Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“I do.”

“Who?”

“Mario Azzecca,” The Jackass said, and Bozzaris suddenly sniffed the sweet scent of money wafting on the stale squadroom air.

Azzecca was in bed with his wife Sybil when the telephone rang at two o’clock in the morning. He immediately knew it was trouble. His son up at Harvard had undoubtedly been busted on a Possession of Marijuana charge, little bastard.

“Hello?” he said.

“Lieutenant Bozzaris here,” the voice on the other end said. “There is something important we have to discuss.”

“At two o’clock in the morning?” Azzecca said.

“Who is it?” his wife asked.

“Go to sleep,” Azzecca said. “Hold on a minute,” he said to Bozzaris, “I want to take this in my study.” He got out of bed in his pajamas, put on a dressing gown, and went out of the bedroom and down the corridor to where Sybil — out of the goodness of her miserly heart — had provided him with an eight-by-ten work space in a twelve-room apartment. He picked up the extension phone and said, “What’s so important, Lieutenant?”

“Money,” Bozzaris said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about somewhere in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars that is now in our possession,” Bozzaris said.

The telephone began shaking in Azzecca’s hand. “What about it?” he said calmly.

“Our information leads us to believe that maybe this money is earmarked for one Carmine Ganucci in Naples,” Bozzaris said, and Azzecca immediately realized that Freddie Corriere, that dumb bastard, had somehow got himself picked up on the way to Benny Napkins’ place.

“Your information is wrong,” Azzecca answered, because why had Bozzaris said “in the vicinity of fifty thousand dollars?” What vicinity? Corriere had been carrying exactly fifty thousand dollars in an envelope with a rubber band around it, not to mention the airline ticket to Naples.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “I have no desire to interfere in the various activities or industries you fellows are engaged or involved in, so long as they are not criminal in nature, or evil in intent. You may recall that not too long ago, some of my fellows picked up a worthless batch of figures which were meaningless to us and certainly not indicative of any crime being committed, so we returned them to their rightful owner, namely one Joseph Dirigere who, in gratitude, contributed seven thousand four hundred dollars to the squad’s pension and retirement fund.”

“I remember,” Azzecca said.

“I thought you might,” Bozzaris said. “Now, similarly and likewise, I have no way of knowing whether this currency is what is sometimes referred to as tainted money, or bad money, or dirty money, I have no way of knowing that. In looking it over, it seems to me like just any normal kind of money, which is neither clean nor dirty, but just plain cold hard cash.” Bozzaris paused. “On the barrelhead.”

“How much?” Azzecca said.

“Same as last time,” Bozzaris answered at once.

“Too much,” Azzecca said.

“All right, all right, who wants to haggle where hardworking policemen are involved? Make it an even five thousand.”

“Ridiculous,” Azzecca said.

“I’m willing to compromise,” Bozzaris said. “Thirty-five hundred.”

“Two thousand.”

“Twenty-five hundred?”

“Two thousand,” Azzecca said, “and not a penny more.”

“It’s a deal,” Bozzaris said. “Where shall I send your man with the remainder of the cash?”

“Freddie?”

“Is that his name? He ain’t told us a thing. And, also, he’s got a goddamn stocking pulled over his head.”

“I always knew he was a little queer,” Azzecca said.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said, “shall I send him over to your place after we make the agreed-upon deduction at this end?”

“Yes. But tell him to leave the package with the doorman.”

“The doorman? Don’t you want him to come upstairs?”

“If he comes upstairs, I’m liable to strangle him with my bare hands, right here in my own living room,” Azzecca said.

“I’ll make believe I didn’t hear that,” Bozzaris said, and chuckled. “Nice talking to you.”

“Send the ticket back, too,” Azzecca said.

But Bozzaris had already hung up.

At twenty minutes to three, the buzzer in Azzecca’s kitchen sounded while he was sitting at the table drinking a glass of milk. He went swiftly to the wall and pressed the TALK toggle.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Azzecca, this is Hymie on the door. I got a package for you.”

“Send it right up,” Azzecca said.

“Fellow who delivered it said it was important, so I didn’t know whether I should wait till morning...”

“Yes, yes, send it right up,” Azzecca said.

“... or buzz you now in the middle of the night. Should I send it up?”

“Please,” Azzecca said.

The elevator operator knocked on the door five minutes later and handed Azzecca an A & P shopping bag. Azzecca thanked him, closed and locked the door, and then went into the living room, wondering how come the money had been transferred to a shopping bag from a plain white envelope with a rubber band around it. He turned the bag over, dumped its contents onto the coffee table, and wondered how come the fifty thousand dollars had been in hundred-dollar denominations when it left this apartment, whereas it now seemed to be in various denominations — tens, twenties, singles, and century notes.

He began counting the money.

And then he began wondering why Lieutenant Bozzaris, after his long song and dance on the telephone, had not bothered after all to deduct the two-thousand-dollar contribution to his squad’s pension and retirement fund.

The bills on Azzecca’s living room coffee table added up to exactly fifty thousand dollars, the identical amount that Freddie Corriere had carried out of here at 9:45 P.M. Bozzaris had deducted the ticket to Naples, but that was all. Maybe he was planning on taking a little trip.

Azzecca shrugged.

Tomorrow, he would have to send another messenger to Benny Napkins. By then, he figured he would have heard from the good lieutenant again, correcting his oversight. Azzecca belched, finished his glass of milk, and went to bed with his ulcer growling nonetheless.

Benny Napkins was asleep when his doorbell sounded at ten o’clock Friday morning. He got out of bed, being very careful not to disturb Jeanette Kay, and then went through the apartment to the front door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Freddie Corriere.”

Benny lifted the peephole flap and peered into the hallway. It was indeed Freddie Corriere, looking wan and exhausted and skinnier than usual, but Freddie Corriere nonetheless. Benny unlocked both Segal locks, slipped the Fox lock bar to the floor, undid the night chain, and opened the door.

“Okay to come in?” Freddie asked.

“Yes, sure, but please be very quiet as Jeanette Kay is still asleep.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said.

“Yeah,” Benny said.

“I was supposed to bring this to you last night,” Freddie said, “but I kept trying here, and nobody was home.”

“I was at a card game,” Benny said, “and Jeanette Kay went to the movies.”

“Yeah?” Freddie said. “Did you win?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Benny said, and sighed.

“I had a very interesting time last night,” Freddie said, anxious to tell someone, if only Benny Napkins, of the marvelous things he and Sarah had done together.