Atlantic City War, page 14
“And if he doesn’t? If he breaks the agreement? If he tries to expand into Philadelphia?”
“Then we handle it. But peacefully. Through Pete. Through negotiation. Not through violence. Not through war. That’s what we agreed to. That’s what we signed.”
Sal looked out the window. Watching Philadelphia come into view. His city. His territory. His home. “I gave up Atlantic City. I surrendered territory. Everyone’s gonna know. Everyone’s gonna think I’m weak.”
“Everyone’s gonna know you ended a war. That you were smart enough to accept peace. That you didn’t let pride destroy your organization. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. Real strength. The kind that lasts.”
They drove to Giordano’s. To the back room. To where everyone was waiting. To where Sal would tell his crew about the deal. About the peace. About the future.
Fifteen guys packed into the room. All of them veterans of the war. All of them tired. All of them scarred. All of them ready for it to end.
Sal stood at the head of the table. “The war is over. Viktor and I signed an agreement. He gets Atlantic City. We get Philadelphia. Clean split. No more fighting. No more dying. No more bleeding money. We’re done. We’re moving forward. We’re rebuilding.”
Silence. Then Little Nicky spoke up. “So we just gave up? Just handed him Atlantic City? After everything we fought for?”
“We fought for survival. We got it. That’s winning. That’s all the winning there is in this life. Staying alive. Keeping our organization intact. Having a future. Atlantic City was always secondary. Always less important. We kept what mattered. That’s enough.”
“What about the guys we lost? What about the seventeen guys who died fighting for Atlantic City? We just tell their families it was for nothing?”
“We tell their families they died protecting Philadelphia. Protecting their brothers. Protecting their organization. And we honor them by surviving. By not letting their deaths be the beginning of our end. By being smart enough to stop before everyone died.”
More silence. Then Little Nicky nodded. Then others nodded. Then the room accepted it. Accepted the deal. Accepted the peace. Accepted survival.
“What about Viktor?” Marco said. “What if he violates the agreement? What if he tries to expand?”
“Then we handle it. Through negotiation first. Through Pete Calabrese. Through the process we agreed to. But if he breaks the agreement completely. If he comes after us. If he tries to take Philadelphia. Then we respond. Then we defend. Then we fight. But only then. Only as a last resort. Not as a first option. Everyone understand?”
Heads nodded. Everyone understood. Everyone was tired enough to want peace. To accept peace. To give peace a chance.
The meeting ended. People left. Back to their lives. Back to their operations. Back to trying to make money without dying.
Tony and Sal stayed behind. Alone in the room. Just the two of them. Like old times. Like before everything got complicated.
“You think I made the right choice?” Sal said.
“I think you made the only choice. The smart choice. The choice that keeps you alive. Keeps us all alive.”
“Doesn’t feel like winning.”
“That’s because winning never feels like you think it will. It just feels like not losing. Like surviving another day. Like having options tomorrow you didn’t have yesterday. That’s all winning ever is in this life. Just options. Just tomorrow. Just survival.”
Sal poured whiskey. Two glasses. Handed one to Tony. “I’m glad you came back. Glad you helped me see this. Glad you saved me from my own pride.”
“I didn’t save you. You saved yourself. By listening. By accepting reality. By choosing life over territory. That was you. Not me.”
They drank. Sat in silence. Thinking about six months. About bodies. About funerals. About families destroyed. About lives ruined. About the cost of pride. The price of war. The expense of refusing to compromise.
“What now?” Sal said.
“Now we rebuild. We focus on Philadelphia. We strengthen what we have. We make money. We keep our heads down. We avoid the Feds. We survive. That’s the plan. Simple. Boring. Safe.”
“Safe sounds good. Safe sounds really good.”
Tony’s phone buzzed. Text from Angela: The war is over. Good. Now I can focus on putting both of you in prison. See you soon.
Tony deleted the message. Didn’t tell Sal. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. Didn’t want to add more worry to a man who’d just signed away part of his territory to buy peace.
The Feds would come. Eventually. Inevitably. Angela would build her case. Would find her evidence. Would make her arrests. That was reality. That was the future. That was what came next.
But not today. Today was about peace. About survival. About making it through one more crisis. One more war. One more test of whether any of them deserved to keep breathing.
Today they’d passed. Barely. By the smallest margin. By accepting what they couldn’t change and changing what they could accept.
Tomorrow would bring new problems. New challenges. New threats. But they’d deal with tomorrow when it came. When they had to. When survival demanded it.
For now? For now they’d just drink whiskey. Just sit in silence. Just be grateful they’d lived long enough to see peace. To make peace. To accept peace.
That was enough. That was more than enough. That was everything.
CHAPTER 20
Marcus Johnson’s mother sat in Callahan’s office at the Roundhouse, holding a tissue that was already soaked through, and asking the one question Callahan couldn’t answer.
“Why my son?”
Callahan had been a detective for twenty-three years. Had delivered bad news to hundreds of families. Had sat across from mothers and fathers and wives and children and told them someone they loved wasn’t coming home. Never got easier. Never got better. Never stopped hurting.
“Wrong place,” Callahan said. “Wrong time. He wasn’t involved in anything. Wasn’t in a gang. Wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just walking home from basketball practice. And two cars came through. Shooting at each other. And a bullet hit him.”
“Who was shooting?”
“We’re still investigating. We have some leads. Some witnesses. But people are scared to talk. Scared to testify. Scared of retaliation.”
“So nobody’s going to prison? Nobody’s paying for my son’s death?”
“I’m going to do everything I can. I promise you that. But I need time. I need to build a case. I need evidence that sticks. That prosecutors can use. That juries will believe.”
She looked at him with eyes that had cried themselves empty. “My son was seventeen. He played basketball. He got good grades. He wanted to go to Temple. Study engineering. Make something of himself. He did everything right. Everything. And he’s dead. Because someone else did everything wrong. And you’re telling me maybe nobody pays for that?”
“I’m telling you I’m trying. We’re all trying. But this is complicated. These organizations, they protect their own. They don’t cooperate. They don’t talk. They make it hard to prove who did what. Who pulled the trigger. Who gave the order.”
“I don’t care about complicated. I care about my son. I care about justice. I care about someone answering for this.”
“So do I. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m working this case. That’s why I won’t stop until someone’s arrested. Until someone’s charged. Until someone pays.”
She stood up. Handed him a photo. Marcus in his basketball uniform. Smiling. Seventeen years old. Whole life ahead of him. All of it erased by a stray bullet in a war he had nothing to do with.
“That’s my son. That’s who you’re working for. Not for me. Not for justice. For him. For Marcus. Remember that when it gets hard. When witnesses won’t talk. When cases fall apart. Remember him.”
She left. Callahan sat there holding the photo. Looking at Marcus Johnson’s face. Seventeen years old. Dead because Sal and Viktor couldn’t figure out how to share a city. Dead because pride mattered more than life. Dead because the world was broken and nobody knew how to fix it.
He put the photo on his desk. Where he could see it. Where it would remind him. Where it would keep him going when everything else said to give up.
His phone rang. Angela.
“I heard about the mother. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t bring him back. Sorry doesn’t make this right. We need to arrest someone. We need to charge someone. We need to do our jobs.”
“We will. The war is over. Peace agreement signed this morning. Sal and Viktor made a deal. Now we can focus on building cases. On finding witnesses. On making arrests that stick.”
“Peace agreement doesn’t help Marcus Johnson. Doesn’t help his mother. Doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead and we haven’t arrested anyone.”
“I know. But Frank, we have to be strategic. We have to build cases that work. That survive appeals. That put people away permanently. Not just arrests that fall apart. Not just charges that get dismissed. Real convictions. Real justice. That takes time.”
“We don’t have time. Every day that passes, witnesses forget. Evidence disappears. People move on. We need to move now.”
“We are moving. The task force has been documenting everything. Every murder. Every attack. Every crime. We’re building a RICO case against both organizations. When we’re ready, when we have everything, we take them all down. Sal. Viktor. Everyone. That’s real justice. That’s permanent.”
“And until then? Until you’re ready? How many more Marcus Johnsons die? How many more mothers sit in my office crying? How many more funerals?”
Angela was quiet. Then: “The war is over. The killing stops now. That’s something. That’s progress. We saved lives by ending it. By forcing peace. We prevented more Marcus Johnsons. That counts for something.”
“It counts for nothing if we don’t arrest anyone. If we don’t hold people accountable. If we let them make peace and move on like nothing happened.”
“We won’t. I promise you. Monday we’re executing search warrants. Multiple locations. Sal’s businesses. Viktor’s operations. We’re seizing records. Financial documents. Evidence. Building the case. Making it bulletproof. And when we arrest them, when we charge them, it’ll stick. They’ll go away forever. Both of them.”
Callahan looked at Marcus Johnson’s photo. “They better. Because if they don’t, if they walk, if they beat this somehow, I don’t know what I’ll tell his mother. I don’t know how I’ll live with that.”
“They won’t walk. Not this time. I’ve got too much. I’ve got recordings. I’ve got witnesses. I’ve got everything. They’re done. Both of them.”
They hung up.
Callahan spent the rest of the day on the Marcus Johnson case. Interviewing witnesses. Most of them didn’t see anything. Or said they didn’t. Fear was too strong. The code was too powerful. Nobody wanted to be known as the person who talked. Who testified. Who helped put someone away.
One witness gave him something. Teenager named DeShawn. Sixteen years old. Was walking two blocks away when the shooting happened. Saw the cars. Saw the chase. Saw the guns.
“I can’t testify,” DeShawn said. “I can’t go to court. I can’t be known. You understand? They’ll kill me. They’ll kill my family. I can’t.”
“I understand. But I need something. I need to know who was in those cars. What they looked like. Which direction they came from. Anything.”
DeShawn looked around. Making sure nobody was listening. “One car was Italians. I recognized one of the guys. Name’s Paulie D. Works for Sal Bonano’s crew. Other car was Russians. I don’t know them but I’ve seen them around. They work out of Atlantic City. That’s all I know. I swear.”
“Can you identify Paulie D in a photo lineup?”
“I can identify him. But I won’t testify. I won’t go on record. I won’t put my name on anything. You use what I told you, but you don’t say where you got it. You understand?”
“I understand. Thank you. This helps. This gives me a place to start.”
Callahan went back to the office. Pulled Paulie D’s file. Paul DiNardo. Twenty-six years old. Arrested twice for assault. Never convicted. Worked for Sal’s crew for three years. Enforcer. Collector. The kind of guy who got sent to deliver messages. To scare people. To hurt people when necessary.
Now he was a killer. Now he’d been in a car chase that killed a seventeen-year-old. Now he was responsible for Marcus Johnson’s death. Even if he didn’t pull the trigger. Even if it was an accident. Even if he didn’t mean for it to happen.
He was there. He participated. He was guilty. By law. By ethics. By reality.
Callahan called Angela. “I’ve got a name. Guy who was in one of the cars. Paulie DiNardo. Works for Sal. I’ve got a witness who’ll ID him. Won’t testify in court but gave me enough to get a warrant.”
“That’s good. That’s a start. Bring him in. Question him. See if he’ll flip. See if he’ll give up who else was there. Who was driving. Who ordered it. Use him to build up. To get to Sal.”
“And if he doesn’t flip? If he lawyers up? If he refuses to talk?”
“Then we charge him with felony murder. With reckless endangerment. With whatever we can make stick. And we use the arrest to pressure others. To show we’re serious. To show everyone involved that they’re all vulnerable. That we’re coming for all of them.”
Callahan got the warrant approved by six PM. Assembled a team. Went to Paulie D’s apartment in South Philly at nine PM. Knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
Door opened. Paulie D standing there in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Looking young. Looking scared. Looking like he knew this was coming.
“Paulie DiNardo?” Callahan said.
“Yeah.”
“Philadelphia Police. You’re under arrest for felony murder in the death of Marcus Johnson. Reckless endangerment. Aggravated assault. You have the right to remain silent…”
Paulie didn’t resist. Didn’t run. Just put his hands behind his back. Let them cuff him. Let them take him. Looking relieved almost. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like arrest was better than the alternative. Better than what Sal might do to him for getting caught. For becoming a problem. For drawing attention.
They brought him to the Roundhouse. Put him in an interview room. Let him sit for an hour. Standard procedure. Let him think. Let him worry. Let him consider his options.
Callahan went in with Liu. Sat across from Paulie. Turned on the recorder. “You want a lawyer?”
“I want to know what you got. What you think I did.”
“We’ve got a witness who places you at the scene of Marcus Johnson’s death. We’ve got you in a car chase. Shooting. Running through residential streets. Firing weapons in a populated area. We’ve got you participating in a crime that resulted in the death of a seventeen-year-old kid. That’s felony murder. That’s twenty-five to life.”
Paulie’s face went pale. “I didn’t shoot nobody. I wasn’t even driving.”
“Doesn’t matter. You were there. You participated. Under Pennsylvania law, that’s enough. You’re as guilty as whoever pulled the trigger.”
“That’s not fair. I was just—I was just in the car. I didn’t know—I didn’t think—”
“You didn’t think a car chase through a neighborhood with guns might hurt someone? You didn’t think that was dangerous? You didn’t think that was a problem?”
Paulie put his head in his hands. “I want a lawyer.”
“Okay. That’s your right. But before the lawyer gets here, let me tell you something. You’ve got one chance. One opportunity. To help yourself. To reduce your sentence. To avoid spending the rest of your life in prison. You cooperate. You tell us who else was there. Who was driving. Who was shooting. Who ordered the chase. You give us that, we talk to the DA. We work out a deal. Maybe you do ten years instead of twenty-five. Maybe you get out while you’re still young enough to have a life.”
“And if I talk? If I give you names? What happens to me? You think Sal’s gonna let me live? You think I can testify against the organization and survive?”
“We protect you. Witness protection. New identity. New city. New life. You help us, we help you. That’s the deal.”
Paulie was quiet. Thinking. Calculating. Weighing his options. Prison for twenty-five years or talk and maybe survive. Maybe.
“I need to think about it. I need to talk to a lawyer. I need—I need time.”
“You’ve got until tomorrow morning. Then we charge you. Then the DA files paperwork. Then your options disappear. Think fast. Choose smart. Because this is the only chance you get.”
They left him in the room. Let him think. Let him process. Let him realize his life had just changed forever. That the war had casualties beyond the soldiers. That Marcus Johnson wasn’t the only victim. That Paulie D was a victim too. Of his own choices. Of his own actions. Of his own stupidity.
Callahan went back to his desk. Looked at Marcus Johnson’s photo. “I got one of them. Not the trigger man. Not the boss. But one of them. It’s a start. I promise you. It’s a start.”
His phone buzzed. Text from Paulie D’s lawyer. My client won’t be making any statements. He’s exercising his right to remain silent. Charge him or release him.
Callahan typed back: Charging him. Felony murder. He’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning.
The lawyer responded: He won’t flip. He’s more scared of Sal than he is of prison. You’re wasting your time.
Maybe. Maybe not. But Callahan had to try. Had to push. Had to make Paulie understand that twenty-five years was a long time. That life in prison was worse than witness protection. That survival mattered more than loyalty.
He’d try again tomorrow. After Paulie spent a night in a cell. After reality set in. After fear had time to work its magic.
Sometimes people needed time. Needed to hit bottom. Needed to see the future clearly before they made the right choice.
