American Gangster Read Free Page B

batter Campizi.
    Both paramedics pulled Richie away.
    Campizi, who hadn’t been hurt by the blow as much as Richie himself, gestured with two hands, placatingly. “Richie, Richie . . . for old times’ sake, we gotta work this out.”
    Richie glowered. “Now I need a fuckin’ rabies shot.”
    â€œWhat can we do, Richie? You don’t wanna do this, beat on your old pal. What can I give you?”
    Richie’s eyes tightened in interest.
    â€œWho do you want?” Campizi asked. “Who can I give you, make this right? How about . . . Big Sal’s bookie? No? Not big enough? Maybe you want News-boy’s accountant? Yeah? I’ll
give
him to you. No problem.”
    Richie studied his old classmate, and his irritation receded. A policy ring accountant wouldn’t be a bad bust at that.
    His hand was almost fully bandaged now. He smiled in thanks to the brunette.
    â€œIs it still throbbing?” she asked.
    â€œIs what still throbbing?” he asked.
    She smiled back at him.
    At least he was getting something out of having his hand squashed—a policy ring accountant and a woman in uniform.
    Not a bad night’s work.
    The next afternoon, in Newark, Richie sat with Javy and Campizi in an unmarked car, their for-shit Plymouth, across from a closed social club.
    Not entirely closed: a nondescript guy in a rumpled suit came out of the front carrying a grocery bag. The sight of this unprepossessing character was enough to send Campizi, in the backseat, diving for the floor.
    â€œThat’s him,” Campizi said.
    â€œHim” was J. J. Levinson, accountant for policy king “Newsboy” Moriarty. Right now the accountant was putting his grocery bag in the trunk of a dark blueBuick Century. Clearly unaware he was being watched, the accountant climbed in behind the wheel and rolled off into light traffic.
    This was only the accountant’s first stop. He picked up another grocery bag to stow in his trunk at a scrap metal yard. Around dusk he came out of a bar with another bag.
    Richie craned from behind the wheel to speak to the ducked-down Campizi. “All right. We’re even. Get lost.”
    Campizi’s smile couldn’t have been sicker. “You’re the best, Richie.”
    â€œLet’s not say good-bye, Vinnie. Let’s just say get the fuck out.”
    Campizi opened the door onto the sidewalk and all but crawled away.
    Then Richie and Javy were following the accountant’s Buick as dusk flirted with night. Apparently the bar had been the accountant’s last pickup, because the guy swung into a parking lot—an attendant on duty, but self-park—and left his car locked up to take another one in a nearby stall.
    As the accountant got behind the wheel, Javy asked, “We gonna stay with him, or the car?”
    Not much time to think about these two options. . . .
    Richie said, “Let’s see who comes for the car.”
    By seven that night, a lot of people had come for a lot of cars; in fact, only the abandoned Buick remained, the detectives’ Plymouth parked across the way.
    â€œLet’s get a warrant,” Richie said.
    â€œOkay. Want me to call it in?”
    â€œSure.”
    Five minutes later, Javy got in on the rider’s side and took a can of Coke from a small bag, from which he then extracted his own Styrofoam cup of coffee.
    â€œThink we got made?” Javy asked.
    Richie, tapping the wheel impatiently with his bandaged hand, asked, “You didn’t forget to call for the warrant, did you?”
    â€œYeah. I got all confused buying coffee and Coke.” Javy shook his head.
    Richie craned to look behind him. “Well, where are they?”
    â€œChrist, Rich, I just called about a minute ago. Will you relax?”
    They watched an attendant lock up. They listened to the electric buzz of street lamps whose yellowish glow painted the car and its occupants like jaundice