“Printed in Blood: A Johnny Stone Mystery, Chapter 11” by Dean Goldberg

Johnny opened his office door slowly, making sure it was empty of any tough guys waiting to make it his last office visit. That done, he placed Freddie’s papers on his desk and stripped off his smelly, damp clothes. He paused for a couple of seconds looking at the pieces of food from the dumpster he had slept in and tossed the whole mess into his garbage can. Once in the tiny bathroom Johnny made the mistake of looking in the mirror which reflected red bloodshot eyes, sticky hair, a two-day old growth, and skin that had a strong resemblance to the last dead body he’d seen. “Holy shit,” he said out loud.

The shower was hot and the soap worked wonders. He even washed his hair with the shampoo that Toni had left on his desk last month. “Soap works just fine,” his father once told him, “Shampoo’s for women, for Chrisakes!”

He remembered those words, as he dug deep into the sticky morass that once was a pretty good head of hair.  After a long rinse off, and feeling refreshed for the first time he could remember, Johnny toweled off, wrapped the towel around his middle and walked out of the bathroom humming Bongo, bongo, bongo, I don’t want to leave the congo, oh no, no, no, but he  stopped in his tracks when he was confronted by two men dressed in suits and perfectly knotted ties who were sitting in his office.

One of the men, a slim man about thirty-five with thinning hair, was reading a magazine in the chair opposite the desk. The other man, about the same age, looked like the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly. His suit was expensive, his shoes as well. His hair was dark and glossy   with a perfect haircut. Johnny could smell the Old Spice aftershave from where he stood. The man was rifling through Freddie’s documents.

“Hey,” Johnny said in a near shout, “Who the hell are you? How the hell did you get in here?”

The well dressed man swiveled in Johnny’s chair.

“Hi Johnny,” he said, his voice matching his perfect looks. Realizing he was dressed only in a towel, Johnny could do nothing but wrap the thing a little tighter. The perfect man looked at the towel, pulled out a leather wallet and let the flap fold down to reveal his FBI badge.

“Why don’t you get dressed and we can have a little talk.”

Totally confused, Johnny abruptly turned around and ran into the small back room that served as his living quarters. He was back in about thirty seconds. Looping his belt and still shoeless he walked back into his office and stood next to his desk between the two men.

“How’d you get in here?”

The well dressed agent, who was obviously the senior member of the team said, “The door was open, so we let ourselves in.”

“Bullshit,” said Johnny.

The man raised his hands, “All right, the nice lady who runs the place downstairs let us in. But don’t be too hard on her, the badge seems to affect people that way.”
In fact Johnny couldn’t blame her; the FBI was the FBI.

The perfect man stood up and offered his hand.

“My name is Agent Miller, Norm Miller.”
Johnny, still a little stunned, shook the proffered hand. Agent Miller had a steel grip, which didn’t surprise him. The slim man with the thinning hair, got up. “I’m Agent Williams, Pete Williams,” he offered his hand, which Johnny also took. His handshake was soft and damp.

Agent Miller pointed to his partner, “Why don’t you let Mr. Stone sit there, Pete.”

“Sure,” said Williams. He got up and found a wall to lean on.

“Sit,” Agent Miller said to Johnny. He did, while he had a fleeting thought about needing to get a new chair to replace the one he bashed on Marvin the giant’s head.

“Mr. Stone,” Miller began, “Can I call you Johnny?” without an answer Miller continued, “Johnny, we want to talk to you about Victor Gaglioni, and Danny Alonzo. Also, we want to talk about Vincent Santelli,” he picked up the folder on the desk, “and about Freddie Jackson.”

“That’s a long list,” said Johnny, beginning to feel his sea legs. “Not much I can tell you guys that you probably don’t know already.”

Miller smiled showing his perfectly white teeth, “On the contrary, we think you know a lot more than we’ve been able to put together.” He raised the Jackson folder again, “For example, where and how did you get this?”

Johnny didn’t smile, “Am I under arrest or something?”

Miller laughed, “No, not at all, Johnny, we just wanted to have a talk, see what you’ve uncovered—after all, you are a private detective right?”

Johnny shot back, “Yeah, with a valid license and everything. And a gun permit.”

“We’ve checked all that, Johnny. And we want to make sure you keep your license,” he paused, “and your permit.”

Johnny stood up, “Are you threatening me?”

“Relax, Johnny,” Miller said, “Sit down, we only want to talk. Sorry if you got the wrong idea.”

“I didn’t get the wrong idea, I got it all right. I got it fine,” Johnny was starting to heat up, “Now what the hell are you guys getting at?”

But the agent wasn’t quite through with what he was getting at.

“What about Albert Anastasia? Ever heard of him?”
Now Johnny laughed, “Only what I read, like a hundred fifty million other Americans.”

Miller continued, “What about Charles Yanowsky?”

“Charlie the Jew? Never heard of him,” Johnny leaned toward the desk, “C’mon guys, I’m going gray here.”

Miller placed his hands flat on the desk.

“Okay Johnny. The fact is we need your help.”

Agent Williams pushed himself off the wall, “We know that you’ve been snooping around since the death of your pal Vincent Santelli. We also know that you were right next to Danny Alonzo when he got hit. We know about your run in with Victor Gaglioni and his muscle. And we know that,” he pointed to the folder on the desk, “these are Freddie Jackson’s notes on the story he was writing about the Mob and the ILA.”

“Sounds like you know as much as I do, maybe more,” said Johnny, “So what do you need me for?”

Miller took the helm again and pointed to Jackson’s files. “Have you gone through these yet?” This time it was Johnny’s turn to laugh. “Are you kidding? You guys must have seen me get out of the cab an hour ago. And since you caught me half naked out of the shower, just when would I have time even to open the damn thing?”

Miller smiled, “I guess you’re right.”

Things went silent for a moment. Johnny raised his hands, spread them wide, palms out, in a ‘So, what now???’ gesture.

Miller continued, “Johnny, we want you to work with us, in an unofficial capacity.”

Johnny let his hands fall into his lap, “And what the hell does that mean?”

“You know all the players, maybe even rubbed shoulders with some of the bad guys.”
Williams chimed in, “I heard Vincent Gaglioni’s muscle did more than rub shoulders with you.”

Johnny shot the man a dirty look.

“Okay,” said Johnny, “but where do I come in?”

Another pause.

“We want you to go undercover, Johnny. You’ve been beat up, the cops won’t help, people around you are getting killed. We want you to try to make contact with these people, tell them that you’re tired of being a punching bag. That you’re sick of watching your old man shrink before your eyes. That you can’t take your girl out for a good dinner. That it’s time for you to get some of respect and some real dough. Remind them that you know all the guys on the shifts, you could be very useful to them.”

Johnny just stared at Agent Miller. “Are you fucking crazy? What, did you guys just bust an opium den and decided to take some of the good stuff?”

“I know it sounds implausible at first,” answered Miller, “But you’re not exactly a household name Johnny. Everyone knows about your war record—which means you’re tough. But let’s face it, you’ve mostly done “peek into the window,” divorce cases.” Miller looked around, “You live in your office, you don’t even have your own apartment. No disrespect Johnny, but you’re pretty low rent as far as the Mob is concerned.”

Johnny said to the floor, “I like my office, no subways to take after work.”

Miller raised his hand, “Sure Johnny, I was just sayin’, in the outside world, nobody knows you that well.” Johnny pushed back, “I can name a handful who know me pretty well, I was warned off digging into Vinnie’s death weeks ago already—and they weren’t from the Police Athletic League, if you catch my drift.”

“Yes, we know about that incident. They were just paid thugs, nobodies.”

“The guy in the backseat wasn’t a nobody, I can tell you that,” Miller shot Williams look but remained silent.

“And just how am I supposed to join this merry fucking band?”

“We have some ideas about that Johnny,” said the agent, “We’ve got a plan.”

“Oh gee, you’ve got a plan. Does it end up with me full of bullet holes?”

“I don’t think that would be a very effective plan, Johnny. We want you alive and well,” Miller responded.

“So, what’s the plan?” asked Johnny.

“Well, first we need to know if you’re in Johnny.”

“Why would I want to do this, what about my cases?”

“From what we know you’ve got no pending cases.”

“Yeah, well I’m working on that. And how do I support myself working for you guys?”

“We would be able to give you a consultant’s fee to keep you going.”

“How long?” asked Johnny. “How long do I have to play the newest Flattop Jones?”

“We think we can wrap this up in a less than two months, if you can get inside pretty quickly.  We have a backstory that we think will impress them, nothing illegal but some personal conflicts where you got the upper hand that landed a few tough guys in the hospital; even something pointing to you in the Carlin murder case a couple of years ago. Just enough to give you some creds,” Miller softened, “Look Johnny, we know Vincent was your best friend. We know you hate the mob and what’s happening on the waterfront. We know you’ve grown up watching the mob get stronger and strong. The ILA is in your blood. You could help us clean up the place and put some real bad guys out of commission.”

“I still think it’s a crazy idea,” said Johnny. Why would they buy my act?”

Miller circled the office with his hand. “Like I said, Johnny, these guys are always working the angles, always looking to make a fast buck. The big bosses are tough, ambitious and ruthless, they don’t understand the average guy who works for a living, that’s your ticket inside; they won’t welcome you with open arms at first, but if you play this right, they’ll just think you finally wised up about things.”
Johnny let out a long breath, “When would I have to give you an answer?”

Miller looked Johnny straight in the eyes, “Yesterday.”

“I see,” said Johnny, “Well yesterday I woke up in a dumpster after a good mauling, so I guess anything I do now is an improvement. Okay. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, when do we start getting me killed?”

Miller grinned. “We just started Johnny, and we really wouldn’t be doing this if we thought you’d end up in the morgue,” he took out business card and wrote on the back, “this is the address of a safe house we use on the upper west side. Meet us there tomorrow at noon and we’ll walk you through our plan,” Miller stood up, “This is the right thing to do Johnny. For your friends, for Vincent, for the ILA,” the two men walked to the door, Miller turned around, “Remember Johnny, you must keep this to yourself, no one, I mean no one, can know what you’re doing. For their safety and yours,” Miller closed the door gently behind him.

Johnny sat still in the chair he’d been sitting in for the last hour. He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, why he said yes to these G men. But it was true he hadn’t gotten anywhere, except beat up and kept in custody for hours. And people, were dying around him.

There’s got to be a better way, he thought, but as crazy as it sounds maybe this just might be the answer. But the other voice in his head just laughed.

The only thing Johnny knew for sure was that he’d entered a new world, a very dangerous one, and he was afraid he’d never be able to get back.