smoke out the guys who had kidnapped Angela.
“It goes back,” Doug said. “I left the NYPD because of a problem I couldn’t handle. I was partnered with a guy called Gianelli. We worked uptown where most teams are black but we were a salt and pepper team and I got on well with Gino. Then we got a break on the hookers on the street. Instead of the case choking off at the pimp, we got a pimp to roll over and give us a lead to the top.”
“And then?” The guard was looking at his wristwatch. We were down to the wire.
“And then Gino’s house burned down. His wife and son were killed, he and the baby survived but barely. He was burned so bad he’s never going to work again. And the baby was disfigured. That’s when I came looking for a job here.”
The guard came to the table. “Time’s up, sir,” he told me.
“Thank you, officer.” I stood up. “Okay, Doug. I understand.”
He nodded at me, grimly. “Whatever you do, be careful, Reid.”
I winked at him and he grinned. “Semper fi,” he said and held up a clenched fist.
I hit the street and found a pay phone to call Irv Goodman. “Hi. What happened last night?” he wanted to know.
I filled him in on the kidnapping and he grunted. Then I skipped him through Doug’s account of the money-laundering and he told me that it sounded right. “But your buddy’s a long way from making a case. It’s out of his league, unless he’s an accountant. And even then it’s hard to prove anything except that the principal is a poor businessman.”
“That’s not the point, as I see it. Doug wants to get Manatelli in Dutch with his boss. They don’t bother with trials. Manatelli’s dead if word gets out that he’s skimming.”
Irv didn’t speak for a long while and I wondered if the line had gone dead on me. Then he said, “So I guess you need to know Manatelli’s pedigree.”
“Yeah. Then I can stir things up on Doug’s behalf, get this sorted out nicely.”
“It’s dangerous,” Irv said quietly. “They’ll blow your head off sooner than let an outsider cause trouble.”
“If it wasn’t for Doug that would have happened in Nam. I owe the guy.”
“Okay then. Good luck. Got a pencil?”
When I was set up he read out what he had and I made notes. It seemed that Manatelli was the brother-in-law of Antonio “Mucho” Mucci, who ran the biggest family in New Jersey. But that was all he had, no address at which I could contact Mucci, nothing else. He told me he’d get in touch with the RCMP, our federal police department, and see if they had anything more.
I thanked him and hung up, then went for a coffee and thought about it all. It seemed there was nothing I could do to stir things up at the top, over Manatelli’s head. So I would have to do it from where I was. I finished my coffee and set out to start.
The parking lot at Cat’s Cradle was choked with cars on this bright Saturday morning but I found a spot and left Sam inside with the window down and headed for the office. The same attractive girl was at the desk and she must have recognized me. She smiled and said, “If you’re looking for Ella, she’s not in. She called in sick this morning.”
There’s a lot of sickness on Saturday mornings among heavy drinkers but I just said, “Oh, not to worry. Is Walter Huckmeyer in his office then, please?”
“Could be. He told me he was heading out on the slopes later but I don’t think he’s gone. Hold on.”
I waited while she clicked back down the hallway and opened an office door. Then she turned and waved to me and I came through and followed her. “Thanks,” I said and went into Huckmeyer’s office.
He was around thirty, tanned and lean, a good-looking six-footer with a slim, wiry build like a movie star. He was wearing ski pants, smooth and form-fitting, and a yellow sweater of soft wool. He beamed at me from his side of a desk filled with papers. “Morning. Walt Huckmeyer. What can I do for you?”
“How’s the
“It goes back,” Doug said. “I left the NYPD because of a problem I couldn’t handle. I was partnered with a guy called Gianelli. We worked uptown where most teams are black but we were a salt and pepper team and I got on well with Gino. Then we got a break on the hookers on the street. Instead of the case choking off at the pimp, we got a pimp to roll over and give us a lead to the top.”
“And then?” The guard was looking at his wristwatch. We were down to the wire.
“And then Gino’s house burned down. His wife and son were killed, he and the baby survived but barely. He was burned so bad he’s never going to work again. And the baby was disfigured. That’s when I came looking for a job here.”
The guard came to the table. “Time’s up, sir,” he told me.
“Thank you, officer.” I stood up. “Okay, Doug. I understand.”
He nodded at me, grimly. “Whatever you do, be careful, Reid.”
I winked at him and he grinned. “Semper fi,” he said and held up a clenched fist.
I hit the street and found a pay phone to call Irv Goodman. “Hi. What happened last night?” he wanted to know.
I filled him in on the kidnapping and he grunted. Then I skipped him through Doug’s account of the money-laundering and he told me that it sounded right. “But your buddy’s a long way from making a case. It’s out of his league, unless he’s an accountant. And even then it’s hard to prove anything except that the principal is a poor businessman.”
“That’s not the point, as I see it. Doug wants to get Manatelli in Dutch with his boss. They don’t bother with trials. Manatelli’s dead if word gets out that he’s skimming.”
Irv didn’t speak for a long while and I wondered if the line had gone dead on me. Then he said, “So I guess you need to know Manatelli’s pedigree.”
“Yeah. Then I can stir things up on Doug’s behalf, get this sorted out nicely.”
“It’s dangerous,” Irv said quietly. “They’ll blow your head off sooner than let an outsider cause trouble.”
“If it wasn’t for Doug that would have happened in Nam. I owe the guy.”
“Okay then. Good luck. Got a pencil?”
When I was set up he read out what he had and I made notes. It seemed that Manatelli was the brother-in-law of Antonio “Mucho” Mucci, who ran the biggest family in New Jersey. But that was all he had, no address at which I could contact Mucci, nothing else. He told me he’d get in touch with the RCMP, our federal police department, and see if they had anything more.
I thanked him and hung up, then went for a coffee and thought about it all. It seemed there was nothing I could do to stir things up at the top, over Manatelli’s head. So I would have to do it from where I was. I finished my coffee and set out to start.
The parking lot at Cat’s Cradle was choked with cars on this bright Saturday morning but I found a spot and left Sam inside with the window down and headed for the office. The same attractive girl was at the desk and she must have recognized me. She smiled and said, “If you’re looking for Ella, she’s not in. She called in sick this morning.”
There’s a lot of sickness on Saturday mornings among heavy drinkers but I just said, “Oh, not to worry. Is Walter Huckmeyer in his office then, please?”
“Could be. He told me he was heading out on the slopes later but I don’t think he’s gone. Hold on.”
I waited while she clicked back down the hallway and opened an office door. Then she turned and waved to me and I came through and followed her. “Thanks,” I said and went into Huckmeyer’s office.
He was around thirty, tanned and lean, a good-looking six-footer with a slim, wiry build like a movie star. He was wearing ski pants, smooth and form-fitting, and a yellow sweater of soft wool. He beamed at me from his side of a desk filled with papers. “Morning. Walt Huckmeyer. What can I do for you?”
“How’s the
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