The Punishing Game (23 page)

After Damiano put a 24/7 on Devon, four uneventful days went by. The only thing Devon’s crew did was steal license plates from a parked car. She called Boff and relayed that information to him.

“That’s actually a good sign,” Boff said. “The only reason for the Bloods to steal plates, which have no real value, is to use them on their own car so they can’t be traced when committing a crime.”

You better be right, because I’m already catching hell from my supervisor for the manpower hours.

“Do one more thing for me,” he said. “Step up the pressure on your street snitches to find out if anything’s about to go down involving the Bloods.”

A day later Damiano called him again and said that a snitch had told her the Cripps had taken shots at a couple of Bloods. Word on the street was that the Bloods were going to retaliate tonight.

Damiano had Boff pick her up by the precinct in his car. As she got in, he said, “Why didn’t you want to use your Dodge Charger?”

“It looks like a cop car. It’d be too easy to spot on a tail.”

She had brought along a red bubble light to stick on the roof of Boff’s rental Accord. Three unmarked cars followed them away from the station, keeping their distance so they wouldn’t look like a caravan.

“How did you explain my presence to your comrades?” Boff asked.

“I told them you were DEA. Which is sort of true because you
were
. Needless to say, I didn’t tell them your name. Hopefully none of them will recognize you.”

“No, I don’t think they will. The only time I went up against cops in the Seventy-Seventh was when I crushed you in court.”

A few minutes later, Boff pulled up and stopped at the Bloods headquarters, which was in a squat building that had once been a chicken market. The
Live Poultry, Fresh Killed
sign
was still atop the building, hanging now at a precarious angle. The building’s windows were boarded up and its roll-down security gate was painted Bloods red. The only apparent entrance Boff could see was a dented gray metal door.
PULL
had been painted on the door in red dripping letters, but there didn’t appear to be a handle to pull with.

After assessing the headquarters, Boff drove a half block past the building, did a U-turn and parked in a spot where he could have a view of the Bloods’ hangout.

“I trust that you told your men not to shoot at Devon if possible,” he said.

“Of course.”

“I hope they listen to you.”

“They’re under my command. They’ll do as I say.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident.”

“Why wouldn’t they obey my orders?” she asked.

“Because they’re cops.”

With that, Boff put on a Chuck Berry CD but played it low. At seven-thirty, a black Land Rover drove past his car and stopped on the street outside the gang headquarters.

“Run the plates,” Boff said. “I’m betting they’re the stolen ones.”

Damiano called it in. In a minute she nodded and hung up. “Yup. Same ones.”

The metal door suddenly opened. Out stepped Devon and two other Bloods, all wearing baggy blue jeans and red T-shirts. Devon got in the front seat of the Land Rover, the other two in back. Damiano used her cell phone to alert her men. When the Land Rover pulled away, Boff let them get a good head start before following.

Damiano looked at Boff. “Are you packing?”

He shook his head. “I never carry. Wouldn’t want to risk shooting anybody.”

“Not even in self-defense?”

“Damiano, I’m a private investigator who works
against
law enforcement. Do you have any idea how hard it would be for me to get a fair shake in court on
any
charge? Especially one involving a shooting? I’d probably lose my license and end up doing jail time.”

“Beats getting killed.”

“Yeah, well, so far I’ve been lucky.”

After the Land Rover had gone about a dozen blocks, it started to slow down as it approached a McDonald’s. Boff quickly saw why. Three young men wearing Cripps’ colors had just left the restaurant with take-out bags. He tapped Damiano’s arm and pointed ahead.

“Here it goes,” he said.

Apparently seeing the Bloods coming, the Crips dropped their food bags, pulled out their guns, and fired at the Land Rover. The Bloods answered with a hail of bullets, dropping all three of the Cripps and also shattering the front window of the restaurant.

As the Land Rover burned rubber, Boff raced to follow it. Damiano slapped the bubble light on his roof. Behind Boff, the cop cars were moving up fast. The Land Rover ran a red light, barely escaping a collision with a pickup truck, which swerved badly, hopped the curb, and plowed through the front window of a CVS.

Slowing at the red light, Boff glanced both ways, then shot through an opening in the cross traffic.

Damiano looked at Boff. “I got a feeling this is going to end badly,” she said.

Sure enough, when the next traffic light went from yellow to red, the Bloods weren’t as lucky. They broadsided a Taurus, bashing in the driver’s door with a loud crash. The Land Rover stalled out. As the Bloods’ driver tried in vain to get the engine to kick over, Boff jerked his car to the curb by a fire hydrant about thirty feet away.

“We got ’em!” Damiano said, slapping her palm on the dashboard in triumph.

As she drew her Berretta, the doors on the Land Rover suddenly sprang open. Looking badly shaken, the
three gangbangers stepped out of the car. At the same time, Damiano jumped out of Boff’s rental, leaving the door wide open so she could crouch behind it and use it as a shield. With a two-handed grip on her gun, she pointed it at the Bloods.

“POLICE! FREEZE!”

The Bloods weren’t buying it. They dove for cover behind a parked car and started firing at her. Hearing the shots, pedestrians who had stopped to gape at the accident screamed and raced for cover. Boff slouched as far down in his seat as he could.

The other cops had arrived. Seeing Damiano taking fire, they fired at the Bloods with a vengeance.

“DON’T KILL THEM!” Damiano shouted to her cops, who apparently couldn’t hear her over the gunfire. They were blistering the car shielding the Bloods with bullets, turning it into metal hunk of Swiss cheese.

Running in a crouch, Damiano raced up to her men. “STOP SHOOTING, YOU ASSHOLES! HOLD
FIRE!”

As the cops finally lowered their guns, the Bloods also stopped firing. Boff figured the gang hadn’t quit because Damiano had told the cops to stop firing. They were probably dead or seriously wounded. He sat back up in his seat.

“I hope you fuckheads didn’t kill Devon!” Damiano shouted at her men. “You knew my orders. If he’s dead, this is going to Internal Affairs.” She took one step toward the Land Rover. “Okay. Let’s inspect the damage.”

They approached cautiously, staying close to parked cars.

“Who’s wearing a vest?” Damiano asked.

All of them were. She ordered two to move in first. When the two cops reached the passenger side of
the car, they dropped to the sidewalk, looked under it toward the other side, and then one of them shouted back to Damiano, “Perps all down and bleeding!”

Boff watched as Damiano ran in a crouch to her men at the car and then called out to the Bloods, “Toss your weapons out into the street!”

In a few seconds, one gun was flung away from the bullet-riddled car. It went off on contact with the asphalt, causing bystanders who’d come out from cover, to scream and scurry in all directions again.

“
ALL OF YOUR GUNS! And don’t throw them this time, slide them along street!”

After a minute, three more guns were pushed past the car.

The rest of Damiano’s cops rushed over to her.

“You idiots better hope I see
Devon’s face,” she said. Then she barked an order at the Bloods. “Now stand up! Hands on your heads where I can see them!”

The only Blood that stood up was
Devon. His right hand was on his head. His left hand hung limply by his side, blood flowing from a shoulder wound.

“Both hands,
Devon!”

Devon
shook his head. “I can’t, bitch. I done been shot. Arm hurts too much.”

“Tough shit,” Damiano told him. “I want to see your other hand on your head. Now!”

Wincing with pain, the kid managed to slowly raise his arm.

“Tell the others to stand up, too.”

“They can’t,” he said. “They be dead. Oh, man, this is police brutality. We didn’t do nothing. You killed my friends.”

Damiano frowned. “Come around the car,
Devon. And make sure you keep your hands on your head.”

He slowly walked around the hood of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk.  When he was in arm’s length of Damiano, she signaled and two cops cautiously went around the car to check on the status of the other t
hree Bloods. Another cop patted Devon down, found a small caliber gun in an ankle holster, and dropped it in a plastic bag.

One of the cops on the other side of the car shouted, “The other three are DOA.”

Devon glared at Damiano. “Wait until Al Sharpton hears about this,” he said. “You be dead meat, bitch.”

Then he suddenly looked past Damiano, saw Boff approaching the car, and broke into a broad smile. “Ah, here comes my man to the rescue!”

As Boff reached Damiano, he said to her, “Guess your men didn’t follow your orders.”

“Well at least we got
Devon alive,” she replied.

Devon
took one step forward. “Boff, I’m really glad to see you. Call my lawyer. I want to hire both of you.”

Boff put his hand over his heart. “Much as it pains me to pass up a lucrative fee, I’ll have to turn you down.”

“Why?”

“I have other plans for you.”

An ER doctor at Kings County Hospital Center extracted the bullet from Devon’s shoulder, cleaned the wound, stitched it, and then patched it up. When the doctor was finished, Damiano cuffed him in front rather than from behind to make sure the strain on his shoulder didn’t open his stitches and cost them more time in restitching.

“Okay, dirtbag,” she said, “let’s go.”

Grabbing Devon’s good arm, she led him out of the emergency room cubicle he had been in and into the main room, which was standing room only as usual.

“I want my phone call,”
Devon said.

Damiano shook her head. “You’re not under arrest. You don’t get one.”

“Then why am I cuffed?”

“Because,” Boff said, “you’re a material witness to felony murder. Damiano doesn’t want to take the risk of you running before she can have a nice chat with you.”

“Man, this is bullshit!” He turned to Boff. “You going down with the pigs when all this shakes out. You all killed my brothers for no reason.”

Seeing cops enter the ER carrying three body bags, Damiano held up a hand to stop them.

“Which bodies are these?” she asked.

“Cripps.”

Pointing at Devon, she said to the cop, “Unzip the top of the bags and let this wit see the faces.”

Then she pulled
Devon closer to the open bags. Seeing the faces, the gang leader showed no reaction.

“Recognize them,
Devon?”

“Nope.”

Boff stepped over to him. “The person who did this,” he said, “is looking at murder one. Minimum three counts. Not to mention any people shot in the McDonald’s and your three dead buddies.”

Leading
Devon by his good arm again, Damiano left the ER, Boff close behind them. They walked to a black and white idling at the curb, opened the front door, and shoved Devon in. Then she and Boff got in the back seat.

The driver turned to Damiano. “Regulations say the perp has to be seated in the back,” he said.

Damiano waved him off. “He’s not a perp. And we don’t want him behind us because we had to cuff him in front. Just drive.”

With an indifferent shrug, the cop pulled away from the curb.

“Where we going, Boff?” Devon asked.

“You like Danish?”

When they reached the 77
th
Precinct, Damiano took Devon’s cuffs off, locked him in an interrogation room, and left him to sit there by himself while she pumped in Johnny Mathis’ greatest love songs.

About thirty minutes later, she and Boff walked into the interrogation room. Boff put a cup of coffee and a paper plate with a prune Danish on it down on a metal table in front of
Devon.

The Blood ignored both coffee and pastry. “Where the fuck you been?”

Damiano killed Johnny Mathis in the middle of “Chances Are,” pulled up a chair, turned it around, and sat about a yard in front of Devon.

“Don’t waste your time,” he said before she even opened her mouth. “I ain’t got nuthin’ to say to you. I know my rights. This is illegal.”

“No, Devon,” Boff said, “it’s not. You’re being detained for questioning, which is perfectly legit. My advice is for you to play nice and talk to the detective.”

“Screw you.”

Pointing a finger at Devon, Damiano said, “Tell us what you know about Enrique Solis and a big shipment of drugs coming to the city.”

“Say what?”
Devon said. “I never heard of the guy. And what’s drugs got to do with you pigs shooting us?”

“Listen to me,” Damiano said in a tight voice, “I’m prepared to cut you some fucking slack. But only if you’re willing to cooperate. Understand, numbnuts?”

Devon raised his chin defiantly. “I don’t know nuthin’ about nuthin’.”

“Yes, you do,” she said. “And you aren’t leaving this room until you tell us about the shipment.”

“I don’t know nuthin’ about nuthin’.”

Boff leaned forward. “I guess that includes the fact that you killed Nino Biaggi for Yusef Force and Solis,” he said in a mild voice. “The way it looks to me, you’ll be spending the rest of your miserable life doing hard time.”

“I don’t know nuthin’ about nuthin’.”

Damiano stood up. “Well, Boff, since he doesn’t know
nuthin’
, we might as well go.”

As they started for the door,
Devon called out, “Wait! What the fuck about me? I gots to piss!”

Ignoring him, Damiano switched Johnny Mathis back on. As they went out through the door,
Devon threw the cup of coffee at the two-way window.

After another half hour, Damiano and Boff walked back in.

“Look what you made me do, bitch!”

There was a pool of urine on the floor by the gang leader’s feet. His pants were soaked around the crotch.

“You want a diaper?” Boff said. “Just in case you need to crap.”

Devon leaned forward. “Your life is over, Boff. Soon as I put the word out, you’re a dead man.”

Boff turned to Damiano. “Did you hear that, detective?”

“I certainly did. Making death threats is a felony.”

Devon
glared at Damiano. “You’re dead too, bitch!”

“Even more serious,” Damiano said, “when you threaten a cop.”

As they had arranged before going in, Damiano stepped aside and let Boff sit in the chair. She killed the music.

Boff didn’t say anything for a few moments. He just stared at
Devon. Finally he said, “Enrique Solis.” He let the name hang there like a dark cloud without saying anything else.

Ignoring him,
Devon picked up the Danish. In three quick bites, he finished it off.

“I need some coffee to wash this shit down.”

“Unless you can lick it off that window,” Damiano said, “you won’t be drinking any coffee.”

Laying both hands flat on
Devon’s table, Boff said to the gang leader, “What’s the harm in telling us about Solis?”

“You crazy, man? I talk about him, I’m fucked.”

Boff smiled. “From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re pretty fucked already. Why not make the best of a bad situation?”

Devon
didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he tapped a finger on his chest. “What’s in this for Devon?” he asked.

“Now you’re talking,” Boff said. “Detective, tell
Devon the prize behind Door Number Two.”

“First,” Damiano said, “let me explain to our contestant what’s behind Door Number One.” She stepped closer to
Devon. “In order to claim your prize, you have to tell us when and where Solis’s drug shipment is coming into New York. Plus drop a dime on Yusef Force and Solis for hiring you to kill Biaggi. Then, after you testify against them in court, you hit the jackpot behind Door Number Two.”

“Screw you. Lock me up.”

“Don’t you want to hear the prize?” Boff asked.

When
Devon refused to speak, Boff said, “Damiano and the D.A. are prepared to offer you entry into the Witness Protection Program.”

“Big fucking deal. If I do what you ask, they’ll find me wherever you stash me. Even in Hell.”

Damiano leaned toward Devon. “Of the two hundred and forty people placed in Witness Protection last year, only nine percent left the program involuntarily.”

Devon
leaned away and scrunched his face. “What you mean by ‘involuntarily’?”

“They were found by bad guys and killed,” Boff said. “When you consider the alternative would be life in prison, I’d say those are pretty good odds.”

“Life? You said I ain’t charged with nothing.”

“Yet,” Damiano said.

“Should you not cooperate,” Boff continued, “the D.A. will hit you with everything he can think of—including pissing on government property. You’re looking at a minimum of six consecutive life sentences.”

“Get my lawyer.”

“Let me tell you something first about your lawyer,” Boff said. “Once you call in Dave D’Alessandro, he won’t let you talk to the cops.”

“Good. Get ’im.”

Boff got up, walked around the table, and stood beside Devon. “The
reason
he won’t let you cut a deal, Devon, is that D’Alessandro lives to showboat in court on high-profile cases and get his ugly face on TV. Being on TV is much more important to him than saving your ass. Once you hire D’Alessandro, you’re going to court. And here’s some free advice, which I never give but will make an exception here. You’re well aware of my reputation for beating righteous cases. Right?” Boff leaned his face down close to Devon’s. “Well even
I
couldn’t help you win this one in court.”

Devon
pushed Boff’s face away.

That means,” Boff said, straightening up, “life in prison. No more women. No more fancy cars. No more bling. In your fun-filled stay at maximum lockdown, you’ll be getting up every day at five to scrub foul-smelling pots and pans in the kitchen or fish used condoms out of shower room toilets.”

He walked back around the table and put a foot up on the chair. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “That there are Bloods in jail who’ll protect you. Well, guess what, genius? They won’t be able to. In case you didn’t know, our prisons are an equal opportunity employer. That means there are Cripps, MS-Thirteen, and Latin Kings—all enemies of the Bloods—working off time inside. Think about that before you call your lawyer.”

Devon
’s expression was stony. “I’ll get a different lawyer.”

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” Boff said. “Either you take the deal Damiano is offering or you go to trial. Where, as I said, your chances of getting an acquittal are zilch.”

Even though Devon didn’t respond, it was obvious to Boff from the worried look on the gang leader’s face that his words had sunk in.

“Well,
Devon,” Damiano said in a silky voice, “we’re going to leave now and give you more time to think this over.”

She and Boff headed for the door.

Devon erupted. “Fuck you! I ain’t sitting here again listening to that faggot music anymore!”

Damiano turned back. “Then start talking.”

“Don’t you understand?” Devon said in a pleading voice. “I can’t be a squeal. I’m a Blood. The Bloods have a code we live by. Body, unity, love, lust, and soul.”

Boff nodded. “I can’t see how that code would keep you from testifying against people who aren’t Bloods,” he said.

“Unity. That means all brothers who’re oppressed by the law.”

Boff threw his hands up in resignation. “I guess that’s it, then. You can call your lawyer.”

Taking out his cell phone, Boff walked over to the table and set it down in front of Devon. The gang leader made no move to pick it up.

“If you don’t know his number,” Boff said, “I can look it up for you.”

“Fuck you. I’m thinking.”

After a full minute went by,
Devon said in a low voice, “I can give you the date—six days from now on Friday. But I don’t know where the package is coming into the city.”

“Make an educated guess,” Boff suggested.

“I ain’t educated.”

“So make an uneducated one.”

After a minute, Devon lowered his voice even more and said, “Yusef…he has this bad-ass jet and his own hangar at Lufker Airport on the Island.” He bit his lip and looked down at his hands as he continued. “Security at the airport is light, and Yusef doesn’t have to tell the flight tower where he’s going or coming from because they’re in his pocket.” He looked up. “My
uneducated guess
is the drugs be arriving at his hangar.”

Boff lightly clapped his hands. “Very good,
Devon! That’s about what we figured.”

The gang leader gave him an angry look. “Then why the fuck did you ask me?”

“We like hearing you sing,” Boff replied.

“Well, asshole, I’m done singing.”

“Actually,” Boff said, “you’ve just begun. Right, Damiano?”

“Yes,” she replied. “If you want Witness Protection, you have to finger them for killing Biaggi.”

Devon let out an anxious sigh and glanced around, as if looking for a way out. Then, his voice barely a whisper, he said, “Yusef paid me twenty large.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, man…now I’m dead.”

“No, you’re not,” Damiano said. “You’re going to be just fine. We’ll draw up a statement, you’ll sign it, and then after you testify in court, you get on a plane and disappear. With money in the bank and a job waiting for you. Considering what a worthless piece of dog shit you are, I’d say you’ll be making out well.”

Boff took his cell phone back and pocketed it.

Devon
looked at him. “So we’re down on this deal, right, Boff?”

“Word,” Boff replied.

“Do I get, like, a choice of places to live? You know, Chicago. L.A. Or San Fran?”