Complicit Witness

by Dan Petrosini

Genres: Action & Adventure; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction; organized Crime; gambling

Synopsis

Prison or death?

Betrayal or self preservation?

As the 1970's melt into the 80's, Staten Island is loaded with gangsters and wannabes.
It's where an unspoken code rules and where difficult choices are made.

Its also where Tommy, a world-class schemer, calls home.  Used to working alone, he goes outside his comfort zone, upping the stakes by joining forces with a clever gang. 

 
It's only a matter of time before things go wrong.

A gripping, white knuckled read by best selling author Dan Petrosini.

Read Complicit Witness now.

Release date: November 10, 2013

Print pages: 192

Sample

Chapter One

With a few more miles to go and dusk descending into darkness, I was getting antsy.

There were only two cars in the lot, and I parked in the dark by the loading dock. I checked the time and pulled a dry bagel and can of Coke out of the cooler. I took a bite but craved a meatball sandwich, anything but another damn bagel. I shrunk down as a car drove out of the lot and then guzzled some soda.

Checking the rearview mirror, I pulled a bag from under the seat and stepped out into the humidity. As the gravel crunched underfoot, I finished the soda and tossed the can into the woods as I climbed a set of stairs to a door.

Surveying the lot, I pushed open the door and walked into a foyer caged in by a chain-link barrier.

Peering through the fence I tried the handle, then shook the fencing. “Yo Rick!”

My reed-thin contact popped out of a side room, “Great, you’re early.” He hurried to open the gate.

“Yeah, no traffic for a change, flew straight down.”

“Works for me. Emily wants to go the pictures tonight.”

Pictures? These fucking hicks were frozen in time. We went into a small room that featured a smiling picture of President Carter. I emptied the bag on the table, stacking the rubber-banded bundles of hundreds into neat rows, four high.

Rick fanned a few of the bundles. “One, two, three, four…”

“It’s all there, Mayberry, forty thou,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

He lifted an eyebrow at the hillbilly reference but kept counting.

“Always nice doing business with you city slickers,” Rick said, loading the cash into a satchel. “You stay put. I’m gonna put this in the safe.”

“How much you got in that safe?”

“Sonny boy, ya know I can’t tell ya. Besides, it’s cleaned out every night.”

I smiled broadly. “Yeah, what time you do that?”

He shook his head. “You really something, kid.”

We walked to the back of the warehouse where Rick rolled up the loading dock door where I always parked.

“Rick, hang on a minute. I gotta take a leak.”

“Go on, I’ll get started.”

I drained my bladder the best I could, doing knee bends to help empty it and hurried back.

As we finished loading the cargo I heard a dog’s bark that seemed to be silenced too quickly.

“What the hell was that?”

“It’s nothing.”

I looked around. “You sure?”

“Just a wild dog, that’s all. Okay, that does it.”

I unfurled a bedsheet, adjusting it to cover my cargo.

“Okay, Rick, I’ll see your skinny ass next week, same time, same place, bro.”

“Fer sure, Thomas. Be careful, young man.”

“Don’t worry about me, bro. I got it down to a science.”

I stretched my hamstrings and thighs and jumped behind the wheel as the hick rolled down the door. This is getting really old, I thought, as I popped an upper. I wished Jackpot was around for company as I shot gravel on the way out of the lot. I really missed her; she’d sit on my lap and lick my hand as I drove.

Images of her at the vet looking at me crept into my head, and I turned up the air-conditioning to change the mood, hoping that Grease would be ready to make trips in a few weeks. A smile spread when I thought about how nuts she’d go when I got home.

Hitting the ramp for the interstate, I hunted among the country radio stations for a disco channel to distract me during the drive. Before I passed the first exit, my mind drifted to the chick I’d met at the vet.

When Jackpot’s heart condition worsened I rushed her to Boulevard Veterinary on Hylan. She could hardly breathe, hoarsely coughing as I carried her into the empty office.

“Hi, may I help you?”

“She can’t breathe. She's hacking away, not eating, not doing anything but lying around.”

“Has she been here before? What’s the name?”

“She’s in trouble; I’m telling you. You got to hurry.”

“Okay, take it easy, we’ll do what we can. Follow me.”

We went into a stark room with an exam table and a sink with a hose contraption.

“Let’s put her on the table, and I’ll get the doctor.”

I put her down and she shook, peeing on the table.

“She’s nervous. Let me hold her. She'll be okay.”

“Sure, make her comfortable.” She stroked Jackpot as I held her. “Good girl; you’ll be okay. Daddy has you now.” Jackpot attempted to lick her hand.

“She likes you. What’s your name?”

“Donna.”

“See, Jackpot, calm down. Donna’s gonna get the doc, and we’ll see what’s going on.”

A tall man in a lab coat and clogs swung open the door.

“What symptoms has the dog had?”

I explained her history of heart congestion and that she had stopped eating yesterday. Jackpot was whimpering and wheezing as he examined her, putting a stethoscope to her chest.

“It doesn’t sound good. There is a lot of fluid in her chest cavity. Let’s get an X-ray.” He picked her up and Jackpot cried.

“Doc, gimme her. She's scared.”

“That’s all right. I’ll take her.” Donna caressed Jackpot, who quieted down immediately. She smiled, and I finally noticed how good looking she was.

The vet came out, telling me she didn’t have long to live. I was pissed; he was a coldhearted bastard, suggesting I should put her down.

“No way, man.”

“She’s suffering.”

“Can’t you give her something?

Donna jumped in. “Sometimes you can use a diuretic? Right, Doc?”

“We can give her some. It will help to reduce the fluids, but it’s not a cure. Just a temporary measure. You really should consider putting her out of her misery.”

“How long will she feel better?”

“It’s not an exact science; her condition is degenerative. You'll be back with her, guaranteed.”

The medicines worked for three weeks, but that bastard was right, I thought, as I headed north with my load.

 

 

Chapter Two

The sun had been up for a couple of hours as I cruised down Forest Avenue, passing the Hess Station. A sale sign was on a tower of oil cans, giving me the all-clear signal.

I made a U-turn into the station, brushed my hair and hopped out. “Hey, bro, top it off, high test.” I pulled out my BIC lighter, lit a cigarette and walked to the back of the building.

After straightening my shirt, I gave the door three rapid knocks, and it swung open. Tony scanned the area.

“Hey, kid, any trouble?”

“Nah.”

“Good, let’s move it.”

I hopped back in the car and pulled under an opening garage door.

The door slammed shut behind me, and three goons quickly began unloading my cargo, spreading the contents into two cars that pulled out of the garage before I got out of the bathroom.

I lit another smoke. “Where’s my unc?”

“Lou’s not in yet.”

Uncle Louie wasn’t really my uncle; he was my mom’s cousin, but I grew up calling him uncle. “Still home?”

“Yeah, the boss wasn’t feeling too good, sore throat or something.”

The Bagel Express truck was being worked on. “Getting the van ready?”

“Yeah, changing the oil and plugs.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Yeah, Josephine called said they may be going down, and you know how he’s gotta have his bread.”

I nodded. I really did know. I loved my bread and had to hand it to Louie; he found a way to get fresh Brooklyn bread a couple of times a week and make a few bucks along the way by supplying stores near his Boca Raton home.

“What about my dough?”

“Angie’s got it. He’s in the back.”

“Hope he didn’t eat it.”

“Watch yourself, Tommy; one day you’re gonna get it.”

“What’s he gonna do? Sit on me?” I snickered as I nodded to one of new faces around. “This Russian seems like he’s always around now.”

“Yeah, the boss and Yuri doing more business together.”

I headed to get my pay for the run from Angelo, who was really fat and slicked his jet-black hair back with enough gel to grease an engine. He was at a round table reading a newspaper whose headline shouted the capture of the killer, Son of Sam.

“Yo, Tubby, you got something for me?”

He fingered a bat leaning against the table. “Yeah, right here, you little bastard.”

“Temper, temper, tubs.”

He got up as quickly as I ever saw him move, and as I backed up, he broke into an evil smile. “Ya just a fuckin’ mouthpiece, you little punk.”

He waddled over to my uncle's desk and dug out an envelope.

“Come and get it, wiseguy.” He held the envelope against his protruding belly, and as I reached for it he grabbed my wrist.

“Let go, you fucking ape!”

“One of these days, kid.” He tossed the envelope on the ground and I scooped it up.

“Adios, you fat bastard.”

I counted twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.

“Hey, this is light! You step on it?”

“I should’ve, punk; the boss took five out to knock your tab down.”

“That’s fucking bullshit, man!”

“Go cry to Louie, you degenerate.”

 

 

Chapter Three

Tuesday nights were a sort of mini reunion. The four of us enjoyed the bowling and comradeship, trading stories in between a serious gambit to win the league and side bets made during the night.

We had a strong team: Larry aka Red, Phil nicknamed Felix and Mark the Spark. All with averages in the high one eighties, we were a force each year to win the four thousand dollar first-place prize and bragging rights. No one drank anything hard until we finished our matches. We were in the last game of the set and were up a hair.

“Yo, Red, you’re up.”

“Philly, you see Tommy last night?”

“Nah, he’s been holing up with that girl Donna.”

“Donnarrhea? Again?”

“You mean he’s back with that bitch that gave him the clap?”

“Nah, same name, different panties,” Red said from the approach, ready to deliver.

The pins exploded, and we jumped up, high-fiving each other.

“Nice, Red. Keep it going, Vince!”

I threw a spare, and we went on to win the match, hanging on to our first-place ranking. We settled up our side bets and retreated to the bar for a drink.

“Tommy stopping by?”

“I donno.He's hot and heavy with Donna.”

“Yeah right, till the next one comes along.”

“Or till she gets fed up with his bullshit,” Red said as he lit a smoke.

“It’d be good if he settled down a bit. He needs something to ground him.” I offered.

“Ground him? I’m beginning to lose faith. Sparko, did you hear what he did to Red?” Phil was already laughing as he continued, “We were at Henny’s, catching lunch; Joey was working the bar, so the booze was flowing. Red got frigging ossified.”

“You could never hold your booze, Red.”

“Bullshit, man. I was dead tired; we put in two pools while you pussies were still in bed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyway, the place starts to empty out, and one of the Mexicans in the back says he smells gas. Con Ed comes down, and we head to the parking lot. Red lies on the hood of Tommy’s car, and in fifteen he’s snoring like fucking Rip Van Winkle. Skins sneaks behind the wheel and waves us in. He starts it up and slams it into drive as Red wakes up. Red rolls over on his belly, grabbing the hood as Tommy hits the gas.”

“Something really wrong with this guy.” Mark shakes his head.

“It was so funny. I know it's sick, but you gotta picture Red, staring through the windshield, screaming his ass off.”

“Yeah, real funny when you’re hanging on for your fucking life.”

“Then the nut pulls onto Richmond Avenue.”

“Ah, come on!”

“I swear. He goes to the first light and cuts off onto Rockland and takes the back streets all the way to Hylan.”

“My fucking hands nearly gave out.”

“You sobered up though.” Phil laughed.

Sparko shook his head. “It’s no joke. One day someone’s gonna get hurt.”

I met Tommy a few weeks after moving to the Island. Riding bikes with a friend, Tommy was walking on Arlene Street with a sack full of brown packages. My first impression was he had a square head and was straight out of Brooklyn. An amazing observation, not for the boxy head but the fact I’d moved from Brooklyn a month before. We asked him if he was going to play ball, but he had to help his dad. We rode off to our game.

We were about twelve years old and quickly formed a group who loved to play ball, bust each other’s chops and torment people with our pranks. Tommy was a world-class ball buster and a virtual nickname machine.

You either loved him or hated him. Most loved him in spite of an underlying acidity that would break out into pure nastiness at times.

After the day’s games were over we hung around at the edge of the woods on a heap of asphalt we named The Elephant. After rehashing the day’s match, we’d quickly revert to ragging on someone and making jokes as dinnertime rolled around. A few guys, including Tommy, whose family had an unconventional twist to it, stayed as I headed home. We had a standing rule; the family ate together each and every night, no ifs, ands or buts about it. My dad was old school and hard working. He was home every night and certainly wasn’t flashy like a lot of dads in the neighborhood. It was a memorable time that went by in a flash.

As we hit our late teens, Tommy always seemed to have money to blow on gambling, booze and drugs. Guess he picked up the habit from his father who was always in a bar chasing broads or at the racetrack, and depending on how his fortunes were doing at the time, even owned a couple of horses.

The ultimate good-time Charley, Tommy loved a good time, and as we grew older, seriously overdid the partying. He always would push things past their natural limits. He’d bust balls or irritate someone past the point of no return, and a fight would break out. Funny thing was, when the fighting broke out he was nowhere to be found.

He was like a midlevel glass of scotch, a little burn, but if you went for more, felt better in the end. However, if you had too much, the hangover could be painful.

 

 

Chapter Four

Tommy had an uncle named Louie, or so I thought. Lou had a bar among other moneymaking enterprises and "ran" things on Staten Island. I eventually realized he was the source of income for quite of few of the families in my middle-class neighborhood. Now, they were easy to spot, fathers around during the day, hanging in the diner, going the track, driving Lincolns or big Chryslers. They were on the cusp of flashy but never living too large.

The houses in the neighborhood were all cookie-cutter from the curb, but the homes of those in the Louie loop were markedly different on the inside. The latest electronic gear and gaudiest furnishings you could imagine were crammed into every room. There was an unspoken contest they seemed to enjoy playing: trying to outdo each other while not running afoul of the Louie Low-Key Rule. Louie was adamant about attracting attention, a tough thing for these bulls, and would admonish anyone showy.

Two short car horn beeps, and I looked out to confirm it was Tommy. We were heading to a bar, Louie had a piece of, to hang with some girls we met on Friday night. I said goodbye, ran down the stairs into a muggy summer night and hopped in his new Thunderbird.

“Take it easy on the cologne, Skins.” I’d been calling him Skins as he’d been shedding his shirt at places other than a basketball court.

“Is it too much?”

I opened the window. “Just a tad, Romeo. Before we get a chance to charm ‘em they might pass out.”

“Very funny, Otis.” He called me Otis, after the elevator company, as I started a job in a Manhattan office building. I had to admit he was a clever bastard.

“I gotta stop to see my Unc first.”

The block was mobbed, no pun intended, with cars, but the driveway empty.

“Leave the radio on.”

After fifteen minutes, Tommy came out saying he had to stay; his uncle wanted him to eat. I said I’d walk back to my house, but he insisted I stay with him. As we walked toward the back, a guy with a gleaming head and a neck like a bull, grunted at Tommy as he brushed by.

“Who’s Mister Personality?”

“A Russian from Brooklyn got a steady line of swag for Louie.”

The house seemed ordinary, but when we walked through the yard’s gate, I was thrown for a loop. The side yard was a vegetable garden, replete with tomato and basil plants, but the backyard was a resort. A black-bottomed, free-form pool dominated the yard, which was filled with statues and lush landscaping. Flagstone patios accommodated the seating areas which were crammed with guests.

I could see his uncle holding court at the largest table as we talked with his aunt. We made up dishes of food and were about to sit when his cousin Butch said his uncle wanted us. We carried our plates over as a Jerry Vale record played.

“Hey, Unc. This is Vinny; he lives on Dawson.”

He suppressed a cough. “Johnnie’s boy, right?” Before I could answer, he said, “Pauly, Frank, get up. I want to talk to my nephew. Sit down, boys.”

We took their seats and he said that he knew my father, a good guy, he said making me comfortable. I was conscious of how I ate, which was crazy given others were eating like pigs. The surreal setting was about to get elevated when Louie’s wife came over,

“Joey, don’t Tommy look good in a moustache?”

I was thrown when Uncle Louie said, “Yeah, looks just like his grandpa.”

“You were his fav, Joey.”

“That fucking cancer took him too early.”

Joey, Louie? What was his name?

We ate, talked about the Yankees, the hot weather we were having and the trip to Italy he was looking forward to. He seemed like a nice guy, unlike his reputation. Desserts and black coffee were coming out of the house, and Tommy smelled an opening to break loose.

“Unc, we gotta go.”

“Stay for the pastries; they’re from Livotti’s.”

“Love to, but you see, we met these girls and…

He struggled to clear his throat. “Don’t get too close till you really know them. Understand?”

“Of course, Unc. We just want to have a good time.”

“Josephine, get the boys a couple pastries to take with them.”

He cranked up a Donna Summer tune as we pulled out of the driveway.

“What’s up with your aunt calling your uncle, Joey?” I took a bite of cannoli.

“That’s his real name. The guys on the street call him Louie.”

You know what? Weird as it was, it fit, and I didn’t give it another thought.

“The cannoli’s good, but man, I’m stuffed. Hey, what was that other girl's name again?”

“Charlene.”

“Oh yeah,” Tommy said as he sped down the exit ramp. “You think you’ll get anywhere with her?”

“I dunno. I think I got a shot.”

He lit a cigarette, and I rolled down the window.

“Crank that up. My hair's gonna get messed.”

“You got enough hairspray in it to stand up to a jet engine.”

He made a left turn into a busy parking lot,

“Is that them?”

“Yup, looking pretty hot, bro.”

“Grab me two packs out of the glove.” He pulled into a spot.

“Here, give me the keys.”

“Okay, Daddy. Let's go.”

Louie and his gang ran their enterprise primarily from two places, a tavern and a gas station. Cue Shot was a popular place with a huge bar and pool tables. Known for its brick-oven pizza and Italian male patrons, it was always packed. It did a brisk takeout business, providing good cover for Louie, who was technically a partner. Louie acquired his stake when the owner borrowed to expand and compounded the error by gambling to try to make the money back.

The Hess gas station was another revelation. Hess stations usually only sold gas, doing no auto repairs. They never had a garage or building other than a glass cubicle for the attendant. That is, unless it was Louie’s place. At his Hess station, the attendants’ glass enclosure wasn’t on an island in the middle of the pumps but was at the back end of the station. A door in the enclosure, marked Employees Only, led to a cavernous warehouse.

The warehouse’s cement floor was always neatly stacked with a revolving assortment of boxes. In the far corner was a big wooden desk sitting on a large area rug and bunch of folding chairs around two circular tables. The opposite corner was outfitted with a full kitchen, stove, fridge, everything.

The first time I visited the station, Tommy’s uncle was behind the desk stacking cash as it shot out of the money counter. He saw us, told one of his minions to clear the dough off the desk, and waved us over.

Louie took his cigar out of his mouth to kiss his nephew, and I awkwardly stuck my hand out,

“How are you doing, Uncle Louie?” I had thought about what to call him on the way there and thought Mr. Ruffino seemed too formal and Louie too personal.

“Nice to see you again. You watching out for my nephew?”

Before I could answer, he said, “This here is Gene and Frankie, and that’s Jimmy.”

We said our hellos and Tommy asked, “Hey, Unc, the new kid pumping, what’s he, a fucking Arab?”

“Egyptian. None of the kids from the neighborhood wanna work anymore; they think pumping gas is beneath them. They don’t know what work is.”

“Frigging prima donnas they are.” Gene, a slender, well-dressed associate added.

“Frankie, close out the pumps and do a count.”

Usually done at the end of a shift, closing out the pumps was simply a reading of how much gas was pumped and how much money should have been collected. Louie was seated behind the desk with Gene in a side chair. Tommy and I were sitting ten feet away at the kitchen table when Frankie marched in Wael, the gas attendant.

“Boss, the kid’s short fifty.”

“You sure, Frankie?”

“Checked it twice.”

“Wael, you take the fifty?”

“No, no, no way, Mr. Ruffino.”

“You sure you didn’t take it?”

“I swear,. I swear!”

Gene said, “Give me the pump readings.”

Frankie read off four numbers, and Gene asked, “You check the readings with Frankie, Wael?”

“Yes, yes, they are correct.”

Gene plugged the numbers in a calculator. “So you should have twelve hundred and seventy.”

“Well, Wael here only had twelve hundred twenty.”

“Empty your pockets, you thief,” Gene demanded.

The kid spilled the contents of his pockets onto the desk. Besides loose change and keys he only had eleven dollars.

“Where’d you hide the money, Wael?”

The attendant had sweat beading on his upper lip. “I, I didn’t. I didn’t take anything.”

“You know what we do with thieves? We cut their God damn fingers off!”

The kid put his hand on the desk for support, and when Frankie grabbed it, his knees buckled.

“Whaddya want to do with him, boss?”

Louie eyed the kid for a minute and reached into a drawer, coming up with an ax.

The gas attendant screamed, and everyone broke into laughter. Frankie let the kid go and he ran for it. Tony stepped in front the door as Frankie yelled, “Hey, kid, we’re only fucking with you. Get over here.”

Tony walked him back and Louie said, “Listen kid, you didn’t take my money, and I want to be sure you don’t ever think about it. You understand?”

“I, I, yes. Sure, Mr. Ruffino. I’d never do that.”

Louie coughed as he peeled a fifty off his wad.

“Now take this, and get back to work.”

As the door to the station closed they joked, “You see that fucking Arab? He nearly shit his pants.”

“I thought fucking Frankie was gonna have to prop his ass up!”

“Yeah, this was better than the time with that skinny kid; what’s his name?”

I didn’t want to let on that I was as spooked as the kid was. In a way it was kind of funny, but these guys were twisted.