Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

McQueen smiled. “I understand. To tell you the truth, I could use a little more time myself. I need to make some contacts, some friends at the Plaza. That way, when we put that tape into the right hands, if the shit hits the fan and Daily does realize we screwed him, at least I’ll have some allies. Some cover.”

Rizzo nodded. “Sounds fair, Mike. After all, I’ll probably be out, my pension in hand, outta their reach. You should have some cover, too. Insurance, sorta.”

McQueen drank deeply, draining the glass. “Yeah,” he said. “Insurance.”

Later, leaving the restaurant after they’d eaten their lunch, Rizzo walked McQueen to his shiny black Mazda, which sat parked at an expired meter on Old Fulton Street. They shook hands.

“We’ll get it done,” Rizzo said solemnly. “Just a little later than we figured.”

McQueen, two Manhattans sitting heavily on his eyelids, smiled sadly. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll get it done.”

PRISCILLA JACKSON took a seat on the heavy wooden chair beside Joe Rizzo’s squad room desk. She tossed the legal-size papers onto the cluttered desk surface.

“Well, Joe,” she said, “I read all three.”

Rizzo glanced at the sworn statements of Jimmy Cocca, Andy Hermann, and Nunzio Nottadomo, taken earlier by Six-Two personnel.

“Good,” he said. “Now you know as much as I do. Good statements, weren’t they? Bobby Dee might not be the best bull on the squad, but he is the best statement taker. He gets all the info, short and sweet.”

Priscilla nodded. “I’ll remember that. Now what? Do we start on that bar canvass?”

Rizzo shook his head. “Not yet.” He looked at the wall clock. “It’s only twenty after four. If we do it, we should start callin’ around to the bars later, about eight or so. More likely to catch the same bartender who worked last night.”

“Makes sense. So, what now?”

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Well,” he said, “I figure we discuss it. The shooting, I mean. I got a theory.”

“Yeah, Mike told me about those theories of yours. So let’s hear it.”

Nodding, Rizzo said, “Okay. By the way, Mike says ‘hi.’ Next time I’ll bring you along, he’d love to see ya.”

“Good deal, Joe. So, what’s the theory?”

“Okay, get comfortable,” Rizzo said. “You read the statements. Whadda we got? Incident starts in a well-known, popular local pizza joint, a place the shooter’s frequented over the last year. So, let’s assume he lives someplace close by. He wears jungle fatigues and drives a pickup truck. Schoenfeld and Rossi and the uniforms canvassed the residents of Seventieth Street, presumably where the truck was parked while the shooter ate his pizza then got his ass kicked by Tucci. Nobody they spoke to could say anyone livin’ on the block owns a pickup. This ain’t Texas, not too many noncommercial pickups around. And Cocca said the truck was clean, no writing or company logo on the door. Seventieth Street is all residential, mostly two-story, one-and two-family homes. Most families been living in those houses for generations. They all know one another. If there was a truck-driving, fatigue-wearin’ lunatic livin’ on the block, they’d all know about it. So, we can assume the shooter doesn’t live on Seventieth Street.”

Priscilla smiled. “All this ass-umin’ could be risky,” she said.

“Yeah, well, it usually is, but hear me out. So, Tucci smacks the shooter around. Shooter makes his threat, the young guys leave. Nunzio says the shooter leaves the pizzeria less than a minute after the kids. Nunzio goes in the back room, starts getting ready to close, cleans the booths and hits the head. Next he knows, the radio cars are lightin’ up the avenue.”

Rizzo paused, taking a Nicorette from his pocket. Priscilla watched impatiently as he fumbled with the packaging.

“Damn, Joe,” she said harshly, “give it here.”

She took the gum and stripped the backing, pushing the Nicorette partially through the foil and handing it back to him. “Now tell me the fuckin’ theory before my first pension check gets here.”

Rizzo pushed the gum into his mouth.

“Guy runs out of the store and around the corner. Then, about two minutes later, he’s a block south at Seventy-first Street, waiting for Tucci to come out of Ben’s candy store.” Rizzo paused. “Question: Where’d he get the rifle from so fast? Assumin’, as we are, that he don’t live right there, right on Seventieth Street.”

Priscilla shrugged. “The truck, I guess. He got it out of the truck.”

Rizzo pointed at her. “Bingo. Where else? Now, answer this: Who’s runnin’ around Brooklyn in a pickup truck wearing jungle fatigues and packing a thirty-oh-six rifle?”

Priscilla smiled slowly. “A Great White Hunter,” she said.

“Once again, bingo. A hunter. While you were readin’ the statements, I went online. Hunting season just got under way upstate New York, parts a Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Connecticut. Deer, mostly. Some bear. This asshole is a hunter. That explains the brown boots. He’s not a military nut, probably was wearin’ Timberlands. And his heavy camouflage hunting jacket woulda been too hot for the drive back home from whatever-the-fuck woods he was in, so he slipped on a lightweight civvies Thinsulate. He was probably boozin’ the whole three-day weekend, maybe even in the truck driving home. Probably struck out, Bambi outsmarted him and he’s coming back empty-handed. Instead of going home and smackin’ the old lady around, he maybe stops local for some more booze, then figures he’ll grab a couple a slices of Nunzio’s Sicilian. When Tucci steps on his friggin’ foot, three days of macho bullshit erupts in the guy’s squirrel brain. Then the kid TKO’s him without breakin’ a sweat, and it’s just too much. The guy feels his dick shrinkin’ by the minute, so he figures he’ll grab his rifle and grow some of it back. See?”

“So we start checkin’ out the gun shops, hunting clubs, what ever. Right?” Priscilla asked.

He nodded. “Exactly. Guy probably needs to show photo I.D. for his ammo buys. We could get lucky. There can’t be more than a half-dozen hunting joints in the whole borough, only one or two in the precinct. And if the shooter is a Bensonhurst boy like we figure, he probably shops local. Most people around here do, the whole neighborhood is like a small town.”

“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “A town in the freakin’ Ozarks. Ten years I worked a radio car, two in the South Bronx, eight more up and down Manhattan. I saw a lot of crazy shit, Joe, but this is the first street shooting I ever seen where a rifle was the weapon of choice.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what got me started. That and the camouflaged jungle fatigues. We don’t get many shootings in the Six-Two, but when we do, it’s usually a mob hit. Head shots, up close and personal. And always with a handgun.”

“So,” Priscilla said. “I guess we drop the idea of checkin’ the bars.”

“For now,” he answered. “It’s still a good idea. But I think we’ll put it on hold for a while. What we need is a sketch of this guy. I want to go see the boss, D’Antonio. The Swede. Have him call over to Borough, set up the police artist with the three eyeballs and the vic. Then we can hit the gun shops and the bars with a sketch of the guy in our hands. See where we get lucky first.”

“Okay,” Priscilla said, standing. “Let’s go see the boss.”

Rizzo smiled. “Not just yet, Cil,” he said. “I think I see a lawyer, and he’s coming this way.”

She turned. A tall, disheveled-looking man with sandy brown hair, a worn blue suit, and wire-rimmed glasses was nearing Rizzo’s desk, a uniformed officer beside him.