block away before following.

“Dumb mutts,” Colligan said. “They thought we’d tail the limo again.”

Monetti let out a sigh. “Moron, these humps don’t know we have ears. They’d automatically assume we’d wait for the limo.”

The
Lincoln turned back onto McGuiness. In traffic now, Monetti put his lights on.

“This’s a waste of time without ears,” Colligan said. “Our assignment was to record these guys. Not follow them all over the fucking city. They’re probably going to dinner again.”

Monetti thought about that a moment, then nodded. “I guess you’re right. We’re just spinning our wheels. And not even on OT.”

Colligan drained what was left of his soda, crushed the cup, and then tossed it on the floor. “I say we cut and go back to the House.”

But Monetti seemed wary of that idea. “I dunno,” he said. “If we arrive before our shift’s over, the captain’s gonna ream out our asses.”

“So we stop for a beer at that dive near the House. You know, the joint with the barmaid who’s got tits the size of watermelons. We could kill time watching her boobs bounce around.”

That brought a smile to Monetti’s face. “Now that’s a fine idea. I hope that bitch is showing a lot of cleavage tonight. Man, I’d love to wiggle my pecker in between those bazooms.”

Colligan laughed. “I’m getting a hard
-on just thinking about her,” he said. “Let’s do it!”

Monetti promptly turned off McGuiness and headed for the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.

“So,” said Colligan, “what do you think all this shit the mutts are talking about means?”

“Sounds like these mopes have some kind of deal going down. And it’s maybe important enough to whack somebody for.”

“It would help if Burgess would tell us who they are,” Colligan complained. “Why is he withholding that info from us?”

“According to my source,” Monetti said, “Burgess doesn’t want to tie up detectives on what could be a wild goose chase.”

“So we get stuck. Fucking great. Who is this mystery source of yours, anyway?”

“I told you, I won’t give him up.”

Colligan waved his hand dismissively. “You’re just as bad as Burgess. Partners are supposed to share.”

“Nothing personal here, pal,” Monetti said. “My source made me swear not to tell anyone who he was. I honor my word.” He paused. “Look, Andy, all I can tell you is he has a higher pay grade than us.”

Colligan spit out a laugh. “That only narrows it down to about half the fucking precinct. So did your Deep Throat also tell you who Burgess used to plant the bug in the limo and attach the GPS tracker?”

Monetti shook his head. “He didn’t know.”

Colligan had an idea. “Maybe we can beat Burgess at his own game,” he said. “Let’s run the plates.”

“Been there, done that,” Monetti said. “Gimme some credit, f’chrissake.”

“So whose limo is it?”

“The vehicle is company owned.
International something-or-other.”

Colligan frowned. “Lemme guess. The company doesn’t have an address. Just a phone that takes messages.”

Monetti nodded. “And they never get back to you.”

“Sounds like a fucking shell company,” Colligan said. “Last time I looked, securities fraud and tax evasion were not in our job description. Burgess should pass this exercise in masturbation on to the attorney general. Give us some real work.”

“I hear you. Let’s hit the tittie bar. I need a Percocet and a beer.”

“Roger that.”

Ten minutes later, a garbage truck stopped near the alley. The lights in the warehouse came back on. Two men wearing hoodies hustled down the alley to the front of the truck. As soon as they got in the passenger side, the truck rumbled off.

In the taxi on the way back from Biaggi’s burial, Cullen checked his phone messages. He had missed two calls while his phone was turned off during the funeral. Both were from Boff, who declined to leave messages. Cullen suddenly had a bad feeling the man was about to barge into his life again. The last time Boff had done that, he’d made Cullen miserable and nearly got him killed. The young boxer had vowed not to let that happen again.

Just to hammer the point home, he called Boff’s cell, got voice mail, and left an emphatic message telling him that if he came to New York, he wouldn’t work with him. Or even talk to him. The trip, Cullen said, would be a colossal waste of time. He repeated that twice.

Putting his cell away, Cullen laughed to himself.
Yeah, right. Like Boff would ever listen to me. If that fucker made up his mind to come, he’d come
.
Nothing I could say would deter him.

As the taxi rolled along, Cullen stared out the window and thought about Boff’s strange, enigmatic life. Boff had once been a legendary DEA agent, but when he quit the agency, he “crossed the street” and became a high-profile, private investigator specializing in keeping indicted felons out of jail, including drug dealers, the same people he had worked hard to put behind bars while in the agency. That made no sense to Cullen. But, then, little about Boff made sense. Cullen couldn’t understand how a guy could call mobsters, drug dealers, snitches, and other riff-raff friends, and then go home to a wife and two kids in the suburbs, barbecue on the deck, drink Almaden Chablis from a friggin’ box, and watch sitcoms all night. The man was, as McAlary had said, mad crazy.

Fate had dumped Boff in Cullen’s lap several months earlier in Las Vegas when Cullen’s best friend, a middleweight champion, had been murdered. After the case had gone cold and been dumped on the Unsolved Bureau, Cullen had decided to launch his own investigation during the time he was away from the gym. Boff, meanwhile, had been
hired by a then mysterious third party to aid Cullen in his search. Try as he might to keep Boff away from him, Cullen had been slowly sucked into the man’s shadow world. The only reward for teaming up with Boff was that together they had found the men who had killed Cullen’s friend and seen to it that the murderers received punishment more just than mere justice.

Bringing his mind back to the present, Cullen suddenly had an idea.
If Boff was heading to New York, maybe his wife Jenny would tell him. Cullen took out his cell again and looked up Boff’s home number.

“Who’re you calling?” McAlary asked.

Cullen ignored him and dialed. “Hi, Mrs. Boff. This is Danny Cullen.”

I heard you got shot
. Are you all right?

“Yes. Do you know when your husband will be home?”

The phone went silent. When she finally spoke, Jenny’s voice sounded guarded.
Danny, you caught me in the middle of something. I have to get off the phone
.

Cullen frowned. “He’s coming to
New York, isn’t he?”

McAlary tapped Cullen’s arm. “Put it on speaker,” he said. Cullen shook him off.

The only thing Frank told me this morning
, Jenny was saying,
was that he’s taking a trip tomorrow to meet with a client and had to tie up some loose ends here first. He never tells me who he’s going to meet because he knows his work upsets me.

Although Cullen asked a few more questions, Jenny remained evasive. A trait she no doubt had learned from her husband. Seeing no point in continuing the conversation, Cullen thanked her, hung up, and turned to McAlary and Kate.

“Let’s hear it,” said Kate.

“Boff told her he’s taking a trip tomorrow to see a client. She claims she doesn’t know where.”

McAlary pounded a fist on the seat. “I knew it! That goddam troublemaker’ll come here and distract you from your training.
Again
.”

Cullen sighed. “Why don’t we wait to see if he shows up before you get upset?”

The trainer shook his head. “I can feel it in my old Irish bones. Boff will come and then you’ll be playing cop with him again. Look me in the eye and promise you won’t do that.”

Cullen glanced away.

“Say it!” the trainer demanded.

Cullen turned back. “Look, Ryan, I can promise you all I want. But Boff just has a way of dragging me into his world without me realizing it.”

McAlary leaned in closer to Cullen. “Feed someone else that blarney, my boy.”

Cullen threw his hands up. “You don’t know him like I do. He’s devious. Tenacious. And he never takes no for an answer. He’s like one of those dogs that follow you around until you pet them.”

McAlary looked out the window.

In his prime,
Ryan McAlary had been a three-time welterweight champion and Olympic silver medalist from Ireland. Cullen knew Biaggi’s death had hit him hard. The two older fighters, now trainers, had history together. McAlary had been in the midst of a comeback after losing his title when he was matched up with Biaggi, a rugged journeyman. From the opening bell to the final one, they had fought toe-to-toe, with neither boxer backing down. In the course of the fight, Biaggi broke McAlary’s nose and split his lip badly. McAlary cracked two of Biaggi’s ribs and turned his face into a mess of blood and bruises. After McAlary had won a close decision, the two exhausted boxers embraced in the center of the ring and ended up sharing an ambulance to a nearby hospital, where they joked about the fight from adjacent beds.
Ring Magazine
had named it “Fight of the Year.” Over the next eighteen months they fought twice more. Biaggi won the second battle, McAlary the third. Since then the two of them had been close friends.

Cullen wasn’t a champion yet, but he had the pedigree. His father had been an all-time great fighter and a member of the Boxing Hall of Fame. At twenty-six, Cullen was an unbeaten contender in the super middleweight division. He had come to
Brooklyn from Las Vegas with McAlary and Kate to fight in Madison Square Garden against Jermain Simms of the Bronx, another undefeated young boxer. The winner was guaranteed a shot at the reigning world champion.

McAlary normally got Cullen ready for fights in a gym he had built in the garage of his
Las Vegas home. But a fire had burned down nearly half of the gym, forcing McAlary to find another place to train him. McAlary chose his buddy Biaggi’s One Punch Gym, an old-world, nuts and bolts facility where street-hardened city kids would provide tough sparring. Biaggi and his wife Michelle had put them up in guestrooms of a three-story limestone row house they owned on St. Marks Avenue in Brooklyn.

And now, a week later, Biaggi was dead.