Cold City Page 5
“You wouldn’t believe. I ship to Boston and Detroit too. But this Arab keeps wanting more. I need another driver and you’re perfect.”
“Perfect…first time anyone’s ever called me that.”
“Put you in the cab of a U-Haul and you’ll look like a college kid moving his stuff to school. You won’t fit the profile.”
“Profile?”
“Sure. The state cops and the ATF have certain types–”
“Wait-wait-wait. You said ATF.”
“Well, Tobacco is their middle name.”
“So we could be talking federal trouble here?”
“Well, yeah. They don’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.”
Jack didn’t take too kindly to the idea of messing with an agency of the federal government. So far he’d managed to stay off its radar. This did not seem a good way to maintain anonymity.
“And let’s be fair,” Bertel added, “I won’t be paying you a thousand bucks a trip for nothing.”
Did he just say a thousand per trip? Yes, he did.
“Really?”
Almost as much as Giovanni had been paying him per month working sixty, seventy hours per week. By quick estimation he’d be jumping from four bucks an hour to about fifty.
Jack heard a slap and a cry. He turned and saw the woman bent over, clutching the side of her face. He tensed.
“Domestic dispute,” Bertel said. “Leave them be.”
Jack had never seen a man hit a woman – well, on the screen, yeah, but never in real life.
“Guy shouldn’t hit a woman.”
“Real men don’t. Guys do it all the time. Leave them to their business and let’s get back to ours. I’ll expect you to do three runs a week until we catch up.”
That snapped Jack’s head around. Three thousand a week? Just for hauling cigarettes?
Bertel smiled. “I see you doing the math. The paper had an article the other day on the median weekly pay in this country last year. Any idea what it was?”
Jack shook his head. “Not exactly the kind of statistic that catches my eye.” Especially since he’d been so far below it.
“Well, check this out: The median American worker earned five hundred fifty-seven dollars a week in 1989. Which comes to about twenty-nine grand a year. This here is my busy time of year. If we start you next week, and run you three times a week, you’ll make pretty much that amount by New Year’s Eve. Sound good?”
The amount was almost inconceivable to Jack. Yeah, it sounded good – but the risks…
“Hell, it sounds fantastic. I just…”
Another slap, another yelp of pain. The woman was sobbing now as she clutched her face. Jack rose from the bench and stepped toward them but Bertel grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Jack had to admit he hadn’t a clue. But he couldn’t just sit here and watch that happen.
“I–”
“You’re going to what – brace that guy? Look at those arms.”
Jack had already noticed. His chest and shoulders and biceps bulged under the yellow T-shirt, stretching the fabric. Tats snaked down to his elbows.
“So what? Those guys are always slow.”
“He’ll tear your head off, Jack.”
“Gotta catch me first.”
“And he will. You know how? She’ll help him. You do not meddle in domestic disputes.”
Domestic dispute…the second time he’d used the term. Had he been a cop?
“But–”
“Trust me, nobody wins. And the guy who tries to help usually turns out to be the biggest loser.”
Fucking old chickenshit coward! rose to Jack’s lips but Bertel tightened his grip.
“Hey. Eyes on me: I need you to make up your mind.”
“Right now?”
“No. I can give you a day. But I’ve got the Mummy hollering for more butts and–”
“The Mummy?”
“My Arab. He’s an Egyptian. He’s square, but he’s a tough customer. If I can’t get the cartons to him, he’ll find someone who can. I need another driver pronto.”
Jack nodded. “Tomorrow then. I have your number. I’ll let you know by the afternoon.”
“Good.”
“By the way, I need some ammo.” He’d pretty much ran through the box that had arrived with the Ruger. “Can you get me some?”
“You don’t need me.”
“No ID, remember?”
“You’re kidding me, right? You’ve got Abe.”
What was he talking about?
“Abe? Abe sells–”
A choking sound. Now the guy had his wife, girlfriend, whatever bent back over the picnic table. He’d forced her mouth open and was pouring wine down her throat. He was giggling as she gagged and struggled.
Bertel’s expression darkened. “But first…” He started forward. “Wait here.”
Jack started to follow but Bertel snapped around and jabbed a finger at him. “Wait and watch and see how it’s done.”
He stalked toward the couple. Along the way he picked up a fallen tree branch, a couple of inches thick. As he reached the table he took a two-handed grip and raised it like a baseball bat.
“Hey!”
Bertel was already halfway into a go-for-the-bleachers swing when the guy raised his head and looked. The branch caught him square across the middle of his face. His feet left the ground as he flew back. He landed in a spread-eagle sprawl on the sand and did not move.
Jack pumped a fist. Way to go.
Bertel said nothing, simply turned and walked back the way he’d come. Behind him the woman straightened and coughed up the wine she’d inhaled. She wiped her eyes and gave a cry when she saw her guy stretched out on the ground. Wailing, she dropped to his side and cradled his head in her lap.
Jack shook his head in wonder – at both Bertel and the woman. A moment ago he’d been water-torturing her with wine.
He gave Bertel a thumbs up. “I see you’ve watched Katie Elder.”
He frowned. “Who?”
“It’s a movie with – never mind.”
The woman looked around and spotted Bertel, who still carried the branch. Shrieking something in Spanish – he picked up “chancho negro” in the machine-gun burst – she picked up a rock and hurled it at his back. It landed to his left and rolled past him. She continued shrieking but he didn’t look back.
“What did I say about nobody winning?” He looked more annoyed than angry. “Do not get involved in a domestic dispute.”
“But you just did.”
He dropped the branch and brushed his hands. “There are certain things I will not abide in my sight. Let’s go.”
As they walked side by side back to the truck, Jack decided he liked this old fart.
5
Vinny and Aldo and Tommy stood before Tony “the Cannon” Campisi’s desk. It dominated a cramped little office at the rear of his discount appliance store on Liberty Avenue in Ozone Park. Like the sign in the front window said, his store really did sell appliances at low-low prices. He could afford the deep discounts because they were all stolen. When the opportunity presented itself, Vinny and Aldo would be sent out to divert a shipment of refrigerators or dishwashers or TVs to the loading dock at the rear of the store.
Tony sat and chain-smoked, saying nothing, while the three of them fidgeted. Aldo had his hat off, clutched in the hands folded in front of him. Vinny had skipped his usual bakery stop because Tommy had said Tony was royally pissed and to get over here ASAP.
Tony Campisi got the name “the Cannon” back in the seventies. Rumor had it that after seeing Dirty Harry he’d gone out and bought a Colt .44 Magnum. He’d carried it everywhere. But those days were gone because he didn’t get out much now. Despite his barrel chest, he couldn’t walk too far without starting to wheeze. These days the .44 Mag’s home was the top drawer of Tony’s desk.
Tony coughed out his last drag, hacked, and spit in
to the wastebasket in the kneehole of his desk. He stubbed out the butt in an overflowing ashtray and looked up at them.
“How many times I told you, Tommy, dead guys don’t pay no vig.”
Tommy spread his hands. “I know, I know. But he just keeled over dead. Must’ve been his heart. Can’t blame us a guy’s got a bad heart.”
Us? Vinny thought. Wasn’t our idea to work him over.
“Wasn’t his heart,” Tony said. “I got a guy down the coroner’s office. Says he died of a…a…” He shuffled through the papers on his desk, found what he was looking for, and read: “A ‘ruptured aorta,’ which, I am told, is the big pipe that comes out of your heart. His was pretty much rusted through.”
“There y’go. Not our fault.”
Vinny‘s jaw tightened at the our.
“Yeah, it is. You busted it. The good news is, they got him down as dead from natural causes.”
Vinny and Aldo had tossed Harry’s body in front of a bus rolling up Eighth Avenue. The impact would account for his lifeless state and whatever bruises Aldo had inflicted.
“The bad news is, he’s dead and dead guys don’t pay no vig. What’s he into us for?”
Tommy pulled out his black book. “Got it right here. He was up to date until three weeks ago.”
“What’s the principal?”
“Three.”
“And the rate?”
“Ten.”
“Ten? What happened to twelve?”
“You said give him ten because–”
Tony waved a hand. “Yeah-yeah. I remember. See what happens when you give someone a break? The guy goes and dies on you.”
“He’s been only paying vig.”
“Which is okay,” Tony said. “How long?”
Tommy consulted his book. “July twenty-second.”
Tony did a quick finger count, then smiled. “See? That’s why vig-only is good. He’s already more than paid back the principal without reducing it a cent. What’s the latest total?”
“Thirty nine ninety-three.”
“So his next vig payment would have been–”
“Three hundred ninety-nine dollars and thirty cents.”
“You won’t mind if we round that off to four hundred?”
“Not at all,” Tommy said.
“Good.” Tony tapped his desktop. “Right here. Four hundred. Now.”
Tommy looked like he’d been slapped, then he laughed. “You had me goin’ there for a minute.”
Tony frowned. “What? Did I slip into some foreign language, like Swahili or something?” He tapped the desk again. “Four C-notes. Right here. Right now.”
“You serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking? Did I forget to take off my clown makeup? Four hundred here and now or you can find another line of work.”
Dripping reluctance, Tommy reached into a pocket, pulled out his roll, and peeled off four Franklins. He slapped them on the desk.
“This ain’t fair, Tony.”
“I made an investment. You were supposed to watch over that investment. Now that investment’s gone. Somebody’s gotta pay Harry’s vig, and that someone turns out to be you.”
“But–”
”And you’ll deliver another four hundred every week unless or until you pay off Harry’s loan. Or find someone to take over his payments. Now get outa here."
They filed out, walked through the store, and gathered on the sidewalk in the shadow of the El where they waited as Tommy went through a “fuck”-laced, foot-stomping, fist-swinging bitch about the unfairness of it all. What he really needed, Vinny knew, was a snort because he hadn’t dared face the Cannon with a snootful.
“All right,” he said when he’d calmed and caught his breath, “we are not, repeat not paying Harry’s vig, let alone his principal.”
“We kinda gathered that,” Vinny said. He was hungry and would rather be having this conversation over a roast beef sandwich. Then the “we” broke through his hunger. “Whata y’mean, ‘we’?”
“We’re all in this together. We were all there when Harry died, so we’re all on the hook.”
Conversation was delayed as a train roared by overhead. Just as well. Vinny knew better than to argue. Wouldn’t do any good. The four hundred a week would make a big dent in Tommy’s coke money. He was going to spread the pain.
Vinny would have his own crew, his own operation someday. Until then he’d be a good soldier. Stick with Tommy, help keep Tony the Cannon happy, and he’d move up. Everybody in the organization answered to somebody. Tommy answered to Tony. Tony answered to Sammy the Bull, who in turn answered to Gotti.
At this point, Vinny answered to Tommy. But it wouldn’t always be that way. He was branching out on his own. He’d started up a scrap metal business, and it was coming along. He was careful not to step on anyone else’s toes. Like he wouldn’t think of doing a loan on the side. That would be poaching on Tony, a sure way to resurrect the Colt .44 Mag from its drawer. But scrap metal was a safe sideline, and totally legit. He’d borrowed a lot – and not from Tony – but it was starting to pay off. When he heard of someone with an inconvenient corpse, he offered to handle the disposal – for a price, of course. So far, those jobs had gone, well, swimmingly. Soon as he got a little busier with the scrap, he could start laundering other guys’ cash. That was where the money was. Never a shortage of dirty cash around.
Not like sandwiches, of which there was a definite shortage at the moment.
Aldo didn’t look hungry as he adjusted his porkpie, but apparently he also knew arguing was a dead end. “What do we do?”
Tommy scratched his jaw. “Well, let’s see. What do we know about Harry?”
Vinny said, “He sucked at the ponies.”
Aldo guffawed.
“Yeah, we know,” Tommy said. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he had any luck. Where’d he get his day-to-day money, though? How’d he pay his bills?”
Vinny spun through what he knew about Harry. Couldn’t come up with a damn thing. He found it hard to think when he was hungry.
“No idea.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem. So let’s find out.”
“How we do that?” Aldo said.
“Research. Find out everything there is to know about this guy. Family, job, whatever. Gotta be something we can tap into. Find all the pockets connected to him, and we tap into the deepest.”
“Got it,” Vinny said. “On it.”
As soon as he had some food.
6
“Can Dane Bertel be trusted?” Abe said, stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth and sprinkling crumbs all down his front. “That’s what you’re asking?”
“I guess so,” Jack said.
He wasn’t sure what he was asking. Bertel’s offer was a big step – bigger even than leaving home – and he needed someone to talk to. He didn’t know anyone else in town but Abe, so he’d brought him a cake as a sort of thank-you for arranging the gun, and as an excuse for his presence.
Abe swallowed and pointed to the blue-and-white cake box. “Did I ever mention Entenmann’s was my favorite or was it just a lucky guess?”
Jack glanced at the three empty Entenmann’s boxes stacked on the floor behind the counter. He’d also noticed a number of Entenmann’s boxes on his previous visits. Entenmann’s had seemed like a safe choice.
“I’m psychic.”
“Such a talent you have. And choosing the cheese-filled crumb coffee cake marks you as a maven of baked goods.”
Jack guessed a maven was a good thing.
“About Bertel…”
Abe took another bite and spoke around it. “Trusted how?”
Jack hadn’t told Abe any details yet.
“He wants me to work for him.”
“So you want to know will he pay you what he says he will? The answer to that is yes.”
“What if there’s trouble on the job?” Jack didn’t know how much he could say about Bertel’s business.
/> Abe looked at him. “Say it already: He wants you should smuggle cigarettes from the South and you’re worried about getting caught.”
Well, all right. Abe did know.
“Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell.”
“All I can say about Dane is that he’ll do what he says he’ll do. If he says he’ll help you if you get caught, then that’s the way it will be. If he says you’re on your own, then you’re on your own. What has he said?”
“Neither. I haven’t taken the job yet.”
“Well, if you take it, you should count on being on your own. The mob he’s not. He’s a small businessman. No lawyers on retainer.”
Jack shook his head. “The ATF…”
“ATF, schmATF. It’s state cops you’ll see mostly.”
Jack broke off a piece of the cake, then noticed Abe’s wounded look.
“May I?”
“Of course,” he said, but didn’t sound all that sincere.
He popped it into his mouth. Pretty damn good.
“Well?” Jack said after swallowing – moist enough to go down easily without milk. “What do you think?”
“You want I should decide for you? I can’t. You’re a grownup now. By your wits you want to live? Then sometimes you have to take chances.” He raised his hands, palms up, and moved them like a juggler. “Does the gelt outweigh the risk? Is the risk worth the gelt? Is any risk too much? If so, maybe a school janitor you should be.”
Jack realized he’d come to Abe looking for more than chitchat. He’d wanted some fatherly advice. His own father was back in Jersey and would go ballistic at the thought of one of his sons doing anything even questionably illegal. Abe, on the other hand, was treating him like an adult, like a peer, telling him to evaluate the pros and cons of Bertel’s offer and make up his own mind. Jack could get used to that.
“Who is Bertel, anyway?”
“A mensch.”
Mensch…Jack knew what that one meant.
“I get the feeling he’s an ex-cop.”
“Probably ex a number of things. He’s been around awhile. Minds his business. Not a kibbitzer by any means. Hires young men exclusively.”
“Sort of a Fagin, then?”
Abe shook his head. “No, I believe he likes women.”
Jack laughed. “Fagin – as in Dickens.”