Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

Rizzo shook his head, dropping his eyes to the red tip of his burning Chesterfield. “It ain’t quite that dramatic, Father.” He raised his eyes slowly to meet Jovino’s.

The priest spread his arms. “So, tell me, then.”

Rizzo cleared his throat. “Remember back in August, when I stopped in? After me and Mike had found the Daily kid? I told you that I might be comin’ across something, something very detrimental to Councilman William Daily?”

Jovino nodded. “Yes. Of course I remember. I agreed to deliver this hypothetical ‘something’ to the authorities, the federal authorities, as I recall, under the guise of its having appeared here at the shelter, presumably left by one of the runaways. It would have been problematic for you to go to the authorities without jeopardizing yourselves-you and Mike, that is.”

Rizzo nodded. “Correct.”

Jovino continued. “And then, shortly thereafter, you reappeared at my door, twelve thousand dollars in hand. You know, last year the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce donated five thousand to the Non-Combat Zone, Verizon Corporation eight thousand. So you, sir, are now my biggest single supporter.”

Rizzo grinned. “Good for me.”

“Yes,” Jovino said with a nod. “Good for you indeed.” The priest paused, taking a last drag on his cigarette, then very deliberately crushing it out in the ashtray.

“It was at that point that I assumed this material, this incriminating material concerning Councilman Daily, had at last made its way into your possession.” He paused once more. “And yet, no such material has been presented to me to date.”

He reached across the desk, shaking a second cigarette loose from Rizzo’s pack. Lighting it, he raised his eyes through the smoke to Rizzo’s.

“I wondered about that, Joe. I must say, I still wonder about that.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah. I figured. Well, you can stop wonderin’. I have the material you’re referrin’ to. In fact, I’ve had it all along.” He leaned forward and stubbed out his own cigarette. “That’s why I’m here now. See, Daily just got himself reelected, and if a certain tape had already gone to the feds, that never woulda happened. I know that’s my responsibility, my fault. And I can live with it. I just need you to know that it ain’t over yet. I just need some more time. For a couple a different reasons. Just a little more time.”

Jovino responded. “Well, originally, you had said something about six months or so. Of course, my understanding at the time was that you didn’t yet have this… ‘material.’ Now I’m learning that isn’t exactly so. I’m learning that I’ve been misled.”

Their gazes locked. Rizzo noted a hardness begin to form in the priest’s eyes.

“Is there anything else I need to know, Joe?” he asked in a low, flat tone. “Because if there is, now would be the time to tell me. Not next week, not next month, not six months from now. Now.”

Jovino let out a sigh, releasing some of the tension that had come to his body.

“Now, Joe,” he repeated softly.

“There’s nothin’ else,” Rizzo said wearily. “I’ve been sitting on some evidence. The twelve grand, that was just something fell into my hands along the way. It has no rightful owner; it’s better off where it is, helpin’ these kids of yours.”

Jovino pursed his lips.

“Is ‘falling into your hands’ similar to something ‘falling off a truck,’ Joe?”

“Not exactly,” Rizzo said. “I swear to you, that cash was orphaned. Totally. Like I said, no rightful owner. It was as much mine as anyone’s.” He shrugged. “And I chose to give it to you. End of story.”

Jovino leaned forward, frowning. “Except for this tape you continue to sit on. You know that I share no warm regard for Councilman Daily, but, personal feelings aside, there is a right and there is a wrong. You need to make a decision, Joe.”

They held each other’s eyes.

“What’s it to be, Joe?” the priest asked softly. “Right… or wrong?”

AT SEVEN fifty-five Sunday morning, Rizzo sat down heavily in the chair behind his desk. He looked up at Detective Alphonse Borrelli, then back down to the slip of paper in his hand.

Raising his eyes back to Borrelli, Rizzo sighed. “When’d the call come in, Al?”

“ ’Bout five-thirty, six this morning,” Borrelli answered. “The guy was a pushy prick. He told me he had your cell number and he’d call you at home. I told him to hold off, you’d be in soon enough. He finally admitted what ever he wanted could keep till eight.”

“Thanks, Al. You might as well take off, I’m here and Jackson’ll be in any minute. Matter a fact, there she is now. Take off. And thanks again.”

The man shrugged, turning to leave. “No problem. Take it easy.”

Priscilla approached Rizzo’s desk, nodding at Borrelli as they passed each other.

“Mornin’,” she said to Rizzo. “I’m gonna sign in, then grab some breakfast. The Roach Coach just pulled up in front. You want anything?”

He shook his head. “No thanks, Cil.”

Rizzo dropped his eyes once again to the yellow notepaper in his hand. Sighing, he reached for his cell and punched in the Manhattan phone number. The call was answered on the second ring.

“This is Joe Rizzo,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I’m returning Papa Man’s call.”

“Yeah, okay, hold on,” a gruff male voice replied.

As he waited, Rizzo visualized Papa Man-large and burly, near sixty years old with black, unkempt grizzled hair and a tough, yet not unpleasant, face. He was the acknowledged leader of the New York City chapter of the Hell’s Angels.

After a moment, another male voice came through the line, with a deeper and more resonant tone.

“Sergeant Rizzo, how good of you to get back to me so promptly.”

Rizzo let air escape through his lips. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?”

The man chuckled. “I hope I’m not interrupting your Sunday breakfast with the wife and kiddies at Friendly’s, Sergeant.”

Rizzo let a moment elapse. “What’s the problem, Papa Man?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course, Sergeant Rizzo. Enough small talk between old friends. Let’s get down to business. May I speak freely?”

“I’m on my cell,” Rizzo answered. “Last I knew, nobody was listening in.”

“Fair enough. As you may remember, I did you a small ser vice a few months back. And, as I understand it, you parlayed that favor into a successful bit of police work.”

“I remember,” Rizzo said.

“Do you remember all the details, Sergeant? The fine print, if you will?”

“I remember.”

Papa Man sounded pleased. “Good, Joe. Very good. I’ll get to the point. One of my riders spent Saturday night partying in Brooklyn with an ex-wife or girlfriend or what ever. This particular rider isn’t known for his moderation, and there are now allegations of DWI, criminal possession of a controlled substance, and resisting arrest being made against him. More seriously, assault on an officer. He called me earlier from Central Booking and asked for my assistance. I think what he had in mind was an attorney, but I thought, ‘Hey, what about my old Brooklyn friend, Sergeant Rizzo? I bet he can help.’ Was I right, Joe? Can you help?”

Rizzo let the man hear his sigh. “I believe our deal was, if one of your guys got jammed up over here, I’d take a look at it and see what I could do. That your memory, too?”

“Yes. Exactly. So, you’ll take a look?”

Rizzo glanced at the wall clock. “What time they lock the guy up?”

“I think it was about three-thirty, four this morning.”

“Which precinct?”

“The Nine-Four, over in Greenpoint.”