Terror on Twelfth Avenue

Terror on Twelfth Avenue

By

Remo Salta

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Remo Salta

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Cover Design Copyright Laura Shinn

Dedication

To Martha Megill,

the only one who thought it was possible,

with much love.

Chapter 1

Rays of sunlight filtered in through the Venetian blinds as I lay in bed, only partially awake. The room smelled of cheap perfume and even cheaper scotch, forcing me to think about the previous night. The blond, the nightclub, the slug from the .38. It was all coming back to me when I started feeling the sheets next to me begin to move.

I turned my head. She lay there with her long blond hair draped so innocently over her cool white shoulder. She was lying on her side, the sheets barely covering her body. She had a strange smirk on her lips, like some big movie star looking at a man with disdain. Her skin was smooth and soft, yet it also had that sensuous firmness that felt so good against the fingertips.

Sure, now I remembered. She was the girl singer at the Hotel Taft Grill. A woman of some talent but you knew that, for some reason, she would never make it. She saw too much, knew even more, and got so very little in return from the men she went out with. I was no exception.

My head was pounding while my brain was trying to convince the rest of my body that sitting up would be a good idea. The girl started to move, tilted her head a little, and then faced me. She let out a soft sigh and then licked those luscious red lips. Her eyelashes fluttered briefly as she gradually opened her eyes.

Morning, she said softly, only half awake.

She smiled while slowly pulling up the sheets against her ample breasts.

Morning, I replied. This was always an awkward moment between men and women. After all, there usually wasn’t much you could say that wouldn’t sound sappy or insincere.

She stretched out her hand and laid it carefully against my chest. She rubbed it gently, just teasing me, acting like a playful kitten that wanted some immediate attention. Yes, she was up, but I still had a long way to go.

Suddenly, the phone next to the bed rang. The loud, shrill, ringing noise pierced my head like a nail. Damn. Who could be calling me at the ungodly hour of 11:00 a.m.?

I reached out and fumbled with the receiver. I knew who it was as soon as she started talking.

Hello, Nick? The Chief wants to see you right away. It’s urgent. Come on, lover boy, get dressed and get your tail downtown in a hurry. He really wants to see you NOW."

It was Grace Thomas, my boss’ personal secretary. If Grace was hunting me down on a Saturday morning, it had to be important.

Uh-huh, was all I could manage. My head needed about 50 aspirins, but I wasn’t complaining.

What’s the old man want? I asked in a low, barely audible, growl.

Just get down here. He told me to tell you to get your pants back on, drop the dish, and get your ass into his office right now.

The blond next to me was getting a bit impatient with my telephone conversation. Her hand slowly slid down my chest and gradually made its way down to the place where good girls don’t go. Yes, this was a talented woman lying next to me. Looking back on it now, this dish could have raised the dead.

Grace, something just came, uh, up. Tell the old man I’ll be there in an hour.

All right, I’ll tell him. But hurry up. He’s really anxious to see you.

Trust me, Grace, I’ll get there as soon as I can.

I’ll bet, she answered. See you in an hour.

I hung up the phone and then faced the blond. She had that look on her face again, that look that said she wanted to play. I moved towards her, feeling her breasts pushing themselves against my chest. I thought I’d try to kiss that look off her lips. Yes, if I took a cab downtown I’d be there in an hour. But I’d have to move fast if I was going to make it.

Chapter 2

The cab dropped me off at the Federal Building at 100 Centre Street. The armed guard at the door looked bored, but he knew me and let me pass right through. America had only been in the war for a little more than a month and everybody was still jumpy. Armed guards were posted to all of the federal buildings in New York City, even though nobody was sure what they were guarding against. I didn’t think anyone would ever target lower Manhattan for an attack. But we were in the war now and I guess you could never have too much security.

The winter of 1942 was certainly a bad one for the United States and its Allies. We were losing on all fronts and it was going to take us months, if not years, to gear up for a global war. Meanwhile Great Britain, which was slowly being strangled by the dreaded U-boat menace, was hanging on for dear life. Things weren’t much better in the Pacific. The Japanese were advancing on all fronts and the situation for the Americans in the Philippines looked hopeless. Yes, things were not looking good at all, but it was only the end of the first round and there was still a long way to go in this fight.

I took the elevator to the seventh floor and got out. I headed for the main office on the floor and quickly opened the door. Grace was sitting there, at her post, at the front desk. She smiled as she looked up from the stacks of files that were piled on her desk. She had a plain, nondescript face, the type you pass on the street every day. A thin face with pale skin and dark brown hair tied back in a bun. But, she had a great set of baby blues that sparkled whenever the light hit them in a certain way. She was shy, but warmed up to you once you got to know her. She was also one of the most decent people I’ve ever met.

You’d better get in there right away, she said. He’s in a lousy mood and something big is up. I told him that you were tailing somebody and that’s why you’re late.

I shot her a warm smile. Grace, my love, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Will you marry me?

She blushed and looked down at her files. Knock it off and get in there.

I blew her a kiss and opened the door to his office.

Sitting behind a huge oak desk was Mike O’Malley, a big tough Irishman who was the Special Agent in charge of the New York City Office. Mike looked like a wall with arms. His thick, square frame had an even thicker head on it that was shaped like a cinderblock. He had short black hair that was turning gray and that pale Irish skin that turned red whenever he was drunk or angry. Right now, he was very, very, angry.

Well, if it isn’t the great Nick Pellegrino, he said sarcastically. Where the hell have you been? When I say get your ass down here now I mean NOW, got it!

Mike had been with the Bureau since the early thirties and was a close friend of J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover personally asked Mike to head up the New York City Office because it was Mike’s turf. Mike had lived in the city most of his life. He and Hoover had worked on a bunch of cases together and had convicted a number of high-profile kidnappers while Mike was a lieutenant on the city’s police force. Hoover asked Mike to join the Bureau several times, but Mike always resisted. After all, Mike had a nice life for himself on the force, and the cops didn’t much care for the Feds and vice-versa. But Hoover was persistent and he desperately needed a man who knew the city, knew its major criminals, and knew how to play with the bad boys in the sewer. Eventually, Mike gave in, probably because he got fed up with the dirty politics of being a city police lieutenant, and became Hoover’s man in New York.

Where were you last night? he said, staring dead center into my eyes.

I was tailing this dame who claimed to be one of Albert Anastasia’s girls. We’ve been trying to nail this guy on peddling prostitution across state lines for months now, so I thought I’d give it a try and meet her to see what she knew. She said she knew Anastasia personally and that she used to be very, very, close to him. She seemed to know how he used his nightclub on the West Side as a front for his whores. She also thought the guy was a pig and never wanted to see him again. Said that he was into some weird shit sexually and that after he got to know a girl he liked to hurt them. He liked to beat them, rape them, you know, the usual sadistic kind of junk. Anyway, he tried some of this stuff on her and she told him to get lost. He doesn’t seem to take too kindly to rejection, especially from a woman, and so he threatened to kill her if she didn’t cooperate. He even showed her a slug from a .38 and said that she would get three of these in the back of the head if she didn’t do what he wanted. So she did. She just laid there and let him do her. He left her alone after that and never saw her again. I guess he thought she wasn’t worth the effort.

Mike looked at me as if I had just presented him with a birthday present.

You think she’d testify against him on the prostitution rap? he asked anxiously.

I’m not sure. But if I keep at it she might. Like I said, she thinks the guy’s a pig.

A frown came over Mike’s chiseled face. He opened the top drawer to his desk and pulled out a large envelope. The few seconds of joy Mike had experienced at the thought of nailing a guy like Anastasia suddenly evaporated.

I want you to stop seeing the girl and place all your efforts into this one. He then handed me the envelope.

I was stunned. I knew how badly Mike wanted to get Albert Anastasia, one of New York’s hardest and meanest gangland killers. Anastasia used to be the head of the infamous Murder, Inc., and it was rumored that he actually enjoyed killing people. This finally seemed like a golden opportunity to nail the son-of-a-bitch by using a friendly witness to testify against him. Something big really must be up for him to want me to drop this investigation.

I opened the envelope and was shaken by what I saw. I sat down, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. I took a few deep drags while looking at the pictures in the envelope.

He was a good man and a friend of mine. I want you to nail the bastards that did that to him. It was the closest I’ve ever seen Mike get misty about anything. He looked like a freight train had just hit him.

It was Dick Peters, one of our agents. He was lying on his bed in his pajamas. Not a problem except his throat was cut, slit from ear to ear. There was a lot of blood and his eyes were wide open. He looked like he knew what was going on and just couldn’t do anything about it. Plain, ice-cold fear was written all over his face, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Whoever did this sure knew how to use a knife because the blood was pooling directly underneath his head. There didn’t seem to be any blood splattering against the walls or any signs of a struggle in any of the photographs that I saw. Whoever did it was sending a very specific message to us.

Mike was all choked up and for a tough guy he was having a lot of trouble trying to speak.

"He was following up a lead on a warehouse on Twelfth Avenue. The warehouse was supposed to be a major processing center for some heroin coming into this country by boat. The building used to be run by the German-American Steamship Line. Now it’s owned by some private little company. He was going to visit the warehouse, see what was going on, and report back to me on Monday. After looking at all of the photographs, I put them back into the envelope and thought for a few seconds. Something obviously went very wrong, but what?

Do you think any of your wop friends had anything to do with this? Mike asked dryly.

The question hit a nerve. Just because I was Italian Mike still thought we were all the same. I had been with the Bureau for two years now and Mike should have known better than to ask a question like that.

I don’t know, I answered tersely. Looks more like what a bunch of drunken micks do to a snitch.

Mike frowned. "Sorry about that, Nick. It’s just that the guy was a good friend of mine. A dog doesn’t deserve to die like that. I don’t understand it. Should have been a routine investigation and now the guy is dead. I want you to find out what happened, and fast. You’ve got the connections here in the city with the Italians. Find out if Peters was stepping on somebody’s toes and got whacked for his efforts. This is going to hit the papers in the morning. I could only hold those bums back for 24 hours. A dead FBI agent is news, big news, and Mr. Hoover isn’t going to like this one bit. Find out who did it and we won’t even bother with the trial. I’ll kill them myself.

I could understand Mike’s anger. Killing a local cop was bad enough, but killing a Fed caused all sorts of problems for criminals here in the city and it drew a lot of heat from Washington. Whoever did this knew the risks they were taking and either didn’t care or was trying to cover up something big. Really big.

I got up and headed for the door. Don’t worry about it, Mike, I’ll get right on it. We’ll ass-kick the bums that did this in no time.

And Nick, remember what I said, lose the dame. We don’t have any time for Anastasia right now. Find out who killed Peters and don’t come back until you do.

I thought about the blond that was sleeping next to me this morning. Why Anastasia would want to get rid of a dame like that is anybody’s guess. She was smooth, like some good gin after a hard day’s work. It would be hard to put her on hold just to work on a case. But this wasn’t just any case and I knew it. A man was dead, a good man, and we needed some answers.

You’ll hear from me in 48 hours, I said.

Thanks, Nick. Good luck and don’t get yourself killed. I couldn’t take two of my men getting it in one week. Then he smiled a bit. After all, who’d be dumb enough to take your jobs?

I was genuinely touched by Mike’s concern for me. For a guy who was usually as sensitive as a splintered toilet seat, it was nice to know.

Like I said, 48 hours. And tell Hoover to keep his shirt on. We can find our own killers here in New York. We don’t need any ‘help’ from Washington.

Mike nodded as I left the room. It was going to be a long 48 hours, but I knew, for some reason, that’s all the time I had before the shit would start hitting the fan.

Chapter 3

There were two things I had to do right away. First, I had to go to that warehouse on Twelfth Avenue and see what was going on there. Second, I had to find out if Mike was right and whether or not the local organized crime leaders in the area had anything to do with Peters’ death. I decided to tackle the second problem first, primarily because I always believed in visiting warehouses late at night. Nothing interesting ever seems to happen in warehouses during the day, so if something was up I’d find out about it at around three in the morning. That left checking out if any of the local mobsters knew anything about the murder, and for that task I had my Uncle Tony. My Uncle Tony Pellegrino was a high-level bookie on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and most of his business came from Harlem. Uncle Tony was never in the muscle end of the business, which is why I liked him, but he did run one of the most successful bookie operations in the city. His bosses loved him because he ran a clean operation, made lots of money for them, and never got into any trouble with the local cops. In fact, Uncle Tony was known to be generous with gifts to most of the patrolmen and officers of the local police precincts, which is why, for the most part, they left him alone. To Uncle Tony, gambling was a harmless vice and if you didn’t have the money, you shouldn’t make the bet.

As soon as I left the Federal building I went to a nearby telephone booth. As a kid, Uncle Tony always told me to call him from a pay phone. Even back then he knew about wire taps. Uncle Tony also knew a lot about what was happening on the West Side of the city, so I thought it was worth a call.

The phone rang four times before someone picked up the call. 7740, said the voice at the other end of the line.

Tony, please, I asked.

Who’s calling? asked the voice.

Tell him it’s Nicky. There was a short pause and then Uncle Tony came on the line.

Well, how the hell are you, kid? Long time no speak."

Fine, Uncle Tony. How’s Aunt Marie?

Doing fine. You have to come over to the house for some of her baked ziti. She misses you and so do I. Just because you’re a cop doesn’t mean you can’t visit family.

I know that, Uncle Tony. I need to see you. It’s important. Got any time for me today?

What’s the matter, kid, something wrong? he asked. You in some kind of trouble?

It’s important and I need to see you right away, I said bluntly.

OK kid, meet me at our usual place in one hour. I’ll be there.

Thanks Uncle Tony, I appreciate it. See you in an hour.

I hung up the phone. If anyone knew anything about the killing of a Fed in Manhattan, Uncle Tony would be the man to talk to. Even though he wasn’t in the muscle end of the business, he always kept his eyes and ears wide open. Uncle Tony hated surprises, so he always liked to know what was going on around him. But I sure hope he still didn’t hold it against me that I was trying to put his boss, Albert Anastasia, away for life. Hopefully, blood was still thicker than water, even on the West Side of Manhattan.

Chapter 4

The park bench was just opposite the Museum of Natural History on 80th Street and Central Park West. It was a very exclusive area with fancy apartment buildings overlooking Central Park. Uncle Tony always liked to meet here because he loved the museum. He always got a kick out of the dinosaur bones and never could understand how such powerful creatures just disappeared from the planet. The museum was also a nice, quiet place to meet a local police lieutenant and give him his monthly payoff so that he would leave his operation alone.

Uncle Tony was sitting on the bench when I got there. He was eating some peanuts out of a small brown paper bag as I sat down next to him. It was a cold gray February day so I didn’t want to be outside for too long if I could help it. I wanted to get right to the point, but Uncle Tony was never very direct when it came to handing out information on the mob.

You know, there are some amazing things in that museum, he said. Some very educational stuff. I always told your mother I wanted you to get an education. Your father, God rest his soul, made me promise him before he died that I would look after you and that I would make you get an education. So you got good grades in high school, you busted your ass waiting tables in local restaurants so that you could pay the tuition at City College, and you graduated with top honors. And then, what do you do? You join the Feds. Where did I go wrong?

Uncle Tony was a plump man with white hair, a long face, and a large hooked nose. He had this gravelly voice that you could recognize instantly and he had a heart as big as the plates of pasta he loved to eat. I loved the guy, mainly because he was so good to my mom and I after my dad died when I was ten. He always looked after us and tried to help out whenever he could. He was the only bookie I knew that loved kids as much as picking the trifecta at Aqueduct.

You know, some people would be proud of the fact that I’m trying to fight crime, and not cause it, I said.

You were never that picky when the numbers racket was putting food on your table.

That was a cheap shot and he knew it. There weren’t many employment options in New York City for a single Italian mother with a small kid. Mom worked as a seamstress for twelve hours a day, six days a week, just to make ends meet. Uncle Tony was family and mama didn’t think it was shameful accepting help from him from time to time.

You could have been a doctor or a lawyer. Instead you became a Fed. Christ, I can’t even tell anyone what you do for a living because they’ll think I’m either turning state’s evidence or ratting on them for something. What made you do this?

He knew why and I was getting tired of going over this with him again and again. I always hated the guys in the neighborhood who got anything they wanted by bullying people. Couldn’t stand the Mafiosi who thought that they were big shits because they could kill anybody they wanted, whenever they wanted, just because they were stronger than the next guy. And I couldn’t stand those bums because they made their livings by threatening small shop keepers and union workers and by making them pay protection money. I hated them when I was a kid and I still hate them now. And if the only way I can screw them is by putting them in jail, I’ll do it.

You’re just like your father, he said in that low, gravelly voice. He was stubborn as a Sicilian mule. A patrolman that never took a dime from nobody. Said it wasn’t right. People trying to give him some money to look the other way now and then, and he always said no. Big shot. The honest cop. And what did it get him? Two slugs in the back from a punk in Harlem holding up a liquor store. No medals, no money, just a cheap casket from the city and a lousy little pension for your mother. He died for strangers, just like you will some day.

The lecture was beginning to bore me. Maybe I was a sap for doing what I did, but at least I could look myself in the mirror each morning and not be ashamed. Uncle Tony could never understand that.

Are you going to help me or what? I finally asked.

Uncle Tony let out a soft sigh, shook his head, and said What do you want from me?

An FBI agent was killed yesterday here in the city. I need to know if one of the boys did it.

Uncle Tony didn’t look surprised at all. Oh, you mean that guy who got his throat cut the other day? Was he a Fed?

I was stunned. The case hadn’t even hit the papers yet and he knew all about it.

I have a friend down at the coroner’s office, he said. He’s a paisan from a town not too far from where your father and I were born. He called me and said they just brought in a stiff and that he thought it was a Fed. Was he right?

I looked at him cautiously. You know damn well he was right, I said. Was there any reason for any of the families here in the city to kill this guy? Was he on to something?

Uncle Tony looked at me in horror. What are you, nuts or something? Who would be stupid enough to kill a Fed? You know that killing a cop, any cop, let alone a Fed, is bad business and that nobody is