The Neighborhood

The Neighborhood

D. A. Ratliff

A Detective Elijah Boone Mystery

Mama Leone set the plate of Spaghetti Pomodoro on the table with all the flourish of a waiter in a five-star restaurant, certainly not at a family restaurant in a semi-residential neighborhood of New Orleans. Since leaving the Navy, where I served as an MP, I relocated to New Orleans and joined the NOLA police department. As a rookie officer, I spent many hours on the streets in this community among the shotgun and garden houses, small businesses, and docks along the Mississippi River. I grew to love the area so much that I bought a house, married, and planned to raise a family here. Still have the house, but not the family.

As I twirled my fork in the Pomodoro, the aroma of garlic, olive oil, and parmesan cheese floated on the steam rising from the dish, triggering a childhood memory. My mama Jessie—Jessie Lynn Boone—had what she called Italian night each week, or Eye-talian, as she pronounced it in her South Carolina low-country lilt. On Tuesday nights, she would cook spaghetti, smother it with canned tomato sauce, grated parmesan cheese served in the familiar green can, and garlic toast. Toast that Mama made from store-bought white bread, toasted, spread with margarine, and sprinkled with garlic powder. Unless she forgot and picked up the garlic salt instead, trust me, it is not tasty on toast, but we ate it anyway.

Mama Jessie’s spaghetti did not live up to the Spaghetti Pomodoro I was eating, but I developed a love for Italian food nonetheless and often ate at Mama Leone’s. Halfway through my meal, Leone’s brother, Matteo Caprio, known as Uncle Matteo, sat across from me.

“Detective Eli, you haven’t been in for a couple of weeks. We’ve missed you.”

“People keep shooting at each other, Uncle Matt. Have a heavy caseload and have been working around the clock, but I needed a break and a good meal.”

Matteo pointed to my plate. “My boy Tommaso made that with Leone looking over his shoulder.” He pointed to the kitchen pass-through, where the servers picked up customer orders. Tommaso stood in the window tossing a pizza and grinned when he saw us watching.

“Tom still in culinary school?” I noticed Matteo’s eyes narrow. He was an immigrant and proud of his heritage and was disappointed his son chose to Americanize his name. I used Tom for a reason. Matteo needed to get used to it.

“Yes. He is happy.”

Matteo continued to talk, but his voice faded to a muddled echo as the skin on the back of my neck began to tingle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door open, and two men entered. In a split second, I saw them raise automatic weapons. I pulled my gun as I rose, vaguely hearing my voice yelling, “Gun. Get down.”

The following sounds I heard were the staccato pops of multiple rounds fired. People screaming. Wood and glass splintering. I dove under a table and fired a shot that hit one of the perps in the chest. The other fired in my direction, but I rolled as a bullet hit the floor where I had been. He yelled something, then turned and fled.

I struggled to my feet. There were noises I could barely make out, but slowly, the sounds became clearer—moans reaching me, cries for help, and screams.

The dining room was in shambles, chairs and tables overturned, broken china and glassware scattered about the floor, now covered with blood—and bodies.

I reached for my phone, confused about where I had put it. Jacket pocket. It was in my jacket pocket. I called 9-1-1.

When the dispatcher answered, I started talking.

“This is Detective Elijah Boone, District Six. Shooters at Mama Leone’s on Magazine. Multiple casualties. Need all available police and fire/rescue now.” I hung up to her protests to remain on the line. They needed me here.

Some people were struggling to their feet, in shock but unhurt. I yelled for them to check for the wounded. One woman had a napkin pressed against a wound on a man’s chest, begging him to live. I pushed back my rising emotions and the bile threatening to spew from my throat and tried to compose myself. Mama Leone, I didn’t remember seeing her in the dining room. I scanned the room for her, and my chest constricted as I saw Matteo lying in a pool of blood.

I knelt beside him and checked for a pulse—thready, but there. A glance told me he had at least two nasty bullet wounds, shoulder and belly. I grabbed a tablecloth from an overturned table and used it to try and stop the bleeding. I heard Mama scream Matteo’s name, and at least I knew she was safe. I turned to see her covered with blood, Tom holding onto her. I uprighted a chair and helped her sit.

“Are you hit?”

She shook her head, and Tom told me. “Marty, he got hit in the neck, artery. It’s his blood.”

“Tom, keep pressure on your dad’s wounds. Help is coming.”

The sirens were getting louder, and I relaxed a bit as soon as the first officers arrived, followed by fire/rescue. A watch commander came shortly after and relieved me of the crime scene. Time to call my boss. When he answered, I could hear a siren. No doubt he was on the way to the restaurant. The enormity of what happened hit me, and I struggled to talk.

“Captain, I… I need to report an officer-involved shooting. I’m the officer.”

“Duly reported, Detective. I will be on scene shortly. Do not discuss the incident with anyone until I arrive.”

I ended the call and dropped onto a chair as far away from the others as possible, watching the scene unfold around me. Multiple ambulances arrived, and paramedics began triage. Five bodies were black-tagged, dead. Two medics were attending to Matteo, so there was still life in him.

Mama Leone was still in the chair next to Matteo, Tom kneeling at his father’s head. I’m not afraid of emotion, but I have always tried to keep my emotions in check on the job. I could not control the tears welling in my eyes. People died, and I couldn’t stop it.

Detective Captain James Ferguson and two nightshift detectives arrived, and I felt more relieved than expected. Ferguson stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before he headed toward me.

“Detective Boone, as department policy requires, please relinquish your service weapon to Detective LaSalle.”

I nodded and handed LaSalle my gun. I had fired my weapon in the line of duty before, but this was different. I’d never killed anyone. I realized my hands were trembling, and I stuck them in my pants pockets, hoping no one would notice.

Captain Ferguson called over a patrol officer. “Detective Boone, you are hereby relieved of field duty and placed on administrative duty. Internal Affairs’ Shooting Review Board will investigate this incident. Do we have your permission to conduct blood alcohol and drug tests?”

“Yes, sir. And to disclose fully, I did have a glass of wine with dinner.”

“Thank you. Eli, this officer will take you to the hospital to get checked over and have the tests. She will then take you to the station. A union representative will join you there. Please do not discuss any aspect of this case with anyone.”

Again, I nodded and could only muster a “Yes, sir.”

The captain must have understood how disoriented I was. He spoke quietly. “Eli, you’re in shock right now. You have done all you can here. Let us take care of this. You get checked out, and then we will talk at the station.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

The next few hours were a blur of bright lights, needles, and noise, but slowly, the shock of the incident gave way to anger, and that anger focused me. When I got to the police station, the union representative was there, along with my partner and my friend, Hank Guidry.

“Hank, good to see you.”

“I’m your peer representative. Convinced Ferguson that since I wasn’t involved in the shooting, I was the perfect choice to see you through this. He agreed.”

“Good.”

~~~

Thirty-six hours had passed since the incident, and the death toll stood at six, with three victims in critical condition and seven others hospitalized. The remainder of the diners were unharmed, at least physically. I was restless and exhausted from being interviewed, but I had to get to the hospital. Matteo remained in the ICU, clinging to life. I realized how much I had grown to care about Mama Leone, her family, and the staff. Hank agreed to come to the hospital with me, but he waited in the lobby.

I pushed open the door of the ICU waiting room, thankful the room was bathed in lamplight instead of the bright lights in the hospital corridor. Mama Leone reacted as soon as she saw me.

“Eli, thank goodness you are here.” She threw her arms around me, and I held her, not speaking.

Tom was sitting with his mother but rose to join us.

“It’s good you’re here.”

I released Mama and turned toward Tom. “How’s your father?”

“Still critical, but he has stabilized in the last few hours. We’re optimistic.”

“Tom, step in the hall with me.”

Once out of the family’s presence, I asked a question that had haunted me since the incident. “The shooters were not wearing masks. I believe they intended to kill everyone in the restaurant. You were standing at the kitchen pass-through when those men walked in. Have you ever seen them before?”

I waited for his reaction and hoped I wouldn’t get the one I expected. But I did. His eyes widened, and he flared his nostrils slightly. Fear.

“No. I don’t. I never saw them before.”

I waited a second before I spoke to gauge his reaction. It didn’t change. “There was so much noise that I couldn’t be certain what I heard, but it sounded like one of them yelled a couple of words ending in ‘so’ or something like that. Any idea what he might have said?”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t know. I need to get back to my mom.”

“Sure. Let’s go back in.”

I stayed a few more minutes, and when I joined Hank, I told him. “I need to see LaSalle.”

Walking into district headquarters still felt surreal. I was supposed to be working, not on leave. Protocol required me to talk to the police shrink, which Internal Affairs scheduled for today. I didn’t need a shrink. I was fine, but it was necessary if I wanted to get back to duty. LaSalle wasn’t there, so we waited thirty minutes for him to return.

LaSalle spotted me and shook his head. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“I remembered something.”

“Follow me.” He looked at Hank. “You come too.”

He led us to an interview room. “So, what did you remember?”

“You need to record this.”

He raised an eyebrow but called the tech room to turn the cameras on. After the usual interview script, LaSalle repeated. “Detective Boone, what do you remember from the incident.”

“Once my head cleared, I remembered that the perp who fled yelled something before he ran. I didn’t hear it all, my ears were ringing, but he may have yelled Tommaso. I only caught part of the word. I wanted to check on Matteo Caprio’s condition, and his son was there. Tom was standing at the pass-through to the kitchen, throwing pizza dough when the shooters came in. They focused on the kitchen until I fired my weapon.”

“You think Tom Caprio was the target?”

“I think it’s worth checking out.”

LaSalle told the tech to turn off the camera. “Okay, off the record. We’ve ID’d the shooter you took down. Danny Sabbatini is a known goon for the crime organization run by Stephano Verratti. We suspected an organized crime connection but, as of yet, didn’t have a motive. How well do you know this kid? Is he connected?”

My stomach knotted up like I’d been gut-punched. “I’ve known this family for twenty years, as long as I’ve been a cop. Since then, I’d probably eaten in their restaurant at least twice a week. Matteo and Mama Leone were supportive when my wife left and took my son. Tom was two when I met the family. I have no idea if he’s connected, but if he is, I want to believe it’s not by choice.”

“Eli, we’ve been on this job long enough to know that we never know about people.” LaSalle tapped the table. “Go home, get some rest, and let me look into this. I promise I will tell you what we find. But Eli, don’t do anything on your own.”

~~~

LaSalle called late the following afternoon. Good thing he did because I was walking the floor about to disobey his orders and try to find out what was happening on my own. I was surprised when he said he wanted to drop by and talk.

He arrived around seven p.m. and looked like we all did when working a big case—tired, disheveled, and perplexed. Answers to questions always lead to more questions.

“Like a drink?”

He scoffed. “Technically, I am off duty. Yeah, I could use a drink.”

“Have a seat.” I poured a double shot of bourbon for both of us.

As I sat, he offered a toast. “To all our victims, Eli. Way too many of them.”

“I’ll drink to that.” I was scared to hear what LaSalle had discovered, but I had to know. “What did you find out?”

“Not what you want to know, I think. I checked with the FBI Organized Crime Task Force. Danny Sabbatini has been on their radar, along with another man, Edward Herbert. Seems they run with a gang that has been trying to hook up with the local OC. Apparently, Danny was connected. Feds have surveillance of Tom with the shooters on MLK Boulevard.”

“Tom attends a culinary school off MLK.”

“Yeah, I know. We checked it out. Herbert has a sister going to the same school. We have a vid of her with Tom and Danny.”

“Might be a coincidence.”

LaSalle’s eyebrows shot up. “Eli, Tom may be the target, and if he is, then he’s likely involved and somehow made Sabbatini and Herbert mad.”

“You gonna bring him in?”

“Yeah. Why I am here, I want you there. You might get Tom to talk if we can’t. I cleared it with the Captain, who said he assigned you to administrative duty, but you’re still on leave until the psych clears you, but he secured a waiver for you to sit in on my interview. We have to do things by the book here. The FBI is closing in on the Verratti family and has cautioned us not to blow this.”

“When are you picking Tom up?”

“Tomorrow morning. We’ll pick Tom up and bring him to district headquarters, so be there by seven-thirty. I want you in the interview room when we bring him in.”

“I’ll be there.”

LaSalle downed the last of his drink and stood. “You okay with this?”

I nodded. “If Tom is involved, he needs to be held accountable.”

~~~

I was as nervous as a rookie detective on their first case. I had always tried to remain detached from the emotional side of my job, but I found that impossible this time. Sitting alone in the interview room, slumped in a chair, I was fidgeting like a five-year-old in a church pew. I reminded myself that I was a forty-five-year-old cop. Get it together. The only good news was that Matteo was improving and might get out of ICU in the afternoon.

When the door opened, I sat up. LaSalle entered first, and then Tom. When he saw me, his eyes became as big as saucers.

“Eli, what’s going on here?”

LaSalle interjected. “Please sit, Mr. Caprio. Detective Boone is here as an observer only.”

For the next twenty minutes, LaSalle went through the shooting before he pulled a photo from a file and placed it in front of Tom.

“We have identified the shooters, Tom. You know them. These two men came into Mama Leone’s, killed six people, and injured many others, including your father. You need to tell us how you know them and why they did this. Was this a hit on you?”

Tom’s eyes darted from LaSalle to me. “I… I…”

I spoke as calmly as I could. “Tom, we know Danny Sabbatini was one of the shooters and that Eric Herbert is his cohort. We know Danny’s sister goes to culinary school with you and that you know these two men. Tell us how you are involved.”

“I….” Tears streamed down his face, and Tom nodded. “I got friendly with Teresa, Danny’s sister. Told her that my dad and aunt owned a successful restaurant. She told Danny. Danny and that punk Eric were wannabe gang members, and they hooked with the Bayou Boys, who were mob-connected. They were trying to make their ‘bones,’ so to speak. Decided to shake me down, make me pay them every week. They wanted two thousand dollars a week for protection. Said they were going to work the neighborhood. I told them to go to hell. They threatened my family, and I still said no. They were punks. I didn’t think they’d have the guts to do anything. I’d decided to tell Dad and Aunt Leone after the restaurant closed that night. Then they came and began shooting. Eric yelled Muori Tommaso, Die Tommaso, as he ran. I was standing there with my aunt covered in blood.”

Tom broke down, sobbing with his head on the desk. I started to rise, and LaSalle waved me off. “Tom, can you identify the men who entered your aunt’s restaurant and murdered those people?”

He raised his head. “Yes, Danny Sabbatini and Eric Herbert.”

~~~

Three months later, Mama Leone’s reopened to a packed dining room. Besides new paint, tables, chairs, and carpet, the only change was a security guard at the door at Mama’s insistence. A small plaque beside the door held a simple cross in remembrance of the people who died and were injured that night. The neighborhood was back to normal.

Tom was in the kitchen with Mama, and a thinner but recovered Matteo was working the room. LaSalle, Hank, and I were enjoying a bottle of Chianti and Spaghetti Pomodoro.

LaSalle took a huge forkful of spaghetti and mumbled, “Why didn’t you tell me how good the food was here?”

“My secret. I was surprised that Herbert took the plea deal. Keeps him off death row, but he’ll be an old man when he gets out.”

“He gave the Feds some information they didn’t know, so they are close to charges against the Verratti family. Tom’s info on things Danny bragged about helped too.”

My partner Hank raised his glass. “Thankfully, I didn’t lose my partner that night.”

As I took a bite of Pomodoro, I thought about my mama’s spaghetti. I think I will take a few days off and go home for Italian night.

***

Please visit Deborah on her blog: https://daratliffauthor.wordpress.com/

Author's Note:

Detective Elijah Boone of the New Orleans Police Department appears in a recurring series of stories. Currently, the following Det. Boone stories are available on Vocal Media:

"The Neighborhood"

"Tied With Twine"

"Home Again"

"The Influencer"

If you enjoyed this Det. Boone story, I hope you will check out the others. Thank you!