Hit #29, page 20
This all sounds like a lot of trouble and it is. But after making a hit, especially one with all the problems that this one had, you are all keyed up anyway and you really need something to do to keep busy. Some men are able to go out and eat dinner, some guys get laid. Me? I take my time getting rid of the weapon. Then, if it can be arranged, I go out for dinner and get laid.
The whole disposal operation, from the moment Squillante died until I finished spreading the gun, took about four hours. It was getting to be toward morning when I finally finished my labors. Now I could go home and try to get some sleep. Sunday was supposed to be a work day. My cigarettes were arriving and I planned to be at the warehouse.
I really felt tired when I laid down, but I just could not get to sleep. My wife was dead to the world when I got home and, as promised, I didn’t wake her, but I couldn’t get to sleep myself. Normally I have no problem putting my head on the pillow and zonking out, but I guess the tension of the night was taking its time unwinding.
About 6 A.M. I really made a second effort. I remember tossing and turning for awhile and then I guess I drifted off in a semisleep. I did not dream about Joseph Squillante. This ain’t the movies.
My old lady woke me just after noon. She did it simply by getting out of bed herself, I wasn’t sleeping very soundly. I opened one eye and kind of mumbled, “Everything go okay last night?” No answer. She was obviously upset. “Everything go okay last night I said,” I repeated.
“Everything was alright last night,” was the answer I got, she didn’t even look at me.
I was trying to get a conversation going. If I can do that I can usually make her forget whatever she’s mad about. “Anybody call?”
She really didn’t want to answer, but she did. “Nobody called.” She stopped for a moment, “I want you to call your brother today and apologize.”
“That’s a good idea.” I was going to agree with whatever she said. If she said she wanted me to fuck myself I would have said “that’s a good idea.” She still hadn’t looked at me. Based on her replies, I knew she was not going to be thrilled if I asked her to make breakfast. In this case cowardice overcame hunger and I didn’t dare ask. I figured I’d pick something up on the way to the warehouse.
“Did your business work out alright last night?” This was her way of asking a sarcastic question.
“Yeah fine,” I told her honestly. “Perfect.” It was the first time since waking up that I thought about Squillante. In that short period of time I had literally put him out of my mind. I had closed his case permanently.
She mumbled something else but I really didn’t pay too much attention. Slowly, and not without some trouble, I rolled over and sat up. I was really tired. I had something like a hangover. Somehow I managed to get into the bathroom and throw some cold water on my face. One at a time, very uneasily, my eyes opened. They were not happy to see so much light so early in the day. The first thing I did, once my heart started beating regularly, was to try to call my brother. His line was busy so I called Bobby Roach. Next to my brother, money is the thing closest to my heart. “What’s the story?” I asked him.
“Nothing yet,” he said in his best professional tone. “The trucks should be here by four. I’m going to watch the first pro game and then go over.”
“You got some kids coming over to break up the cartons?” Taking the cartons of cigarettes out of the boxes and filling orders is probably the biggest pain-in-the-ass job in cigarette bootlegging. The job itself can take almost a full day when you’ve got 40,000 cartons and 20 or 30 orders to fill. We usually hire some local kids and give them five bucks an hour, plus a good tip when the job is done, just to help them keep their heads on straight. I consider it a community service—it keeps the kids off the streets.
“You comin’ over?” the Roach asked me.
“I’m gonna try,” I said. “I’m gonna watch the game, but if it gets out of hand I’ll come over early.”
“You can come early anyways,” he offered. “I got one of those small portable Sony’s off a truck a few weeks ago and I’ll bring that along. It’ll make the work go easier.”
Inside, I sighed. The old crime business sure has gotten soft.
I made the first section of the Four Star Sunday News final. I found out about an hour after I spoke to the Roach. Since my brother’s line was still busy I decided to go out for breakfast and pick up the Four Star along the way.
I don’t collect press clippings, scrapbooks are not healthy things to keep around the house, but I do need to know what everybody else knows about my business. I didn’t bother to get the Times, the News is the paper for murders, the Times for wars, a well-known fact. The story was buried—that’s a newspaper term, not a hit man’s—about ten pages deep. It was obvious they didn’t have very much information. The story basically said that a body had been found in the front seat of a late-model car by the cook as he was leaving the restaurant about 5 A.M. The thus-far unidentified driver had been shot three times in the head in “gangland fashion.” The story went on to say that the police were investigating. Which meant they didn’t have anything.
The average New York City detective is underpaid and overworked. He has more murders on his hands than he can handle, and he’s going to get the same paycheck every week whether he solves them or not. So he’s going to be selective in choosing the cases he actually puts time on. Honest-citizen murders are going to get the bulk of his time. Chances are a gangland rubout will not be high on his list of selections. It’s really a who-gives-a-damn case. There’s little glory and a lot of hassles involved. Besides, even if there was enough manpower, there is still a shortage in thinking. There are not many Colombos or Ironsides on the NYPD. Without an informant, an eyewitness or a gun, their chances of figuring out what the case is all about are almost nonexistent. Therefore, once I leave the scene of a crime I’m usually pretty safe.
Usually.
I don’t know how they found me, or why they bothered, but they picked me up Monday afternoon as I was coming out of Aqueduct. Sunday had been a productive day. My football picks were pretty good and we filled the cigarette orders. The deliveries started on Monday and I wasn’t needed at the warehouse until the evening to pick up the cash, so I celebrated by rushing around to see my bookmaking customers and dashing out to the track.
I was walking toward my car when these two individuals walked up to me and asked, “Are you Joseph so-and-so?”
I made them as detectives right away. The cut of their cloth. Basic Robert Hall. “You know I am,” I said, “or you wouldn’t have asked.”
They both smiled. We all knew the routine. I wasn’t surprised at the fact that they had come around to see me, what did surprise me is that they bothered to track me all the way to Aqueduct, and then stand waiting by my car, rather than simply coming by my apartment and picking me up. As I’ve said, after every hit the coppers will pick up some people just to show they are on the job. They really don’t have any idea who did the deed, no leads, no clues, but the chief says make a sweep, so they make a sweep.
“Want to put up your hands?” Physically they were both big men, much taller than me and, as usual, very polite. I’ve found that detectives very rarely get nasty. They just do their jobs according to rules and regulations, and nobody gets hurt. I didn’t mind them searching me because I knew they weren’t going to find anything. After I make a hit I never, never carry a gun on me or in my car for a few days. I do very little except relax. In fact, if I read about a hit in the News that I think I might get picked up for, I stop carrying a gun. Better safe than sorry. I know that if I have to get my hands on a gun I can get one pretty damn quick.
I put my hands straight up in the air and held them rigid, an exaggerated jumping jack. “Like this?”
“Something like that,” one of them said. “Would you lean against the car please?”
I pushed my weight forward and did as asked. As I did I thought of Sweetlips doing precisely the same thing Saturday night. It seemed like years ago. I stood against the car and one of the detectives ran down my body. He wasn’t dumb enough to expect to find anything. Finally he asked, “You mind if we search your car?”
I did my usual number. “You guys got a search warrant?”
They looked at each other. Obviously they didn’t. I shrugged my shoulders. “Go ahead, boys, make yourselves happy. Search the car.” I know there’s nothing in there, so why not. By this time that car is so clean it would warm the heart of a car-wash attendant, so let them search to their hearts’ content. I handed the keys to the detective standing nearest the door and he opened up and started feeling around. By this time we were starting to draw a crowd in the parking lot and that I did not particularly appreciate. “Listen,” I said to the guy standing next to me, “is this a pinch?”
“Not really. We just want to ask you some questions.”
“So ask.”
The second detective finished his search. “Nothing,” he said to his partner. Then he turned to me. “We were told to bring you in.”
I could see this was going to be a pain in the behind. “What the fuck do we have to bother with that for?” I asked them. “Just go ahead and ask your fucking questions.”
“Not here,” the same individual said with some force. “You’ve got to come in with us. We can do it the easy way or the hard way.”
This was fascinating. I was hearing my own words thrown back at me. I’ve used that same warning phrase at least 50 times. And since I know the inevitable outcome, I also know the best choice.
“My chariot awaits,” I shrugged and we went the easy way. I drove with one of them alongside me and his partner drove their car in. We headed toward their headquarters. I hope all of this made the late not-so-great Joe Squillante happy.
COPPING OUT
My partner for the ride identified himself as Detective Maurice Braverman, NYPD. Maurice seemed to be in his mid-30s, over six feet and showed the beginnings of what would assuredly become a pot belly, an occupational hazard on the detective force. He didn’t seem to want to be in my car any more than I wanted him there. I think both of us realized this was a complete waste of time. At least I hoped he did.
“Where we going?” I asked.
When these boys identified themselves they neglected to tell me what borough they were from. This is an old device. I was simply supposed to drive to the borough the crime was committed in without any direction. And when I do that the coppers know that I know exactly what crime they’re interested in. New York City cops are not dopes. If you slip, they’re going to catch you before you hit the ground. Some of them may be crooks, some of them may be on the take (although homicide cops certainly aren’t), but they know their jobs.
There wasn’t too much conversation in the car. At one point I asked if he had any idea what this was all about. He avoided the question as a good copper always does, “You’ll find out when you get there.”
Later he asked me, “How’d you do with the animals?”
I had won some bucks, but I didn’t see any reason to share this information.
“Why?” I asked. “You want to become my partner?” He laughed. I could see he was just as bored as I was.
“Let’s follow Kenny,” Maurice told me. Kenny was Detective Kenneth Willins, his partner. We went right to the precinct house not far from the track, in the heart of Queens. I understood why they picked me up at the track: convenience. What I didn’t know was how they knew I was there. I asked.
Maurice shrugged his shoulders. “A friend of yours told us we might find you out there.”
“I don’t have any friends,” I said, still trying to find out who they spoke to.
He thought about that for a minute. “Maybe you don’t,” he finally agreed.
We went directly into a small, empty conference room with the usual long table and four holding chairs. There was absolutely nothing on the wall except a little peeling paint. The room was a lot like those interrogation rooms you see in old movies, except it was lit by a long fluorescent light rather than a single uncovered light bulb. Maurice offered me a chair and suggested I sit and wait. I obliged him.
Then another individual came into the room. He didn’t identify himself, but I assumed he was the resident assistant district attorney. I was not particularly thrilled to see him. Normally in roundups they just bring you in, have the coppers question you, then let you go. The ADAs don’t get involved unless there’s hope for making a real case.
The first thing he did was read my rights to me. I heard them so often I know them better than the pledge of allegiance. I had the right to an attorney. I didn’t have to answer any questions. Wonderful, I told them, I’m not going to answer any questions and I want my attorney present. (This is much better than the old days when your rights consisted of being beaten up in the back room of the stationhouse.)
“If you’re not guilty,” the ADA asked, “what do you want an attorney for?”
It was a legitimate question and I had a legitimate answer for it. “None of your fucking business,” I told him. “You guys got degrees, I don’t. You guys being so smart, you’re going to ask me tough questions and me being so stupid, I’m liable to give you the wrong answers. My attorney will tell me what I answer and what I don’t answer.”
Maurice came forward and said something to this guy. The guy backed off. Old Maurice obviously was going to be my friend. He played the role perfectly, beginning by offering me a cigarette. “Hey, just relax a minute, okay?” he said as he perched himself on the table.
I had all the friends I needed. “No fucking way, pal. Either I walk out of here right now or my lawyer comes down. If you think you got me for anything, go ahead and book me.”
Maurice looked back at the other guy for direction. The ADA nodded. Finally, Maurice, no longer my best friend, said, “Okay, go ahead and call your lawyer.”
That threw me back. I smiled on the outside but inside I did not feel so terribly wonderful. The only reason I pushed the lawyer issue was I didn’t feel like sitting around in this room all afternoon. I had customers to see. And, normally, when I pushed the issue, they would let me take a walk. They’ll only go through the lawyer hassle if they really think they have something. So I called my lawyer, quickly.
I didn’t care if this convinced them I had something to hide or not, because I knew one thing they couldn’t possibly know. I knew I was guilty. I wanted a lawyer there from the very beginning, another security precaution.
I’ve used a number of different attorneys in my career. I judge them by only one thing: How quickly they can walk me out the door. I don’t want to know about fees (it’s the responsibility of the guys who hired me to take care of my legal expenses), I don’t want to know about problems and pleadings. I want to know how soon I’m going to get out.
My attorney at this point was, and still is in fact, a good Jewish hustler. Aaron Goldberg, as we shall call my attorney, walked me out the door. Goldberg is a smallish man with glasses and a receding hairline. You can see a hundred Aaron Goldbergs outside any United Jewish Appeal rally, but this was the original. He had started doing low-income work for poor people, got a few rich clients, bought into some buildings, found out his real-estate ventures had some partners within the organization, let them show him how he could increase the value of his investments, defended a few of them on a variety of charges and won. And now he’s a very wealthy, somewhat powerful individual. He was recommended to me by a former lawyer, an individual who made the mistake of suggesting we agree to accept a manslaughter charge instead of first-degree murder.
When I called him this time he got down to the stationhouse just as fast as his Mercedes could carry him. I am not one of Aaron’s best clients. He doesn’t make a lot of money off me. What he does make is points with the organization. And eventually a smart man like Aaron Goldberg will turn those points into dollars. While we were waiting, the coppers tried to ask me a few questions, but I kept my trap shut. I didn’t care what they thought, what they thought didn’t matter. It was what they could prove that caused the problems.
I quickly went over the job step by step. I could not figure out any mistakes. If I had a problem I took a guess that I was seen by someone who shouldn’t have seen me. That had happened before. Twice. One time the witnesses decided to go on vacation before my trial came up and I was released when they didn’t show. The second time the potential witness realized he had made a mistake and I was not the guilty party. That realization saved all of our lives.
As soon as Goldberg got there he started making a lovely fuss. He started screaming that his client had been illegally detained (I hadn’t been) and demanded that I be immediately released. That was his game and, of course, it didn’t work. Finally he calmed down and asked to be left alone in the room with his client. Me. Everybody else left.
The two most important rules I’ve learned to live with are: Take good care of your wife and never lie to your lawyer. I knew I could tell Goldberg everything because an attorney-client conversation is privileged, meaning no part of it can ever be used against the client. Also, I knew the coppers were not stupid enough to have the room wired because it would most probably cause every case in the precinct to be thrown out of court.
Goldberg looked at me with that mournful look more normal on sheepdogs. It was obvious he didn’t want to be here. “Okay,” he sighed, “let’s have it. What do they think they have?” Up until this point it never occurred to me that Goldberg didn’t have the slightest idea what this case was about. I had assumed someone had told him. Then I realized the cops had never mentioned it to me either.
