The Punishing Game by Nathan Gottlieb Page B

cash.”
    “So who hired them?” Cullen asked.
    “I’m not sure yet. Our next move is to have a little sit-down with the Bloods.”
    “Whoa,” said Bellucci. “No chance they talk to you. More likely, they’ll shoot your big white ass on sight.”
    “I’m sure that’d be true if I just walked in on them cold,” Boff said. “Fortunately for me, I worked with their lawyer a few years ago and helped get their leader, Devon, acquitted on robbery and assault charges. After we eat, I’ll call Devon’s lawyer and have him set up a meeting.”
    Despite himself, Cullen laughed. “Christ, is there anybody on the Dark Side you haven’t defended?”
    “Actually there’s quite a few,” Boff told him. “That’s why I love my job so much. Every day I wake up knowing my phone’s going to ring and a new felon will be begging me to take on his case. It’s such a good feeling, knowing you’re wanted.”
    Bellucci narrowed his eyes. “You like criminals?”
    As the soup arrived, Boff shook his head. “Not at all. They’re scumbags. What I do like is cashing their checks.”
    With a sudden admiration in his voice, Bellucci said, “Man, you’re some piece a work.” He reached out a hand to Boff. “Mikey Bellucci.”
    Boff shook it. “Frank M. Boff.”
    Cullen looked surprised. “Since when do you have a middle name?”
    “I only use it in New York out of respect for my mother.”
    “What’s the M stand for? Money?”
    Boff looked down at his soup. “I’d rather not to say.” He slurped in a spoonful. “Excellent. I might have a second bowl.”
    “Come on,” Cullen implored. “Tell us what the M is.”
    “It hurts to mention it.”
    “Melvin?” Cullen ventured.
    “Worse.”
    “What could be worse than Melvin?”
    “Milton.”
    Cullen laughed. “Your fucking middle name is Milton? Your parents must’ve really hated you.”
    “Actually, they adored me. My mother is Jewish. She named me after her deceased father, Milton. If she had hated me, my first name would’ve been Milton, in which case I’d be known on the Dark Side as M. Frank Boff, arch as that may sound.”
    “I think I’m going to call you Milton from now on,” Cullen said.
    “You do, and I’ll quit this case.”
    “You can’t. Your wife would kill you. The next time you piss me off, I’m calling you Milton, Milton.”
    Boff frowned. “I always seem to piss you off.”
    “Then stop doing it.”
    “I can’t. It’s my nature. For some reason I just naturally irritate people.”
    Bellucci turned to Cullen. “Danny, leave the guy alone. Let him eat.”
    Boff smiled. “Thank you, Mikey.”
    “You’re welcome, Milton.”

Chapter 11
     
    Because their Crown Victoria had been made by the limo driver, Monetti decided to bring his own car for that night’s surveillance. As Colligan stepped into Monetti’s Chevy Impala, he sniffed the air and made a face.
    “It smells like farts in here,” the cop said. “Why don’t you use a car freshener?”
    Monetti took a quick sniff. “I don’t smell nuthin’.”
    Opening his window, Colligan used his hand to fan fresh air into the car.
    “Hey,” Monetti protested, “you’re letting the air conditioning out.”
    “Tough shit. Next time bring air freshener.”
    “Next time bring your own fucking car.”
    As he pulled away from the precinct, Monetti cranked his air conditioner up to max. Then he glanced at his partner. “Get on your iPhone,” he said, “and locate the fucking limo.”
    Taking out his cell, Colligan turned it on, got the Internet, and worked on it a few minutes.
    “The Mobile Guardian tracker says the limo’s parked in the same garage.”
    Nodding, Monetti drove downtown and double parked near an office building on East 44 th Street that had a basement garage.
    “Now we wait,” he said.
    A half hour later, the limo came up the ramp from the basement. It looked like there was just one person in the back seat, though it was hard to tell through the tinted