Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

“Yeah, Freddy, I do,” he said. “And just call me Joe.”

The cop laughed. “Oh, Lord, this must be a good one, we gettin’ all buddy-buddy here. What you need, Joe?”

Rizzo leaned closer to the man. “I read the arrest report and the rap sheet, Freddy. I know this guy Zumba is an asshole. And he ain’t a friend of mine.”

“Okay,” the cop said with a nod.

“So,” Rizzo continued. “This is the story. I owe a favor to the boss of the Angels. Over in Manhattan. The guy helped me with a runaway kid case, and it worked out good. This is his payback.”

“What is?” Clarton asked, his eyes narrowing.

Rizzo took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay, you got this guy on a DWI, possession, assault-two, and resisting. I need you to shit-can the assault charge. It’s a D-felony. Drop it to obstructing governmental administration, an A-misdemeanor.”

The cop frowned. “This shit is a pain in my ass. Only reason I’m even here is ’cause they got me workin’ with some kid thinks he’s gonna clean up Dodge City. This whole collar was his doin’, then he tells me he can’t book the guy ’cause he’s gotta baptize his sister’s kid this morning. Imagine that? When we first saw Zumba weavin’ his bike and pulled him over, I told the kid to ignore it, let the guy go, but no, the kid is all righteous, can’t let a drunk go with just a warning. See, the skell was only ’bout five blocks from his apartment. Shit, worst coulda happened was he wrecked and broke his own sorry neck. Damn fool out ridin’ a motorcycle on a cold night in November, served him right if he went down. But no, my partner wants us to lock the guy up.”

Rizzo smiled. “Kids,” he said simply.

Clarton nodded. “Yeah. Younger every day, seems like. Anyway, so then the Angel mouths off a little, next thing I know, the kid slaps him and the guy goes ape-shit, so we got to tune his ass up. Then we toss ’im and find the dope. Now you come askin’ me to drop the assault count. That really hangs me out if the guy starts bitchin’ ’bout the lump I put on his head. I need that assault charge to cover my own ass, Joe.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, well, I understand. But I’ll talk to the man in Manhattan. There won’t be any bitchin’ about you smackin’ this shit-head around. The resisting charge still stands, and with an added obstruction, that more than covers your use of force.”

Clarton considered it. “Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s not like we broke his fuckin’ head or anything.”

“Exactly,” said Rizzo. “What weight did the CPCS come in at?”

Clarton shrugged. “Haven’t heard yet,” he said. “It was just a taste, a little coke. What he had left over from his party-hardy night.”

“Probably his wake up,” Rizzo said.

Clarton ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I hate to get into this kinda shit so late in the game. I don’t wanna be spendin’ my last few months with some I.A.D. or Civilian Review prick breakin’ my balls.”

“No way,” Rizzo said emphatically. “You drop that assault-two, you’ll never hear nothin’ from this guy again. He tries to fuck this deal up, I go to his boss. Zumba gets thrown in the fuckin’ river. Believe me, it won’t be a problem. Let him pay his fines for the dope and DWI and take an A.C.D. or time-served on the two misdemeanors. Everybody’ll be happy.”

Clarton nodded. “What do I get out of this, Joe? Your undyin’ gratitude?”

Rizzo laughed. “Yeah, exactly. Although, I gotta tell ya, my good-lookin’ partner did offer to come along and shake her ass for you, but I told her no.”

“I been awake for twenty-five hours straight,” Clarton said. “I’m too tired for any ass shakin’.” Now he shook his head, his small smile slowly fading. “Damn,” he said. “Me workin’ with a gung ho kid and you with a freakin’ female. They’re tryin’ to kill us, kill off all the old men.”

Rizzo stood, extending his hand. “Well, not much time left for them to finish the job, Freddy. We’re both almost out the door.”

They shook hands, Clarton standing to face him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess.” Then after a pause, added, “I’ll rewrite the report, shit-can the assault. When the A.D.A sees it and writes up the complaint, it won’t be there.”

Now, still holding on to Rizzo’s hand, he leaned inward, his firm grasp pulling Rizzo slightly forward.

“But if this Zumba character ever comes up complaining about the slappin’ I gave him, he better go in the fuckin’ river.”

He paused, his eyes hardening a little. “Or I got to come looking for you, Joe. Then you got to make it right.”

Rizzo nodded. “I hear you.”

AT TWELVE NOON, Rizzo sat at his squad room desk, a roast beef hero in front of him. Priscilla sat next to the desk, her lunch sitting on the pull-out writing board above the side drawer.

“So,” Rizzo said, chewing as he spoke. “How’d it go at the party last night? Anything come of it?”

“Yeah, actually, something did,” Priscilla said. “I met Carlyle’s agent, a woman named Robin Miller. She’s pretty well known in the publishing world.”

“What’d she have to say?”

Rizzo saw animation come into Priscilla’s eyes as she answered. “Carlyle had given her some of my stuff. A couple a my short stories and the first few chapters of a book I’ve been fooling around with. Miller liked it. She said she had some ideas she thought I should hear. Then she gave me her card and told me to call her on Monday. I gotta tell you, Joe, as much as I didn’t want to go to that party, I’m glad as hell I did.”

“Good,” Rizzo said. “Sounds good. You may be on your way, kiddo.”

“Funny, though. For a party, it was kinda somber. Seems like everyone there knew that guy Mallard, the playwright that got murdered. Once they found out I was a cop, everybody was asking me questions. They figured I had some inside info on who the killer might be.”

“Did you tell them it’s not the only case in town?” Rizzo asked.

“Yeah, in a way. But they were pretty shook up about it and wouldn’t let it go. The guy was like a god to them.”

Rizzo pursed his lips. “I’ll bet if the cops ever do collar the guy that killed Mallard, all your new pals’ liberal bullshit pity for the bad guy will go right out the fuckin’ window. This is different, seein’ as how it was one of them got killed. If it was just some dumb-ass street cop, they’d be out raisin’ defense money for the perp.”

“Relax, Joe. Don’t go there.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Well, I’m glad you made a connection. That’s gotta help. But now, let’s talk some business.”

“Okay, boss, I’m listening.”

“Here’s the deal,” Rizzo said. “After we eat, we take a ride over to Seventeenth Avenue, to the Rebels’ hangout. We talk to the leader, kid named Costanzo Intrafiore. He’s about nineteen, and word is he’ll be movin’ up the ladder to the Bath Beach Boys soon. Next stop after that is soldiering for one of Louie Quattropa’s captains. See, Zee-Boy-that’s what they call Costanzo-he’s a real hard case. Genuine tough guy, not like some of the other Rebels. They’re posers, some of ’em, two-bit punks playin’ gangster. But Zee-Boy, he’s the real deal.”

Priscilla sipped at her bottled water. “You know the kid?” she asked. “Personally?”

“Oh, yeah, I know him okay. Matter a fact, we got sort of a special bond. See, he thinks I killed his uncle, and I think he’s an asshole. ’Bout twenty years ago, Zee-Boy’s uncle was runnin’ The Rebels. Guy’s name was Enzo. He was a hard case, too. If he’da lived, he woulda been a mob boss by now, maybe even Quattropa’s right hand. Guy had a lot of potential.”