The "Landlord"

The Landlord

By Trisha Roman

AuthorHouse™

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© 2010, 2011 Trisha Roman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/22/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2997-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2996-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-3470-1 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011900917

Printed in the United States of America

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Table of Contents

Author’s Note

Dedication & Thanks

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty Four

Epilogue

DEVILTRY

AUTHOR’S NOTE

INTRODUCTION

Author’s Note

This book is based on true events recounted by one of New York’s most highly decorated police officers. However, the names of the people involved in the story have all been changed in order to conceal their identity.

Dedication & Thanks

This book is dedicated to all the Law Enforcement Officers & Security Agents that have lost their lives in the line of duty. May their souls rest in peace and may their families find solace in the memories of their hero’s.

I would like to also dedicate this book to my family, without whom, this book would not have been possible. It takes one person to make a brick, but it takes a team to build an empire. You are my Empire. I love you forever.

Finally, I would like to thank Paul Barbagallo, who put a huge amount of research and work into this book. Without his dedication to the facts and the story, we would not be where we are today, thanks again buddy. I would also like to thank Ricky Rizzuto and Snr. Master Mark Lee.

Introduction

Tommy Gallo pushed his way through the hanging shadows of Ninth Street, past scores of drug-dealers, prostitutes, panhandlers, pickpockets, addicts and homeless drifters. The corners of his mouth turned down as he lumbered through the ugly haze. After years as a police officer, decorated and respected, he had seen it all, from both sides of the dividing line.

Gallo stood at six-foot-five and possessed the barreled chest and cabled arms of a Roman gladiator. His hands were as large as hams, and when he greeted people with a vise-like grip, they were surprised to find an accompanying benevolent smile. He had an aged but handsome face, but it was clear from the white flecks of scarring along his cheekbones, lips and jaw-line, that during his lengthy career, he had taken plenty of physical abuse. Thinning hair ran back along a wrinkled forehead, gray stubble covered a square chin, and a pair of fierce green eyes glared out from under bushy eyebrows like lighthouse beacons.

With his hands buried in the pockets of his black leather trench coat, Tommy nodded to an elderly woman with a weathered Jamaican face who slowly pushed a shopping cart down an alley. Tommy’s lips turned inward as he sighed out of his nose. He caught himself looming at the face of the alleyway for what seemed to be a moment too long. He frowned as he watched her gray and black figure stagger lamely into the darkness where steam snaked up from a manhole cover.

In his lifetime, Gallo too carried the weight of the hopelessly burdened and destitute. He too loomed on the corners, at the bus depots, and the billiard parlors. He too searched trashcan-ridden alleys looking for food, a warm place to sleep or a cigarette to smoke. He was a trouble-faced, brawny Italian kid born in the Bronx, destined to stand among the Bums on the Bowery.

On the corner, an unprepared pedestrian was being sprayed with murky water sent into the air from a water-filled pothole by a passing taxi prowling the streets for its next fair. To his left, headlights were drifting slowly through the falling sleet, the car’s tires pounding the fresh wet pebbles into the soot-covered blacktop. He quickened his step as he worked his way up Broadway, with the lip of his coat turned up against the wet wind. He passed several black men, one with a greasy brown paper bag in one hand, and a wad of fresh bills palmed like a baseball in the other. They were clad in dark colors, cloaked by darkness in an apartment doorway, talking, gesturing and muttering obscenities. He nodded gravely to them, they to him. He kept on walking as if possessing some dark secret, the magnitude of which had absolved him from recoiling in fear like everyone else who mistakenly walked down their block that night.

Approaching the crosswalk, he observed a pretty, young woman in her mid-twenties with a pallid-white face, save for the cherry color of her nose and cheeks that had been stung by the wet, cold air. She snuggled into the warmth of her red nylon coat buttoned close under her chin as a soft strand of hair caught the lamplight that pooled on her face. She stood on the street below the curb, lost.

Just then a stretch-bus shuddered past Ninth Street, braking with a squeal to unload a ragged mass of Manhattan night travelers. As the people filed off, one by one, the strange girl’s face set with apprehension. Each individual shot her a look as if to say: You don’t belong here. There is no way to escape the hell in this city tonight.

Bluish smoke curled from Tommy’s nostrils as he sidled up behind her. Catching her eye, he offered a rare smile. She pursed her lips as she gazed up at him, and then finally offered a nervous grin. She covered her chin with her scarf and folded her arms together, edging closer into traffic. Suddenly she hugged her purse close to her chest and darted into the street veiled in fog and smoke.

A yellow cab whirred toward her, harrowingly unsteady over the slush and falling sleet. Lunging, Tommy seized the girl by her elbow and gently pulled her to the safety of the sidewalk, barely preventing her from being clipped by the grill of the cab. She looked at him with tearing eyes, part relieved, part terrified.

Careful of the cabs, he said warmly. They don’t stop for no one.

Y-yeah, thanks, she said, her voice drawing towards one of a child’s. I’m fine really. I’m okay. Thanks. Thank you. Clutching her purse to her stomach, she avoided Tommy’s eyes as she waited in silence for the light to turn green. A tense silence followed.

Discreetly, Tommy pulled back his coat to reveal a star-shaped copper shield, gleaming valiantly against the black lining. As he looked down at her, he watched her expression slowly change to one of relief, her soul suddenly secure.

Name’s Tommy, he said in a deep, husky voice.

Elisa.

Pretty name, Tommy thought. Different spelling variations played across his mind: Eleesa, Alisa, Elissa. Then he glanced down to her ungloved fingers and sighted a gold ring with her name in cursive: Elisa.

The ‘walk’ sign blazed and he gently took her by the elbow. Thanks, she said in a meek voice. As they crossed, the sleet singed their eyes.

Here, let’s tuck under here for a sec, Tommy said as he ushered her beneath a store awning. He bent his head down and wiped the wetness from his brow with the underside of his wrist. Where you headed?

Upper West Side. West End and 75th, I think.

You sure? Tommy offered, his policeman-like tone breaking through.

Yeah, think so, she said girlishly, again hugging her purse to her chest.

That’s a ways from here, he said. This is not a friendly place, ya know. Lotta dirtbags prowlin’ round this neighborhood.

I think I lost my way about 15 minutes ago, she said sweetly.

No matter, let’s get you in a cab, he said, waving toward an approaching cab.

A yellow taxi displaying its vacant light careened toward them, splashing water from the gutter. Tommy opened the door for her and waited until she gave the Middle-eastern driver the address.

Thank you so much. I hope I didn’t put you out.

Nah, no problem, Tommy said with a laugh, as he felt something warm flush his face.

Thanks again, she said.

He gave a tight nod and checked the closed cab door once more. It pulled away from the slushy sidewalk, and he watched it course its way towards tendrils of manhole steam. She relaxed back against the vinyl seat, and put her hand against the glass, giving Tommy a small, demur wave, not knowing, that before the night was over, he would save her life again.

Billy, how are ya? Tommy boomed as he entered through the leather-padded doors of Club Lust, a chewed toothpick twisted in the corner of his mouth.

Hey Tito, replied a stony-faced, thick-necked man who was wiping the bar-top with a damp towel and smoking a Camel. Tito was Tommy’s nickname when moonlighting as a security specialist, a role he’d been playing since he retired from law enforcement. Gonna be busy tonight. Billy mumbled.

My guys hea’ yet?

Nah, but some othah people are here to see ya, Billy said, cocking his head around in the direction of four black men huddled around a booth by the bar, talking quietly and smoking, their eyes moving slowly around the room.

Tommy kept his guard up as he approached the table. In unison, the four men rose from their seats to greet him in the same dull chorus.

What can I do for you? Tommy said bluntly, biting his cigar.

We need a favor, said a greasy-faced black man wearing a Taqiyah cap and thick, silver chains around his neck. His face was long and tough, a mean mug marred with deep scars.

Tommy closed two fingers over his lips. Not here. Come back, he said, pointing to the double doors leading to the kitchen. I don’t like to talk out here. They followed him through the doors, filing behind him one by one. Tommy turned over five spackle-buckets for them to sit on.

Talk to me, said Tommy.

They say you’re a cleaner, said the elected speaker of the group. "They call you ‘da Landlord."

That’s right.

Man, I hea’ you the toughest old ass white boy around?

Right again, friend, Tommy deadpanned, exhaling a thick fan of smoke.

Well, we gots a job fo’ ya, if ya intristed.

I’m listenin’.

"Our club downtown’s been gettin’ hit hard by narcs, ya know Special K, ludes, coke, dope. Fuckin’ everythin’ an shit. Hey man, that’s cool – I’m not about to fuckin’ stop someone from flyin’. But ya know, some people been dealin’ in da place that are not our guys. Beatin’ us outta our kick. Bringin’ shit in. Bringin’ heat on us."

Tommy’s forehead wrinkled as he tugged on the flesh under his chin.

Last week a girl got herself all fucked up and we had to deal wit da cops, the man continued. Somebody brought in some shit. Got her all whacked out. That’s all we need to deal wit is some fuckin’ OD’d bitch. Two bit whore can’t handle her head.

Tommy drew on his cigar, exhaled a spire of smoke in their direction, and then tapped the ash into a dusty beer glass on the floor. His patience was wearing thin.

"That’s where you come in. We need ya to come in there and do ‘yer thing. Clean this shit out."

Where’s the club?

Harlem.

What kinda green we talkin’ here?

The greasy-faced man motioned to his associate who was hulking beside him. Opening his jacket, the associate pulled out a stack of crisp bills tied with a rubber band.

Consider this a down payment, the greasy man said handing Tommy the money.

I’ll be there tomorrow, Tommy said as he stamped out his cigar on the concrete floor.

We heard you’re da best Tommy, another one said, his dark eyes flaring, skin oily in the sulfur light.

From now on when we talk, call me Tito, Tommy whispered.

It was almost midnight, and already Club Lust was pumping its vulgar energy. Tommy and his crew of security specialists scanned nearly 3,000 faces that were mostly made of College-aged urban thugs, ranged around the bar selling Oregano to naïve rich kids from North Jersey with plenty of big suburb money to throw around. Pressed close to one another on the dance floor were heart-thieving nymphets, barely legal girls with fake tits brandishing eight-dollar tank tops, colorful cocktails and Virginia Slims.

Stepping outside, Tommy watched the clubbers standing in line waiting for their turn to party and hookup, his mind absently drifting back to the brief meeting he had had with Elisa earlier that night. He hoped she had made out okay. Strange young girls didn’t usually play on his mind like this, but she had reminded Tommy of his own daughter, around the same age, and way too trusting of the world around her. He took some deep drags from his cigar, and let the flavorful smoke wonder around inside his mouth before his consciousness brought his mind crashing back to his surroundings. He exhaled loudly through his nostrils, and scanned the crowd once more, as he did, spotting a thin Latin man wearing a leather trench coat with Native American embroidery on the front, who had been discreetly scrutinizing the security detail at the front entrance for some time now. Tommy approached his newest recruit, Jimmy, and pulled him aside.

Latino guy at 11.o.clock’s got a weapon, Tommy whispered.

How do you know?

I just know. Check ‘em.

Tommy quickly memorized the face of the guy.

Nah, he’s clean dude, Jimmy offered.

You sure?

Yeah, yeah.

Tommy took one last pull off his cigar, dropped it to the floor and followed the thin Latin man into the club. He lost sight of him amid the flickering lights and the man’s shifty figure, but soon the embroidered trench coat materialized near the door of the VIP room. Without a word of warning, Tommy approached him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back through the club.

Hey, hey. What’s the deal? he fumed.

Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.

Tommy pushed him through the front door and outside, where the sleet had turned into a vicious driving rain. He slammed the man against the glass of a nearby storefront.

Open your mouth, Tommy demanded.

The man’s eyes were quivering, his lips trembling.

Fine, if you won’t I’ll open it for ya, Tommy said as he lightly smacked the man just under his chin. Blood violently disgorged from his mouth. With the ball of his palm, Tommy slammed the man’s forehead into the glass window. He reached into his sweaty, bloody mouth and extracted a three-inch razor blade wrapped in a torn piece of cloth.

Clean, huh? Tommy let out. He clutched him by the collar and heaved him effortlessly into the street, ignoring the trembling screams and obscenities in Spanish. Jimmy pulled his attention away from the clubbers waiting in line and stepped over to where Tommy stood, Should I call the medics?

No, Tommy replied bluntly. Let em’ lie there like the bum he is.

The club was pulsing. Tommy stood off in the distance, watching the crowd swell and writhing in ecstasy. He looked across the room and sighted a young Jamaican man on the other side of the club on the cusp of closing a drug deal. The Jamaican had shaky eyes the color of burnt coal, and dirty, untamed dreadlocks coiled around his neck like snakes. Tommy saw the man pull a kilo of GHB from his pants pocket. He made his way toward him and silently stood in the circle of black men. Beads of sweat dotted the Jamaican’s forehead. He stared at Tommy, seeming to hold his breath.

You know I gotta turn you in, straight away. Tommy’s voice was cutting, even above the guttural throb of the music. "Ya know what I’m sayin’? You hearin’ me, small time? But listen; as far as I’m concerned, you’re chump change. And as far as I know, this never happened. But, it’s always on my mind that I caught you."

Whaddaya want?

Who’s your pharaoh?

The Jamaican looked down at his Timberlands, seemingly pondering whether or not to reveal the identity of his supplier. He glanced up at Tommy. There was a nervous quake in his face. He’s over there. The man pointed to a hulking black man with more gold in his mouth than ivory. He was wearing a red bandana tied backwards on his head and an outsized black leather jacket. Tommy disappeared from the circle and weaved his way to the bar.

Billy, we got our man, Tommy moved through the crowd as he spoke into the microphone attached to his shirt, but as he did, his eyes were drawn back to the stairwell that led to the upstairs VIP room. He had been watching it for some time now, and had gotten momentarily distracted with the small time dealers. These dirt-bag dealers seemed to be getting more and more brazen every day. His security detail really needed to step up their game, and he would talk to his men about that at the end of the night. He had good guys who always stepped up to the plate, and in this instance, he knew that they would again. They needed to get