Items related to The Blue Wall
For Detective Dave Moser, the price of being a cop is getting higher every hour. On a heat-soaked island of violence called Manhattan, a few good cops have gone very bad. Internal Affairs wants Moser to rat. And someone inside the force wants him taken out. In Moser s world, men will do anything to protect their turf.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Kenneth Abel is a professor of Renaissance literature. He lives in the Midwest with his wife and daughter. COLD STEEL RAIN is his third novel.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
On Thursday, July 20, twelve hours after his open-mike debut at the Last Laugh Comedy Club in Garden City, Long Island, Joey ("the Wiseguy") Tangliero entered federal protective custody. He was still wearing his double-breasted silk suit with a pale gray tie, diamond clasp, gold link bracelet, and pinkie ring, but he'd lost his Gucci loafers. There were holes in both heels of his nylon gold-toes.
"Sons'a bitches put me in the trunk of Tony Giardella's Lincoln," he said, peeling off the remnants of his socks. "I'm in there with the fuckin' spare tires. Oil filters, stuff like that. They took my shoes so I couldn't kick my way out."
He was seated in a conference room down the hall from the office of Merrill Conte, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, wincing as he dabbed at the cuts on his feet with a moist paper towel from the men's room. He had grease smudges on his bald spot, and several buttons were missing from his shirt, so that it spread open across his broad stomach when he leaned forward.
"You see the show?" he asked Deputy Federal Marshal Claire Locke. She glanced up from the pad in her lap. A telephone was tucked between her ear and shoulder. On the other end of the line, violins were playing "Penny Lane." Every few seconds a voice came on to tell her that all operators were busy, but if she'd hold on, a customer service agent would be happy to take her reservation.
"Yeah, I saw it."
"Tell me the truth. Was it that bad?"
Claire shrugged. "I'm not really the one to ask."
"You laugh?"
"No."
He sighed, gazed down at his feet. "I died up there, huh?"
Claire remembered how he looked when, acting on a tip, they'd pulled the Lincoln over on the Cross Bronx, opened the trunk. When he heard the key in the lock, he'd wet his pants. The smell hit them as soon as they got the trunk open, Tony Giardella backing away in disgust.
"Jesus, Joey! My car!"
And there he'd been, curled up like a frightened child, his feet gashed and bloody from kicking at the hood latch, peering up at the cluster of federal agents and state police in the glare of the headlights. Only when he saw the traffic whizzing past on the expressway, not some empty stretch of dirt road in the Jersey swamps, could he be coaxed out of the trunk. Even at that moment, his hands still trembling as they helped him out of the trunk, he couldn't resist tugging at his cuffs, giving his tie a quick tug like Henny Youngman, saying--
"Hey, fuck 'em, they can't take a joke."
Now, watching him heave a sigh, then dejectedly crumple the blood-soaked paper towel and drop it into the trash can beside him, Claire felt sorry for him.
"The Gotti bit was kinda funny."
He looked up, his eyes brightening.
"You liked that? It's a good bit, right? Just needs a little refining. The timing's off, but it's good material." He leaned toward her. "Which part did you like best?"
"Well, uh..." She searched her memory. "The thing with the snake, I guess. In the plate of tagliatelle."
He pointed a finger at her. "True story! I heard it from one'a the guys carried the casket at the funeral."
"Yeah?" She glanced at him, made a note on her pad. "And the guy really ate it?"
"Hey, Gotti says eat the snake, you gonna be the one tells him no? Trust me, you ever find yourself in this situation, you tell 'em, pass the parmesan, 'cause you're gonna have yourself a little snack." He gave a surprised look, slapped his forhead. "Ah, shit. How come I couldn't think of that last night, huh? That's the punch line. 'A little snake snack.' I'm gonna use that next time."
He placed both feet gingerly on the carpet, groaned as he raised up a few inches off the chair. "Look't this. I really fucked up my feet."
Claire hung up the phone. "All right, we got you set up in a suite at the York. We'll keep you there for a few days, until Mr. Conte's satisfied with your testimony. After that, we can talk about the future. Okay?"
Tangliero shrugged. "How's the food there?"
"It's not the Ritz, but you won't starve."
He nodded, watched her cross to the door, call one of the secretaries over. He gave a sigh, wondering if there was a law that said cops had to dress like they sold auto parts. Navy sport coat, black pants, a little bulge at the hip where they carried the gun. A nice-looking woman, really. Small, her figure hidden under the cop clothes, mostly, but everything where you'd expect it to be. Her dark hair cut short, but soft-looking. She brushed it back off her face, making her blue eyes come at you like searchlights. Still, Joey thinking, not a bad deal, you gotta kill a few hours with a cop.
When she'd introduced herself as a deputy federal marshal, he'd thought of Wyatt Earp, riding into Tombstone on a black horse, shooting it out with the gunslingers. Her partner looked the part, a big guy with shoulders like he pumped iron, a little mustache that he kept neatly trimmed. Put a cowboy hat on him, Tangliero thought, stick a horse between his legs, that's a federal marshal. But he'd paused just long enough to grip Tangliero's hand, introduced himself in a southern drawl as "McCann," then vanished into the adjoining office. Joey, glancing over at the slim, darkhaired woman who remained, thought, This is my protection?
"How long you been a deputy?"
Claire took some papers from a briefcase, laid them out on the conference table. "Two years in January."
"Yeah? What'd you do before this?"
"I was in law school."
Okay, he thought. I'm dead.
"Sons'a bitches put me in the trunk of Tony Giardella's Lincoln," he said, peeling off the remnants of his socks. "I'm in there with the fuckin' spare tires. Oil filters, stuff like that. They took my shoes so I couldn't kick my way out."
He was seated in a conference room down the hall from the office of Merrill Conte, Assistant U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, wincing as he dabbed at the cuts on his feet with a moist paper towel from the men's room. He had grease smudges on his bald spot, and several buttons were missing from his shirt, so that it spread open across his broad stomach when he leaned forward.
"You see the show?" he asked Deputy Federal Marshal Claire Locke. She glanced up from the pad in her lap. A telephone was tucked between her ear and shoulder. On the other end of the line, violins were playing "Penny Lane." Every few seconds a voice came on to tell her that all operators were busy, but if she'd hold on, a customer service agent would be happy to take her reservation.
"Yeah, I saw it."
"Tell me the truth. Was it that bad?"
Claire shrugged. "I'm not really the one to ask."
"You laugh?"
"No."
He sighed, gazed down at his feet. "I died up there, huh?"
Claire remembered how he looked when, acting on a tip, they'd pulled the Lincoln over on the Cross Bronx, opened the trunk. When he heard the key in the lock, he'd wet his pants. The smell hit them as soon as they got the trunk open, Tony Giardella backing away in disgust.
"Jesus, Joey! My car!"
And there he'd been, curled up like a frightened child, his feet gashed and bloody from kicking at the hood latch, peering up at the cluster of federal agents and state police in the glare of the headlights. Only when he saw the traffic whizzing past on the expressway, not some empty stretch of dirt road in the Jersey swamps, could he be coaxed out of the trunk. Even at that moment, his hands still trembling as they helped him out of the trunk, he couldn't resist tugging at his cuffs, giving his tie a quick tug like Henny Youngman, saying--
"Hey, fuck 'em, they can't take a joke."
Now, watching him heave a sigh, then dejectedly crumple the blood-soaked paper towel and drop it into the trash can beside him, Claire felt sorry for him.
"The Gotti bit was kinda funny."
He looked up, his eyes brightening.
"You liked that? It's a good bit, right? Just needs a little refining. The timing's off, but it's good material." He leaned toward her. "Which part did you like best?"
"Well, uh..." She searched her memory. "The thing with the snake, I guess. In the plate of tagliatelle."
He pointed a finger at her. "True story! I heard it from one'a the guys carried the casket at the funeral."
"Yeah?" She glanced at him, made a note on her pad. "And the guy really ate it?"
"Hey, Gotti says eat the snake, you gonna be the one tells him no? Trust me, you ever find yourself in this situation, you tell 'em, pass the parmesan, 'cause you're gonna have yourself a little snack." He gave a surprised look, slapped his forhead. "Ah, shit. How come I couldn't think of that last night, huh? That's the punch line. 'A little snake snack.' I'm gonna use that next time."
He placed both feet gingerly on the carpet, groaned as he raised up a few inches off the chair. "Look't this. I really fucked up my feet."
Claire hung up the phone. "All right, we got you set up in a suite at the York. We'll keep you there for a few days, until Mr. Conte's satisfied with your testimony. After that, we can talk about the future. Okay?"
Tangliero shrugged. "How's the food there?"
"It's not the Ritz, but you won't starve."
He nodded, watched her cross to the door, call one of the secretaries over. He gave a sigh, wondering if there was a law that said cops had to dress like they sold auto parts. Navy sport coat, black pants, a little bulge at the hip where they carried the gun. A nice-looking woman, really. Small, her figure hidden under the cop clothes, mostly, but everything where you'd expect it to be. Her dark hair cut short, but soft-looking. She brushed it back off her face, making her blue eyes come at you like searchlights. Still, Joey thinking, not a bad deal, you gotta kill a few hours with a cop.
When she'd introduced herself as a deputy federal marshal, he'd thought of Wyatt Earp, riding into Tombstone on a black horse, shooting it out with the gunslingers. Her partner looked the part, a big guy with shoulders like he pumped iron, a little mustache that he kept neatly trimmed. Put a cowboy hat on him, Tangliero thought, stick a horse between his legs, that's a federal marshal. But he'd paused just long enough to grip Tangliero's hand, introduced himself in a southern drawl as "McCann," then vanished into the adjoining office. Joey, glancing over at the slim, darkhaired woman who remained, thought, This is my protection?
"How long you been a deputy?"
Claire took some papers from a briefcase, laid them out on the conference table. "Two years in January."
"Yeah? What'd you do before this?"
"I was in law school."
Okay, he thought. I'm dead.
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherDell
- Publication date1997
- ISBN 10 0440217237
- ISBN 13 9780440217237
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages432
- Rating
Buy New
Learn more about this copy
US$ 25.80
Shipping:
US$ 3.50
Within U.S.A.
Other Popular Editions of the Same Title
Top Search Results from the AbeBooks Marketplace
Stock Image
The Blue Wall
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. New. Seller Inventory # Wizard0440217237
Buy New
US$ 25.80
Convert currency
Stock Image
The Blue Wall
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Paperback. Condition: new. New Copy. Customer Service Guaranteed. Seller Inventory # think0440217237
Buy New
US$ 28.54
Convert currency
Stock Image
THE BLUE WALL
Seller:
Rating
Book Description Condition: New. New. In shrink wrap. Looks like an interesting title! 0.75. Seller Inventory # Q-0440217237
Buy New
US$ 61.67
Convert currency