Steve’s shorts: The Music Woman, Part Two…
[Although The Music Man musical features a male character who’s basically a shyster, have you ever wondered why Broadway never had a music woman? Maybe Funny Girl, Mame, and Hello Dolly come close—the latter two from Jerry Herman, who just passed on—but Detective Castilblanco knows a music woman…]
The Music Woman
Copyright 2020, Steven M. Moore
Frank Dobson was interested in the disappearance and possible death of Nick Bellini and just about everything else we’d talked over with Sulli.
“He’s a bit scatter-brained, I’d say,” Dobson said. “Is that just due to the kidnapping, or is he always that way?”
“Not exactly the clearest thinker on the planet,” I said. “His one redeeming quality is that he loves Big Fogg. In his own way, of course. Wouldn’t know how to exist without her, I imagine. She maintains their financial stability and keeps him from sinking into the morass of his stupid conspiracy theories. But I can understand why snitches are paranoid.”
“We’ve got nothing on tracing the owners of those SUVs. They could be mob vehicles. They like big, fast cars too, just like we do. Good reasons for that.” Dobson thought a moment. “I’d like to make sure Bellini is dead, though.”
“The father or the son?”
“The father. The Surgeon’s rep is current knowledge. We know he’s alive; DEA was just checking him out. He has a large FBI case file, but we don’t have enough on him to bring him in—never have. By we, I mean the anti-mob fellows, of course. I’m just on a kidnapping case, which we know is really a kidnapping now. Where do we go from here?”
“Find out where Giancarlo is and question him, I guess. Let’s start with that DEA intel.”
“Intel? You ex-military. I am too. Marines.”
“Navy. Long ago.”
***
Big looked at the dinner the huge oaf placed before her. “I’m vegan, you fool.”
The big man shrugged. “So don’t eat. Not my problem. It’s slop anyway. All our five-star chefs are busy elsewhere.”
He laughed at his own joke. Big didn’t smile.
“I’ll eat the bread. Get me some green tea.”
“Green pee, did you say?” The man laughed again. “I’ll ask Giancarlo if he needs to wee-wee, ma’am.”
The thug turned and left the room.
“She ain’t going to eat it,” the thug told Giancarlo. “Just the bread. Asked for some green tea.”
Giancarlo laughed. “Tough old bird, isn’t she? She can play a mean fiddle, though. Ever heard her play?”
“Couple of times. I think the bass is the most important part of an ensemble. Keeps everything together.”
Giancarlo nodded, thinking that his father’s men—his men now—often surprised him. They might be thuggish assassins, but some had some culture. He remembered his mother’s frantic call….
“That night after you came to see me play, you gave me this number in case I ever needed help. I think some toughies are after me because I refused to deal drugs for them. I’m off to a gig and called an Uber. I’m too scared to take the subway. I might need that help you offered.”
Thus began a hellish night and early morning where he’d saved his mother from the clutches of the gang right in front of the nightspot where she was going to play. She’d let the group down, but she felt worse about what had happened to the Uber driver. Nice guy. Fate wasn’t there for him.
He stared at the door to her room. He hardly knew his mother. She knew why she was in there; he’d told her. But he knew she was getting stir crazy. Rightly so. Like many New Yorkers, she needed to be prowling the city, which she did mostly at night because of her gigs. Unbeknownst to her, he’d gone to a few before he had enough courage to introduce himself. A mobster afraid of meeting his mother? He smiled at the thought.
He had to admit he felt little affection for her. His father had tried to teach him to hate her, but he didn’t see any reason to do that. Theirs was just another relationship that hadn’t worked out. He’d had a few himself. She seemed to have a good one with that slob Sulli, though. Sometimes strange relationships are solid ones.
He figured his father was as much to blame as she was. They’d both been too young. He remembered the court hearings, the angry words, the bad emotions. She had been better off without his father. But was I better off without my mother? Life often puts you in situations where you have few choices for your future.
“Get her some green tea,” he ordered.
***
I knew Chen hated to do it, so I gave her company. They knew her at Grasso’s mansion. Giulio, the old man, had possessed a few redeeming qualities, but the son Tony was uncouth and probably a lot more evil. We’d never nailed him for anything, and Dobson had said the Feds were unsuccessful too. After taking many losses and with competition from gangs, the mobs were hunkering down and staying under the authorities’ radars.
Some knuckle-dragging muscleman showed us into the library we knew so well. Never knew if the father had read any of those leather-bound first editions or only saw them as an investment, but I was sure the son hadn’t read any. I tried to remember where the CCTV camera was. Didn’t matter. We were there for information. Who cared if they filmed it.
“My dear Detective Chen,” Tony Grasso said, offering a hand to Chen. She ignored it. He turned to me.
“And Detective Castilblanco. It’s always a pleasure.”
He pulled a leather chair away from the front of his desk, spun it around, and plopped down to face us. We were on a two-person leather sofa facing the desk. Nice and cozy.
“What can I do for you representatives of New York’s finest today?”
“Giancarlo Bellini. We need to speak to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Giancarlo is a busy fellow. He doesn’t have too much time for social chitchat. What do you think he’s done?”
Not “What has he done?” but “What do you think he’s done?” Grasso protected his mob lieutenants as long as they served him well. The form of the question already implied innocence. Any detective could see right through that. He could be a DC spin doctor, though.
“Do you have the video ready?” I said to Chen.
She set up her phone and handed it to Grasso. “Hit the little arrow.”
“I’m familiar with technology, my dear.” He watched the video. He smiled at us when he finished. “Crime is down in the Big Apple, you know, so it pains me to see such a violent encounter. But what do you two think I’m watching here?”
“There are two possibilities,” I said. “One: Elizabeth Ellen Fogg AKA Big Fogg AKA Big is being kidnapped by gang members. Or Two: Your people are kidnapping her to protect her. I’m inclined to vote for the second interpretation because the Uber driver had also been asked to sell drugs for the gang, and he’s dead.”
Grasso nodded and thought a moment. “I suppose you realize that people in my business have no use for these street gangs who, shall we say, represent non-traditional johnnies-come-lately without a shred of human decency? They’re a danger to the status quo.”
I shrugged. “I don’t need a sociological analysis of modern crime trends, especially from you, Tony. Just answer the question: Did Giancarlo kidnap his mother?”
“His mother?” Grasso looked surprised. “Big is his mother? He likes opera just like his father did, not jazz. All this surprises me.” He examined his fingernails that were professionally manicured to perfection as far as I could tell. “If all you say is true, he’d kidnap her to protect her if a violent street gang was threatening her. That’s my take.”
I’d pass that “just like his father did” on to Frank Dobson. Papa Bellini was dead indeed.
“Agreed,” said Chen. “But the gang could find them. We’d rather have Big under our own protection. I’m sure Sulli would also prefer that.”
“Ah, yes, Reggie Sullivan. He’s useful when he has information for us, dangerous when it’s for the NYPD or the Feds. That lecherous leprechaun leads a charmed life.” Grasso thought a moment. “As I said, Giancarlo is a busy fellow, so I’m not sure what he’s up to or where he is.” He took a business card from his suit pocket and wrote on the back. “Here are two addresses. He’s made a bit of a home away from home for himself in an old warehouse in East New York, one of the properties Amazon was going to buy. I would first check his flat on the East Side and then there.”
Grasso handed Chen the card after he used the chair arms to push his considerable bulk up. I’d known him since he was a skinny teen who could still get into a Ferrari. Too many cannolis, I guessed.
“Good luck, detectives. You might need it. These gangs are violent. Of course, I wouldn’t mind if you manage to eliminate a few gang members when you go after them. Every little bit helps. All for the greater good.”
We watched him leave the library.
“The old man would have at least offered us a drink,” said Chen.
“As much as he touts the good ole times, he’s much more of an uncouth thug than his father. And much more arrogant. His organization isn’t that much different from a street gang now.”
***
Two scantily clad women lolling around in Giancarlo’s flat informed us that he was at the warehouse. I called Frank Dobson.
The FBI insisted on using their SWAT. Thought they might not trust NYPD’s. I didn’t know how many the New York office had, but figured the Feds could afford it, and it was mostly their kidnapping case. I guessed Dobson would justify the expense that way.
They had the presence of mind to park the van labeled “F.B.I. S.W.A.T.” a few blocks away from the warehouse. I also liked that they would be the first ones to enter the old building. Chen and I had our vests on, but they were the pros, after all. Probably had better vests too.
“Looks quiet,” Dobson whispered to me.
We were standing behind an SUV very similar to the one in the video. Ford instead of Chevy. Still a black, gas-guzzling behemoth. NYPD now had many hybrids, from little squad cars to bigger vehicles. FBI just had SUVs. Probably didn’t need all that space like ICE that had to haul whole immigrant families away for deportation. Thanks to Buddha, NYC was a sanctuary city.
“We need to scout out the firepower inside,” I said.
“Maybe there’s not much if we have this right. If Giancarlo’s just trying to protect his mother from that gang, he might only have a few trusted men with him.”
“They’re the mob, Frank,” said Chen. “They could get trigger happy even if their intentions are good.”
He nodded and gestured toward one SWAT member. “Henry, go take a peek and see what we’re dealing with.”
Henry went to do Dobson’s bidding, peered through several dirty warehouse windows, and then returned.
“Four perps, one younger. Maybe the Surgeon?”
I nodded. “No woman?”
“None in sight. Just the four men.”
“Then we have overkill,” said Dobson. “We can split up, covering front and rear.”
“Shoot only when threatened,” said Chen. “Not telling where Big is.”
But no shots were fired. When the three of us entered the warehouse from the front, the SWAT fellows had the four men covered. Their guns sat on the table.
“Always nice to see the Feds and NYPD collaborating,” said the youngest man. “Tony told us to expect you.” Without telling us he was going to call, I thought. Maybe he wanted Giancarlo and his friends to eliminate some cops too? “ I’m Giancarlo, by the way. My mother is in her room.” He jerked a thumb toward a door in the corner behind him. “You need to protect her. I demand that.”
Guy had balls, making demands. Didn’t seem as arrogant and narcissistic as Tony Grasso, though.
“You’re under arrest for killing the Uber driver,” said Dobson. He read them the latest version of Miranda rights as approved by the new conservatives-dominated Supreme Court.
“The drive was forced to collaborate with that gang. They’d threatened his family. We’ll try to take care of them. Nice guy. He drove for us a few times.”
“So why kill him?” Chen said.
“He fought us. Maybe just an asshole. Maybe not recognizing us. Maybe fighting for his family. Who knows? We have a right to protect ourselves.”
***
I was thinking the whole case was anti-climatic when a shot sent window glass flying and one of Giancarlo’s men to the floor with a head wound. Everyone dove to the ground. I ended up beside Giancarlo.
“Grab your guns!” Dobson yelled to him and his men. “You can help. That gang has a sniper. And there’s probably a lot more firepower too.”
One has this mental picture of modern gang members killing their victims and opponents with knives and machetes, but that picture isn’t entirely incorrect. Too many guns come into the city from elsewhere. Hell, jerks go down south to gun shows and bring back trunk loads full that they sell in the city. Someday they might have strong federal gun laws that will make all reasonable law enforcement officers happy—there are many who aren’t reasonable, of course, and love that everyone can have guns—but I didn’t expect to see new legislation happening anytime soon. There was an evil and powerful lobby called the NRA standing in the way financed by every gun nut in the country.
In any case, glass continued to fly. Bullets even came through the warehouse walls. I felt trapped.
“Is there a backdoor?” I said to Giancarlo.
“Yes, but they might know about it. Far corner. It would be like shooting wooden ducks at the county fair. Half our guys are already there.”
“They might be the wooden ducks,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”
I wondered if he’d ever been to a county fair. Nudged the SWAT leader. “Battlefield crawl, fellows. Half you guys follow me. We need to get outside. They could set fire to this place. Now!”
As if to spur us on, a flaming Molotov cocktail sailed through a front window. Two SWAT members crawled over to put it out.
“Chen and Bellini, go protect Big,” said Dobson. “We’re going to join the back fellows and try to flank them.”
Adrenalin was flowing through my old body. Didn’t know if I could match performances from some of the firefights I had as a SEAL, but what we were about to do seemed to be the only tactical solution.
We left the building through the backdoor. A few of the outside SWAT fellows were writhing or still on the pavement, some gang members were dead, and the other fellows were at one back corner of the building.
Dobson used hand signals to transmit the plan. We ran in a crouch to the other corner and then between buildings to the front corner of the warehouse.
Thirteen gang members got caught in our crossfire. Unlucky number? Seven died; six who were wounded managed to surrender.
Grasso would be happy.
***
Big sat on the tail end of an EMT vehicle with a blanket around her shoulders. Giancarlo sat next to her, one arm draped around her shoulders.
Touching, I thought. “Never knew you had a son, Big. Not that he didn’t come through for you, but you could have called me, you know.”
She glanced at Giancarlo, looked at me, and then shrugged. “Knew you’d go by the book. GC doesn’t worry so much about legalities.”
Giancarlo winked at me. “Don’t let our little cooperative effort go to your head, detective. We’re still on different sides.”
“And you’re still under arrest.”
“We’ll argue self-defense. I didn’t do it, by the way. One of my men has a quick trigger finger. In this case, it saved his life.”
“And who would that be?”
“You’ll never know. And I’m not saying anything more until we have our lawyers present.” He gave his mother a peck on the cheek. “Take care, Big. I’ll see you at the next Big gig.” He stood, smiled and winked, and walked away.
“He got off on the wrong track,” Big said, “and I couldn’t do anything about it, Rollie.”
“I know. Life is a bitch sometimes. Did you call Sulli?”
“He’s on his way here. He can take me home.”
I looked to where Dobson and the others were putting handcuffs on Giancarlo and the other three hoods.
“Maybe you can work on him. Tonight might be a start.”
She nodded.
***
Comments are always welcome.
Books in a series are like mega-chapters in characters’ developments. Why not market, read, and review them as a group? I’ve written various reviews of series in these pages. They’re also often evergreen, containing books that are still fresh and current as the day the authors wrote them…maybe even more so.
The seven-book “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco Series” is one of these evergreen series. The bass player Big and Sulli the snitch are secondary characters in these books. From The Midas Bomb to Gaia and the Goliaths, the detectives take on NYPD homicide cases that often blow up into national and international conspiracies, books filled with important themes and interesting plots and characters.
The series has as spin-offs too: the novel The Golden Years of Virginia Morgan, the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective Series” with Rembrandt’s Angel and Son of Thunder, and many short stories and novellas that can be found in my blog category “Steve’s Shorts” and in the list of free PDF downloads on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page.
For more descriptions of the Chen and Castilblanco novels, visit the “Books & Short Stories” web page at this website. You’ll find these books on Amazon and Smashwords and all the latter’s affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.) and lending and library services (Scribd, Overdrive, Baker & Taylor, Gardners, etc.).
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
