Brooklyn Justice Read online

  BROOKLYN

  JUSTICE

  Ten months in the hazardous life of private investigator Nick Ventura

  J. L. ABRAMO

  Praise for Brooklyn Justice

  “If grit, hard guys, and the rhythm of the mean streets is your thing, Brooklyn Justice has got them in spades and J. L. Abramo is your man.”—Reed Farrel Coleman, New York Times Bestselling author of WHERE IT HURTS

  “J.L. Abramo writes noir the way God and Hammett intended—tough, terse, and smart. BROOKLYN JUSTICE is a great read with razor-sharp prose and a compelling cast. Nick Ventura is my kind of PI.”—Michael Koryta, New York Times Bestselling author of THOSE WHO WISH ME DEAD

  “In BROOKLYN JUSTICE, award winning author J.L. Abramo again demonstrates his firm grasp on the language and morality of his native streets, with as many surprises as there are casualties. An ideal follow-up to his acclaimed novel GRAVESEND.”—The Denver Review

  Copyright © 2016 by J.L. Abramo

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Down & Out Books

  3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265

  Lutz, FL 33558

  http://downandoutbooks.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design by J.T. Lindroos

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author/these authors.

  For my Father—who never had the opportunity to read any of my stories but is present in every one.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ONE

  Pocket Queens

  TWO

  Buick in a Beauty Shop

  THREE

  The Last Resort

  FOUR

  Walking the Dog

  FIVE

  Roses for Uncle Sal

  SIX

  The Fist

  Special Preview of CONEY ISLAND AVENUE

  Bio

  Also by J.L. Abramo

  Other Titles from Down & Out Books

  Preview of S.W. Lauden’s Crosswise

  Preview of Trey R. Barker’s No Harder Prison

  Preview of Gary Phillips’ 3 the Hard Way

  POCKET QUEENS

  PRELUDE

  The Lincoln Assassination

  His head crashed onto the table sending a poker chip floating up into the air end over end like a tiddlywink. I heard Freddy Fingers say “What a fucking game” as the chip settled silently into the growing pool of blood spreading from Lincoln’s head onto the sevens near his frozen face. Behind, sounds of shouting, stampeding, bodies tumbling to the ground and I refused to look over my shoulder. Instead I gazed into the river of red, dark against the green felt, not looking away until the dentist from Philly spoke.

  “There are only two things worth dying for. Money is not one of them,” he said, “and love is not the other.”

  I was of a mind to ask which two things he was fucking talking about but before I could the knockout in the white dress was at my side posing a question I was almost certain she knew the answer to.

  “Are you Nick Ventura, the private investigator?” she asked.

  I could only nod.

  FIRST MOVEMENT

  1

  I am sitting at the pot-limit seven-card stud table in the poker room at the Taj Mahal in AC holding pocket queens. I know I shouldn’t be here but if I never did anything I shouldn’t do I’d be a dull boy. I am here to celebrate and pat myself on the back for scoring two grand in one night for snapping a few nifty photos of the client’s husband and his secretary going into a pricy Manhattan hotel and coming out two hours later looking better or worse for it depending on where you’re standing.

  There are five other players at the poker table, all strangers except Freddy Fingers and I know Fingers all too well and he is fucking stranger than fiction. If I bothered to look around the card room I might spot a familiar face someone I may have played with once upon a time when I sat at the high stakes tables where I could always find a familiar mug if I was so inclined but then the room is not half rocking which leads me to believe there is something going on in Vegas or up at Foxwoods I’m much better off not knowing about.

  I’m planted at this table because the betting has been reasonable and I am here to celebrate my windfall not to blow it all in a single game. I’m in Atlantic City because if I can’t wander out once in a while to take a look at the ocean I start to forget how tiny I am. The first flop is the third queen and I’m praying I can keep at least one of these mopes in this fucking hand.

  I’m stuck there with five other players with no clue about any of them except Fingers who is a totally different story. All I can guess about how these guys play is based on what I have seen in the past few hours and what I know about Freddy and if I sat with Freddy every fucking day of the rest of my life I would have no hint about what to expect from the lunatic. I’m in the fourth seat. The first seat belongs to Sol. The man says he’s a dentist from Philadelphia, but the condition of Sol’s choppers makes the claim dubious at best. Next is Manny, which is the handle of every cat I ever sat with at a poker table who said he was from Jackson Heights or East L.A. or Sunset Park. The hotdog ahead of me is a dapper dresser called Linc. I can’t decide if it’s a nickname for Lincoln or short for missing link. Just behind me is a clown who has the nerve to call himself Slim as if being a tall skinny fucker in a Walmart cowboy hat affords him the right. And then there is Freddy Fingers who is less predictable than a dog race.

  Sol opens small and I figure him for an unsuited jack-ten, maybe king-ten. Manny calls but the price is cheap so who the fuck knows. Linc raises medium—sitting on an ace or a little pair? I’m holding queens but don’t want to scare anyone off, so I call the raise. Slim bails, Fingers calls, Sol calls and Manny folds like an accordion. So when the dealer lays down my third queen there are only four of us still holding.

  Sol checks, wouldn’t want anyone to surmise he’s hoping to fill a straight. Blinkin’ Lincoln raises, I’m guessing he does have a pocket pair. Good for him. I stare at the turn card as if the dealer just tossed a garden slug on the table and I call Linc’s bump trying like hell to appear hesitant. If there is anyone I want out of this hand it is Fingers but the fucking maniac calls. Sol does the same, Linc checks, I check, Freddy checks and then the dealer flops an ace.

  Sol raises bigger this time, if the dip has four to a straight with three cards to go the queens and I may be in a world of hurt. Linc calls, maybe the dude is sitting on an ace in the hole and paired it. I call, Freddy calls, I don’t even waste time trying to imagine what the fuck he’s thinking about. Sol checks, Linc checks, I check, Fingers checks and the dealer turns the seven of clubs which suits the queen of clubs and ace of clubs that flopped before so now I do begin wondering about Freddy and if the crazy son of a bitch is now holding four to a flush. The seven can’t possibly help Sol but Sol can check and stay in so he does. Linc raises, I can only wish he matched a pocket pair of sevens and rides them until th
ey crash against my queens and hope there are no clubs, aces, sevens or picture cards left in the fucking deck and I call. Fingers calls Linc’s raise and re-raises and if it were anyone else I would be positively certain he was holding two clubs in his pocket but it is Fingers so I can’t be certain of a fucking thing. Sol crumbles like blue cheese, Linc calls, I call, Freddy checks and the three of us stuck in the horror show watch the dealer flop the seven of hearts which gives me a full house and now I don’t care how many clubs Freddy might be hiding because he needs the straight flush to beat me and with the queen, ace and seven of clubs on the board I can be absolutely sure Fingers cannot fucking fill it unless the fucking pest catches another club but I can’t chase the feeling that the nightmare to my right just bought his fourth seven and flushed my full house straight down the toilet. When Linc raises huge I think Oh shit and I know I have to call because after all I’m holding a full boat and the game has been building from thirty and sixty buck bets to two and four hundred dollar raises and bumps and I think it’s about time I raise Linc to find out sooner than too goddamn late if he bought four-of-a-kind but I chicken out and call and without a beat fucking Fingers calls and re-raises like he’s got the flush and thinks it’s good or he doesn’t know what he has or what’s good and he just doesn’t give a fuck. Linc calls, I can only do the same, Freddy checks and here comes the seventh card down and dirty.

  There is nearly three grand in the center of the table, which is a lot or a little depending on the place, date and time. Right here and now it looks awfully good. I wouldn’t throw it out of bed. I take my eyes off the card table for the first time in quite a while trying to look as if I have no interest whatsoever in the final down card because I have everything I could possibly hope for already. I notice our little game has attracted a modest audience. I’m instantly drawn to one of the spectators, a leggy green-eyed brunette in a white dress which hugs her body just enough and does a great job setting off her dark skin. She’s standing at the dealer’s shoulder and I’d swear this apparition was looking straight at me if I wasn’t so sure it was good old Linc the dreamgirl was more interested in. I glance to my right and Missing Linc looks at his last card and then up at the lady in white and gives her a smile that has four sevens written all over it and he bets the limit, which is the size of the pot, which is nearly three thousand dollars, which is all I have sitting in front of me. Oh boy. I have no idea how to peek at my seventh card and appear dignified doing it since only a queen can save me. One out and everyone at the table and in this room and in the Taj and in the entire fucking world knows it. I finally manage a peek at my final hole card. Queen of spades. Unbelievable. I call. Freddy folds.

  As much as he might have liked, Linc can’t raise again because I’m all in. All he can do is show his two sevens which he does without ceremony and with a big old smile for the vision in the white dress and the revelation if not the smile inspires a chorus of oohs and ahs from the gallery as he pushes his chair away from the table so as not to appear too anxious to rake in the pot. And I don’t want to rub it in but I have no choice but to reveal my three pocket queens and the room goes nuts like someone has dropped a bomb on the table which is basically what I just did and before I can turn to Linc with a Good hand, man, tough break, I hear a small pop and his face is on the table blood spilling out of the back of his head turning his sevens crimson. There is a great deal of screaming and two security guards knocked off their feet as the shooter races out of the poker room. Linc sits to my right stone cold dead. Freddy Fingers looks at the blood creeping toward the large pile of chips in the middle of the table and he says, “What a fucking game.”

  And before a single cop shows, the lady in white comes over to me and the dead man and asks, “Are you Nick Ventura, the private investigator?”

  I can only nod.

  “In that case,” she says, “I would like to hire you to find the man who just murdered my husband.”

  2

  An hour later I’m sitting in a police station fielding questions from two detectives who definitely watch too much television. By now I’ve learned the victim was a hall of fame criminal attorney named Theodore Lincoln who sidelined in divorce cases and made a fortune working Atlantic City because the action here is not conducive to strictly legal activity or successful marriages. No, I never met the victim before tonight. No, I would not be able to identify the shooter, since I was reluctant to look behind when Linc’s head hit the table. My mind was drifting. I was thinking about the widow, the smile Linc flashed at her when he turned his hole cards. The man was clearly in love, he had it bad. But when his widow walked over to stand between me and her late husband, she didn’t glance at him for a moment, didn’t touch him gently or otherwise, simply approached and offered me a job—looking absolutely stunning doing it. I am wondering where she is now, probably wherever they take you when your husband is shot to death at a poker table in AC, but I have no idea where that may be since I don’t work Atlantic City. I work Brooklyn, sometimes Queens, occasionally Staten Island if the gig pays me enough to cover the toll on the Verrazano Bridge. Then I recall the poker game and the pile of chips on the table, close to nine grand, and wonder if anyone is keeping Freddy’s fingers off my score while I’m being asked about things I fucking know nothing about.

  At the same time, I get this nagging feeling that if a certain stunning green-eyed-disaster-waiting-to-happen in a white dress wanted to tell me all about it I’d be all ears.

  “You knew no one at the table?” asked a detective.

  “I knew Freddy Fingers, if anyone could really know or care to know the maniac,” I said. “You’ll probably find him in the Taj Mahal poker room pocketing my money.”

  “The casino is safe-guarding your winnings, Ventura. No need to worry.”

  “It’s my nature.”

  “We might have a few more questions.”

  “I’ll be in town through tomorrow evening, bunked down at the Taj. After that, you’ll have to pop for a toll call to the Borough of Churches. Have a card,” I said, “I’ll put my cell number on the back.”

  I jotted down the number, handed the tall skinny one the business card and inched my way to the exit. He looked at the thing and then at me as I was backing out of the squad room.

  “Ventura.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “No problem.”

  Then as I slip through the door he adds, “Don’t forget this is New Jersey.”

  How could I.

  3

  When I get back to the casino it is three in the morning and the place is still in an uproar. It takes another hour to locate the eight thousand six hundred forty dollars that was the difference between four queens and four sevens.

  I think of Lincoln’s sevens and wonder if in this neck of the woods they might replace aces and eights in the vernacular, dead man’s hand, and how he looked at her moments before he died.

  He died instantly and in love and how bad a way is that to go?

  Word is the shooter got away clean, bowled down a pair of guards, dropped the weapon, a muted .38 with a taped grip which would be nothing less than impossible to trace, ducked out of the casino and vanished into thin air.

  I’m beat like a drum. The sun will be up in less than three hours.

  So I find my way to my room and crawl into the rack.

  4

  At ten in the morning I’m already shaved, showered and dressed in my poker duds, which today is a pair of long shorts, an oxymoron with lots of pockets, and a white dress shirt buttoned up to the neck to hide my bullet wound scar. I think I could eat a horse if it was scrambled with bacon. I’m just about to go looking when there’s a rap at my hotel room door. I swing it open and there she stands, different dress same green peepers drawing me in and reminding me how it feels to be lost in the eyes of a beautiful woman. And how dangerous it is to feel that way.

  Since gazing into her eyes is like lo
oking down into a bottomless emerald pool feeling a strong urge to dive and I forgot my life jacket up in Coney Island, I looked anywhere else and everywhere else. My baby blues bouncing against the hallway walls like pinballs.

  She touches my hand and asks, “Will you help me, Nick?” and I don’t even recognize my own name and I forget how to speak.

  So she says, “Can I come in?”

  I say, “I don’t think it’s a very good idea—how about we meet in the hotel coffee shop? Just give me ten minutes, ma’am.”

  I throw on the rest of my poker outfit, a madras sport jacket and Brooklyn Cyclones ball cap because the thing is I came down to AC to play cards not to fuck around or get fucked around. Ten minutes later I drop into a booth seat opposite the widow Lincoln and a waitress asks if I would like coffee and I say, “Boy, would I.”

  The widow’s name is Katherine she says but please call me Kitty. Okay, Kitty, I say and I offer to buy since I hold a ten dollar comp voucher which should cover the coffee and a few bagels but it’s, No, thanks, I had breakfast before. I don’t ask before what. Feeling extravagant I ordered two bagels for myself—cinnamon raisin hold the butter—and when the waitress waltzed off, Kitty got right down to business.