Authors: Patrick Abbruzzi
“Be careful at work,” she said quietly then turned and made her way upstairs.
Charlie felt good and couldn’t wait until he saw Lt. A. to tell him tha
t
he had followed his advice and everything seemed better with his marriage.
Now if only Terry felt the same way.
Charlie drove to work through heavy traffic, which wasn’t a goo
d
sign. Congestion on the roadways at this hour usually indicated that th
e
night would be a busy one.
Upon entering the station house he saw several prisoners waiting in front of the desk, each in the process of being booked. Standing directly behind the
m
were the elite members of the Street Crime Unit, not in any uniform but wearing civilian clothes, which was expected. Most sported heavy beards and pony tails, making them appear to be perpetrators themselves.
It most assuredly looked as if it was going to be a busy night, which made Charlie happy. The busier it was, the less he would have to drive. He knew Lt. A. liked to work, but the boss also enjoyed telling his war stories, which they wouldn’t have time for if it was busy.
Charlie made his way up to his locker and put on a fres
h
shirt. He liked to get three days out of a shirt but the one he was wearing was very muc
h
wrinkled from his nap the night before, so he decide to put on
a
new one. He was dying for coffee and hoped the lieutenant would turn out early. It didn’t take long for him to realize he was lucky; Lt. A. wanted to go out right away.
“Did you pass the fire on your way to work?
”
the lieutenant asked him.
“Was that the cause of all the traffic, Lou?”
“Yeah, the old Italian deli, Montalbano’s, was going up in flames.”
Montalbano’s
had been part of the Rosebankneighborhood for as long as he could remember. It was a small place, but walking into that stor
e
was an instant feast for your nose. There were hanging cheeses of Parmesan, side
s
of Prosciutohams curing, as well as plenty of dried figs and apricots
.
There were rows upon rows of sun dried tomatoes as well as garlic strun
g
up on twine, each one giving off a wonderful yet delicate aroma. The hero sandwiches, made by Mama Montalbano, were so large that even after you cut it in half you would still think it was too much to eat.
Montalbano’swas good to all the cops in the precinct because the owner’s son was a detective on Staten Island. It also had the respect o
f
all the cops in the precinct and was never taken advantage of. There was a well-known yet unwritten law that only the men assigned to the sector holding this place of business coul
d
partake of their generosity, even though the owner would have fed al
l
the cops in the precinct if given the opportunity. Other men who wanted to partake of thei
r
delicacies paid full price, just like everyone else.
“I sure hope they rebuild,” the lieutenant said morosely. “My partner and I frequented the place many times years ago when we had the adjoining sector. That deli was in sector C, which belonged to Frankie Catalano and Willi
e
Folder. I did tell you that once, didn’t I?”
“Right, Lou. They backed you and Frank up on Christmas Eve, I think you said?” remembered Charlie correctly.
“Yes. Just thinking about those two guys makes me remember an inciden
t
that happened years ago and frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t tell you this one sooner.
“Frank and I were working a 4X12 tour when he told me Frankie and Willie were going to make an unannounced visit to the Undergroun
d
Tavern at 10:00 P.M. sharp. I knew what had happened there a few weeks back and agreed tha
t
street justice was the only form of justice street punks understood.
“My partner Frank had more time on the job than I did, but not more than Frankie or Willie. God knew that the Underground Tavern probably deserve
d
whatever it was Frankie had in mind and then some. I told Frank I wanted to be a part of whatever was going to go down, and I didn’
t
want to fink out,” Lt. A. explained to Charlie then drifted into his story.
The Underground Tavern in Staten Island was a bar and gin mill. Although most cops called it a “Bucket o
f
B
lood” because so many fights occurred there, the place was different from many other bars that simply hosted ba
r
fights and near riots. The Underground was a skeljoint supreme, rowdy and raucous. There was always a fight going o
n
and someone was always getting assaulted with a broken bottle or worse. It was a hangout for bikers, young toughs, local winos and just about any loser you could think of. It became even more rowdy when the Hells Angels
,
the infamous motorcycle club, set up their clubhouse on Jersey Street no
t
far from the precinct itself. It was not your friendly neighborhoo
d
social club.
Of course there were plenty of bars that catered to local residents. These were fo
r
people who just wanted to stop in for a quick brew, watch a sporting event or just catch up on local gossip. Most of them had no loud rock or rap as choices in music. Instead, the jukeboxes were stacked with oldies, Sinatra and Streisand. Joints like this were also frequented by local cops and were considered safe havens. Veteran cops didn’t want any trouble. They just wante
d
a quick and quiet beer after a 4X12 or a quick game of liar’s poker.
There were also bars one could go to if one just wanted a strange piece of ass. Those were the bars frequented by teeny boppers, groupies an
d
cop buffs.
The Underground was neither. Any music being played there consisted of heavy metal and rap. Th
e
bar itself was made of wood and many a knife-wielding patron had carved hi
s
or his mother’s name into it. There were no tables and only a few booth
s
where, it was rumored, biker girls completed their initiation int
o
the club by giving blow jobs to all the other members. The bartenders
,
for the most part, were ex-convicts. It was obvious that someone in Borough Hall got paid off for allowing all this to happen.
The lighting i
n
the place left a lot to be desired. It could best be described as early Tom Edison. There were just bare bulbs and flickering neon lights, which caused blindness after s
o
many weeks of illumination, and the interior decor was no better. It could be classified a
s
early dump. The floor was strewn with broken bottles, cigarette butts and roaches – and not the living kind. Not surprisingly, those who frequented this special place hated and detested cops.
Frankie and Willie had been called to The Underground on one of their 4X12 tours to handle a dispute. Imagine that, a disagreement in Th
e
Underground. When it was revealed by Central over the radio that the call was for a fight, everyone who heard the broadcast laughed a little bit inside. Any nearby sector would head in that general direction, just in case a call for assistance was requested. Usually the car assigned would find out first and if no help were needed
,
a “no further” would go out over the airwaves.
When Frankie and Willie got there, they walked in and found a guy lying o
n
the floor. At first glance it looked as if he just had too much to drink and fallen off o
f
his stool. He appeared to be out like a light, so Frankie knelt down to get a closer look. The guy’s breathing was labored and Frankie soon saw tha
t
he was bleeding from the top of his skull.
While Frankie checked out th
e
victim, Willie had his eyes glued on everyone in the place. When Frankie nodded to Willie, he knew a crime had been committed and they had a crime scene to preserve. Willie quickly made a head count of everyone in the joint. There was one bartender, six at the bar, two booths with two eac
h
and bathrooms yet to be checked.
“You all had better sit tight. No one is going anywhere until we find ou
t
what happened,” Willie said with authority. Without another word, he made his way over to the door and locked it.
Frankie walked behind the bar and used the phone he found there to call Central. He told the dispatcher what he had and requested the Patrol Sergeant, an ambulance and the night watch detectives to respond.
As first responders, Frankie and Willie had the responsibility of conducting the initial investigation. They began by asking the most basi
c
questions, but everyone clammed right up. No one had seen or heard anything, which was to be expected. There was no love lost in that skel-hole betwee
n
its patrons and cops.
Frankie began going through the victim’s pocket
s
in hopes of finding some identification. Assaulting someone was one thing bu
t
removing his property was robbery and that would make it a heavy. Before he was finished, Franki
e
was amazed at what he found.
The guy on the floor was a cop. He was either off duty or a plain clothes man on duty, but this fact had yet to be established. From the I.D. card an
d
other papers on him, Frankie ascertained that the young cop was a membe
r
of the P.C.C.I.U., which is the Police Commissioners Confidential Investigatin
g
Unit. Those were the guys who had the nickname of Prince of the City. They were untouchable but weren’t super clean like Eliot Ness’ men. Instead, these guys were on the take, plain and simple. They had citywide jurisdiction and were befriended by judges and politicians alike in al
l
boroughs. They wore diamond pinky rings and smoked expensive cigars, answering only to the Police Commissioner’s office.
Frankie quickly patted down the unconscious cop and quickly realized that hi
s
ankle holster was empty.
“All right, mother fucker,” he roared looking squarely at the ba
r
tender. “What the fuck happened and where’s the fucking gun?”
“I don’t know, shit pig, and if I did I wouldn’t tell you a fucking thing anyway,” the man behind the bar spat back.
It was quite obvious that almost everyone in the place had either seen what had happened or, by now, knew something about it. Frankie knew someone in the bar had called 911 and hoped that whomever did was still there. He also realized that person who had made the call wasn’t going to voluntaril
y
come forward, at least not in front of the other patrons. As he stared at the faces around the room, Frankie began to wonder if the young, unconscious cop had stopped in this skel joint on business or pleasure, or both.
When it was clear no one was going to talk, he told Willie he was going out to the RMP to get some chal
k
and tape to help secure the crime scene. Frankie unlocked the door and opened the door as a biker quickly followed him outside. After they were both outside, Willie quickly relocked the door behind his partner.
When he heard the door lock, Frankie quickly grabbed the biker following him and threw him against th
e
side of the building. He hit the bearded patron several times with the back of hi
s
hand, causing blood to flow from the scroungy, biker’s lips. Frankie quickl
y
placed handcuffs on the man and threw him into the rear seat of the RMP then opened the front door and sat down behind the wheel.
“I thought that was you, Tony. Grow a beard? Sorry I roughed you up but
I
didn’t want to blow your cover,” Frankie said to the bleeding biker.
Tony
Calandrittohad been a plainclothes cop assigned to gambling an
d
narcotics and had been drafted to go undercover. He was an avid motorcycl
e
enthusiast so they tapped him to infiltrate the Hells Angels. Frankie had broken the kid in when he was a rookie in the 60
th
precinct which covered Coney Island in Brooklyn. If h
e
survived the assignment, he would be promoted to detective 3
rd
grade.
“Tell me what the fuck happened in there, Tony,” Frankie said.
“The fucking kid came in acting like gang busters, Frankie. He started t
o
toss everybody in there and before I knew it, he was coming up with all kinds of shit. I mea
n
everything. Acid, PCP, hash, pot, guns, I mean the works. Then he dropped some of it on the floor at the end of the bar.”