The Punishing Game (5 page)

Cullen frowned. The man did have almost a sixth sense about these things.

McAlary stepped forward and poked a finger in Boff’s chest. “Danny has a very important fight coming up. The winner is guaranteed a shot at the title. He can’t afford to be sidetracked by you.”

“If he gets killed, Ryan, he won’t get a shot at anything.” Boff gently pushed McAlary’s finger off his chest and turned to Cullen. “Danny, you’re well aware that I’m somewhat of a tightwad. Yet here I paid for a flight from Las Vegas and am offering to work for free. If I didn’t feel strongly about this, do you think I would’ve gone to the expense of coming all the way to Brooklyn?”

Cullen looked at McAlary. “He does have a point.”

McAlary looked off a few moments, thinking it over. Then he turned back to Boff. “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I’m going to let you start tomorrow. But under no circumstances—I repeat
no
circumstances—are you to ask Danny for help or distract him in any way. Are we absolutely clear on that?”

Boff said nothing.

“Did you hear me?”

“As much as I can stay away from him,” he replied, “yes, I will.”

“Not good enough,” McAlary said. “I don’t want to see your ugly face around the gym. Not at all.”

Looking amused, Boff winked at the trainer and said, “You’ll change your tune when I dig up some evidence to back my theory.” Then he turned to Cullen. “Danny, I have one small favor to ask of you.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Is this going to be painful?”

“Not at all. I just want you to call my wife and tell her how thankful you are that she had me fly out here. That’ll make her feel good.”

“And earn you points with her priest.”

Boff looked at his watch. “Well, I’m going back to my hotel to do some preliminary work on my computer now. See you tomorrow, Danny.”

“Oh, no, you won’t!”

Without another word, Boff turned and headed back toward where his rented Honda Accord was parked.

McAlary looked at Cullen. “I have a feeling we just made a big mistake.”

Cullen tossed and turned all night, hearing Boff’s voice over and over in his head. What if someone really was trying to kill him? He tried to convince himself it was bullshit, but it was hard to get around the fact that Boff had paid for his flight himself and said he would be working for free. That, Cullen told himself for the hundredth time, sure as hell was way out of character for him.

Getting out of bed in the middle of the night, he went downstairs to the kitchen, made some sugar-free cocoa, carried the steaming mug back to his bed, sat down, and thought some more about Boff. Shortly before dawn, after a second cup of cocoa, his eyes finally closed.

But not for long.

At seven, McAlary woke him up. Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head, but McAlary just yanked them off the bed. There was just no winning this battle. Cullen slid out of bed, slipped into sweat pants and sneakers, and followed his trainer down to the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing.

“If I didn’t know better,” McAlary said, looking at Cullen’s eyes, “I’d think you got shitfaced last night. Why are your eyes so bloodshot?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Boff?”

“Boff.”

McAlary sighed. “Already you’re distracted.”

“As soon as I start working out, I’ll forget all about him.”

McAlary poured coffee for both of them and then sat back down. “When I see it, that’s when I’ll believe it.”

At the gym, McAlary asked Cullen to go a couple rounds with Bellucci. It was something of a mismatch because Cullen was three weight classes bigger and more powerful, but mismatching fighters during sparring is a common practice in boxing. What leveled the playing field in this match was that Bellucci was a better pure boxer, and faster, too. More importantly, the smaller man’s speed and slippery defense would give Cullen a taste of what he would be facing in Jermain Simms, a quick-handed and very skilled boxer.

Slipping through the ropes, Bellucci said, “Don’t hold nothing back, Danny. Take your best shot.” Then he winked and grinned.

The kid’s cockiness immediately irritated Cullen.
Winking and grinning? We’ll see how long that lasts
.
He wants my best shot? Well, here it comes.

When McAlary signaled for them to start, Cullen stalked Bellucci aggressively, throwing sharp, powerful hooks toward his body and head. Most of the shots missed because Bellucci’s defense made him difficult to hit.

Bellucci smiled again. “Having a problem, Danny?”

Now Cullen’s bad temper reared its ugly head. With his adrenalin pumping, he tried to cut off the ring so he could trap Bellucci on the ropes, where the smartass couldn’t use his bag of tricks. Unfortunately for Cullen, Bellucci’s feet were as quick as his hands. Every time Cullen got him near the ropes, the younger boxer danced away. Increasingly frustrated, Cullen got sloppy. He let his left hand drift too low—a bad habit of his—and Bellucci made him pay by firing a hard right hook over it that stung Cullen’s cheek.

The other fighters had stopped training by now. Gathering around the ring, they began cheering their gym buddy on. As the noise got louder and more animated, Cullen lost it completely. He shoved Bellucci away hard with both gloves—an illegal move—and finally succeeded in trapping him against the ropes, where he let fly with a torrent of punches. When Bellucci tried to slip off the ropes, Cullen pulled another illegal maneuver by shoving him back against them. Forced to absorb Cullen’s power, Bellucci’s knees started to buckle.

That’s when McAlary rushed over. “Stop!” he shouted. He glared at Cullen. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Cullen decided it was his turn to smile. “Just fighting to win, Coach. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

McAlary sighed. “Win, yes. But not box like a junkyard dog. Get the hell outta
there and give me ten miles on the treadmill.”

Realizing he had been a jerk by fighting dirty, Cullen put a glove gently on Bellucci’s arm. “Mikey, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

Bellucci smiled again. “No problem, Mr. Cullen. Like Mike Tyson said, ‘This is the hurting business.’ I have to learn how to keep my composure when I get rocked.” He turned to go, then looked back. “But I’ll get even with you, my friend. Count on it.”

When Cullen and Bellucci left the gym at the end of the session, they found Boff downstairs leaning against his rental car and eating a Twinkie. Two more packages of the cakes were on the Honda’s roof.

Cullen stopped on the second step down. “Oh, shit.”

Bellucci looked down at Boff, then at Cullen. “Trouble?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I got your back,” Bellucci said.

They went quickly down the stairs.

Boff crumbled a Twinkie wrapper and tossed it on the sidewalk. “How was your workout, Danny?”

“Do you care?”

“Not really. Hop in my fine rental here.”

Cullen shook his head. “Forget it.”

Bellucci strutted over toward Boff and pointed a finger at him. “You got a problem?”

Boff looked down at the boy who came up to his shoulders. “I’ve got lots of problems. Which one would you like to solve?”

Bellucci grabbed Boff’s shirt. “Get lost.”

Boff looked past the boy. “Danny, call off your doggie.”

Which prompted Bellucci to shove Boff back against the car.

“That’s enough, Mikey,” Cullen said. “Let him go.”

As Bellucci reluctantly released Boff and stepped back, Cullen walked over to him and got up in his face. “Didn’t we agree you weren’t going to bother me?” he asked.

“You did. I didn’t. Get in the car, Danny. We’re going to visit the Jamaican Posse.”

Bellucci tugged on Cullen’s arm. “Who is this yo-yo?”

Cullen sighed. “A private investigator looking into the drive-by shooting. He thinks the Bloods were shooting at me, not the other gang.”

Bellucci wrinkled his face. “Man, what’s he smoking? Why would someone want to whack you?”

Grabbing the remaining two packages of Twinkies off his roof, Boff said, “That’s what we’re going to find out.” He pointed at Bellucci’s head. “Love your hair, by the way. I might try that style. If I can find a blind barber.”

Cullen put a restraining hand on Bellucci. “We were on our way to lunch, Boff,” he said.

“Great. I’ll treat after we talk to the Jamaicans.”

Cullen knew it was fruitless to protest. “How come I never win an argument with you?”

Boff opened the driver’s side door. “Hang in there. You might some day.”

“Just tell me this,” Cullen said. “On a scale of one to ten, how sure are you they were trying to kill me?”

Taking his hand off the door handle, Boff held up seven fingers.

Cullen frowned. “Mikey, I have to go with him.”

“Then I’m going, too. Between this joker and the Jamaican Posse, you’ll need me along.”

“The more the merrier,” Boff said. “Get in.”

Cullen and Bellucci climbed into the backseat. As Boff pulled away, Bellucci leaned forward. “Hey, big shot,” he said. “You got any hip-hop CDs? Like Snoop Doggy Dog or 50 Cent?”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Oh, hell. Don’t ask him to put on music.”

Boff picked up a big, embossed leather CD case on the seat beside him. “You want hip-hop, you got it.” He picked out a CD and popped it into the player. “‘
At the Hop
,’
by Danny and the Juniors,” he said. He turned the volume up high.

“What
kinda crappy music is that?”

“Fifties Golden Oldies,” Cullen said. “That’s all he ever plays.”

Boff sang along as he drove.

A few minutes later, they pulled up to a store with a black drape closed over its front window.

“This is the Jamaican Posse’s clubhouse,” Boff said as he parked.

Sitting on the top steps of a stoop adjacent to the store were three young Jamaicans. Their boom box was blasting Reggae rap. Seeing three white dudes getting out of the car, the Jamaicans stood up and stared at them with open hostility.

Boff put on his broadest smile. “How are you guys doing today?”

The Jamaicans just glared back.

As two more gang members walked out of the clubhouse, Boff pointed to the boom box. “I like that music you’re playing. What is it? I might buy it.”

Cullen turned to Bellucci. “That’ll be the day.”

A tall, skinny kid left the stoop and came over. “What you be wanting here, mon?”

“I’m Frank Boff, private investigator.” He pointed to Cullen. “That guy was one of the three men who were shot at here when the Bloods drove by.”

The Jamaican glanced at Cullen, then back at Boff. “The pigs already done been here. We dinna have shit to tell them, ditto for you.”

“Reason I’m here,” Boff said, ignoring the kid, “is I don’t believe the Bloods were shooting at your gang.”

The Jamaican made a face. “Den why we got dem holes in our stoop?” He pointed to gouges on the lower two steps.

“The Bloods must’ve been bad shots,” Boff said. “They only hit the lower steps. Not the upper ones where you were sitting.”

The Jamaican said nothing to that. One of the other gang members came up. “Andre, tell ’em to get lost before we whack him.”

Boff didn’t move. “Andre, the Bloods were trying to kill my friend. I think you know that.”

Andre folded his arms defiantly across his chest.

“I brought you guys a present,” Boff said, still in a friendly voice. “Let me get it from my car.” He walked over to his car trunk. The second he opened it, the gang members whipped out their guns and pointed them at him. Boff held his hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, guys, I got you a treat.” With the guns still trained on him, he reached into the trunk and pulled out a case of Red Stripe beer.

“Hot summer day,” he said. “I thought you guys might be thirsty.”

Andre put his gun away. The others followed suit. Then the gang leader pointed to a heavy-set kid. “Patrick, fetch dem beers.”

Patrick waddled over to Boff, relieved him of the case, and disappeared inside the clubhouse with it.

“You know,” said Boff, “I was very impressed just now with how fast you guys pulled your guns on me. From the accounts I’ve read about the drive-by, I would’ve thought you were slow on the trigger. The Bloods’ car was pretty much out of range before you were even able to fire back.”

He winked at Cullen to make sure he’d digested that.

Andre shrugged. “You think I gonna talk to you cause you done brung us beer?” he said.

Boff plowed on. “As I understand it, you haven’t had problems with the Bloods before, right?”

The Jamaican hesitated. “So?”

“What’d you do to piss them off?”

Andre looked surprised. “Nuthin’, mon. We be down wit’ de Bloods. Have this big party planned wit’ dem in a warehouse next month. DJ, MC, lots of chicks.”

Boff shook his head. “I gather that’s been cancelled.”

The Jamaican looked puzzled. “No. Why?”

“Even after they shot at you?” Andre frowned. “Gotcha,” Boff said with a smile. “Why don’t we talk straight,
mon
? You knew they weren’t shooting at you. That’s why you didn’t fire back until they were safely out of range.”

A Dodge Charger suddenly pulled up behind Boff’s Honda. Out stepped Detective Damiano.

“What the hell are you doing here, Boff?” she asked.

Boff turned to her. “No hello? No nice to see you? You can’t still be mad at me after all these years.”

“Wanna bet? That was my first case as a detective. You almost ended my career before it began. My supervisor said you made me look like a rank amateur in court.”

Boff threw his hands out. “Well, you were. What can I say? I’m sure by now you’re a seasoned detective and a more worthy opponent.” He turned back to the Jamaicans. “Thanks for the heads-up, guys. You were a tremendous help.”

As Boff began to open his car door, Damiano slammed it shut. Then she whipped out her pad and pen.

“Tell me what they just told you,” she said.

Boff smiled. “Gee, I’d love to, detective, but it’s privileged information.”

He tried to reach for his door handle again.

Damiano shoved him away from the car. “Don’t fuck with me, Boff,” she said. “I’m conducting a murder investigation. I can haul you in for obstruction of justice.”

Boff smiled. “Look at me, Damiano. I’m Frank Boff. Not Joe Dipshit. You know and I know that I’m not going to be going anywhere with you. Now if you don’t mind, I have to take these young men to lunch. I promised.” 

Damiano turned to Cullen. “What did they tell him?”

Cullen shrugged. “Like Boff said,
ma’am
, it’s privileged information. Maybe if you have lunch with me, I might fill you in.”

Boff got behind the wheel of his rental. When Damiano didn’t respond, Cullen and Bellucci got into the back seat.

Damiano looked beyond pissed. She tapped hard on Boff’s window with her fist. He rolled it down.

“If you interfere with my case, I’ll be crawling up your ass.”

“Thanks for the offer, detective, but I’ve already had my enema this month. You have a nice day.” 

Boff waved at Damiano as he drove off, then slid in a CD and turned the volume up high. Bellucci leaned close to Cullen. “What kind of food does this yo-yo like to eat?”

“Anything,” Cullen replied. “Especially junk food. He’s big on Mexican and Chinese takeout. I once saw him put ketchup on spare ribs.”

“Get outta here! That’s disgusting.”

“He also crumpled two fortune cookies on top of his chow mein.”

Bellucci laughed. “Then I’m going to take him to a place where a white bread guy like him won’t want to eat.” Bellucci leaned forward. “Hey, Boff, let’s go to Cheffy’s. It’s near the gym and has great Jamaican food. I’ll give you directions.”

Cheffy’s Cuisine was a homey restaurant on
Nostrand Avenue about the size of a diner. The air was fragrant with jerk spice, cinnamon, and garlic. Obviously a regular, Bellucci shook hands with a few customers before they sat down. A pretty waitress brought over menus.

“Hi, Mikey,” she said. She looked at Boff. “Who’s your tall friend?”

Bellucci shook his head. “He’s not with us, Mattie. Just some guy followed us in and sat at our table. Can you believe that?”

Mattie gave Boff a hostile stare. “There are other tables, sir.”

Boff put on his best smile. “I’m fine right here.”

When Mattie looked perplexed, Bellucci said, “Just ignore him, honey.”

She gave Boff another dirty look and left for another table. As Boff picked up the menu and opened it, Cullen and Bellucci watched his face carefully to see his reaction.

“Ooh, they’ve got curried goat,” he said. “I love that! And codfish and callaloo. Another favorite.” He looked over the menu at Bellucci. “How did you know I like Jamaican food?”

The kid smirked. “You do, huh? Then why don’t we start with cow-foot and pigeon peas soup.”

Boff looked heavenward. “Thank you, Lord.”

“You want me to have Mattie bring a barf bag with your order?” Bellucci asked.

Boff looked surprised. “Why? My stomach is fine.”

Bellucci pulled out his wallet, extracted a five, and slapped it down on the table. “Five bucks says you don’t know what callaloo is.”

Boff smiled. “Put it way, son. I don’t take money from kids.”

“I’m no kid. Let’s see your fiver.”

Boff shrugged, took a five dollar bill out of his wallet, and laid it on top of Bellucci’s five. Then, as if reciting from memory, he said, “Callaloo is a leafy vegetable, traditionally either amaranth or taro. It’s a very popular dish in
Jamaica. I also hear they like it in Guyana and Haiti.”

“How the fuck.…?”

“In my previous life as a DEA agent, I spent a lot of time in the Caribbean chasing Jamaican drug dealers.” Boff pocketed the two fives.

Bellucci frowned and shook his head, obviously pissed at himself, then suddenly broke out laughing. “Oh, man, you sure suckered Mikey,” he said. “Not many people can do that.”

“One of my many talents,” Boff said modestly.

When Mattie came back, she gave Boff another frosty look and took their orders.

“Boff, you did a nice number on Damiano,” Bellucci said. “She’s a bitch. Always ragging on Mikey because of his hair. She lives on the same block as me.”

“Damiano’s actually a pretty good detective,” Boff said. “But I hated showing her up.”

“Like hell,” Cullen said.

“Well, maybe I enjoyed it just a little. So what do you think of my theory now, Danny? The Jamaicans admitted they were tight with the Bloods and hadn’t cancelled a party with them next month. The shots allegedly fired at them all hit below their feet. And you saw how fast they can pull guns when they really want to.”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m still not convinced. When you give me one good reason why the Bloods would want to kill
me
, then maybe I might start taking you seriously.”

“Actually, they didn’t want to kill you. At least not on a personal level. I believe they were hired by someone to do it. And they undoubtedly got the Jamaicans to play along by sharing some of the cash.”

“So who hired them?” Cullen asked.

“I’m not sure yet. Our next move is to have a little sit-down with the Bloods.”

“Whoa,” said Bellucci. “No chance they talk to you. More likely, they’ll shoot your big white ass on sight.”

“I’m sure that’d be true if I just walked in on them cold,” Boff said. “Fortunately for me, I worked with their lawyer a few years ago and helped get their leader,
Devon, acquitted on robbery and assault charges. After we eat, I’ll call Devon’s lawyer and have him set up a meeting.”

Despite himself, Cullen laughed. “Christ, is there anybody on the Dark Side you
haven’t
defended?”

“Actually there’s quite a few,” Boff told him. “That’s why I love my job so much. Every day I wake up knowing my phone’s going to ring and a new felon will be begging me to take on his case. It’s such a good feeling, knowing you’re wanted.”

Bellucci narrowed his eyes. “You
like
criminals?”

As the soup arrived, Boff shook his head. “Not at all. They’re scumbags. What I do like is cashing their checks.”

With a sudden admiration in his voice, Bellucci said, “Man, you’re some piece a work.” He reached out a hand to Boff. “Mikey Bellucci.”

Boff shook it. “Frank M. Boff.”

Cullen looked surprised. “Since when do you have a middle name?”

“I only use it in
New York out of respect for my mother.”

“What’s the M stand for? Money?”

Boff looked down at his soup. “I’d rather not to say.” He slurped in a spoonful. “Excellent. I might have a second bowl.”

“Come on,” Cullen implored. “Tell us what the M is.”

“It hurts to mention it.”

“Melvin?” Cullen ventured.

“Worse.”

“What could be worse than Melvin?”

“Milton.”

Cullen laughed. “Your fucking middle name is
Milton? Your parents must’ve really hated you.”

“Actually, they adored me. My mother is Jewish. She named me after her deceased father, Milton. If she had hated me, my
first
name would’ve been Milton, in which case I’d be known on the Dark Side as M. Frank Boff, arch as that may sound.”

“I think I’m going to call you
Milton from now on,” Cullen said.

“You do, and I’ll quit this case.”

“You can’t. Your wife would kill you. The next time you piss me off, I’m calling you Milton, Milton.”

Boff frowned. “I always seem to piss you off.”

“Then stop doing it.”

“I can’t. It’s my nature. For some reason I just naturally irritate people.”

Bellucci turned to Cullen. “Danny, leave the guy alone. Let him eat.”

Boff smiled. “Thank you, Mikey.”

“You’re welcome, Milton.”