The Ghost Read online

  “So, if I’m a Krav Maga fighter, and then if anyone should break into my apartment, it would be too bad for them because after they break in, I don’t want anyone to leave!”

  Imi said he accepted Al immediately and that after Al gave that speech, Jimmy, Imi himself, and Max, laughed out loud. Apparently through their personal four-man Krav Maga in-group, they all became tight—like brothers.

  * * *

  The big burly guy, Ewald, announced in his thick German accent: “Look at hist picture again. He ist tall und erecting. He valking like in straight vay. He hast browna hor. Dis ist vhat day saying. Vhen vee spotting him, even in dis daylight, I stopping car, vee jumping out, I knock him, und vee qvuickly carrying him into dis back seat. You sitting next to him. No ending his life. No shooting. No killing! Remembering, important ting—vee needing package. Vee driving right avay. It no mattering who day seeing because vee going like I saying—mit qvuick.”

  “But Ewald,” answered Eduardo in his Spanish accent, “maybe he could fight good?”

  “No, no! No one could fighting good after I hitting.”

  Eduardo listened and said: “But, Ewald, I still don’t think you should have pushed the boy. I hear his screams after you push. I still hear it.”

  “You crazy, stupid?! Forgetting deese screams. He vould be vitness. He hearing code namen. I having not choice. It vas you. He hearing you saying dis code namen! You know never vee should say dis namen. So even den vee taking him mit uns vee vould sure later getting rid of him. I had to pushing him und you know dis—it vould look like suicide because no vone seeing dis. It vas nighttime, dark. So it looking like dis suicide. Vee never beating him. No mark. Only dis injury from suicide.

  “Vee also knowing vhen uncle seeing dis, he knowing, und den giving dis package. Who else having dis package? Only boy’s uncle—Ustacio wife broder. Dat ist vhat they told—dat it must be uncle. Sister, she Ustacio wife und Ustacio he having dis package. Vhen they killing him—und day torture good—Ustacio confessing dis package ist mit sister. So after sister die und so who you tink having package? Of course not sister’s boy! He no have them. Uncle Travali. Frank Travali. Broder that who hast.

  “Now vee concentrating of people—of people valking. Vhen vee see him, next minute vee having him, den next minute driving mit you sit in back nearing to him und he vill be out—knocked out—in back seat mit you. Now I driving. Vatch for police. Ist gun loaded? Making sure gun ist loaded.”

  * * *

  In our car on the two-way street of Claremont and Washington, Mac had his eyes peeled on cars going east toward Fulton, and I was keeping close tabs on those going west toward Webster. We were all on duty now for about three and a half hours when suddenly when I was not at all expecting it, Mac grabbed my armInstead of keeping his eyes peeled on his side, he glanced for a moment to where I was looking on my side with cars heading west, first toward Brook, then Webster, and he gasped. “Frank, look, there they are. I’ll bet.”

  I couldn’t really see what he saw because that suspect car had already passed ours and I couldn’t even get a glimpse of what the two men sitting in that car looked like. I could only see the back of their heads. But Mac quickly got Lyle on the intercom.

  “Lyle, I think it’s them. The car is a black Ford. It’s going to reach Brook and you’ll be able to see them right now in about three or four seconds. Two guys. The big one driving has a hair cut that I’ll swear is not American. The sides are shaved like Europeans do—maybe like Germans do. I caught a glimpse only of the sides of his head because he’s wearing a hat.”

  “Got it, Mac, got it. I see them. I think it could be but maybe not. The guy driving is a burly looking one and the other sitting next to him is taller. They’re wearing hats. I’m now following them about two cars behind. I’m going to need Harry and Jack to take over because depending on which way they turn on Webster I’ll turn off and go the other way. I’m calling Harry and Jack. They’re on Webster and 172nd. If they turn toward them then Harry and Jack take over. We’ll all keep tabs on it and take them down in a circle. If they turn toward 171st then we’ll take them. Otherwise it’s Harry and Jack on 172nd.

  “Okay, everyone in all cars,” Mac said into his intercom with urgency. “We’ll know in a few seconds. I still see them. They’re waiting for the light to change on Webster. There it is. Harry, Jack, they’re on track toward you. You should pick them up in a few seconds. I’m betting they’ll make a right on 172nd and head up to Washington. Let’s take a chance. Calling all cars, converge at 172nd and Washington now. Right now! Block off anything going from Washington to Claremont.”

  Suddenly, we all became unified in a moment of intense alertness and without a doubt we were all feeling a common adrenaline rush. Later, Lyle later told us that Al calmly said: ‘Man, oh man, is Gloria something?’ Out of nowhere she sees it and now it looks like we got the guys. Now we’ll see what’s what!”

  . 4 .

  JUST DESSERTS

  Sure enough, four of the five police cars converged at 172nd Street and Washington Avenue encircling the car they had targeted. The fifth car came careening around the block practically crashing into Jack and Harry. All the cops were now in the street, guns drawn and demanding the two guys get out of the car, hands in the air—which they did—obediently on the orders to do so. They were immediately disarmed. Both were carrying guns.

  They were separated and placed in two different cars. Lyle and Al took the taller slimmer one and sat him in the back of their car with two other cops who joined them, leaving their car right where it was—parked away from the sidewalk and into the street.

  It was the same with the other burly guy who was put in the car with Mac and me sitting in front and with Jack and Harry who jumped into the back seat flanking our main man. Then two cops from the other cars each drove one of the abandoned police cars away.

  Mac instantly said to me and to Jack and Harry: “Don’t lay a finger on him. Not a finger!” He meant it. He knew what I was thinking. I was still jazzed-up by my adrenaline-rush. I could barely sit in my seat. Yet, at the same time, in contrast to our excitement in the car I noticed that within seconds of leaving the hectic scene of the capture, everything in the street was suddenly still. I mean that after the dust had cleared, everything at that intersection was again quiet with people left standing there who were staring at the mad scene, that was almost immediately abandoned. I imagined that probably no one could believe it actually happened.

  The neighborhood, composed of nothing but four story typical Bronx apartment buildings seemed to be no worse for the wear—as though the buildings themselves weren’t concerned—especially since, again, the event happened so fast that it may be that everyone simply wondered about it, thinking it was just another momentary but passing Bronx police extravaganza.

  Not so in the cars with each of the suspects. None of us wondered about whether this was happening or whether it was a figment of some collective imagination. No one on our team considered these scumbags as suspects. We knew what we were carrying. It was the real McCoy. And the real McCoy was in my car, the one with Mac and me in the front and with Harry and Jack flanking him in the back—that mother-fucker who I knew pushed Willy.

  Lyle and Al had the other one and two cops were flanking him in the back of their car. We had them. Oh man, did we have them! The truth is we were all tightly wound—especially me. He tried to kill Willy and was now after me. But now we had them! Especially, we had him !

  The truth is that it really felt like I had them. But really the ultimate truth is that here and now, in one of these great American moments, we had this mother-fuckn’ Nazi cocksuckn’ scumbag—which of course is what they all are! And I kept thinking: he’s the one who forced a kid out of a window and onto a third-floor ledge or maybe he scared the kid half to death so that Willy himself tried to escape out of the window, whatever. Either way, it was the big one who pushed Willy off the ledge. I saw it. And I wish someone could read my thoughts becaus
e believe me, we’ll be getting information from him or the other one. Yes, we will. One way or another! And despite our instruction about not brutalizing them, the truth was I was sure we were all hoping our questioning would lead to the other. Man, oh man, did I wish that!

  With this in mind, I knew that none of us could wait to get to the precinct, which was about seven or eight blocks away. Mac called Sgt. Silverstein at the desk and told him we were on our way and he wanted all newspaper men ushered into the back room usually set aside for appearances by the Chief of the precinct for announcements that would be of interest to crime reporters. These are the crime reporters who just hang around the precinct all day drinking coffee, eating sandwiches, and doughnuts and waiting for a story. And then Mac, almost as an afterthought said to Silverstein:

  “We’ve got two. We’re not going to book ‘em. Not yet.”

  Silverstein answered: “ten/four.” For me that meant that Silverstein understood it so that it was obvious that this non-booking situation had been done before.

  * * *

  Lyle’s car and ours pulled in at about the same time. We marched both guys right in the front door of the precinct. Mac called two other cops to come with us down the stairs, to a room at the end of the long corridor. We all went in—Mac and me, the big guy, Harry and Jack who were flanking him in the car, two other cops who followed us, Lyle and Al, and the two cops flanking the taller guy in Lyle’s car.

  Once all eleven of us were in, Mac slammed the door shut and bolted it. He slammed it hard, and bolted it hard. It was a very loud angry statement. That’s for sure. And I knew it was not lost on our two new friends.

  The question was, was the big guy going to feel heroic enough to take us all on? It didn’t take a genius to see that there were nine of us and only two of them—and the room was large. There wasn’t a glimmer of a chance for any confusion about who was who and who needed to be taken down—hard! That was “A.” “B,” was that both of them, I was sure, knew that we were itching for them to get frisky—itching for it.

  So, both guys just sat where they were told and behaved like perfect gentlemen. Good little Nazis who, without guns are nothing. Then Al started it all by challenging Mac. Al didn’t care who heard it. And it was loud.

  “Mac, just me and the big one. Let it happen.”

  Looking at the big burly one, Mac answered: “No, the guy’s too big.”

  At that point I interrupted, walked over to Mac, pulled him aside and whispered: “Mac, I should’ve told you but I forgot. Al’s a black belt Krav Maga guy—you know, that Jewish combat thing? I wouldn’t worry about the size difference if I were you. Just-desserts, Mac. Just-desserts.”

  Then without whispering, Mac answers out loud: “That’s not ‘just-desserts, Frank. Just-deserts means like one thing is the same thing as another—like one thing equals another; like an eye for an eye. No that’s not it. Just-desserts looks and sounds like the same thing but it’s not the same thing. In order for this ‘just-desserts’ to be like equal for Willy, we’d need to knock off a hundred of these motha-fuckas—a thousand, a million. Get it? If we did that, then we’d be talking ‘just’ desserts’!”

  Mac says this all while he’s looking directly at the German. Two things to keep in mind: Of course, all of this was said inside that back room in the basement of the precinct and both the big guy and his taller partner were hearing it. Second, the truth was that I knew I personally couldn’t take the big one. He had me by at least forty pounds and four inches. But with Al, the forty and four meant nothing. Al could take him apart. And if he wanted to, which I know he did, he would take him apart—slowly.

  “Al, cool it,” Mac answered. “I know what you have in mind. Not yet. Let’s see how it all goes down?”

  Then pointing to the big burly one, Mac started:

  “You, what’s your name?!”

  “Ikh bin Evald. Mine nomen ist Evald Krauss. Ikh bin German.”

  I was a bit startled to hear him say that because I never expected this guy to be a talker, no less a cooperative one. Then I thought that I understood him. I felt he must be scared because he knows he’s targeted for something bad especially if he suspects that we might think Willy was pushed and that he was the one who did it. But rather than beating around the bush, Mac went right to it. Looking directly down at the big guy who of course was sitting, Mac stated:

  “We know you did it, so don’t deny it. We know! Now, the first question is not: Did you do it? No. The first question is: Who sent you? The second question is: Why did they send you? and, are you ready for this third one? Why did he send you? And the last question is: Why did you push the kid? We know you did it. It was no suicide. We know.”

  The German looked like a deer in the headlights. He couldn’t figure how anyone could know. Of course, it was easy to figure. I saw him. I saw him push Willy. He never saw me. The German was faltering. He was at a loss for words, not knowing what to say. The taller guy used the pause. He stepped in and short circuited whatever plan Mac had in mind. No doubt both of these guys—the only ones sitting on chairs while the nine of us were standing there looking down at them—sensed they either were in store for permanent jail here in New York City, maybe even in this jail in The Bronx, or maybe worse. They had no doubt not that they could, but that they would for sure be beaten to death.

  So, the taller guy started: “Excuse me. My name is Eduardo. I am Eduardo Velaro. I am South American. From Argentina. Yes, you are right. Someone sent us. And it was as you say, yes, it was someone. But we do not know who this is. We never got name and we never meet him. They give money to get package from family of Mister Ustacio Travali. We know Ustacio Travali not killed by this person because he has other men to do it. I think the one you are after, but we never see him, we never meet him. Only his men. Two men who give us money. One to me and one to Senor Ewald here. But they never tell who it is—who is the one you need.

  “I will tell you everything. I am with family. Two children and wife, Isabella. I am in service of President Juan Peron of Argentina. I am in secret service now for three years. President Peron sent for me because I stop someone want to kill him. He tell me he will make me rich. Yes, he said that to me, that I will be rich. He told I would be contact by someone and I would get this instruction from him and also money. He said I and other man would be coming to place in America to look for package President Peron want me to bring to him. Then Ewald come to me they and tell Ewald and me what we do and where we go.

  “Papers in package. Package not belong to Mr. Ustacio family. It stole by them. People who give the money give instruction when to come with package so we have more of money. I tell you how much it is. First, they give Senor Ewald and me, ten thousand dollars—each. One to me and one to Ewald. Promise when come with package get same again. That is why here we come. You see, I will tell everything.”

  Meanwhile, while Eduardo was talking, the big guy, Ewald was listening intently but I could see he was looking around carefully checking the positions of everyone in the room as though the most important thing to him was to gain some advantage. Of course, I felt that whatever this big guy said or did was not to be trusted. It seemed to me that the taller guy, Eduardo Velaro, would be ready to make any deal—President Peron or no President Peron!

  I also figured that the only advantage the German could have was if he somehow was able to get hold of someone’s gun. As far as I could tell, the only people in the room with guns were Mac, Lyle, and the other cops. I wasn’t sure about Al. He might have had a firearm. I wouldn’t have put it past him. But, if it came to that it made it—two against nine.

  I gave myself the job of making sure I could prevent any lunge toward either Mac or Lyle by this Ewald Germ. That’s a good one—Germ for German. If that melee happened I would make a grab for his leg, floor him, and break it. That’s the only quick leverage I could have—break his leg. That would stop it on the spot no matter how big and strong he was. After that either Al, Mac, or Lyle, or so
me combination of the cops would make sure everything became copacetic.

  I was also certain that as much as the Argentine wanted to escape, he was too smart to try it. He would be the one to make the deal and tell us whatever we wanted. He surely must have realized, that his cooperation, already in evidence, was more valuable than any other cute thing he might try. He wasn’t going to jump into any melee. This was not the kind of attempted jail break that he would ever buy into. It was obvious; he knew his best bet was to be a good boy—a very good cooperative one.

  ‘Keep glued to Ewald’ was my only focus.

  “That’s good,” Mac answered the Argentinean. “Keep talking.”

  “I vould telling you dis same ting,” Ewald interrupted. “I vould telling you dis same ting.”

  “Okay, then tell me something you think I might be interested in,” Mac insisted.

  “I also secret service, Berlin. I RHSA main security office. In German, dis secret service namen ist: ‘Reichssicherheitshauptamt.’ Herrr Velaro und me, vee just vanting package und den vee going Buenos Aires. Dis ist all. Und den like Herr Velaro saying, vee getting more ten tousand dollar—vone fur him, und vone fur me.”

  “You guys are stalling,” Mac announced. “You haven’t given us any hard information. Everything is general. What’s in the package with the papers? What’s in the papers that’s so important? I think you know, you’re saying everything but telling us no details. The details need to be specific. Get it? Specific! Now you, Ewald, what’s in the papers?”