It is 1973 when a New York police officer is gunned down in the vestibule of a mob hangout. As the killer, mafia boss Frank Ardone, escapes despite the bullet from the slain cop's gun that remains in his shoulder, he breathes a sigh of relief, not realizi

COP KILLER

By Angelo Morelli

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Angelo Morelli
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-1419-1

Chapter One

AUGUST 1973

New York born and bred Frank Ardone knew better than to try to take on the Friday morning Midtown Manhattan streets in late summer. But today he had no choice. Using only his right hand because he had a gun in his left hand, he wheeled the beat-up Buick uptown through the choked streets all the while he spewed a steady stream of fuck this and fuck that, especially at the lousy air conditioner. But he did not rent the car for its amenities.

Frustrated, he slammed the AC off with the butt of his nine-millimeter automatic, sending the cheap plastic knob careening into the back seat. The novel use of the gun gave a moment of respite to Joseph Cutolo, Ardone's front seat passenger against whose ribcage the weapon had been pressed. Cutolo exhaled reflexively. He was used to gunplay. It was just that usually, it was he who was on the business end.

Cutolo was a tough man and looked it. A scar under his right eye traveled down across his cheekbone toward the center of his chin and made him look like the longshoreman that he was before becoming an enforcer in Ardone's crew. What made him attractive to Ardone was his sheer physical presence; six feet-two inches tall, two hundred and thirty pounds, with huge hands that he could instantly turn into battering rams. Ardone employed such men to collect debts from those who were unwilling to pay.

Just short of reaching the Westchester county line, Ardone steered the Buick into a deserted construction site. He drove slowly down a rocky dirt road alongside the East River on the right and mounds of garbage on the left. He parked in a dark area hidden from the street. Loosening his imported Borelli necktie he turned to Cutolo, steadying the gun now aimed at this head.

"Why the fuck did ya try to set me up, JoJo? I mean after all I done for you. All the years we've been together, you ungrateful cocksucker!"

Cutolo swallowed; his usually fearsome face filled with terror. He tried desperately to ignore the nine-millimeter aimed at his head. Sweating profusely, the huge mobster finally managed to find his tongue. "Ya got it all wrong Cheech," he croaked. "I swear on my father's grave. It wasn't no set-up. Why would've I got in the car with ya if it was a set-up?"

Ardone's eyes bored into the frightened man's face. "Fuck you, JoJo. You tried to set me up and you know it. And what's more you got in the car because I didn't leave ya no fuckin choice. Now did I, JoJo," Ardone said.

"Please Cheech, listen. I ..."

"No you listen, hard-on. I knew from the very beginning that something was up when you came to me with that fugazy fuckin deal; telling me you got a guy willin to sell three keys a shit for only forty large. And ninety percent pure, no less, then telling me to meet you on a street corner with the cash. I don't believe you, JoJo. Whadda take me for a fuckin idiot. Didn't you think I'd ask around? You dumb piece of shit."

"Please Frankie, ya gotta ...'

"I don't gotta do nothin, JoJo," Ardone screamed. "And lemme tell you somethin, scumbag. It didn't take me long too find out about them two goons you brung along. They were ready to move when they seen my black Caddy turn the corner to meet ya. Me showing up in this beat-up red piece of shit fooled them real good. Didn't it JoJo?"

"Frankie, please. Ya gotta believe me. Whoever told ya this was a set-up got it all wrong." Cutolo was pleading now. "Ya gotta give me a chance to explain."

"Explain this, you shit head. My information was good and you know it. Now cocksucker, tell me who the sonofabitch is that gave ya the contract or I'll blow your fuckin brains out right here."

"Okay Frankie, okay," Cutolo whined now thinking he had a chance to survive this. "I'll level with ya. I went along with it, but it wasn't my idea. You gotta believe me. I'll tell ya anything ya wanna know. Anything!"

"Yeah, you'll tell me anything I wanna know. You mean anything that'll save your miserable fuckin ass."

"No, I'll tell ya the truth. I swear on my kids eyes."

Ardone smiled as he continued to press the weapon into Cutolo's skull. "On your kid's eyes, huh JoJo, what happened to your father's grave? Next time it'll be your sister's twat you lying piece a shit."

"Please Frankie, please. Lemme explain. For old times sake."

Ardone hesitated. "Okay hard-on. Explain. For old times sake."

Cutolo managed a faint smile. "It was Fat Tony who came to me. He made me go along with it. He sez you and him did a thing together a couple of months ago and you fucked him outta his end. He swore to me that no one would get hurt. He said he just wanted to get his."

"Bullshit! That fat cocksucker! And you, you miserable fuck. You believed him. Lemme tell ya something, JoJo, the minute them two goons that were waiting for me to show got their hands on the cash they thought I was carrying, they would a blown us both the fuck away ... right on the spot. I guess they didn't tell ya about the other guy that was with them, the one that was waiting to get them outta there."

"Listen Frankie, I ..."

"Speak up shit head," Ardone shouted over Cutolo's whimpering. "With all the fuckin noise around here, I can hardly hear myself think."

Ardone paused to watch as the boom swung on an immense construction crane, carrying a huge beam, a daring ironworker riding on it.

Then returning to the business at hand, he barked loudly. "Anyway, JoJo, I'm finished listenin to your explaining."

"Please Frankie! No! Listen! I'll make it up to you. Please. Gimme a break! We go back along way. It was only the cash they wanted. Ya gotta believe me. I didn't mean to let you down."

"Let me down? You fuckin idiot! What ya think the crew will think if I forget the whole thing? You made me look like a God- damn fool. And what'll the other capos think?"

"But I can ..."

"I'll tell ya what they'll think." Ardone interrupted. "They'll think I'm weak. That I can't handle my own crew! That's what they'll think. Now get the fuck outta the car."

"Please, Frankie! Please! It don't gotta be this way" Cutolo pleaded, refusing to accept what was happening. "Ya gotta believe me,"

Ardone leaned across Cutolo's trembling body and pushed the front passenger's door open.

"I believe you, JoJo," he said calmly, "A hundred percent. I never doubted you for a minute. That's why I rented this banged up piece a shit with a phony driver's license. That's why I'm wearing these shit gloves. That's why I drove to this no fuckin no man's land where a fuckin bomb could go off and no one would hear it. Now get the fuck outta the car."

Cutolo continued to plead, refusing to leave the car.

Ardone's eyes went flat, emotionless as he raised his left knee and placed his foot against Cutolo's left side. He pushed violently and the big man's upper body fell to the ground leaving his legs behind, wedged between the car's floorboard and open door. Cutolo dug his elbows into the packed earth, trying frantically to free himself from the car.

Ardone scowling in disgust leaned across the passenger's seat and pulled the trigger twice. The bullets found their mark in the center of Cutolo's back. Ardone slid out of the car and calmly walked over to the mobster. He dragged his limp body along the ground and propped it against a pile of chipped rock. Then he fired a third shot between Cutolo's eyes, blowing away a portion of the back of his head. Blood and brains immediately colored the rock pile.

Ardone spit a vengeful good riddance. He smoothed out his slicked back hair and his impeccably tailored custom-made suit. Standing over the body he opened his fly and pissed on the man he just killed. Then he calmly walked back to the car. He eased the Buick over the hardened herringbone ruts in the earth and into the heavy stream of downtown traffic. Safely on his way, he exhaled certain he had meted out JoJo Cutolo's punishment unobserved.

Chapter Two

Further South in midtown Manhattan Police Officer Terry McDermott putt-putted his beat-up Cushman motor scooter in and out of the Third Avenue traffic. The young cop was assigned to issue summonses to illegally parked cars and trucks that typically choked mid-town.

After ticketing an unoccupied double-parked box truck, he began to resume patrol when a car whizzed by narrowly missing him. The car stopped abruptly in front of a red and white "No Standing Anytime" traffic sign not more than fifty yards away from the startled cop.

"Sonofabitch," McDermott mumbled under his breath. "He almost runs my ass over and now he's parking right in front of me. What fucking balls."

McDermott made his way toward the beat-up Buick. He watched its well-dressed driver slide out of the front seat and walk towards the leather padded doors of the Blue Grotto Lounge. The young cop put down his scooter and walked to the lounge. When the driver pulled open the huge door to the vestibule of the lounge, McDermott was on his heels.

"Whoa mister, you're parked in a No Standing Zone."

Turning to the blue uniform behind him, the man quickly offered an apology. "I didn't notice the sign, officer."

"Yeah right," the cop shot back. "Then I guess you didn't notice me either when you almost ran me over a minute ago. Now lemme see your license and registration, please."

"But officer, I was only gonna take a peek inside to see if the help arrived yet."

"Well sir, that peek is going to cost you a twenty-five dollar summons, now the license and registration."

This simple command presented a problem for Ardone. His wallet was tucked in his jacket pocket a few inches from the gun he just used to kill Cutolo.

Managing a faint smile, he continued to try to talk his way out of the summons. "Listen officer, I'm Frank Ardone. I own a piece of this joint. Maybe you and your wife would like to stop by some evening and have some dinner on me. The food's excellent."

"I'm sure it is Mr. Ardone, but I ain't married."

"Hey, that's even better," Ardone said, now smiling broadly. "In that case come in with a couple of your friends some night. There are always a few ladies hanging around at the bar and if you see something you like I'll do the right thing by ya."

"McDermott stiffened; I think you better quit right there Mister. Now for the third time, lemme have your license and registration."

Ardone fought to remain calm. "Why sure thing officer, sure thing."

Ardone carefully opened the top button of his sports jacket keeping his eyes trained on the officer. But as he attempted to remove his wallet from deep within the jacket's inner left breast pocket the sport jacket opened just enough to reveal the butt of his weapon. McDermott spotted it triggering concern for his own safety. As training instructed, the cop took a step backwards, placing his hand firmly on the butt of his own weapon.

"Do you have a license for that gun you have under your jacket, Mr. Ardone?" the cop asked.

But Ardone's decision was immediate and irrevocable. He was a cornered rat. And the grim awareness that the weapon tucked away in his waistband had just been used to murder JoJo Cutolo left him no choice. With no more words Ardone yanked the gun from inside his trousers and fired at the cop. Two bullets were already tearing through the wall of his stomach when McDermott drew upon some primordial instinct to strike back. He managed to pull his own weapon. And as he fell mortally wounded he fired three rounds. One found the meaty part of Ardone's left shoulder.

Ignoring the pain, Ardone looked down at the dying cop. "To bad, kid, ya shoulda took the fuckin meal," he mumbled then dashed into the lounge and made his way out the rear fire exit.

Outside, the entire street was alive at the sound of the gunfire. People were running for cover. The killer was nowhere to be found.

Moments later, Ardone, was two blocks away. He breathed a sigh of relief knowing he had made good his escape.

What he didn't know was the crack homicide team of Samuels and Pirelli would soon be on his tail.

Chapter Three

Samuels rarely flashed his gold detective's shield. Why bother? Every cop in Manhattan knew him by sight. The sixty-one-year-old first grader was an imposing figure. He stood about five-foot eight in his stocking feet and weighed-in at two hundred and forty pounds. But his girth was rock hard and worked to his advantage many times in the past. He was quick on his feet and even now given his advanced age for an on-the-street detective, he was still among the most active and productive members of the prestigious Manhattan South Homicide Division.

A devoted family man, his desk always sported the latest five by seven of Rae, his wife of forty years, surrounded by their two daughters and three grand children. He was a man of modest tastes. He never spent more than seventy-nine dollars for a suit in his life.

After his two daughters married and moved from the family home on Long Island, Samuels persuaded Rae to move back to the East Village neighborhood where he grew up. The eighty year-old apartment, on the third floor of a converted brownstone, had been completely gutted and renovated when he returned. The five-room apartment was thickly carpeted and filled with Danish modern furniture. The high ceilings, ornate moldings and the wood-burning fireplace gave the living room a rich and elegant ambience. A solid oak door opened onto a deck that overlooked a small but well-cared for garden below.

The only interest Solly had outside the family was competing in police sponsored pistol tournaments with his partner and best friend, Detective First Grade Anthony Pirelli.

Chapter Four

Pirelli never aspired to become a New York City police officer. It was not the realization of a lifelong dream. It just happened.

It all began in Brooklyn, the home of Coney Island and the Brooklyn Dodgers. It was 1933 when Brooklyn was an intense microcosm of the country. The working class struggled to survive during a time when life consisted of impossible dreams and little more. Aside from the ethnic and racial injustices, it was also an easier time. How simple it all was then; three classes, the rich, the middle class, and whatever was left included the poor. The entire city was a labyrinth of complex ghettos formed by individual preferences, all at a time when the black man was tucked away behind social boundaries as effective as barbed razor wire.

1933 was a time when doors were left unlatched and when car windows were cranked up only when it rained. Brooklyn, the city's most populous borough was sprawled along the great waterways that flowed into the mouth of the blue Atlantic Ocean. Brooklyn's seventy-seven square miles housed a population that sought to work for their sustenance; a time when exhausted breadwinners were herded together on stifling subway cars and clanking electric trolleys; a time of quiet respect for legitimate authority.

The city was pure and strictly democratic, with no other way it cared to go. Non-violent crime was on a gradual upswing, but assault and rape was still in check. Even the most cautious parent would think nothing of letting their teenager children take the subway to visit a grandparent or an aunt or uncle. And, while murder was hardly unknown, it was contained under the awesome shadow of "The Chair", a high voltage killer located in Ossining's Sing Sing prison.

With few exceptions, the men in blue were Irish. Some were cheerful. Some were sullen. All were big-footed, big-fisted and feared.

In the Pirelli neighborhood, the lusty Italian markets were rife with the pungent odor of provolone and parmegiano cheese. The trays were loaded with fresh ricotta, prosciutto and fruit-filled tomato-laden stalls spilled out to cover the sidewalks.

It was a time of cash or a promise to pay, a solid generation before the advent of the credit card. Automobiles were not yet a part of every household. Airlines were still in their infancy and travel beyond a hundred miles was reserved mainly for the affluent. The fur market in Manhattan was politically acceptable and flourishing with mink and silver fox, a prized gift for some woman. Most other women, less affluent, were chained to the home and kids and to a cloth coat from Klein's basement on Union Square.

Anthony Pirelli was born in 1933.

Like all children that grew up in Italian immigrant neighborhoods, Pirelli could tell stories of occasionally seeing victims of gangland killings lying in the streets while others were seen bent over the wheel of an abandoned automobile.

Delinquent debtors' fallen prey to unforgiving moneylenders could be seen hobbling around after bat-wielding hoods, delivering a message, blackened their knees.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from COP KILLERby Angelo Morelli Copyright © 2012 by Angelo Morelli. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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