Capt. Nora Riter is a cop with a future, assuming her deadbeat husband doesn’t mess it up first. He’s hocked her jewelry, stolen her gun, and had cocaine delivered to their home. Their marriage is a toxic mess that could end her career—unless Blaze Longo ends it first. On the streets of Red Hook, Blaze is a legend: a merciless loan shark who wields a cleaver like a scalpel and wears a pouch around his neck carrying the severed ears of clients stupid enough not to pay up. Now the ice-cold psychopath has planned a kidnapping scheme that will catapult him into the big time, and it’s up to Nora to put him in his place.
With the help of fast-talking conman Nicky Ossman, Nora dives into the murky underworld of the Brooklyn docks. If she succeeds, she’ll be a hero. If she fails, she’ll lose more than an ear.
Capt. Nora Riter is a cop with a future, assuming her deadbeat husband doesn’t mess it up first. He’s hocked her jewelry, stolen her gun, and had cocaine delivered to their home. Their marriage is a toxic mess that could end her career—unless Blaze Longo ends it first. On the streets of Red Hook, Blaze is a legend: a merciless loan shark who wields a cleaver like a scalpel and wears a pouch around his neck carrying the severed ears of clients stupid enough not to pay up. Now the ice-cold psychopath has planned a kidnapping scheme that will catapult him into the big time, and it’s up to Nora to put him in his place.
With the help of fast-talking conman Nicky Ossman, Nora dives into the murky underworld of the Brooklyn docks. If she succeeds, she’ll be a hero. If she fails, she’ll lose more than an ear.
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Overview
Capt. Nora Riter is a cop with a future, assuming her deadbeat husband doesn’t mess it up first. He’s hocked her jewelry, stolen her gun, and had cocaine delivered to their home. Their marriage is a toxic mess that could end her career—unless Blaze Longo ends it first. On the streets of Red Hook, Blaze is a legend: a merciless loan shark who wields a cleaver like a scalpel and wears a pouch around his neck carrying the severed ears of clients stupid enough not to pay up. Now the ice-cold psychopath has planned a kidnapping scheme that will catapult him into the big time, and it’s up to Nora to put him in his place.
With the help of fast-talking conman Nicky Ossman, Nora dives into the murky underworld of the Brooklyn docks. If she succeeds, she’ll be a hero. If she fails, she’ll lose more than an ear.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504032322 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | MysteriousPress.com/Open Road |
| Publication date: | 03/22/2016 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 394 |
| Sales rank: | 935,440 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Blaze
By Bob Leuci
MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
Copyright © 1999 Robert LeuciAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3232-2
CHAPTER 1
She sat perfectly still, barely breathing, watching the traffic, knowing that she'd have to deal with this jazz every morning. Each and every lane on Seventy-second Street was jammed, but Nora saw an opening, hit the gas; and went for it. She was able to scoot for half a block.
Traffic or not, it was a gorgeous morning. The first time she had seen the sun for days, this June morning in Manhattan, with a fresh sea breeze coming in off the river. She opened her window and leaned toward the sunlight like a tulip.
Nora yearned to feel lighthearted and airy. Why not? It was spring, time for fresh starts and new beginnings. But what she felt was assaulted, invaded, and used. She did not want to think about it anymore, fight this impossible traffic. She told herself, get there, get it done. But now that she didn't want to think about it, the way the chief had spoken to her kept returning.
Nora was not accustomed to being sent out on a wild-goose chase. As a captain and the lead investigator for the chief of New York's detectives she could, and had, treated subordinates that way. But she was a hotshot investigator, a woman on the rise, a major star at headquarters, and that was supposed to earn you a certain measure of respect.
For a time, stopped at a traffic light, waiting to enter the East River Drive, Nora considered the way Jean-Paul Clement had dropped the case on her. She had said yes to the chief, of course. Yes, indeed, she'd go into Brooklyn and nail the bum. But she had been suspicious and irritated from the get-go. In all senses of the word, the job the chief had given her was bizarre.
Her department car was down and in for repairs, so Nora decided to drive her own car. It was a Mazda, a ruby-red convertible. Heading downtown, she continued to battle the Monday morning traffic along the East River Drive. At the Brooklyn Bridge exit she was suddenly deep in gridlock, thinking: What next?
Earlier that morning Nora discovered that Max, her soon-to-be exhusband, had invaded her safe-deposit box. Max walked off with some family jewelry and Nora's second gun. Max had been going batty for as long as Nora had been assigned to headquarters and Nora had been assigned to headquarters for a year.
She couldn't figure it; good, solid Max had come apart, section by section. And, what horrified her, what drove her right up the wall, was that she had felt herself sinking, going down the tubes right along with him.
For a time she had shelved the decision to cut her losses and send him packing, some sort of token of female honor, a gesture of defiance. The years she'd put in had to count for something. Her partner, Sam Morelli, telling her over and over, dump this guy, will ya, you're handling this all wrong. Plus, there was her lawyer Vera pointing out that if she didn't get her act together and nail Max, he could get half her pension. Yesterday, the coke arrived at their apartment via Fed Ex. Game time, she told herself, time to pull the pin on this jerk, protect yourself.
Traffic began to inch toward the bridge, blocked by a construction company doing a patch job in the right lane. Nora glanced at the faces of the drivers around her, all of them looking as though they'd dealt with this all before.
In the midst of all this razzmatazz with Max, the chief sends her into Brooklyn. The man practically telling her he had a personal interest in some dipshit named Blaze Longo. A street slug with a taste for mindless violence. Wherever Nora looked in her life right now, there was something to make her miserable.
Crawling over the bridge, at the center now, cars bumper-to-bumper all around her, she couldn't get it out of her mind: Max stole my gun. Jesus.
Nora leaned on her horn, pissed that she didn't have a car with a siren and flashing lights. She closed her eyes and listened to a cadence of horns and shouts, stunned by what she had started.
No one had to tell her that the NYPD regarded cops who lost their gun as careless in the extreme. She'd been around long enough to know that there was a long list of things that could close the gate on a cop's career in this job. A reputation for drinking; womanizing, for men; bed jumping, for women; a disregard for rules and regulations; the proclivity to act before you think. The loss of a prisoner or a gun. Forget drugs, don't even mention the word.
The opinions of the people that ran the department were quick off the tongue, cut and dried: she's a corner; he's a dud. They were cocky, mean and confident men, and the blatant hypocrisy of it all was simply one more thing that made Nora nuts.
Dead still again, Nora sat hands crossed over her steering wheel watching a man in a turban. He resembled a genie that had popped from a bottle to make its way in this world behind the wheel of a taxi. She turned away and when she looked back the turbaned-headed man was smiling.
For a while there was only the sound of the horns, impossible gridlock. Then an opening, a little progress. Eventually the traffic began to move.
Nora had decided that she'd stop at the Brooklyn South detective headquarters before going to the courthouse. See what the 10th Division detectives had on this character Blaze Longo. When she made the left that brought her from Tillary Street to Atlantic Avenue the traffic eased considerably and finally she was able to scoot off in her little red car.
During the past six months, living with Max had been like watching a risky high-wire act. The better part of Nora hoped he'd make it, but the possibility of that long fall and sudden stop had become erotically appealing in a demented sort of way. Yesterday, Sunday morning, when the FedEx guy showed up, bringing a parcel addressed to Max, Nora had opened it. Bingo, there it was, all she needed to send her into orbit. Inside the package she found about two grams of cocaine that had been pressed flat and a note that said, ENJOY. The sender, some shit bird out of Miami, called himself Pedro Pizzaro.
A few minutes later, when Max came strolling in, she laid into him. She shouted, Max moaned, and used con words like love and trust and understanding. She finally had said, "Get your ass out of here."
Max left the apartment in a haze of agitation, on his way, she was sure, to his sweet, little redheaded schoolteacher in Queens.
Nora drove eyes straight ahead, serious, looking at the street and traffic, telling herself, Relax, you'll think of something. There were women who were marvels in the kitchen, some who could create with their hands. Nora figured it was all a matter of natural, inborn talent, a genes thing. As for her, she had always been blessed with exceptionally good luck. She owned a clear head with the innate ability to untie life's knots. It was a gift, some would say, from God. Things will clear, she kept telling herself, you'll nail this Blaze character and get out from under Max, get the gun back, and maybe the jewelry, too.
She thought of times when she was younger and at home and her sister Lilly telling her, "You could walk back and forth across a highway all day with your eyes closed and never get grazed. I think you're a witch, and that's why you'll never truly be happy." With a tone of mild disgust, Nora would tell Lilly, "Because I'm not like you. Not interested in kids and family night at Girl Scouts. Things like that bore the shit out of me. Get it, sis?"
Lilly was content to live a Martha Stewart existence in the solemn silence of the sticks of Rhode Island. Except, Nora had to admit, Lilly's life didn't seem all that bad lately. Living near the ocean, all that peace and quiet, walking to the beach, raising a daughter and a dog. It beat hell out of this traffic, this noise, freaks running all over the street.
Weary and drained, Nora looked up the avenue and it was strange in that instant, how her humor suddenly changed and she came to life.
Across the avenue from where she sat, Nora watched a cop riding at full speed along Flatbush Avenue, one hand holding the reins of his galloping horse, the other swinging a nightstick in the air, like one of the Czar's Cossacks. The mounted cop was in hot pursuit of some dipshit. The guy looked like he had a pig, or a lamb, or a side of beef over his shoulder. And man, oh, man, the dipshit moved like some Dallas Cowboys running back.
Nora knew that there was a huge wholesale meat market just off the intersection of Flatbush and Atlantic. She saw workmen running, too. Men in blue aprons, yelling, pointing, moving purposefully in and out of traffic. Nora folded her arms, resting, watching the show with a feeling of, are you kidding me? She eased her head against the driver's-side window as though something had made her suddenly exhausted. Perfect, she thought, I've crossed the bridge to the dark side of the moon.
CHAPTER 2An hour and a half earlier, Nicky Ossman stood watching a butcher named Andrew Joey, a man Nicky called AJ, as AJ trimmed a side of beef. Andrew Joey saying, "A pig, lamb, lamb's good, veal even better, but a lamb would be nice."
"Whatever's there," Nicky said, "you'll take it, right?"
Andrew Joey's eyes were bloodshot, as usual. He exuded a faint odor of raw meat, as usual. He wore a soiled white coat with huge pockets, from one pocket hung a blood-stained rag, as usual.
"Of course, veal, veal would be real nice."
"That's a small cow," Nicky said. "Who do I look like, Superman?" He turned around. The butcher shop was empty, the display cases empty, too, save for the crushed ice Andrew Joey had spread along the bottom rack. Sizing up the shop, Nicky had the feeling that nothing here had changed in fifty years: an inch of sawdust on the floor, the worn wood of the butcher-block table, the walk-in refrigerator with a door so heavy that when it swung closed it jarred your bones. The meat hooks, the various-size saws, wooden hammers, cleavers hanging on the wall among the framed photographs of the '53 Brooklyn Dodgers. The Duke, Jackie, Gil, and his all-time favorite, the Reading rifle, Carl Furillo, number six with his cannon of an arm. All before Nicky's time, sure, but Brooklyn legends and great ball players, nothing pretentious about any of them. Man, he would love to see them play today, see how much money they'd earn today. Kids today who couldn't carry their jocks earned millions. Bullshit .250 hitters today took down more bucks than the entire old Dodger team, Campy included. Pee Wee and the Preacher, too.
"Just don't get nailed," Andrew Joey said.
Nicky turned back to the butcher. Andrew Joey was an unimposing man, weed-thin with huge, horselike teeth, and the thickest of eyeglasses. Considering the way the man went about whacking meat with a cleaver and hammer, Nicky had to wonder how AJ kept his fingers.
"That horse cop still up there?" Nicky asked.
"He was the last time I looked. A lame and his horse, that cop couldn't catch a Jew on Delancey Street."
Nicky reminded AJ that there weren't any Jews left on Delancey Street. "By the way," Nicky said, "I spotted your cousin Blaze going into Paulie's the other night."
"You talk to him?"
"No, I haven't spoken to Blaze, in what? five years. Maybe more."
Andrew Joey, frowning, raised one hand in slow motion. "Do me a favor and don't mention the name around here. That man's acting awful strange lately. I bet he's doing some dipping and sniffing."
Nicky did not answer him.
"Blaze," Andrew Joey said, "came by the other day all pissed-off about something. Foul-mouthed motherfucker, cursing, carrying on in front of my customers. I had to chase him."
Nicky said nothing, just kind of smiled and nodded.
"I taught Blaze everything," said Andrew Joey, "gave him the trade, bought him his tools. He was going to come into the shop, work here with me. I'll tell you something, the man is a box of snakes, but he's one helluva butcher."
"That right?" Nicky told him, "I'm not surprised."
"Yeah." AJ shrugged, sawing at the side of beef, measuring his slices carefully, using his thumb, an inch, an inch. "See," he said, "you put your hands on some easy money. Yeaaah," and then Andrew Joey paused and looked around the shop. "Easy money does it every time. I'll be honest, you're not going to get rich being a butcher, and Blaze, he's got this thing for money. The man loves playing the wiseguy, you know, bad ass, that type of bullshit. Listen to this, he kept his butcher's tools, right. This is the good part, I asked him for the tools, told him I could use a new set. You know what he told me? He said, I need em. You tell me, what in the hell does a guy that runs in the street, a guy like Blaze, what's he gonna do with a set of butcher's tools?"
"I wouldn't even want to guess," Nicky told him. "All right," he said, "I'm off on my mission. I'll see you in an hour." He hoped he did not sound foolish.
Andrew Joey gazed at his empty cases, squinting now, thinking something over, then looked at Nicky. "Of course the price will depend on what you snag. Veal is worth some bucks, beef, too. And lamb — depends on how big. You get a whole lamb I'll give you fifty, seventy-five bucks. Depends on the weight."
"I'm not doing it for the money."
"Not for the money, then why?"
Nicky said, "For the exercise, see if I can still pull it off."
"Pull this off. What are you nuts, the exercise?"
Nicky shrugged.
"Nicky the Hawk."
"That's me."
CHAPTER 3It was near 10:00 A.M., Nicky was cruising the loading platform of the wholesale meat market, checking out the sides of beef, lamb, whole pigs hanging from hooks. All the activity around the platform threw him into a panic. There were delivery trucks parked and waiting. Rugged workmen in long blue coats were loading trucks, drivers milled about, checking bills of lading, reading the morning paper. He was struck momentarily by the build of the workmen and wondered if they could run.
Nicky Ossman was what you'd call a Brooklyn neighborhood guy, but it pissed him off when people thought of him that way. Anyone speaking to him in person would see it, should see it, since it was there for all to see. The guy was special, a class act. Not the same as those neighborhood lames with nothing stirring in their tiny little brains, Nicky had style. When he walked down the street he knew everything that was going on. There wasn't anything anybody could tell him about Red Hook he didn't know.
You'd make Nicky as a good-looking guy with a soft, city, south-Brooklyn accent with some wiseguy overtones, combined with street-corner shrewdness. The fact was, some would say he was one of those rare human beings who was distressed by the pain of others. And, he worked at improving himself, his image, the way he spoke, with voice and even singing lessons. Nicky harbored an implacable dream to be a film star, the next De Niro or Travolta. He studied acting at the HB Studio and the school for Film and TV. When he made a little score, doing this or that, a few extra bucks in his pocket, he alternated getting singing lessons and dance training. Twenty-nine years old. Not a kid anymore, but not too old.
As far as Nicky was concerned his life was just getting started. He could name you a gang of big-time stars that didn't catch a break until they were in their forties. Two, sometimes three times a month, Nicky was up at four o'clock in the morning, on the F Train and into Manhattan to join the line for auditions in front of the Actors' Equity building. A lot of people in the line were just kids in their teens. Most were ethnic-looking like Nicky, his face a gift from his Swedish, seaman father and Sicilian mother.
Nicky, dressed in jeans, his field jacket, and high tops, moved quickly along the building line of the meat market. He was checking out the hanging meat, deciding. He stood where he was for a moment and closed his eyes, took a deep breath. The morning sun warmed his face, the air was heavy with the odor of sawdust and hanging meats. Only after he stood for a while did he realize how nervous he had become. I'm going to get busted, he thought desperately. I'm going to end up in the joint for this foolishness. Nicky opened his eyes and then closed them again. Traffic was heavy, cars, trucks, vans, parked haphazardly along the avenue, a dog was barking.
Sunday morning, over breakfast, he'd told the boy Tino and his cousin Irma that he was getting slow in mind and body. What's worse, he had told him, he didn't feel strong. I need to work out, he'd said, a little exercise.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blaze by Bob Leuci. Copyright © 1999 Robert Leuci. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media.
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