Cross - James Patterson [71]
Chapter 93
“WE MIGHT HAVE FOUND HIM, SUGAR.”
A woman named Emily Corro had just finished her morning therapy session with me, and she’d gone off to her teaching job, hopefully with a slightly better self-image. Now Sampson was on my cell phone. Big John didn’t usually get excited, so this had to be something good.
Turned out, it was.
Late that afternoon, the Big Man and I arrived in the Flatlands section of Brooklyn. We proceeded to locate a neighborhood tavern called Tommy McGoey’s.
The neat-and-clean gin mill was nearly empty when we walked inside. Just a tough-looking Irish bartender and a smallish, well-built guy, probably midforties, sitting at the far end of a well-polished mahogany bar. His name was Anthony Mullino, and he was a graphic artist in Manhattan who’d once been best pals with Michael Sullivan.
We sat down on either side of Mullino, pinning him in.
“Cozy,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, I’m not going to run out on you guys. I came here of my own free recollection. Try not to forget it. Hell, two of my uncles are cops here in Crooklyn. Check it out if you want.”
“We already did,” Sampson said. “One’s retired, living in Myrtle Beach; one’s on suspension.”
“Hey, so I’m batting five hundred. That’s not so awful. Keep you in the Big Leagues.”
Sampson and I introduced ourselves, and at first Mullino was sure he knew John from somewhere, but couldn’t place where it might be. He said he’d followed the case of the Russian Mafia head called the Wolf, an investigation I’d worked on while I was at the Bureau, and which had played out right here in New York.
“I read about you in some magazine too,” he said. “What magazine was that?”
“I didn’t read the story,” I said. “In Esquire.”
Mullino got the joke and laughed in a way that was like sped-up coughing. “So how did you find out about me and Sully? That’s kind of a stretch nowadays. Ancient history.”
Sampson told him a little bit of what we knew—that the FBI had done audio surveillance on a social club frequented by John Maggione. We knew that Maggione had ordered a hit on Sullivan, probably because of the Butcher’s unorthodox methods, and that the Butcher had retaliated. “The Bureau asked around on Bay Parkway. Your name came up.”
Mullino didn’t even wait for Sampson to finish. I noticed that when he talked his hands were in constant motion. “Right, the social club over in Bensonhurst. You been there? Old Italian neighborhood. Mostly two-story buildings, storefronts, y’know. Seen better days, but still pretty nice. Sully and I grew up not far from there.
“So how do I fit in again? I’m a little confused about that part. I haven’t seen Mike in years.”
“FBI files,” I said. “You’re his friend, right?”
Mullino shook his head. “When we were kids, we were kind of close. That was a long time ago, guys.”
“You were friends into your twenties. And he still keeps in touch,” I said. “That’s the information we were given.”
“Aw, Christmas cards,” Mullino said, and laughed. “Go figure that one out. Sully’s a complicated guy, totally unpredictable. He sends a holiday card now and then. What else is going on here? Am I in trouble? I’m not, am I?”
“We know that you have no association with the mob, Mr. Mullino,” Sampson said.
“That’s good to hear, because I don’t, never did. Actually I’m a little tired of all the bullshit slurring against us Italians. Bada bing, all that crap. Sure some guys talk like that. Know why? Because it’s on the TV.”
“So tell us about Michael Sullivan,” I said. “We need to hear whatever you know about him. Even things from the old days.”
Anthony Mullino ordered another drink—seltzer water—from Tommy McGoey himself. Then he began to talk to us, and it came easily for him, the words anyway.
“I’ll tell you a funny thing, a story. I used to be Mikey’s protector in grammar school. Immaculate Conception, this was. Irish Christian Brothers. In our neighborhood, you had to develop a pretty good sense of humor to keep out of fights every other day. Back then, Sullivan didn’t have much of one—a sense of humor. He also had this mortal