Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

He hung a right on Bay Parkway and stopped on the corner of Cropsey Avenue, half-dancing his way into Bensonhurst Park. His feet felt like they were barely denting the grass as he approached two men sitting on a bench. One was an older gentleman named Bonfiglio, although Mintz knew him only as Big Fig.

“Nice new car, huh?” Bonfiglio said. “Pretty flashy.”

“That’s my new baby,” Mintz said. “Ride’s like a dream.”

Bonfiglio reached into his inner blazer pocket as Mintz sat next to him, then stuffed a bulging envelope into a copy of the New York Post and placed it on the wooden bench slats. Mintz picked it up and held the newspaper open while thumbing through a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills.

“Count it if you want,” Bonfiglio said.

Mintz sat back, putting the newspaper down again. “Looks about right.”

“Suit y’self, but later, when you do count it,” Bonfiglio said, “you’ll find more than we bargained for, just to show how appreciative I can be for a job well done.”

“’Preciate that,” Mintz said, and leaned forward to look at the other man. “Ya get the same appreciation, Nico?”

“More,” Nicky Donuts replied. “I got more.”

“Why him and not me?” Mintz said to Bonfiglio.

“He set it up,” Bonfiglio answered.

“But I did all the work,” Mintz said. “And damn good work it was.”

“Management always takes less risk and gets a bigger cut,” Dounis said. “Ain’t you hip to that yet?”

Bonfiglio laughed. “God rest him, but Willy never knew that, and now look.”

“Shit, I still gotta testify,” Mintz said. “Hardly seems fair that I get less.”

“Don’t worry, kid,” Bonfiglio said. “Cashflow won’t be no problem once we’re back to business in Red Hook. You’ll get everything what’s comin’ to ya.”

“Know what? I believe ya,” Mintz said, sashaying back toward his Navigator with the Post and envelope clenched under his arm. “Have yerselves a great day, gents.”

Five minutes later, Mintz turned off Shore Parkway onto Bay 17th Street, parked in the driveway of a quaint little white clapboard house, and went in through a side door. Without a word, he went upstairs to a bedroom.

Entering, Mintz tossed the Post and envelope onto the bed. Sandy turned away from the bureau and folded herself into Mintz’s arms.

“Went off without a hitch,” Mintz said, nuzzling her neck.

Mintz, the neurotic weasel who’d shy away from a dicey situation and whine about the danger, was now gone. Sandy gasped as this new Mintz balled her hair in his fist, tilted her head back, and took the front of her throat in his teeth. Then he trailed his tongue to her ear and took the lobe between his lips, all while she rubbed up against him.

“I can’t get enough of you,” she said, and when he moaned, she added, “Shush, the baby’s down for a nap.”

“I won’t wake him up,” Mintz whispered, leading her into the baby’s room. Watching the ten-month-old sleep, Mintz couldn’t help but smile.

“Looks just like his old man,” Sandy whispered.

Mintz beamed, patted the kid’s foot, and led her out of the room.

In the hall, Mintz kissed her and said, “Dress up nice and call the sitter, I’m takin’ us out tonight, special celebration.”

“Yeah?” she said. “Where?”

“Carmine’s, Italian place in the city,” Mintz said. “Food is absolutely to die for.”

Back at Bensonhurst Park, Dounis and Bonfiglio were still enjoying the high sun and the salt air that was wafting in off Gravesend Bay.

“The case against DeGraw?” Bonfiglio said.

“As much of a sure thing you can have against a cop,” Dounis said.

“Even with just the word of the guys you sent in there?”

“They watched the whole thing,” Dounis said. “Their testimony is all we need.”

“I don’t like the attitude on this Mintz,” Bonfiglio said. “The cocky ones like that, they’re trouble.”

“And spreading money around? This flashy car all of a sudden?” Dounis said. “Fuckin’ idiot don’t even know he’s forcin’ us ta be responsible here. And it’s too fuckin’ bad, I don’t care if he did do us a good job last night. He’s now officially dangerous.”

“Okay, so since we don’t need him for the case,” Bonfiglio asked, “where’s he gonna be tonight?”

“He told me he’s eatin’ at Carmine’s. Upper West Side.”

“Shall I let him have his meal first, or make sure they do him on the way in?”

“Mintzy’s a good kid,” Dounis replied. “Let him eat, drink his wine.”

“You old softy,” Bonfiglio said, laughing. Dounis didn’t laugh.

“When it might be my time,” Dounis said, “I hope I get the same consideration.”

“Cripes, yer goin’ all emotional in your old age,” Bonfiglio said.

“Guess I am.”

“It’s kinda sweet.”

“He did good work for us, Fig, helped us get Red Hook back. Give the kid his last meal, I happen to know he loves eatin’ Italian.”

“Hell, who don’t?”

They both nodded and thought of their favorite Italian dishes.

That night at the 76th, DeGraw still hadn’t been arraigned or made bail, but he didn’t have to stay cooped in a cell. Instead, the detectives gave him the professional courtesy of letting him wait it out in the relative comfort of an interrogation room. They even brought him pizza from Mario’s Place down the block, just the way he liked it: piping hot Sicilian slices with extra mozzarella cheese and spicy Italian sausage. Much as it pleased DeGraw’s palate, it still left him with indigestion.

After a sweaty hump and a few hours’ nap on DeGraw’s ex-bed, the babysitter came over and Mintz drove Sandy to Carmine’s Restaurant, Broadway between 90th and 91st Streets on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

The large upper room was crowded and festive, as usual. People flocked to this place that prepared such sumptuous Southern Italian fare and served it in great, heaping platters. Folks didn’t just grab a bite at Carmine’s place, they ate big and left feeling like they’d participated in an event.

Mintz fingered the wad of hundreds in his pocket and ordered up more bottles of Carmine’s best Montepulciano D’Abruzzo to go with the seafood antipasto that was as large and fulfilling as most normal meals. He and Sandy swooned over practically every sip of the red wine in between bites of the calamari, baked clams, baccala, whiting, muscles, bay scallops, and butterfly shrimp, the tangy red sauce sopped up with fresh homemade garlic bread.

A middle-aged gent at the next table couldn’t help but notice them. “Excuse me, but it’s my first time here and it’s great to see you two look like you’re enjoying yourselves. That food as good as it looks?”

“Better,” Mintz said. “You eatin’ alone?”

“Uh, well, blind date,” the professorial gent said. “Internet kind of thing. I guess either something went wrong or she got cold feet.”

“Tough stuff, buddy,” Mintz said. “Might as well go ahead and order. This shit’s too good not to eat once yer here.”

The gent shrugged and nodded with a sad smile.

“Fuck ’er,” Sandy added. “She don’t know what she’s missin’, does she? Might as well enjoy your evenin’.”

“I’d invite you to join us,” Mintz said, “but this is kind of a special occasion, and, well, you understand.”

“Oh, by all means,” the tweedy gent said. “Enjoy your meal.”

He thanked them with a nod when Mintz had the waiter put a glass of their Montepulciano on his table and then raised the glass in a silent toast.

After that, while the gent ate alone, he took sidelong glances to see Mintz and Sandy happily tucking into entrees of Lasagna Bolognese, Fettuccini Alfredo, penne in olive oil with broccoli, gnocchi, bragiole, veal Parmesan.