Damaged Goods by Stephen Solomita Page B

for almost five years. Not that I wouldn’t like to do the world a favor and oblige you.” Moodrow, his face a dead mask, stared into a pair of eyes so light they were nearly invisible, eyes the color of an ice cube in a glass of vodka.
    “Forget it. If you ain’t busted me by now, you’ll never bust me. I did some time with the feds, but punk cops like you never got close.”
    “Life isn’t over, Carmine. Unless you retired and forgot to hold the party.” In spite of the defiant words, Moodrow knew the man was right. Unless they were bent, precinct detectives like Stanley Moodrow stayed clear of big-time mobsters like Carmine Stettecase. Sure, if you stumbled on them, caught them in the proverbial act, you’d make the bust. Long-term investigations, on the other hand, were the province of whatever federal-local task force happened to be operating at the moment.
    “Never happen, Moodrow. Ya wanna retire, ya gotta have someone to step into your shoes. Me, I got a kid that can’t even control his mother-in-law. I swear to Christ, if Tommaso wasn’t my own flesh and blood, I’d shoot him.” Stettecase opened a Veniero’s cake box, plucked out a miniature cannoli, popped it into his mouth. “So, whatta ya want, Stanley? Bein’ as I know you always hated my guts and this ain’t a social call.”
    “After I left the cops, I went into business for myself. Right now, I represent Ann Kalkadonis.” Moodrow stared across the table, tried to gauge Stettecase’s reaction. As a kid, Carmine had built his reputation on a hot temper and a squat, fireplug physique. Now, at sixty-two, his temper had gone the way of his body. At least a hundred pounds overweight, Carmine Stettecase seemed about as volatile as the pastries he stuffed into his mouth. Not that he wouldn’t kill Jilly Sappone or Stanley Moodrow or anybody else who got in his way. “I assume you know what happened to her.”
    Carmine shrugged. “Guess I’m gonna solve both of our problems at the same time. Lucky me.” He stared at Moodrow for a moment. “How the fuck did you jerks let that maniac outta jail? I don’t care if he’s been inside fourteen years. You gotta be crazy to put a maniac like Jilly on the street.”
    “Gee, and all this time I thought you were the one pulling the strings. Life sure can surprise you.”
    “It ain’t funny, Moodrow.” Carmine ran a soft palm over what was left of his hair. “What I shoulda done is listen to Dominick.” Dominick Favara had been Carmine’s boss for thirty years, right up until cancer did what a dozen would-be assassins had failed to do. “Dominick told me to make Jilly disappear. He said, ‘Fuck ya son, fuck ya daughter-in-law, and fuck ya daughter-in-law’s mother. Fuck Josie Rizzo.’ He told me I should put Josie in the same hole with her nephew.”
    Moodrow nodded solemnly. Just as if they weren’t talking about murder, about an execution. As if Carmine’s bodyguards weren’t scattered about the restaurant. “Why didn’t you?” he asked.
    Carmine looked at his lap for a moment, then sighed before consoling himself with a cream puff. “In case ya haven’t heard, we don’t kill women. We ain’t like them fuckin’ spics, them Cubans and Colombians. Women don’t get hit unless they’re gonna rat.”
    “I wasn’t talking about Josie, Carmine. Why didn’t you kill Jilly Sappone?”
    He shrugged, managed a laugh that rippled through his jowls. “The first mistake I made was lettin’ my kid marry into that family. I knew better at the time, but I figured I was such a hot shit I could take care of anything. My second mistake was doin’ the Godfather bit and givin’ crazy Jilly Sappone a job. Then I let Josie Rizzo move into the family building and I was fuckin’ history. Hey, three strikes you’re out, right? I figured for sure somebody would kill Jilly in prison.”
    Moodrow reached into his jacket pocket, noted the alarm on Carmine’s face, and grinned broadly. “Hey,