Johnny played a hard game of handball, racquets, anything that would keep his massive frame in check and his mind from exploding. He didn’t drink much—once in a while, but not too often. He knew he had to watch his temper. When he was younger, he had often found himself out of control. There were plenty of broken noses walking around New York thanks to him as it was.
What Johnny loved, what made him really tick, were cars. Or, more precisely, engines. Lately he hadn’t even had time for that. Nowadays when he got home to his apartment after work he had all he could do just to climb into bed, roll over, and drift off to sleep, all-encompassing sleep, far away in the land of nod, where there were no murders, no body bags, and no ten-year-old broken bodies, no bodies at all … just the vapor-held swell of a fine-tuned machine doing ninety and the cut-and-dry hum of perfection.
Johnny was a born mechanic, and when he had a problem or just wanted to wind down, that’s what he’d do, go down to Jojenny’s Garage and work on a wreck. If he had nothing of his own to work on, he’d work on somebody else’s. By the time he’d have the thing running, he’d usually have his own problem sorted out in his head.
As a matter of fact, if Johnny hadn’t met Red Torneo as a kid, that’s probably what he would have been, a mechanic.
Red Torneo had been a cop in Bensonhurst, where Johnny’d grown up. Red was a “big brother,” a term used for men who donated their spare time to fatherless kids in the neighborhood. Although Johnny had hated Red with a passion at the beginning, Red had kept after him long after another man would have figured good riddance to bad rubbish, for that was the sort of riffraff Johnny had chosen to hang out with and emulate in his street corner days. Red had taken a real interest, bringing Johnny down to the precinct garage when he’d recognized Johnny’s potential as a mechanic. Though he’d hated to admit it, Johnny was happy. Covered in grease, he’d found acceptance among the “hair bags,” or old-timers, once they’d noticed that suddenly, their crummy cars were running without a hitch. For the first time in his short life, Johnny had had a family of sorts. Red had thought that Johnny was the best damn mechanic he’d ever known, and it’d knocked him for a loop when he’d found out through the desk sergeant that Johnny was taking the police academy test. The more he’d thought about it, though, the more sense it had made. Johnny was the kind of guy you might call extreme, or fanatic, depending on your point of view. Once he made a decision, it was absolute. Better he should stay on this side of the law than the other.
Red was prouder than he’d cared to admit. He liked his beer and he liked to go fishing, so when he’d retired he’d opened up a little bar by the docks down in Sheepshead Bay. Christmas and Easter, Johnny always showed up. Where else did he have to go? That little tramp Johnny had married wasn’t around anymore, thank God, but he’d known from the start that that wouldn’t work out. He hadn’t said nothing, but he’d known. She wasn’t good enough to shine Johnny’s shoes. Johnny had been so broken up at the end that Red had thought he might go under. Only he hadn’t. Not Johnny. He was pretty much over it already, from the scuttlebutt … working the graveyard shift and anything else he could get his hands on. Now that he’d made detective Johnny would be all right. Maybe. He hadn’t been around to see Red in a couple of months.
Johnny Benedetto looked over at the lowlifes at the next table and thought of Red. Shit. If it hadn’t a been for Red, that would probably be exactly where he’d be sitting. Dealing coke. Forget the mechanic idea. If it hadn’t a been for Red, he wouldn’t have even had the cars to work on, let alone persuade to performance, enjoy for a couple of months, and then sell for the next wreck to work on. If it hadn’t been for Red, he’d more likely be stealing them. After they cleaned up this case he was gonna take a ride down to Sheepshead Bay and pay him a visit. What the hell.