During the night, I had managed to fall into a stream of flesh eating piranhas. I didn’t know how I got there, but I was too busy trying to escape to think about it. My rod was as useless as a fly swatter against these cannibals. Their razor sharp teeth tore into my skin as I tried to shake them off. Then the fish, the stream, and the jungle background began to fade. A voice came to my ears…”Wake up Mike.” My eyes opened to find Lola shaking me, or rather wrestling with me.
I said, “Baby, the next time you wake me, please don’t dig your nails into my skin.”
She replied, “Mike, it’s nearly noon already.” I grabbed her, and said that she was the most beautiful piranha in captivity. She didn’t know what I meant. In fact, she didn’t know what a piranha was, but giggled and squeaked, “Mike, you’re so romantic this morning.”
I had to laugh out loud. How could such a beautiful girl be such a “ditz”? The bed moaned as I climbed out. I put on my knee length lavender silk robe that Lola bought me in Chinatown last Christmas. The smell of food rolled into the bedroom, and I jumped to the kitchen eyeing the meal Lola had prepared.
“Lola baby, who the hell cooked this?”
“I did. Who do you think…the milkman?”
“I thought he might have helped you.”
She picked up the salt shaker from the table, and with the grace of a chicken, hurled it at me, hitting me square in the head. Immediately a lump appeared, and Lola began laughing. I thought it was pretty funny also. Here I am, the mug that doesn’t take any guff from anybody, and I take a knock on the head with a salt shaker from a hundred and twenty pounds blond.
As I bit into the first piece of fried pepperoni, Lola snuck up behind me, wrapped her arms around me, and tenderly nibbled on my ear. I gave her a warm kiss. She sat down opposite me as I started telling her the things I wanted her to do today. It would take an average secretary less than an hour to do, but with Lola, I estimated four hours.
“Baby, take a cab to the office. I’ll be there about two thirty. Before I get there, you get a hold of a few addresses. I want Dennis Chiulli’s, Krasinski’s mother, and Rocky Ragino’s. I want their home and business addresses, and phone numbers. Got it?”
She said, “Will do,” grabbed her white cotton coat, and purposely wiggled her sweet ass out the door.
I had some checking up to do as well. When my plate was empty, I stepped over to the bedroom closet, and perused the two jackets that remained. One was an eye shattering checkered tweed. The other was a maroon blazer that wasn’t tailored for my rig. I chose the blazer anyway, slipped it on, and looked in the mirror. It appeared as if I was carrying a cannon under my arm from the bump in the jacket.
I gave the joint a quick check over, and walked out the door locking it behind me. Down the hall were two old ladies whispering. One of them looked my way as I was waiting for the elevator to come up. I heard her mutter, “That’s Mr. Murdock from down the hall. He’s a real vicious man, and has killed many people including women and children.”
The other one came out with, “I have heard about him also. They say he killed people for laughs.” The elevator hit my floor. As the doors opened, I turned to the two old bags, and made a mean face. I threw my hands up as if to grab them, and let out with a deafening roar. Both of them were immobilized. I noticed liquid rolling down the leg of the one on the right, and howled when a puddle formed at her feet.
I took the elevator to the lobby, and walked out of the building. My humor was sharp today, and now it was time to toy with the doorman standing under the canopy. I strutted up to him, and reached into my wallet, pulling out a fiver. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bulge in my jacket.
I bellowed, “I am expecting a few mugs, probably five or six, to go up to my apartment. They will be carrying machine guns, probably in violin cases. If you see them, give me a ring at my office.” There was a lump in his throat the size of a watermelon as he nodded. I shuffled past the short, plump fellow before I broke out laughing.
The avenue was packed with cars. I jockeyed my way past a couple, then skirted to the other side of the street where my car was parked.
My keys clinked together as I pulled them out of my pocket, and jammed one into the ignition slot. The engine turned over with a loud rumble. I cut the wheels toward the street, and headed out. The radio came blasting on with some wild music the kids went for today, and I turned the dial to another station.
I left a little rubber when I pulled out of the space, in fact, it was almost impossible not to, with the heap stacked like mine.
The Yonkers Police Department was my destination. I turned onto Yonkers Avenue, pulled into a spot, and headed for the station house.
I asked the Sergeant at the desk if Frank was on duty. He nodded, and pointed the direction to go, which I knew as well as he did. I opened the door to Frank’s office, stepped in, and found Komo slaving over a pile of papers on his desk.
“Well, well, I could use another secretary,” I remarked. ”How about coming to work for me? I’ll double your pay.”
A frown grew over his face, and he spat out, “Who the hell did you kill now?”
“No one pal, not yet anyway.”
“Half this lousy paperwork is over you, you son of a bitch. Why don’t you stay in the Bronx, and bother those cops for a while!”
“I like Yonkers Frank. I like you too buddy.”
“Well buddy, I don’t like you.”
“Alright, I don’t like you either.”
“Cut the bullshit. What did you come here for?”
“I’d like to see your files on a couple of guys…Archie Bankoff and Johnny Dragon.”
He looked up from his papers, and eyed me as if I knew more about last night than him, or the P. D. downtown. I did.
“Why the info on Johnny Dragon?”
“Just a hunch, nothing solid to go on.”
“I know your kind of hunches. They always turn out right, even when they smell wrong.”
I wasn’t going to tell him anything. Not yet anyway.
I grunted, “Can I see the files?”
Frank pointed for me to sit down, and pressed the button on his desk. A couple of seconds later a uniformed cop walked in, was told what to get, and closed the door on his way out. The cop reminded me of a humanoid.
I pulled a butt out of my pack, offered one to Frank, and lit up.
“Mike, who do you think is behind this?”
“I don’t know!”
“What do you mean, “You don’t know!”. I know you better than that. If the Department had more men to spare I’d put a shadow on Dragon right now.”
“You’re crazy. I ain’t got anything to go on. If I did I’d tell you.”
The boy in blue came back in the office carrying two manila folders, dropped them on the cluttered desk, and scooted off.
I snuffed out my butt, stood up, and walked over to the Lieutenant’s desk.
“Read all you want Mike, but I don’t want any missing pages. Understand?”
I grumbled a, “Yeah,” picked up the folders, and shuffled back to my seat.
Archie Bankoff was on top, so I looked at his first.
The first couple of pages listed his job history, family, and associates. The next one got a little more interesting. Back in ‘62 Archie was called before the Boxing Commission on suspicion of influencing one of his small time boxers to take a dive. The fighter had blabbed that Arch paid him three thousand clams to take the fall. He did take the fall, but was one of those guys who had a guilty conscience.
Not much else was in there. Then my investigation paid off. On the next page was a list of Bankoff’s cohorts at the time of the hearing. They were Carmine Bonachi, Bobby Interdonato, and Salvatore Caro. These were the top three boys of the syndicate in Long Island. Down the list, I spotted another familiar name…Steve Dragon. Things began to add up. Steve supplied the muscle for the higher ups in the fight rackets. He got t
oo thirsty for big money, and tried the kidnapping business for a quick buck. He found out it didn’t pay enough after I got through with him. Steve couldn’t do his muscle work anymore, so Johnny moved in to take over his brother’s half. This had high-income potential. It had been going on for years. “Mr. Big” lays out some big bucks to several “books” on the underdog. He pays Dragon to put the squeeze on the favorite, and bingo…his money multiplies.
No evidence to nab anybody on anything though. These guys are smart, but they are not fooling around with the cops now. They are fooling around with Mike Murdock.
I closed the folder on Bankoff, and opened up the one on Dragon. His rap sheet was as long as the Declaration of Independence. The cops first nabbed the hood when he was seven years old for robbing and assaulting an old lady. You can say he started out young. The thug even spent a year in the Big House five years ago for manslaughter. He was in a fight with a guy, and killed him “accidentally.” The report read that the victim fell, hit his head against the curb, and died from the wound thereof. The boy he killed happened to be “Kid” Ramos, a top flyweight contender a few years back. This seemed more than just a coincidence. I figure Ramos didn’t want to play the game so he had to be made an example of, and eliminated. Manslaughter my ass! It sounded like premeditated murder to me.
This setup smelled worse the more I found out about it. There was no doubt in my mind now. The facts were right in front of my face. I wasn’t only going after Dragon and his crew. Another gang would just take his place. I was going for “Mr. Big,” the “Top Dog,” and the brain behind the operations.
Too many questions surged into my head. How did Krasinski really die? Who killed him? Who set up the bombing? Who tried to take me for a ride? Who tried to gun me down in the street? Who was the brain behind this operation?
I closed the folder, walked over to the desk, and said to Frank, “It looks like I’m barking up the wrong tree.”
He smiled contently and said, “I don’t think Dragon had anything to do with it. One more stunt by him, and he’d have a semi-private room up the river for the rest of his life.”
I nodded my head that he was probably right, lit up a butt and said, “Thanks for the peek at the files. Feel like sneaking out for a beer?”
He looked at his watch, eyed the work he had on his desk in disgust and said, “Yeah, but just a quick one.”
We walked past the booking station, out the door, and stepped toward the Red Hat. There was dried blood on the sidewalk and the wall from the other night. I opened the door for Komo, and we took a couple of seats at the bar.
Roxy came over, poured us each a beer, and laid a double of Four Roses beside mine.
The bartender mumbled, “Mike, you’re a money maker. People come in here just to see what you look like.”
I looked around me, and noticed that the three guys at the end of the bar were whispering to each other while eyeballing me. A couple of women at the table looked at me as if I was a man-eating lion. I gave them all a sneer, and turned back to the barkeep.
“I ought to charge you for the drinks Rox.”
He laughed and hoofed it to the other end of the bar. Rox joined the conversation with the three guys.
Frank finished his beer, slid off the seat, shook my hand, and walked out the door. A moment later, I realized that he hadn’t paid for his drink. I always seem to get stuck with the tabs. I pawed out my wallet, shoved out a couple of bills onto the bar, waved, and walked out the door.
* * *
CH 6 Lola’s in Trouble and “MADDOG” Arrives!