MURDER TAKES TIME

Chapter 67

Rattus Rattus

Current Day 

Frankie got up early to prepare for the FBI presentation. He knew this would be a tough audience—not just unreceptive, but hostile. He ate a light breakfast, just a bagel splattered with olive oil and garlic then an espresso to chase it away. The meeting was in a hotel, courtesy of Harding’s boss. Frankie was the second to arrive; the first was a trainee. 

What is he doing on an assignment like this? 

“Good morning,” Frankie said.

The trainee responded in a cheerful, FBI manner. “Good morning, Detective Donovan. I hope you are well today.”

“I am, thanks.” This is going to be a long day. 

Pretty soon, the whole group showed up, coming in together like kids answering the school bell. Once they were seated, Frankie stood, closed the door and stared at the suits and ties sitting rigid at their desks. 

“Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. They wanted me to have this talk to bring everyone up to speed. As you know, we have five murders: Renzo Ciccarelli, Tommy Devin, Nino Tortella, Donnie Amato, and Gianni Mucchiatto, otherwise known as Johnny Muck.” 

He paused for questions, but all he saw were eleven heads taking notes. 

“Although we can’t yet prove it, they all appear to be the work of one man—Niccolo Fusco, also known as ‘Nicky the Rat.’”

“Where did he get the name? Did he rat somebody out?” 

Frankie laughed. “You would be laughing with me, gentlemen, if you knew how ridiculous that question was.” He paused, staring off into the distance. “I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could make Nicky Fusco rat someone out.” Not a frickin’ thing. 

Frankie took a few deep breaths, wishing he could have lit a cigarette. He looked out over the faces and put on a smile. “Nicky got the name ‘Rat’ when he was six years old. He was caught stealing cigarettes, and the cops took him to the station.” He paused, remembering that it should have been him at the station. Nicky saved him that day, as he did many other days. Bugs shook his head. “For two hours, they tried to get him to tell which boys were with him, but he wouldn’t say a word. Hell, they couldn’t even get his name. After news of this spread, the local mobsters gave him the name of ‘Rat’ to honor him, not make fun of him.”

Someone in the back snickered. A few mumbled. Frankie glared. At times like this, he realized he didn’t belong here, in this office, with these people. He longed for his real friends. There were eleven agents in this class, and as he thought it, he smiled. 

Suit wouldn’t have heard of it. He’d have dragged someone in off the street to make it twelve. 

Of these eleven co-workers, how many would drop whatever they were doing and rush to his aid if he called late one night? How many would share their last cigarette—shit, their last meal—with him if he were hungry? How many would have his back if they got in a bind where it looked as if they all might die? Frankie knew the answer. None of them. Not a frickin’ one.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to rip his tie off, go get Tony and Paulie, and take them out for pasta. He’d tell them, ‘Get your ass out of town. Hide.’ Then he’d convince Nicky to call it quits. Make it all go away. Shit, it happened in movies. It happened when they were kids. Who knows, maybe it could happen again. Except that he couldn’t trust Tony; he didn’t know about Suit; and Nicky… 

A smile played with him, flitted on his face. He turned, flipped on the overhead projector, then quickly shut it down and grabbed an eraser for the chalkboard, then wiped the slate clean. A long piece of white chalk lay on the shelf. Frankie picked it up, turned it in his hand. 

If chalkboards were good enough for Sister Thomas, they’re good enough for me. 

‘Rattus Rattus’ he scratched out on the black slate. He turned to face the agents, all with puzzled looks on their faces. “This, gentlemen, is the genus rat. The most versatile, resilient, and innovative creature you might ever encounter. Rats can fall from a five-story building—and live. They can swim for miles in the ocean—and live. They can walk on wires, climb brick walls, hold their breath for three minutes, chew through cinder blocks…and they can jump four feet straight in the air from a fixed position.”

Frankie scanned the audience again. Several of them looked a little intrigued. “If that isn’t enough, they have a collapsible rib cage, which allows them to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter.” He paused. “And, oh yeah, their bite can be twenty times more powerful than a dog’s.” Frankie stopped, took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. It was damn hot. 

“So now that we know about rats, what the hell does that have to do with the case?”

“Good question, Agent. And to answer it, I’ll quote an old wise man I once knew. He said that people tend to grow into their names, for good or bad. That said, no matter how you look at it, Nicky Fusco has become his namesake. He can, as you have read in the reports, get into and out of, almost anywhere. He goes about his business virtually unseen and is extremely dangerous. To say he’s fearless would do him an injustice and elevate that word to a new level.” He gestured at the board. “So, gentlemen, this is what we are facing.” 

Frankie made sure he gazed at each one of them before continuing. “And for those of you who snickered and mumbled— even for those who did it in their heads but kept it to themselves—let me tell you, if you slip up one bit, one iota, you’ll be dead. Nicky Fusco takes no prisoners. He makes—no mistakes.”

One of the agents spoke up. “We don’t even know if it really is this guy. Isn’t this all speculation?”

Bugs paced the room, tapping the chalk on his hand. “True, we don’t know for sure. It could be these are just plain old mob killings made to look like the same nut is doing it…but I don’t think so.”

After a few more questions, Frankie wrapped the session up, then headed home, kicked off his shoes, went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Chianti. The phone rang and he reached for it and answered. 

“Hi, Bugs.”

Frankie snapped to alert. “Nicky?”

“You knew I’d be calling, didn’t you?”

A long pause. “I guess I did.”

“Teach those agents anything today?”

A long pause again. “Look, I know what you think, but I didn’t tell Tito where you were. Why don’t we meet and talk.”

“We’ll talk, Bugs. Soon.”

Frankie walked to the window, looked out. “Nicky, I know you’re hurting. I feel bad for you. But I’m telling you, don’t ever come into my house again. I’ll put you down.”

The line went dead.