I knew how Raymond Visconti died, therefore I also knew how Andy Olin Flack died.
As we did five years earlier with Flack, the day Raymond Visconti’s body was found, Dunk and I sat at my apartment window and watched the police put up their tape and invade our small block. We watched Detective Faustino Brier arrive, disappear into the alley for nearly thirty minutes, then step back out on the street, and look directly at our building. I half expected him to wave at my window, but he didn’t.
“See that van down there?” Dunk said before finishing off his third Coke and crushing the can.
“Carmine’s Carpet?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re narcs. They’ve been watching me. Trying to get to Crocket.”
“The carpet guys are narcs?”
“The narcs are pretending to be carpet guys.”
“You sure?”
Dunk went to the kitchen, got another soda, then returned to his place at the window. He held the cold can to his now very black eye and purple, swollen nose. “They rotate. One day it’s Harwood Electric, the next day we’ve got Cloister Plumbing and Supplies, then there’s the carpet guys. They’ve been out here so many times, if they were for real, the sidewalks would be carpeted by now. Nobody needs that much carpet.”
“How long now?”
Dunk shrugged. “Six months? Maybe longer. Hard to say. They’ve got my place bugged, too. We found four mics in there. Not the best tech but good. Better than I figured local PD would have.”
“You need to stop working with Crocket. You’re going to land your ass in jail.”
Dunk popped the top on his Coke and took a drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I made almost 30k last month. I’m on track to beat that next month. Crocket says it’s good we know where they are. If the cops are here, they’re not there, they’re not watching him. It’s kinda fun. We feed them bogus info from my apartment and watch them chase their tails. They have no idea what we’re really doing.”
“He’s just using you. You get popped, and he’ll find another pansy to take your place.”
“He’s teaching me the business. Introducing me to people. He gets popped, and I end up running everything one day.”
“That’s your goal? To be the biggest drug dealer in Pittsburgh after your boss catches a bullet?”
“30k last month,” he repeated. “I’d make ten times that if I was in charge. I can’t wash dishes for a living.”
“Krendal lets me cook, too.”
“See? The future is bright all around,” Dunk said. “No student loan debt, either. Win, win.”
I had all but given up trying to talk Dunk out of his current career path. I’d talked to walls that were more receptive. I knew the guy had a good heart somewhere in there and hoped that would prevail. There was little more I could do.
“Who’s the woman with Faustino? Do you recognize her?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Police for sure, but I don’t recognize her.”
Auntie Jo snorted in her sleep behind us.
“She’s getting much worse,” Dunk said.
“I know.”
The next thirty days ticked by at a snail’s pace as I expected a knock on the door from the police that never came. The murder of Raymond Visconti faded from the press, as did the bruises on Dunk’s face.
As promised, on the evening of September 8, 1992, Dunk appeared at my door with six of his “coworkers,” three of whom I recognized, three of whom I did not. All were carrying firearms. Two of them had duffle bags. I didn’t ask what was in the duffle bags.
“We’ll keep an eye on Auntie Jo while you’re working,” Dunk said, pushing past me at the door. “When your fairy godfather shows up, I’ll say hello for you.” He flashed a set of brass knuckles on his right hand. Dunk then ordered his crew to “set up” around the apartment—I didn’t want to know what that meant, either.
“Try to get Jo to eat,” I said, walking past them into the hall. “She didn’t touch dinner.”
