Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Rizzo sat back in his seat. “Frankie Fits,” he said.

“Frankie Fits?” Priscilla asked. “Who the fuck is Frankie Fits?”

Rizzo glanced up at the wall clock, then back to Priscilla. “Neighborhood celebrity, Cil. Like that kid Joey DeMarco I pointed out your first day in the precinct.”

She furrowed her brow. “That cat killer asshole?”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. He’s a celebrity, too. But Frankie, he’s harmless, not like DeMarco. See, he’s mentally challenged, what the kids in the neighborhood call, ‘all fucked up.’ I’m not sure what his exact condition is, but he’s had some neurosurgery in the past. Few years ago, he was walkin’ around with a U-shaped scar on the side of his shaved head. Looked like he was wearin’ a Colts football helmet.”

“And he can help us how?” she questioned.

“Well, old Frankie, on top of his other problems, is epileptic. He has seizures periodically, especially when he gets stressed out. Some a the local kids like to tease him, get him riled up, bring on a seizure. The kids call the seizures ‘fits,’ so he’s ‘Frankie Fits.’ ”

Priscilla shook her head. “Little pricks,” she said.

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “Brooklyn streets aren’t known for their genteel ambiance. Anyway, Frankie must be pushin’ thirty by now. Lives with his mother in a basement apartment near Our Lady of Guadalupe. He helps out around the rectory, cleans up, shit like that.”

“Guadalupe? The church on Fifteenth Avenue?” Priscilla asked.

“Yep, that’s it. On the southeast corner of Seventy-second Street. Right across Seventy-second is Public School one-twelve. On that northeast corner is the schoolyard where Frankie Fits spends most nights, sitting alone in the dark on the high steps that lead to the janitor’s office.”

“Are you kiddin’ me, Joe?” Priscilla asked.

“No, really. A few years back, Frankie started hanging around the schoolyard when the kids were on recess. Some of the mothers freaked out, afraid Frankie might hurt one of their little darlings. They complained to the Six-Two cop assigned as school safety officer.”

“What came of it?” Priscilla asked.

“The cop worked it out. He told Frankie if he stayed clear of the school during the day, he could be the night watchman. Like an assistant to the cop, you know, keep an eye on things. And Frankie went for it. Guess he figured he was helping out the little kids, protecting the school, what ever.”

“So you figure he was there on the night the Homs got robbed?” Priscilla asked.

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I figure. Frankie’s there most nights, even in the worst winter weather. Sits on those steps till midnight, then goes home.”

“That is some pitiful shit, Joe.”

“Yeah, well, to us, sure. But to Frankie, it gives him a sense of purpose, a sense of worth. Like his church work does. And the guy’s got the character to stick to it.”

Priscilla stood. “So, let’s go talk to him,” she said. “If the perp is some neighborhood asshole, maybe Frankie can make him for us.”

“Yeah,” Rizzo said. “Maybe. Only thing is, all the local kids know Frankie sits up there at night, in the dark, on the steps, looking down at that corner.”

She frowned. “So you figure it’s a newbie or a transient?”

“Could be,” Rizzo said. “Or maybe just somebody figures Frankie is too stupid for it to matter. Or the perp could be somebody Frankie’d be too scared to rat on.” He shrugged. “We’ll see. But it’s too early now. Frankie doesn’t get there till after he has dinner, and I’d rather not go to his home and rattle his old lady. I’ve got some paperwork to do and calls to make. Relax awhile, we’ll head out a little later.”

Priscilla nodded. “Okay. I’ve got some DD-fives to catch up on. Let me know when you’re ready.”

After she walked away, Rizzo turned back to his desk. The folded Daily News caught his eye. He picked it up and again scanned the photograph and report of Councilman William Daily’s impressive election victory.

Things would have been different, Rizzo thought. Things should have been different. Had the microcassette hidden away in the Rizzo basement followed its rightful course after he and McQueen had first found it, the newspapers would be singing a different song about William Daily right now.

Rizzo tossed the paper angrily into the wastebasket at his feet.

“Fuck it,” he said in a barely audible hiss. “His time’ll come. It’ll come.”

Reaching for his paperwork, Rizzo tried to ignore the voice nagging at him, a soft, questioning voice.

“Fuck it,” he said again. He turned to his work.

FRANKIE CORVONA was twenty-eight years old. The youngest of three siblings, he had been what the neighborhood women referred to as a “change of life baby,” born unplanned to a forty-four-year-old mother. Complications at birth involving a strangling umbilical cord had deprived Frankie’s new brain of oxygen, causing irreversible damage. In addition to his severely reduced intellectual capacities, he had also been rendered epileptic. Later, additional problems arising from cranial pressures had further tormented him, resulting in a series of operations. The operations had preserved his life but further damaged his already ravished brain.

Frankie lived with his mother, drawing a disability stipend from Social Security. His father, long deceased, had left a modest pension behind. Frankie’s two older siblings were only sporadically involved, bringing gifts of money for birthdays and holidays.

Rizzo pulled the Chevy to the curb on the north side of Seventy-second Street and shut down the motor. He peered into the darkness of the Public School 112 schoolyard.

“I can’t see if he’s there,” he said.

Priscilla shrugged. “It’s so fuckin’ dark, I can barely see the steps.” She opened the car door. “Let’s go see,” she said.

The two detectives crossed the sidewalk and climbed the three worn concrete steps leading to the schoolyard. Stepping through the open gateway of the six-foot iron fence that surrounded the yard, they paused, allowing their eyes to adjust to the blanketing darkness. The moonless night was cold and damp, illumination cast only from the corner streetlight where Seventy-second Street intersected with Fifteenth Avenue. Rizzo noted that the corner itself was well lit, the streetlight giving off a warm, blue-white glow.

They crossed the yard to the steep, narrow high steps nestled against the side of the ancient school building. In the cold darkness enveloping the steps, nearly halfway up, they saw the huddled mass of Frankie Corvona.

As they reached the base of the staircase, they paused, Rizzo placing a foot onto the second step and leaning forward, his right elbow laid casually across his knee.

“Frankie?” he said, his voice friendly and soft. “Is that you up there?”

In the darkness, they could barely make out the pale, round, full face of the man. His large, wide-set eyes flitted from one cop to the other.

“It’s Frankie,” the man said in response. “Frankie.”

“Well, I figured you’d be here, Frankie, keeping an eye on the place for us,” Rizzo said. Then he turned to Priscilla. “See, what’d I tell you? We can always count on Frankie.”

Turning his gaze back to the young man, he said, “I’m Joe. I’m a policeman. A detective. And this is my partner, Cil. She’s a detective, too. We work for the Sixty-second Precinct. Sort of like you do, Frankie.”

A small smile came to the man’s lips. “I watch the school at night,” he said, pride in his voice. “I watch the school.”

“Joe told me about that, Frankie,” Priscilla said. “And he told me you do a real good job, too.”