Authors: Scott Flander
As the car got closer, the camera showed it coming past a dilapidated red-brick building.
“That’s the old sugar refinery,” I said.
“Good eye,” said Lanier.
The Plymouth stopped on the edge of the lot. A man in a leather jacket was walking toward it, though you could see only his back. When he reached the car, the window came down, and the camera zoomed in on the driver’s face.
“The Commissioner,” said Doc.
“Don’t forget,” said Lanier, “four years ago, Ben Ryder was still a chief inspector.”
The man in the leather jacket pulled what looked like an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Ryder. Then the car window went back up, and the Plymouth pulled away. The man in the leather jacket turned and walked back toward the camera. It was Frankie Canaletto.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I said.
“Keep watching,” said Lanier.
The screen went blank, but then another image appeared. Same location, same camera angle. This time a black Ford Crown Victoria was coming through the lot. The date was three years ago.
Again, the back of a man in a leather jacket walking toward the car. Again, the window came down to reveal Ben Ryder’s face. Another envelope. The man turned. Again, it was Canaletto. The screen went blank.
“That’s when he was a deputy commissioner,” said Lanier. “We’ve got one more.”
Now a black Blazer was coming through the lot. The date at the bottom was just three months ago. The camera angle was different, and this time you could clearly see that it was Canaletto, wearing a blue polo shirt and white slacks, walking through the lot. The Blazer stopped, the window powered down. Police Commissioner Ben Ryder took the envelope.
When the screen went blank again, Lanier pressed the “eject” button on the VCR and grabbed the tape when it came out.
“It’s hard to believe this has been goin’ on for four years,” said Doc.
“At least four years,” said Lanier. “Maybe longer.”
“Who made the tape?” I asked. “Internal Affairs?”
Lanier looked at me. “This didn’t come from us,” he said. “This is Mickey Bravelli’s tape.”
Lanier told us he found it during a raid of a warehouse in Southwest Philadelphia about a month before. The place was full of stolen merchandise that Bravelli’s crew had taken from trucks, from the docks. Electronic equipment, cases of liquor, brand-new washing machines.
Lanier said he had come across two VCRs hooked together, set up to copy videotapes from one to the other.
“This was the tape they used to make the copy, but it was still in the machine,” said Lanier. “They took the copy, left the original. Not too bright.”
The two VCRs had been left on, and Lanier guessed that the taping had been done very recently—possibly the same day.
“Bravelli’s trying to blackmail the Commissioner,” I said.
“It looks that way,” said Lanier. “And it’s not a bad plan. Pay off a police commander, but tape it so you can blackmail him later.”
“But this implicates Canaletto as well,” said Doc.
“Doing what?” I asked. “Giving an envelope to a cop? What are you going to charge him with?”
“He’s right,” said Lanier. “It doesn’t hurt Canaletto a bit. But it certainly makes Ben Ryder look bad—at the very least, this tape would destroy his career.”
“I wonder what Bravelli’s getting for his money,” said Doc.
“Think about it,” said Lanier. “Haven’t you noticed that whenever we send a case to the DA’s office, nothing much seems to happen?”
Doc and I nodded.
“And,” said Lanier, “it also might explain why whenever we get close to Bravelli, we always end up having to back off. It’s not like it comes down as an order. But something always happens. We have to put our resources somewhere else, or—”
“Or someone gets transferred,” I said.
“Yeah, and that’s what got me the most suspicious, Eddie, when that happened to you—right when you were ready to pop Bravelli. I got a call from the Commissioner himself on that one. He wanted you out of the unit, transferred to patrol. But he never said why.”
“So there weren’t any anonymous calls about me?”
“Who do you think told me to tell you that? And what was I supposed to do? I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t have any proof.”
“Until you found the tape,” I said.
“Until I found the tape.”
I thought about it. “But if the Commissioner’s been taking payoffs, then why would Bravelli need to blackmail him?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” said Lanier. “I’ve been going to Sagiliano’s, trying to make contact with Bravelli, trying to make him think I’m dirty. That’s what you saw me doing last night.”
“So let me get this straight,” I said. “Doc, you’re doing an unofficial investigation of the captain. And, Captain, you’re doing an unofficial investigation of the Commissioner.”
They both laughed, a little shamefaced.
“You saw how successful I was,” said Lanier.
“Maybe you just have an honest face,” I said. “An ugly face, but an honest face.”
“C’mon now, Eddie,” said Lanier, but he was smiling. It was the first friendly thing I’d said to him in months.
“Something else has me worried,” he said. “You saw me talking to Michelle Ryder, right? Ever since her brother got killed, she’s been hanging around with Bravelli, I think in some kind of disguise. I don’t know whether she’s working undercover or whether she’s following in her father’s footsteps.”
In five minutes, Lanier had gone from being an enemy to a possible ally. But until I was positive I could trust him, I couldn’t reveal anything about Michelle.
“Speaking of her father,” I said, “just a few minutes ago, he tried to kill me.”
I recounted what had happened in Fairmount Park, and they both went pale. When I finished my story, it occurred to me that the Commissioner may not have heard from Michelle after all. Not if he was just saying that to lure me to the park.
I stood up quickly, almost knocking over my chair. “I got to get to Westmount.”
A
few minutes later, I was heading through West Philadelphia. It was pretty clear that anger over what had happened on 52nd Street was spreading quickly. Everywhere, police cars were screaming around corners, up streets, into alleys.
Once I got to Westmount, I quickly made the rounds. The beauty shop was closed, and Michelle’s apartment was dark. I went up the stairs and knocked on her front door anyway, yelling out that it was me.
Next stop was Lucky’s. I planned to cruise by quickly, then head for Sagiliano’s. But there at the curb, not far from Lucky’s red canopy, was Bravelli’s Seville. No one was in the car.
Stay calm, I told myself. I pulled my Blazer up behind the Seville, left the engine running, and slowly got out. Stay calm. I glided under Lucky’s canopy and pushed open the restaurant’s glass door. I peeked around the fountain, and through the semidarkness I could see Bravelli’s table. There he was, sitting with Canaletto and Goop, talking into a cell phone. I ducked back out the door.
This is it, I thought. I can end it right here. Just go back into the restaurant, walk right up to Bravelli, shoot him in the head, then shoot Canaletto and Goop. Then another bullet in Bravelli’s head. Do it quickly. They won’t have time to react.
Am I really ready for this? Yes, I told myself. Yes. If Michelle’s still alive, then this is the best way to keep her safe. If not, then it’s simple revenge.
But I didn’t want to get caught. And if I walked inside, I’d be recognized. People who worked at the restaurant knew me. I couldn’t stand outside the front door and wait, either. Someone might spot me and tip off Bravelli.
I looked around. At the end of the building, there was a passageway that ran along the side of the restaurant. It probably went all the way back to the alley. I could drive around behind Lucky’s, park in the alley, come up the passageway, and wait for Bravelli to walk out of the restaurant. Much better.
I got back in the Blazer and swung around the comer, then headed into the alley until I reached the darkened walkway. It was narrower than I expected, and was full of garbage cans. I turned off the engine and killed the headlights, and pulled Junior Vicente’s gun from underneath the newspaper on the front seat. The gun had a nice feel to it, I was going to enjoy seeing how well it worked.
As I got out of the truck and put the gun in my waistband, under my shirt, I felt a tremendous sense of purpose. This was what I was meant to be doing right now. For at least the moment, I had found my place in the world.
I walked through the passageway to the street, and glanced up and down the sidewalk. Two teenage girls were heading toward me, chattering away with loud voices. I ducked back a few feet into the darkness and turned, waiting until they had passed.
I took another look around the comer. It was a break for me that the Seville wasn’t right in front of the canopy, but on the other side. That meant that when Bravelli and the others left the restaurant, they’d have their backs to me as they headed for their car. I could sprint down the sidewalk, come up from behind.
A familiar red Camaro was coming down Walnut, toward Lucky’s, and as it passed by me, I caught a look at the driver. It was Nick. He slowed as he passed in front of the restaurant, then sped away. I didn’t even consider going after him, confronting him about 52nd Street. That was the least of my concerns right now.
I glanced at my watch. Nine-thirty. I had been waiting in the passageway for a grand total of nine minutes. Time was going by too slowly. I wouldn’t be able to wait here another hour, if that’s what it took.
I realized with alarm that I was beginning to get nervous. Not at the prospect of shooting Bravelli and the others, but of getting caught. Don’t think about that, I told myself. If you do, you might as well turn around and walk away.
My eye caught someone walking on the other side of the street, across from me, heading in the direction of Lucky’s. Nick, wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. What the hell was he doing here?
He started to cross the street at an angle, aiming for Lucky’s front door. And then I realized: he had seen the Seville, just as I had. That’s what he was doing all day, driving around. He was looking for Bravelli. Just like me.
“Nick!” I called in a low voice. He stopped short, in the middle of the quiet street. I called his name again, and took a half step out of the passageway so he could see me. “Over here,” I called out.
He spotted me and glanced around, like he wondered who I was hiding from. I waved him over, and he jogged up to me.
“Hey, Eddie, what are you doin’ here?”
I pulled him into the murky darkness of the passageway.
“What are
you
doin’ here?”
“I got some business to take care of,” Nick said. His eyes, even in the dim light, looked feverish.
“What kind of business?”
Nick briefly lifted his T-shirt to reveal his Glock, tucked in the side of his jeans. “Bravelli’s in the restaurant,” he said. “And I’m gonna get him.”
No, you’re not, I started to say. But how could I say that? He was only going to do what I planned to do, no more, no less.
But was it really the same thing? Somehow, it seemed crazier for Nick to want to shoot Bravelli. I had a purpose. I was acting rationally. Nick hadn’t been acting rationally for weeks. I looked at him, looked at his burning eyes, and I thought, I’m not like that.
But I knew it didn’t make any difference. I was in Nick’s world now. I knew how it felt, I knew what it was like. Standing there in the passageway, both prepared to murder, we were like blood brothers.
“Go home,” I told Nick. “I’m going to take care of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said. I’m taking care of it.”
He looked at me, starting to understand, unable to accept it.
“You’re not here to get him, too, are you?” he asked. He seemed almost frightened by the idea, like I had been captured by the same beast that had him.
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” I said.
“No,” Nick said, shaking his head. This couldn’t be his cousin Eddie. “You’re not really going to do it.”
“I am, Nick.” Though I felt a tug, unseen, trying to pull me out, like someone grabbing the back of my belt. You don’t want to be in Nick’s world, it said. But I pulled away, so forcefully that I actually took a step forward, almost stumbling into him.
I did want to be here. I did want to kill Bravelli. Just like Nick.
“Go home,” I told him. “I got this under control.”
He looked at me with real worry. “I ain’t leavin’ you, Eddie.”
“Nick, there’s no sense in both of us getting locked up.
“I ain’t leavin'.”
“All right,” I said. “All right. Then let’s both do it.”
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Come on, Nick. We can do it.”
A black Honda Accord roared past us and up to Lucky’s canopy. Two young guys jumped out and went into the restaurant. I didn’t recognize them, but with their tight black shirts, their slicked-back hair, their intensity, they had to be coming to see Bravelli. I was surprised how young they both looked—was Bravelli recruiting in high school now?
What if they all came out together? There’d be five of them, that was a lot to drop. Well, I’d start with Bravelli and see how far I could get. If Nick helped, so much the better.
A minute later, the restaurant doors flew open, and the two guys came back out toward the Honda. One of them pulled open the driver’s door, the other ran around to the passenger side.
“What if she’s already left?” the passenger half yelled at the driver. “I told you one of us should have fuckin’ stayed on Locust to watch the place.”
“Just get in the fuckin’ car, all right?” the driver yelled back. “We got work to do.”
They both jumped in, slamming their doors, and the Honda screeched off.
I was filled with a sudden dread. Locust Street was where Michelle lived. They were going to her apartment.
I
t was only seven blocks to Michelle’s, but it seemed like a hundred. Nick was with me in my truck. He didn’t hesitate when I started running down the passageway and yelled at him to come with me.