Hit #29, page 21
“Murder.”
He shook his head. This time he didn’t even look at me. I think he knew the answer before he asked the question. “Did you?”
I nodded.
He shook his head once again in disbelief and gave a fake chuckle. “What do you have to do these things for? Why can’t you get into something safe like dope smuggling?” He took off his glasses and wiped them. “What happened?”
I told him the whole story. I told him about Squillante. I told him why he went. I told him about getting picked up by the coppers. I told him how I pulled this job. The only thing I didn’t tell him were the names of the people who contacted me and hired me. Now Goldberg knows enough about the case to turn me every way but loose. And then we went through the whole thing again.
“Okay,” he said after hearing it a second time, “is it possible they have anything at all?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Witnesses?”
“I didn’t see any.” I paused and thought about Jackie Sweetlips. Inside I laughed. His way of getting even? An anonymous telephone tip? It wasn’t his style, but it was possible. And he was a witness to our departure, at least. But he couldn’t get me involved because he was involved. If I went, and I found out he had set me up, he was going to go too.
And what about the two punks? The hold-up men. How about them? I just didn’t think so. In the dark, at the distance they were sitting, there was no way they could positively identify me even if they knew who I was, which they didn’t. They could find out. They had my license-plate number. But they weren’t about to go to the police. I remembered Sweetlips on the floor, talking for his life, “Joey, those punks got nothin’ to gain and their lives to lose if they turn you in.”
“Where’s the gun?”
“I destroyed it.”
“Are you sure the guy died?”
“Does the Daily News lie?” We both laughed.
He reached into his briefcase and took out a legal pad. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he said. “When they come back in and start asking questions, answer them as best you can. I’ll tell you when to stop when you’re going too far. I want to find out if they really have anything. And Joey, listen to me. When I tell you to shut up, you shut up.”
“You’re the doctor,” I agreed.
“Believe me,” he said, “it would have been easier than being your lawyer.”
I told Goldberg one more thing. So far the coppers had not mentioned why they brought me down. I didn’t want him giving away the fact that we already were aware of the problem.
We invited the coppers back into the room. I was beginning to look at my watch because I still had hopes of getting to the garage that night, as well as seeing some customers. It was already almost six o’clock.
“My client and I agreed he should answer some of your questions,” Goldberg told them. “I’ll tell him when to stop. Let me just begin by telling you my client has no idea why he is here. He has advised me he has done nothing wrong.”
The assistant district attorney started the questioning. “Do you know …”
Goldberg interrupted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
The ADA looked at him. “Steven Boswell,” he said, “I’m in the district attorney’s office.”
Goldberg stuck out his hand. “Aaron Goldberg. Nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” ADA Boswell agreed, “nice to make your acquaintance.” He turned back to me. “Do you know Joseph Squillante?”
“Which Joseph Squillante? There’s ten thousand of them in New York. That’s a pretty common name.”
“He lived up on Roberts Avenue.”
I thought carefully for a moment. “I don’t believe I know the gentleman. I don’t know anybody who lives up there.”
“He originally came from your neighborhood.”
Instant recognition. “Oh yeah, I knew one Joseph Squillante,” I said, putting the emphasis on “one.” “He runs numbers in the Bronx. I grew up with him. And, and you’re not going to believe this, but my old lady and me bumped into him and his old lady at Macy’s about two weeks ago. Is that the guy?”
Boswell nodded.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He was found dead yesterday. Shot in the head three times.”
“Oh?” I asked with as much surprise as I could muster.
“Didn’t you read the papers?”
“Only the race results. I don’t worry about what’s on the front end. It don’t bother me.” I looked at Goldberg for some direction, but he was making notes on his yellow legal paper. While I was answering these questions, I tried to figure out what the coppers had in mind. I wasn’t worried, but I was concerned. I’ve played this question-and-answer game too many times to enjoy it. And once it ended up with me spending almost a year in the House of Detention, the Tombs, in New York City waiting to be tried. (And waiting for the witnesses to plan their vacation.) The thought that I might end up there again did not fill me with great happiness. I asked for some water.
Maurice, who had been standing quietly in the background, left to get the water. The line of questioning changed. “How much money do you have with you?”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
“I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t. I made a guess. “Six, seven hundred maybe.”
“Where do you get your money?”
“I don’t thin …” I started to say in an angry voice.
“What my client is about to say,” Goldberg interrupted, “is that he would prefer not to answer that question.”
“Is that right?” Boswell asked.
“Perfectly,” I agreed with Goldberg.
“Okay,” Boswell said, “don’t answer.” Maurice returned with my water. As I started sipping it the questioning honed in. “What were you doing in Queens Saturday night around midnight?”
It was a good question. If I came up with an answer at all I would be admitting I was in the borough. “I wasn’t,” I told him, “I was home.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I don’t have to. I don’t have to prove nothin’. You’re the people who got to prove I did or I don’t or I was or I wasn’t.”
Goldberg laughed.
“What kind of car do you drive?”
I told him.
“That’s a nice car,” he said.
“Yeah, I got a good deal on it.”
There was a lot of moving and shifting around by everyone except Goldberg and myself. I just sat there, hands folded on the table, leaning back to stretch occasionally. Goldberg kept writing away.
“You own a gun?”
“ME?” I was somewhat astonished. Goldberg held a cautious finger up in the air. “Don’t you know that would be against the law?” I asked. Goldberg put his finger down and returned to his writing.
It was right at this point that I began to think they really didn’t have much of anything except a hunch. But why me? Sweetlips had to be the answer. Or maybe just a lucky guess on their part, it has happened to other people. But their questioning was so general that I figured they were trying to make a hopefa case—they were hoping for any kind of clue that would give me up.
For the first time since we were at Aqueduct, the other detective, Willins, opened his mouth. “You know you were spotted in Queens Saturday night?”
I raised my eyebrows. “That’s interesting,” I said calmly. This was possible, but I doubted it. And this is also the one thing you can depend on the cops telling you in this type of situation. They always tell you that you did something wrong, someone saw you, you left a print, the guy didn’t die right away and identified you. Something. Unless the individual sitting on the hot seat is an idiot, he’ll just ignore it. This isn’t TV. “I think it must be a case of mistaken identity.”
“We’ll see,” he said, “when we line you up.”
Now there was some bad news. If they were going to have a lineup I might indeed have some problems. That means that somebody really did see something and the police think they can pin it down. And police have been known to rig a lineup, lining up five guys and one black giant when the witness knows a big nigger did the job. I was not thrilled to hear about the lineup at all, and I think my face must have given a little something away.
But Boswell and Maurice were so busy being intelligent with their own questions they didn’t pick it up. “Will you take a paraffin test?” Boswell asked. This is a test that determines if you’ve fired a weapon recently. I wasn’t sure what the test would show. It had been more than 36 hours since I killed Squillante, and I was wearing gloves at the time. But I wasn’t about to agree to any sort of test at all.
“No,” I said. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t feel like it. I don’t have to. And I don’t want to. That’s three reasons.” I stared right back at him. They can’t even force you to be fingerprinted if you don’t want to, much less take a paraffin test. It happens to be against your legal rights for them to force you to give up your fingerprints without your consent, until you’ve been convicted, of course. But when they bring you in, they can’t fingerprint you.
There is one catch. They do have the right to hold you until they can identify you to their satisfaction. That could be 30 years or at least a pain-in-the-neck. It’s much easier to give them your prints. When you’re released you can demand they destroy your records anyway.
I was getting a little tired of this whole thing at about this point. Joe Squillante was simply not worth all this trouble. “Are you guys going to be much longer?” I asked.
Boswell laughed. “That depends on you.” And then we went through the entire routine designed to trap unwary hit men.
Question: Do you know so-and-so from the Bronx?
Answer: Never heard of him.
Question: Where did Squillante come from?
Answer: My block in the Bronx.
Question: Have you ever eaten at this particular restaurant where the body was found?
Answer: The food there is terrible. You can die from food poisoning.
Question: Who were you with Saturday night?
Answer: My wife. Ask her.
Question: Did Squillante ever place a bet with any individuals you know?
Answer: I don’t know any individuals that take bets.
Question: How much were you paid?
Answer: For what? What you talking about?
Statement: Why don’t you tell us about it? This time we have a witness.
Statement: Fuck off and fuck your witness. I was home with my wife.
This went on for about an hour, with the questions always coming back to Squillante. The police’ll batter you with questions up one side and down the other if you allow them to.
Finally Goldberg decided enough was enough. “Do you gentlemen have any further questions for my client?”
Boswell looked at Maurice. “Why don’t we set the lineup up now?” I looked at Goldberg and raised my eyebrows. He smiled. Maurice left the room. “You know,” Boswell said casually to me, “if you tell us about it now, we’ll make it a lot easier for you. I think we can probably get it down to manslaughter. But you have to do it now. After we make our case we’re gonna follow through on it.” He waited. “Whattya say.”
“Kiss my ass.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your funeral.” Five minutes passed. Ten. Twenty. And then, then it came to me. The witness. There was only one person it could possibly be. Nice Mrs. Gibson, the lady with the Great Dane, had come back to haunt me. I snapped my fingers as I realized it, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Whatsamatta?” Boswell asked.
“My client had to snap his fingers,” Goldberg said before I could get a word out. “There’s no law against that yet, is there?”
“Not yet,” Boswell agreed, “but give us time.”
Good old, nice, warm, wonderful Mrs. Gibson, everybody’s grandmother, was about to fuck me. She could cause lots and lots of problems, especially when we went to trial. But she couldn’t put me near the murder scene or even connect me with Squillante. And I could imagine what the jury would think after they heard about Mrs. Gibson scouring her neighborhood for a Great Dane that the prosecution would prove never existed. That social-security collecting biddy was throwing me to the dogs.
I figured I’d better tell Goldberg. I leaned over and started whispering in his ear. “Actually,” I started, “there was one thing I forgot to tell ya. You see, there was this little old lady …” I stopped as Maurice reentered. He whispered something in Boswell’s ear and then left again. I stopped talking to Goldberg and waited for Boswell to say something.
“Last chance,” Boswell said nicely.
Was she standing out there in the hall? Why not? I was the idiot who had told her to go to the police! Would she still be attached to that monster on the leash? I couldn’t picture them any way but together.
Then, by an effort of will, I blanked her out. I killed her and her goddamn dog.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said.
He took a deep breath. “Okay, the witness had to leave so we can’t line you up now and we’re not going to hold you. But stay around because we’ll see you again as soon as we get her back.”
Outside I laughed heavily. There was no witness. It was a trick, a clever trick, to talk me into confessing. I loved it. Boswell looked at Willins when I started laughing. I really think they believed I did it. They didn’t have any evidence, or proof, but they believed I was guilty. They were obviously frustrated by the fact they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Goldberg and I walked out of the stationhouse together. “You have any idea how they got onto you?”
“One,” I said, thinking about Sweetlips, and realizing I wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. There would eventually be some sort of confrontation, but not over this. And I couldn’t even be sure it was him. Still …
“Thank you, lawyer,” I said to Goldberg. “Send me your bill and I’ll have it taken care of.”
“You want to get a cup of coffee?”
I checked my watch. It was past nine o’clock. “I can’t. I gotta meet some people.”
“That’s okay. Call me when you need me.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him, “I most certainly will.”
I started to walk away but Goldberg stopped me. “One more thing,” he asked, “what about that little old lady you started to tell me about?”
I laughed. “You would never believe it.” I continued walking over to my car and started figuring what I had to do over the next few days. Number one, the cash from the cigarettes and meeting with Joe Cheese. Number two, my bookmaking customers on Tuesday. Beyond that I had no plans. I knew something would turn up. It always does.
I had a feeling my friends in the blue uniforms would be keeping an eye on me for awhile so I would have to be careful. That in itself wasn’t so terrible. I had money in my pocket and it would give me more time to spend with the animals and with Alice-with-the-big-tits. I was almost hoping the coppers would trail me. It would fill my heart with joy to know that somebody else was sitting in the cold while I was inside balling some chick, like I had to do with Squillante.
Squillante. I gave him a brief thought. I guessed the funeral would be on Tuesday. I had no intention of going, or even sending flowers. Why add insult to injury?
I got in my car and turned the radio on. That same damn loud blaring music was in full swing. I took one deep breath and looked back at the stationhouse. Maurice and Kenny, NYPD, were just coming down the steps. As my car was warming up, I sat and watched as they walked toward me. They stopped when they got there and Maurice leaned in. The game was over, we all knew it, and they seemed more relaxed, more at ease.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
I’ll never know how he knew, but he knew. Probably just a hunch, but he knew. “Whattya think?” I asked him.
“I think you did it,” he said flatly.
I smiled at him. “Your mother would be proud of you.” Then I put the car in drive and left them standing on the sidewalk.
All of which is how one Joseph Squillante came to be dead.
About the Authors
David Fisher is the author of more than twenty New York Times bestsellers, including, most recently, Leonard: My Fifty Year Friendship with a Remarkable Man (2016), cowritten with William Shatner. In 1973, Fisher set the standard for organized crime memoirs as the coauthor, with “Joey the Hit Man,” of the New York Times bestseller Killer: The Autobiography of a Mafia Hit Man. It was followed by the true crime classic Hit #29: Based on the Killer’s Own Account (1974), Joey the Hit Man’s blow-by-blow depiction of his most harrowing contract murder. Fisher lives in New York.
“Joey the Hit Man” was a loan shark, numbers king, professional assassin, and the New York Times–bestselling author, with David Fisher, of Killer: The Autobiography of a Mafia Hit Man (1973) and Hit #29: Based on the Killer’s Own Account (1974).
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 1974 Joey and David Fisher
Cover design by Amanda Shaffer
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4608-4
This edition published in 2017 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10038
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JOEY THE HIT MAN
WITH DAVID FISHER
FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA
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Joey the Hit Man, Hit #29
