Love and Murder in Checco's Diner

Got to calm down. Got to think.  Got to disappear. No, that’s a mistake. Cops love it when you run. This shitstorm in the Post will blow over.  Rotten city’s full of dead skanks.

* * *

57th Precinct, Webster Av., Detectives’ Bullpen, Friday, 8:18 a.m.

Det. Robert Beausoleil:  Check this guy out. Ziegfield, John. Street name “Ziggy.” Age twenty-nine, brown and brown, six-one, one-eight. This Ziegfield was adopted by a Jewish couple in Queens.  He was trouble. Kept skipping school, got into fights, got himself suspended.  Left home after two years.  They’d just made him their child officially when he booked for good.

Det. James Morano:  Let me see that. OK, ‘turned eighteen and joined the Navy.  Stationed at Norfolk, served aboard the JFK.  According to Navy records, he did tours overseas and spent shore leave in Thailand, Singapore, and Australia getting drunk, inked, and jugged for disorderly.’

Det. Beausoleil: It gets better, Jim. He strikes a petty officer and then it’s a court martial and a dishonorable discharge for young Ziggy.  Fast forward eight years and he’s racked up some misdemeanors for property damage, possession of a knife in excess of four inches, more D and Ds, some minor offenses.  Then Riker’s on a B and E, first felony. Check the            photo. He’s got a jailbird tattoo:  Ziggy to disguise a knife scar on his neck. Ouch, must have hurt.

Det. Morano:  Big time trouble coming up. ‘Gets into a beef with an Aryan Brotherhood   enforcer.’  The shotcaller on his tier orders up some ‘soft candy’—they still call it that?

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