Was the FBI protecting the Butcher?
Chapter 92
JOHN MAGGIONE WAS A PROUD MAN, too showy at times, too cocksure, but he wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t usually careless. He was aware of the current situation involving the mad-dog hit man his father had used back in the day—the Butcher, an Irishman of all things. But even his crazy old man had tried to eliminate Michael Sullivan once he found out how dangerous and unpredictable he was. Now the job would be done, and it had to be done right away.
Sullivan was still on the loose, Maggione knew. As an extra safeguard against him, he’d moved his family out of the house in South Brooklyn. They were living at the compound in Glen Cove on Long Island. He was there with them now.
The house was a brick Colonial, waterfront, on a quiet cul-de-sac. It had its own dock on the channel and a speedboat, Cecilia Theresa, named after his first child.
Although the compound’s location was well known, the gates around the place were secure, and Maggione had doubled his bodyguards. He felt good about the safety of his family. The Butcher was only one guy, after all. Realistically, how much damage could he do? How much more damage?
Junior had plans to go in to work later in the morning, then make his regular stop at the social club in Brooklyn. It was important for him to keep up appearances. Besides, he was sure he had things under control now. He had assurances from his people: Sullivan would be dead soon, and so would his family.
At eleven in the morning, Maggione was swimming in the indoor pool at the compound. He’d already done thirty laps and planned to do fifty more.
His cell phone began to ring on the chaise longue.
Nobody else was around, so finally he climbed out of the pool and answered it himself. “Yeah? What?”
“Maggione.” He heard a male voice on the line.
“Who the hell is this?” he asked, even though he knew who it was.
“This happens to be Michael Sullivan, chief. The nerve of the cheeky bastard, huh?”
Maggione was quietly stunned that the madman was actually calling him again. “I think we better talk,” he said to the hit man.
“We are talking. Know how come? You sent killers after me. First in Italy. Then they came near my house in Maryland. They shot at my kids. Then they showed up in Washington looking for me. Because I’m supposed to be a loose cannon? You’re the loose cannon, Junior! You’re the one who needs to be put down!”
“Listen, Sullivan—”
“No, you listen, you asshole punk bastard. You listen to me, Junior! There’s a package arriving at your fortress right about now. Check it out, chief. I’m coming after you! You can’t stop me. Nothing can stop me; nobody can. I’m crazy, right? You try and remember that. I’m the craziest bastard you ever met, or even heard of. And we will meet again.”
Then the Butcher hung up on him.
Junior Maggione put on a robe; then he walked out to the front of the house. He couldn’t believe it—FedEx was making a delivery!
That meant that the crazy bastard Sullivan might be watching the house right now. Was that possible? Could it be happening, just like he said it would?
“Vincent! Mario! Get your asses out here!” he called to his bodyguards, who came running from the kitchen holding sandwiches.
He had one of his men open the delivery box—out in the pool house.
After a couple of nervous moments, the guy called out, “It’s pictures, Mr. Maggione. Not exactly Kodak moments.”
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.