“Cozy,” he said, and smiled. “Hey, I’m not going to run out on you guys. I came here of my own free recollection. Try not to forget it. Hell, two of my uncles are cops here in Crooklyn. Check it out if you want.”
“We already did,” Sampson said. “One’s retired, living in Myrtle Beach; one’s on suspension.”
“Hey, so I’m batting five hundred. That’s not so awful. Keep you in the Big Leagues.”
Sampson and I introduced ourselves, and at first Mullino was sure he knew John from somewhere, but couldn’t place where it might be. He said he’d followed the case of the Russian Mafia head called the Wolf, an investigation I’d worked on while I was at the Bureau, and which had played out right here in New York.
“I read about you in some magazine too,” he said. “What magazine was that?”
“I didn’t read the story,” I said. “In Esquire.”
Mullino got the joke and laughed in a way that was like sped-up coughing. “So how did you find out about me and Sully? That’s kind of a stretch nowadays. Ancient history.”
Sampson told him a little bit of what we knew—that the FBI had done audio surveillance on a social club frequented by John Maggione. We knew that Maggione had ordered a hit on Sullivan, probably because of the Butcher’s unorthodox methods, and that the Butcher had retaliated. “The Bureau asked around on Bay Parkway. Your name came up.”
Mullino didn’t even wait for Sampson to finish. I noticed that when he talked his hands were in constant motion. “Right, the social club over in Bensonhurst. You been there? Old Italian neighborhood. Mostly two-story buildings, storefronts, y’know. Seen better days, but still pretty nice. Sully and I grew up not far from there.
“So how do I fit in again? I’m a little confused about that part. I haven’t seen Mike in years.”
“FBI files,” I said. “You’re his friend, right?”
Mullino shook his head. “When we were kids, we were kind of close. That was a long time ago, guys.”
“You were friends into your twenties. And he still keeps in touch,” I said. “That’s the information we were given.”
“Aw, Christmas cards,” Mullino said, and laughed. “Go figure that one out. Sully’s a complicated guy, totally unpredictable. He sends a holiday card now and then. What else is going on here? Am I in trouble? I’m not, am I?”
“We know that you have no association with the mob, Mr. Mullino,” Sampson said.
“That’s good to hear, because I don’t, never did. Actually I’m a little tired of all the bullshit slurring against us Italians. Bada bing, all that crap. Sure some guys talk like that. Know why? Because it’s on the TV.”
“So tell us about Michael Sullivan,” I said. “We need to hear whatever you know about him. Even things from the old days.”
Anthony Mullino ordered another drink—seltzer water—from Tommy McGoey himself. Then he began to talk to us, and it came easily for him, the words anyway.
“I’ll tell you a funny thing, a story. I used to be Mikey’s protector in grammar school. Immaculate Conception, this was. Irish Christian Brothers. In our neighborhood, you had to develop a pretty good sense of humor to keep out of fights every other day. Back then, Sullivan didn’t have much of one—a sense of humor. He also had this mortal fear about having his front teeth knocked out. Thought he might be a movie star or somethin’ one day. I swear to God that’s true. Verdad, right? His old man and his mom both slept with their store-boughts in a glass of water by the bed.”
Mullino said that Sullivan changed when they were in high school. “He got tough, and mean as a snake. But he developed a pretty good sense of humor, for an Irish guy anyway.”
He leaned in close to the bar and lowered his voice. “He killed a guy in ninth grade. Name of Nick Fratello. Fratello worked at the newspaper store, with the bookies. He used to hassle Mikey all the time, break his balls strenuously. No reason. So Sully just killed him with a box cutter! That got the attention of the Mafia, of Maggione in particular. Maggione Senior I’m talking about.
“That’s when Sully started to hang around the social club in Bensonhurst. Nobody knew what he was doing exactly. Not even me. But suddenly he had money in his pockets. Seventeen, maybe eighteen years old, he bought a Grand Am, a Pontiac Grand Am. Very hot wheels at that time. Maggione Jr. always hated Mike because he’d gotten the old man’s respect.”
Mullino looked from Sampson’s face to mine, and he made a gesture like What else can I tell you? Can I go now?
“When was the last time you saw Michael Sullivan?” Sampson asked him.
“Last time?” Mullino sat back and made a big show of trying to remember. Then his hands started flapping around again. “I would say it was Kate Gargan’s wedding in Bay Ridge. Six, seven years ago. That’s my last recollection anyway. Of course, you guys probably have my life on audio and video, right?”
“Could be, Mr. Mullino. So where is Michael Sullivan now? The Christmas cards? Where were they sent from?”
Mullino shrugged and threw up his hands, as if he was getting a little exasperated with the conversation. “There were only a couple of cards. I think, postmarked in New York. Manhattan? No return address, guys. So you tell me—where is Sully these days?”
“He’s right here in Brooklyn, Mr. Mullino,” I said. “You saw him two nights ago at the Chesterfield Lounge on Flatbush Avenue.” Then I showed him his picture—with Michael Sullivan.
Mullino shrugged and smiled. No big deal—we’d caught him in a lie. “He used to be my friend. He called, wanted to talk. What could I do, blow him off? Not a good idea. So why didn’t you grab him then?”
“Bad luck,” I said. “The agents on surveillance had no idea what he looks like now—the baldie haircut, the seventies punk look. So now I have to ask you again—where is Sully these days?”