The Frame

By Nick Nixon

Peter English, at six foot two, chiseled features, clear blue eyes, and tipping the scales at 185, could be the poster boy for a police recruiting campaign. He was a former MP with a law degree who liked being a cop. It suited his personality and skills very well. His wife, Amy, had even adjusted to being a cop’s wife. Then it all fell apart. After a long illness, Amy died, and Peter was wrongly accused of a crime he did not commit. He lost his job and the world he loved had come to an unhappy and premature end.

He had to come to terms with Amy’s death, get his head back on straight and find out who framed him. It would take all the skill, training and experience of his time on the force to accomplish the latter. After all, he was still a detective, a damn good detective, with or without a badge.

This is a story of betrayal, injustice, and crime that one man decided to do something about. He’s not concerned about following the rules, how many people he brings down, or the number of bodies he leaves behind to accomplish this. His goal is to expose the corruption, clear his name, bring to justice or eliminate those responsible, and see that this cannot and will not happen to anyone else.

He’s too angry to fail!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nazzaro and Price
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370272259

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It’s after 4:00 a.m. I can’t sleep. Ever since Amy died, I can’t get a good night’s sleep. I toss and turn. When I do doze off, I dream about Amy and our life together. Or I dream about the job — correction, the former job. I wake up in a cold sweat. Amy’s not here, but everything in this house reminds me of her. I can smell her perfume, I can almost hear her voice, hear her playing the piano, but I know she’s gone.

Maybe Rudy is right. Maybe I need to sell this house and get outta here. I look at the clock again, and there beside it is the only thing left of six years on the job. Cold, menacing steel, reflected in the face of the clock as the moon highlights it through the blinds. How many times have I thought about putting it in my mouth and pulling the trigger? Naw, that’s not my style, and Amy would be so disappointed in me if I took the coward’s way out.

I finally doze off, and the phone rings. I glance back at the clock as I answer it. "It’s 4:15 a.m. Who is this?"

A raspy voice at the other end of the line responds.

I wan’cha to know I’m still celebrating. He begins to laugh.

What the hell do you mean, and what do you want? I shout into the phone.

More laughter. I’m celebrating your retirement! I told you I’d get even with you. Laughter mixed with coughing and wheezing. When I’m through celebrating, I might even kill you.

He sounds like a heavy smoker. I could almost smell the stale smoke through the phone.

"Okay, wise guy, bring it on! If you’re the one who framed me, I’m just dying to meet you, then I’ll have something to celebrate."

More laughter and coughing, and he hangs up.

When I finally do get up for the day, I choke down a Danish and a cup of yesterday’s warmed-over coffee. I take a second cup of java into the bathroom and look in the mirror.

Good grief, English, when was the last time you shaved? Okay, that’s it. No more pity party for this guy. From now on, it’s full speed ahead and some good ole detective work. Gotta find that laughing, coughing, wheezing bastard who framed me. I’ll put an end to his celebrating, permanently!

I called Rudy, my old partner.

Hey, Rudy, it’s me. Need your help.

There was a pregnant pause at the other end of the line.

Yeah, captain, I’ll be right there. Then he whispers, Meet me for lunch at Mama Joe’s.

Rudy Tobias had been my partner for five years. He’s a short, stocky guy with thick black hair and a matching mustache, which usually has traces of his latest meal in it. Rudy’s a funny guy. Great sense of humor and loyal as an old dog. While I take long strides, Rudy takes quick little steps. Everything he does is quick and deliberate. Working with him as long as I did, I know he thinks things out carefully. His instincts are amazing, and he strikes like a rattlesnake in the hot sun. It was always comforting to know Rudy had my back.

Rudy and I met when we were going through the academy. We each paid our dues walking a beat in neighborhoods most people would never think of going into. One night, Rudy stumbled upon what looked like a burglary in process at the old brewery warehouse down by the tracks. By this time I was working with Al Cannon in a patrol car not far from there, so when Rudy called for backup, we were the first ones to show up.

Rudy and I went in through a side door, which had obviously been jimmied. The faint smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke greeted our nostrils when we eased the beat-up old metal door open. Al went around back to the loading dock. We worked our way through the maze of empty boxes and beer cases, until we saw a light and heard voices. The concrete floor was wet. and stagnant puddles of water lapped all along the outside walls. I don’t know which was worse, the musty smell of wet, decaying wood and cardboard boxes, or the sour odor of old beer.

We could hear rats scampering through the standing water and the boxes and debris. We could also hear voices of two-legged rats at the rear of the building. They weren’t there for beer. Racks of furs were lined up near the loading dock doors, like they were getting ready to show the fall line to a bunch of buyers. The temporary lights they had rigged up were shining on the furs and casting long shadows in our direction. With the glare from the lights and the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke, it was hard to make out how many were there or even where they were.

We split up and came at them from two sides. When Rudy yelled, Police, freeze! all hell broke loose. They started firing, and we started firing back. We could see flashes from their guns through the haze and furs, and ours must have lit up the darkness like Roman candles. The noise of that many guns in the empty warehouse was deafening, and soon the place was filled with gun smoke, and the smell of gunpowder and singed fur.

Everyone scattered, heading for the loading dock doors. There must have been ten or twelve of them. When the shooting was over and the smoke cleared, four bodies were on the floor inside the warehouse and three more on the loading dock. But where was Al? Then we heard moaning.

Sounded like it was coming from just beyond the dock. There he was, all crumpled up on the pavement, moaning and writhing back and forth. We both jumped down there and tried to help and comfort our fallen comrade. By this time, the place was swarming with cops, and I called for an ambulance.

The good news was Al pulled through. The bad news was the rest of the gang got away. It had been raining earlier in the day, and the ground was still wet. Thanks to that and all the oil leaks on the pavement over the years, fresh tire tracks and footprints were easy to see. Al said a big truck and two cars were parked back there when he first got to the dock. One of the cars was a black Lincoln and the other one was a maroon Packard. He said the truck looked like a big produce truck with a canvas top. He was in shock, and all he could remember from the license plates on the cars was that one was from New York and the other one was from New Jersey. He said the truck didn’t have any plates.

Al was shot five times. He took one in the stomach, one in his right foot, and another in his right leg. One got him in his left shoulder, and another one took part of his left ear off. He was lucky. The one in his stomach broke some ribs and went out his side with no major internal damage. When we went to see him at the hospital, Rudy looked at him and cracked, Whassa matter with you, Al, don’t you know how to duck? Al said he’d laugh at that, but it hurt too much.

Turns out all of the furs were from a robbery of a fur storage warehouse in New Jersey two months earlier, and the seven dead guys were all wanted in New York and New Jersey on multiple warrants. None of us were sure how many got away. Too dark, too much gunfire, and all three of us were scared enough to wet our knickers!

We all received commendations from the Chief of Police, and Al retired on disability. He opened a restaurant on South Main, aptly named, Al’s Place. Rudy and I became partners and rode together in the patrol car Al and I had shared. Later on, through dumb luck, we stumbled upon the black Lincoln and maroon Packard and rounded up the rest of the bad guys from the fur heist. This, and a few other things we accomplished or lucked into over the years, got us promoted to detectives. They even let us continue as partners. When I started wearing plain clothes on the job, I quit carrying that clumsy revolver and was allowed to replace it with my 1911 semiautomatic Colt 45 from my army days.

Our detective skills got better, our squad commander always backed us, and we had great leadership all the way to the top. At least that’s what I thought in those days. Rudy and I thought being a cop was fun and being a detective was even more funner, as Rudy liked to say.

Yep, life was good. We were solving crimes and putting away the bad guys, and then something wonderful happened. Rudy and his wife, Gloria, invited me to dinner at their house in midtown. Gloria is a great cook, so I readily agreed to join them.

I should have known something was up when Rudy offered me some fashion advice.

Look, Pete, this is sort of a special occasion for me and Gloria, so you might wanna keep that in mind when you’re gettin’ dressed.

It was special all right. When I got there, the dining room lights were low, candles were burning on the table, and Gloria had set out her grandmother’s best china.

As I walked in I said, Who else is coming to dinner, the mayor?

That’s when I caught sight of her. One of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen.

Not the mayor, Gloria said. This is Amy Taylor. She’s my best friend.

I just stood there like a big, dumb high school kid, staring into her green eyes, with my mouth open.

Nice to meet you, Peter. I’ve heard so much about you.

Her voice was like music, her hair was like gold silk, and what I could see of her figure was nice too. But I wanted her to walk out from behind the table so I could check out her legs! I don’t know if it was love at first sight, but I was hooked like a trout at a fishing rodeo. We had so much in common! We liked the same music, the same movies, and most of the same foods. I taught her to shoot, and she taught me to play the piano — well, sort of.

We were married within six months and bought a house in the Memphis suburbs soon after. I hated the long hours my job required, but Amy always understood. She was a teacher at Central High School and had regular hours, so she always had a good meal waiting for me whenever I finally did get home. She decorated our little house like something out of a magazine, and even did a makeover on my wardrobe. She said the only thing wrong with my otherwise perfect body was the way I dressed it. How did I get this lucky?

Our cases seemed to get bigger and more complex. Rudy and I were good at what we did, and our captain gave us the hard ones. We did everything we could to meet the challenges and solve these cases. We made a lot of enemies on the streets, in the underworld, and even in the department. We didn’t let up, we didn’t compromise, and we were never intimidated by pressure from outside or above.

We heard rumors about corruption at city hall and even in the department, but we were never approached. We were never told to step back or stand down. We were never offered a bribe. However, we were reminded from time to time how important certain politicians and powerful businessmen were, and we were advised to tread lightly now and then and to clear everything with the brass before making any drastic moves. We never listened to that crap. So what if we were considered hot shots? By this time, we were decorated veterans. The street cops knew about us, the brass knew about us, city hall knew about us, and so did the media. We were bulletproof. We were rising stars! Our pictures were in The Commercial Appeal and the Memphis Press-Scimitar many times. I was even asked to take the sergeant’s exam. What could touch us now?

Well, the first thing was illness. Amy had not been feeling well. She was losing weight and experiencing headaches. Bright lights bothered her, and she had dizzy spells now and then. Her doctor finally sent her to a specialist, and he confirmed our worst fears. Cancer.

As Amy’s condition worsened, I took some time off work and spent as much time as I could with her. I took all my vacation and sick leave. I finally took a leave of absence when it was evident she would not recover.

It was during this time the wheels of injustice began to speed up, and corruption at the highest levels was aimed at me. It was determined I was the brains and driving force behind the dynamic duo of English and Tobias, so if I were taken out of the picture, Rudy would be easier to handle.

Besides, if he proved to be a problem during or after my fall from grace, they could easily drag him into the same plot.

I was accused of taking bribes and looking the other way. They even planted money in my checking and savings accounts. Somehow my house and cars were mysteriously paid off. They waited until after Amy’s funeral before they sprung this on me. Because of the good I had done during my career and the notoriety I had achieved, they felt prosecuting me and the publicity it would generate would be bad for the department. Therefore, it was decided I would resign. The reason? The devastating effect Amy’s lingering illness and death had on me. They decided my heart was just not in police work any longer, and I was no longer fit for duty.

I was devastated! I knew I was innocent. I knew I had been framed. I also knew outside forces and corrupt officials within city hall and the Memphis Police Department were all in this cesspool together. After receiving the phone call from that coughing, wheezing scumbag this morning, I knew I had something to go on. How many times did one of these thugs tell me he was going to get even with me? And how many of them had a coughing, wheezing problem? That was the key. Now, if I could get Rudy to help me, we could dig into our old arrest records and maybe find this guy. If we find him, maybe he can lead us to the others.

One way or another, I’m going to clear my name. And now I don’t have to go by department rules.

Rudy met me at Mama Joe’s. It’s a typical Italian hash house in the downtown area. A striped awning out front, checkered tablecloths with candles burning in fat wine bottles on every table, and pictures of the Italian countryside painted on the bare brick walls. Mama Joe reminds me of S. Z. Sakall, a fat little Hungarian character actor with an accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. Mama Joe’s accent is strictly Brooklyn. We sat in a booth in the back, and as we ate our lunch and washed it down with a couple of beers, I told Rudy about the phone call I received this morning. I told him we needed to go through our old arrest records to find this guy.

I grabbed his arm and said, I know you’ll be taking a big chance if you help me, so if you say no, I’ll understand.

He jerked his arm back, scowled at me, and slammed his hand on the table top. You crazy bastard, you know better than to say that to me! I’d go to Hell and back for you. We’ve been partners way too long to let this go. We’re gonna find Wheezer, and we’re not gonna stop until we get all of ’em, no matter how high up the ladder this goes!

Rudy went back to work, and I went to my dad’s office. Peter Jerome English, Sr., Attorney-at-Law. Dad’s office is located on the fourteenth floor of the Sterick Building, the tallest building in the South. Everything in his outer office is either mahogany, cherry, leather, or glass. Well, everything except Maisie, Dad’s long-time receptionist, secretary, and girl Friday. Okay, her real name is Maggie, but I have always called her Maisie, in honor of Ann Southern. I always thought she looked enough like Ann Southern to be her older sister. Dad knows all the bigwigs in the city, including those at city hall. After Maisie ushered me into his private office and got us both some coffee, I told him my story. He was furious!

Don’t you worry, son. We’ll get to the bottom of this, and I’ll start at the top.

No, Dad, that’s the worst thing you could do. We don’t know how high up this goes, or where it will lead. We’re pretty sure some at city hall, as well as some of the brass in the police department are involved. If we tip our hand now, we’ll never find out who they are. It’s possible some of the big money bigwigs are involved too. We believe organized crime must be behind all this. You can’t tell Mom or anyone in your law firm either. I just wanted you to know the truth and find out how far I can go without breaking the law.

I didn’t tell him that I didn’t mind bending the law a little, as well as bending some heads along the way. And, if the bodies pile up, that’s okay too!

He told me I needed a license to investigate some of this.

Yeah, fat chance of that happening. They’ll never approve of me having a PI license in this city now.

He said I would be going on his payroll as an independent investigator for his law firm, and he winked at me. Well, the old man still has it, sharp as ever. That’s where I get it. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He said he would take care of everything to set this up: license, gun permit, the whole works. Before I left, I stressed to him again the importance of not confiding in anyone, not even Mom.

Now to find Wheezer, as Rudy nicknamed him. I go to sleep thinking about all this stuff, and I wake up thinking about it. These guys don’t realize just how pissed off I am and what I’m capable of doing to get them. But, sometimes I dream about Amy. That’s about the only thing good left in my life now.

Dad had me doing some work for him, which included looking up certain records at city hall. This is to give me the opportunity to look at other records involving some of the shadier characters who have known ties to the mob. To quote Sherlock Holmes, The game’s afoot.

The next step would be to see which respectable citizens are involved with some of the shady characters in these recorded business dealings, building permits, loans, zoning changes, licenses, tax breaks, and more. This stuff is surprisingly easy to find. These are big, wide paper trails and would be simple to follow.

Okay, say a businessman wants to build a big new building. He needs a loan. What if his credit’s not good enough to float a loan big enough? Is this where the mob’s money comes in?

Or, what if the mob needs to launder some money? Do they go out and find a legitimate businessman to front for them? What if they want to build where the zoning is wrong? Is this where a city councilman comes in? Swinging enough votes to change zoning can be very lucrative!

See where I’m going with this?

cHAPTER 2

How many politicians depend on mob money? How many mob projects depend on politicians’ votes? How much is the mob involved in the construction business? Who approves the contracts for bridges, roads, public buildings, and other government projects?

How about the cops? Who’s on the take in the police department? What happened to me could never have happened if there were not some corruption up the ladder. How far up or down does this corruption go? I’m gonna find out. You can bet on that! Now, back to Wheezer.

The phone rings.

I got somethin’, Pete. When can we meet? Rudy sounded very excited.

I didn’t know what he had, but I did know he was taking an awful chance. We needed a place to meet the cops didn’t know about. Amy’s parents had a cabin not too far outside the city. It was their weekend getaway. They left it to her, so I guess it’s mine now. We agreed to meet there at six thirty this evening.

It’s a two-bedroom log cabin with one bath, living room with a fireplace, dining area, and kitchen. It’s on a wooded, lakefront lot with front and back porches. Located in Shelby Forest, just far enough from town and secluded enough to have a rural feel to it.

I arrived early and straightened up a bit. The place hadn’t been used since before we were married. I brought some food along and made some coffee right before Rudy arrived. Here he came loping across the front yard with file folders under both arms. He actually made it up the three front steps before he spilled one armload all over the front porch. I helped him pick everything up and invited him in.

Hey, what do I smell, Pete? Could it be some of your weak coffee? I risk my neck and my job to get this stuff, bring it all the way out here, and all you’re gonna offer me is some of that weak, colored water you call coffee?

No, numb nuts, I made it extra strong, just the way you like it. Now, shut up and pour yourself a cup.

We sat at the table, eating ham and cheese sandwiches, as Rudy drank his thick, black coffee. I added water and cream to mine. We played catch up for a while and then got down to business. Rudy had brought sixty-two file folders crammed with old arrest records.

How in the world did you get this stuff, and how did you get out with it?

No problem. Remember Lenny Richman, that rookie they stuck in Records? He got ’em for me, was his casual reply.

What? You confided in a rookie? Are you nuts?

"Calm down, Pete. Lenny’s a good kid. He’s a Jew, so he don’t fit in with them other creeps. They pick on him, make fun of him, and tell anti-Semitic jokes in front of him. He hates ’em! He came to me and told me he knew you got a raw deal. He said because of his job, he’s privy to a lot of info that can help you and put some of these other guys in hot water. He’s stickin’ his neck out too, and I trust him."

Rudy just stared at me with those big brown eyes and shrugged his shoulders.

Don’t you trust my judgment?

Rudy was right. This material was dynamite! There were not only some of our arrest records, but there was a wealth of damning evidence of wrongdoing by other detectives, patrolmen, and even some of the brass. Rudy said Lenny was still digging. He said he hadn’t even begun to dig into the evidence boxes yet, but some of these records definitely lead in that direction. The more we looked through this stuff, the more excited and angry I got. When we had gone as far as we could, our eyes began to cross.

Know what, Pete? We need someone like Lenny in city hall!

I agreed with him and, since the scotch was gone, we decided to call it a night. After Rudy left, I continued to sift through more of the records until I could hardly keep my eyes open. Then I found him! This guy had to be Wheezer. He was a low-level thug nicknamed Willie the Enforcer. His full name was William Francis Tartera. I remember him like it was yesterday. He was one of the guys they sent out to keep people in line and collect money for the mob’s protection racket. He nearly beat an old man to death when he couldn’t pay the full amount required for his barbershop’s protection. Some of the patrons who had been in the shop that day and witnessed the beating identified him in a line up.

He was easy to find. He had a record as long as Rockefeller’s limousine. We tracked him to one of his favorite brothels down in the red light district. It was a seedy looking, old two-story house with big windows looking into the parlor on the first floor. It was easy to see the merchandise just walking by it. Even though the outside was shabby, the interior looked like something out of a Technicolor Hollywood movie about whorehouses. Yeah, imagine