Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“I thought that only lifers or criminals convicted of murder were sent to Attica,” T.J. said.

“Actually,” Dupree answered, “It’s not normal procedure, but in rare cases the courts will send a particularly violent criminal there even if he hasn’t committed murder.” Dupree turned towards Brenda. “How much time did he serve and when was he released?”

Brenda studied the monitor and scrolled down the page. “Served five years and they released him about two years ago.”

“Do we have his last known address?” Dupree asked.

Brenda pointed to the screen. “2020 Webster Avenue, east of Walnut in Yonkers.”

T.J. tapped Dupree on the shoulder. “I don’t have the best memory, but didn’t Ivan Tesler say that our boy Oscar here used to be a regular at a bar on Walnut?”

Dupree nodded. “A watering hole called the Night Owl.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, partner?” T.J. said.

“Yes. Let’s pay Mr. Cassano a surprise visit.”

“So you want me to drive?” T.J. asked.

“Not a snowball’s chance in hell.”

Dupree stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her slacks. “As always, Brenda, you are my hero. Thanks for all your help.”

“That’s what they pay me for, Sugar. Good luck.”

The ride to Yonkers took less time than Dupree expected. She turned onto Webster Avenue and Dupree perused up and down the street but found only one tight parking spot barely big enough for a compact car. She pulled next to a blue Nissan Ultima and slowly cranked the wheels as she backed her way into the spot.

T.J. laughed. “You’re shitting me, right? You’d be lucky to squeeze a Smart Car into that spot, let alone this boat.”

“You just watch me.” Having lived in the city all her life, and with street parking at a premium, Dupree had had lots of practice squeezing into small spots. Without having to abort the mission or start over, she carefully parked the car two inches away from the curb without touching a bumper.

“I gotta tell you, Amaris. I’m impressed. I’d have bet a king’s ransom you couldn’t do it.”

“Never, ever bet against a determined woman.”

“How do you want to play this?” Dupree asked. “If our guy is home, I don’t think he’s coming with us without a fight.”

“You go around to the back and I’ll knock on the front door,” T.J. suggested.

They stepped out of the car and made their way toward the duplex. 2020 Webster Avenue stood on the left. Just as Dupree was about to move down the long driveway, T.J. stopped her. “No heroics, there, Annie Oakley.”

Dupree winked. “Got it covered.”

Dupree made her way toward the back of the duplex. To avoid being seen by Cassano, she hugged the structure as she moved, ducking under the windows.

Once near the back door, Dupree drew her weapon and stood with her back pressed against the building, just to the side of the entrance. Standing there, she listened for any sound coming from the front of the house—any sign that T.J. had engaged the perp. As she stood there, a little shaky, she noticed that the backyard looked as if it had been professionally manicured. The lawn—freshly cut—looked like carpeting. Vibrantly-colored flowers lined the perimeter, and perfectly trimmed hedges bordered the neighbor’s yard. Not what she expected. Then again, maybe Cassano rented the place and his landlord was fussy about the way his property looked.

“Amaris?” T.J.’s voice echoed from around the corner of the house and startled Dupree.

“I’m here.”

T.J. appeared just as he holstered his weapon. “Either he’s not home or he doesn’t like company. What now?”

“The Night Owl is a few blocks away and it used to be Cassano’s hangout. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find him there.”

“Or,” T.J. said, “maybe Jake Sullivan, the bartender, knows where we can find him.”

Dupree spotted a small, gravel-covered lot next to the Night Owl. Not that Yonkers was the most upscale community in the New York City area, but it seemed more like a beer joint one might find in a rural town outside of Amarillo, Texas. The ramshackle structure looked in desperate need of a bucket of paint and a window washer.

Dupree chuckled when she saw a mural painted on the side of the building. A giant owl was roosting on a Harley Roadster, giving the thumbs-up sign with its wing. Of course, considering the obvious mentality of the clientele who would patronize such a place, it seemed entirely possible that the owl was flipping everyone off.

They stepped inside the tavern. Dupree noticed the occupancy sign over the front door limiting the number of patrons to fifty, but based on a quick scan and headcount, she guessed that there were no more than fifteen patrons milling about. A few occupied the bar area. Two guys, dressed like hardcore bikers, played pool, and a couple other guys were shooting darts. Clearly defiant against the public no-smoking regulations, half the patrons were puffing on cigarettes and the two pool players sucked on cigars. The buzz of barroom chatter hushed to a whisper once the patrons spotted them. They gawked at the detectives, evidently aware they were cops.

Dupree and T.J. moved toward the bar. The bartender, tall and wiry with a long ponytail hanging to the center of his back, immediately greeted them.

“Hi, folks. I’m Jake. A little out of your element, no?” He chuckled. “What can I get for ya? A pitcher of Kool-Aid, a Perrier—maybe a Shirley Temple?”

“I think we’re just fine.” Dupree elbowed T.J. “Do you have the phone number for the Department of Public Health programmed in your cell?”

T.J. pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I think I do.”

“Hey, now,” Jake said, “let’s not get carried away. I was just messing with you. I know you’re not regulars so I figured you must be the law.”

“Apparently,” Dupree said, “you have no respect for the law or this place wouldn’t have a cloud of blue smoke hovering in the air. Now, Jake, can we have a little chat or would you like us to make the call?”

“Please don’t do that,” Jake pleaded. “How can I help ya?”

Dupree looked around and could see that everyone in the bar was paying very close attention to their conversation. She spoke softly. “We understand that you’re close friends with Oscar Cassano. Does he come in here often?”

Jake didn’t answer immediately. But the question clearly rattled his nerves. “Sorry, I never heard of the guy.”

“Really?” Dupree said. “Interesting you should say that because another patron of yours told us that he used to play pool with Cassano in here regularly.”

T.J. placed his elbows on the bar and peered at Jake. “He claims Cassano and you are bosom buddies.”

“Look it, I said I don’t know anybody by the name of Cassano and I don’t.”

“We’re wasting our time with this joker.” She looked at Jake. “We’ll be back in a little while. Don’t go anywhere.”

Dupree and T.J. turned and moved towards the front door.

“Wait!” Jake yelled.

“Is your memory working better now?” T.J. asked.

“Okay, okay,” Jake said. “I am pretty good friends with Oscar.”

“Then why did you deny it?” Dupree asked.

“Cassano is trouble. Big trouble.”

“Explain,” T.J. said.

“I heard some guys talking about something big going down and it involved Cassano.”

“That doesn’t tell us shit. Be more specific,” Dupree said.

“All I know is that it had to do with a robbery.”

“So you knew Cassano was going to be involved in a crime and did nothing?” T.J. said “I didn’t want to get involved.”