Scott Sigler: Nocturnal: A Novel

Robertson clapped three times to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s get started,” he said. Robertson’s thick brown hair had recently started to go gray at the temples, a color that matched his glasses. He always looked half rumpled: neither sloppy nor neat. His blue tie and bluer button-down shirt didn’t quite hide a growing gut. That’s what a desk job would do to you.

“Let’s make it quick and get you back on the streets,” he said. “I want to introduce Agent Tony Tryon, FBI.”

The three-piece-suit man smiled. “Good morning. I’m here because I’ve spent the last five years watching Frank Lanza.”

Ball-Puller Boyd started laughing. “ Lanza ? As in, the Mafia Lanzas of the Long-Ago Time?”

The FBI agent nodded.

Chris Kearney crossed his arms over his sweater-vest-covered chest and glared at the FBI agent. Bryan wondered if Kearney doubted the man or was just jealous of the tailored suit.

“The mob hasn’t been here since Jimmy the Hat died,” Kearney said. “The Tongs and the Russians pushed them out.”

Jennifer clacked her pen against the table, tap-tap-tap . “Wait a minute — did you say the hat ? His mob nickname was the hat ? Not exactly frightening, is it?”

Tryon smiled at her. She smiled back. Bryan noticed Pookie scowl at the FBI agent.

“James Lanza frightened people just fine,” Tryon said. “He ran the La Cosa Nostra in San Francisco for almost forty years. His dad, Francesco, founded the whole thing back in Prohibition.”

Tryon picked up a folder off the table and walked to a corkboard at the end of the room. He pulled out black-and-white photos and started pinning them to the board. Pictures of four men went up in a row, with a single face on top. The face in that photo showed a man in his early forties, short black hair parted on the left side. Even in the still shot, Bryan thought the man looked smug and condescending.

Tryon tapped that top picture. “Francesco Joseph Lanza, known as Frank . Son of Jimmy the Hat, grandson of the first Francesco. For years, we’ve known Frank has been asking for permission to take back San Francisco. Looks like he got it. We think he’s been here for six months, maybe more.”

“Bullshit,” said Ball-Puller Boyd. “We’d have heard he was in town.”

Tryon shook his head. “Like his father, Frank doesn’t draw attention to himself. He’s probably not here for the clam chowder, if you know what I’m saying.”

The FBI agent smiled at the other cops, as if waiting for them to laugh at his joke. No one did. His smile faded. He shrugged. “Anyway, Frank Lanza has been here for about six months. He brought a few guys out with him.” Tryon tapped the faces below Lanza as he called out the names. “The big fella with the shaved head is Tony ‘Four Balls’ Gillum, Frank’s right-hand man and bodyguard. The guy in the middle with the oft-broken nose is Paulie ‘Hatchet’ Caprise. This one is Little Tommy Cosimo. Last but not least, and the real reason I’m here” — he tapped the final picture — “is this sleepy-eyed gent, Pete ‘the Fucking Jew’ Goldblum.”

Pookie raised his hand. “This guy’s nickname is the fucking Jew ?”

“At least it’s better than the hat ,” Jennifer said.

“Goldblum is bad news,” Tryon said. “No convictions, but he’s got several hits to his name. If Lanza was behind Ablamowicz’s murder, you can bet Goldblum did the deed.”

“But why Ablamowicz?” Pookie said. “Taking out an accountant ? Accountants don’t mean shit. No offense, Chris.”

“It’s Christopher,” Kearney said.

Pookie hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Aw, damn. Sorry about that.”

Kearney looked at Pookie, then used his middle finger to rub his left eye. Pookie laughed.

“This accountant controlled cash flow for several organized crime outfits,” Kearney said. “Ablamowicz worked for the Odessa Mafia, the Wah Ching Triad and Johnny Yee of the Suey Singsa Tong. More recently, Ablamowicz was moving a lot of cash for Fernando Rodriguez, leader of the Norteños.”

All those gangs were serious business, but Bryan’s role in Homicide brought him face-to-face with the Norteños more than any other outfit. For decades, the gang had spent most of their energy fighting their main rival, the Sureños. Under Fernando’s guidance, however, the Norteños were expanding operations. Fernando was known for his smarts as well as his boldness — he would order a hit on anyone, anywhere, at any time.

“Ablamowicz controlled money,” Kearney said. “If you want to mess up cash flow in San Francisco, he was a good a place to start.”

Tryon again tapped on the picture of Frank Lanza. “Maybe Lanza offered Ablamowicz a deal. Maybe Ablamowicz didn’t take the offer.”

Robertson stood and smoothed his tie. “Thank you, Agent Tryon. That gives us more to look at. Tryon has copies of these photos for all of you, and he’s been kind enough to share addresses and hangouts for Lanza’s people. Brothers Steve, go talk to Paulie Caprise and Little Tommy Cosimo. Clauser and Chang, track down Goldblum and see if he has anything to say.”

Everyone started to file out, but Pookie hung back. Bryan waited to see what his partner wanted.

“Hey, Assistant Chief,” Pookie said. “Got a minute?”

Robertson nodded, then shook Tryon’s hand. Tryon walked out, leaving Robertson with Pookie and Bryan.

“What’s up, Pooks? You have some thoughts on Lanza?”

“No,” Pookie said. “We’ve got thoughts on Paul Maloney.”

Robertson nodded as he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Ah, I should have seen that coming.”

Bryan’s throat felt scratchy and dry. He needed some water — hopefully Pookie’s whining wouldn’t take long.

“We want this one,” Pookie said. “Come on, man. It went down in the middle of the night. It’s ours .”

Robertson shook his head. “Not going to happen, gents. It’s Verde’s case.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Pookie said. “I like Rich Verde. I also like my grampa. My grampa drools a lot and tends to shit himself. Not that I’m making any association with Rich’s age, mind you.”

Robertson laughed. “The fact that Chief Zou wants you guys on the Ablamowicz case is a compliment to your skills. Be happy with that. Now go talk to Goldblum. Find me something.”

Robertson walked out.

Pookie shook his head. “I hate this L-I-T-F-A shit.”

“L-I-T-F-A?”

“Leave it the fuck alone,” Pookie said. “The guys who should be on the case intentionally kept off it? An ME that hasn’t left the office in half a decade assigned to work the body? Strange things are afoot at the Circle-K, Bri-Bri.”

Pookie had a point, but a couple of strange things didn’t add up to a conspiracy. Sometimes the brass made decisions that didn’t go your way.

“Forget it,” Bryan said. “Come on, the sooner we find Goldblum, maybe the sooner we get back on nights.”

Robin-Robin Bo-Bobbin

Robin Hudson backed her Honda motorcycle into the thin parking strip on Harriet Street just outside the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s Office. Several bikes were already there, some owned by her co-workers. The guys had 1200s; the women mostly had scooters — Robin’s ride sat right in the middle at 745ccs.

The morgue van was already backed into the unloading dock. Maybe it had been a busy night. She walked past the AMBULANCES ONLY sign and up the ramp toward the loading dock. She liked to enter work every day the same way her subjects did — through the doors where the bodies were rolled in.

It surprised her to see her boss get out of the van and gingerly step down to the ground.