The Good Guys Read online

  NINE

  Fast Lenny had them laughing good. “I swear to God, I used to knock him crazy with them fucking phone calls. That Vinny, he’s a scary guy, you know what I mean. But he don’t scare me, ever. I used to find out from his brother Sal, Sal shit-for-brains they shoulda named him, ‘Where’s your brother gonna meet tonight?’

  “And this guy would tell me, ‘He’s going to the Casa D.’ So then I would call up there and say, ‘Gimme Vinny DiSanto,’ and then I would hang up. Vinny would go to the phone, no answer. Then I would do it again. I was driving him nuts. So then he tells Funzi, Funzi told me this later, ‘Funzi,’ he’s saying, ‘the fucking agents are on us.’ So Funzi, who don’t know nothing, asks, ‘Why you say that?’ And he tells him, ‘I just got two calls, no answer. They’re checking to see if we’re here.’”

  Naturally everybody thought this story was hysterical. “You gotta understand, I do this all the time to him. ‘Sal, where’s your brother going tonight?’ Another time it was the Cockeyed Crow up on 85th Street. I called him there three times. I swear to God the third time he was swearing at the phone. Louie told me he turned white. I’ll knock him fucking crazy.”

  As funny as Fast Lenny was, that’s how funny Georgie One-Time wasn’t. Whatever anybody else was talking about, he brought it back to money. That’s where the “One-Time” came from: There was only one time that anybody saw Georgie reach for a check. Georgie had a good piece of a profitable concrete business. His connections inside the union enabled him to bid low and still turn a pretty good profit. His connections inside the construction industry often got him inside information about competitors’ bids—and on occasion they were able to change his bid after the submission deadline. So when the laughter over Lenny’s story died down, he said to Little Eddie, “I got a call yesterday from Mike Delves, the boss up at Colonial, and he says to me, ‘I’d like to do business with you, but you gotta help me with the number. So I tell him I can drop my number without any embarrassment, but if I do, the job’s gotta be mine.’”

  Bobby raised the volume on the radio and tossed his hat neatly onto the middle of the table, as if gently landing a flying saucer. “Hey, Georgie, maybe you wanna get me a job on one of those sites,” he said. “I can be, like, Superforeman. You know, like Superman? I can get concrete laid without even being there.”

  Tony Cupcakes shouted above the laughter, “Then that must make me Superforeplayman. I can get laid without my wife even being there!”

  “Hey, Lenny,” Bobby asked, sitting down, “you talk to your commie friend for me?” Duke put a steaming cup of cappuccino in front of him.

  As Lenny replied, the one phone in the club started ringing. “First of all, he’s not my friend. He’s my business associate. I don’t got commie friends. I got commie business associates. You understand the difference?”

  “Hey,” Bobby said, raising his hands defensively, “no offense.”

  “Okay. But the guy’s getting a little goosey on me. There’s something going on that I don’t know. He’s putting me off on things like he never did before. Give me a little more time . . .”

  Vito V had answered the phone. “Hey, Lenny,” he shouted, holding up the receiver.

  “Excuse me.”

  Bobby sipped his cappuccino, listening to Eddie complain how he wasn’t getting his right piece of the weekly payments from a loan-sharking deal. “We figured out how much everybody got coming, you know what I mean? Who gets $150, who gets $175. It’s supposed to be according to how much money each person put on the street. It was broke down so that everybody gets even at the same time. But the guy wasn’t paying regular, and Tommy, who brought the guy around, says all of a sudden that he ain’t responsible for the money. Well, fuck that prick, I says to him, then what do we need him for? And this fucking guy, he—”

  Lenny sat down and said casually, “They got that fucking driver.”

  “No shit,” Little Eddie said, laughing.

  “Where is he?” Bobby asked.

  “He’s s’posed to be picking up a payment from Jerry the Jeweler.” Half his face was a smile. “Fucking guy.”

  In the world of organized crime, people communicate just like they’ve done it since the first creature stood up on two legs and said, “Give me two rocks on the green dinosaur to win.” They talked to each other. The so-called underworld might be the most tangled, extensive grapevine in history. But somehow it works. The word spreads. Somehow people find out what they need to find out. In this case the word was that Henry Franzone’s crew, especially Fast Lenny, was looking for “a little wimpy-acting colored guy, probably wearing glasses, with a banged-up nose,” probably trying to fence some merchandise. Pretty much every fence who worked with the mob on a regular basis got the word.

  So it wasn’t exactly luck that they found him. A guy fitting his description had been trying to sell some loose diamonds to a friend of the family’s on the Bowery that everybody knew as Jerry the Jeweler. Jerry the Jeweler would buy precious stones without asking questions or requiring documentation. And considering the potential legal consequences of that policy, he paid out a fair price. The truck driver had approached Jerry with a sack of diamonds two weeks earlier. That was no problem. They had done business twice before, and the seller had been a stand-up guy. In this case the man, who said his name was Franklin Jefferson, claimed to be representing the owner of the stones. Provenance was not an issue with the Jeweler. If anybody asked him where they came from, he had a standard answer: “From the earth. You want them or don’t you?” The only thing the Jeweler cared about was whether the stones were real or fugazis. He had taken Mr. Jefferson’s diamonds on consignment. The sale would have been completed several days earlier and Jefferson would have been history, but Jerry’s associate had gone to Israel for business and stayed longer than expected. He had just come back with cash, and Jerry had arranged for the suddenly very nervous Mr. Jefferson to be paid his money that afternoon.

  When the Jeweler got the word, he didn’t hesitate to contact a friend of the family’s. The Jeweler was a smart guy, he knew it was in his future interest to cooperate. And if maybe he got to keep some of the cash as a reward, just a taste, who would notice?

  Franklin Jefferson was late for the meet. An hour, two hours, no phone call, no nothing. That didn’t surprise Bobby. If he were that guy, he’d be late too. At least five years late easy. And even then only if he felt completely secure. There was no doubt in Bobby’s mind that Franklin fucking Jefferson had gotten to the Bowery early and was hiding there, watching, waiting.

  The jewelry market on the Bowery, which consists of dozens of individually owned stalls crammed side by side in a large ground-floor space, is actually in Chinatown. Mostly Jews and Chinese work there. In this situation a person like Franklin Jefferson would prefer to do business down on the Bowery rather than on 47th Street because it was such a public space. To do business on 47th Street, in the Diamond District, sometimes you had to go upstairs, into offices, into back rooms, inside walk-in safes, and there was nobody to hear you shout if you needed help. Downtown there were always civilians around. You yelled, somebody would hear you. You did business in the light.

  By five-thirty, just as the after-work lookers were drifting in, Little Eddie spotted the truck driver. The guy’s decision to wait until the place got crowded seemed sensible but actually worked against him. Crowds provided the cover of a forest rather than the visibility of a few thin trees. It made it real difficult for Jefferson to spot Little Eddie, who was sitting behind the counter of an antique watch dealer halfway down the row from the Jeweler’s stall just watching; or Lenny, who had been standing at the pay phone, mostly hidden by its privacy walls, for more than three hours and was totally pissed off. It also made it harder for the truck driver to move quickly if he had to get out of there. Jefferson was approaching from the back of the place. Apparently he’d come in through a side door and been working his way around, trying to determine if the Jeweler had been straight w
ith him. Evidently he was satisfied, because he cautiously approached Jerry’s booth. Even from a distance Little Eddie could see the guy’s face was banged up pretty good from the shot Lenny had given him.

  “Hey, what’s happening?” Franklin Jefferson asked Jerry.

  “You,” Jerry replied, looking happy to see him. Jerry had the salesman’s gift, a natural smile that was wide and shallow. He reached across the counter and shook hands. The man is cool, Bobby thought. Bobby was watching from the back of Jerry’s booth, hidden behind a curtain. Jerry was blocking part of his view, but he could see the guy well enough to remove any doubts about his identity. Bobby had a tremendous desire to walk out from behind the curtain and just level the guy. He really couldn’t wait to see the look on the guy’s face when he realized he was a dead man.

  “You got my money?” the little guy asked, continuing to scan the room like a breathing lighthouse. Bobby noted he was wearing a down jacket, which was much too warm for the mild fall weather. So Bobby guessed he had a piece on him, hidden beneath the coat.

  “Sure do,” Jerry said, opening a small counter safe. “You get any more like that, you let me know, okay? I can handle whatever you get.” He took a manila envelope out of the safe and handed it to Jefferson. “You want to come in the back and count it?”

  Jefferson opened the envelope and peered inside. Satisfied that the cash was there, he closed the clasp, folded it in half lengthwise, and jammed it into his pants pocket. Whoa, Bobby thought, the guy must be completely freaked out. He had never seen a man accept a large payment for a deal without counting the money slowly and carefully. Twice.

  As Jefferson turned to leave, he ran smack into an old man wearing a navy peacoat, sunglasses, and a woolen cap pulled all the way down to his eyebrows. Mickey Fists had his right hand in his coat pocket. If Bobby hadn’t known who it was, even he would have had a tough time recognizing him. Jefferson had never met Mickey, so he had no idea he was bumping into his fate. “Excuse me,” he said.

  Bobby watched the old man work. Supposedly, when Crazy Joey Gallo was just getting started in the rackets, he was in the passenger seat of a car, on his way to see a man about a late payment on a debt. He was looking into the rearview mirror scrunching up his face. When the driver asked him what he was doing, Gallo told him, “Practicing to look mean.”

  Mickey Fists looked very much in control. He had a faint smile on his face. Bobby figured his pacemaker had to be racing. For an instant, as Franklin Washington Jefferson, whatever the hell his name was, took his first step away from the counter, the two men were chest-to-chest. Mickey didn’t hesitate. He put his left hand on the guy’s shoulder to hold him in place and sort of thrust his right hand, hidden in his jacket pocket, into his stomach. The old man was smooth, Bobby thought, fully aware he was watching a real pro in action. Jefferson’s whole body drooped, as if the soul that had held it rigid had evaporated. His eyes darted rapidly around the place, searching desperately for an escape route. The Jeweler had turned around and gone into the back. He didn’t want to witness nothing. Mickey was so cool that when Jefferson started looking around, Mickey responded by pushing harder into his chest.

  Any hopes that Jefferson might have optimistically harbored that this was a simple stickup disappeared within seconds. Bobby stepped out from behind the curtain, Little Eddie walked down the aisle in front of him, and Fast Lenny came from behind. Before Jefferson could take a breath, he was surrounded. It was done so casually that no one in the place paid any attention to them. Mickey pushed harder into Jefferson’s stomach and said something Bobby couldn’t hear, but he was pretty sure it was a warning not to make any noise. They walked out of the place together.

  Tony Cupcakes’ new Cadillac was waiting right in front. He’d had the car only three months and definitely did not want to use it on this kind of job. But they needed a car right away and the water pump in Lenny’s car was leaking, Eddie’s Chrysler was a piece of crapola, and Bobby’s car wasn’t big enough for all of them. So Tony reluctantly threw an old sheet and some blankets over the seats and pleaded with everybody not to get blood all over the car. “It’s a bitch getting it out,” he explained, “particularly those cloth seats I got.”

  Bobby half pushed the guy into the backseat and climbed in after him. Lenny got in on the other side. Eddie sat in the front with Tony. Mickey stood on the sidewalk, the proud father watching his brood. This was not the kind of work he did too much anymore, being semiretired, but he was clearly pleased the job had gone as well as it had. He gave a little wave, turned, and walked proudly down the block as Tony drove away.

  The truck driver—nobody cared enough to ask him his real name—was not a moron. When he saw the backseat covered up, he knew that this was a bad ride to be taking. Tony headed north on the FDR. Nobody said a word for several minutes, but then the truck driver broke the silence. “Am I allowed to ask where I’m going?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Lenny warned him. His voice was bristling with anger.

  “Hey, c’mon, Lenny, huh?” Tony Cupcakes reminded him. “I’m asking you nice, watch the seats.”

  “Fucking guy,” Lenny sighed. Once again everyone was quiet—this was serious business they were doing—but the silence made Lenny too uncomfortable. “Answer me this, you asshole. What the fuck were you thinking? I mean, did you really fucking think you were gonna get over on us?”

  The truck driver was trying hard to control himself, but he was having a tough time of it. “I swear to God, I didn’t know nothing about you guys coming,” he said. There was a quiver in his voice. “Nobody was s’posed to get hurt. Honest, I swear, I figured the store’s insurance would cover the missing load. And then when you guys were all over me, what was I gonna say?” He paused. “I’m begging you guys, gimme a break.” He waited, looking first at Lenny, then turning to Bobby. But the only answer was the loudest silence he had ever heard. “C’mon, please, listen to me. I know shit that’s going down. I can tell you a lot of things.”

  There really is no way of predicting how people will act when they believe they’re negotiating for their lives. They cry, they beg, they threaten reprisals, often they try a bribe: “Whatever you’re getting paid I’ll double it.” They’re brave, they’re cowardly, they pray, they curse their killers, they just can’t believe that this is actually happening to them. And a few people are unbelievably stoic: They understand the rules of the society and accept their fate without a murmur of protest.

  Each of the four of them had been on rides like this one before. It was part of the job. So they pretty much knew what to expect. The truck driver was a negotiator. He wanted to trade information for his life. He spoke rapidly, knowing he didn’t have much time left to save himself. “I know stuff,” he kept telling them. “I can give you a truckload that’s worth $15,000 easy.” He turned to Bobby again. “I’m supposed to drive it. Just me, no security. I’ll just hand it to you, swear to God.”

  Bobby listened to the guy’s tales all the way up the FDR into the Bronx. Tony had decided on upstate. Finally Bobby said to the driver, “All right, lemme hear what you got to say.”

  The truck driver took his first good breath since being shoved into the car. He had a shot. “Look, I drive trucks, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m supposed to drive one of those big gasoline tankers tomorrow night. There’s like ten thousand gallons of gas in one of those tanks, and just about any gas station in New York will buy it all.”

  Hijack a gasoline truck? Why not? Bobby thought. Actually he liked the concept. The gas stations had been ripping him off ever since the fuel shortage during Carter; this was his chance to get even with Mobil or Shell, Amoco, Cities Service, Gulf, get even with them all. “Who you driving this truck for?” he asked.

  The driver shrugged. “I don’t know their names. Some Russian guys. Igor, Boris, I don’t know. They pay me off when I park the truck. Five hundred cash for the night.”

  “Jesus Christ, Bobby,” Eddie said, glancing back
at him, “what the fuck’s going on with all these Russkies?”

  Bobby turned and looked right at the truck driver. It was something that he tried to avoid. Looking at men caught in this situation always made him uncomfortable. “Now, just what are the commies doing with a gas truck?”

  The truck driver’s mouth was racing now. He’d hooked someone, now he needed to pull them in. Carefully. “I don’t know, really, I don’t know. Selling it, I guess. All I know is I’m supposed to pick up a full load at the Staten Island Terminal and deliver the gas to two stations on Queens Boulevard. Then I drive it up to the Bronx and park it there, in that big parking lot they got near the stadium.”

  Bobby was curious. “You ever drive for these guys before?”

  Few people have ever been more enthusiastically cooperative than this driver in this car at this time. “Oh yeah, a few times. It’s always the same thing. Deliver the gas to the gas stations, then go park the truck. Honest, all you gotta do is tell me where to meet you. I’ll hand you that truck on a platter.” As they crossed over onto the Hutch and then onto the Taconic Parkway, Bobby asked the same question several different ways. But no matter how he phrased it, the answer was always the same: The driver did not know why the Russians were selling gas to gas stations.

  “Let me ask you this, then,” Bobby said. “What about these Russians? Just what do you think they’re gonna do to you when they find out you gave up their truck? Think they’re gonna give you a nice present maybe?”

  The driver was pretty blunt about it. “They gotta catch me first. I’m gonna go so far so fast they’re gonna start calling me Hurricane.”

  Bobby had to laugh. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad guy. Too bad you fucked up so badly, he thought to himself.