The Big Vinnie Chronicles: A Rollo Michaels Novel

By Kip Meyerhoff

When PI Rollo Michaels does a few “favors” for a gangster friend of his late father, he becomes entangled in the strings of Mafia puppeteer “Big Vinnie” Costello. While on a New York family vacation with his daughter, son, and fiancée, Rollo comes under the scrutiny of the FBI. His subsequent beatdown and arrest for assaulting an FBI agent is witnessed by his children, drawing the unrelenting wrath of his ex-wife, and yet another wedding postponement by his fiancée.
Hoping to stave off further federal entanglements, the partners of Michaels & Associates urge Rollo to cut his ties to Don Vincenzo Costello before chaos reigns from coast-to-coast. But more requests for favors draw Rollo deeper in. A mafia hit team races a multijurisdictional taskforce to locate a serial killer headed to LA, while the Russian Mafia attempts to assassinate Big Vinnie. Will the resulting maelstrom suck Rollo down?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532083709

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Copyright © 2020 Kip Meyerhoff.

Author Credits: Charles R. Meyerhoff

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-8368-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8369-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-8370-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020914622

iUniverse rev. date: 09/28/2020

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 A Few Weeks Earlier

Chapter 2 Dr. Sheldon

Chapter 3 A New York State of Mind

Chapter 4 Dim Sum and Then Some

Chapter 5 The Big Vinnie Legend

Chapter 6 A Visit to Uncle Vinnie

Chapter 7 Uninvited Dinner Guests

Chapter 8 Initial Court Appearance

Chapter 9 Game Changer

Chapter 10 Back to Los Angeles

Chapter 11 Homicide Bureau

Chapter 12 The Crime Scene

Chapter 13 The Process

Chapter 14 Back to Work

Chapter 15 Special Agent Monroe

Chapter 16 Cold Case Solved

Chapter 17 Making Amends

Chapter 18 The A-Team

Chapter 19 Another Favor Asked

Chapter 20 Favors Performed

Chapter 21 More Bradshaw

Chapter 22 More Murder

Chapter 23 Jason on the Run

Chapter 24 Best-Laid Plans

Chapter 25 Not Everyone’s Day of Rest

Chapter 26 Linda and Rollo’s Sunday

Chapter 27 Blue Monday

Chapter 28 More Revealed

Chapter 29 Drawn in Deeper

Chapter 30 The A-Team Readies

Chapter 31 Specter’s Payback

Chapter 32 A Matter of Inches

Chapter 33 A. B.’s Failures

Chapter 34 Inherited Debt

Chapter 35 Old Acquaintances

Chapter 36 Self-Inflicted Wounds

Chapter 37 Aid and Abet

Chapter 38 Mattresses

Chapter 39 Babysitting

Chapter 40 Dinner for Two

Chapter 41 Intrigue

Chapter 42 Traitor Unmasked

Chapter 43 Friday the Thirteenth Luck

Chapter 44 Cards on the Table

Chapter 45 Contractual Agreement

Chapter 46 Sad News

Chapter 47 Boardwalk Brunch

Chapter 48 Strange Encounters

Chapter 49 Love and War

Chapter 50 Lechery and Treachery

Chapter 51 Luck of the Irish

Chapter 52 Even Score

Chapter 53 Sad Monday

Chapter 54 Dinner for Three

Chapter 55 Fallout

Chapter 56 Cases Closed

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

To the memory of my dear friend, fellow

Wilshire Warrior, and talented artist,

James R. Reeves

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PROLOGUE

My hip woke me up to tell me it was hurting. It’s not the hip God blessed me with a little over forty years ago. It’s not even the artificial one that failed after eight years and got me pensioned off from the police department. It’s the one after that, the one made of ceramic and titanium. The God-given one was destroyed by a drunk driver shortly after my twenty-fourth birthday. I didn’t think much of the occasional twinge of pain that I sometimes took an OTC pain med for, or how I changed my kata to compensate for my left leg’s minimal range. Well, not until three days ago when I opened a letter from the good folks at USC Medical Center, telling me my second replacement hip was being recalled—Please call at your earliest convenience. Yeah, sure, like there would ever be a convenient time for the replacement of a body part.

I rolled onto my side with a groan and turned on the bedside lamp. The clock said 4:47. Argh!

What’s the matter? Linda whispered, rising up on an elbow.

Going for some ibuprofen. Sorry I woke you.

I was awake. You were talking in your sleep.

Who was I talking to?

Your ex.

No wonder I’m in pain, I said, feet to the floor.

Want me to help put your rib brace back on?

Nah, it’s my hip, sweetness. Go back to sleep. I’ll use the couch.

My two cracked ribs were courtesy of an overzealous FBI agent who knee-dropped me while two of his cohorts held me down. It was payback for decking a member of their ranks with a well-placed karate kick as he was assaulting my son. My subsequent arrest effectively cut short a long-planned vacation to the Big Apple with my kids and fiancée. A trip to a New York hospital after posting bail had had me slipping in and out of a girdle-like brace for the past week, in hopes of healing. Maybe prayer will expedite the process.

I’m calling USC Med Center in the morning to make the appointment.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said.

Put out the light so I can get back to sleep. I need my beauty rest.

I love you just the way you are, I crooned, slightly off-key.

Her wish, my command, and with the light out, I barefooted it to the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink. The glow of a little night-light wasn’t enough to pick out the bottle I needed, so I switched on the vanity lights. The mirror gave me a glimpse of the shower curtain moving in the tub behind me. Must be the cat.

Hey, El Gato, get out of the tub, I whispered so Sleeping Beauty could sleep in peace. I pulled back the curtain, expecting our cat to jump out.

Bam!

A black-gloved fist bounced off my forehead, knocking me back into the sink, my head snapping back to shatter the mirror. Dazed, I raised my hands to defend myself, but by then, the ski-masked intruder had blown past me. I staggered into the hall as the shadowy figure turned toward the kitchen. My legs refused to follow my wishes, bouncing me off the hall walls as if I were drunk. I heard the screen door slam before I could make the turn; the masked man was gone. WTF?

I slipped, pivoting toward the back door; the kitchen floor felt wet beneath my bare foot. I flipped on the wall switch and saw blood on the tiles. The stinging sensation on the sole of my foot meant the blood was mine. I leaned against the counter to let my head clear and the rush to settle. Trying to chase the masked suspect—in my bare feet, in the dark—would be a waste of time. As my heart rate slowed and the adrenaline rush began to subside, the pain in my hip moved to a spot in the middle of my forehead. Now anger took over because some masked asshole had violated the sanctity of my home.

What’s going on? Linda asked, entering the kitchen with our cat in her arms. Is that blood?

I nodded, picked up my cell from its charging station next to the toaster, and punched in 9-1-1. My response to What is your emergency? had Linda shout out, Oh my God!, causing the cat to leap from her arms to the floor. Linda began to tremble as I gave the emergency operator the particulars. El Gato busied himself with licking my blood from the floor. I thought that giving Linda something to do might help her cope with the shock, so I passed her the first-aid kit from the knife drawer and took a seat at the breakfast nook.

A handful of paper towels and a soapy washcloth turned Linda into Flo Nightingale. She removed a sliver of glass from my foot, washed and dried the wound, sprayed on some antiseptic that stung like hell, and slapped on a Band-Aid, all with a steady hand. But her trembling soon returned. It was obvious to me that her mind was wrestling with what had happened.

She looked at the welt on my forehead and asked, You want some ice for that?

I touched my forehead where the gloved fist had landed. The more the adrenaline wore off, the more my head throbbed. No, sweetness. How about some coffee instead?

I used the wet washcloth to wipe up the blood El Gato decided was not to his liking. What are the odds, I thought, of a hot-prowl burglar hitting our house? I hadn’t heard of any break-ins in our neighborhood, but I wasn’t much of a Neighborhood Watch kind of guy, not since the guy next door had called the cops on me a year ago. In fact, all our communications since then had been in sign language.

The aroma of brewing dark roast seemed to have a soothing effect on both Linda and me, until an authoritative knock on our door caused Linda to let out a yelp and jump from her chair.

Police! a female voice shouted, and Linda fled to the bedroom. I went to answer the knock. Curiosity demanded the cat follow me to the door, and when I opened it to let the officers in, El Gato gave them a start as he shot past them with a snarl, maybe to catch the early bird.

You called? the senior officer, with all the service stripes, asked.

Yes, please come in, I said.

"I thought Wild Thing, there, was going to eat me," his female partner said.

My saying, Nah. El Gato is a man-eater, changed her deadpan expression to a smile, but her partner ignored my remark.

I told them what had happened and walked them through the scene. The slick-sleeved junior officer put out a broadcast that matched what I had given the 911 operator, almost word for word.

Don’t I know you? the senior officer asked.

When I told them I was ex-LAPD, they relaxed a bit. They took a look around the house perimeter to find a point of entry, and the younger officer, to her credit, found a shoe print under a living room window and tool marks on the sash by the lock.

When I said that nothing seemed to be missing, the senior officer opined, This wasn’t this clown’s first rodeo. The fact you discovered him in your bathroom tells me he was after drugs. You check the cabinet?

Unless he’s mainlining ibuprofen and Old Spice, nothing. I think he heard me get out of bed and hid in the shower.

Linda joined us in the kitchen, slippers on, her hair tied back, her flowered robe neatly wrapped and tightly tied around her. She offered to brew a carafe of coffee for the officers, but they declined. With all the particulars entered into the younger officer’s laptop, the shoe print and pry marks photographed, and the standard admonishment—The detectives will be in touch—given, the officers left.

Four years in Uncle Sam’s army and twelve years with LAPD had made me pretty much used to coping with this kind of crap. While I responded with anger, Linda’s response was shock and fear. As we went about cleaning up the aftermath, I could tell she was having trouble processing the event. I tried to lighten her dark mood.

Hell, girl, me walking around barefoot in pajama bottoms with two buttons missing from the fly didn’t seem to bother anybody. You come out in fresh jammies and your best robe, making me look bad.

Bothered me, she said, handing me two pain tablets, which I downed with the tepid coffee in my mug.

How about some fresh coffee?

You know how to make it, she said, taking the broom and dustpan to head back to the bathroom.

We already swept up in there, I said.

"No, you swept up in there," she sobbed, and tears flowed.

I followed her down the hall and put my hand on her shoulder. She wrenched away from it and continued to the bathroom. I caught up, and she came apart in my arms. I held her close, her warm tears burning through to my heart. I hoped my It will be okay, baby. I promise, didn’t sound as empty to her as it did to me.

CHAPTER 1

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A FEW WEEKS EARLIER

With a great Father’s Day behind me and the first day of summer in front of me, I should have been happy with life. But I was in a funk as I dressed for work. Everybody needs a break now and then, me included. This past year, Michaels & Associates, the private investigation firm I had formed over five years ago, had been blessed with more work than we could handle. This would have been a good thing, if not for all the peripheral bullshit we kept stepping in. When I say we, I mean mostly me. I was stepping in so much so many times that my associates were calling me Big Foot behind my back.

It started with a missing-person case that ended in a mob hit of a snitch in Deadwood, South Dakota. The case was further complicated by the victim’s membership in the US Federal Witness Protection Program. The fallout from that brought the IRS down our throats, based on my failure to cooperate with the FBI. Currently, I’d been audited for 2014 through 2016. Damn good thing I hadn’t made any contributions to one of those Tea Party groups. The continuing IRS forensic audit of our company books had our accountant billing us fifty per hour for everything over the eight hundred per month we’d contracted for—about two thousand so far.

Of course, getting jacked up by a few law-enforcement types kind of went along with the job description. Yet, surprisingly, one homicide detective from San Luis Obispo, whom I’d upset by flipping his partner on his ass while meddling in their case, actually risked his own life to save mine. These incidents—and me taking a bullet—resulted in a lot of publicity, which beat the hell out of an old-school four-line listing in the Yellow Pages, even with big red lettering. There are over five hundred other La La Land licensed private-investigation firms listed, but in today’s world, who’s looking in the Yellow Pages anyway?

The press, just by spelling our name right, had caused a long line of clients to knock on our door. Demand allowed us to raise our rates and to try to be a little more selective in our client choices. Sure, rising insurance rates were another by-product of our success, but was I the only one feeling sorry for us? There had to be more to my angst than a negative outlook, right?

Since I hit the big four-oh, my ability to mask my emotions has sunk to a new low. I’ve been snapping at my associates at work, and—worse yet—I’ve been pissing Linda off all too frequently. This morning was typical of how things have been going lately. Linda, the fashionista, takes pride in seeing that I look good, wherever we are headed, including to work. I’d wear jeans and a tee every day, if she’d let me. To humor her, I let her pass judgment on my daily clothing choices before walking out the door.

Yes? I asked, presenting myself for inspection.

No, she said with a frown.

No?

Yes, no!

Why not? I shot back a little too quickly.

Because the collar on that shirt is frayed. Why can’t you throw it in the rag pile?

Glad nobody was here to see me take this whipping, I chose another shirt from my closet—the pale blue long-sleeve cotton with a button-down collar—and put it on. A dark charcoal jacket and light gray slacks completed today’s look. I passed after seeking further approval.

Where’s the bathroom scale? Linda shouted from our bathroom down the hall.

In the hall closet, I shouted back. I think it’s broken.

Why? Because you don’t like what it’s saying?

I chose to remain silent, knowing full well that anything I said could and would be used against me. I could hear her grousing as she rummaged through the closet’s clutter to retrieve the scale.

It works just fine, Rollo. I’m putting it back where it belongs. If you don’t like what it says, don’t get on it, she said, with the finality of a judge bringing down her gavel. I waited for the bang, and she didn’t disappoint, slamming the closet door.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek, hoping for a reprieve, and headed out the door before I dug myself a deeper hole. Maybe doing battle with the dreaded freeway traffic en route to my 9:00 a.m. appointment would focus my angst elsewhere.

The drive into downtown from the Valley seemed more of a grind every day. I noticed I was hitting my horn and flipping off more of my fellow commuters with each passing mile. Road rage could erupt at any minute in this winding snake of vehicles as it slithered along. Who’s going to snap first—me or the old man in the Lincoln I just cut off? I turned on Sirius XM radio and punched up the Eagles station to hear Desperado ask why I don’t come to my senses. So I reviewed my brief time with Linda that morning and worried we might be in trouble.

The scale had appeared in our house the week before Christmas, a harbinger of things to come. When I’d been dressing for a holiday party the weekend before, I had complained about the dry cleaner shrinking my suit pants. Sure enough, the waist button popped while we were dancing, causing my zipper to break. That was our last dance of the night. By the time Christmas was celebrated, my favorite suits were a little too tight, and my shirts no longer buttoned at the neck, and Linda announced she had bought us the perfect gift—a family membership to Anytime Fitness.

My initial reaction was a sarcastic, Enjoy yourself. But when the scale said I’d gained another six pounds between Christmas and the Monday after the Super Bowl, I relented and began hitting the gym three days a week, as our caseload allowed. Now, three months later, I’m down to 210, pumping iron, doing some cardio, and trying to take out my anger issues on the gym’s heavy bag. But taking the stairs at work instead of the elevator and cutting way back on the maple-glazed French doughnuts are probably the major reasons for my perpetual crankiness.

Of course, plateauing out at 210, ten pounds over the goal I’d set fifteen pounds and four months ago, was screwing with my psyche too. Even being in the same room with Linda’s scale reminded me of my weaknesses. Was my mental well-being at risk because of calories? My shrink thinks there’s a lot more to it than a few doughnuts and a bathroom scale.

Court-ordered psychoanalysis is something nobody wants on his résumé. I’ve been to a few shrinks in my lifetime, but these current sessions were the result of a couple of temper displays I’d put on for a family court judge. The judge was prone to believe all the bullshit my ex told her. After raising my child support payments by two hundred a month, she suspended my unsupervised child-visitation rights, pending a psychiatric evaluation. Today would be the last session and, hopefully, I would then be allowed to take the kids on vacation with Linda.

CHAPTER 2

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DR. SHELDON

As I arrived at Dr. Sheldon’s office, I was feeling a little on edge about the outcome of the doctor’s report to Family Court. A lot was riding on it. Being three minutes late for my 9:00 a.m. appointment with the good doctor only added to my anxiety. She had a thing about punctuality that you’d think a well-adjusted Los Angeles psychiatrist would be able to cope with, especially if many of her patients were of my ilk.

Why are you late yet again, Mr. Michaels? was her opening shot.

My shirt, Doc, I said, hoping a smile would unwrinkle her brow and make her frown go away.

Your shirt? Your excuses are certainly unique.

When my clothes started looking better on me, I noticed other things: my mustache and sideburns are starting to show some gray; my hairline is receding; and the top of my head is starting to grow through my curls. When my barber suggested a comb-over, I almost lost it.

The good doctor smiled and nodded.

How is your sex life? she asked.

Eh … it’s great, I replied, maybe a bit too loud.

And your partners agree with that assessment?

My partner, Doc, not plural. Yes, Linda seems happy when we make love, I said, trying for conviction, my ears burning with the effort.

So you’re serious about Linda?

As a heart attack.

And you’ve been living together now for how long?

About a year now, I said.

Marriage?

If she’ll have me. Where’s this going?

You’ve asked?

A number of times. She finally accepted the engagement ring but says she isn’t ready to set a wedding date quite yet. Stop, Doc. I don’t want to go there.

So you’re engaged.

That’s what we told her parents and everybody else.

She continued down her chosen path. And your daughter and son are good with it?

I think they were hoping their mom and I would get back together, but I’m pretty sure my fiancée is winning them over. We’ve planned a trip with the kids while school’s out.

You think fortysomething is old?

Glad to change the subject, I jumped right in. When I joined the LAPD, I thought the people with four or more hash marks on their sleeves were ready for the scrap heap.

Hash marks?

Service stripes—one sewn on to denote each four years served. The first one was a big deal. You were no longer a ‘slick sleeve’ who didn’t know which end was up, someone whose opinion wasn’t sought or freely given. Your senior officers told you to ‘show up, shut up, and listen up.’ I remember my first training officer, J. C. Smith. He had five hash marks running down his sleeve, although he should have had six because he had over twenty-five years. He told me he only needed the five to let everybody know they could kiss his ass. He smelled of cigar smoke and Old Spice and drank lots of coffee in our patrol car. Spilled a lot too. His hair was streaked with gray, and his face was weathered and red from too much sun and booze. His father was a carpenter who taught his sons the trade. J. C. and his brothers had become millionaires by flipping fixer-uppers all over the San Fernando Valley. When I was assigned to work with him, he was looking forward to ‘pulling the pin’ in three months, making me the last rookie he’d have to ‘babysit,’ as he put it.

Pulling the pin? she asked.

"Retire. He had twenty-five years in—a 50 percent pension for the rest of his life. He was anxious to get out there with his brothers to make what he liked to call ‘real money.’ But he never got to do it, thanks to a drunk driver running into the back of our police car at over seventy-five miles per hour. We