Tragic Read online

  So DiMarzo had let himself be talked into the plot. But sitting in the freezing cold in an old sedan waiting for a man to show up at his New Rochelle home so that Bebnev could shoot him was harder than it originally sounded. He figured there were going to be a lot of sleepless nights putting this one out of his mind.

  In the backseat, Alexei Bebnev fingered the gun he’d put back in the pocket of the long black leather coat he was wearing. Unlike the other two, he was not troubled by a conscience. He’d been raised in an orphanage on the outskirts of Moscow—an odd, distant child, who’d been unwanted by any prospective parents and eventually ran away to the streets, where he made his living as a small-time criminal. He’d come into some real money when he attempted to rob an old Jewish watchmaker in his apartment and ended up killing the man, but not before his victim told him where he’d stashed a small fortune in gold coins. It was enough for Bebnev to buy his way out of Russia to the United States, where he’d believed he would soon be living the sweet life. Life, it turned out, was not that easy. He became a dishwasher at a Russian restaurant in Brooklyn and dreamed of having money and respect as a hit man for the Russian mob.

  Trying to prove himself, Bebnev accepted four hundred dollars to kill two nobodies who got behind in their gambling debts to Lvov, a small-time loan shark and bookie with connections to the Malchek bratka, or “brotherhood,” the Russian mob equivalent of a gang. Bebnev had hoped that his cold-blooded efficiency would get him noticed by the bigger mob bosses and help him climb the organized-crime ladder.

  It looked like this might be his big break. Lvov contacted him at the restaurant and said a friend of his in Manhattan had a big job that would pay good money, and more importantly get him noticed by “important” people. Lvov said he’d met this guy Joey some years ago down at the Brooklyn docks where Lvov ran small gambling operations and that the job had something to do with problems in the North American Brotherhood of Stevedores union that ran the docks on New York City’s west side.

  Bebnev met with Lvov, Joey, and Jackie at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d walked up behind the men, who were sitting at a booth, just in time to hear Joey tell Lvov that “Charlie wants this done ASAP.”

  They didn’t mention “Charlie” again, and Bebnev didn’t care. Joey, who did all the talking, offered Bebnev $30,000 to “eliminate” a man named Vince Carlotta. Excited by the money and the big-time nature of the hit, Bebnev agreed to take the job.

  It was supposed to look like a home invasion robbery that got out of hand. But as the day approached, he started to get cold feet and decided to bring DiMarzo in on it “if you can find someone with a car.” He told DiMarzo that he and the driver would split $14,000 while Bebnev would keep the lion’s share for pulling the trigger.

  “I’ve got to piss,” Miller said and opened his door. He got out of the car and walked over to a hedge that bordered the school grounds and relieved himself on a patch of snow left over from a storm a week earlier. Spitting one last time into the beer bottle, he tossed it into the bush. If they had to take off fast, he didn’t want its noxious contents spilling on the front seat.

  Miller had just turned to walk back to the car when headlights suddenly appeared from behind his car moving in their direction. He crouched by the hedge as a large SUV passed the Delta 88 and continued on down the hill until it turned into the driveway of the house they’d been watching. A man and woman exited the car, with the woman opening a rear door and removing an infant. Then the family entered the house.

  Jumping back in the car, Miller turned to DiMarzo, who was studying a photograph that had been torn from the Dock: The Official Magazine of the North American Brotherhood of Stevedores in the light given off by a streetlamp. The photograph showed four middle-aged men, one of them with a circle drawn around his face and some writing. He knew that Bebnev’s contact had given him the photograph and that the Russian had turned it over to DiMarzo as the “lookout.”

  “That’s the guy,” DiMarzo said, looking up before placing the photograph back into his coat pocket. “That’s Carlotta.”

  “Let’s go,” Bebnev replied. He put his hand back in his coat pocket to feel the comfort of the revolver and took another puff on his cigarette.

  Miller turned the key in the ignition and the old V-8 roared to life. He pulled up to the curb in front of the house but left the engine running. He thought about saying something to put a stop to what was about to happen, but then he pictured his girlfriend’s perpetually disappointed face and heard her father’s voice. You’re a bum. He scowled. He didn’t know Vince Carlotta. All those guys with the dockworkers’ unions were crooks, and this guy just got on the wrong side of some other crooks. What did he care if the guy died?

  DiMarzo was experiencing a similar crisis of conscience. You’ll go to hell. And if you’re caught, Mom will die. . . . But the thoughts fled his mind when Bebnev snarled from the backseat.

  “It’s time,” the Russian said tersely. “Come on, Frankie. Sooka, keep the car running.”

  “Just do it,” Miller replied, his voice rising from the tension.

  Bebnev jumped out of the car, flicking the still-smoking cigarette butt to the side of the road as he walked up across the front lawn and rang the bell. The Russian tensed as the door opened, but instead of the man he’d been sent to kill, the pretty woman he’d seen get out of the car stood there with the infant in her arms.

  She looked confused but then smiled. “Yes, can I help you?” she asked with a slight accent.

  Bebnev looked from the woman’s face to the infant, and then released his hold on the gun in his pocket. “Uh, we are looking for Mr. Carlotta,” he said meekly.

  “He’s washing up,” the woman said. “I’m Antonia Carlotta. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

  Before Bebnev could answer, the man from the photograph walked up and stepped in front of his wife. He frowned slightly. “What can I do for you?”

  Bebnev fidgeted. He pulled his empty hand from his pocket and extended it. “Da, yes, we are from San Francisco where we work on docks. We hope to find work here,” he said. “We were told you might help.”

  Carlotta shook Bebnev’s hand but his brow furrowed. “How did you know where I lived?” he asked.

  Bebnev licked his lips. “We arrived late today and went to docks. Man there tell us New Rochelle. Then we ask neighbors. Sorry for intrusion, but we need work.”

  Carlotta nodded. “Well, you’re enterprising and that’s good,” he said. “Show up tomorrow at the union headquarters, and I’ll get you on the rolls. There may be a few openings for good workers.”

  Bebnev grinned. “Thank you. We are good workers,” he said and then turned to DiMarzo, who was standing with his mouth open watching the exchange in confusion. “We leave this nice family alone. Tomorrow we find work.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” DiMarzo said before nodding at the Carlottas. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem,” Vince Carlotta said as he looked past them at the old sedan parked in front of his SUV. “Drive safe.”

  As they walked back across the lawn and got in the car, DiMarzo turned to glare at Bebnev. “Why didn’t you do it? He was right there!”

  Bebnev scowled. “No one pay me to kill woman and baby,” he growled. “I am professional, not baby-killer.”

  “Professional my ass,” Miller sneered as he pulled away from the curb. “You chickened out!”

  “Fuck you, Gnat,” Bebnev yelled. “Next time, I shoot the fucker!”

  “Yeah, yeah, big talker,” Miller scoffed. “Who’s the sooka now, huh, Bebnev?”

  2

  CHARLIE VITTELI SLAMMED HIS BIG meaty palm down on the tabletop, causing four sets of silverware, four plates and beer mugs, as well as the two men sitting with him, to jump. “What the fuck does it take to get something done around here?” he snarled.

  They were gathered around a back corner table at Marlon’s, a pub popular with Manhattan’s longshoremen, located in Hell’s Kitchen near the west
side of the New York City waterfront. No other patrons had been seated near them, a concession to Vitteli’s importance as the president of the North American Brotherhood of Stevedores, or NABS.

  Vitteli kept his voice low, but there was no mistaking the intensity and anger that boiled just beneath the surface. He was an imposing man, barrel-chested, and his cinder block of a head seemed to sit directly upon his broad shoulders. With his mashed nose, pewter-gray crew cut, and facial scars, he looked like a middle-aged prizefighter. But the marks weren’t earned in the ring; he got them on the streets, most from his days as a “union organizer” thirty years earlier.

  He glared at the other two men as if challenging them to answer his question. Of them, only Joey Barros could hold his gaze. Barros, tall and gaunt to the point of cadaverous, had started on the docks with Vitteli when he was young, and both men had come up through the ranks based largely on their willingness to bust heads to protect the union’s party line. The difference between them was that as they’d aged, Vitteli was more likely to use his brains to achieve his ends, whereas Barros was happier doing his persuading with bats, brass knuckles, and a wicked straight razor. He was not afraid of Vitteli, who trusted him like no other.

  The third man at the table was Jack “Jackie” Corcione. Vitteli didn’t trust him like he did Barros, though in some ways he was more valuable. Corcione was the son of Leo Corcione, the union’s founder and president for forty-five years until his death almost two years earlier. The old man had hoped that his only child would succeed him, but Jackie didn’t have the nerve or leadership skills to lead a rough-and-tumble union. Leo had recognized the weakness and instead packed his boy off to Harvard, where he’d earned an MBA and then his law degree. He was then brought back into the fold as the union’s legal counsel and chief financial officer.

  Vitteli kept Corcione in his inner circle for two reasons. There wasn’t anything about the union’s legal and financial operations, including those that were “under the radar,” that Jackie didn’t know inside and out. The other reason was that, for all his toughness, Vitteli had a soft spot in his black heart for Leo Corcione. He owed the union’s founder everything. He’d been a thug and a dockworker, but he’d made a name for himself during the dockworker strikes in the seventies, and the old man had rewarded him by bringing him into management.

  And now I’m dressing in silk suits and living the good life, he thought whenever Barros warned him that Jackie was a weak link in his armor. I owe it to the old man not to let Joey go after his kid. Not unless it becomes necessary.

  While the old man was alive, Vitteli hadn’t worried about Jackie because of what he knew about him, including that he had expensive tastes he paid for by embezzling union funds albeit on a small scale. But more important was the fact that Jackie Corcione was gay.

  “A raging queer,” Barros had said with a smirk when he brought him the news. “With a taste for Dom Pérignon, Brooks Brothers, and pretty Columbia University frat boys.”

  Vitteli had used the information to his advantage years ago, when the old man was still alive, by sitting Jackie down in his office one day and telling him what he knew. “It don’t bother me what side of the bun you butter,” he said, “or that you’re padding your bank account from the union’s benefits account. But it would kill your dad.” He stopped and grinned. “If he doesn’t kill you first.”

  Jackie blanched. “Please don’t tell him,” he’d begged. “I’ll stop stealing. I won’t see guys.”

  “Not to worry, Jackie boy. I look out for you.” Vitteli had smiled. “You look out for me.”

  After the old man died, it didn’t matter that Vitteli could no longer hold homosexuality over Jackie’s head. Jackie was in so deep, stealing to support his habits, that the members would have torn him apart—along with Vitteli and Barros—if they learned what they’d all been doing with the union’s pension funds.

  “Goddamn it, I thought this was a done deal,” Vitteli swore, now looking only at Barros.

  “Lvov told me it was taken care of,” Barros answered flatly. “Apparently, his guy went to the house but Vince’s wife and kid were there, so he backed off.”

  “I don’t give a shit about his bitch or brat,” Vitteli hissed, leaning forward and speaking lower so the others had to move closer to hear him. “This guy, whoever in the fuck he is, should have done all three and that would be that.” He pointed a thick finger at each of them. “Every day that Vince Carlotta lives is a day closer to all of our asses being in hot water. Maybe this alleged hit man ain’t the right guy.”

  “We met with the guy. He’s not on the dean’s list at Columbia,” Barros said. “But he’s done this before—that’s what Lvov said anyways. Remember, we didn’t want to use our ‘partners,’ the Malchek gang, on something this . . . sensitive, and the membership would tear us to pieces if they knew we were dealing with the Russian mob in Brooklyn.”

  “And maybe it wasn’t such a bad call on his part,” Jackie Corcione chimed in. “It’s one thing for something to happen to Vince, especially if it looks like a home robbery. Makes the news for a little bit but then goes away. But add Antonia and her baby, and this goes national. The press goes ape shit, and there’s all kinds of pressure on the cops to get to the bottom of it.”

  Vitteli stared at Corcione for a few seconds before he suddenly erupted with laughter and clapped the surprised younger man on the shoulder. “The press is going to go ‘ape shit,’ eh? I love it when you try to talk like a tough guy. But stick to your Hah-vard faggot bullshit; you’re much more valuable to me as a bookkeeper than a gangster. I got Joey for that.”

  Corcione blushed as Barros laughed. “Yeah, Jackie’s gonna make a deal you can’t refuse,” Barros said with a smirk. “A regular godfairy.”

  Pushing back from the table, Vitteli grinned at Jackie’s discomfiture. The young man was a pansy, useful but no backbone. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Jackie, we’re only yanking your chain,” he said as he pulled a silver cigar case from the pocket of the suit coat hanging from the back of his chair. He removed one of the expensive Cubans from inside and clipped the end. Then he flipped open an old Zippo lighter with his left hand and puffed furiously on the cigar until a red ember appeared on the end. It was illegal to smoke in any bar in New York City, but no one in the waterfront area was going to tell Charlie Vitteli he couldn’t light up.

  • • •

  Old man Corcione had been no saint but a street savvy, tough son of a bitch. He had to be, in the years when he was fighting to keep his independent fledgling union from being absorbed by the bigger, more well-known International Longshoremen’s Association, as well as from the Italian mob. He’d been a man who made sure that interlopers were met fist for fist and bat for bat until both had backed off. As such, he was a man who recognized Vitteli’s talent for strategic violence and his intense loyalty to the union and had rewarded him with his trust.

  Leo had two favorites. The other was Vince Carlotta, a handsome, charismatic man who’d also come up through the ranks. Although not afraid to fight, and fight well when pushed into a corner, Carlotta had always been the one to negotiate and compromise, especially if it benefited the membership. He had no family and had started working on the docks as a teenager, but Leo saw something special in him and treated him like a son. His protégé had returned the love and respect.

  Carlotta and Vitteli had often locked horns over the union, which was a confederation of small dockworker locals scattered across the northeast, as far west as the Great Lakes and up into Canada. Vitteli insisted that without clear direction from the top, and no tolerance for dissent, the union would weaken, as would their influence over its membership. Carlotta was the rank and file’s champion, who argued that the old days of ensuring loyalty among the members through intimidation no longer held sway. He contended that allegiance and cohesion would come by working for better wages and insurance benefits, as well as by improving working conditions and safety.

  Althoug
h Leo Corcione continued to treat Vitteli with respect, listening to his arguments and sometimes even agreeing with him, thereby overruling Carlotta, most of the time the old man sided with Vince. Never really sure of himself despite his bluster, Vitteli grew jealous and paranoid when he started noticing that Carlotta and the old man were spending a lot of time locked away in private talks, even going out to dinner by themselves, according to his spies.

  Then came the day when Barros walked into Vitteli’s office at union headquarters with alarming news. He said his sources had told him that Leo was preparing to step down as president and name a successor.

  “Rumor has it that he’s going to choose Vince,” Barros claimed, arching an eyebrow as he watched for his boss’s reaction. Then Barros suggested that maybe the old man needed to have “an accident” before he named Carlotta as his heir apparent, which the members would have taken as gospel.

  At first, Vitteli recoiled at the thought. But the more he thought about playing second fiddle to Carlotta, the better Barros’s argument sounded. “I don’t need to remind you that if Carlotta is president,” Barros said, “he’s going to find out about our little retirement fund.”

  Vitteli had all but decided to let Barros devise a plan to get rid of the old man in a manner that wouldn’t arouse suspicions when fate intervened. Vitteli and Carlotta had been in Leo’s office arguing over a complaint from several union crane operators that a half-dozen new cranes were unstable under certain conditions and could topple. Carlotta was insisting on an independent inspector, while Vitteli, who’d taken a kickback for pushing through the crane manufacturer’s bid, said it was unnecessary and could even put the union in financial straits if “for some trumped up reason” it appeared that management had been derelict in looking out for worker safety.

  They had both resorted to shouting when suddenly Leo clutched his chest, gave a gasp, and collapsed to the floor. Carlotta had administered CPR until the ambulance arrived, but the old man never regained consciousness and didn’t pull through.