“That’s some good-looking lady, your wife.”
Joe glanced toward the ladies’ room.
“You’re a lucky guy.”
“That’s not my wife.”
“Even luckier. Hff, that’s some broad. Must be your sister.”
“Something like that.”
“She’s somebody’s sister. Not mine, lucky for you.” Gargano grinned. This was charm, a pale version of it. “Listen, I just come over to welcome you to the neighborhood, you know, let you know if there’s ever anything I can do for you, help you out or whatever, something I can do…you know.”
Joe nodded but did not reply.
“I’m offering you my friendship, see?”
“I see.”
“I heard about that thing with The Monkey and that TV show, this whole…mixup. I liked the way you stood up on that. Never said nothin’ about nothin’. You got a lot of fuckin’ balls, Detective Daley, you don’t mind my sayin’ so. That’s what I hear about you and that’s what I think: this man’s got balls like coconuts. Stand-up guy with two big fuckin’ coconuts.”
Joe nodded in a not unfriendly way. He figured Vinnie Gargano’s head was filled with coconuts, but what could you say?
“I remember your old man Joe Daley. You look a little like him, only bigger.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Hey, can I ask you a favor?”
Joe shrugged.
“You don’t mind? I mean, I don’t wanna do anything…”
Another shrug.
“I got this cousin, he’s a good kid, not like me. A little”-he pointed to his temple and made a face: crazy- “know what I mean, Joe? You got kids, right? So you know. So this kid, my cousin, he piled up all these parking tickets, with the construction and everything, and cuz he don’t care, since we’re just talkin’ here. So he piles up all these parking tickets. End of the year, he goes down to the registry to renew his plates. Stands in a line around the block, the whole thing. And guess what? They turn him down. Just like that.” He washed his hands together and showed Joe his palms. “I mean, whattaya…? So I told him, ‘Hey, stugatz, just go pay the fuckin’ tickets like Joe Citizen and take care of it.’ But he don’t listen. He’s a fuckin’ kid, am I right? Just screws the plates back on the fuckin’ car and off he goes, like nothin’. So some cop over there in your station cites him for an unregistered motor vehicle. So now the kid can’t drive. And if he can’t drive, he can’t work. You see the problem?”
Joe forked a piece of steak and showed it to Gargano. “You mind?”
“Go right ahead. While it’s hot. Don’t mind me. So the thing is, is I want to take care of this thing for this kid, my cousin. We all made mistakes when we were kids, right? So I seen you come in tonight and I figured, hey, that’s Joe Daley’s kid, why not reach out to him, see if he can help me take care of this thing. I mean, it iddn’t like the kid robbed a bank. Am I right or am I right? I would be very grateful if you would do this thing for me. Very grateful. I would consider it a personal favor.”
“Can’t do it.”
“I would consider it a personal favor.”
“Can’t help you. Sorry.”
“If it’s about the cost-”
“It’s not about the cost.”
Joe knew how it worked. He would do Gargano this small favor, then Gargano would slip him an envelope as a way of saying thank you, and that’s how it would start. They would have their hooks in him. Charlie Capobianco’s mob was famous for collecting cops. Their police pad was rumored to include the names of half the downtown cops, including captains and lieutenants in Homicide and Vice, even a special unit assigned to monitor organized crime. It was easy money, but the risk in getting tangled up with these North End guys was too high. Joe was determined to clean up his act. This bullshit with the bookies, and the money washing in and out-he’d had enough of the whole thing. As soon as he got back even, he was giving up the whole thing. Anyway, Capobianco hated cops almost as much as he hated Irishmen, and he harbored a special contempt for Irish cops. The last thing Joe needed was to crawl into bed with a guy like that.
“No offense,” Joe offered.
“No, no. No offense.” Gargano glanced around the restaurant. Joe Tecce’s did a good business even midweek, and the tables were piled in close. “Anyway, like I said, if there’s ever anything I can do for you.”
“Alright.”
“I hear you got a couple little tabs running, Detective.” Gargano stared. The mask of solicitousness slipped just a little. “You hit a little cold streak?”
“Huh?”
“I hear you like the puppies. They don’t like you so much though, lately.”
“Something you can do about that?”
Gargano shook his head. “Can’t help you there. No offense.”
Joe’s eyes fell. He cut his steak with affected concentration.
“Hey, that guy Rick Daley, that’s your brother, iddn’t he?”
“What about him?”
“Just askin’ is all. I need to have a word with him, too. He’s ducking me.”
“Leave him out of it.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you, big brother. We got our own business to discuss, Rick and me.”
Joe glared briefly, and foolishly, but then it is not always an asset to have balls like coconuts.
“Here comes your sister. Jee-zus Christ, would you look at the tits on that broad.” Gargano leered as she processed across the room. “Tits like that, they ought to strap her to the front of a ship, you know? Like one of those fuckin’ statues with the big tits they put on the front of a ship there?”
Joe said nothing.
Gargano turned to him and smirked at his own joke, at Joe’s abased silence. There could only be one alpha dog.
When the girl arrived, Gargano jumped to his feet, pushed in her chair for her, and wished them both a good meal.
“Friend of yours, Joe?”
“No. Come on, baby, let’s get out of here.”
“But I haven’t finished my dinner.”
“You’ll finish it some other time.”
18
Boston Homicide. BPD Headquarters, second floor. Friday, December 27, 1963, 10:30 A. M.
A dozen or so detectives clustered by the wall peering into a one-way mirror. The mirror looked into the Homicide commander’s office, a small space-a desk, a few chairs, a low bookcase-where important interviews usually took place, since there was no formal interview room. Unfortunately the glass was only big enough for two or three guys to look through comfortably (inside the office, the window was disguised as a discreet little framed mirror). So the detectives had arranged themselves just so, craning, like kids watching a ball game through a hole in the fence. At the front of the crowd was Brendan Conroy’s big slab of a face. Conroy was second in command at Boston Homicide. Michael Daley’s face was there too, peering down a narrow sight path through the crowd, through the glass, to the back quarter of Arthur Nast’s head. Next to Michael in the crowd was a Homicide detective named Tom Hart, who had been one of Joe Senior’s favorites. Tom Hart was bald and puff-bellied and decent. There was an unmistakable significance, Michael thought, in the way Hart had positioned himself next to Michael. The implication was that Joe Senior’s son could never really be an outsider here. Through the glass, inside the
