“We ready?” Carozza asked. He paused as TV lights switched on. “All right, let’s get started. We’re going to begin with an announcement from Chief Ricci.”
“At 11:57 last night,” the chief began, “two Providence police officers on patrol in Mount Hope observed two male subjects armed with baseball bats committing an assault upon another male subject at the southeast corner of Knowles and Cypress streets. The officers exited their vehicle, drew their weapons, and apprehended the suspects, who did not offer resistance. The suspects were then transported to police headquarters for questioning. There, detectives advised them of their rights, which they agreed to waive.
“The suspects identified themselves as Eddie Jackson, twenty-nine, of 46 Ivy Street, and Martin Tillinghast, thirty-seven, of 89 Forest Street. Both have criminal records, Mr. Jackson for assault and battery on his wife, and Mr. Tillinghast for truck hijacking and assault with a deadly weapon. They further identified themselves as members of a recently organized Mount Hope vigilante group calling itself the DiMaggios. The suspects stated that they were proceeding west on Cypress when they observed the victim walking toward them carrying an object. They subsequently determined that this object was a metal two-gallon gasoline can. The patrol officers did, in fact, recover such a can at the scene. They also recovered two baseball bats, including this one,” he said, holding it up for the cameras.
I was pretty sure now that I knew where this was going. I pulled a roll of Tums out of my pocket, peeled off a couple, and chewed.
“The victim was identified as Giovanni M. Pannone, fifty-one, of 144 Ivy Street,” the chief said. “He was taken by ambulance to Rhode Island Hospital, where he was admitted with a compound fracture of the right wrist, a concussion, and multiple contusions of the head, arms, and shoulders. At the hospital, Mr. Pannone told detectives that he had purchased gasoline for his snowblower at the Gulf station on North Main and was returning home on foot when he was accosted by the suspects.
“In their statements,” the chief went on, “the suspects expressed the belief that they had apprehended the individual responsible for the recent series of arsons in the Mount Hope neighborhood. Subsequent investigation by Providence police detectives determined that Mr. Pannone is employed as a guard on the overnight shift at the Adult Correctional Institution in Cranston and can account for his whereabouts when each of the fires was set. For most of them, he was at work. Mr. Jackson and Mr. Tillinghast have each been charged with one count of assault and battery and are being held pending arraignment. An investigation is ongoing to determine whether conspiracy charges can be brought against the organizer and other members of the so-called DiMaggios. That’s all I have.”
The chief bowed slightly and took a step backward. The blow-dry boys started shouting questions, but Carozza quieted them by holding up both hands and going “Shhhhhhh” into the microphones.
“I have something to add,” he said. “You didn’t think I’d be able to keep quiet in a room full of TV cameras, did you?” He paused for the laugh, frowned when it didn’t come, and moved on.
“What occurred last night is disturbing, very disturbing. I can’t have people prowling my city with baseball bats, taking the law into their own hands. Patrolling the streets is a job for the police, not for citizens with no training in law enforcement. You’d think that’s something we could all agree on, but our city’s only newspaper apparently takes a different view.”
My stomach was a vat of acid. The Tums weren’t working.
“Last Thursday, the newspaper published this story by L. S. A. Mulligan,” he said, holding up the front page with my feature on the DiMaggios circled in red marker. “For those of you who didn’t get around to reading it, I can tell you all you need to know. It’s disgraceful. It glorifies these vigilantes and the individual who organized them. An individual, by the way, named Dominic L. Zerilli, who has a record of bookmaking arrests and is known to police as an associate of organized crime.
“Mulligan,” he said, pointing a manicured finger at me, “I’ve had problems with you before, but this is a new low.”
With that, Logan Bedford, the asshole from Channel 10, prodded his cameraman to swing the lens my way. I thought of putting my hand in front of my face, but that would have looked too much like a perp walk. I thought of throwing the finger, but Logan would have made it look like I was flipping off the mayor. So I just smiled like a toothpaste model for the camera.
“On Sunday,” the mayor went on, “this newspaper published a page-one story by this same reporter criticizing the city’s arson squad. It was an outrageous story, full of half-truths and misleading statistics contrived to besmirch the reputations of devoted public servants. I want to make it clear that Chief Ricci and I have full confidence in our arson squad chief, Ernest M. Polecki, who is doing a remarkable job under trying circumstances, and I want to assure the people of this city that we will track down whoever is responsible for the rash of fires in Mount Hope and prosecute him or her to the full extent of the law.”
He paused so the print reporters could catch up with their scribbling.
“Okay,” he said. “Who’s got a question?”
“Mr. Mayor,” Bedford shouted, his hand in the air.
“Yes, Logan?”
“Could you please tell us how you’d like your new name pronounced on the air?”
“It’s Carozza,” the mayor replied. “The four
* * *
“Way to go, Mulligan,” Hardcastle crowed as I stepped off the elevator. “What’s next? A puff piece on serial rapists?”
In the newsroom, they’d watched the whole thing live on Channel 10. When I sat down, Lomax wandered over, pushed an empty Casserta Pizzeria box out of the way, and perched on the corner of my desk.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “If you hadn’t included those quotes from the cops, the ones telling people to stay home and leave the patrolling to them, we might have had a problem. But you did, so we don’t. Just keep writing about what people are doing, whether the mayor likes what they are doing or not.”
“Thanks, boss. I will.”
“So,” he said, “how about a nice little feature on cadaver dogs?”
As he walked off, I decided to proceed on the assumption that he was kidding.
18
Her long legs encased in gray wool slacks, McCracken’s secretary wasn’t flashing any thigh today. Instead, she wore a frilly white blouse with the top four buttons undone. From somewhere deep inside, I found the strength not to stare.
“Something tells me they might be real,” McCracken said, after she waved me into his office.
“Good you still got some faith,” I said.
“Faith I got, but no hope. Her boyfriend’s Vinnie Pazienza.”
Vinnie had lost some hand speed after giving up the ring for a job as a casino greeter, but he could still beat the crap out of your average middleweight.
“So I hear you’ve been prowling around Mount Hope at night,” McCracken said.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“Cop friend of mine.”
“Small world,” I said.
“No, small state,” he said. “Ought to stop wasting your time. It’s not like you’re gonna catch the guy in the act.”
“I know.”
“Terrific story on Polecki and Roselli,” he said. “About time somebody took them on. Maybe it’ll do some good.”
“I doubt it.”
“So do I.”
“So is that why you wanted to see me, tell me what a bang-up job I’m doing?”
“Got something for you,” he said. “Polecki gave me a look at his preliminary report on the rooming-house fire,
