It was 7:30 am and I was trying to mainline the coffee Ted Tobias had handed to me in his office at The SUN. When Ted had asked me if I wanted milk and sugar in my coffee, I muttered, “Nope, but pour it into the biggest cup you have—maybe even a bowl.”
Ted laughed. He had a really bad laugh, more like a guffaw. I guess that laughter wasn’t prioritized in his Boston Brahmin family. He did find a big mug and I gulped down the coffee. It was probably the worst coffee I ever tasted, but it did wake me up, sort of. I reminded myself to check for any new hairs on my chest when I got home.
“I got a call from Lt. Farentino over at the 25th in Brooklyn,” said Ted, practically falling into his leather chair, “he said he had heard we might be working together.”
Hearing Farentino’s name did the trick; I was instantly wide awake, and I wasn’t happy.
I must have turned a deep shade of red, because Ted held up his hands, “I told him that was absolutely untrue. I told him that I knew you had something going with Freddie, but I hadn’t heard or seen you since the funeral.”
“Did he buy it?”
Ted guffawed again, “Didn’t believe a word.”
I try to guffaw, just like Ted, but coming from an Italian from Brooklyn, it sounded more like I was having a coughing fit.
Ted was more circumspect. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Ted,” I said. “He’s always in a bad mood about one thing or another,” I said, “but lately…” Ted pressed me, “Lately…”
“He’s just not the same asshole I’ve known for the last few years. I mean he’s still an asshole, but a very different asshole.”.
Ted asked, “Do you think he’s bent?”
“Farentino? The mayor’s favorite cop? He’s got more commendations than anyone in his precinct,” I lit up my first Lucky of the day, “not a chance. He’s an asshole, but he’s a straight shooter.” I considered what I’d just said, “Maybe too straight.”
Ted raised an eyebrow.
“I mean he’s single minded, once he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it, ever,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I was bringing my personal problems into the mix.
Ted got up, went to the safe built into the wall behind his desk. He dialed the combination and retrieved a green folder. He threw it on the desk. I picked it up and opened it up.
“I found this taped to the underside of Freddie’s desk.”
There was only one paper in the folder. Apparently, Freddie’s number one source down at the docs had a bead on a shipment full of Sugar that was headed to Brooklyn, it was dated two weeks ago. I looked at Ted, “So?”
“So, he was sure they had more in the shipment than plain sugar,” Ted explained.
“Like what else?” I asked.
Ted scratched his chin. “Like dope,” another scratch, “I called Farentino about it. He thanked me and told me he would look into this personally.”
“And?”
Ted leaned toward me. “So, nothing. Not a peep.”
I wasn’t surprised, “Lots of ships going in and out of the docks in Brooklyn,” I said.
“Yeah,” answered Ted, “But I’m pretty sure he meant the Moore McCormack line,” he paused, “and that’s Farentino’s backyard, right?
“Did you follow up?” I asked.
“Yup. Nothing, except a phone call after I stalked him for a couple of weeks,” said Ted.
“Then what?”
Ted swung his chair around and looked down at the city through the floor to ceiling window. The city was beginning to wake up. You could practically smell the aroma of hot coffee and first cigarettes five stories down. “Then he called to tell me that if we kept sticking our noses into the docks, he would make sure they would be cut off.”
“Our noses?” I repeated.
“Our noses,” said Ted, “so I ask again, do you think Farentino’s bent or does he just want the bust for himself, a stepping stone running the department?”
“I really don’t know,” I said honestly, “Do we know the owners of this ship?”
“It’s called the Mandolin, and get this, it’s owned by “Maritime shipping” which is a company whose ownership is pretty sketchy. But Tommy O’Donald, our head of research, finally got his hands on the title of incorporation. And guess whose name is on it, among others?”
I just waited for the punch line.
“Albert Anastasia.”
“That’s a pretty big punchline,” I thought to myself..
*****
It was 9:40 by the time I left The Evening Sun. I caught a cab downtown.
“Katz’s deli,” I said, “it’s on…”
The cabbie interrupted, “On Ludlow and Houston,” said the cabbie, as he looked at me in his rear view mirror, “Are you kidding me Mack? I should lose my medallion if I didn’t know Katz’s. Love their pastrami sandwiches.”
Properly chastised, I leaned back and thought about this puzzle where none of the pieces fit. I kept moving the pieces that I had, which were few, trying to see the big picture. But I kept coming up empty handed. Who killed Freddie and what for? What was he on to?
For that matter, was Vinnie’s murder even related to the other murders? And how did Victor and his gang fit into this? Finally, there was Miller and Williams. I was lost in thought when the cabbie turned the corner of Houston and stopped the car.
“Here we go fella,” said the cabbie. I paid the fare, tipped the cabbie and got out.
“The pastrami is the best thing in the place,” he shouted out the window as he took off.
I was watching the cab drive away, when I spotted Toni coming up the street from the subway. I watched her as she walked, casually, easily, beautifully.
Boy, was I in love with this dame.
“Look,” I said when she caught up with me, “please promise me you’ll stay back, sit at another table, whatever, but you have to let me talk to Sam alone.”
She gave me one of her half smiles, half you’ll never know what I’m thinking looks.
“Sure Johnny.”
Well, I wasn’t so sure, but in a couple of steps we were at Katz’s.
“Wait a minute or two before you go in,” I said. She nodded, yes.
Katz’s deli was a New York institution. Like a hundred soldiers I had gotten a giant Salami that my mom had sent me through the “Send A Salami To Your Boy In The Army” promotion during the war.
At ten in the morning, the place was pretty empty.
A waiter appeared. “Table for only one?”
The waiters at Katz’s were known for their subtle and not so subtle put downs.
“Yes. One.”
The waiter rolled his eyes, “This way please.”
I stopped him, “By the way, is Sam Mendelson here, I have a message from his cousin.”
Suddenly the waiter turned all business. “Yes, he’s in the last booth on your right.”
I could see the back of the man. Head down, concentrating on his food, I guessed.
I said, “I may end up sitting with him, so let’s hold off on the table.”
The waiter left me so fast I could see speed lines in back of him.
I walked over to the table. Mendelson wasn’t concentrating on anything and never would again. I looked up, caught the waiter’s eye.
“Call the police, this man is dead.”
Toni had arrived just as I had gotten to the booth. She rushed over to where I was standing. Mendelson had a full plate of Kippered Salmon and eggs. His fork and knife in his hands, head bowed. He looked like a statue, a dead statue.
Toni’s hands came up to her mouth, eyes wide.
She stared up at me, confused, scared.
We hardly noticed the commotion around us, waiters running around, the few customers quickly paying their bills or just craning their necks to see better.
By the time the cops came, we were both sitting at another table drinking coffee.
The top cop came over.
“I’m Captain Thom Mooney, I heard you were the guy who found him like this,” he said.
“I did.” I answered
The cop took off his hat to reveal a shock of red hair, what a surprise I thought an Irish cop with red hair.
He jerked his thumb toward the waiter who was still shaking. “Also heard you knew Mendelson.”
“Not really,” I said. I showed him my PI license. He snorted. Snorting at my PI license was very popular with the police, second only to sneering.
“A PI huh?” I had no idea why they always asked me that question while they were looking at my PI license.
“Yup.”
“What ja want with Mendelson?”
“Just had a couple of questions.”
“Did you get any answers?”
“Since he was dead,” I said with a straight face, “he wasn’t very talkative.”
“Funny,” said Mooney.
I thought it was kinda funny.
Mooney sat down at our table.
“What did you want to talk to him about?” he asked again.
I took another sip of my coffee; it was really good coffee.
“Nothing much. Just some rumors I wanted to clear up.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You know that’s confidential,” I said.
Mooney got mad pretty damn quick.
“Look, we got a dead man in the booth, a very important dead man.”
“You mean a very important mobster,” I added, “Captain Mooney, I don’t mean to make your job more difficult. I’d never met Mendelson. I’ve been looking into the murders of Vinnie Santelli and Freddie Jackson and had some questions for him.
“Jackson, from the NY SUN? I read about that. The Santelli guy I don’t know.”
“He was a printer and a good friend.”
“So what’s the connection?” said Mooney.
“I’m not sure if there was one,” I said truthfully. “That’s what I was trying to find out.”
“Only you were a couple of minutes too late,” cracked Mooney.
“Right.”
We were interrupted by a giant in blue.
“Hey Johnny! Whaddya say?” It was Matt O’Rourke. I knew him from the years when he was a beat cop in my neighborhood.
Mooney looked up, “You know this guy?” he said pointing his thumb my way.
“Johnny?” Matt smiled, “Sure, we practically grew up together. His old man used to be a big man on the docks, not connected, more a thorn in the bosses’ side,” he looked at me then turned back to Mooney. “The boys got all the information from the customers they could; seems nobody saw nothing.”
Mooney just shook his head, “Funny how everyone gets dumb and blind around a murder.”
“The waiter said there was another man in the booth with him, around 5 10, brown hair, brown suit,” said the man had his sunglasses on even though he was inside, “left about ten minutes before Johnny came in.”
That description must have fit about a quarter million of the 8 million people in the city and Mooney knew it. He looked over at me and then Toni. She was still pretty shaken.
“Ma’am do you think you need medical attention.”
Toni waved her hand, “No. Maybe a stiff drink.”
“Kinda early,” said Mooney, “but I guess it’s not every day you see a dead man.”
“I guess,” said Toni.
Matt interrupted, “So what do we do, boss? Can the customers go?”
“Sure,” said Mooney, “Just make sure you get their phone numbers and addresses.”
“Right,” Matt pointed his figure at me, “see you around, Johnny. Say hello to your mom for me.”
“Sure,” I said.
Mooney looked at me for a long time, giving me a long sigh that only veteran cops know how to do, “That goes for you, Stone. Name, address, phone. You too ma’am.”
I stood up.
“So we can go?”
Another really professional sigh, “Yeah, but stay close.”
We left quickly and didn’t look back.
I hailed a cab. When we slid into the back seat, Toni turned to me and said, “Johnny, just what the hell happened?”
I lit a lucky, rolled down the window.
“I don’t know,” I said, “I really don’t know.”
