After four rings, a woman answered, “Hello?”
“May I speak to Peter Lalle, please?”
“Who’s this? Peter’s asleep, gotta work in the morning. You drunk or something?”
“No, Ma’am. This is . . . Mr. Able with the I.R.C. We believe we found Mr. Lalle’s wallet on a bus today.”
“His wallet? Wait a minute, there, Able. Hey, Peter. Peter, wake up. You lose your wallet?”
“Huh?”
“You lose your wallet? There’s a man on the telephone from the bus company, says he found your wallet.”
“No, I don’t think so, I think I still got it. Who’s on the phone?”
“Mr. Able, from the bus company. Go talk to him, I’m going back to bed. It’s late.”
“Hello?”
“Pete Lalle?”
“Yes?”
“Listen up. Your dad, George Lalle’s in jail, downtown. Picked up for gambling. He needs you to get down to Police Headquarters and get him out.” Click.
Pete looked at the phone for a few seconds, then hung up and started hustling into his clothes. As he was going out the door, he said, “Hey, Ma, I’m goin’ to get my wallet, I’ll need it for work tomorrow. Don’t wait up.”
As he closed the door, he could hear his mother saying, “Hey, your Papa’s not come to bed all night! What’s goin’ on here?”
XYZ
Looking over at Brogan, Constantino got a small smile.
“That was quick thinking, Pat,” Constantino said. “If this works out, Pete will get Uncle George out, and they’ll both keep quiet about it. Then, I’ll just have to talk to Uncle George and Pete. That won’t be too bad. I owe you big time on this one, partner.”
And with that, they went to work on their reports, hoping that the inspector would cover for them about the midget and the other rough stuff; Lou hoping his family wouldn’t find out about Uncle George’s pinch; and Brogan smiling to himself that he had made the team.
XYZ
As dawn came up over downtown Buffalo, cleaning crews were leaving the office buildings and early Mass-goers were entering St. Joseph’s Cathedral across the street from Police Headquarters. Several sleepy policemen were headed for Sunrise Court at the City Court Building at 42 Delaware Avenue. Also coming out were the accused, chained together, and loaded onto sheriff’s wagons to meet their accusers again before a judge.
The City’s Attorney and the police filed in on one side of the courtroom, the accused mumbling and clanking into the benches on the other side. The judge entered briskly from his chambers, and the bailiff began, “Oyez, oyez, oyez. All those having business in this Court of the City of Buffalo in the State of New York now come forward and be heard. The Honorable Francis Chimera now presiding.” Once in the court, the judge, a younger man with wavy, dark hair, a pencil mustache, and a perpetual smile, looked out over the courtroom and beamed as he sat down at the elevated bench.
“Well, it looks like we had a busy night last night here in Buffalo.”
Recently elected to the City Court, the up and coming lawyer was known for his sense of humor and was amused by the big crowd at the early session, finding it more entertaining than the usual few sad prostitutes, thieves, and vagrants he usually had before him. “Bailiff, call the cases, if you please.”
“The Court calls Thomas Agro and John Cofrancesco. Accused
of the following: On March 3rd of this year, at approximately 8:30 P.M., Misters Agro and Cofrancesco did assault with deadly weapons, Patrolman Patrick Brogan while he was in pursuit of his duties in the premises of 462 Pearl Street in this city. They are further accused of attempted murder, as they did arm themselves with knives in their attack on Patrolman Brogan; possession of illegal weapons; interfering with the actions of a police officer; refusing the reasonable requests of a police officer; affray; public disorder; drunk and disorderly conduct; attempted mayhem; and resisting arrest.”
The prosecutor stood up. “Your Honor,” he began, “This was a dastardly assault on a policeman of this city who was in the course of carrying out his duties, to wit, conducting a raid on a premises used for gambling purposes, when these two men attacked him with knives and without provocation. Showing admirable restraint in a crowded public place, Patrolman Brogan used his sap rather than his pistol to defend himself, and, with the assistance of Patrolmen McAvoy and Vicigliano, took these two assailants into custody after a considerable struggle. The State asks these individuals be held over for trial.”
Eagerly awaiting the defendants’ replies, the judge looked over at the defense table and asked, “Are the defendants represented by counsel?”
“Yes, Your Honor, Ross Oberpfalz for the defense,” replied a law school classmate of the judge, from a row behind the defendants. “I have been engaged to represent these two men, Your Honor, and they plead innocent. They are both natives of this city, with gainful employment and considerable family here. At the time that they were on the premises in question, they witnessed Mr. Brogan, out of uniform and failing to announce his presence as a police officer, attack a Mr. Scott McClive, a resident of this city, employed by a local theater who was seated in the premises at 462 Pearl Street having a drink. Mr. Brogan first assaulted Mr. McClive without provocation, throwing him through the front window of the establishment, and my clients went to his defense.”
Looking up from the charging documents, the judge interrupted, “With eight-inch switchblade knives?”
“We’ll dispute that, Your Honor. Those weapons were planted on the defendants when the police realized their most numerous and grievous errors of conduct.”
“This should be interesting. I’m sorry I can’t be the trial judge for this one. According to the ever efficient Court Clerk Mr. McCann, the trial date for this case is set for 10:00 a.m. on Thursday, March 15th, and I set bail for both of these men at one hundred dollars apiece,” the judge said. With a slam of the gavel, the court moved on to the next case; the assault on Patrolman McAvoy.
XYZ
Waiting outside for his lieutenant, Brogan saw the bartender skip down the steps and into a cab. When Constantino came out, he was talking to a bailiff who was telling him where his uncle and cousin Pete had gone.
“Hey, Brogan, hungry?” Constantino asked.
“Hell, yeah, want to go over to Bowles, maybe catch some more court side gossip?”
“Outstanding,” he replied, and as they went down the steps, they heard McAvoy and Vicigliano coming down behind them.
“The lousy son-of-a-bitch. The guy takes a shot at me and gets away with it. To hell with him and his cousin.”
“Joe, I tried to tell you,” Lou said. “You could’ve saved yourself a lot of aggravation by just forgetting it, but no, you had to push it and watch the guy walk.”
“You wait. He’ll foul up again, and I’ll be right there waiting.”
“Sure, Joe. In the meantime, let’s get out of these uniforms, and go get a drink and some breakfast. We gotta be back for roll call at four tonight.”
Lou said to Pat, “I called the inspector when you were before the judge with the prosecutor. He says to go home and get some sleep. I’ll give you a call around noon and let you know what’s doing. That’s one of the advantages of this assignment, Paddy. If we do good, we set our own hours.”
“Hey, boss, I got a question. What game were they playing down there in the basement? Blackjack?”
“Oh, that game, that’s called Ziginat. It came from the old country. You play it with a forty-card deck; no eights,