The Punishing Game (7 page)

Taking the Major Deegan Expressway to the South Bronx, Boff drove west on East 136
th
Street until he reached a small, mostly industrialized section of the borough known as Port Morris. This was where he had grown up. At Walnut Street, he made a right, then pulled over and parked near a row of small stores.

In an area that was largely Puerto Rican and working class, pretty much the only whites were the yuppies who were clustered in a small area adjacent to the
Third Avenue Bridge. And old people who’d been there for decades.

Boff’s mother still ran what in years past had been referred to simply as a candy store, although it also had a soda fountain. As Boff got out of his car, two Hispanic teenagers leaning against the front window of his mother’s store eyeballed him.

Putting on his best smile, he nodded to the boys. “How you guys doin’ today?”

Both teenagers looked away.

As Boff entered the store, an overhead brass bell that had been there since he was a kid jingled. His mother was standing behind the fountain whipping up what looked like milkshakes for two girls sitting on the red-cushioned stools. His mother glanced over at him, returned to the shakes—and then did a double take!

“Frankie! Oh, my God!”

Thelma Boff wiped her wet hands on her apron, hustled out from behind the counter, ran across the floor, and hugged her son. “What on earth are you doing in New York?” she asked.

“Working a case.”

Thelma turned to the girls. “Nina, Marta, look who’s here! My son! He’s a famous private investigator.”

The girls glanced at Boff. If they were impressed, they didn’t show it.

“Can we, like, have our milkshakes, Mama Boff?”

Thelma grabbed her son’s arm. “Frankie, give me a second to serve these girls. Don’t go anywhere.”

Boff laughed. “I’ll be right here, Mom.”

At seventy-two, Thelma Boff was spry, full of energy, and still wore her shiny silver hair in a Sixties-style bouffant. “Take some candy, Frankie. I still carry your favorite.”

Reaching into the candy case, he picked up a box of Good & Plenty. The thing he had liked best about working at the candy store on weekends as a kid was that he got to eat all the Good & Plenty he wanted. To the left of an ancient brass cash register, he saw another fixture of his youth: two large glass jars, one filled with giant chocolate-chip cookies, the other, plain donuts.

After Thelma finished making the shakes, she put a straw in each one and slid the frosted glasses to the girls. “There you go,” she said. Then she came back around the counter to her son. They sat on stools further down the row.

“What a nice surprise,” she said.

Boff kissed her on the cheek. As he started to open the candy box, she grabbed his hands. “Wait,” she said. “You have to sing the jingle before you open it. Like you always did.”

Boff rolled his eyes. “Mom, that was forty years ago! Who can remember the lyrics?”

“You can. Come on. For your dear old mother. One last time.”

Boff glanced at the girls. They weren’t paying attention. As he shook the box, he sang the jingle in a soft voice.

Once upon a time there was an engineer

Choo Choo Charlie was his name, we hear.

He had an engine and he sure had fun
—

Nina and Marta looked at him and giggled. He stopped singing.

“Finish it, Frankie,” Thelma said. “Or I’ll take away your candy.”

With a huge sigh, he obeyed.

Charlie says, Love my Good & Plenty!

Charlie says
, Really rings my bell!

Charlie says
, “Love my Good & Plenty!

Don’t know any other candy that I love so well!

The girls clapped. Boff grimaced and waved thanks.

“That was so nice,” Thelma said, using the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. “It sure brought back memories.”

Boff opened the box and shook some candy into his mouth.

“You look great, Frankie. I wish your father was alive to see you.” She looked away a moment, let out a sigh, then turned back to him. “So who’re you defending these days? Murderer? Arsonist? I love your stories. It’s like I have a son who’s this sleazy TV detective.”

Boff looked taken aback. “Mom, I’m not sleazy.”

Thelma laughed. “Sure you are. But a cool sleazy, you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t. I’m a highly-respected private investigator with a great wife and great kids. I live in the suburbs and lead a perfectly normal life.”

“Save the BS for court. This is your mother you’re talking to. So how
are Jenny and the kids?”

“Jenny looks as beautiful as the day of our senior prom.”

“She was prom queen, right?”

“Yes.”

“What about Sharon and Steven?”

He shrugged. “They still call me Boff instead of Dad. You need to know more?”

Thelma tapped his hand with her finger. “Trust me, son, they love you.”

“I know. Listen, Mom, I’m working on something in
Brooklyn involving really dangerous people.”

She shrugged. “So what else is new?”

“But this time I’m working against them, not for them. So I’m a little concerned for your safety. You know how you’ve always wanted to take that trip to Israel?” He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to her. Opening it, she pulled out plane tickets. But instead of looking thrilled, she frowned.

“This is a nice gift, Frankie…but I can’t go to
Israel. I have to watch the store.”

“I’ll get someone to work for you. A person you can trust.”

Thelma shook her head. “Since Dooley died and my sister moved to South Jersey, this store is my whole life. I don’t want to go to Israel anymore. I want to stay here. The kids like me. They call me Mama Boff. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, of course, but I’m still concerned for your safety.”

Thelma waved a hand at him. “Not to worry. I’m well protected.” She pointed toward the front window. “See those two Puerto Rican boys outside? They watch out for me.”

“Really? You hired them?”

“No, no. I take numbers for Enrique Solis. Those are his runners.”

Boff’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. Right?”

“No. What’s the big deal?”

“Mom, it’s against the law! You’re a sweet little old lady. I don’t want you mixed up with a mobster like Solis.”

“Frank Milton Boff! Why is it okay for you to get the worst kind of criminals off, but I can’t make a little extra cash taking numbers and doing the football sheets?”

“If Papa knew what you’re doing, he’d be angry.”

She just laughed. “You were such a naïve kid. Dooley was the one who started us taking numbers! How do you think we had enough money to put you through college?”

Boff looked stunned. “I can’t believe you guys took numbers and didn’t tell me.”

“Such a thing you don’t say to a child. Tell me something. How do your kids feel about what you do for a living?”

“They resent it. And me.”

“And you would’ve felt the same way about Dooley and me.”

“No. No, I wouldn’t have.”

“Sure you would. You were a Cub Scout and a Boy Scout leader, captain of your basketball team, vice president of your senior class.” She reached over and pinched his cheek. “You were such a mensch. Trust me. You woulda been angry with us. Then when you graduated college and were old enough to be told, you went into the DEA. Dooley didn’t think his federal agent son would like what we were doing.”

Before Boff could react, the bell jingled and the door opened. In walked a thin, elderly, Hispanic woman using a cane. Thelma’s eyes brightened. She stood up and put a hand on her son’s shoulder.

“Aida, look who’s here! My son, Frankie!”

The old woman crossed the floor and gave him the once over. “Your mother always talks about you,” she said. “But you don’t look anything like I thought.”

“What did you think I’d look like?”

“Mean and tough. Like the guys on the
Sopranos
. You look like a mailman.”

Thelma chuckled.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you anyway,” Aida said. Then she turned to Thelma and handed her a slip of paper and a ten dollar bill. Folding them together, Thelma put them in her apron pouch.

“I changed my number,” Aida said. “My luck, the old one comes in today.”

“Frankie, give Aida one of your business cards.”

“Why?”

“She might need your help one day.”

Boff looked amused. “Aida, are you planning on robbing a bank?”

She shook her head. “Not me! My son Jorge robs grocery stores once in a while. I worry he might get caught.”

Not so amused now, Boff handed her a card from his wallet. Slipping it into the large black purse hanging from her arm, she said, “Nice meeting you, Frankie. You’ve got a wonderful mother.” Then she turned and shuffled out of the store.

Boff watched, then turned back to his mother. “Mom, if you really take numbers for Solis, you might be able to do a favor for me.”

“Ask it.”

“Do you know anybody who can introduce me to him?”

“Sure.” She walked behind the counter, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Enrique? Thelma Boff. I need a favor. My son Frankie is here from Las Vegas. He’d like to meet you. Frankie’s a private investigator. You ever get in trouble, he’s the best there is. Ask around about him. … Thanks, Enrique.” She hung up the phone.

Boff was staring at her in disbelief.

“He comes in for my egg creams,” she said. “Nobody makes egg creams anymore.”

“Boy, next thing I know you’ll be telling me you keep a shotgun behind the counter.”

“Remington. Pump-action.”

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Oh, yes, I do! Enrique bought it for me and taught me how to use it. He worries I might get held up one day.”

Boff threw his hands up. “Jesus Christ, Mom. You’ll wind up shooting your foot off.”

“Chill, Frankie. Enrique taught me good.” She poked him in the chest. “What an old fart you’re becoming in middle age.” Then she picked up a piece of paper from the counter by the register, wrote something down, and handed it to him.

“This is the address for Enrique’s bookmaking operation. It’s in the basement of a three-story brownstone. Enrique converted the top three floors into a triplex. That’s where he lives. His brother Fernando takes care of the building where he moves his drugs.”

Boff pocketed the paper, stood up, and kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s have dinner when I get a break in the case.”

Thelma’s face lit up. “I’d love to! We could go to Katz’s Deli. I haven’t had a good pastrami sandwich in years.”

“You got it.” As he turned to go, his mother said, “You be careful, son. I’m worried about you.”

Walking into the precinct, looking dog-tired and defeated, Monetti and Colligan noticed somebody new sitting behind Captain Burgess’s desk.

Monetti turned to a nearby cop working on a computer. “Who’s that in the captain’s office?” he said.

The cop looked up. “Burgess got bumped up and moved to the Puzzle Palace. He’ll have shiny brass assholes to lick there. That’s his replacement, Captain Stipansky. Another fucking bureaucrat. But meaner, so I hear.”

Colligan shook his head. “Great. Just what we needed.”

“Stipansky said when you two jokers came in, to report to his office. Have fun!”

“Well,” Monetti said sourly, “this should suck. Now we have to learn how to deal with a new asshole.”

They walked over to the captain’s glass door and stood quietly until Stipansky, who was looking through a file cabinet, saw them and waved them in.

“Take a seat.”

As they pulled over a couple chairs, Stipansky took a folder out of the cabinet, brought it to his desk, and sat down. In his early forties and sporting a military buzz cut, Stipansky had a craggy face that was devoid of humor. He didn’t offer to shake hands.

“Update me on what you two have been working on,” was all he said.

When Monetti was done filling him in, the captain asked, “Do you have anything concrete?”

Colligan shrugged his shoulders. “We’re not sure,” he said. “Some kind of deal may be going down. Somebody could get whacked because of it. It appears to involve a shell corporation. Probably tax evasion. Securities fraud.”

Stipansky pursed his lips. “That’s not our game,” he said after a minute. “Somebody getting whacked is. Can you tell me for sure a hit is being planned?”

“No, we can’t.”

“I appreciate honesty from my men,” the captain said. “Make that
expect
it
.
You’ll get the same from me. I want you to shit-can this surveillance.” The captain picked up the folder he had taken from the cabinet. “I have something more important I want you to work on.”

“Good,” Monetti said. “If you ask me, Burgess didn’t have squat.”

“I didn’t ask you. Around here,
I
ask the questions.” He pointed the folder at them. “We’ve got a Hispanic doctor up here whose clients are rich Latinos in the entertainment business. The quack is churning out prescriptions for uppers, downers, steroids, and any other crap they ask for like its candy. I want his license. You’re going to get it.”

The captain held the folder out to Colligan, who took it. “Monetti,” the captain said, “bring me your surveillance notes and tapes.”

As Colligan opened the folder, Monetti left the office. He returned a few minutes later with a folder and a bag of tapes from their surveillance. He set these on the desk. Stipansky didn’t even look at them.

“Captain,” Monetti said, “do you think we should turn the tapes over to the AG?”

Stipansky waved the suggestion off. “The AG is a rich political hack who’s probably going to be our next governor. But he won’t get to the Executive Mansion with help from me. From now on, you two eat, sleep, and breathe this slimeball doctor.”

The captain finally picked up the folder and tapes, but instead of looking at them, he dropped them in his garbage pail.

“Case closed,” he said.