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Authors: Frank Lentricchia
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probably the solution to the mystery. At seventeen, he shows up in Philadelphia. According to FBI sources, he becomes a low level gofer for Joseph (The Maximum Ayatollah) Stonato. At eighteen, he shows up in Providence, Rhode Island where he somehow attaches himself to the Patriarca family and becomes a serious person, suspected of being the trigger in two Mob-related executions. At twenty, he moves to Utica, that was fifteen years ago, where I’m sure you know he’s been working for the
Observer-Dispatch
ever since. Keeping his nose clean as far aswe know. Those are the facts. I can’t prove it, but an animal like that doesn’t keep his nose clean. Why does he move to Utica? Why would anybody? Something’s going on and I don’t mean child or spousal abuse.”
“I’m grateful, Robert.”
“Call me Bobby, what the fuck.”
“Let me know what you think of the
Ballo
.”
“Definitely. Anything I can do down the road with regard to this piece of work, let me know. I have a personal method for dealing, which doesn’t involve the death penalty, which he obviously deserves it, but I don’t go that far. Because as an upholder of the so-called law I have actual compunctions. The jury is out on you, Eliot.”
“I’m grateful, Bobby.”
Conte stands. Gives him his card and tells him his new cell won’t be active for a day or so. They shake hands.
Rintrona says, “You didn’t touch your croissant.”
At the register, Conte winks at Loretta as he puts fifteen dollars on the counter and goes to the door. She calls out, “Handsome, that’s way too much for the two of you.”
He responds, “So?”
Of course, he had feared that she’d turn him down, but the phone call to Catherine Cruz the day before had gone easily his way. He told her the white lie that he would be in Albany on business and “wondered” (trying hard for casualness) if she’d have time for coffee or lunch. She replied that she’d be working in the squad room all day, but would be happy tojoin him for lunch on the early side, “if that’s convenient for you.” When he said that he had no idea about Troy eateries, she laughed gently and replied, “We don’t really have eateries in Troy, in the sense I think you mean, Detective – we’d have to go down to Albany for something fancy – but there’s a barbecue place I like, if that’s okay with you” – anything is okay with Conte – and gives him the address. He was certain that Catherine Cruz had seen through his story. Her tone was cool, but also somehow inviting. The combination excited him. Saying her whole name in his mind,
Catherine Cruz
, excited him.
He arrives at the Q Shack fifteen minutes early, the rain at its heaviest, visibility virtually zero. Under an umbrella that is too small, comically out of proportion to his impressive frame, he walks swiftly from the parking lot, head down, and when he reaches the awning, finds her already there.
“Detective Cruz.”
“Detective Conte.”
They shake hands. His shyness makes it difficult to keep his gaze focused on her … that face. Her gaze, on the other hand, is unflinching, laser-like, unnerving. No criminal would have a chance. He won’t, either.
The Q Shack is a small cinder block building with a shamrock painted on the door, crammed with picnic tables and featuring a long, steaming cafeteria-style counter. Thirty to thirty-five men – hearty, burly, dressed for hard labor – fill all available tables. As they await their turn in line in awkward silence, it crosses Conte’s mind, only half facetiously, that Troy, New York, must be the leading edge of America’s Gay Liberation movement and the Q Shack its latest All-Americanexpression, a lunch place catering to working class homosexuals. The Queer Shack.
He breaks the silence, “A lot of men here, Detective. Aside from you, no women.” She tells him that it’s a favorite of Troy’s plumbers, electricians, carpenters, house painters, and cops. He asks
Observer-Dispatch
ever since. Keeping his nose clean as far aswe know. Those are the facts. I can’t prove it, but an animal like that doesn’t keep his nose clean. Why does he move to Utica? Why would anybody? Something’s going on and I don’t mean child or spousal abuse.”
“I’m grateful, Robert.”
“Call me Bobby, what the fuck.”
“Let me know what you think of the
Ballo
.”
“Definitely. Anything I can do down the road with regard to this piece of work, let me know. I have a personal method for dealing, which doesn’t involve the death penalty, which he obviously deserves it, but I don’t go that far. Because as an upholder of the so-called law I have actual compunctions. The jury is out on you, Eliot.”
“I’m grateful, Bobby.”
Conte stands. Gives him his card and tells him his new cell won’t be active for a day or so. They shake hands.
Rintrona says, “You didn’t touch your croissant.”
At the register, Conte winks at Loretta as he puts fifteen dollars on the counter and goes to the door. She calls out, “Handsome, that’s way too much for the two of you.”
He responds, “So?”
Of course, he had feared that she’d turn him down, but the phone call to Catherine Cruz the day before had gone easily his way. He told her the white lie that he would be in Albany on business and “wondered” (trying hard for casualness) if she’d have time for coffee or lunch. She replied that she’d be working in the squad room all day, but would be happy tojoin him for lunch on the early side, “if that’s convenient for you.” When he said that he had no idea about Troy eateries, she laughed gently and replied, “We don’t really have eateries in Troy, in the sense I think you mean, Detective – we’d have to go down to Albany for something fancy – but there’s a barbecue place I like, if that’s okay with you” – anything is okay with Conte – and gives him the address. He was certain that Catherine Cruz had seen through his story. Her tone was cool, but also somehow inviting. The combination excited him. Saying her whole name in his mind,
Catherine Cruz
, excited him.
He arrives at the Q Shack fifteen minutes early, the rain at its heaviest, visibility virtually zero. Under an umbrella that is too small, comically out of proportion to his impressive frame, he walks swiftly from the parking lot, head down, and when he reaches the awning, finds her already there.
“Detective Cruz.”
“Detective Conte.”
They shake hands. His shyness makes it difficult to keep his gaze focused on her … that face. Her gaze, on the other hand, is unflinching, laser-like, unnerving. No criminal would have a chance. He won’t, either.
The Q Shack is a small cinder block building with a shamrock painted on the door, crammed with picnic tables and featuring a long, steaming cafeteria-style counter. Thirty to thirty-five men – hearty, burly, dressed for hard labor – fill all available tables. As they await their turn in line in awkward silence, it crosses Conte’s mind, only half facetiously, that Troy, New York, must be the leading edge of America’s Gay Liberation movement and the Q Shack its latest All-Americanexpression, a lunch place catering to working class homosexuals. The Queer Shack.
He breaks the silence, “A lot of men here, Detective. Aside from you, no women.” She tells him that it’s a favorite of Troy’s plumbers, electricians, carpenters, house painters, and cops. He asks
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