with Marie Gubitosi. She could have blown me off by saying, “I don’t know anything, and what I do know I’m not telling you.”
But she didn’t say that, so she knew something, and maybe she’d share it. Or maybe she just wanted company and a pack of Pampers. Or maybe she was on the phone right now with the OPR, who’d record our conversation and take me away. In any case, I’d know soon enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I got off the ferry at the St. George terminal, walked to the taxi stand, and gave the driver the address in the New Springville section.
I don’t know this outer borough very well, but when I was a young rookie, cops who screwed up were routinely threatened with being exiled to Staten Island. I used to have nightmares of me walking a beat through woods and mosquito swamps, twirling my nightstick and whistling in the dark.
But like most places whose mere mention makes your blood run cold, like Siberia, Death Valley, or New Jersey, this place didn’t live up to its scary reputation.
In fact, this borough of New York City is an okay place, a mixture of urban, suburban, and rural, mostly middle-class with a Republican majority, which made the free ferry ride all the more unexplainable.
It was also home to many city cops who may have been sent here originally as punishment, and who liked it and stayed-sort of like how Australia was settled.
In any case, this was also home to Marie Gubitosi Lentini, former Anti-Terrorist Task Force detective, and currently a wife and mother, who was now thinking about my visit, and who I hoped had found her detective pad for the time period in question. I never knew a detective who threw away their old notepads, myself included, but sometimes they got lost or misplaced. I hoped that Marie at least had a good memory. I hoped, too, that she remembered where her loyalties should lie.
The cabbie was a gent named Slobadan Milkovic-probably a Balkan war criminal-and he was reading a map instead of looking at the road. I said to him, “There’s a Duane Reade on the way. Capisce? Drugstore. Pharmacy. I need to stop.”
He nodded and accelerated as if this was an urgent mission.
We continued on down Victory Boulevard, and Mr. Milkovic two-wheeled it into a strip mall to the Duane Reade.
I’m not going to get into the utter humiliation of John Corey buying diapers with Elmo’s face on the package, but it wasn’t one of my better retail experiences.
Within ten minutes, I was back in the taxi, and ten minutes later, I was in front of the Lentini residence.
The street was fairly new with rows of semidetached red-brick homes trimmed with white vinyl, and the street stretched as far as the eye could see, like an infinity mirror. Dogs barked behind chain-link fences, and kids played on the sidewalks. My Manhattan snobbery aside, it was a very homey, comfy neighborhood, and if I lived here, I’d put my gun to my head.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d be here, or if there was another cab on Staten Island, so I told the cabbie to keep the meter running, got out and opened a chain-link gate, walked up the short concrete path, and rang the doorbell.
No dogs barked inside, and no kids screamed, which made me happy. A few seconds later, Marie Gubitosi opened the front door, wearing black slacks and a red sleeveless top. I opened the screen door, and we exchanged greetings. She said, “Thanks for remembering the diapers. Come on in.”
I followed her into an air-conditioned living room, which looked like a place where Carmela Soprano would feel comfortable, and into the kitchen. Marie actually
As neat as the living room was, the kitchen was total chaos. A playpen sat in the corner where some kid of indeterminate age was stretched out, sucking on a bottle while playing with his or her toes. I still do this, and maybe this is where it comes from.
The table, counters, and floor were strewn with a jumble of things that my mind couldn’t catalogue. It looked like the scene of a robbery and double homicide where the victims fought back hard.
Marie said, “Have a seat. I made coffee.”
“Thanks.” I sat at a small kitchen table, and I put the plastic bag with the Pampers on the table. Next to me was a highchair whose tray looked goopy.
She said, “Sorry. This place is a mess.”
“Nice place.”
She poured two mugs of coffee. “I try to clean up before his majesty comes home. Cream? Sugar?”
“Black.”
She carried the two mugs to the table, and I noticed for the first time that she was literally barefoot and pregnant.
She sat across from me and raised her mug. We clinked, and I said, “You look good.”
“Was that disability for blindness?”
I smiled. “No. I mean it.”
“Thanks.”
She peeked inside the plastic bag, and I said, “Elmo.”
She smiled. “Can I pay you for those?”
“No.” I sipped my coffee. Marie Gubitosi was in fact still an attractive woman, and I guessed that she’d spruced up before I arrived. I smelled a little eau de something over the smells of baby powder and warm milk.
She nodded toward the playpen and said, “That’s Joe Junior. He’s eleven months. Melissa, two and a half, is sleeping, thank God, and I have one in the oven.”
I remembered to ask, “When are you due?”
“Sixteen weeks and three days.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yeah. I’m never going to get back to the job.”
She needed to figure out what was causing these pregnancies, but I said, “It’ll be sooner than you think.”
“Yeah. So, you look good. Gained a little weight, maybe. And you’re divorced and married again. I didn’t hear about that. I don’t hear anything anymore. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Kate Mayfield. FBI on the task force.”
“I’m not sure I know her.”
“She got there right before TWA 800. She worked the case.”
Marie didn’t respond to the mention of TWA 800 and said, “So, you married an FBI lady. Jeez, John, first a criminal defense lawyer, then an FBI agent. What’s with you?”
“I like to fuck lawyers.”
She laughed so hard she almost choked on her coffee.
We made small talk for a while, and it was actually quite pleasant, catching up on gossip and remembering some funny incidents. She said, “Remember that time you and Dom went to that town house down in Gramercy Park where the wife shot her husband, and she’s saying he pulled the gun on her, they struggled, and it went off? Then Dom goes up to the bedroom where the corpse is getting stiff and comes back and shouts, ‘He’s alive! Call an ambulance!’ then he looks at the wife, and says, ‘He says you pulled the gun on him and shot him in cold blood!’ and the wife faints.”
We both got a laugh out of that, and I was getting nostalgic for the old days.
Marie refilled our coffees, then looked at me and asked, “So, how can I help you?”
I looked at her, and my gut instinct said she had not and would not call the Internal Affairs people.
I put down my coffee and said, “Here’s the deal. Yesterday, I went out to the memorial service for the victims of Flight 800, and-”
“Yeah. I saw that on the news. Didn’t see you. Can you believe it’s five years already?”
