Free Monkey in the Middle by Stephen Solomita Page B

up.
    â€˜Veal marsala,’ Flannery says. ‘They cook it right.’
    Epstein finally nods to Billy Boyle, who reaches across the table to snatch Flannery’s plate. When the plate’s sitting in front of him, he spits into it. ‘You don’t call, ya fuckin’ mutt,’ he explains, ‘I’ll kill you myself.’
    Their cards on the table, Epstein and Billy Boyle stand up to leave. But then Epstein has a change of heart and decides to throw Flannery a bone. Thinking, What the hell, he’s not gonna eat the veal.
    â€˜Your boy, Carlo? You should warn him off that Ridgewood deal. It’s gonna go bad.’

Eleven
    E pstein lifts the sheet to look at what remains of Bruno Brunale’s head. He’s been warned, so he’s not surprised by the gore. The man’s head has been torn apart, exploded really, and strings of blood-saturated gray matter stream across the sidewalk. Worms deserting the skull, Epstein thinks before dropping the sheet.
    According to Billy Boyle, who arrived first, the damage must have been done by a rifle loaded with hollow-point ammo, the kind used to bring down bear and buffalo. Meanwhile, nobody heard anything, nobody saw anything, which means the perp used a suppressor to control flash and noise. Suppressors are rare, effective suppressors anyway. But then, so are knives with Arabic inscriptions.
    Bad news for Paulie Margarine, for the NYPD, too. A knife in Macy’s, a rifle in Astoria. Another man, Charles Bousejian, was bludgeoned to death with an aluminum baseball bat.
    But there’s good news here as well. A pair of uniformed cops on foot patrol responded to the Brunale shooting within a minute. What’s more, they did their job, detaining all witnesses. That included Paulie Margarine, who was standing within a foot of Brunale when the fatal shot was fired. Epstein’s been looking for an excuse to approach the gangster. Now he has it.
    As Epstein turns away, his cell phone rings. He quickly retrieves it. Epstein’s hoping to hear from Dave Flannery, but it’s Champliss on the other end.
    â€˜What do you have for me?’
    â€˜I just got here, but I’m sure it’s connected to the other homicides,’ Epstein admits.
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜You’re asking me what Paulie’s gonna do next?’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜Paulie’s gonna go after Toufiq. I have it from a reliable source.’
    â€˜And what are you gonna do?’
    â€˜I’m gonna talk him out of it.’ Another of Epstein’s little fibs. Postponement is the most he can deliver. ‘I think he’ll listen to reason.’
    His superior mollified, Epstein takes a look around. The job’s gone all out, shutting down Thirty-First Street for two blocks in either direction. People exiting the subway are being escorted to the nearest corner. Pedestrians hoping to enter are being told to hoof it to the next stop. Across the street, Epstein spots Paulie Margarine standing beside a uniformed officer assigned to make sure he doesn’t leave. Epstein almost dances across the street, approaching to within a yard.
    â€˜You need to see a doctor?’
    Paulie’s blue coat is pockmarked with splatter. There are bits of skull and brain tissue in the man’s hair. What hair he has left, anyway. To Epstein’s mind, Paulie is aging badly. His face is deeply lined and he looks as though he hasn’t slept in a week. The muscles of his shoulders and chest sag when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.
    But Paulie’s attitude hasn’t changed. ‘Fuck you,’ he says.
    â€˜Does that mean you’re OK?’ Epstein retrieves his ID and holds it up for Paulie’s inspection. He notes a light of recognition blossom in Paulie’s tired eyes when he reads OCCB. He’s not dealing with a precinct dick.
    â€˜What do you say,’ Epstein asks, ‘we go take a seat and talk for a few