Lou Manfredo - Rizzo's Fire

The youth looked to Priscilla, his eyes flat, then back to Rizzo.

“I didn’t order no fuckin’ pancakes, Joe, and watermelon ain’t in season, so who the fuck is she?”

“I’m gonna do you a big favor, Zee-Boy,” Rizzo said conversationally. “Later I’m gonna explain to my new partner here how your mother didn’t raise you right, and maybe Detective Jackson will forgive you for that little remark.” Rizzo leaned slightly forward in his seat. “Then again, maybe she won’t.”

Zee-Boy looked again to Priscilla, meeting her cool gaze with indifference. He turned back to Rizzo.

“What ever you want here, Joe, we can do it without mothers,” he said.

Rizzo cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s start over. Zee-Boy, I’d like you to meet Detective Priscilla Jackson. Detective Jackson, Zee-Boy Intrafiore. He’s the boss here.”

Their eyes met, Priscilla crossing her arms against her chest. She nodded to Zee-Boy. He nodded back, then turned his eyes again to Rizzo.

“Whaddya want?” he asked again.

Rizzo shrugged. “Some of your time, that’s all. Just a little of your time.”

The youth seemed to consider it. Rizzo noted a slight nervous tic at the nineteen-year-old’s right eye. After a moment, Zee-Boy responded.

“Okay. In the back.”

They followed him through the red curtain and into the largest of the three rear rooms. Five Rebels sat sprawled on couches, easy chairs, and a battered aluminum beach lounger, watching the New York Giants pregame show on a large, flat-screen plasma TV. They looked up with hooded eyes as Intrafiore and the two detectives entered.

Zee-Boy glanced at the TV, then jerked a thumb over his right shoulder. “Out front, guys,” he said. One of the youths, a pimply faced, lanky kid with long brown hair and a blue and red crucifix tattooed on his forearm, protested.

“TV out there sucks, Zee. Game’s gonna start in five minutes.”

Intrafiore seemed not to hear. “Come on,” he said to Rizzo and Jackson. “In my room.”

As they crossed deeper into the main room, heading for the door at the side, Intrafiore looked to the five Rebels.

“I said out front,” he said softly. A moment passed, and with exaggerated body language indicating inconvenience and wounded pride, the five stood slowly and filed through the curtain. Intrafiore paused, allowing them to leave, then picked up the remote control, raising the volume of the television.

“Come on,” he said, entering the small private room he had referred to as his.

The room contained a narrow single bed, unmade, against one wall, yet another television sitting on a battered wooden table, an audio center, and a small Formica table. Around the table, four folding chairs were randomly scattered. A large, silent air conditioner was poised in one half of the double window on the rear wall. The blinds were tightly drawn.

After arranging themselves around the table, Intrafiore sat back, tilting his chair onto its rear legs, hooking his thumbs into the thick, black leather belt at his waist. He looked across at them, his eyes mere slits, and Priscilla felt her stomach hollow under the gaze.

“What?” he asked.

Rizzo leaned across the table, his hands folded before him.

“Three street robberies,” he said. “And countin’.”

Intrafiore shrugged.

“So?” “So this,” Rizzo said pointedly. “I got a citizen makes the perp as a Rebel. And I need to lock him up.”

“So lock ’im up, then,” Intrafiore said. “You don’t have to waste my time. Lock ’im up.”

Rizzo shook his head. “Not so simple. See, this citizen I got is scared. Doesn’t wanna piss you and the other Dead End Kids off. So, you can see my dilemma.”

“Yeah, I can see it,” Zee-Boy said. “You got shit. So why don’t you come back when you’re holdin’ some cards.”

Rizzo glanced at Priscilla before turning back to Intrafiore.

“Oh, I got the cards, Zee-Boy.” He pressed forward harder against the table. “I got the ace a fuckin’ spades.”

Intrafiore looked from one detective to the other, then settled his gaze on Rizzo. “What’s that?” he asked softly. “You gonna sew some balls on your witness, get ’im to citizen up for the good of the community?”

Rizzo sat back, reaching for his near empty cigarette pack. He offered one to Intrafiore, was declined, and lit his own. Then, blowing smoke at the tabletop, he raised his eyes back to meet the hostile stare.

“No,” he said. “No. What I was figurin’ was, why bust my ass with this? I got other things to do. More important things. See, I figure I can get a little help on this one.”

Intrafiore smiled brazenly. “Yeah, from who? The African queen over here?”

“No, Zee-Boy. Not this time.” Rizzo dragged again on the cigarette, then casually tapped ashes onto the old, worn linoleum floor, noting the slight flicker of anger in Intrafiore’s eyes.

“The Chink, kid. We all know how the old man feels about the neighborhood. If it ain’t him doin’ the stealin’, he’s a very righteous guy. So I’m thinking I go direct to him with the situation. I tell him, ‘Hey, Louie, you know those two old Italians got robbed? And the old Chinese couple? Guess who did that shit, Louie, right under your nose. It was Zee-Boy Intrafiore and his band a retards.’ ” Rizzo nodded slowly. “Yeah, then I say somethin’ like, ‘Imagine that, Louie? A wise-ass kid like Zee-Boy havin’ no respect for the neighborhood. Havin’ no respect for you . And me without enough evidence to make an arrest stick.’ ” Rizzo locked eyes with Intrafiore.

“Best you can hope for is a busted head, Zee-Boy. And no graduation day. Not one of The Chink’s captains’ll ever put you to work knowin’ the old man has a hard-on for you. You’ll be boostin’ car radios and runnin’ numbers for The Bath Beach Boys till your Social Security kicks in.”

Rizzo sat back, drawing deeply on his cigarette. “Unless, of course, somehow Louie was to get the impression it was you personally robbed them old bastards. Then I don’t figure you for any Social Security payments.” He turned to Priscilla. “How many quarters you need before you can collect Social Security, Cil?” he asked.

Priscilla smiled sweetly, her eyes on Intrafiore. “Forty,” she said. “Ten years.”

Rizzo nodded. “Yeah, like I thought.” He turned back to Intrafiore. “Whaddya think, Zee?” he asked. “You figure you can dodge The Chink for forty quarters?”

Intrafiore hesitated for a moment, his face impassive, before spitting out, “You got shit, Rizzo. You’re bluffin’. Whaddya tryin’ to impress Oprah here, show her what a tough guy you are, maybe grab some black ass on a night shift sometime?”

“Now Zee-Boy,” Rizzo said calmly, “you know me better than that.” He paused, dropping his cigarette to the floor and crushing it out slowly under his shoe. Then he raised his eyes back to the Rebel leader. “You wanna try me out, asshole? Go ahead. Try me out.”

Intrafiore tapped a finger on the tabletop, looking from one cop to the other before responding.

“Why would I let one of my guys pull local robberies? You think I’m that stupid? You think Chink’ll figure me for that stupid?”

“I don’t know,” Rizzo said with a shrug, “and I don’t give a fuck, either. I do know the perp is a Rebel, and I know you know he’s a Rebel. So, real soon Quattropa’s gonna know, too. Then my problem goes away.” He paused. “End of fuckin’ story. It’s hardball time, kid. If I wanted to, I could pick up a little coke somewheres, H maybe, grab you on the street some night, lock you up for possession. That violates your probation, and you go upstate. Your Youthful Offender days are over. Welcome to the big leagues. I can fuck you ten different ways and not break a sweat. But I’m givin’ you a chance here. I’m tryin’ to be nice. Tryin’ to do the right thing and give you a chance to help out with this. But you’re wearin’ my patience a little here.”